Slow River

My first thoughts this morning when I woke had not been about how I had nearly fallen to my death, or the various diseases and corruptions of a city, but of the planters. Of how I had painstakingly built them, carried them onto the roof, filled them with good, black dirt. Of how they were empty. That, I had thought as I drank hot tea and got dressed, is something I can fix.

And I felt absurdly pleased with the bulbs I had selected, all locally grown: crocuses and tulips, snowdrops and marigolds, iris and verbena and salvia. Rich, bright colors that would last from the end of January up until midsummer. Maybe the scents and colors would bring bees. I tried to imagine lying on the sun-warmed tiles, smelling flowers, listening to the hum of bees, but I realized I was also hearing imaginary fountains plashing softly and the sough of wind in trees, and under all those the bone-deep vibration of sea against rock: Ratnapida.

I had to stop in the middle of the street for a man with three children who was trying to get on a slide. One of the children was refusing to budge and the man—the father, I assumed—was forced to drag him, wailing. The father shot me an embarrassed smile; I nodded as though I understood he had no other choice, but the truth was, I didn’t know. Had Oster ever taken us three—Tok and Stella and me—out by himself? Even if he had, and even if one of us had had the bad manners to pull a tantrum, the family car would not have been far away to whisk us all off to luxurious privacy. I started walking again. One of these days I would be able to see flowers without thinking of family, or Ratnapida, its grass and fountains and low trees.

Maybe a tree wouldn’t be a bad idea. A sapling wouldn’t need too big a planter to start with, and I could get something that blossomed in spring: apple, maybe, or pear. But the wood, and the dirt, and the tree itself would all cost, and the money I took when I left Spanner was running low. I crossed the road on the ceramic safeway opposite my building, trying to work out how much I would get paid at the end of the week and, if I budgeted properly, whether or not I would have enough extra for a tree.

An old man was dragging a small shopping cart into my doorway. I had seen him before. He lived on the third or fourth floor. The cart looked heavy.

“Can I help you with that?”

He looked at me. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes filmy but his voice was robust. “Bird, isn’t it? Sal Bird?” I nodded. He thought for a moment. “Fifth floor,” he said, evidently satisfied with his knowledge.

I looked at the nameplates in neat rows by the ancient intercom. I had no idea which was his. He laughed at my expression.

“Tom Wilson, third floor. And yes, I’d count it a great favor if you’d help a tired old man with his groceries.”

His suit jacket hung from broad shoulders; he would have been a big man thirty years ago. I wondered what it must be like to get old.

I balanced my sack on top of his groceries, and he talked as I humped the cart, one tread at a time, up the three flights of stairs. “What have you got in here?”

The look on his face was interesting: unsure whether or not it was polite to be offended at this invasion of privacy by a Good Samaritan. In the end, he grinned and said slyly, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

I smiled wryly. He was right. I shouldn’t have asked. “It’s heavy, whatever it is.”

“Do you good;” He held open a door for me and I pulled the cart gratefully onto the landing.

“Can you manage from here?”

“Didn’t think you had to set off for your job for hours yet.” That sly grin again. “I thought you might like to share a cup of tea with a lonely old man.”

I couldn’t think of any reason to refuse him, so I followed him into his flat.

It was bigger than mine, and cozy, filled with Scandinavian furniture, the blond wood and gray-nubbed fabrics of twenty or thirty years ago. Everything was very clean. He watched me take it all in. “Nicer than that tomb of a room the landlord gave you upstairs. Warmer too. How strong do you like it?”

“What?”

“Your tea. I’m partial to strong tea myself.”

“Oh. Whatever you’re having.”

“You won’t ever get what you want unless you know. And unless you tell those who ask. I’ll ask you again: How do you like your tea?”

I closed my eyes, thought back to other times. “Lapsang souchong, no milk, no sugar, no lemon, three heaped teaspoons in a pot big enough for two. And hot, not luke-warm. Served in bone china—the old kind, wafer thin, so you can see the color of the tea through the white—with a silver spoon. Steel spoils the taste.” I opened my eyes. “Well, you asked.”

“I did, I did. And thank you for sharing that with me.” He nodded at me seriously, and disappeared into the kitchen.