The River and the Book Read Online Free PDF Page B

Book.
    “They will not stop,” said Grandmother. “The only thing that will stop them will be when the River is dead and the plains have turned to desert sands. It will not take so long. But soldiers will not come to this place, even if they send famine before them.”
    She turned to Kular. “If you would like to stay, you and your son will be safe here. For a little while.”

10
    I read Kular’s story to Mely this morning, and she asked me what it had to do with anything. “You didn’t leave the village because of the River,” she said. “You left because of the Book. That’s what you told me, anyway.”
    It annoyed me, because it was Mely who had said that it was my story to tell how I thought best. And in any case, I told her, what happened to the River is part of what happened to the Book. They are the same thing.
    “It’s stupidity,” said Mely darkly. “That is how they are the same. Human beings are selfish and greedy and they think that the world has been put there just for them.”
    Mely is always saying that people are stupid. “I’m a human being too,” I said.
    “I didn’t say
all
human beings,” said Mely. Before I could answer, she stuck her tail up and went outside to lie in the sun, and that was the end of that. I sighed and sat down at my table in my tiny kitchen, and I looked out of the window at the old fig tree that grows outside. It has dark glossy leaves and beautiful grey branches that are softly curved, like a woman’s arms, and it is always full of birds that squabble and court in its deep shade. The fig tree was the reason why I rented this flat, and looking at it always makes me feel better.
    We live in the Old Quarter, in the middle of a tangle of alleyways that are always strung with washing. When it rains, the alleys flood and the whole quarter stinks of sewage, and so I am glad we live on the first floor, where we escape most of the mud. Many of the buildings were once grand houses, with wide courtyards and graceful windows covered in iron grilles and carved wooden shutters, but they have long since lost their grandeur: the bright paint has faded on the shutters, and the stucco has fallen off the bricks, and their gardens are gone wild with tangles of brambles and prickly pear. They have been divided up into rooming houses or small flats, like the one I live in.
    The Old Quarter has a bad reputation. Several notorious gangs are based here, and every now and then a war breaks out that makes big headlines in the newspaper. When that happens, locals stay away from known gang territories like the fish market, and they never linger in the streets. Although the gangs are mainly interested in shooting each other, it is always possible for someone to get in the way of a bullet accidentally. I suppose it is the same wherever you live. River folk never go swimming where there are currents that pull you down, and they know that you don’t take the boat out in storms, and that you stay away from water snakes.
    There are two gangsters who keep an eye on my street. They are young men with sharp haircuts and expensive leather jackets, and they stand on the corner smoking expensive foreign cigarettes. I have lived here long enough for the men to nod when I walk past, and I nod back. The strange thing is that I don’t feel threatened by them. Perhaps I ought to be afraid, but I am not important enough to interest them. The truth is that I feel much less safe near the Financial District, where the businessmen go to the nightclubs and stagger out with crooked ties and bloodshot eyes and leer at me as I hurry home from a late appointment.
    I never see my customers at home. I hire a stall in the tourist market four days a week. Sometimes people ask me where I live, and when I tell them they open their eyes wide and tell me I must be very brave to live in such a dangerous area by myself. Sometimes they ask if they can visit me, because they think it will be an adventure, but I always refuse. My