Read Online In Red by Magdalena Tulli - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Magdalena Tulli
Tags: Fantasy
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peer into the circus wagon through a dusty window.
âThereâs nothing in there,â theyâd say.
The monkeys would be grooming one another. Orlando the
lion tamer would be asleep on a wooden bunk, wrapped in his overcoat and snoring. The horseback performer would be darning her stockings.
Felek had them show him one of the circus banknotes again. It was no different from any other hundred-crown bill, perhaps just a little paler, but the watermark was in the right place, if not quite as distinct. He bought it, overpaying without batting an eye, and from that moment he always carried it with him for good luck in a side compartment of his wallet, so it wouldnât get mixed in with the thick bundles of bills with which he did business.
Potatoes flowed onto the Stitchings market in an even stream, and their mass, once it had passed the critical point, opened the floodgates to an under-the-counter trade in gold.
âIt worked!â shouted Felek Chmura, running down the middle of the street with his hands raised in a gesture of triumph. From that time on his people stood on every corner of Salt Street, turning wedding rings into cash, which was immediately taken to the little stores to pay overdue debts and renew credit. The legs of the women standing in line swelled up, while at home a throng of hungry children waited, along with a pile of torn stockings to be darned. The work never ended, tubs of soapy water stood perpetually in the kitchens.
Sea winds blew down Salt Street. Dealers took deep drags on cigarettes to catch their breath, and dried their throats with a mouthful of contraband spirit. Salt Street was glutted with cigarettes;
they were peddled from cardboard boxes slung around the necks of children shuffling along in oversized shoes, who also had liquor in their inside pockets and sold it on the side. They would start their business with a few small coins taken from their motherâs purse. The next day, having increased their reserves of cash, they would return to Felek Chmuraâs warehouse for more goods. While the mothers were still looking for their missing pennies, their children were already sitting on the dirty steps of apartment buildings on Factory Street counting thick bundles of banknotes. They would jump up at the sound of footsteps and flee to the attic, hiding among the sheets hung out to dry on washing lines.
In stormy weather the channels of commerce would seethe, swelling with dirty foam, and deals would fall through. Traders, soaking wet and exhausted, would spend their last money on alcohol and cigarettes. Their losses would rankle in them like a festering wound. The children would move among them cautiously, fearful for their wares and their money. Robbed and beaten, they would whimper in corners and stay out of the way of their overworked mothers, who bent over their never-ending tubs of laundry.
âWhy should I care about that? This isnât a shelter,â Felek would say as he bought jewelry in any amount from the traders, paying cash. Through his hands flowed a torrent of watches, wedding bands engraved on the inside with unnecessary initials, and diamond rings, the multiplicity of which rendered
them commonplace. One day the nameless river of mementos taken from their hiding places and hurriedly converted into ready money tossed up on its banks Kazimierz Krasnowolskiâs engagement ring, in a velvet-lined box to which shreds of prewar tobacco stuck like algae.
Felek Chmuraâs firm offered its clients complete discretion. His business never had any slow moments; he was always willing to conduct some profitable transaction, even at half past four in the morning, woken from the deepest sleep, and it never happened at any time that he was short of Polish crowns. It was for this reason Ludwig Neumann did not hesitate to send for him when it came time to sell the gold clock from his drawing room. Felek entered through the kitchen door, as he used to
âThereâs nothing in there,â theyâd say.
The monkeys would be grooming one another. Orlando the
lion tamer would be asleep on a wooden bunk, wrapped in his overcoat and snoring. The horseback performer would be darning her stockings.
Felek had them show him one of the circus banknotes again. It was no different from any other hundred-crown bill, perhaps just a little paler, but the watermark was in the right place, if not quite as distinct. He bought it, overpaying without batting an eye, and from that moment he always carried it with him for good luck in a side compartment of his wallet, so it wouldnât get mixed in with the thick bundles of bills with which he did business.
Potatoes flowed onto the Stitchings market in an even stream, and their mass, once it had passed the critical point, opened the floodgates to an under-the-counter trade in gold.
âIt worked!â shouted Felek Chmura, running down the middle of the street with his hands raised in a gesture of triumph. From that time on his people stood on every corner of Salt Street, turning wedding rings into cash, which was immediately taken to the little stores to pay overdue debts and renew credit. The legs of the women standing in line swelled up, while at home a throng of hungry children waited, along with a pile of torn stockings to be darned. The work never ended, tubs of soapy water stood perpetually in the kitchens.
Sea winds blew down Salt Street. Dealers took deep drags on cigarettes to catch their breath, and dried their throats with a mouthful of contraband spirit. Salt Street was glutted with cigarettes;
they were peddled from cardboard boxes slung around the necks of children shuffling along in oversized shoes, who also had liquor in their inside pockets and sold it on the side. They would start their business with a few small coins taken from their motherâs purse. The next day, having increased their reserves of cash, they would return to Felek Chmuraâs warehouse for more goods. While the mothers were still looking for their missing pennies, their children were already sitting on the dirty steps of apartment buildings on Factory Street counting thick bundles of banknotes. They would jump up at the sound of footsteps and flee to the attic, hiding among the sheets hung out to dry on washing lines.
In stormy weather the channels of commerce would seethe, swelling with dirty foam, and deals would fall through. Traders, soaking wet and exhausted, would spend their last money on alcohol and cigarettes. Their losses would rankle in them like a festering wound. The children would move among them cautiously, fearful for their wares and their money. Robbed and beaten, they would whimper in corners and stay out of the way of their overworked mothers, who bent over their never-ending tubs of laundry.
âWhy should I care about that? This isnât a shelter,â Felek would say as he bought jewelry in any amount from the traders, paying cash. Through his hands flowed a torrent of watches, wedding bands engraved on the inside with unnecessary initials, and diamond rings, the multiplicity of which rendered
them commonplace. One day the nameless river of mementos taken from their hiding places and hurriedly converted into ready money tossed up on its banks Kazimierz Krasnowolskiâs engagement ring, in a velvet-lined box to which shreds of prewar tobacco stuck like algae.
Felek Chmuraâs firm offered its clients complete discretion. His business never had any slow moments; he was always willing to conduct some profitable transaction, even at half past four in the morning, woken from the deepest sleep, and it never happened at any time that he was short of Polish crowns. It was for this reason Ludwig Neumann did not hesitate to send for him when it came time to sell the gold clock from his drawing room. Felek entered through the kitchen door, as he used to
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