her sweating hands.
“Stop.” Startled by his own voice in this pregnant dark, as if whispered close beside him by some unexpected other.
A world unto himself he walks.
AS HE PASSES on into the unconstellated night there grows around him a persistent murmur. The cumulation of untold millions in torment giving voice to their despair, wailing their pain, howling their rage, sobbing their unalloyed separation from all the sanguine world. A ceaseless threnody of anguish that constitutes a white noise of the suffering world, the hubbub of Hell. Its collective growl and purr the endless operation of a factory of misery, churning mindless yet somehow alive. It will be with him always here, and he will never get used to it.
Bring up chorus as the Greek approaches stage front.
VOICES HE HEARS voices.
“Oh hey thanks for leaving the gate open, asshole.”
“What’s he got in his hand?”
“They let him in with something?”
All is so amazing dark.
“Shit, they let him in with clothes.”
Dimly as he walks he starts to sense their outlines in the faint infected light. The total darkness giving way to intermittent sickly orange light from somewhere high and far away. Beyond him in the blind world waiting is a sound of shifting figures, murmured voices flattened by enormous open space. How do they see him in this fetid gloom?
“Whose ass you be kissin fuh to get in here like this, mon?” The ground crunches and crackles beneath him as he walks. “You deef, son?” another voice calls. “Boy done ast how come you rate.”
“Now Judge mon. Ah tell you bout callin me boy, hey.”
“You kin tell me all you wont, porch monkey. I’m still gonna—”
“Ah don take yuh shit no more Judge, hey. You don’t be remembrin how long it take yuh to pull yuhself back together after Gombe take you apart like fresh bread mon? How much it hurt? Yuh scream like the woman, Judge. It sound like the old work whistle an yuh know it true. Yeh an it take you longer ta heal every time too.”
“Fuck you nigger. I hung more a you Ubanges than Carter’s got pills, an I taken enough a yo big fat lip to—”
A sudden scream pierces the gloom. Terrified, highpitched, cracking. It does in fact sound very like a work whistle. It goes on longer than any living being could possibly scream.
Niko heads off to one side, aware that those ahead of him have been down here so long their eyes can detect him, aware too that down here the dark at times will be his friend. His instinct is to see why the man is screaming. To help someone in pain. But this is not the country for Samaritans and the dead lie well beyond his aid.
The screaming stops.
“Always save the troat fuh last,” comes Gombe’s voice. “Here yuh go mon. Catch.” Something lands close by with a soggy sound of wet mop slapping concrete. “Now yuh tell old Gombe,” the voice says, closer now, “who are yuh that come here before yuh time?”
So much for stealth. Niko takes a long deep breath, releases it slowly. Readies himself for the violence he hears in the man’s tone.
Again pale orange smears the distant starless air. Niko makes out human shapes again, dozens of them, closer than he’d realized. The closest is dreadlocked and only a few yards away.
“He’s wearing shoes,” an Englishwoman says.
Someone screams at him in Cantonese.
“Is that a guitar?” a husky voice.
Gombe laughs long and loud. The orange light fades and the shapes coalesce with the heated dark. “Yuh don belong here fuh certain. What happen mon? Yuh dig yuh swimmin pool too deep?”
Laughter all around him not quite sane.
“On yuh way to a gig maybe? They be trowin a righteous party all the time down along dat way I hear. Righteous party fuh true.”
“That’s right,” says Niko, his own voice flat and thin and airless. “I’m on my way to a gig.” He’s stopped walking now.
“Sneakers an a coat mon.” Gombe laughs. “Yuh from California fuh certain.”
Niko’s
“Stop.” Startled by his own voice in this pregnant dark, as if whispered close beside him by some unexpected other.
A world unto himself he walks.
AS HE PASSES on into the unconstellated night there grows around him a persistent murmur. The cumulation of untold millions in torment giving voice to their despair, wailing their pain, howling their rage, sobbing their unalloyed separation from all the sanguine world. A ceaseless threnody of anguish that constitutes a white noise of the suffering world, the hubbub of Hell. Its collective growl and purr the endless operation of a factory of misery, churning mindless yet somehow alive. It will be with him always here, and he will never get used to it.
Bring up chorus as the Greek approaches stage front.
VOICES HE HEARS voices.
“Oh hey thanks for leaving the gate open, asshole.”
“What’s he got in his hand?”
“They let him in with something?”
All is so amazing dark.
“Shit, they let him in with clothes.”
Dimly as he walks he starts to sense their outlines in the faint infected light. The total darkness giving way to intermittent sickly orange light from somewhere high and far away. Beyond him in the blind world waiting is a sound of shifting figures, murmured voices flattened by enormous open space. How do they see him in this fetid gloom?
“Whose ass you be kissin fuh to get in here like this, mon?” The ground crunches and crackles beneath him as he walks. “You deef, son?” another voice calls. “Boy done ast how come you rate.”
“Now Judge mon. Ah tell you bout callin me boy, hey.”
“You kin tell me all you wont, porch monkey. I’m still gonna—”
“Ah don take yuh shit no more Judge, hey. You don’t be remembrin how long it take yuh to pull yuhself back together after Gombe take you apart like fresh bread mon? How much it hurt? Yuh scream like the woman, Judge. It sound like the old work whistle an yuh know it true. Yeh an it take you longer ta heal every time too.”
“Fuck you nigger. I hung more a you Ubanges than Carter’s got pills, an I taken enough a yo big fat lip to—”
A sudden scream pierces the gloom. Terrified, highpitched, cracking. It does in fact sound very like a work whistle. It goes on longer than any living being could possibly scream.
Niko heads off to one side, aware that those ahead of him have been down here so long their eyes can detect him, aware too that down here the dark at times will be his friend. His instinct is to see why the man is screaming. To help someone in pain. But this is not the country for Samaritans and the dead lie well beyond his aid.
The screaming stops.
“Always save the troat fuh last,” comes Gombe’s voice. “Here yuh go mon. Catch.” Something lands close by with a soggy sound of wet mop slapping concrete. “Now yuh tell old Gombe,” the voice says, closer now, “who are yuh that come here before yuh time?”
So much for stealth. Niko takes a long deep breath, releases it slowly. Readies himself for the violence he hears in the man’s tone.
Again pale orange smears the distant starless air. Niko makes out human shapes again, dozens of them, closer than he’d realized. The closest is dreadlocked and only a few yards away.
“He’s wearing shoes,” an Englishwoman says.
Someone screams at him in Cantonese.
“Is that a guitar?” a husky voice.
Gombe laughs long and loud. The orange light fades and the shapes coalesce with the heated dark. “Yuh don belong here fuh certain. What happen mon? Yuh dig yuh swimmin pool too deep?”
Laughter all around him not quite sane.
“On yuh way to a gig maybe? They be trowin a righteous party all the time down along dat way I hear. Righteous party fuh true.”
“That’s right,” says Niko, his own voice flat and thin and airless. “I’m on my way to a gig.” He’s stopped walking now.
“Sneakers an a coat mon.” Gombe laughs. “Yuh from California fuh certain.”
Niko’s
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