CHAPTER XXXIII: THE SELECTIVE SHARER

  Ivory wings must take me flying on a golden road towards the instant relaxation of my second Saturday on the street. I had begun King Lear, but my Shakespeare is A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest. The others I read them all, Protch, but I will not make comments.

   That Saturday 13 I woke up so early that not even Olivia was up. But after a while I saw her there and almost at the same time also got up John, who had had two days of insomnia. He had grown accustomed to the schedules of his twin, a night bird, but having to sleep alone, he turned to his old habit of getting up early. At the bonfire I saw he was so taciturn that we almost did not speak. I didn't know what to say and at that time not even talking about our days on the street, or of the weather, the two most common conversations, were any good. Thus, almost dumb, Olivia, John and I stayed until shortly after we saw Lucy and Luke get up, with Paul in their arms.

   I was waiting for my mate to let him know that I would go to Deanforest, for I must have an interview with my still maid Agnes Moore. He and I would have a good full afternoon, but the climate seemed favourable that day and as we were going to leave the morning to Lucy, he understood that I wanted to do some things like going to Deanforest.

   Once there, I waited in the library half an hour for the arrival of Agnes. And when I felt her key, at 9, I went right to greet her.

− "Good morning, Agnes. Come, let's go to the kitchen. I need to talk to you."

   It was clear that Mr. Nike, as she still called me, was very strange. And much more when I offered to make her a cup of coffee. She didn't answer for she didn’t know how to tell me that it was not suitable for the lord, but not finding the words with which to say no, she meekly was resigned. She liked it with milk and I did not have any problem to heat some. Then we sat at the kitchen table and began a difficult conversation, or I would almost say a monologue. Agnes just listened to me.

   I was twenty minutes trying to explain something difficult, because I constantly stumbled. It was not easy to refer to her that Mr. Nike had been a beggar for nine days, and he also wanted to get rid of Deanforest; and at the same time I assured her that her salary was not going to decrease in the next two years; I wanted to convince Miss Beaulière, whom she knew, so she hired her and that if she did, she would be for two years with two salaries, for my commitment with her was firm. It was an arduous job because constantly Agnes interrupted me, with her compassion as a clear flag.

− "And now that you know, Agnes, could you call me Nike, only Nike?"

  Her answer was an emotional babble, but she hit the target.

− "Nike –and she swallowed. Apparently it was very difficult for her to call me thus−, I'm not very smart and I do not know if I understand things correctly. But every human being should be entitled to go his own way without anything prevents him from. I don't know if you should continue paying me if one day you no longer have Deanforest, Mr. –and she blushed−, excuse me, Nike. But it has been a pleasure."

   Whatever it was the esteem she had of herself, the truth is that she managed to say the fundamental. Since that October everything moves me. But I managed to sputter an answer. Mine was still Deanforest and she could come every Saturday to give it the necessary cleaning so that the house did not come down. And when it was no longer mine, I would come to talk to her before delivering it. It was so agreed. And satisfied both sides, I left her with her tasks and returned to my outskirt.

   The tawny morning heralded gold pearls for that afternoon in October. It was going to be hot when my mate and I were recognizing all the east of the Templar district. Meanwhile, I thought of spending the morning at times reading and at times talking to Luke, the only one that used to be there at that time. But I noticed that Mistress Oakes and Olivia had not left yet. After greeting them, they spoke of their intention to clean "the house" once a week. When I asked if I could help them, they told me to come up with them and carry buckets to the river to fill them with water. We climbed and then I got two buckets with which I made several trips to the Kilmourne. When I returned I asked them to teach me to clean but Mistress Oakes told me that the important thing was that I had offered and that I would have time to learn anything else. I asked them to tell me the next time and they spoke of the next Thursday, day 18. That day I began to learn what I had not yet learned in September at Deanforest. Since then I deal with "the house" regularly, and if one day you require me, Protch, I assure you that I could take care of the cleaning of Deanforest.

   But in the end, wrapped in golden lights we returned to the camp, where I saw that Lucy had already returned. We always had a time of conversation with her before Luke and I went to the street. The morning had begun well; now my mate and I had to fulfill our part in the contract and, somewhat dozing after a day of autumn sun that arrives by surprise after several days of clouds and rain, we were on our road.

   Hand in hand with my mate, this time we turned right after Alder Street. I already knew Mill Bridge, which is seen in the background and knew that if the evening was good, we would return there. With this objective in mind, we walked finally to Damascus Road. A main street in the village, it was unrecognizable these days because the City Council had decided at the end to clean a little its face and pave it. But meanwhile the neighbors seemed certain to contribute to poverty. Then walking along its nonexistent sidewalks was a chaos, accompanied in addition with clothes hanging in the miserable balconies, walls where there was once good lime, now vanished, trash everywhere, starving dogs who fled from the mischief of insufferable children, ghosts and misadventures. I wondered whether when Damascus Road was finally in order its inhabitants would contribute somehow to its glory.

   Before reaching the junction with Jerusalem Street I already had perceived the enormous cross of St Mark, the most humble church of the city, where, convoluted and cyclopean, it seemed larger than the dazzling white of the rest of the temple.  It startles the first time you look at it and I was about to scream, when Luke interrupted my thoughts.

− "In this church, Nike, my father exercised his Ministry. And when I came to the street it wasn't easy to adapt my thought to the fact that he earned his living inside and me outside begging, but somehow it has always been linked to the Prancitt family. Even my brother, an obvious agnostic, enters every time he sees it open and prays the Lord’s Prayer in memory of my parents. It has a low but devoted parish. Now you will see that it is never abandoned. There is always someone in. Let's go. I want to show you something."

    There were two or three women in mourning kneeling and praying or in a side chapel, lighting candles to any image. The entire church was crossed by an atmosphere of mystical meditation, and evoking Luke’s father, I was overwhelmed. Moved he led me to a statue of Mary cared for with loving care in a corridor on the right.

− "When we go to my brother's house, remind me to show you some photo of my mother. The first time my father saw his parishioner Margaret was here and many times he told me that she seemed to be looking at herself in a mirror, her face alike that of Virgin Mary, as if both had been carved by the same hand. You may not find them similar, but whenever I come to this church I stop awhile and I cry a few seconds. I don't want to scare you, Nike, but I loved her so much. I lost her when I was twelve and this is the only place where I keep seeing her."

   It is impossible to find words of comfort when you see a friend crying. I respected his silence and his tears until I decided to melt with him in a new embrace. I could not do more. And finally, still the damp face, he spoke to me again.

− "Now you know what the reason is why I had not brought you before to St Mark. My father was about to call me Mark, but finally he chose the name of another evangelist, who my mother preferred. And for my brother they chose a name shared by two apostles. Come, my melancholy is going. Let's go and let us do our job."

   On the threshold of St Mark, devoid of staircase, we were for an hour and a half. Besides us there was only a man begging, Youssouf, the first black beggar that I saw in the city. Now there are many more. As I understood him, he came from Bamako, Mali, and they had spoken to him, as to so many others, of the prosperity of this country, but not finding a job because of his color, he ended up on the streets. Even for the alms parishioners seemed to take into account the white skin and currencies fell into our hands. Youssouf finally left, tired and hopeless; twice as difficult it was for him to harvest the daily bread. For Luke and me the afternoon was going well, and after that hour and a half we left St. Mark.

   From what little was left of Damascus Road and the 100 metres from Castle Road to Knights Bridge, Luke was speaking to me of Youssouf.

− "It still shakes me to think, Nike, that little more than one year ago he would have been considered a perfect victim in my macabre raids: a beggar and black. Now if we meet, we start to talk peacefully, as two good friends. But it is regrettable that if you ask for alms on his side, you're lucky, because racism leads people to prefer dirty and shameful beggars like me if your skin is white. He has to be the whole day on the street, but manages to eat every day. So he is still looking for a job, but it is not easy that they give him one. He has thought more than once of returning to Bamako. Well, it is not easy to know how to choose a path."

   But we stopped the conversation when we were next to Knights Bridge. Several things distracted my mind at that moment. On my left started, only there clean, Wall Street. Easily I saw the grey skeleton of the Great Hospital and its annexes and the wrong faced individuals who were going to commit criminal acts in the surroundings of the Philip Rage and across the north of the street. I couldn't see Wrathfall Bridge, where I knew all my fellow mates but Luke had lived. Moreover, all the west shore of the river was the Seductress’ Outskirt, a dirty and agitated ribbon, guarded by elm trees and dangerous descents among wooded ravines.

