Чарли Андерс - The City in the Middle of the Night

“Where did you get that?” Mouth slid back onto her seat, trying not to act shaken.

“At this little market stall, down seven levels from the shoe repair man, in the Pit,” said the professor, with a faint smile. “You can probably still buy one for yourself. The Citizens used to come through town and sell these, and they built them to last.”

Mouth stared at the box, which was scored with all the markings that Mouth was told never to explain to an outsider, along with other signs that even Mouth had never understood. People were buying these in the Pit, like they were ashtrays or cactus-pork crisps. The Citizens had encouraged this. “Did—” Mouth swallowed. “Did they sell these as religious artifacts? Or just as random boxes to put your stuff into?”

“Both. You should talk to Jerome. He runs the woodcrafts stall, and he did business with the Citizens all the time, whenever they passed through. I’m sure he’d love to meet you. The Citizens were pretty pragmatic about it—they knew some people would love to own an authentic religious item from a ‘primitive’ community, but other people just wanted a nice box to store jewelry in.”

“We used these to contain our negative, harmful thoughts. It was a whole cleansing ritual.” Mouth would have given anything to have access to a thought box back when the others had all died and there was no place to put all of the guilt.

“Well, I would love to hear more about what it was like to be raised among the Citizens.” Martindale put the box back into his old satchel. “I already gathered some background from Yolanda and the others when they were in town before. And of course, since the Citizens vanished, I’ve been able to get more context from talking to Barney.”

“Barney?”

“Apologies.” He looked over at Alyssa, who was shaking her head with a skittish look, like maybe this was all too much, too soon, after all. Mouth tried to smile. “You probably knew him as Barnabas,” the professor went on. “He was a member of the Citizens for most of his life. He left the group during their final visit to Argelo, and his place is just a kilometer and a half from here. I assumed you were already in touch with him.”

Mouth had forgotten all about Barnabas, who had cooked for the group and used to sing and laugh at the same time during feast breaks, but now a few scattered memories came back. Nobody had talked about Barnabas after he’d gone missing, that last time in Argelo, and Mouth had just assumed Barnabas was dead.

“Thanks for coming over, Professor,” Alyssa was saying, by way of letting Martindale know that maybe this was enough for now, and they didn’t want to make anyone’s head explode. “We’ll be in touch. I am sure Mouth will be excited to talk some more about the Citizens, and their unique culture.”

“Great, great.” Martindale got up and tugged on Mouth’s hand and then Alyssa’s, and then he was gone.

Mouth stayed glued in the big rattan chair, staring at the chair opposite, where the professor had sat handling the thought box and talking about the ancient mysteries like they were a funny story. Day and night might as well have changed places.

“He doesn’t have a copy of that book you were trying to steal,” Alyssa said. “I already asked him.”

She saw the look on Mouth’s face and sat down in the chair where Martindale had sat, offering her hands.

“Look,” Alyssa said. “I know that was weird, and I shouldn’t have sprung that on you as a surprise, I guess. But you need to find out more about your nomads, or they’ll always be the people who judged you when you were a little kid and then died before you could stand eye-to-eye with them as an adult. I can’t even imagine.”

“You’re right.” These were the two hardest words Mouth had ever spoken.

“I am?” Alyssa was so relieved she laughed and then started to cry. “I thought you were going to kill me for a moment.”

“No, you are right about this. And thank you.” Mouth was in horrible pain, all the way down to the cellular level where all that guilt had lived for so long. But maybe this pain would turn out to be the healing kind. Clutching Alyssa with both arms, Mouth let out a deep, ugly, gasping breath of what might eventually be relief.

“I found this place,” Bianca says, “where they make this drink. You will never want to drink gin-and-milk again.” As if making me hate gin-and-milk is some accomplishment.

I still stick to the same main streets most of the time, because otherwise I’ll get lost and Argelo will just swallow me whole. I can’t get used to a place where so many people shove each other, and I can never tell who’s just woken up and who’s about to go to bed. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to be tired, and that makes me more tired. Random people want to talk to me about Nagpur, a place I know almost nothing about.

But Bianca already knows all the best places in every neighborhood. “This is the café where they do these donuts. Abraham here is a genius at grinding the stalks and getting them just the right muddy consistency.” She drags me by the arm into a wooden cavern, which reminds me of the Illyrian Parlour except they just drink coffee by the light of tiny candles. She gives me a bite of a donut, and it’s incredible: sweet and crumbly, pure happiness. Abraham, a big guy with a bald head and stretched-out ears, pauses in the middle of grating some dark sticks into a bowl to wave at her.

I stare at all the people crammed onto all the seats, stools, and ledges in this thick air. Two girls squeeze onto a single oak chair, holding hands and whispering. At the table next to ours, a group of students wearing loose, torn clothing argue about the nature of consciousness, in a flurry of Argelan that I about half understand. Are we conscious because we perceive the outside world, or because we are aware of our own thoughts? One young man, with a high forehead and bony shoulders, says that by definition consciousness is the ability to act on our environment with intent, because otherwise sleep would be a form of consciousness. What about crocodiles? someone asks. They have some kind of insectoid hive behavior, but does that make them conscious, or just a complex manifestation of instinct? I tune out this conversation, because they’re idiots. And meanwhile, the two girls are kissing, right in front of the whole café. I can’t stop looking at these girls, with a Xiosphanti voice inside my head blaring Unnatural —and then I’m ashamed to be caught staring, and I look away with my face hot. Bianca’s already standing up, ready to leave.

“Here’s what I learned about Argelo.” Bianca stops to wave at everyone who passes on the street, and they all wave back. “People spend all their time and energy trying to live in the perfect spot, with just enough light to let you see some color. And then, once you’ve got your home in the light, you spend all your remaining money in bars and cafés, where it’s pitch dark.” Bianca dresses like a fashionable Argelan lady, with ribbons, silk, and lace, but people still gawp at her, especially now that she’s put a bold red streak into her lopsided black hair and started wearing luminescent makeup.

At last Bianca takes me to the place with that wondrous drink. It’s one of the hottest bars in the Knife, called Punch Face. (The name in Argelan sounds a lot like the word for “shutter malfunction” in Xiosphanti.) The darkness inside Punch Face is so thick and smoky I almost step on a famous torch singer named Marilynne.

But Bianca sees better than me, and also she knows the whole scene by heart. She talks in my ear, just in Argelan, except for a few words in Xiosphanti. “That man you almost kicked, that’s Gabriel. He’s been making a fortune speculating on sour cherries, because they are in huge demand right now thanks to being a key ingredient in this amazing drink that you are about to try for the very first time.” The drink is called an Amanuensis, and my first sip is tart, but with a fizzy sweet afterburn. “See? Forget you ever even tasted gin-and-milk. You could rob Gabriel right now, and nobody would care. Except don’t rob him in here, because I don’t want to get thrown out of my favorite club.”