Auraria: A Novel by Tim Westover Read Free Book Online

with small towns. They have traditions. Folk ways. I won’t call them ruts, out of respect for current company.” Abigail glanced over her shoulder, but not at her customers; she looked at the piano.
    “I’m sorry,” said Holtzclaw. “I don’t mean to upset anyone.” He let Abigail lead him to another empty table.
    “Now, what is it that I can get you for supper?” she said. “Fair warning: everything has sweet potatoes in it.”
    “Whatever’s hot is fine by me. Among your alternatives to water and buttermilk, you wouldn’t have any claret, would you?”
    Abigail walked behind the bar counter. A key turned in a lock; then she lifted up a dusty, age-darkened bottle. The label was yellowed and foxed; an illegible name was handwritten in an ornate script. The style of cork at the top didn’t correspond with that of the Bordeaux vintners—at least not of this century. At the bottom, sediment in suspension was swirled upward by Abigail’s handling, then drifted down again like a lazy ghost.
    “Oh, this isn’t claret,” said Abigail, perusing the label. She replaced the bottle and took out another, which Holtzclaw recognized even at a distance as common and modern. It promised a familiar, if unremarkable, drink. Moments before, the rare and ancient bottle had inflamed Holtzclaw’s imagination; now, he could think of nothing better than the comfort of a known vintage.
    “It came in the delivery last week,” said Abigail.
    “You have a regular delivery of claret here?”
    “We’re fond of all sorts of anti-fogmatics.”
    “I wouldn’t think that your clientele would be the claret kind.”
    “Do you think we drink just white lightning and corn liquor in the mountains?” A bit of crimson touched the tops of her cheekbones.
    “That came out wrong, Ms. Thompson,” said Holtzclaw. “I’m out of my natural element.”
    “You don’t say.” She brought out a heaping plate of food from the kitchen. There was a bowl of stew, thickened with sweet potatoes, and a plate of biscuits.
    “It looks delicious,” said Holtzclaw. “Truly it does.”
    “I hope you enjoy it, Mr. Holtzclaw. Truly I do.” She spun on her heels, and in the swirl of her apron and the flame of her hair, she was gone—back to the kitchen or behind the bar or where ever Auraria kept its finer things. He fancied he could see steam from where she had just been standing, and his nose was hot.
    It was the food, of course. The food which, while delicious, was a little rustic for his sensibilities. He could taste the sweet potatoes in everything, and a sweet potato is not as elegant a vegetable as the courgette or aubergine.
    Halfway through his meal, he remembered he was not alone. Taking with him his glass of claret, Holtzclaw approached the table at which sat the thin man and the fat man; the twins presented a more formidable barrier to a stranger. “May I join you, gentlemen?”
    “My associate and I were about to discuss this year’s turkeys,” said the fat man. The thin man nodded in confirmation.
    “Are you farmers, then?” said Holtzclaw.
    “We are aggregators,” said the fat man. “I take it you’re not in the poultry game?” When Holtzclaw confessed that he was not, the fat man began a lengthy and candid explanation of his business. The turkeys, raised in small clutches on family farms, were driven down from the hills into a pen on a rented town lot. Here, the turkeys were kept until all the year’s stock could arrive and be bought by the aggregators.
    It was a story that ceased to be fascinating just a few minutes into its telling, and Holtzclaw regretted his decision to talk with these two, who owned no property and had little influence in town. The twins leaned in toward each other for some whispered words and then arose to depart. The clattering of the front door caused the fat man to interrupt his speech, and Holtzclaw was able to interject a question. “When was the last time anybody made a good