   On the few meters that we walked on top of the bridge, before picking up a dusty trail on the right, Luke explained to me that this was overloaded with gargoyles and chimeras and I even seemed to distinguish the stone figure of a gloomy guy wrapped in a cape and with eyes strangely wide open as if it were necessary to keep them thus to perceive something beyond the fog. More than once I had crossed it by car to reach the blast furnaces that were perceived in the distance, to the east, making uglier the already ugly district of Arcade. But it was the former home of Bruce, and I looked at it with respect. Crossing for the first time on foot, the steps echoed in the ancient, majestic, stone of this superb bridge and its grandeur and the figures carved on their sides shook me and in the afternoon heat, the skin stood on end and was chilled.

   Only with a very good will it could be called a trail the confusing mixture of mud and gravel that we began to grind to go up to Knights Hill. And in addition to perceive the hairless skull of that promontory, bare of trees, I meditated about Luke’s story, which he had told me, and with which dark intentions he had climbed it the still close Nov. 18, not suspecting that he would end up staying with them. Knights Hill was the only outskirt on the other side of the river. The murmur of the water behind me was not enough to dampen that desert. I wanted to imagine them there, visible by everybody, burned in their tents, praying for the fan of the wind, the wet kiss of the rain or a handful of fog that granted them for a few moments a little privacy. There were trails that descended toward Arcade, and Luke wanted to show me the point where more or less were the three women’s tents. That of Lucy at the beginning, before the descent. There they slept together almost a month. We stood awhile on the top of the hill. From there I got to see the house number 1, the home of William Rage. It was an opulent mansion, where everything seemed to have been made big, but with zero taste. Too much façade, too many windows, too much expense for so little result. The house, rather than impress, repelled. The façade was filled with tiles with biblical scenes, some of them exquisite perhaps, but they were too many and for the eyes they were boredom. As a contrast, three houses beyond, number 7, the home of the Prancitt, stone and brick where you could see that they gave shelter to a home of dignity, windows like clean eyes hugging the horizon and a spacious balcony where there were three or four bedrooms, solid and, at that time, of sun illuminated.

   But then my mate took me to the south side, the descent into the Umbra Terrae Boulevard. There really was an old resistant elm, already very old but still with good wood. Luke wanted me to see something in particular and finally I read in the ancient trunk of the giant some letters that shook me: "Lucy Rivers". And a little further down: "Here I was born."

− "Here she was born, Nike, 29 years ago. From this place, if you look closely, the balcony of the house of my parents is perceived. And little more or less at the time a beggar should be born just across the street."

   In the same elm from behind, just a few months ago, they had written a heart: "Lucy and Luke." And some shocking letters departed from the heart: "Paul Prancitt-Rivers."

− "There are those who write the names of their children in the Bible. As long as this elm is not knocked down by time, here it will be, as a testimony of my family. This tree is in this zone at the mercy of the winds, but it will last longer than us."

− "Amen." –It was the only thing I was able to say.

  There we were like praying, while Luke’s eyes were wet, ten minutes in that accompanied silence of mutual shiver. But finally we went down the hill along the same path, the only possible descent towards Knightsbridge Street, back to Knights Bridge. This street retained the name until it reached Jerusalem Street and Arcade Bridge. From there, south to Mill Bridge, it was called Brushwood Street.

   Luke had a key, but he used to ring the bell when he went to his brother's house. Within minutes the warm smile of James, who was waiting for us, came to greet us.

− "I was eager to see you, my brother’s brother. Please be welcome, to our home and our hearts."

   Nothing seemed to have changed in James. His warm smile, whenever he addressed me, had brightness and fire. In his house you had to go up a staircase to get to the living room, on the first floor. Everything was cleanness, light, clarity. I could picture my mate there, living happy his childhood and his tumultuous adolescence, of thorns and violence.

   In the living room, full of family memories, I could see a picture of Margaret Prancitt, before sitting down. It was a classic photograph in which I saw her holding a bouquet of roses in her hand. But I looked especially at her face. Her light was extinguished too soon, but as long as it shone, her happiness was radiant. Just as happy I watched Paul Prancitt, first in a photograph where I recognized the outside of the church of St Mark; then a snapshot in which they were both together, tenderly embraced near a bridge in a day of dazzling sunshine. Luke told me that this was Arcade Bridge, and the large garden I saw was Umbra Terrae Boulevard. In it Margaret’s face did remind me of the Virgin. Her countenance was more enlightened. What in the Virgin was anguish, in her it was bliss and hope.

− "Here they really look alike, Luke. In fact your mother was very pretty. And although I have no photograph of Alma Siddeley, my mother, whom I never knew, I would say that they have a certain resemblance."

− "Thanks, Nike.  They had to look alike: we are twins."

− "I would like you to explain to me how it all started −said James−, I mean how you started calling each other twins, brothers, and everything else."

   Luke let me take the initiative, frequently nodding to my words and only some murmur occasionally gave me to understand that I was explaining well how the way we called each other began. But after ten minutes he said he wanted to go awhile to St Mark. But he insisted that I should stay there. I understood that James wanted to talk to me alone and that Luke wanted to walk away with diplomacy.

− "Nike –he started−, now you are mates, aren’t you?"

− "We are, James. If what I wish comes true, I will stay with them forever, but I do not know if it depends only on me."

−“I think that as long as you keep wishing it, you are going to be. My brother really needs you, each day a little more, and I see in your eyes that he is also very important for you."

− "He really is. And Lucy and the little king. And all my fellow mates."

− "Let me tell you something of my brother. In the year he has been in the street, he has been here a few times, mostly to see me. But the seven have only slept one night in this house. And Luke, apart from a shower from time to time, never asks me for anything. I don't know if it is pride..."

− "In the short time I have been in the street, James, I believe that it is something else. It is our life and the fact that no one else should solve our problems. He may want to make you understand that he is independent and that he can raise his family. Your brother, my mate, is inexhaustible and nothing defeats him. Thus, with the help of Lucy, Paul will find always what he really needs."

− "Thanks, Nike −he was moved−. I'm not surprised that he likes you so much −he looked at me as if he knew something that I didn't know yet that sooner or later I would discover−. I understand all that. But as he is my brother and I love him, it hurts me that one day he could be really hungry or dying of cold and sense that not even then he would come here for clothes, blankets or some food. I know that if his son or his wife one day really lacked something he would come to ask me for it, but I'm afraid for him. So I wanted to stay alone with you and beg you, Nike, not to allow it. If at any time your need, your real need, or that of any of your fellow mates, seems extreme to you, please come here, I beg you to take whatever is in the fridge, or to take something warm, and convince them to come to spend another night here. But what do you think of what I tell you, Nike? What do you think of me?"

− "I think you really love him, James, and you love us. We are always in your thoughts. But what can I really do? I do not want to see one day their absolute necessity but if they feel it, I have to feel it too. I am his mate and I have to live whatever there is in store for him. However I assure you that Lucy and Paul will not have any need."

− "And what about the others, Nike? And about you?"

− "I don't want to see the absolute necessity of anyone, but seriously, James, can I do anything else?"

− "Can you see this key? It is a copy of mine. Luke has another one. This, if you accept it, would be for you, so you enter this house whenever you want whenever it is necessary, whether I am or not here."

− "The clothes he will recognize." –I said, still not knowing what to do.

− "First floor, first room on the right, in the closet there are clothes and blankets he will not recognize, I have just bought them, for men, women and child. You can see the kitchen from here, at the end of the hall. Please, Nike, accept the key. And now with it, think it calmly."

   At the end I capitulated. What James feared was common sense. And I understood. The seven would accept nothing from me either.

− "Give me the key, James. I promise that none of our fellow mates or Paul will die of starvation or cold. But anyway, Luke and I are going to fight."

   We were half an hour more waiting for his brother’s return. At that time I had in my pockets seven keys, Protch: from each of my three cars, the keys of Deanforest, that of the "house", the one of the showers of the Thuban and James’ key for the house in Knightsbridge Street. But we were still talking and though what mattered we had already spoken about, I now began to ask him questions about the university or the carpenter’s shop where he worked. He also showed me a list, similar to the one you have now, Protch, where his brother had written down the names of our stars and what constellation they belonged to, and when, he thought, they could be seen. We were just starting the stellar conversation, still two apprentices, when we heard the key. Luke was returning better provisioned. That afternoon we would need no more begging. We would only have to go to the eastern outskirts so I knew them. So, with few words, we said goodbye that afternoon to James, who did not stop us, and we went back to Knightsbridge Street. This street, which was becoming wider as it joined Arcade Bridge, we walked mostly in silence. Now I had a secret, that of the key, which took me a month to tell Luke.

   Arcade Bridge should be the typical postcard of Hazington, an architectural masterpiece, a real whim for the wealthy in the midst of the misery of the east of the city. The arcades of its name are those of Brushwood Street, a poor but very orderly street, where each house has its own, some with abundant windows as eyes that watch the boulevard. We went through it and right away we were in Umbra Terrae. The river crossed it in half and there were beggars on both sides. I had been there with Anne-Marie, in the north of the park. Now I was with Luke in the south I didn’t know. The north is statelier, surrounded by glass lakes, exquisitely cared, and exotic trees. The south is wilder, fuller of beggars and the trees are best known, and very beautiful with the jewels of Arcade Bridge and some hill with a pavilion from where it can be seen the whole park, the bridge and the beautiful Brushwood Street.

