One Hundred Days of Rain Read Online Free PDF Page A

conscience, it thinks of nothing now or ever beyond the wet earth and always down, down, into and inside. Rain is inexorable and dumb, it can’t even speak except in a tiny drumming.
    Yesterday it seemed rain had gone for good. How bravely the sun shone, how careless were the few clouds in the sky. Us? Harmless, we tell you. And she believed it, they were so fluffy and light, like pancakes.
    Her city is a rainless one, it will always shine on her this way: these are the kind of lies she believes when the sun spreads out with such rich abandon. She’s good at forgetting, not remembering. A survival skill, maybe. Yesterday she wandered the shopping street near her place in a half-daze, meeting nobody’s eye. Clothes in brilliant windows, fancy magazines with bright covers, and the pedestrians, a little out of place in all the gleam. The women not quite right in some way, their clothes too old, their faces too fat, their expressions peevish or distracted. All passing under her indifferent undifferentiating gaze.
    This morning she gets up and oils her boots. The leather gradually darkens, the creases turn almost black, the scuffed tops take on a sheen. They will be proof against anything: puddles, infidelity, mutual accusations, even her private and wild despair. She developed a passion for these boots in the store, even though – or perhaps because – they are like nothing else she owns. They were outdoorsy and pretend-rugged: they reminded her of starlets gamely trekking wilderness trails for photos. There was a fey, almost girlish quality to the two buckled straps at top and bottom, despite the gesture towards practicality in the stacked wooden heels. Yesterday she was getting dressed when Nurse phoned. She had nothing on but the boots over a pair of socks. She stood and talked to Nurse, who she’s dating in desultory fashion, and sorted through receipts, looking at herself in the mirror all the while. Monstrous self-satisfaction. When rain next comes she will be ready.

23.
    The smell of rain is ozone, smoke, earth, and cloud: a smell impossible to duplicate or bottle, though people try. “Spring Rain”-scented detergent. “Summer Rain” cologne.
    â€œWinter Rain”: disinterred ski suits, mildew, urine and chill.
    â€œAutumn Rain”: clouds of leaves left to moulder on the ground, skunk spray in the park, a sharp overtone of dog waste.
    Springtime. Find a field, a park will do, and one of those days that cries out with the promise of it. Smell the green. Listen to the soft patter across the grass like tiny rabbits running away from you. Run with rain. No coat.
    Wait until summer. Night falls, later than anyone could imagine. The rain starts up again as if it has been waiting for this: a soft insistent patter, gentle as faith. Looking out into the night there is no way to believe in rain, invisible.
    Go out to the nearest body of water in which it is permissible to bathe, or more practically one with a low fence. Go out to the sea.
    It should be high summer. August, when the heat is at its peak, when you pant a little just breathing, when exertion seems unthinkable. When you are covered with your own moisture, visibly. When you wait for night like the answer to a wish.
    Slip into the water, the ocean, the salt: slip into the warm liquid from whence we are rumoured to have come. The ocean and the air are practically the same temperature: it’s like floating in a cool bathtub.
    Turn on your back, let yourself float belly-up, let the rain cover you with little x’s.
    Of course take off all your clothes.
    Watch autumn rain from behind a window, warm cup in your hands. Curl in the frame of the window if possible. Wear your most touchable clothes, the loosely woven chunky sweater, the velveteen pull-on pants. Wear woolen socks that don’t itch. Feel your feet in them.
    In winter wish for snow.

24.
    This morning rain is faint, almost Victorian. Rain totters about with a