Thrust: A Novel

What I remember most was her face, how it opened up in the firelight and night. When I spun her on her toes, so fast, she laughed so hard that I saw something I never had before: Endora had joy. Until that night, I had thought she knew only hardship and the strength it took to carry it; even her face was hard and strong. But that night, as she danced and threw her head back and flung her arms out to the side, with me holding her waist, I think she felt free. A laugh came from her mouth that seemed like it carried generations.

The four of us — David and John Joseph and Endora and I — stayed after most of the others had gone, which was our habit. We all liked to be there for the after-calm, to listen as the river water collected its secrets.

On that night, a well-dressed man who was not the same as us approached our little group near the last glowing embers of the fire. His suit was of fine quality, but he was drunk — not belligerent, not loud and boisterous, as most of our coworkers usually became before passing out or turning in, just drunk enough to make him clumsy. His eyes were big and glassy. His hair had been ruffled too often in too many directions. His tie hung crumpled and undone.

“May I join you?” he said.

Before we could answer, he rested his frame on a box near Endora.

“I am Fred,” he announced to no question, taking a large quaff from a flask. “And you?”

“Danny,” Endora said with no affect at all, without even looking at him.

“A pleasure, Danny,” he continued. “And your companions?”

Endora’s shoulders stiffened. I took it as a sign to carry the story from there. “Sir, might we help you find someone? Something?” I offered. His eyes fell down toward his cheeks.

“Oh, come now,” the man said. “I mean you no harm. I’m just on a nightwalk. I was just reminded of a project I worked on — different waters.”

“Where is this… project?” John Joseph asked, looking around as if the stranger might have brought it with him.

“In another city, as it happens,” he replied. “A fountain. But not just any fountain.” He leaned into the fading glow of the embers, his enthusiasm igniting. He passed his flask to Endora without looking at her, and Endora being Endora, she took a sip without question and passed it on to David, who, being David, passed it without partaking to John Joseph. The man continued as if we’d invited him for this very purpose. His speech softening into slurry fragments.

“Cast iron. For the great exposition. I gave it to them for free! Can you imagine?” He laughed at his own narration. “Three basins…” He waved his hands in the air as he spoke, as if resculpting it there in front of us. “The basins held by three Nereids—”

“Nereids?” I asked.

“You would say… sea nymphs,” he continued. “The base is covered in seashells. And Testudines spouting water!” He seemed pleased with himself.

“Testudines?” Endora said, the tone in her voice prickling.

“Tortues!” he said in French.

Everyone looked my way. “Turtles,” I said.

“Yes! Yes, turtles!” He crouched toward us, using his hands to speak now. “The crown at the top spouts water. Water spilling from basin to basin illuminated by gas lamps. Do you see? It will be lit at night! Like our dear old girl.” He farted and laughed, the belly laugh of a happy drunk, or any person without inhibition.

He finished his story with a flourish: “It’s called The Fountain of Light and Water!”

I must admit I found that to be a fine name for a fountain. I think we all did.

“It’s meant as an allegory, do you see? An allegory of…” He seemed to drift back into his own thoughts. He leaned back, then righted himself, crouching as if he were confiding a secret. “Everything is an allegory,” he almost whispered. “Water. Light. Gas. All of this, in the city moderne,” he said, waving his hand around.

“A toast, then?” I offered, and the flask made another circle. “To The Fountain of Light and Water,” I said. And then: “My name is Kem.” It seemed the least I could share, given what we had between us.

We toasted, and then his face fell to sorrow again. “Thank you, friends,” he said, “for the pleasure of your company. Someone I love has gone from me.” With that, he stood and walked unevenly away into the night.

In the firelight, Endora’s cheeks looked like apples. She raised her flask and toasted us all. “Look at you lot. What a cast of characters we make! To the next chapter in our story!” she proclaimed, and passed the flask. “May we make something as mighty of ourselves here as our lady!” Her smile wide.

David took the flask, gave it a tender look, then paused before passing it to John Joseph. “Why did we come here?” He turned to Endora. “Why did you come here?”

Endora looked at the dirt in the strobe of the firelight. Her smile flickered, then faded. “For work,” she finally said, then added, “For a better life.” She hugged herself. The two answers were a story that had formed like a cradle in which immigrants sang themselves to sleep.