   As I had told Luke that I did not know the southern side of the boulevard, we continued there for half an hour more, recognizing paths and sometimes sitting on a bench and doing our job, for even though the day had been good, a beggar never ceases to work if you find yourself suddenly with a crowd of prosperous appearance that can give you a small contribution to your fellow mates so they can start tomorrow with something in their pockets.

   We were still being rewarded, but after a time, we went back to Arcade Bridge and crossed by a path on the right. From there up to the Mill Bridge was Blood Cattle Route, which I finally knew. All the west shore was full of beggars. The blood of the name surely came, explained Luke, from the many slaughterhouses there were in the place before. They were no longer, nor old shepherds who used to carry their herds there. The shore was very wide and in it you could see beggars who lived in tents, almost lost among the high reeds that were in the waters of the Kilmourne. But soon as we arrived, a well-known face came to greet us. It was the long-lived Sheila Grant, whom I had already been introduced. She welcomed us, she said, to the Blood "because blood we are and into blood we shalt turn", paraphrasing God. There were two or three large rocks where they used to sit and she invited us to take a seat. Sheila was not the only one. In the surrounding area was also a woman beggar introduced as Myra Duke. She was a woman of about 30 years, blonde and very dirty, and as I deduced of her conversation she considered the world as a market in which all of us were marketable, where the only possible redemption was the auction of our souls. And then there came the woman who some days ago I had mistaken with Lucy. She wore some hippie clothes, like my fellow mate, was red-haired and she was introduced as Sue. It seems that their fellow mates knew nothing more about her. This beggar is a mystery. From afar she looks quite lucid and you still think so unless she talks to you. Her chatter is the product of a daily bath in the mud of drugs and her mind is a carousel where constant images of monarchies spin, who knows why more and more the only occupation of her brain. But then she was still interested in all kinds of gossip and she saw herself as the secret daughter of some potentate and explained that one day her father would know her and help her change her life. Luke always said ok, but argued with Myra, from which I figured he believed Sue to be unrecoverable but he thought Myra was extravagant, but sane.

   But we watched on a southernmost rock two faces I already knew. They were the Spence brothers. The eldest, Nathan, was lying on the shoulders of Joey, seemingly asleep, but he should still be awake, because his brother made clear gestures of being telling a story, by the movements, I wanted to imagine it was of seas and sirens.

   Sheila Grant invited us to sit with them awhile. They were about to have dinner and they could give us some piece of meat, she told us. But we answered her that we wanted to eat with our mates, but we would stay with them a quarter of an hour more. Myra and Sue came to the bonfire and at the moment came the Spence and a third man named Elliot, about fifty years, grey-haired and rather laconic. We talked a bit about ships adrift, since Nathan told us that his brother had devised a story about sailors of yesteryear. Beggars’ talks, Protch, tend to move away from misery. It is inevitable to refer our day to day life, to talk of our toil and labors, but the beggars of this city have roads to escape: those of the Torn Hand run away by the Milky Way; those of the Blood, by mythology if it is Joey Spence who brightens up the talks. Sheila, Myra and Nathan remained in the thread; Sue deviated by her monarchies and Elliot paid his best attention but seldom talked.

  The meat was ready and just then, when they were about to have dinner, Luke reminded them that we were going to do it now with our fellow mates, and we said goodbye. It was a short walk until finally we found Mill Bridge and we were almost home. We left the river and returned down Alder Street and Millers' Lane. My mate in that short way told me about the beggars of the Blood. Nothing he knew of Elliot and very little of Sue. Once he spoke with her awhile, the beggar told him that she used not to remain a long time in the same city, for she migrated from time to time. But of the constant puffs of Luke I deduced that it was very difficult to give something for certain respect to her. Pretty well he spoke to me of Sheila, Myra and the Spence, but the beggars of the Blood, he said to me, are not a fixed group as the Outcasts. Elliot and Myra, for example, can both sleep there and in Umbra Terrae, and if you go next week, they may be already more than 6 or fewer people than those you have seen today. Just Sheila, Nathan and Joey appear to be permanent.

   We stopped awhile at the only nearby shop open on Saturday at that hour, and although I don’t remember what we bought, I know that that day we also returned well provisioned and none of our fellow mates were hungry.

   At dinner, I was telling my impressions on that Saturday, on the places and people I had met. As beautiful, Knights Bridge, the Umbra Terrae Boulevard and Arcade Bridge.  And the great emotion to see Lucy, Luke and Paul with their names united on a tree of Knights Hill. I said nothing of the photo of Margaret Prancitt and her resemblance to the Virgin, because I didn't know if for Luke this was a secret. I also have the slight memory that this was the last time that year that I watched the reddish light of Antares. Checking that light I used to go to bed once the bonfire was put out, but with its stellar brightness as a last flash in my mind.

   Of Sunday 14 I remember well the night but my impressions of the morning and the afternoon are fleeting. I know that it was a day that Luke and I did not walk so much and that we came back with some food, even though we had free dinner with our neighbors. We did not even light a bonfire. We were a while chatting together the seven and at about nine Mistress Oakes told us that it was the right time to leave. We went down the path that I've named as thumb, among the tents of my first two fellow mates and walked a few hundred metres. The Outcasts settled a little beyond the menhir, which you could see very close, threatening in the south, between their outskirt and ours.

   They saw the seven of us arrive, in fact eight, actually, because little Paul came in Luke’s arms, and then a man stood up to greet us. I knew then that day he was 52 years old and he had been on the street since he was 25. High, with scarce hair that he was still losing every day and snowed his shoulders, frayed and grimy clothes however covering him enough, slow and subdued steps but always knowing where to guide them, Vincent McFarlane is surrounded by an unmistakable tone of calm, once he learned to tame his rage when he was so young in the street due to a heartbreak, and to survive he began to find in calm wisdom, and not resignation.  Calmly, with the inexhaustible calm that goes with him, Vince is a maverick who protests and rebels, calmly, before any injustice towards him or his own people, and his own people, Protch, are also the Torn Hand beggars, all the ragged people of the city, any outcast or anyone that pleads understanding, which he delivers full with the infinite light of his peace.

   My dear Mistress Oakes was the first to give him a warm hug, a couple of kisses and affectionate words of congratulation. The others congratulated him all while he invited us to sit mixing with them, with words of wisdom to each of us, said in chronological order. When he came to me, he greeted me:

− "Welcome, Nike Siddeley. Something have told us your fellow mates of your name and your circumstances. While you're here you'll be pleasantly received between us. Stop by this place whenever you want."

   I don't remember if I was able to answer him, but he introduced me to his fellow mates, perhaps ignorant that I already knew Vera Lloyd, Enoch Reed and Katie Chamberlain. But with them there were two other women, close to 30. One of them is called Evelyn Mills. She shook hands with me while I noticed her cascade of blond hair as a nocturnal sun among the stars. Her prominent breasts, her curved lines, her wonderful waist, made me wonder what I would have felt in a previous time, desirous of femininity. It seemed to me that the same should be thinking another young woman, Loraine Sparrow, a brunette with short hair, a male but sweet body, who didn’t take her eyes off her. Maybe Evelyn had noticed it quite a while, but she did not seem to care. Both of them went together to the street and the former held her mate tenderly.  Evelyn was still attracted by men and that night I knew she was in love with Joey Spence.

   A couple of weeks they had been saving for that feast. They had ordered food to a restaurant I can't remember but I know we ate chicken, lasagna, and a chocolate cake that had been crowned by a beautiful 52 of cream. When we were all seated, I placed myself between Vera Lloyd and Bruce and the former spoke to me.

− "It is a long time since I haven’t seen you, Nike."

− "I sometimes go and sometimes come, Vera −I explained to her not knowing how to tell her about my doubts or fears−, but I think this time I'll stay –and I asked her at last what I had been two months wondering−. My fellow mates have told me that they and you often communicate with whistles. I would like to know them in case I need them."

   First it was a clamor of voices which volunteered to teach me. In the end they agreed that Vera, since she was by my side, explained me. It is very simple, Protch, and one day if you want I will start to whistle and illustrate you better. They are not words, but about 20 different messages where it matters if the whistle is persistent or interrupted, more or less acute, of a friendly tone or one of urgency. The longer be the whistle the more worrying: something that is not quite normal is happening; and when we hear it we all go. Shorter ones are used for us to talk amicably. Vera was a good teacher and it didn’t take me long to learn the five or six most important messages. In a few days I was using them. But don't fret: only the most gentle and kind ones.

