Without Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

with that.
    “Have you been waiting a long time?”
    “No, why?”
    The man shook his head, continuing to stare at her.
    “Nothing, excuse me,” he said.
    “I’d like a ticket,” she said.
    Then the man turned and stuck his hand up among the strips of tickets hanging behind him.
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    The woman pointed to a strip that was longer than the others.
    “That one there . . . can you take it from that strip?”
    “This one?”
    “Yes.”
    The man tore off the ticket. He glanced at the number and nodded approval with his head. He placed it on the wooden counter between him and the woman.
    “It’s a good number.”
    “What did you say?”
    The man didn’t answer because he was looking at the woman’s face, as if he were searching for something.
    “Did you say it’s a good number?”
    The man lowered his gaze to the ticket:
    “Yes, it has two 8’s in a symmetrical position and has equal sums.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “If you draw a line through the middle of the number, the sum of the figures on the right is the same as those on the left. Generally that’s a good sign.”
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    “And how do you know?”
    “It’s my job.”
    The woman smiled.
    “You’re right.”
    She placed her money on the counter.
    “You’re not blind,” she said.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    The man began laughing.
    “No, I’m not.”
    “It’s odd . . . ”
    “Why should I be blind?”
    “Well, the people who sell lottery tickets always are.”
    “Really?”
    “Maybe not always, but often . . . I think people like it that they’re blind.”
    “In what sense?”
    “I don’t know, I imagine it has to do with the idea of fortune being blind.”
    The woman spoke and then she began to laugh. She had a nice laugh, with no sign of age in it.
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    “Usually they’re very old, and they look around like tropical birds in the window of a pet shop.”
    She said it with great assurance.
    Then she added:
    “You are different.”
    The man said that in fact he was not blind. But he was old.
    “How old are you?” the woman asked.
    “I’m seventy-two,” said the man.
    Then he added:
    “This is a good job for me, I have no problems, it’s a good job.”
    He said it in a low voice. Calmly.
    The woman smiled.
    “Of course. I didn’t mean that . . . ”
    “It’s a job I like.”
    “I’m sure of it.”
    She took the ticket and put it in a small black purse.
    Then she turned around for an instant as if she had to check something, or wanted to see if there were people 47

    waiting, behind her. At the end, instead of thanking him and leaving, she spoke.
    “I wonder if you might like to come and have something to drink with me.”
    The man had just put the money into the cash drawer.
    He stopped with his hand in midair.
    “Me?”
    “Yes.”
    “I . . . I can’t.”
    The woman looked at him.
    “I have to keep the kiosk open, I can’t go now, I have no one here that . . . I . . . ”
    “Just a glass.”
    “I’m sorry . . . really I can’t do it.”
    The woman nodded yes, as if she had understood. But then she leaned toward the man and said:
    “Come with me.”
    The man said again:
    “Please.”
    But she repeated:
    “Come with me.”
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    It was strange. The man folded the newspaper and got off the stool. He removed his glasses. He put them in a gray cloth case. Then, very carefully, he began to close the kiosk. He lined up each gesture with the next, slowly, silently, as if it were an ordinary evening. The woman waited, standing calmly, as if it had nothing to do with her. Every so often someone passed by and turned to look at her. Because she seemed to be alone, and was beautiful.
    Because she was not young, and seemed alone. The man turned off the light. He pulled down the little shutter and fastened it to the ground with a padlock. He put on an overcoat, which was loose on his shoulders. He went over to the woman.
    “I’ve finished.”
    The woman smiled at him.
    “Do you know where we could go?”
    “Over here.