Read Online King Rat by China Miéville - Free Book Online
Authors: China Miéville
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curiosity that stopped her shutting the door. ‘I’ve not got a fan club yet.’
He stared at her and the nature of his smile changed. Until that moment it had been sincere, almost childish in its excitement. Slowly his lips closed a fraction and hid his teeth. He straightened his long back and his eyelids slid halfway down over his eyes. He leaned his head slightly to one side, without taking his eyes off her.
Natasha felt a wave of adrenaline. She looked back at him in shock. The change which had come over him was extraordinary. He stared at her now with a look so sexual, so casually knowing, that she felt vertiginous.
She was furious with him. She shook her head a little and prepared to slam the door. He held it open.
Before she could say anything, his arrogance had gone and the old look was back.
‘Please,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not explaining myself. I’m flustered because I’ve ... been plucking up courage to talk to you.
‘You see,’ he continued, ‘what you’re playing is beautiful, but sometimes it feels a little bit - don’t get angry - a bit unfinished. I sort of feel like the treble isn’t quite... working. And I wouldn’t say that to you except I play a little bit myself and I thought maybe we could help each other out.’
Natasha stepped backwards. She felt intrigued and threatened. She always stonewalled about her music, refusing to discuss her feelings about it with any except her very closest friends. The intense but inchoate frustrations she felt were rarely verbalized, as if to do so would give them form. She chose to keep them at bay with obfuscation, from herself as much as from others, and now this man seemed to be unwrapping them with an unnerving casualness.
‘Do you have a suggestion?’ she said as acidly as she could. He reached behind him and picked up a Page 32
black case. He shook it in front of her.
‘This might sound a bit cocky,’ he said, ‘and I don’t want you to think I reckon I can do better than you.
But, when I heard your playing, I just knew I could complement it.’ He undid the clasp of the case and opened it in front of her. She saw a disassembled flute.
‘I know you might think I’m crazy,’ he preempted hurriedly. ‘You think what you play is totally different to what I play. But... I’ve been looking for bass like yours for longer than you could believe.’
He spoke earnestly now, his eyebrows furrowed as he held her gaze. She stubbornly stared back, refusing to be overawed by this apparition on her doorstep.
‘I want to play with you,’ he said.
This was stupid, Natasha told herself: even if this man was not arrogant beyond belief, you could not play the flute to Jungle. It was so long since she had stared at a traditional instrument she felt a gust of deja vu: images of her nine-year-old self banging the xylophone in the school orchestra. Flutes meant enthusiastic cacophonies at the hands of children or the alien landscape of classical music, an intimidating world of great beauty but vicious social exclusivity, to which she had never known the passwords.
But to her amazement, this lanky stranger had impressed her. She wanted to let him in and hear him play his flute in her room. She wanted to hear him play over some of her basslines. Discordant indie bands had done it, she knew: My Bloody Valentine had used flutes. And while the result had left her as dead cold as the rest of that genre, surely the alliance itself was no more unlikely than this one. She realized that she was intrigued.
But she was not simply going to stand aside. She had a reputation for being intimidating. She was not used to feeling so disarmed, and her defences flared.
‘Listen,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t know what you think qualifies you to speak about my tracks. Why should I play with you?’
‘Try it once,’ he said, and again that sudden change flooded his features, the same curled smile on the edge of the lips, the same
He stared at her and the nature of his smile changed. Until that moment it had been sincere, almost childish in its excitement. Slowly his lips closed a fraction and hid his teeth. He straightened his long back and his eyelids slid halfway down over his eyes. He leaned his head slightly to one side, without taking his eyes off her.
Natasha felt a wave of adrenaline. She looked back at him in shock. The change which had come over him was extraordinary. He stared at her now with a look so sexual, so casually knowing, that she felt vertiginous.
She was furious with him. She shook her head a little and prepared to slam the door. He held it open.
Before she could say anything, his arrogance had gone and the old look was back.
‘Please,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not explaining myself. I’m flustered because I’ve ... been plucking up courage to talk to you.
‘You see,’ he continued, ‘what you’re playing is beautiful, but sometimes it feels a little bit - don’t get angry - a bit unfinished. I sort of feel like the treble isn’t quite... working. And I wouldn’t say that to you except I play a little bit myself and I thought maybe we could help each other out.’
Natasha stepped backwards. She felt intrigued and threatened. She always stonewalled about her music, refusing to discuss her feelings about it with any except her very closest friends. The intense but inchoate frustrations she felt were rarely verbalized, as if to do so would give them form. She chose to keep them at bay with obfuscation, from herself as much as from others, and now this man seemed to be unwrapping them with an unnerving casualness.
‘Do you have a suggestion?’ she said as acidly as she could. He reached behind him and picked up a Page 32
black case. He shook it in front of her.
‘This might sound a bit cocky,’ he said, ‘and I don’t want you to think I reckon I can do better than you.
But, when I heard your playing, I just knew I could complement it.’ He undid the clasp of the case and opened it in front of her. She saw a disassembled flute.
‘I know you might think I’m crazy,’ he preempted hurriedly. ‘You think what you play is totally different to what I play. But... I’ve been looking for bass like yours for longer than you could believe.’
He spoke earnestly now, his eyebrows furrowed as he held her gaze. She stubbornly stared back, refusing to be overawed by this apparition on her doorstep.
‘I want to play with you,’ he said.
This was stupid, Natasha told herself: even if this man was not arrogant beyond belief, you could not play the flute to Jungle. It was so long since she had stared at a traditional instrument she felt a gust of deja vu: images of her nine-year-old self banging the xylophone in the school orchestra. Flutes meant enthusiastic cacophonies at the hands of children or the alien landscape of classical music, an intimidating world of great beauty but vicious social exclusivity, to which she had never known the passwords.
But to her amazement, this lanky stranger had impressed her. She wanted to let him in and hear him play his flute in her room. She wanted to hear him play over some of her basslines. Discordant indie bands had done it, she knew: My Bloody Valentine had used flutes. And while the result had left her as dead cold as the rest of that genre, surely the alliance itself was no more unlikely than this one. She realized that she was intrigued.
But she was not simply going to stand aside. She had a reputation for being intimidating. She was not used to feeling so disarmed, and her defences flared.
‘Listen,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t know what you think qualifies you to speak about my tracks. Why should I play with you?’
‘Try it once,’ he said, and again that sudden change flooded his features, the same curled smile on the edge of the lips, the same
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