   All the time Vera used to teach me, Katie was making dinner, while I was watching my fellow mates, Luke with Paul in his arms and Lucy leaning tenderly on his shoulders: how beautiful it was to see them always thus, needing and loving each other; John was crestfallen. He hardly spoke all night. Surely he remembered other dinners with the Outcasts, always beside Miguel, and this should be the first without him; Olivia was very quiet, I still do not know why and on the other hand, Bruce was all night laughing and talkative. Mistress Oakes need not talk to also be an implied power for the Outcasts and with looks she was all night chatting with Vince, who sometimes answered her telepathically, sometimes spoke of her with everyone calling her "your mistress". However it was created the bond between the two, I knew it was perfectly knotted and it would be unbreakable. I was also noticing how the hearts of my neighbors worked. Besides that it seemed increasingly clear that Loraine was in love with Evelyn, I saw the strange quartet of old love and new loves that Katie, Vince, Vera and Enoch had. First I imagined and I later confirmed that Vince and Vera had been together for more than ten years, but love became routine and at the end they stopped considering the only thing important: how much they loved each other. He often looked at her knowing that she felt unhappy about Lucy and Luke’s son, because she always remembered the boy she lost. I knew that as long as they lived Vera and Vince would be great friends and since they loved each other so much, Vince would never object to the love that had arisen between his old girl and his friend Enoch, a man that night seemed a bit absent-minded. And she was also glad that Katie had relieved her in the heart of his beloved Vince. Strange agreement, if agreement it had been, but the fact is that the Outcasts seemed all happy with things as they were.

   We started dinner. All but Paul, who had been breastfed for a while before coming. Loraine looked at him tenderly, and Luke, who had seen her, handed him a second to her arms. As already expected, Paul began to cry when he changed arms.

− "Your little king does not love me −I shuddered when I saw that also the Outcasts called him thus−. I don’t think I would ever have a son, but..."

− "Are you sad about it?”  −delicately asked Lucy.

− "If I am sincere, I am not. I do not see myself responsible enough to look after them and I do not desire any children. I prefer to cradle the children of my friends. But you can see that to cradle yours is impossible. He always cries in my arms."

− "In all arms he cries long before accepting them –said Mistress Oakes−. But there is an infallible remedy. Hand him to Nike, Loraine. I do not think that with him he has ever cried."

   The one who cried then, I fear, was me, noticing again how fondly referred to me always my dear mistress. When Paul fell asleep in my arms, we were already eating the cake. Then an argument originated. We talked about our dire living conditions.

− "When hunger lasts more than one day −said Katie−, we lose our principles. We may steal, sell our bodies or become, if necessary, our friends’ parasites."

− "If hunger is constant, we have the RASH or the house of a friend or relative −John answered calmly-. Your argumentation, Katie, could be ok, but hunger is never so extreme, and before doing all that you have said we look in the garbage or eat it raw if a fire cannot be lit."

− "That is another important thing −Olivia looked at her and said nothing. She did not bother to refute her explanations. I think that both women had a long enmity and when one spoke, the other was silent. But Katie went on−. You can eat raw meal if a fire cannot be lit. But this is more necessary in days of intense cold. Even a homeless −she at least did not use the word beggar− would do anything not to freeze."

− "We always find where to sleep those days, dear Katie −said Bruce−: either in the RASH or in the house of a friend, sheltered somewhere."

− "If heavy rain prevents to light a fire, we -said the Outcast woman− go under Mill Bridge."

− "But the one we have in our outskirt is Menhir Bridge, which is broken –I said shyly−. It would not protect us from rain."

− "You must not have had yet one day of rain with intense cold, Nike. Or you would go under Meander Bridge, or to the cemetery if necessary."

− "The cemetery already has enough with the will-o'-the-wisps -said Luke−, but there is no cold that does not cure the warm interior of the "house.""

− "If indeed your survival were at stake, Luke, you would do the bonfire there inside or you would burn Henry Shaw’s house if there is no other choice."

− "We will not reach any agreement −Vince stopped the discussion, conciliatory−.  Kate, my love, everything you've said is all very well, but we cannot know if you're right insofar those dire conditions do not occur. Meanwhile, what our neighbours have said is good for friendlier times."

- "Hopefully we will never get there." - I thought calmly. Katie Chamberlain is always very right and perhaps does not exaggerate too much. But she makes you look at what you had not wanted to look.

   Vera and Enoch had got up a while ago and walked closer to the shore. It was then when they looked in our direction and Luke rose.

− "Come a minute, My Mate”. –he told me. I put Paul in her mother’s arms and I followed him.

   They were waiting for us next to an old mill that seemed a cathedral in miniature, quite close to the menhir, which was not a threat in such good company. They made us gestures to enter beside them. There was room for us four, comfortably seated.

− "Enoch was showing me his city album. This mill seems to retain its light even in the darkest hours."

− "Show it to Nike, Enoch” –Luke suggested. Not knowing what to think I agreed, when I saw the Outcast, sitting next to me, move the non-existent pages of an album.

    How to tell you, Protch, that first experience with the "photographs" of Enoch Reed. I would tell you that he is an excellent photographer if I feared not for your opinion on my sanity. But I will tell you that other artists would like to use words or descriptions as he does. And although there are actually no images on the pictures, with his words one not only is able to see them, but he sees small details that you had overlooked. He showed us an album of more than 300 photographs on the city, as he used to photograph everything, some places, like Knights Bridge, from different angles, and so, if a lady was seen from her back crossing it towards Arcade, she was seen later in a photograph where you could see her face, because he remembered all the faces and described them accurately. He should have been a painter or a poet. I learned concepts as base or archivolts, which he explained to me patiently. Even places in the city that I did not know well, I wanted to see them again to check the particularities that had escaped me. And so, when I returned to work the next day, I walked again down Dingate Street to see again the Gate of Din, and there indeed were all the archivolts he had described. Since that day, before seeing any part of the city which I do not know, I would rather Enoch first describe me his photos. It took me an hour and a half to see them all, but our mates, who were waiting for us, when we returned to the fire, told us it was time to go. We congratulated Vince again, gave a kiss to everyone else and returned. It was a delightful evening. Little indeed had been necessary for me to love my neighbors.

   Of the morning and the afternoon of October 15 I have only vague memories. It heralded rain for the next three days and in fact when I arrived at the Thuban it was drizzling. Avalon Road must be the only street where it is not a pleasure to smell the wet ground because the water on it makes it smell of gasoline, asphalt, cement, greasy opulence. I hardly remember my conversation with Richard, in which I was referring to him patiently my experiences of the weekend, all the outskirts I knew, the names painted on an elm tree of Knights Hill, James’ home and the entire way back. And of Sunday the expected knowledge of my neighbors, the Outcasts. I did not know if they had a chronological order, to which they gave any importance. Only vaguely I sensed that Vince was the most veteran and Loraine the last to arrive. Richard heard me interested by everything I told him and by everybody, but I feared to be filling his head with thousands of unknown names. His infinite patience, his undeniable affection, his warm smile, this reminded me that I still had a debt to pay, and not saying anything to him, I thought that this would be a good night to go with an umbrella to his house.

   In the afternoon Luke and I went back to St Stephen, to the 5 o’clock mass. And soon there came also Mistress Oakes and Olivia. It was the first time that I was with them on the street. But about 7 we all left. Rain fell with strength; now it was no longer the drizzle of all day. It was not the luckiest day but we got enough for dinner. But we ate little. We had to leave something for the next two days.

   And after dinner, I told them that I would go for a walk - only my mate knew about my real intentions−, I walked to St Alban's Road looking for number 79. Up to there I know of the second city of Hazington, the immense Riverside. This is the longest avenue in the city and I think the numbers now exceed 400, but they could be more, as constant new residential areas grow in the south. On the other hand, in number 79 you can no longer see the cemetery. Sarah told me that the avenue used to have the grim company of constant hearses and processions of bereaved people, but from their balcony St. Alban’s cemetery was not visible.

   A woman answered to the bell, with a deep masculine voice. I rightly assumed that it would be Sarah Protch. Her voice showed that she had long been haunted by drugs, but her face, her words, her opinions, were all tenderness. When I answered that it was Nike, I no longer had any doubts that she knew who I was perfectly by her husband, and even heard her scream "it's Nike, Richard" joyfully alerting him. I walked calmly up the two floors rather than take the elevator, and soon I was by the left door of the second floor, your cousin’s house, Protch. And indeed his hairless face greeted me with a wide smile.

− "Welcome to my humble home. At last, Nike. I was looking forward to receiving you here. Now I hope it's not the only time. And in fact we were about to have dinner. I hope that you go to sit at the table with us and that you like hake."

− "I am not very sure that I want to accept, Richard."

