Read Online The Rise & Fall of Great Powers by Tom Rachman - Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Rachman
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life went still:
“May I—may I go with you?” asked Smike, timidly. “I will be your faithful hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I want no clothes,” added the poor creature, drawing his rags together; “these will do very well. I only want to be near you.”
“And you shall,” cried Nicholas. “And the world shall deal by you as it does by me, till one or both of us shall quit it for a better. Come!”
She considered the word “shall,” wishing to utter words like that to stammering friends who inquired, “May I—may I go with you, Tooly?” To which she’d reply, “You shall!”
Paul stood beside her, lips moving, words emerging but not sounding yet, her ears still switched off. A stick of dried spaghetti in her mouth, she finished the chapter, then closed the book. “I saw a tree babbler,” she said.
“Where?”
“In a tree.”
He lowered himself into an armchair, rubbed his face. “Don’t eat raw spaghetti.”
“I shall not.”
“Why are your lips green? Were you tasting toothpaste again?”
“Maybe.”
“Just have something normal from the fridge.”
“There wasn’t anything normal.”
“What was there?”
“Nothing.”
He frowned disbelievingly and rose to check. But why would there have been food? They’d only moved in the day before. Every cupboardwas empty, the fridge unplugged. He had left her alone for ten hours. “Nothing since breakfast?” he asked.
“I didn’t have breakfast.”
He opened all the cupboards again, ashamed of his oversight and uncertain how to respond. He checked the clock. (In place of numbers, its display had birds; instead of chiming, it twittered on the hour. By now, they could tell time by birdsong.) “It’s blackbird past owl,” he said. “I have to feed you.”
“You shall.”
She described the tree babbler but fell silent when the elevator doors closed after them—he opposed talking in elevators, since outsiders could hear. They crossed the building’s courtyard, which was lined with frangipani trees and flanked by twin fountains, spray misting the hot evening air. “Nothing at all?”
“That spaghetti,” she replied. “When I was on the balcony, I saw places down the road where they have food.”
“We’re not eating things from the street, Tooly.”
“Can I try?”
“There’ll be proper restaurants,” he said. “They probably have Italian in Bangkok. You like spaghetti.”
“Can I see down our street first?”
“You saw from the window.”
“Only from high up.”
“Well … okay. But follow me and stick close.” He stepped from the complex and onto the soi , directly into the path of a motorcycle, which swerved around him, its whoosh fluttering her T-shirt. Walls ran along both sides of the lane, hiding the expat apartment buildings, while electricity cables hung from utility poles like vines. They walked single file toward the main road, Sukhumvit, passing a cart of tropical fruit on ice: papaya spears in plastic bags, skinned pineapples, hairy rambutans. The shopkeeper attacked a mango with a butcher knife, severing it on a tree-stump cutting board.
Gray blotches spattered the dry pavement. It was rain—from specks to a gushing torrent within seconds. They speed-walked forSukhumvit, where tuk-tuk taxis awaited. “Can we take one?” she asked.
“They’re not safe,” he replied, the downpour plastering white hair over his forehead, rain dribbling down his spectacles. “It’s like a cart—you can just fly out. We need a proper taxi.”
They continued into the deluge, rain overwhelming the grates, water rising out of the gutter.
“Look!” she said. “Rats! They’re swimming.”
“Don’t look at them, Tooly! They’re diseased. Tooly—keep up!” Glancing left and right for a taxi, he hurried onward, inadvertently leading them down Soi Cowboy, a strip of winking-neon bars, with hookers sitting cross-legged on stools, smoothing down miniskirts, gabbing in Thai above tinny pop music.
“May I—may I go with you?” asked Smike, timidly. “I will be your faithful hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I want no clothes,” added the poor creature, drawing his rags together; “these will do very well. I only want to be near you.”
“And you shall,” cried Nicholas. “And the world shall deal by you as it does by me, till one or both of us shall quit it for a better. Come!”
She considered the word “shall,” wishing to utter words like that to stammering friends who inquired, “May I—may I go with you, Tooly?” To which she’d reply, “You shall!”
Paul stood beside her, lips moving, words emerging but not sounding yet, her ears still switched off. A stick of dried spaghetti in her mouth, she finished the chapter, then closed the book. “I saw a tree babbler,” she said.
“Where?”
“In a tree.”
He lowered himself into an armchair, rubbed his face. “Don’t eat raw spaghetti.”
“I shall not.”
“Why are your lips green? Were you tasting toothpaste again?”
“Maybe.”
“Just have something normal from the fridge.”
“There wasn’t anything normal.”
“What was there?”
“Nothing.”
He frowned disbelievingly and rose to check. But why would there have been food? They’d only moved in the day before. Every cupboardwas empty, the fridge unplugged. He had left her alone for ten hours. “Nothing since breakfast?” he asked.
“I didn’t have breakfast.”
He opened all the cupboards again, ashamed of his oversight and uncertain how to respond. He checked the clock. (In place of numbers, its display had birds; instead of chiming, it twittered on the hour. By now, they could tell time by birdsong.) “It’s blackbird past owl,” he said. “I have to feed you.”
“You shall.”
She described the tree babbler but fell silent when the elevator doors closed after them—he opposed talking in elevators, since outsiders could hear. They crossed the building’s courtyard, which was lined with frangipani trees and flanked by twin fountains, spray misting the hot evening air. “Nothing at all?”
“That spaghetti,” she replied. “When I was on the balcony, I saw places down the road where they have food.”
“We’re not eating things from the street, Tooly.”
“Can I try?”
“There’ll be proper restaurants,” he said. “They probably have Italian in Bangkok. You like spaghetti.”
“Can I see down our street first?”
“You saw from the window.”
“Only from high up.”
“Well … okay. But follow me and stick close.” He stepped from the complex and onto the soi , directly into the path of a motorcycle, which swerved around him, its whoosh fluttering her T-shirt. Walls ran along both sides of the lane, hiding the expat apartment buildings, while electricity cables hung from utility poles like vines. They walked single file toward the main road, Sukhumvit, passing a cart of tropical fruit on ice: papaya spears in plastic bags, skinned pineapples, hairy rambutans. The shopkeeper attacked a mango with a butcher knife, severing it on a tree-stump cutting board.
Gray blotches spattered the dry pavement. It was rain—from specks to a gushing torrent within seconds. They speed-walked forSukhumvit, where tuk-tuk taxis awaited. “Can we take one?” she asked.
“They’re not safe,” he replied, the downpour plastering white hair over his forehead, rain dribbling down his spectacles. “It’s like a cart—you can just fly out. We need a proper taxi.”
They continued into the deluge, rain overwhelming the grates, water rising out of the gutter.
“Look!” she said. “Rats! They’re swimming.”
“Don’t look at them, Tooly! They’re diseased. Tooly—keep up!” Glancing left and right for a taxi, he hurried onward, inadvertently leading them down Soi Cowboy, a strip of winking-neon bars, with hookers sitting cross-legged on stools, smoothing down miniskirts, gabbing in Thai above tinny pop music.
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