The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt Read Free Book Online Page A

but most.’ With this, she invited me behind her sacred counter and I followed her through the beaded curtain and into her private world. The beads felt lovely and tickling on my face, and I experienced a shudder of happiness at this. It is true, I thought. I am living a life.

Chapter 17
    Her room was not the room I would have imagined, if I had had time to imagine her room, which I did not. But there were no flowers and niceties, no silk or perfume, no lady things hung with a lady’s decorative hand; there were no volumes of poetry, no vanity and brush set; there were no lace-edged pillows featuring heartening proverbs meant to calm the spirit in times of distress or else lead us through the monotony of endlessly redundant days with their succoring words and tones. No, her room was a low-ceilinged bunker, without any windows or natural light, and as it was located just next to the kitchen and laundry it smelled of grease and brown water and moldy soap flakes. She must have noticed my dismayed expression, for she became shy, and said quietly that she did not suppose I was impressed with her quarters; this naturally sent me falling over myself to praise the room, which I told her gave one the feeling of safety by way of impenetrability and also that it was perfectly private. She said my words were kindly spoken but not necessary. The room was lacking, she knew this, but she would have to put up with it for only a short while longer, for owing to the constant stream of prospectors she was doing a remarkable business. ‘Six more months, then I will move into the finest room in this hotel.’ The way she spoke this last sentence informed me it was a significant ambition for her.
    ‘Six months is a long time,’ I said.
    ‘I have waited longer for less.’
    ‘I wish there was some way I could hurry it along for you.’
    She puzzled over this. ‘What a strange thing to tell a stranger,’ she said.
    Now she guided me to a small pine table, propping a looking glass before me. My overlarge face leapt into view, which I studied with my usual mixture of curiosity and pity. She fetched me a pair of scissors and I took them up, holding the blades between my palms to warm them. Tilting the glass so that I could watch myself working, I snipped at the knotted stitching and began pulling away the black string from my mouth. It did not hurt but vaguely burned, as when a rope is run through your hands. It was too early to have removed the stitches and the string was coated in blood. I stacked the pieces in a pile at my feet and afterward burned these, as their smell was ungodly. Once this was finished I elected to show the woman my new toothbrush and powder, which I had in my vest pocket. She became excited by the suggestion, for she was also a recent convert to this method, and she hurried to fetch her equipment that we might brush simultaneously. So it was that we stood side by side at the wash basin, our mouths filling with foam, smiling as we worked. After we finished there was an awkward moment where neither of us knew what to say; and when I sat upon her bed she began looking at the door as if wishing to leave.
    ‘Come sit beside me,’ I said. ‘I would like to talk to you.’
    ‘I should be getting back to my work.’
    ‘Am I not a guest here? You must entertain me, or I will write reproachful letters to the chamber of commerce.’
    ‘Oh, all right.’ Gathering her dress in her hands as she sat, she asked, ‘What would you like to talk about?’
    ‘Anything in the world. What about the letter, the one that made you smile? Who in your family was sick?’
    ‘My brother, Pete. He was kicked in the chest by a mule but they tell me he’s healing nicely. Mother says you can make out the hoof shape quite clearly.’
    ‘He is lucky. That would have been a most undignified death.’
    ‘Death is death.’
    ‘You are wrong. There are many kinds of death.’ I counted them off on my fingers: ‘Quick death, slow death. Early