− "It must not always be give-and-take, Nike. Look, it is true that I did not have dinner with you when I went to see you to your outskirt. But finally, although it is hard to tell you, I will tell you anyway: I would prefer that the food you earn on the street be only for your fellow mates. Now lecture me, if you wish."

− "It is not necessary, my friend. I will eat something with you. I hope it's not much trouble."

− "Not at all −answered Sarah−. Come and dine here whenever you want. And please, sit down and make yourself comfortable. You are in your house."


 

   -How to describe them to you, Protch, they being your family. I love them, but I fear you may get offended. The day I decided to tell you my story I knew that a time would come when I had to talk about them.

−Nike, tell me about them all without fear. It will be beautiful to see them through your eyes. In addition with a retrospective look. My wife and I missed the early years of Armand and Crystelle and we'd like to hear from them also with the friendly voice of my friend. The girl was then a month...

−She was a month the next day. But I have interrupted.

-And the small Armand two years, wasn't he?

−Two years, two months and eight days. He was born two years before Paul, but a day later, on 7 August. I always remember the date, and that he is Leo, like all of us.

−Go on, Nike.


 

   Armand I did not see then. Crystelle was in a pushchair, deeply asleep at that time. She was there as a small queen, so beautiful, so secure in her first blankets surrounded by the love of her parents, her grandfather and her brother. Your uncle Aurélien was sitting on the couch, waiting for dinner with delight, toothless and wetting his lips with his tongue, entertained looking at his collection of postcards. He always did before dinner.

− "Sit beside me, Nicholas −I was introduced thus to him for not having understood my nickname. He still calls me that way−. Have you ever been to Finisterre? Have you not even heard its name? I was there about 10 years ago. I traveled with some friends the Way of St James, and ended it on Finisterre because I had never seen the sea. That year in June I saw it for the first time, and I even washed my feet there. It was for me a need to see it before I died. Later I have gone several times on foot along Brittany and the French Riviera."

   He showed me a lot of postcards. In them I could see harbours, lighthouses, beaches and promenades, boats of all kinds and sizes, calm waves, rough waves, buoys, amateur fishermen, professional sailors. The algae could almost be smelled. But after seeing the previous night some 300 "pictures" without images, I liked these ones a bit more. Difficulties he had few to speak clearly that night, although I have known him in days when I cannot understand him. His lucidity was evident in his liveliness and even his brilliance. We were about to have dinner, but where was Armand? 

   They were looking for him few minutes because it seemed that your nephew liked to go to the balcony to watch the sky, especially at night. At that time, but still today, he liked to fantasize about aliens and was looking among the stars with the hope of a spacecraft which unexpectedly came down to Earth. But Richard found him soon. He reprimanded him but Armand did not learn his lesson and on such occasions everybody took long to lose fear.

   We then went to dinner. I felt them as unknown people but with dear faces and I was invading their privacy. But Armand made it easier for me. He unexpectedly stood up to talk to me.

− "I was wondering −he looked at me seriously− if you know how they build their homes in those balls of fire. Because the stars are fire, aren’t they?"

− "They are fire, but aliens live on planets. They are great places of earth where they can build their houses, if they have good materials. I don't think that they are mud, because do you know? In these places there is no water."

− "Listen to this, Grandpa, in those worlds you could not go to the sea. But it must be very difficult to clean up the streets then. And where do they make their homes? There will be only mountains or deserts."

− "Their bodies will be made in such a way that they do not require water –and always thinking about beggars−. And maybe they do not live in houses. There are people on Earth who do not have a home."

   He was carefully thinking of this awhile and he didn’t say anything until the next time I went to visit them. But he asked me a question. Just in time, because then Crystelle woke up and began to cry. Her brother, solicitous and tender, took her in his arms and managed to calm her down.

− "And how do you know all this?"

− "I have friends that come from the planet Algibola –I invented, mixing Lucy's star and Luke’s, Algieba and Denebola−. They tell me many things. Their bodies do not need water and they live in groups of 20 in caves of the inside of this planet, in the middle of the constellation of Leo. As you can see this planet is in your sign."


 

−All of this will be familiar to you, Protch.

–I have heard stories about the planet Algibola many times from my nephew Armand. He always tells me that one such friend Nick, who comes from there, has told him.

−Well, Protch, I've never told him that I come from this planet, but you must have already guessed that I am Nick.

−I should have guessed. He even often speaks to me of constellations and their stars, and UFOs and Martians. But I am afraid that I have not paid him much attention. Who might have told me that hearing Armand better I could have known of you?

−I have gone frequently to see your family. When I left you the house, Protch, I got a promise from Armand, and more recently from Crystelle, that they should tell their uncle Herbert, if something they told you, they knew, changing my name, such a Nick. Their parents were both well instructed and never said anything. And I fear that your uncle never understood the name Nike, and if he ever spoke to you of the visit of a beggar Nicholas he would not give you any clue. Forgive me, Protch. Your family has lied to you due to my insecurity. If someone is to blame it is me. Even one day that I had gone there with Luke, suddenly your wife and you had gone there too. We were hidden two hours in a room and at the end and when you left, we left too.

-So many years wondering where you might be and once you were in the same house as us. Live to see. With love I tell you that you are a rascal, Nike.

−Dear Protch, I cannot now amend my mistakes. In conclusion I will tell you that Armand is now an expert in the stars. Someone who wasn't me told him once of the people living in the street, and he related it with what I told him that 15 October. And he always says that when he grows up, he will be devoted to build houses both to beggars and aliens.


 

   That night, unexpectedly warm, it was not necessary to light any fire. Nike and I spoke little wrapped in the usual starless shroud.

− "Then when he was so small, already Armand thought of building houses", I said, "especially for the most disadvantaged."

− "Maybe it was me who put that idea in his head, when he was only two tender years old."

− "But now he no longer speaks of extraterrestrials."

− "I guess that it must have been for him a real disappointment to discover that there is no planet Algibola. Now he looks at the space in search for more tangible things. But he is still interested in cosmos."

− "I find it so tender to see him with two years..."

− "Then he was a very intelligent boy. And that intelligence was good for him later to become a supportive man."


 

   Supper tasty and varied, as well as hake there was salad, was followed by dessert custard chocolate and coffee, as Richard was not going to accept I left his home not having had one. As I did not know what to tell I got to listen to Sarah, who was very talkative. She showed she knew everything about my past months. You can see that Richard had been updating her about the fate of that Mr. Siddeley for whom his cousin Herbert used to work. But if she knew about my love for Luke, she didn't mention. Much about her own story she could not tell me because both had the agreement not to mention jail or swindle before Aurélien. Then I went to see them on a regular basis, but that night Sarah told me that she had found work as a cook in the Association Frederick Rage to help those who fall into drugs. I saw her, Protch, as a strong woman, who having a second chance, was not willing to lose it as long as she could continue next to Richard. And together both became invulnerable and affectionate. They were one for the other. I did not know yet how they had met in jail or what their common story was. But now I always see them as the Protch, a perfect union of two.

   Crystelle woke again and now it did not seem easy she fell asleep again. After 10 fruitless minutes, Richard suggested that we tried handing her to my arms and see if she calmed. And it happened again, Protch. I do not know what power I had then to calm children, but Crystelle also fell asleep and after a few minutes we put her again in her pram. And then I left, telling them I wanted to converse awhile at the fire with my fellow mates and assuring them that it had been a delightful evening. They invited me sincerely to spend a few hours with them occasionally and both assured me that they would also often come to the Torn Hand. It was a home of peace and happy people. So I saw them, Protch. The next morning, I said the same thing to Richard. And your family has always been in my feelings since then.

   On days 16, 17 and 18 October rain was persistent and we had to tighten our belts. Hard autumn days which were good for me as training for cold and hunger. I did not want to imagine how winter would be. Luke and I went to the Basilica with two umbrellas. Then, on the steps, I was the one who outstretched the hand and he held the largest umbrella that I had brought from Deanforest, open for both. One gets used to everything. That is not the worst. Besides the fact that parishioners on rainy days do not frequent the temple, let’s say that people attending are half, there is no one walking the streets. That day what we got was scarce and each managed to eat, but without fire, alone in our respective tents.

   And I spent the hours in the Basilica silent because my mate was absent. It is very difficult to explain to you this week of Luke. At times he seemed that he wasn't there, but there were moments in which his mind returned and every word he addressed me was said with special tenderness, tenderness new to him, so much that when I thought that something I had said had hurt him, he surprised me with so much love that I was moved. It was as if he were lost in a world of inspiration because at times I heard him murmur strange things, like something that sounded to me like "because many are the snakes" and I was unable to see what he was thinking. Although now you can’t understand me, Protch, Luke’s mind was then lost on August 5.

− "Have you talked about snakes, Luke?" –I asked him.

