Read Online How the Stars did Fall by Paul F Silva - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul F Silva
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him. He sat next to Faraday. With no signal from him, the mistress brought the musician his own tray. This one held an already-lit opium lamp and a pipe and a bowl and some opium paste laid out on a plate like a garnish. The mistress took up a portion of the paste with a needle and held it above the lamp for a while, the heat slowly cooking the pea-sized mass. Then she placed that portion in the bowl and the musician, as if taking this as his cue, took the pipe and set it across the flame and inhaled the vapors coming up from the bowl.
This whole scene left Faraday transfixed, for he had never seen anyone partake in that manner, but while he stared at the musician and his gaudy dress, a woman sat next to him and took his hands in her own. Not wanting to offend, Faraday did not break her grasp. And when the whore asked if he wanted to dance, in a heavy Russian accent, he only smiled and did not answer.
“Be careful with that one,” the goateed musician said to Faraday. “Her grandfather was a gypsy of some importance and the souls of the gypsies do not transmigrate into the afterlife but hang around their descendants, guarding them.” After saying that, the musician took another deep draw of the opium vapor and paused as if thinking about some profound fact that had suddenly occurred to him. Then his head fell back and he let out a roar of a laugh.
Faraday took up the whore’s offer and the two of them danced together to the now-diminished tune, and they drank together and as they circled the room they let go and each found another partner and danced some more, until the circle completed itself and Faraday and the whore found themselves in the crowd and joined together again. By now night had set in and the many candelabra and chandeliers that illuminated the hall burned ever brighter, and when the dancers passed by the flames, their shadows drew upon them, climbing the walls like escaping phantoms. Finally the whore whispered in Faraday’s ear, calling him to her room, and the couple left together, climbing a narrow staircase and into a hallway lined with more candelabra and macabre paintings of three-headed dogs and men in white robes standing in an ancient courtyard, their unfurled scrolls bearing the number nought nought one, and one painting of a solitary Indian with long hair and a colored face playing the quena.
Inside her room, the woman sat on the bed. Faraday found a bowl filled with water and wet his face. Then he undressed himself and sat in front of the whore. She did not move. Did not speak. Faraday initiated contact but the woman did not respond to his touch. He thought he ought to be more direct so he told her what he wanted her to do to him.
“You want me to do what?” she asked. And she laughed at the nakedness in front of her. “You know you will die, soon? He has his eye on you. There is no way to hide.” she said. Her voice sounded the same but the way she said it was strange and masculine.
Startled, Faraday answered as if addressing not the woman but some other being which had just entered their circle. “I’ve been through bad and worse already. Nothing ahead I can’t deal with.”
The woman stared back, her face blank. Then she began to sob and mumble something incoherent in her mother tongue, and she dropped her eyes and when she lifted them again and beheld Faraday the sobbing turned to wailing. A dreadful, high-pitched wailing. Faraday tried to console her.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
But either she did not understand or could not express whatever assailed her. Soon the mistress found them and helped the woman off the bed and into the kitchen for a drink of water.
“What did you do?” the mistress asked.
“Nothing.”
“Go back. I will help her.”
Returning to the main hall, Faraday saw that Tennyson and the musician had begun a conversation. They sat next to each other, the gaunt musician with his cavernous face and the portly doctor. The figure of one
This whole scene left Faraday transfixed, for he had never seen anyone partake in that manner, but while he stared at the musician and his gaudy dress, a woman sat next to him and took his hands in her own. Not wanting to offend, Faraday did not break her grasp. And when the whore asked if he wanted to dance, in a heavy Russian accent, he only smiled and did not answer.
“Be careful with that one,” the goateed musician said to Faraday. “Her grandfather was a gypsy of some importance and the souls of the gypsies do not transmigrate into the afterlife but hang around their descendants, guarding them.” After saying that, the musician took another deep draw of the opium vapor and paused as if thinking about some profound fact that had suddenly occurred to him. Then his head fell back and he let out a roar of a laugh.
Faraday took up the whore’s offer and the two of them danced together to the now-diminished tune, and they drank together and as they circled the room they let go and each found another partner and danced some more, until the circle completed itself and Faraday and the whore found themselves in the crowd and joined together again. By now night had set in and the many candelabra and chandeliers that illuminated the hall burned ever brighter, and when the dancers passed by the flames, their shadows drew upon them, climbing the walls like escaping phantoms. Finally the whore whispered in Faraday’s ear, calling him to her room, and the couple left together, climbing a narrow staircase and into a hallway lined with more candelabra and macabre paintings of three-headed dogs and men in white robes standing in an ancient courtyard, their unfurled scrolls bearing the number nought nought one, and one painting of a solitary Indian with long hair and a colored face playing the quena.
Inside her room, the woman sat on the bed. Faraday found a bowl filled with water and wet his face. Then he undressed himself and sat in front of the whore. She did not move. Did not speak. Faraday initiated contact but the woman did not respond to his touch. He thought he ought to be more direct so he told her what he wanted her to do to him.
“You want me to do what?” she asked. And she laughed at the nakedness in front of her. “You know you will die, soon? He has his eye on you. There is no way to hide.” she said. Her voice sounded the same but the way she said it was strange and masculine.
Startled, Faraday answered as if addressing not the woman but some other being which had just entered their circle. “I’ve been through bad and worse already. Nothing ahead I can’t deal with.”
The woman stared back, her face blank. Then she began to sob and mumble something incoherent in her mother tongue, and she dropped her eyes and when she lifted them again and beheld Faraday the sobbing turned to wailing. A dreadful, high-pitched wailing. Faraday tried to console her.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
But either she did not understand or could not express whatever assailed her. Soon the mistress found them and helped the woman off the bed and into the kitchen for a drink of water.
“What did you do?” the mistress asked.
“Nothing.”
“Go back. I will help her.”
Returning to the main hall, Faraday saw that Tennyson and the musician had begun a conversation. They sat next to each other, the gaunt musician with his cavernous face and the portly doctor. The figure of one
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