Read Online The Violent Century by Lavie Tidhar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lavie Tidhar
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effortlessly, like the bow on a birthday gift.
– Name’s Tank, he says, shyly.
None of them have been properly introduced yet. Browning dismissed them. Turing led them to a medical lab where they were each measured and tested. Then they were sent to the dormitories to settle down. Dinner’s coming; they can smell cooking from the main building. Tank’s stomach keeps rumbling, loud booming sounds as of the roiling sea. Mrs Tinkle, her head still through the door, making her look like a turtle, says, Big lad, aren’t you!
Tank, shyly: I wasn’t big before. The change made me big.
Tank looks at Mr Blur. Did the change make you small? he says.
– No, Mr Blur says. I was born small.
– So what do you do? Tank says.
– This, Mr Blur says.
Mr Blur … blurs. His features seem to distort, as if each molecule in his body is moving suddenly at exceptionally high speed. He seems to blink in and out of existence as the cloud of distortion shoots across the room, around Tank, returns before anyone’s had the time to even move. The shape settles again, distortion easing, and Mr Blur stands there, grinning, holding a locket in his hand.
– Call me Mr Blur, he says.
– Hey, that’s mine! Tank says.
Mr Blur smirks. What is it? he says. Girlfriend?
– Give it back! Tank says.
Mr Blur blurs. Disappears rapidly down the room. Tank chases with a roar, smashing things in his wake.
– Oh, dear, Mrs Tinkle says.
Her head disappears from the doorway. Fogg sighs, continues to fold his clothes over the neatly made bed. This wasn’t quite what he had hoped for.
31. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
Food is served in a common hall. Students, if that’s what they are, all these young men and women, serve the food from large metal trolleys that can be wheeled around. Everyone is in the common room. Fogg notices a very tall, pale man standing with a short, dark-haired girl. Both look in his direction for a moment, then look away. It’s just like school, Fogg thinks. The same uncomfortable, childish, spiteful environment, the same quest for who to sit with, choosing a table, the hidden undercurrents of popularity and rejection. But he’s not a child any more. None of them are. Fogg takes his tray and finds an empty table and sits down. Close to the window. A clear night outside. His fingers tense on the blunt knife, making a little bit of fog rise outside. Makes him feel better.
Has his schedule in front of him. Mimeographed, blue ink on thin rice paper. Digs into his food, without a huge appetite. Fish and chips and mushy peas. Heaps on a fork, puts in his mouth. Chews. According to the schedule he is to work in the kitchens as of tomorrow. The Farm is kept running by the students themselves. Others are on pots and pans, or dormitory cleaning, or working in the vegetable patch. Fogg didn’t know there was a vegetable patch. Sits alone. Likes it that way. A shadow falls on his tray. Fogg looks up to see the shy face of Tank. Mind if I join you?
Fogg shakes his head. Tank sits down opposite. Out of nowhere Mr Blur appears. Takes a seat next to Fogg, without being asked. Suddenly Fogg isn’t alone at the table any more.
A feeling he didn’t expect. The fog clears outside. He says, So you two sorted your differences out?
Feels lighter. Mr Blur grins. Just having a laugh, he says. Tank fingers the locket around his neck. Us new kids got to stick together, he says.
Fogg smiles through a mouthful of food.
32. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
The adults, for lack of a better word, have a table of their own. Browning, Turing, a couple of other young men in smocks, the gatehouse guard, a few other faces: the staff at the Farm seem to be equal parts military and scientific, with a few Devon women working as cooks and den mothers. It is a strange mix of summer camp and military training camp, Fogg thinks, watching them. A fresh-faced girl at a nearby table throws her water in a companion’s face, following a remark Fogg didn’t catch. The water
– Name’s Tank, he says, shyly.
None of them have been properly introduced yet. Browning dismissed them. Turing led them to a medical lab where they were each measured and tested. Then they were sent to the dormitories to settle down. Dinner’s coming; they can smell cooking from the main building. Tank’s stomach keeps rumbling, loud booming sounds as of the roiling sea. Mrs Tinkle, her head still through the door, making her look like a turtle, says, Big lad, aren’t you!
Tank, shyly: I wasn’t big before. The change made me big.
Tank looks at Mr Blur. Did the change make you small? he says.
– No, Mr Blur says. I was born small.
– So what do you do? Tank says.
– This, Mr Blur says.
Mr Blur … blurs. His features seem to distort, as if each molecule in his body is moving suddenly at exceptionally high speed. He seems to blink in and out of existence as the cloud of distortion shoots across the room, around Tank, returns before anyone’s had the time to even move. The shape settles again, distortion easing, and Mr Blur stands there, grinning, holding a locket in his hand.
– Call me Mr Blur, he says.
– Hey, that’s mine! Tank says.
Mr Blur smirks. What is it? he says. Girlfriend?
– Give it back! Tank says.
Mr Blur blurs. Disappears rapidly down the room. Tank chases with a roar, smashing things in his wake.
– Oh, dear, Mrs Tinkle says.
Her head disappears from the doorway. Fogg sighs, continues to fold his clothes over the neatly made bed. This wasn’t quite what he had hoped for.
31. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
Food is served in a common hall. Students, if that’s what they are, all these young men and women, serve the food from large metal trolleys that can be wheeled around. Everyone is in the common room. Fogg notices a very tall, pale man standing with a short, dark-haired girl. Both look in his direction for a moment, then look away. It’s just like school, Fogg thinks. The same uncomfortable, childish, spiteful environment, the same quest for who to sit with, choosing a table, the hidden undercurrents of popularity and rejection. But he’s not a child any more. None of them are. Fogg takes his tray and finds an empty table and sits down. Close to the window. A clear night outside. His fingers tense on the blunt knife, making a little bit of fog rise outside. Makes him feel better.
Has his schedule in front of him. Mimeographed, blue ink on thin rice paper. Digs into his food, without a huge appetite. Fish and chips and mushy peas. Heaps on a fork, puts in his mouth. Chews. According to the schedule he is to work in the kitchens as of tomorrow. The Farm is kept running by the students themselves. Others are on pots and pans, or dormitory cleaning, or working in the vegetable patch. Fogg didn’t know there was a vegetable patch. Sits alone. Likes it that way. A shadow falls on his tray. Fogg looks up to see the shy face of Tank. Mind if I join you?
Fogg shakes his head. Tank sits down opposite. Out of nowhere Mr Blur appears. Takes a seat next to Fogg, without being asked. Suddenly Fogg isn’t alone at the table any more.
A feeling he didn’t expect. The fog clears outside. He says, So you two sorted your differences out?
Feels lighter. Mr Blur grins. Just having a laugh, he says. Tank fingers the locket around his neck. Us new kids got to stick together, he says.
Fogg smiles through a mouthful of food.
32. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
The adults, for lack of a better word, have a table of their own. Browning, Turing, a couple of other young men in smocks, the gatehouse guard, a few other faces: the staff at the Farm seem to be equal parts military and scientific, with a few Devon women working as cooks and den mothers. It is a strange mix of summer camp and military training camp, Fogg thinks, watching them. A fresh-faced girl at a nearby table throws her water in a companion’s face, following a remark Fogg didn’t catch. The water
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