Чарли Андерс - The City in the Middle of the Night

Mouth snorts. “Every language is good for lying. Even body language. If we didn’t lie, we couldn’t communicate. Here in Argelo, they’re fond of the concept of ‘miser generosity,’ which is like you’re being generous by being stingy. They write songs about it. If you only give a little bit—of the truth, of your time, of money—then you’re being sincere. Give too much, and you’re probably just careless, and it means nothing.”

I feel all of my defenses rise, making me want to close myself off, but something about Mouth’s defense of lies goads me into talking. “Bianca opened herself up to you, the same way she did to me when I was a scared young student. And you used her, and you treated her like a disposable piece in your stupid game, and now I’m afraid she’ll never open up that way again. So no, we can’t be friends.”

Mouth’s impassive “bruiser” persona drops away for a moment and she looks stricken, the same as when she tried to joke about Alyssa’s injury.

“I don’t know what to say. I used to have a handle on ethics,” she says. “Maybe if I had access to the Invention and could read all the teachings, I would be a good person again. When I was in the Citizens, every situation had a guiding principle, but now I have to figure out everything by myself. If I had rescued the Invention, it would be like getting to talk to them one more time.”

“That book wouldn’t have helped you,” I say. “If you read those poems by yourself, they’d just be more of your words. More ‘stingy generosity.’ You can’t replace people with words, especially if you’re a liar.”

In the Pit, an elderly woman has her hat out, asking for loose change or extra food, and everyone ignores her.

Mouth changes the subject. “I can’t believe you went into the night and learned to speak with the crocodiles. We spent a lot of time talking about them in the Citizens, and some people thought the night was the land of the dead and they were there to guide us. Or maybe they were just wise spirits. But in any case, the Citizens would have considered you some kind of mystic. Or maybe even a saint.”

I feel a weight, like Mouth is trying to settle some crown onto my head that will slowly break my neck. The word “saint” feels even worse than when Bianca said the Gelet were my pets.

Mouth sees me shrinking into my basket chair and says, “I’m just saying, I owe you my life, but even more, I’m in awe of you. And maybe there’s a way for you to use your gift to help more people. I know here in Argelo there are scavengers who go into the night looking for the wreckage of environment suits and land cruisers our ancestors left out there. They could really use someone to help them reach an understanding with the crocodiles.”

At this point, I’m done with this conversation, because the idea of making a profit off my relationship with the Gelet is the worst insult yet. I get up and walk back toward Ahmad’s place without even looking to see if Mouth is following. I only get lost three or four times.

Everywhere we go, people stare at Bianca, because of her New Shanghai features that look like nobody else’s in this town, and because she can’t help being loud and excited, with an obvious foreign accent. At first she glared at people, with a barb in the wrong language on the tip of her tongue. But now she’s decided that if she’s going to be a spectacle either way, she might as well have fun with it. She’s wearing a sheer silver dress that leaves her shoulders and most of her legs exposed, a wrap made of loose filaments, and silver sandals. Plus blue-and-silver streaks around her eyes. I’m wearing a golden dress made out of some fabric I’ve never seen before that clings to my body in coruscating ripples.

“Everybody is going to stare at me,” I grouse under my breath.

“Good.” Bianca claps her hands. “They should. You look glorious.”

Goose bumps raise up on my bare arm. Bianca smiles at me, and I remember what she said in the storeroom when we first slept here: We’re going to demolish this together. I smile at her, too, and she takes my hand, right out on the street, like she’s letting everybody know we’re together. I almost don’t care anymore that we haven’t talked.

She’s wearing some fragrant oil, and every time I breathe it in, I feel dizzy, half wild with joy, out of control. We’re holding hands! In the street! She’s chattering to me about the place she wants to take me, in the nightclub district. The Knife. We’re going to dance together, just the two of us, at some club that has walls made of speakers and air made of glitter. I can’t help feeling like this is some buoyant fantasia, like I fell asleep watching an opera, and now I’m dreaming in song.

Bianca’s hand and the Gelet bracelet are guiding me in different directions, at right angles to each other. I silently promise to find my way to the night as soon as I can.

“Everybody who’s anybody will be there, and it’s our chance to start getting an introduction to the right people,” Bianca says in Argelan.

“I don’t care about the right people,” I breathe. “I’m just so happy to be here with you.” I keep remembering how she said she would burn the world for me, and I’m so ready to set at least a few small fires—together. I keep noticing more things, like the way some of these older buildings look influenced by Xiosphanti architecture, but with cruder decorations and other kinds of rock painted to look like whitestone. I whisper and point, and she nods.

I can tell we’re getting closer to the Knife, because bright lights shine from every building, and I hear the thumps and whistles of a dozen kinds of loud music in the distance. Argelan dance music is like Xiosphanti ragtime, only much faster and with more drums.

“Maybe we can find some students to hang out with,” I say in her ear. “People our age, who are studying the same things that we were studying. Having the same conversations we were having. I bet there are some groups like the Progressive Students here.”

She shrugs. “I’m not interested in spending time with a bunch of naive students. We’re going to need powerful friends to survive in this city and achieve all our goals. You heard Ahmad, that’s how it works here.”

I still feel the bracelet pulling me in the opposite direction, but it only bothers me if I pay attention to it.

“We’re finally here, in the place we always talked about back home, the city where anything can happen,” Bianca says. “We’re young, and we’re free, and our city tried to kill us. Let’s make some noise!”

I would burn the world for you, I hear in my head.

“Yeah. Let’s make some noise.” I clasp her hand tighter.

We round a steep corner on this potholed street, and then we’re standing at the hilt of the Knife. I’ve never seen so many colors in one place: every nightclub and bar has a sign that glows pink, or red, or a color between blue and green that I don’t even know the name of. The sharp edge of the Knife curves away from us, along a street paved with reflective stones that look like candies. Each building has a different style and texture, from burnished steel beams to whitestone columns to a huge transparent cube, and out front, a sea of young people sways and drifts from place to place, holding drinks or gnarled pipes. Most of the people in the crowd are only a little older than Bianca and me, and they wear sheer clothing that exposes parts of their bodies. The sky looks just as gray as ever, but everyone’s face is bathed in a hundred shades of orange and green. I can’t help gasping at this radiance, this decadence, this liberation.

I stop resisting and let Bianca pull me into the throng. Every time the scent of perfumed sweat and the view of squirming exposed flesh start to overwhelm me, I look at Bianca. Her whole face is bright and open as she points out each new thing, and everything shines with more beauty because she’s showing it to me.