Tom Rachman - The Rise & Fall of Great Powers

“Not sure,” he said. “I …” He resumed pacing, working himself into a terrible state over his inability to help.

Oddly, his worry eased hers; she found herself wanting to make him feel better. “Can we play chess again?”

He paused — yes, this he could arrange. He helped her onto the folding chair, dragged it to the table, and prepared the board meticulously. Her chess strategy, if it could be flattered with such a term, was to sneak pieces up the board in hopes of snatching away Humphrey’s queen without his noticing. But each piece only found itself taken. For two hours they played, the sole interruption coming when Tooly rubbed her whiplashed neck, sore from her fall off the ladder the night before.

“No cheating,” he said, standing. “I go away for minute.”

“Can I cheat when you get back?”

“Of course.”

He disappeared into the storage room, returning with a neck brace, which he attempted to fit for her, though it was far too large. When this failed, he brought her aspirin. Applying utmost discretion, he inquired as to her weight, height, and age, jotting them on a pad to calculate how many milligrams were safe to prescribe. He produced a cup of water, a saucer bearing her half pill, plus a heap of sugar to nullify any bitterness. As the day progressed, this sugar remained her only nourishment. He displayed no signs of hunger himself, prompting her to say something finally.

“When do you eat breakfast, Humphrey?”

“I reject concept of meals. Why I must eat breakfast in morning? Then in midday, I must eat lunch? No, no — when it comes to eating, I am freethinker.”

“You only eat free things?”

“I only eat when hungry. Any times of day. Yesterday, for example, I eat at night one cereal bowl.” (She pictured him consuming the bowl itself.) “Today, I have cheese sandwich.”

“You had that already?”

“No, but later maybe.” He returned to the chess position, belatedly looking up. “Wait— you are wanting cheese-sandwich activity?”

He hurried her into the kitchen, designating Tooly the assistant chef, her only duty being to approve while he fried a hunk of orange cheese. Once this had melted, he used two knives to scrape it from the blackened pan and laid it across a bed of Triscuit crackers.

She devoured it.

“Is nice?” he asked.

“Really nice.”

“But something bother you,” he guessed.

“Just, I’m going to be in trouble. I’m supposed to be at school,” she said. “Are you leaving here soon? You told Sarah you had to go this morning. Will I be on my own now?”

“We see, we see. You don’t concern about,” he said. “You want Coca-Cola, darlink? I can provide.” He fetched a plastic cup of it, which she glugged. “More chess activities?”

“Maybe not.”

“You have reading items?”

She produced the novel from her book bag. He inspected it, approving of the author, Charles Dickens, although he expressed reservations about invented stories. “Myself, I read only facts. Art is tool of conformity,” he declared. “Art pleasure is connect with complacency. To resist domination of economic factors, artist must produce negative, not affirmative, culture. Avant-garde, in particular. Work of art should make unhappy. It shows horrors of world. More grill cheese?”

She nodded.

As he fried another, she contemplated his bewildering remarks, and decided that he had been talking about the difference between happy endings and sad endings, this being her distinction between books written for children and those for adults. Tooly let it be known that she had read several books with unhappy endings. There was one, she recalled, “where the main girl and her brother drown at the end.”

“Drown?”

“Both of them.”

“Avant-garde,” he said approvingly.

As the day passed, they read, seated on opposite sides of the card table, each interrupting to make points. When she grew hungry, they ate, regardless of the hour; if she felt thirsty, he poured warm Coke. A scandalous and thrilling thought came to her: school was going on right then, Mr. Priddles’s class happening without her. Then her attention drifted to Paul, and all pleasure dissolved.

She put down her book and got permission to go downstairs into the back garden, where she inspected the dolphin mural. Humphrey found a paintbrush and a can of red paint in the storage room, and let her draw noses on the wall. “You are magnificent artist,” he commented.

“Am I avant-garde?”

He smiled, and left her out there while he napped. (The bed upon which Tooly had slept was his — he’d given it up for her, dozing all night on the floor downstairs.) Alone, she explored the dilapidated house, out onto the front patio, past its walls, a few steps down the deserted lane. She ran back inside.

Later that day, delivery men arrived with crates of beer and bags of ice, followed by Venn, the man who had saved her life during that stampede the night before. He conferred with Humphrey and gave orders to Jaime, who counted out the float and explained to Tooly how his bar setup worked. Others came and went, some depositing packages in the storage room upstairs, a few taking parcels, everyone answering to Venn.

Amid all this, Tooly stood against the wall, her fingertips on the bricks behind her, motionless as a gecko. When Venn looked over, he winked, as if there were a second level beyond what went on around them, and his glance acknowledged her entry into that level, available to him and her alone. When she had nearly gathered the courage to address him in front of everyone, he spoke to her, anticipating her thoughts. “Not to worry,” he told her. “Everything’s fine.”

“Just that, I don’t know how to get to my house from here,” she said.

“We’ll wait for Sarah on that,” he replied. “And I’m around. Nothing to fear, duck.” His voice — its deepness, its surety — captivated her. He assigned her little tasks: tell So-and-So; tag along while I resolve this problem. He adorned nothing with “please” or “thank you,” yet was kinder than those who did. Wherever he went, she hastened just ahead of his stride, lest he lose sight of her and be lured away, leaving her among large strangers.

Even when partygoers began arriving, all greeting Venn, he continued to keep an eye on her. If he spoke to a particularly intimidating dead-eyed thug, he called Tooly over, introducing her and conveying his protection. He even said, “Grab my arm, little duck, if you need anything.” As the crowd thickened, grown-ups crushed her and trod on her feet, so she went upstairs and sat opposite Humphrey, who had his toilet-paper earplugs in again. They read together, trying to ignore the racket. When fatigue overcame her, Venn cleared everyone off the upper floor, deposited her on the bed, and left her to rest, though the music boomed downstairs. Drifting off, she worried that Humphrey would be gone by morning.

Instead, he was there, pouring her Coca-Cola. He was not leaving, he promised, until Sarah returned and took care of matters. In this way, they passed that first week together. Tooly noticed that he wore almost the same outfit every day. She had scarcely more variety herself, just the school clothing she’d arrived in, plus the gym clothes in her book bag. When Venn noticed her increasing scruffiness, he dispatched two young Thai women — mainstays at the parties — to buy her outfits from a night market. Phueng and Mai must have argued, because they returned with separate hauls, Phueng with girlie pink T-shirts emblazoned with logos of My Little Pony and Strawberry Shortcake, while Mai had outfits that miniaturized her own look: off-the-shoulder blouses, zebra-print leggings, slouch socks. Both had bought toiletries and good-naturedly scrubbed the girl clean in the bathtub. Tooly let them, but insisted on staying fully clothed, her new rolled-up jeans bleeding indigo down the plughole. Afterward, they employed a blow-dryer on her. The humidity caused her hair to spring outward with comical frizziness, making even Venn laugh — the first time she’d seen that lovely sight — and he pressed her staticky head when next he saw her.