The World House by Guy Adams Read Free Book Online

than she had imagined, his face soft and pudgy, reddening above the lapels of his linen suit, the oil dripping from his hair to mix with sweat on his forehead. "I'll see my own way out."
      A few moments later and the sound of the front door closing signalled the American's departure. There was the striking of a match and the creeping odour of cigar smoke. "I do not like you, American," Jimenez muttered. "A man should not be insulted in his own house. But I will fetch you your box and then spend your money. Just mark that you do not offend me further with your tongue or likely I will cut it from your mouth."
      He moved past Kesara's hiding place and, shortly after, followed the American on to the street. Kesara was alone.
      She climbed out from behind the cactus, lifting her grease-stained blouse from where it had stuck to the skin of her belly. Five thousand dollars? That sort of money was impossible to imagine! Think of what she could do with such a fortune. She looked into the pillowcase and screwed up her nose at the mangled mess of flesh and bone inside. Five thousand dollars could buy a house filled with chickens; she would eat them until she was sick if she so wished. She pulled out a soft piece of breast meat and chewed it on while imagining the sort of house she might buy. The meat was good, but not worth being shot at. Five thousand dollars? Now that was worth taking risks for.
     
    Later, she walked along the mammoth quay at the port, weaving in and out of the gathered workers, sailors and the pendulous swings of the cranes. She needed to decide whether she was really going to steal the box. Once Jimenez had left she had run to the edge of his balcony, meaning to catch sight of the American and, hopefully, follow him to his boat. He stood out in his foreign suit, looking like a character from a movie, not a real person. She marked the street he was walking down before running cautiously through the house – she was sure it was empty but there was no harm in being careful – and heading after him. The soldiers were forgotten in this new excitement, but there was no sign of them as she made her way to the port, keeping a close eye on the American all the way. He wasn't like some of the foreigners she had seen around the city; the ones with money walked slowly everywhere, staring at every new building and church as if they didn't have homes or God where they came from. Perhaps they didn't; she hadn't travelled enough to say. This man kept his eyes low, looking at nothing but the road as he made his way back towards the sea.
      Valencia's port was huge, almost another city in itself; one made of package crates and rope, towering, rusted vessels and a populace of wind blown, cursing men. Away from the commercial area, there was a marina where private vessels could be moored. This was where the American headed. Kesara watched him walk along the small jetty to a pleasure yacht of which her father would certainly have disapproved. Occasionally these pristine vessels would sail past their old home in Moraira and he would spit towards the lapping waves. "Boats like that," he would say, "are overgrown lifeboats, saving people from a sea they have no knowledge of. Be better if the whole lot stayed on dry land and left the water for those of us who know what to do with it."
      Perhaps the American didn't know what to do on the ocean but Kesara was sure he could buy the knowledge of those who did. And what was wrong with that? Given a choice between her father's honest poverty, a life dictated by the ebb of the sea and the flow of cheap brandy, and the life of the American, a life of choices and the money to make them, she knew which she wanted. And what were her chances of a better life living on the street? She felt no shame about sleeping under the stars, savoured every breath of freedom it offered, but she wasn't stupid, she knew that her lot could only get worse. So why not risk it? Here she had been offered a