Read Online Harsh Oases by Paul di Filippo - Free Book Online

impermeable sheet of years between her lips and mine.
    By the time I returned to the main island, dawn was threatening to bloody the eastern sky’s face. I felt exhausted, my head like a ten-pound bag of sand that was leaking into my eyes.
    Back at the house, I found Nadya still in the chair, asleep. I covered her with a blanket. She stirred but didn’t wake. I had a cold shower that refreshed me somewhat, left her a note explaining where I was, then headed for my office.
    To tell the truth, I was glad for any excuse to leave her alone. I felt I knew too many personal things about this abused woman, and her presence made me nervous. Try as I might, all I could think of when I looked at her was her wounds.
    I got through that day somehow, mainly by promising myself a good night’s sleep. Nothing untoward happened. Unless you counted the usual numerous thefts, brawls, lost children, scams, broken limbs, and idle complaints by rich residents who felt they deserved more for their money. Along about two I grabbed a sandwich. At four I checked my electronic bulletin board and found a message from HQ notifying me that they had on tap a promising replacement for the guy I had fired. That made me feel a little better. Assuming I survived till he showed up to help.
    I stayed in the office as long as I reasonably could, without attracting undue attention. Then, feeling guilty for neglecting Nadya, but also foolishly irritated at her intrusive presence, I headed home.
    I was glad to see that all the shades were down. I had forgotten to pull them myself, and hoped my guest had managed to do so without being spotted.
    Inside, the house smelled wonderful. I found Nadya—still in black—in the kitchen, standing at the stove, stirring something in a skillet.
    “Hello,” I said. “How’re you doing?”
    She stared at me unwaveringly, but without any discernible emotion. This was certainly not the look of helpless appeal I had half expected. There was no defiance, no imploring, no curiosity, no overt gratitude. Her gaze was simply a calm objective assessment of my capabilities, specifically my potential to aid her. In her eyes I instantly read a character both determined and ingenious, realistic yet always questing for the main chance, however improbable.
    I hope I am not making Nadya Tajir sound like a calculating, cold-hearted schemer. She was anything but. Still, her hard life had tempered her in a certain way, which I do not choose to misrepresent
    “Hello,” she answered. “I am fine, thank you. I cook something now for our supper. I hope you do not object”
    “No, go right ahead. Smells great.”
    I sat at the kitchen table and watched her. She moved completely unselfconsciously, as if I weren’t there.
    At one point, she burnt her finger.
    “Bloody hell!”
    I repressed a smile. “Where did you learn your English?”
    “From the shortwave BBC. Is ‘bloody hell’ wrong?”
    “No, just—not American.”
    She sniffed. “So what then? America is no big deal. Except maybe in her own eyes.”
    “Got me there, Nadya.”
    “Yes, thank you, I think so too.”
    The meal was just some kind of lamb couscous, with a light homemade bread cooked in a pan atop the stove, but it tasted like nothing I had ever eaten. I cleaned my plate twice.
    “That was great, Nadya. Thanks.”
    “I am glad you liked it. Now you can do the cleanup, please.”
    “Sure. No sweat.”
    She looked puzzled, then said, “Oh, ‘no sweat,’ right.”
    Nadya retreated to the living-room and I washed the dishes. While they were air-drying, I poked my head in. She was reading an old copy of Newsweek. I noticed the headline on the page facing me: YEMEN REUNIFICATION: “ARABIA FELIX” ONCE MORE.
    “Do you drink beer, Nadya?”
    “You have Guinness?”
    “Yup.”
    “If that mean yes, I will have some, please.”
    I popped two and brought them in. (The Guinness brewery had reluctantly switched to twist-tops, in the face of consumer-demand, just that