It was long past midnight when she turned suddenly into a street that seemed alive in the heart of a dead city. She saw yellow, curtained squares of light breaking stern, bare walls; squares of light on the bare sidewalk at glass entrance doors; dark roofs, far away, that seemed to meet in the black sky over that narrow crack of stone and light.
Kira stopped. A gramophone was playing. The sound burst into the silence from a blazing window. It was “The Song of Broken Glass.”
It was the song of a nameless hope that frightened her, for it promised so much, and she could not tell what it promised; she could not even say that it was a promise; it was an emotion, almost of pain, that went through her whole body.
Quick, fine notes exploded, as if the trembling cords could not hold them, as if a pair of defiant legs were kicking crystal goblets. And, in the gaps of ragged clouds above, the dark sky was sprinkled with a luminous powder that looked like splinters of broken glass.
The music ended in someone’s loud laughter. A naked arm pulled a curtain over the window.
Then Kira noticed that she was not alone. She saw women with lips painted scarlet on faces powdered snow-white, with red kerchiefs and short skirts, and legs squeezed by high shoes laced too tightly. She saw a man taking a woman’s arm and disappearing through a glass door.
She understood where she was. With a jerk, she started away hurriedly, nervously toward the nearest corner.
And then she stopped.
He was tall; his collar was raised; a cap was pulled over his eyes. His mouth, calm, severe, contemptuous, was that of an ancient chieftain who could order men to die, and his eyes were such as could watch it.
Kira leaned against a lamp post, looking straight at his face, and smiled. She did not think; she smiled, stunned, without realizing that she was hoping he would know her as she knew him.
He stopped and looked at her. “Good evening,” he said.
And Kira who believed in miracles, said: “Good evening.”
He stepped closer and looked at her with narrowed eyes, smiling. But the corners of his mouth did not go up when he smiled; they went down, raising his upper lip into a scornful arc.
“Lonely?” he asked.
“Terribly — and for such a long time,” she answered simply.
“Well, come on.”
“Yes.”
He took her arm and she followed him. He said: “We have to hurry. I want to get out of this crowded street.”
“So do I.”
“I must warn you not to ask any questions.”
“I have no questions to ask.”
She looked at the unbelievable lines of his face. She touched timidly, incredulously, the long fingers of the hand that held her arm.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked. But she did not answer. He said: “I’m afraid I’m not a very cheerful companion tonight.”
“Can I help you?”
“Well, that’s what you’re here for.” He stopped suddenly. “What’s the price?” he asked. “I haven’t much.”
Kira looked at him and understood why he had approached her. She stood looking silently into his eyes. When she spoke, her voice had lost its tremulous reverence; it was calm and firm. She said: “It won’t be much.”
“Where do we go?”
“I passed a little garden around the corner. Let’s go there first — for a while.”
“Any militia-men around?”
“No.”
They sat on the steps of an abandoned residence. Trees shielded them from a street light, and their faces and the wall behind them were dotted, checkered, sliced with shivering splinters of light. Over their heads were rows of empty windows on bare granite. The mansion bore an unhealed scar above its entrance door from where the owner’s coat of arms had been torn. The garden fence had been broken through, and its tall iron spikes bent toward the ground, like lances lowered in a grave salute.
“Take your cap off,” said Kira.
“What for?”
“I want to look at you.”
“Sent to search for someone?”
“No. Sent by whom?”
He did not answer and took off his cap. Her face was a mirror for the beauty of his. Her face reflected no admiration, but an incredulous, reverent awe. All she said was: “Do you always go around with your coat shoulder torn?”
“That’s all I have left. Do you always stare at people as if your eyes would burst?”
“Sometimes.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. The less you see of them the better off you are. Unless you have strong nerves and a strong stomach.”
“I have.”
“And strong legs?”
His two fingers were held straight while his fingertips threw her skirt up, high above her knees, lightly, contemptuously. Her hands grasped the stone steps. She did not pull her skirt down. She forced herself to sit without movement, without breath, frozen to the steps. He looked at her; his eyes moved up and down, but the corners of his lips moved only downward.
She whispered obediently, without looking at him: “And strong legs.”
“Well, if you have strong legs, then — run.”
“From you?”
“No. From all people. But forget it. Pull your skirt down. Aren’t you cold?”
“No.” But she pulled the skirt down.
“Don’t pay any attention to what I say,” he told her. “Have you anything to drink at your place?”
“Oh, ... yes.”
“I warn you I’m going to drink like a sponge tonight.”
“Why tonight?”
“That’s my habit.”
“It isn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I know it isn’t.”
“What else do you know about me?”
“I know that you’re very tired.”
“I am. I’ve walked all night.”
“Why?”
“I thought I told you not to ask any questions.”
He looked at the girl who sat pressed tightly against the wall. He saw only one gray eye, quiet and steady, and above it — one lock of hair; the white wrist of a hand held in a black pocket; the black, ribbed stockings on legs pressed tightly together. In the darkness, he guessed the patch of a long, narrow mouth, the dark huddle of a slender body trembling a little. His fingers closed around the black stocking. She did not move. He leaned closer to the dark mouth and whispered: “Stop staring at me as if I were something unusual. I want to drink. I want a woman like you. I want to go down, as far down as you can drag me.”
She said: “You know, you’ve very much afraid that you can’t be dragged down.”
His hand left her stocking. He looked at her a little closer and asked suddenly: “How long have you been in this business?”
“Oh ... not very long.”
“I thought so.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve tried my best.”
“Tried what?”
“Tried to act experienced.”
“You little fool. Why should you? I’d rather have you as you are, with these strange eyes that see too much.... What led you into ... this?”
“A man.”
“Was he worth that?”
“Yes.”
“What an appetite!”
“For what?”
“For life.”
“If one loses that appetite, why still sit at the table?”
He laughed. His laughter rolled into the empty windows above them, as cold and empty as the windows. “Perhaps to collect under the table a few little crumbs of refuse — like you — that can still be amusing.... Take your hat off.”
She took off her tam. Against the gray stone her tangled hair and the light tangled in the leaves, glittered like warm silk. He ran his fingers through her hair and jerked her head back so violently that it hurt her. “Did you love that man?” he asked.