The Swede raises his pale eyebrows and nods. The roar of drunken voices swells around them, then deflates. A door swings open, and the smoke-filled air shudders above their heads.
“So the man you killed was rich?”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Sumner says. “I was only making a joke.”
The Swede looks down at the gold coin but doesn’t reach for it. Sumner leans back in his chair and waits. He knows the future is close by: he can feel its tug and sprawl, its shimmering blankness. He is standing on the very lip, poised and ready to step off.
“I think you will find someone to take you,” the Swede says eventually. “If you pay them well enough.”
Sumner takes another sovereign from his pocket and places it down next to the first. The twin coins wink yellow in the flickering gaslight; on the wet, black tabletop, they shine like eyes. He looks back at the Swede and smiles.
“I do believe I found him,” he says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
One bright morning, a month later, he visits the Zoologischer Garten in Berlin. He is clean shaven now, and he has a new suit of clothes and a new name. He strolls about the gravel paths, smoking his pipe and pausing every now and then to watch the animals as they yawn and shit and scratch themselves. The sky is cloudless, and the low autumn sun is broad and warming. He sees lions, camels, and monkeys; he observes a small boy in a sailor suit feeding buns to a solitary zebra. It is close to noon, and he is beginning to lose interest, when he notices the bear. The cage it is standing in is no wider than the deck of a ship. There is a lead-lined pit at one end, filled up with water, and a low brick archway in the rear wall leading to a den with straw for bedding. The bear is standing at the back gazing indifferently forwards. Its fur is shabby, lank, and yellowish; its snout is mottled and threadbare. While Sumner watches, a family arrives and stands beside him at the rail. One of the children asks in German if this is the lion or the tiger, and the other child laughs at him. They argue briefly and the mother scolds, then quiets them. When the family leaves, the bear waits awhile, then slouches slowly forwards, its head twitching like a dowsing rod and its heavy feet scuffing gently against the cement floor. It reaches the front of the cage and pushes its nose through the black bars as far as it can manage, until its narrow wolfish face is only three feet from Sumner’s. It sniffs the air and stares at him, its gimlet eyes like strait gates to a larger darkness. Sumner would like to look away but can’t. The bear’s gaze holds him tight. It snorts, and its raw breath brushes against his face and lips. He feels a moment of fear, and then, in its wake, as the fear fades and loses its force, an unexpected stab of loneliness and need.
~ ~ ~
Thanks to my great friend and colleague John McAuliffe for reading and commenting on the manuscript. Thanks also to my excellent agents, Judith Murray and Denise Shannon, and my terrific editors, Rowan Cope at Scribner and Michael Signorelli at Henry Holt, for their invaluable support and advice.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
IAN MCGUIRE grew up near Hull and studied at the University of Manchester and the University of Virginia in the United States. He is the cofounder and codirector of the University of Manchester’s Centre for New Writing. He writes criticism and fiction, and his stories have been published in Chicago Review, The Paris Review, and elsewhere. His first novel was Incredible Bodies. The North Water is his second novel. You can sign up for email updates here.