− "My Mate −he showed again his best smile and used a tone of sweetness which moved me−, our third code says something like this: “it is not right to tell what you shouldn’t say." One day I know that I'm going to tarnish this code and I will explain to you some things that maybe you should know. Snakes are unimportant. Don't think now about them."

   And with this answer I had to have enough. I didn't know what to think and I would have given a fortune to know what thoughts were occupying the mind of my mate. Meanwhile you're learning to appreciate what you have and what I got in conclusion is that his tenderness was enough for me. We hardly had to count the money, but when Luke told me something similar to money does not make happiness, an idea came to me again which startled me for not being able to grab it. I kept it in my mind a few seconds and it seemed to me that I even could then understand it. It was worrying because I knew that it had to do with Luke and that to catch its meaning would calm me in something important.

   Back in our outskirt, our fellow mates were then at the doors of their tents, because it had stopped raining for twenty minutes. But it was a futile hope. It was only an inconsequential talk time, enough to know that food was scarce, and so I beheld again Theseus, also called Achilles, which roamed the wet ground as a ghost, until it started raining again and I lost it.

   I hardly have any memories of the next day, Wednesday 17. It did not stop raining all day. I do not know now if Luke and I were out, but I know that Bruce saved us the day, for he had been all day walking from end to end Riverside and was soaked and really tired. But we ate all of him. And he even had the chance to explain to me his day inviting me to a coffee in The Last Road.

− "In days like today, Nike, I would recommend you to get wet and walk everywhere. I know Luke and you set yourselves a path, often according to Lucy. But if people do not leave their home, you have to personally go to them."

− "You are wise, Bruce. And I have actually been several days thinking about the possibility of walking the streets one afternoon with you. I do not think that Luke minds, but maybe you prefer to go alone."

− "Nike −he said almost crying−, I've been going alone for years. For me it would be a pleasure to go with you. My way will be less solitary crossing it one day with a real friend."

− "But have you never gone with someone?"

− "With one such Frank before I met Mistress Oakes, Olivia and her child. But I soon got used to do long walks and leave them alone. I never went with Miguel. Before the arrival of John we were already friends, but my damn jealousy made that I never suggested it to him. And your mate, the next day of his arrival, already was with Lucy. No, Nike, I was for many years in solitude. But now I have a seventh mate who asks me to go together."

− "Then Bruce, you choose the date; I do not think that Luke minds that one day I want to go with you."

− "Tomorrow it will be raining. How about the day after tomorrow, Friday?"

   I told him that I would speak with Luke, but I found it ok. Instinctively, I assumed that my mate would accept. For whatever reason, it was impossible to go Fridays to the street with him. If you remember, Protch, day 5 was when I could not go to the street due to my blisters, and the next, Friday 12^th, I had to stay in the Thuban with Mr. Dewes.

   I remember little more of that rainy day and I remember nothing of Thursday morning. But I know that afternoon it stopped raining, that Luke and I went to the street and there was where I told him that I wanted to go the next day with Bruce. And also that we unexpectedly met John, who had a glistening smile and a paper in his hand. We were, it is surprising how things are suddenly remembered, in a square of the village. We call him to us and he sat a while with us. What he had on his hand was a letter. He had met casually Anne-Marie when she came out of work and was going to go to the outskirt to bring it to him. It was from Miguel. He was telling that his father seemed to be recovering satisfactorily from the heart attack, but as he was very old, the doctors had recommended staying some more time under observation in hospital. "And you see, my dear," he said, "I have been here very few days, but in these circumstances I do not dare to leave Cádiz." Besides his mother, very old also and quite sick, needed him. The letter also spoke of his renewed friendship with Brenda Dolores, who for years he had not seen. He spoke much about her or how he found her, and I perceived jealousy on John later. He was jealous even of Miguel’s cousin.

   John was with us for 15 minutes more. The unexpected afternoon sun had made that, though not fully provisioned, we had enough to eat that night after the hunger of the last two days. We returned to the outskirt really early and upon arrival we saw Mistress Oakes and Olivia −Lucy had remained taking care of Paul− with buckets in their hands. They were going to clean the "house", the usual weekly routine, and today it was possible after two days of heavy rain. This week the weather was devilishly strange because I remember that Saturday was very hot, as if back to summer.

   Of course not only the women cleaned the house. We were three and I also offered. Only Bruce had not returned yet. And there went also Enoch Reed, along with Vera and Loraine. All the Torn Hands went up and started to work thoroughly. This time they allowed me to do something else apart from bringing buckets of water. In some cases I knew how to do it due to having observed my maids which tasks I had to do; in other cases they were patiently teaching me. But that night of October 18 I left the “house” with the domestic lesson almost learned.

   And finally we had a bonfire that night again. The conversation was difficult because Paul would not sleep. It is true that he was in his mother’s arms, in his father’s and in mine and in none of them cried, but he was uneasy and seemed to want to talk, even without knowing. Oh, little king, what a miracle or rectification would make you speak the following night, three letters that changed my fate. But only John spoke, making us partakers of his good fortune. Mistress Oakes suggested that someone might tell a story, but no one seemed inspired that night. Perhaps it was still that we were not all. In addition to Miguel's prolonged absence, Bruce still had not come. But then we saw him climbing the slope and he approached the fire. He looked like Santa Claus, with a whole bag of goodies. It wouldn't surprise us. We thought he was shy but he had made friends with half the city. And there was a news stand owner in the vicinity of the Philip Rage, that, whether it be appreciation or because she moved her business, had given him so many things that we would spend several days to consume them. There were bags of popcorn, roasted corn, some candy to forget hunger a while, sweets and chocolates. After distributing us that treasure, he sat as if apologizing.

− "We were suggesting that someone might tell a story, Bruce −said Mistress Oakes−. Will you?"

− "You know that I am unable to tell a story properly. They are too short, I lose the thread, I sometimes confuse the characters, all that."

− "Come on, Bruce ─ encouraged him Olivia−, you’ve already told several stories and many of them were not too bad."

   Olivia’s stimulation was all he needed. He slightly changed his position, sitting more comfortably, and somewhat hesitant he began a short story that I have not been able to forget, so moved I was.

− "Once upon a time –he began correctly− there was a very common grey cat and quite from the street called Terry −grey and called Terry. It is thus that Terence returned to life−. He was quite in love with a white cat named Midge, with a lineage and pedigree, perhaps a Siamese cat. She, however, did not seem to notice. But her lover wouldn't leave her and followed her everywhere. One day, naughty, she climbed to the top of a tree and then she meowed asking for help because she was unable to get down. Terry took courage and dared to try to rescue her, going in pursuit of her beloved one. But just in the first branch, he started because it suddenly seemed that the old yew spoke to him. "You are on a sacred tree, you insolent." and suddenly he was back on the floor. Whenever he tried climbing again, he got the same answer. The yew explained that female cat was also sacred, and after allowing her to relax a time in the top, the tree itself would place her gently on the ground. So he was learning that Midge was not for him and although he could never forget her, he had to continue his life as best he could. Some time later he came close to drowning one afternoon on the shore of a lake, because he could not swim. But there was to save him a cat called Nile that had lived better days and that now dwelt by the feline outskirts. After rescuing him, they stayed a while meowing together until Nile decided to teach him ─in this point my eyes became one with the fictional lake. I realized that I was the Nile cat. Bruce looked at me seeing me cry and I hope my glance was saying "thanks, my friend" −. Nile and Terry became accustomed to swim together in that lake. And this is how Terry met a brown cat which was swimming there, called Ophelia. And by dint of swimming together several days they became great friends and who knows if at the end of the time they would not gambol together and beget the same litter. This way, Terry never entered Olympus, but he found down here the only really sacred things: friendship and love."

   It wasn’t hard for me to understand that Bruce had extracted the facts of his story from his dear ones and all his past or present experiences. He was Terry, and Midge was his beloved Miranda. Ophelia remembered Olivia. Surely he would have given that name to the brown cat had his beloved mate not been there that night. And the Nile cat was such a Nike mate. I felt truly honored that, little as I had been with them, Bruce had included me in his story.

   John took me out of my self-absorption, adding pearls of wisdom of his own lore. I was actually always surprised by his vast knowledge of all things.

− "In Egypt there were sacred cats, but of this I don't know much. Anyway, we revere our cats, but do not consider them sacred. And it seems to me, Bruce, that you have also based on what I told you the other day about the native American sacred yew, whose wood was turned into a bow which shot the arrow on whose backs went up to the skies The Greater Bear, The Lesser Bear and the other animals of the constellations."

