Read Online Meatloaf in Manhattan by Robert Power - Free Book Online

to me,’ she says, bracing herself for whatever the words will reveal. ‘Reading was something I have never learnt to do.’
    Little-Path takes the book from her. Momentarily their fingers touch. Eileen’s hand recoils as if from a flame. Then he reads the lines he’s read a thousand times before, ever since he learnt the language of the bluecoats on the reservation, when all was lost and all had to be found again.
    â€˜Our situation is hopeless. There will be no victory here. Hell is unleashed all around and we are being slaughtered. The clouds pass by overhead, they race on the wind, as if nothing is amiss. They will be here in the morning when we are gone. Is this God’s judgment on our race? His ruling on our own barbarianism, now dealt to us in the valley and ravine below? For claiming that which is not ours to take? I grieve for my daughters who will soon be orphans. Forgive my sins, my shortcomings. Grow strong. But the clouds …’
    They sit in silence, the elderly lady in a long grey frock and the Sioux Indian with an eagle feather in his hair. Dusk settles into the room and the light fades. On the mantelpiece above the hearth Little-Path notices a wooden cross and a small photograph in a silver frame. In the half-light he sees the sepia image of two young women. They stand under the clock of the Bismarck train station with suitcases at their feet. They are clearly about to embark on a journey. Little-Path stands up to go. Eileen Kellogg grips the bible tightly, feeling for the words she cannot read, but has heard a thousand times from the preacher.
    â€˜Thank you. Thank you,’ she says, in little more than a whisper. ‘For this act of kindness.’
    â€˜I am sorry for your loss,’ says Little-Path. ‘I will go now.’
    â€˜Yes,’ she says, ‘before the weather sets in.’
    Little-Path nods and smiles and leaves the house. Outside in the garden he looks up to the sky. There’s a distant rumble of thunder, a dampness in the air and a sense of rain.
    Eileen sits in the chair by the fireplace, watching Little-Path as he closes the gate behind him and walks off down the road towards the station and the eastbound night train. Presently she lights the logs. The flames brighten the room and warm her body. She unclips the clasp and opens the book. Running the tip of her fingers along the curve and slope of the written word, she thinks of her darling brother, alone on the ravine, hell raging below, clouds racing above.

THE GENERAL AND THE BILLIARD CUE
    The General doesn’t like what he sees in the mirror. His shirt is grubby and his collar is frayed. The four golden stars on his epaulettes are faded and dull. Most of all he dislikes the uncertainty in his eyes. He leans closer to the glass in the hope it might help him to see more, to understand better. He tightens his tie, sadly aware of his thickening neck. Outside the night is drawing in and fresh falls of snow swirl in the wind, swept in from the peaks of the Altai Mountains. Too much has changed, but the snow will continue to fall, of that he can be certain.
    I’m sitting in a hotel room in Barnaul, Western Siberia, wrapped in every layer of clothing I can find. In the square outside my fifth floor window the statue of Lenin looks out over a brand new world. If he could bear to peek around the corner Lenin would see the garish yellow archways leading, not on to the glorious road to socialism, but to McDonald’s and an internet cafe. My job is to work with the Ministry of Health to prevent the spread of AIDS in a country where the economy is in ruins and the narcomafia holds sway in Dumas from Moscow to Vladivostok. Young kids, lost in the new post-communist world, are jacking up heroin to soften the blows of the mythical globalisation dream. Not many care or know about the dangers of sharing needles. There’s a lot to think about, but for the moment I have two immediate concerns of