Watson, Ian - Novel 16 Read Online Free PDF

on everything? The thing itself is its sign.’ She waggled
her hand. ‘Do you need signs on your fingers telling you which is which? If so,
you’re in trouble. And so is anyone with you.’
                 Alex
experienced a quick chill of implied threat. He said nonchalantly, ‘There
mightn’t be any signs, but have you noticed how everyone’s walking in the same
direction? That’s been true of all streets since the bridge. No one going the
opposite way.’
                 ‘Isn’t
it obvious?’ she asked. ‘With streets so narrow?’ Again Alex felt he had
suffered a minor defeat. Too many of these, he feared, might erase Deborah from
his life - like a message rendered nonsensical by too many errors.
                He was rescued from discomfiture by
donkeys. (And Deborah, one moment cool and languid, was panicked the next by
these same beasts, as David Copperfield’s Aunt Betsy Trotwood would be goaded
into a tizz, a passion, by the mischievous antics of donkey boys and their
wicked quadrupeds, two thousand and some years later.)
                 Laden
with swaying bundles, a gang of donkeys - the only team work was that imposed by the confines of the houses - came at
a canter, buffeting pedestrians out of the way while urchin muleteers played a
hopeless game of tag behind, trying to catch hold of tails and avoid the
hammer kicks of hooves which would surely ensue. Further up the street one
incompetent lad still sprawled amidst the slippery mound of clay which had
created a bottleneck, causing separation of boys from donkeys, and donkeys from
their braying senses.
                 The
leading donkey sideswiped Alex with its swag- gery flanks, which were both
belly-bountiful in their own right, like those of some huge hairy child
suffering from kwashiorkor, and swollen besides by bundles of trader’s booty
tarpaulined under a sheep fleece. A small package of dirty cloth tied with cord
slipped out from under the fleece, to fall at his feet.
                Without really thinking, while
confusion mounted and loud Babylonian curses erupted everywhere and while the
next donkey blundered heavily past, Alex snatched the package up. Otherwise it
would be squashed down into the deep litter of other rags and tatters of
bedding and cabbage stalks, wouldn’t it?
                 Now
two other beasts were trying to run abreast, crowding the street from wall to
wall. Perhaps this was the fault of the kilted man squeezed between their
necks, trying to wrestle them both to a halt; he was being dragged along. The
people ahead of this donkey duo took to their heels, encouraging the animals to
do likewise.
                 ‘Help!’
cried Deborah, doing nothing to escape. Why not? Maybe this was beneath the
dignity of an elegant Greek lady.
                 Alex
seized his chance, and her hand (his other hand gripping the packet) and dragged
her in flight as far as the next intersection, which luckily was close at hand.
They ducked down a different street just as hooves thudded by - the runaway
pair pursued in turn by yet more beasts, then by squealing urchins, finally by
a foul-looking burly fellow swearing and lashing a whip at the urchins’ backs.
                 Enjoying
the sensation of leading Deborah, Alex hurried her more than halfway down this
street of refuge before she dug her heels in, out of breath or tired of playing
that role. She gazed at him wide-eyed. Angry? Exhilarated?
                 In
purest Attic Greek she said, ‘Wow. I could use a drink.’
                 No
one else had dodged up this particular thoroughfare to escape the stampede,
though the way had been completely clear. Now, as if some unseen Babylonian traffic
controller had waved a flag, the street began filling with folk from ahead.
                 ‘We
appear to be facing the wrong way,’ said Alex.