− "Here we often spend some time, Nike –taught me Mistress Oakes− considering trees sacred. It is true that I have been told that the Celts had 21 sacred trees, including the ash tree. For us they are sacred because they guard the water we drink, and it gives us life. And they told me that the alders were associated with Cronus. If you've not heard of Him, Nike, I will tell you that Cronus is a titan, none other than Zeus’ father. Cronus for the Romans was Saturn. And the alders in the south guard the waters of the river, some ancient cave and the dead of St. Alban. We give them our own meaning: we have to care and always protect our trees, especially our gods, who watch over us."

− "And what about waters –I asked, because I had always revered them−, are they not also sacred?"

−“Surely, Nike. But I do not know. Perhaps Lake Titicaca... But it is true that we are surrounded by water: the Kilmourne, the lake, Rivers' Meet. But in your honor we can sacralize them, do you think?"

− "I do think, John. But do we have to follow some special ritual?"

− "To swim in them once. Our first two fellow mates, who still cannot swim, could fulfill this precept if at least their feet get wet. But they could go further if you teach them, Nike."

− "It would be a real pleasure for me –I said−, if they want."

− "I am too old now to learn, mate −said Mistress Oakes−. I prefer to fulfill the precept by wetting my feet. But perhaps my girl..."

− "I will do whatever you do, Madeleine." said Olivia.

   The night was an ideal observatory for watching the stars, no fog and a waning or new moon, I'm not sure which. From our place I hardly saw the weak autumn stars, which can be easily seen only where there is little light. If we had not slept, soon we would be dazzled by Orion, which comes with Taurus and Gemini, the charioteer and the two dogs, the minor and the major, with the star Procyon, and the star of Christmas, Sirius, respectively. But at that time John taught us to recognize Aquarius and Pisces, right of the Pegasus, the former, and under it, the latter. But while we tried to recognize them Lucy said something about the vertigo that sometimes caused her to watch the stars, both shocking and pleasant.

− "Imagine, Lucy, that the Earth is actually a boat in the ocean cosmos. Look at Millers' Lane, at that streetlamp at the end of the street. If you spend hours looking at the sky, the stars that you now see on Alder Street, half an hour later will be on that streetlamp and then they will move westward, road to Rivers' Meet. Take the streetlamp as a reference point and you will feel the deception to believe that those stars move towards us when in reality it is us that move around another star, ours, and we have them around in our navigation around the sun. The first time that I understood all of this and I started to look up, trembling, I could swear I felt a mild sense of dizziness because for the first time I experienced what so many times I had been explained and never assimilated: that the Earth is moving."

   I think I can say that all of us felt the vertigo that night and wrapped in it, little by little, we went to sleep,

   About October 19, Friday and October 20, Saturday, I have so many things to say to you Protch, that it will probably take me a couple of days to tell you, because in those two days my life was to change forever, and so I am now the happy beggar you see. The Thuban morning began with a shock. Soon we saw that Norman Wrathfall had not come and this was rather odd in him, who used to always come the first. And as the hours were passing and we were still without news of him, Samuel ended up locating his daughter Claire’s phone number and she informed him that her father had just suffered an angina pectoris and was in hospital. A few days later he was recovered but the octogenarian Norman, the first President of the Thuban Star, would no longer work with us.

   For some reason that he did not want to explain to me, Bruce, who walked along all the streets of the city, always avoided Avalon Road. So I had appointed to meet him in St Paul's square at half past two. There we met. And after giving him a big hug, I said:

− "Lead me, Bruce. I'll go where you want to go."

   He replied that he didn't want to make me walk too much and I told him that I wanted to know something of his routes and that we should walk the one he had scheduled for that afternoon. And unaware of the direction we started to go west of the ugly neighborhood of Heathwood. I don't know how he did but Bruce walked quickly though he managed that it was not noticed and I was able to go at his pace without fatigue.

   Heathwood must have been built with no heart, pretending to forget they were going to live there some decent human beings and that maybe they would like a little, only a little, of languid beauty. Bruce took me that October 19 to the west and then to the north, the neighborhood of Northchapel. He seemed to follow a deliberate itinerary, not stopping in all houses, but only in some of them clearly selected, saying for example:

− "Here in number 28 lives an old lady and I always get something from her. I don't know the names of all of them, but I know the name of this lady: she is Lady Carter, a widow."

   Thus we were going, only to some houses, obtaining benefits. In number 28 the lady was called Carter, no doubt. Bruce greeted her by her name and she thanked to be remembered. Sometimes my new mate introduced me saying "this is Nicholas, a friend", explaining that Nike they would not understand. I nodded.

− "On this street we are not going to get anything. It is useless. We had better walk a little more and take the parallel one in the north: America Street. −he explained. I was at his side as an apprentice without questioning anything, inside and outside admiring myself of the merits of my mate. He made people, especially older ladies, feel loved and remembered; He memorized fortunate streets and fruitless streets, the numbers of the houses where you could be lucky and the streets or houses where it would be useless to try; the names of the alms givers and in some cases even their jobs, as of one such Lady Brent who he asked how she was going these days in the hospital and whether she had managed to move to the morning shift. "I'm not surprised, my friend", I thought to myself, "that you are well known and respected." "How much you must have wearied to get to where you are."

   At one point I tried to light a cigarette, the lighter failed me, and he put his hand into his pocket, giving me one, showing me five others that he had, saying that he never went out without a lighter. I smiled. He had a beautiful collection. The one he handed to me was red, without any drawing, refillable. I still keep it. It has a special value for me. That night it would illuminate me in an unlikely place.

   With constant spitting, even for that Bruce used to choose the streets where nobody saw him, half an hour later we were already at Northchapel, this neighborhood that I used to watch from my kitchen window. But Bruce probably knew nothing. Even he talked to me about the most visible, telling me:

− "That bridge you see there is Hammerstone Bridge. I don't know if you know it. It goes from south of Northchapel to north of Newchapel."

   I timidly told him that I had seen it once and did not add anything. At Northchapel were mixed all the religions of the city, but the same architecture. Houses you would find beautiful according to the windows but with too much façade and too many walls, dull colors or no color, withered gardens where lived some species that it would have been more convenient not to mix. What had always been incomprehensible for me was the name. If there was ever a chapel which gave name to the neighborhood, I was never able to find it.

   On a street he told me that he was going to go to numbers 16 and 24, and recommended me to wait and I alone should try later in number 32. He was rewarded in his two numbers. Now it was my turn to beg for the first time in a house. Shortly after ringing the bell, there came a man with his face bathed in cosmetics, effeminate in his face, his voice and his gestures. Bruce told me later that his name was Mr. Osmond. He gave me a two-dain coin and started giving me conversation telling me that my face was familiar to him. Surely. We were almost neighbours and maybe we had happened to meet in a nearby street, at a bus stop, walking on top of the Hammerstone... But I could not say that, and in my shyness, I did not know what to say. I intuited that this man who had given me alms today must have found me curt and would not give me again.

   We were truly being lucky and as we were heading to Newchapel I asked:

− "Bruce, how did you know that this Mr. Osmond would give me money and why haven't you gone in my place? And it is not that I am complaining. I'm curious. Sometimes you seem to be a seer."

− "Maybe a bit of psychology. To be beggars with luck I would say that you sometimes have to make a caricature of our faces. You have to know which features make us preferable to which people. You have been all day watching me go from one elderly lady to an elderly lady. If you look at my face you will see, apart from the fact that I'm not very attractive, I have the looks of a redeemable rascal, in addition to my dirty appearance. Many ladies come to me with the excuse to warn me that I should have a bath. Being kind to them, flattering them or taking an interest in their jobs makes them have affection for you and remember you. And one at the end ends up having affection for them too."

− ' And me –I asked laughing−, what caricature would you do of my face? "

− 'No offense, huh? Well, I would say that you are an attractive man, looking somewhat helpless, somewhat rogue and rascal. It's only a caricature, ok? With a mixture of boyish and virile. A range of condiments for which I would recommend you to frequent houses where unmarried men somewhat effeminate live. Men who like men, do you understand?"

   I was sure that Bruce could even give me a list of the places where they lived. I laughed again. In fact I agreed with his opinion. Mr. Osmond had seemed to feel somewhat attracted to me. If it had not been due to my dryness, he could have become a regular alms giver.

   Deanforest still was far away. We were, Protch, to give you an idea, in Hammerhill, the Ferguson’s house. Their son, Derek, was the one who came out. When he saw me, he told me amazed:

− "Are you not...?  −he stammered− sorry, I must have confused you."

   In most of the houses of Newchapel, where now we really were, something similar happened to me. Most of them knew perfectly well who I was, but they told me nothing. Although later the neighbors gathered and shouted things that I could hear perfectly but I still don’t know if Bruce heard: "Have you seen that? It is Mr. Siddeley. Of course, I've always maintained that he was not in his right mind."

