Scraps of Heaven Read Online Free PDF Page A

white skin. He recalls her hair unleashed on white pillows as they made love. In that hotel Josh was conceived and, for the first time, she had allowed herself to hope.
    Perhaps this is where the troubles began. Perhaps this is when the seed of future discord was sown, but Romek does not wish to speculate further. He wishes only to savour this moment. He listens to the pre-dawn sounds: the crowing of Bianchi’s rooster, the chatter of awakening birds. He hears the clip-clop of the milkman’s horse and the thud of the morning newspaper as it lands upon the porch. He heaves himself out of bed and lifts up the blind. He peers through the window at the greying light, glances back at Zofia, and knows that their unexpected intimacy will vanish with the lifting dark.
    Bloomfield knows the gaps between night and day. He knows as one who awakens on a park bench. The families who had fallen asleep in the square during the night are long gone. He runs his hand over his chin, feels the stubble of his infant beard. He touches the timber, feels its texture. It matches the sandpaper texture of his chin.
    Tints of grey give way to crimsons that radiate upon an eastern sky. A pale red shadow scales the roofs. It spreads a pool of light across tile and slate, sheets of tin and galvanisediron. He glances up at the elms and oaks, the crimson leaves of the Moreton Bays. His gaze follows the upper trunks until they vanish into awakening skies. The veil is lifting. Bloomfield breathes in deeply, and slumps back.
    Romek is a man attached to a suitcase, his tchemodan . Josh lies in bed and hears him in the kitchen, pottering around. Romek beats two eggs. The white-yellow liquid swirls in the bowl like spiralling galaxies in space. He lights the gas stove, and observes the flames leaping beneath the pan in a blizzard of ambers and blues. He pours in the beaten eggs, adds slices of onion, a sprinkling of cheese, and watches the liquid swell into an oval shape.
    He places the food on the table, pours the tea, unravels the morning paper and, when all is finally arranged, settles down to his dawn spread. Romek reads as he eats, occasionally pausing over a bite to relish the nuances of the ingredients garnished by parsley and bread. He glances at his suitcase, the tchemodan . It stands ready, by the back door. He had prepared it the night before, filled it with socks, stockings, underwear and string bags. Leather bruised and scraped, it has known better times.
    Romek returns his attention to the paper. He scrawls two lines in the margins, above the morning headlines: Saturday, 11 January, 1958. ‘Two Die in Fierce Storms in Sydney’, reads one. ‘Lightning Kills Schoolgirl’, announces another. ‘Two Men Drowned in Corio Bay’. ‘Two Brothers Lost in the Murray’. The calamities never cease. ‘Wind Saves Town’. At last, some relief. But the disasters win out: ‘Bush Fire Beats Fighters’, reads the final bold point. Below it is a photo of trees ablaze beside a forest track. The trees are charcoal towers buckling over in inflamed winds, and in the margins there is a new caption, a verse in Hebraic script:
    Tchemodan, my ageing friend.
Loyal companion to the end.
    Romek dishes the eggshell and onion rinds into a bin, washes the fork, the spoon, the pan and plate, and returns them to the cupboard. He does not like to leave any sign of his presence. He grasps the tchemodan in his right hand, notes the cracks in the linoleum, the flaking paint on the walls, and adds them to a mental list of intended repairs. He is alert to the sound of each footfall as he leaves by the back door.
    The back gate sighs open. Bianchi’s rooster crows triumphantly in the thawing dark. As Romek sets out, Josh imagines him growing smaller. A quiet presence has departed, leaving a brooding house in its wake.
    A man who walks through empty streets just after dawn possesses powerful antennae. This is Romek’s time. His