Read Online The Good Mayor by Andrew Nicoll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew Nicoll
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‘Tahiti,’” she said.
And Tibo said the word over and over to himself as he worked. “Tahiti, Tahiti, Tahiti.” It mingled with the clatter of Agathe’s typewriter and the sound of the fountains and the rumble of the trams as Tibo worked until it was too dark to see.
If he had asked it, Agathe would have sat all night to help buthe did not ask and she cleared her desk and locked it a little after five. She could feel cold despair settling in her chest like a river pebble and rattling off each rib to land in the pit of her stomach where it lay. There was no point in going home but no point in staying away. As Agathe turned the key in the desk, she found herself saying, “Home is where they have to let you in.” Granny had said that as a comfort—the reassuring promise that she would never be turned away. Now it seemed like the threat of a prison sentence and she said again, “What’s the bloedig point?”
It was a long walk home. Not like last night, not a happy stroll to a happy place but a long and dusty tramp through hot streets at the end of a tiring day. She did not hurry. Her feet hurt, a stinging burning pain with every step that felt as if the skin on her soles was ready to part from the bones.
When she reached the delicatessen at the corner of Aleksander Street, Mrs. Oktar was out on the pavement, sweeping between the open crates of fruit that stood on display and brushing street dust off the piles of apples. She stopped to wave. Agathe waved back.
The black kitten that had wheedled round Agathe’s ankles the night before was peering out from under a crate of oranges. “Is he yours?” she asked.
“No,” said Mrs. Oktar. “There are always cats hanging round here. They breed. They spend all day lying out in the sunshine in the back yards and all night making kittens. It’s not a bad life—and I wouldn’t mind trying it myself—but I’ve got bills to pay and no smoked salmon to waste on the likes of him.”
Agathe reached under the orange box and lifted the kitten up to her face, brushing his fur with a whisper of breath. “I like him,” she said. “I’ll take him home with me. He just needs some love.”
“Like the rest of us,” said Mrs. Oktar, “but also some milk and some flea powder and some smoked salmon.” Mrs. Oktar was a wonderful saleswoman, a remarkable saleswoman but, like the rest of us, a victim of circumstance. And, although she ran a very fine delicatessen, it was, nonetheless, a delicatessen and, like every other delicatessen in Dot, it did not stock flea powder. “The milk Ican do and we’ve got the smoked salmon but we haven’t any flea powder. If I was you, I’d leave the cat until tomorrow. He’s not going anywhere.”
“I like him,” said Agathe. “He’s coming home with me. Just sell me the other stuff. I’ll get the flea powder in town tomorrow.”
“You’re a silly girl but on your own head be it—and not just your head either. A word to the wise, Mrs. Stopak, take it from one who knows—every place you’ve got where you wouldn’t let a man go unless he was Mr. Stopak, that’s where you’ll have those fleas. Tomorrow, when you’re in town getting flea powder for Mr. Cat here, maybe you should think about getting some for yourself.”
With an expert wrist, Mrs. Oktar flicked a brown paper bag full of air and put a carton of milk and a paper parcel of smoked salmon inside. The kitten squirmed deliciously in Agathe’s grip, wrestling against her breast as she shushed it.
“Oh, be still, you bad kitten. Just wait a minute or two.”
“That’s 4.50,” said Mrs. Oktar and she held out her hand. “For that, I’m prepared to throw in another bag for the cat. It wouldn’t kill you to be a little bit hygienic, would it?”
Agathe dropped the kitten into the bag and he looked at her reproachfully from the bottom. His four moppish paws spread out in the corners but he seemed happy enough until she lifted the bag by its
And Tibo said the word over and over to himself as he worked. “Tahiti, Tahiti, Tahiti.” It mingled with the clatter of Agathe’s typewriter and the sound of the fountains and the rumble of the trams as Tibo worked until it was too dark to see.
If he had asked it, Agathe would have sat all night to help buthe did not ask and she cleared her desk and locked it a little after five. She could feel cold despair settling in her chest like a river pebble and rattling off each rib to land in the pit of her stomach where it lay. There was no point in going home but no point in staying away. As Agathe turned the key in the desk, she found herself saying, “Home is where they have to let you in.” Granny had said that as a comfort—the reassuring promise that she would never be turned away. Now it seemed like the threat of a prison sentence and she said again, “What’s the bloedig point?”
It was a long walk home. Not like last night, not a happy stroll to a happy place but a long and dusty tramp through hot streets at the end of a tiring day. She did not hurry. Her feet hurt, a stinging burning pain with every step that felt as if the skin on her soles was ready to part from the bones.
When she reached the delicatessen at the corner of Aleksander Street, Mrs. Oktar was out on the pavement, sweeping between the open crates of fruit that stood on display and brushing street dust off the piles of apples. She stopped to wave. Agathe waved back.
The black kitten that had wheedled round Agathe’s ankles the night before was peering out from under a crate of oranges. “Is he yours?” she asked.
“No,” said Mrs. Oktar. “There are always cats hanging round here. They breed. They spend all day lying out in the sunshine in the back yards and all night making kittens. It’s not a bad life—and I wouldn’t mind trying it myself—but I’ve got bills to pay and no smoked salmon to waste on the likes of him.”
Agathe reached under the orange box and lifted the kitten up to her face, brushing his fur with a whisper of breath. “I like him,” she said. “I’ll take him home with me. He just needs some love.”
“Like the rest of us,” said Mrs. Oktar, “but also some milk and some flea powder and some smoked salmon.” Mrs. Oktar was a wonderful saleswoman, a remarkable saleswoman but, like the rest of us, a victim of circumstance. And, although she ran a very fine delicatessen, it was, nonetheless, a delicatessen and, like every other delicatessen in Dot, it did not stock flea powder. “The milk Ican do and we’ve got the smoked salmon but we haven’t any flea powder. If I was you, I’d leave the cat until tomorrow. He’s not going anywhere.”
“I like him,” said Agathe. “He’s coming home with me. Just sell me the other stuff. I’ll get the flea powder in town tomorrow.”
“You’re a silly girl but on your own head be it—and not just your head either. A word to the wise, Mrs. Stopak, take it from one who knows—every place you’ve got where you wouldn’t let a man go unless he was Mr. Stopak, that’s where you’ll have those fleas. Tomorrow, when you’re in town getting flea powder for Mr. Cat here, maybe you should think about getting some for yourself.”
With an expert wrist, Mrs. Oktar flicked a brown paper bag full of air and put a carton of milk and a paper parcel of smoked salmon inside. The kitten squirmed deliciously in Agathe’s grip, wrestling against her breast as she shushed it.
“Oh, be still, you bad kitten. Just wait a minute or two.”
“That’s 4.50,” said Mrs. Oktar and she held out her hand. “For that, I’m prepared to throw in another bag for the cat. It wouldn’t kill you to be a little bit hygienic, would it?”
Agathe dropped the kitten into the bag and he looked at her reproachfully from the bottom. His four moppish paws spread out in the corners but he seemed happy enough until she lifted the bag by its
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