   In The Camellias, Mrs. McNichols’ home, who gazed me but that stopped in Bruce, who she knew well, I saw that my mate cut without flushing one of the last yellow roses who resisted at the station without flowers. And then we went to Rock Cross, Mrs. Medlock’s home, do you remember her, Protch? Our next door neighbour. She died a couple of years ago. When he greeted her affectionately "for my rose", Bruce gave her the rose stolen to the neighbouring garden. Mrs. Medlock is not silly, and perfectly knew where was that rose from. But she loved Bruce. And she liked the unexpected flattery. This lady knew very well who I was, and I noticed it in her funny gaze, but without acrimony. She asked me pleasantly:

− "Are you having fun, Mr. ...?"

   I had to answer. And I didn't want to lie. I knew perfectly where Bruce had brought me and what I had to face.

− "Siddeley, Nike Siddeley" –I answered with no shame.

− "That’s what I thought –and watching Bruce’s stunned look−. Perhaps Mr. Siddeley and I have met somewhere –and she concluded with mockery−. Have fun."

   Dear Susan Medlock. What I would have given to see her again. The next house where Bruce wanted to take me to was precisely Deanforest. I looked downcast at the garden when Bruce, great connoisseur of all houses, told me that it had known better times, but anyway we were in autumn. Maybe it returns to life in spring!

− "In this house, Nike –he was telling me−, sometimes they give me money and some other times they don’t −you weren't still there, Protch−. But lately a pretty maid does no longer come out. I think her name is Agnes. Let's try anyway."

   We were ringing the main doorbell, in the venerable wooden arcade. I kept the comedy looking for something in my pockets. At last I found it, when Bruce told me that there was no one and we had better go to the last houses of Newchapel, on the other side of the Hammerstone.

− "I do not know what utility has this key I find in my pocket. What would you think, Bruce, if we tried to put it in the lock?"

  He didn't know how to look at me. He seemed furious with himself.

− "Holy heaven, Nike. Don't tell me that you live here."

− "I don't live here, Bruce. My house is on the Outskirts of the Torn Hand. Maybe you know it. But until a fortnight ago I used to sleep here."

   While we went to the Hall of Jupiter, he tried to apologise.

− 'Forgive me. I had no idea. It is true that sometimes I have heard Luke say you lived in Newchapel. Then the houses in which we have just been... they were your neighbors, I... don't know how to apologise, Nike."

− "Bruce. You've invited me several times to a coffee. In this house I have no food. I threw it all away. But I still have some coffee in the kitchen. Please, let’s go there. As for my neighbours... a week ago, I met them. One such Vince McFarlane was 52 years old. Do not ever again apologize, Bruce. These are not my neighbors and it is not here the life I want. I live on the street, like all of you. Soon I shall get rid of this house. But meanwhile I can repay my debt a little with you and invite you to a cup of coffee. Come on in."

   He stopped a few seconds before the statue of Jupiter as if he would like to ask me something, but he didn't. I guided him into the kitchen. I told him to sit while I was making coffee and to chat a little I said.

− "I also remember that you allowed me to live eleven days in your home, and that debt I still have with you. But I will not pay it for letting you come to a house that I don't use. Anyway as long as I keep it, this is your home."

   His answer was to point at his heart.

− "Can you see where I'm pointing at, Nike? This is your home."

   I started to cry again. Bruce and I shared the same homes, the street, our outskirt and our hearts. If only it could always be thus. When I put the coffee on the table, I spoke also of how his story and his cat Nile had moved me.

− "I don't know how to tell a story, Nike, but if they ask me to tell one, you had to be in it, as long as you are by my side.

   As long as you are by my side. Bruce, like Olivia, believed that my stay with them was provisional. And what could I do to change his view?

− "You think that I will go one day, don’t you?"

− "I don't know, Nike. Each one's life depends on each one. I only know that I was lucky enough to see one fellow mate for more than three weeks, both in August and October, a man of integrity that comes from another world and however has become our own skin, suffering from each of our indignities. Whether you stay or not, your name for me will always be that of a friend."

− "How do you get along with Luke?” −I asked him to change the subject a little.

− "Before August we had always got along well, but we rarely talked. It was, say, my unknown fellow mate. But one day of July –he looked at me− there came to us by chance another unknown man, the most unlikely man in theory with whom to make friends. However he lived among us as a friend and we became friends. And through him, on his face and his words about anything, also about Luke, I began to rediscover him. Luke is warm enough and a real friend. But to be able to see it, your presence there was necessary for me. And how do you see him, Nike? What is the street like for both?"

− "He is an excellent mate, and if I am wrong with something, he first does not mind it, and then he teaches me tenderly. This last week he is strange. I previously thought that something that I had said or done could have hurt him. But I don't think now it is that. It is as if he were in a world of his imagination where no one, so far, can enter. I hope he has really no problem with me. I’m so fond of him, Bruce. I could not bear to lose any of you, nor could I bear to lose him."

   The tone of my voice at that moment must have been so distressing that Bruce looked at me downcast, but clearly wondering whether he should tell me something. Only timidly he asked:

− "You like him very much, don’t you? Maybe too much?" –and he looked at me meaningfully.

− "What is it that you want to ask me exactly, Bruce?" −The moment approached to say it again. But Bruce deserved to know it. Would I have, him at least, on my side? I thought I would. Anyway, so I would have to go, one shock after another, risking his friendship or making it stronger.

− "Before I ask you anything –and he pointed at his heart again−, this is your home. On me you can always count. Anyway I could be completely wrong, so don’t get offended by the question –and he asked me hesitantly, as if he were apologising in advance for asking me−: Besides being so fond of him, you love him, don’t you, Nike?"

   There was nothing Bruce couldn’t see. From that October 19 I think that any situation that affects us, especially to our feelings, he is able to see it. But he lives among other people’s lives as if he were walking on tiptoe, not meaning to disturb. Only when he is sure, as with me that day, that one really needs to speak, he dares to go a little further, always showing in advance that whatever the answer, he will respect you.

− "I fell in love with him when I met him, Bruce, on July 30. It was a surprise to me."−I could have said much more. But I kept silent. I needed to hear what answer he would give me.

− "Nike. There is nothing more valuable than love, wherever it comes from and from anyone to anyone. Love stops violence, it calms you down or shakes you, but it makes you mature. You have my deepest respect. If you're in love with Luke, there is nothing more obviously innocent. But another question, I see you afraid, do you fear him?"

− "I don't know whether he knows or not. But if he has not found it, I’m afraid of his reaction when he knows. And it is enough for me to be fond of him, Bruce. I will never be a problem for him. The love he feels for Lucy, and Lucy for him, is for me sacred enough to have it in an altar."

− "If he knows, he must also know that you will never be a problem for him, as you have just said; if he does not know, you would be for him no obstacle, because you will tell him what you have just told me and he will continue loving his wife and his son and having another six fellow mates and you still the most beloved one. Now he really likes you. I saw that with clarity in my talks with him in August and September, and in those of these past fifteen days. You must never fear the truth. Luke is a mirror that reflects tenderness, but this mirror light would no longer radiate the same without you. But you are still worried, let us embrace. And if one day you feel desperate, come and talk to me."

   I desperately needed that embrace. Dear Bruce, since far August 31 when I met you, always by my side. We had finished our coffees. But now he knew the truth, I had more things to say. But he asked me:

− "Is there anyone else that knows?"

− "On August 6 I told John. And I can't be sure, but sometimes our first fellow mate says things as if she knew."

− "Surely Mistress Oakes knows. But I think I have stopped you when you wanted to say something."

− "Olivia and you think that maybe I will go again. And however I said previously that I wanted to soon get rid of this house. And there is some information that you still don’t have, Bruce. Let me start by telling you that on the very August 5 I made the decision of staying forever with the seven of you."

   The necessary information that has not been told is the rock a river needs to bend and flow thereafter properly. It was a pleasure to be able to explain to Bruce why one day I left them and assure him I never wanted to do it.

− "If it depends on me, Bruce, I will not go."

− "If I have understood correctly and it depends on Luke, I don't think you will go. Nike, I see that you want to tell me much more. But it is Friday night and we're in Newchapel. You can tell me more on the road and we can still find some open shops."

  And so we left Deanforest to walk towards our true home and we stopped in a shop to buy. We had been really fortunate. When we counted the money, we saw that we had 15 dains and we had to invest them well. He chose to enter a bar and get some cakes. On the road, I kept talking to him about Luke and he listened to me with respect and he even stopped to hug me and remind me: "and you know, here I'll always be."

   The moon was not visible. But the first stars were alternative lights leaving drops of shine in the dark lap of the outskirt. Luke had not come yet and for the bonfire there was still time, so early we had returned. Today I really would try the long-delayed project: to find some blankets or clothes in the landfill. I walked towards it. I don't know what shadows wanted to stop me, hidden lurking among the ash trees. I shrugged and didn't want to know fear. But I should have known it then, in the threshold, and not in the lobby, of that endless night.