The Gloaming by Melanie Finn Read Free Book Online Page A

not want him here.
    I do not want his inevitable questions or his weird vibe or his cold North Sea eyes. I turn to move away.
    â€˜You going out?’ he says.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Where?’
    I look at him. ‘Just out.’
    â€˜Promenading?’
    â€˜What?’
    He taps ash casually onto the floor. ‘Promenading. You know, walking around and about for the purpose of being around and about.’
    â€˜Yes, promenading.’
    â€˜You’ve come to Magulu to promenade?’
    â€˜It’s in the guidebook. Page sixty-three. “The Promenades of Magulu.”’
    He laughs, ha ha ha, and wags his finger to let me know I’ve got one up on him. Then he taps on my door with his knuckle. ‘This you? Number four?’
    I nod.
    â€˜I’m just across the hall.’ He gestures to room seven, as if I want to know.
    I start to walk away. ‘See you later, princess.’
    Outside, I turn right, staying within the perimeter of the town. An old woman selling
mandazis
smiles and waves, and this feels like a blessing: a moment of normalcy, a simple, unguarded interaction. I wave back, but now she offers up a
mandazi
and I feel compelled to purchase one. Her smile vanishes, she’s focused on the coins in my hand. She gives me the dense, fried chunk of dough wrapped in newspaper, and the grease leaks onto my hands. I can’t possibly eat it, but I cannot throw it away because I keep thinking about the children, shameless and puppy beating, but certainly hungry.
    So I walk on, holding the oily newspaper self-consciously. It grows heavier, and when I find myself back at the Goodnight my arm almost aches with strain.
    The bar is quiet, the TV a cold, occluded eye without the generator’s power. I look but don’t see Martin Martins. Carefully, I walk down the narrow corridor to my room. I try to be silent, but the lack of ambient sound means every action is amplified: the key in the lock, the click of the lock, the grit on the floor scraping as I open the door. And the same in reverse as I shut the door, slicing through the still afternoon.
    Sitting on my bed, the window framing a rectangle of light, I watch thunderclouds. Muscular and grand. Their shadows cast across miles, shifting the dominant tone of the landscape from green to deep purple. Almost every afternoon the clouds perform. But despite their baritone rumbles, there is no rain, only the damp and oppressive weight of expectation.
    I can hear Martin Martins now. He must have been napping. Is that a real name? An anglicization of something unsayable? His bed creaks when he shifts his weight. I hear the sound of a match striking, a sigh, a page turning. I lie so still because I don’t want him to hear me. I believe he is listening.
    My hands are still greasy from the
mandazi
, and I wipe them on my skirt. The
mandazi
itself sits on the small corner table, nestled in its newspaper, gleaming with oil. Quickly now I grab it and throw it in the bin.
    Â 
Arnau, March 15
    Tom stood awkwardly in the doorway. He offered up a bouquet of peonies and delphiniums.
    â€˜Flowers?’ I said, letting him in as though he were a salesman.
    â€˜I wanted to make sure you’re all right.’
    â€˜You could have just called.’
    â€˜The phone has been disconnected.’
    â€˜Yes. So it has.’
    â€˜Is there a problem with money?’
    â€˜I forgot to pay the bill. That’s all.’
    He sat at the table, holding the flowers. I turned away from him. I didn’t want him to see my swollen face, the bruises, how ugly I looked. And this appalled me. That my vanity held so fast.
    â€˜How’s Elise? How’s the baby?’
    There was a tic in his movement as he put the flowers on the table. ‘Fine. We’re all fine.’
    â€˜That’s good. It would be a waste if you were unhappy with each other.’
    â€˜Pilgrim,’ he said, and moved to touch my