The Singer's Gun by Emily St. John Mandel Read Free Book Online

moved the floor lamp to stand watch above them. In a circle of lamplight they ate turkey on rye and drank iced tea, almost without speaking. When the sandwiches were gone Elena lay on her back, legs crossed, hands clasped under her head, and gazed at the ceiling.
    “It must be late,” she said, after they’d been silent for a while.
    “Where are you from?” Anton asked.
    “You know where I’m from. I told you when we first met.”
    “I know, but it’s a big country. Where exactly?”
    “The far north,” she said.
    “That’s not terribly specific.”
    “It’s a town you’ve never heard of.”
    “Try me. I read travel books for fun.”
    “Inuvik,” she said.
    “Inuvik,” he repeated. “You’re right, I’ve never heard of it. How would I get there?”
    “From New York?”
    “Where else?”
    “It takes five flights to get there from here.”
    “Five?”
    “First you’d fly to Washington, D.C.,” she said. “Then from Washington to Ottawa. From Ottawa you fly to Edmonton. Then from Edmonton you fly to Yellowknife—”
    “Yellowknife?”
    “A small northern city.” She glanced at him; he made a motion for her to continue. “Then you fly from Yellowknife to Inuvik.”
    “How long does all of this take?” And later it seemed that there was no forethought, no planning and no doubt. He was clearing away the sandwich wrappers and iced-tea bottles between them, moving them aside, lying beside her on the floor as if this were something that had been planned and agreed upon before-hand. She closed her eyes. He reclined on his side to look at her, so close that he could see the texture of the violet powder that she’d dusted over her eyelids that morning, the faint dark smudges around her eyes where her mascara had been washed from her eyelashes by tears that afternoon.
    “A long time.”
    He saw for the first time that she’d aged slightly in the two and a half years since he’d met her, or perhaps it was only that he’d never seen her so close before. The finest of lines fanned outward from the corners of her eyes. “How long?”
    “Twenty-four hours,” she said. “Sometimes longer in winter.”
    “How much longer?”
    “Days. The northern airports close sometimes when the weather’s bad.” As she spoke she was drawing her skirt slowly up her legs, the material loose between her fingers. He reclined beside her, not breathing, looking at her pale blue underwear and the white of her thighs. She pulled the skirt up over her waist and then slowly, almost lazily, began unbuttoning her shirt. She didn’t open her eyes.
    “A distant northern land,” he said. Her shirt was open; her fingers were unclasping her bra at the front. He rested the palm of his hand flat on her stomach. Her breath was rapid. “How long since you’ve been back there?”
    “I haven’t,” she said.
    “Haven’t what?”
    “Haven’t been back.” His hand traveling lightly over her skin.
    Anton said, “This place you’re from.” They lay side-by-side, no longer touching. He had turned off the lamp and a pale light came in from the night city outside. There was a breeze through the broken window.
    “Inuvik,” she said.
    “Why haven’t you been back?”
    “I can’t afford the ticket.”
    “How did you get from there to here?”
    “Sheer willpower.” He laughed and rolled onto his side to stroke her hair away from her forehead. “Where are you from?” she asked.
    “Brooklyn,” he said. “I’m nowhere near as exotic as you. Elena, are you with someone?”
    “Caleb,” she said.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have . . .”
    “No apologies. I’m breaking up with him anyway.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s almost over.” She was sitting up, reaching for her bra. “Because all living things have a natural lifespan, and relationships are no exception. Because I don’t understand the way he thinks, and vice versa.”
    Anton wasn’t sure what to say to this but felt it would be