In the Skin of a Lion Read Online Free PDF

so exceptional and time-saving he earns one dollar an hour while the other bridge workers receive forty cents. There is no jealousy towards him. No one dreams of doing half the things he does. For night work he is paid $1.25, swinging up into the rafters of a trestle holding a flare, free-falling like a dead star. He does not really need to see things, he has charted all that space, knows the pier footings, the width of the crosswalks in terms of seconds of movement – 281 feet and 6 inches make up the central span of the bridge. Two flanking spans of 240 feet, two end spans of 158 feet. He slips into openings on the lower deck, tackles himself up to bridge level. He knows the precise height he is over the river, how long his ropes are, how many seconds he can free-fall to the pulley. It does not matter if it is day or night, he could be blindfolded. Black space is time. After swinging for three seconds he puts his feet up to link with the concrete edge of the next pier. He knows his position in the air as if he is mercury slipping across a map.

    A South River parrot hung in its cage by the doorway of the Ohrida Lake Restaurant, too curious and interested in theevents of the night to allow itself to be blanketed. It watched the woman who stood dead centre in the room in darkness. The man turned on one light behind the counter. Nicholas Temelcoff came over to the bird for a moment’s visit after getting the drinks. “Well, Alicia, my heart, how are you?” And walked away not waiting for the bird’s reply, the fingers of his left hand delicately holding the glasses, his arm cradling the bottle.
    He muttered as if continuing his conversation with the bird, in the large empty room. From noon till two it was full of men, eating and drinking. Kosta the owner and his waiter performing raucous shows for the crowd – the boss yelling insults at the waiter, chasing him past customers. Nicholas remembered the first time he had come there. The dark coats of men, the arguments of Europe.
    He poured a brandy and pushed it over to her. “You don’t have to drink this but you can if you wish. Or see it as a courtesy.” He drank quickly and poured himself another. “Thank you,” he said, touching his arm curiously as if it were the arm of a stranger.
    She shook her head to communicate it was not all right, that it needed attention.
    “Yes, but not now. Now I want to sit here.” There was a silence between them. “Just to drink and talk quietly.… It is always night here. People step in out of sunlight and must move slow in the darkness.”
    He drank again. “Just for the pain.” She smiled. “Now music.” He stood up free of the table as he spoke and went behind the counter and turned the wireless on low. He spun the dial till there was bandstand. He sat down again opposite her. “Lot of pain. But I feel good.” He leaned back in his chair, holding up his glass. “Alive.” She picked up her glass and drank.
    “Where did you get that scar?” He pointed his thumb to the side of her nose. She pulled back.
    “Don’t be shy … talk. You must talk.” He wanted her to come out to him, even in anger, though he didn’t want anger. Feeling such ease in the Ohrida Lake Restaurant, feeling the struts of the chair along his back, her veil tight on his arm. He just wanted her there near him, night all around them, where he could look after her, bring her out of the shock with some grace.
    “I got about twenty scars,” he said, “all over me. One on my ear here.” He turned and leaned forward so the wall-light fell onto the side of his head. “See? Also this under my chin, that also broke my jaw. A coiling wire did that. Nearly kill me, broke my jaw. Lots more. My knees.…” He talked on. Hot tar burns on his arm. Nails in his calves. Drinking up, pouring her another shot, the woman’s song on the radio. She heard the lyrics underneath Temelcoff’s monologue as he talked and half mouthed the song and searched into