Matala by Craig Holden Read Free Book Online Page B

tapestry, and rifled through it—checking, Justine supposed, to see if any of her new money was missing. It was not. They’d milk this cow slowly now. But then when she tossed the thing to the floor, Justine saw, wonder of flipping wonders, what looked for all the world like a packet of coffin nails sticking out the top.
    â€œYou smoke?”
    The girl shook her head.
    â€œWhat is that?”
    â€œOh,” she said, lifting the purse again and drawing out a gold and crimson pack of English Dunhills. “I picked them up somewhere. I don’t know why.”
    â€œWould you mind?” Justine said, doing all she could to stay the shaking in her hands. Little Bitch shrugged and tossed the pack on the bed.
    â€œKeep ’em,” she said.
    â€œYou wouldn’t happen to have—”
    She reached in again and came up with a beautiful gold and silver lighter, a strangely expensive thing for a nonsmoker to carry. But all Justine could think was “Oh, God.”
    â€œOh, God,” she said. The girl gave her a little smirk. Justine opened the window, leaned out so as not to pollute the room too badly, and hung there in Venice, inhaling the wonderful poisons.
    Behind her the girl said, “I’m hungry. Where can we get some breakfast?”
    â€œAren’t you leaving soon?” Justine asked her.
    â€œI should,” she said.
    â€œBecause I was thinking,” said Justine, “we could get some wine instead and some real food and have a picnic.”
    â€œSeriously?” said Will.
    â€œYes!” said Darcy.
    She told the girl they could then take her to the station if she wanted. “I’m sorry about all this,” she added.
    â€œOh,” the girl said, all disappointed at being reminded that she had a life. “Never mind. It’s fun. A picnic. In Venice.”
    It was amazing, Justine thought. Even when she offered to derail the thing, it just kept coming around. Here they were. Maurice would meet them tonight. It was happening.
    The girl ran back into the bath then for a quick wash up so she could get dressed. Will, who was still under the sheets, could only shake his head in wonder.

Five
    T HE WORLD TOOK CARE . O NE time, after another fight with my parents, I managed to thumb clear up to Philadelphia. Along the way one of the rides I got, a middle-aged guy in a cheap tie, bought me lunch and a beer. When I thanked him later, he said just that: “The world’ll take care of you, kid. You just gotta let it.” It was only weeks later that I met Justine and my real education began—in letting the world take care, yes, but more than that: in making it, bending it, creating it as I went along.
    That first full afternoon with Darcy in Venice we sat on a quay that was nothing more than a raised concrete slab, a utilitarian place where I imagined supply boats tied up to load or unload in the white December sun, in the glorious glorious heat of that reflected Venetian light. We had a hard loaf of bread, a brick of some strong cheese, and three bottles of cheap vino da tavola. I was riding on my bennies, Justine was quivering on her meth, and Darcy was just tripping on the whole world that was not the world she was supposed to be in—hanging out, unknown, unseen, unrecorded, on some hot concrete alongside a canal.
    â€œDang,” she said, “this is amazing. This is amazing, Will.”
    I nodded at her and smiled but could not raise the gumption to make words.
    â€œI mean what? Two days ago you’re standing on a bridge, I’m on an art tour, and now here we sit.”
    Justine was watching her, almost smiling. “You grooving on it, little girl?”
    â€œTotally,” she said.
    â€œIt’s all cool.”
    Justine talked about Crete then. At first I didn’t understand why she was going on about it, but it dawned on me that we were going there. She’d seen Maurice, and something had come of that. I