Read Online Nekropolis by Maureen F. McHugh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maureen F. McHugh
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makes it easy to love her. When I am with her, there is the constant anxiety that I’m not making her happy, and when I see her look of love, something within me leaps up, relieved and delighted.
I’ve gone into that dim, secret space and it has brought me here, to the place of the human dead. Hariba is sick. And I’m helpless.
She sits in the bed in the cool room with the sheet over her knees, and folds paper into flowers. There are lilies on long stalks that she curls into wreaths, then she fills them with tiny flower cups. She names the flowers for me; canna lily, narcissus, rose, impatiens. They are all paper white. She ties them up with long white satin ribbons like the kind she used to wear around her wrists. While she does it, she’s happy and I’m happy to sit with her.
Then the headaches come back and she lies on her side with her knees to her chin, whimpering. The room feels warmer, the air heavier. Her face shines with sweat and long trails of black hair stick to her forehead. Then she’s closed, no space for me, and the headaches fill her and at the same time there is this need, this terrible need, that I can’t satisfy. I found her in the street that way, outside the master’s house, and that’s how she brought me here, with that terrible need.
I stay with her and hold the bucket when she’s sick. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“Shhhh,” I say. “Shhhhh.” I wipe her face with a cloth. The room smells of sweat and vomit and someone who has been in bed too long.
Need. We need money to have a safe place and she needs to be safe.
While she sleeps, I take the wreaths and I go out into the Nekropolis, to the Moussin of the White Falcon. I can bring her back money. It’s a good day, hot and bright. The square in front of the Moussin is crowded with people; some of them are empty, some of them complicated by grief and need. It is in their voices and their faces, in the way their hands shape themselves empty. Women hunch their backs around the emptiness and wail.
Lots of people are set up to sell wreaths, and most of them have lots of wreaths and banks of flowers. Dry and baking heat. The kind that heats to the bone. I spread out a towel and put my wreaths down. I only have six-two as wide across as my arm and full of the sweep and curve of the canna lilies and four smaller ones with roses. Across from me, a woman sits on a cloth, with wreaths and falcons with their paper wings spread all around her, and makes more things. Humans are only complete like this, when they are doing something that makes their minds and hands busy, when they are doing something that makes them solve puzzles. I like to watch this woman because harni are never complete alone and so there is something peaceful and at the same time disquieting about it. Humans say they are happy when they have things, but hands and mind in concert make them complete.
A tall boy squats near me with single flowers for sale. He’s looking at my wreaths.
“My wife makes them,” I say, “but she’s sick, so she can’t make many.”
He nods. “They’re very nice. Very good work. How much?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. How much should I ask?”
He considers. “Five for the big ones and three for the small,” he says. “That’s what I’d ask.” He’s pleased that I asked and his pleasure is like warmth. Like heat.
“Thank you,” I say.
“From the Mashahana,” he says absently. It’s what Hariba says when you thank her. I’ll remember to say it.
Mourners come and some of them already have flowers, but some of them look at the wreaths. “How much?” they ask and I say, “Five for the large ones and three for the small.” I sell three of the small ones, and then, as the shadows are lengthening over the square, both of the large ones. One of the large ones goes to a man who is pleased with himself. One goes to a woman who is needy.
“It is a beautiful piece,” I say to the woman. “Canna lilies and
I’ve gone into that dim, secret space and it has brought me here, to the place of the human dead. Hariba is sick. And I’m helpless.
She sits in the bed in the cool room with the sheet over her knees, and folds paper into flowers. There are lilies on long stalks that she curls into wreaths, then she fills them with tiny flower cups. She names the flowers for me; canna lily, narcissus, rose, impatiens. They are all paper white. She ties them up with long white satin ribbons like the kind she used to wear around her wrists. While she does it, she’s happy and I’m happy to sit with her.
Then the headaches come back and she lies on her side with her knees to her chin, whimpering. The room feels warmer, the air heavier. Her face shines with sweat and long trails of black hair stick to her forehead. Then she’s closed, no space for me, and the headaches fill her and at the same time there is this need, this terrible need, that I can’t satisfy. I found her in the street that way, outside the master’s house, and that’s how she brought me here, with that terrible need.
I stay with her and hold the bucket when she’s sick. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“Shhhh,” I say. “Shhhhh.” I wipe her face with a cloth. The room smells of sweat and vomit and someone who has been in bed too long.
Need. We need money to have a safe place and she needs to be safe.
While she sleeps, I take the wreaths and I go out into the Nekropolis, to the Moussin of the White Falcon. I can bring her back money. It’s a good day, hot and bright. The square in front of the Moussin is crowded with people; some of them are empty, some of them complicated by grief and need. It is in their voices and their faces, in the way their hands shape themselves empty. Women hunch their backs around the emptiness and wail.
Lots of people are set up to sell wreaths, and most of them have lots of wreaths and banks of flowers. Dry and baking heat. The kind that heats to the bone. I spread out a towel and put my wreaths down. I only have six-two as wide across as my arm and full of the sweep and curve of the canna lilies and four smaller ones with roses. Across from me, a woman sits on a cloth, with wreaths and falcons with their paper wings spread all around her, and makes more things. Humans are only complete like this, when they are doing something that makes their minds and hands busy, when they are doing something that makes them solve puzzles. I like to watch this woman because harni are never complete alone and so there is something peaceful and at the same time disquieting about it. Humans say they are happy when they have things, but hands and mind in concert make them complete.
A tall boy squats near me with single flowers for sale. He’s looking at my wreaths.
“My wife makes them,” I say, “but she’s sick, so she can’t make many.”
He nods. “They’re very nice. Very good work. How much?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. How much should I ask?”
He considers. “Five for the big ones and three for the small,” he says. “That’s what I’d ask.” He’s pleased that I asked and his pleasure is like warmth. Like heat.
“Thank you,” I say.
“From the Mashahana,” he says absently. It’s what Hariba says when you thank her. I’ll remember to say it.
Mourners come and some of them already have flowers, but some of them look at the wreaths. “How much?” they ask and I say, “Five for the large ones and three for the small.” I sell three of the small ones, and then, as the shadows are lengthening over the square, both of the large ones. One of the large ones goes to a man who is pleased with himself. One goes to a woman who is needy.
“It is a beautiful piece,” I say to the woman. “Canna lilies and
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