Sugar Rain by Paul Park

lake, but only oily swells, rushing towards them up the steps and then sucking away.
    The parson put his fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly. Across the lake a boat broke away from a group of others and came towards them. It was brightly painted and cut swiftly through the water. Charity admired the strong strokes of the oarsman. He was dressed in yellow trousers and a green shirt, and when he got close she could see how big he was. He had long arms and a big, burly frame. But his hair and beard were streaked with yellow.
    “I’m surprised he owns a boat,” said Charity.
    “All things belong to God,” replied the parson. “He rents it from the church.” And then he grinned. “Don’t give yourself airs. You’re lower down than him. He may not let you in the boat.”
    When the boatman saw who had hailed him, he laughed and waved. “Monsignor!” he shouted. He pulled up to a mooring pole, one of several near the steps. A makeshift jetty ran out to it, put together out of ladders and loose boards. The parson pushed Charity along it while the boatman shouted encouragement. He had a wide, freckled face and a smile full of teeth. When the parson tripped and almost pitched into the water, he stood up in his boat and clapped his hands. And then he made the gestures of respect. While they staggered towards him over the jetty, he bowed and capered in the boat, closing his eyes and pressing his knuckles to his forehead.
    He was using forms that were old-fashioned even then, unnecessarily servile and complex. But his laughter put irony into everything he did. At the very end he bent down to touch his toes. He was laughing when he straightened up, but the parson’s face was dark with anger. The boatman didn’t care. He reached his hand out for Charity to grab, but when she stepped down towards him, he pulled his hand away, and the laughter faded from his mouth. He had seen her palm.
    “Not your usual, is she, sir?” he asked. He sat down by the oars and stared at her, while she stood uncertainly on the jetty. But then the parson pushed her from behind, so that she collapsed into the bottom of the boat. He stepped down after her and sat down in the stern.
    The boatman hawked a wad of spit up from his throat and blew it over the side. “Where are you going?” he asked.
    “Spider Ghat. Not far.”
    “Any money?”
    The parson shook his head.
    “Any food?”
    “No.”
    The boatman frowned. “Got to be something, my master.”
    Charity wore a talisman she had gotten that morning, pinned to the front of her dress. One of the dancers had distributed them to the crowd, a tin button painted with her brother’s face. The boatman pointed to it. “I thought they were atheists,” he said.
    Charity opened her mouth to answer, but the parson shook his head. “Her mother was an antinomial. I’ll purify the boat once we get back.”
    “Thank you, my master. That’s not good enough.”
    “It will have to do. The harm has already been done.”
    The man stared at them a long moment, and then he bent down for his oars. He had a boat tattooed along the outside of each finger, and perhaps he had had something in his horoscope, or perhaps the priests had seen some promise in him when he was a boy, but the work was finer than was usual for people of his caste, less monochromatic, better drawn. Each boat was different: a steamboat, a sailboat, a barge, a tug.
    He pulled out swiftly into the lake. Drops from the blades of his oars made rows of circles in the water. “Antinomial, is she?” he asked. “Can she sing? I’ve never heard one sing.”
    Again Charity opened her mouth to speak, and again the parson shook his head. “I’ll give you twenty cents,” he said.
    “All right. But I have a sick friend.”
    “No drugs. I’m sorry.”
    The boatman rowed for a while in silence, and then he smiled. “You’re not good for much, are you, monsignor? You might offer me a drink, at least. This is thirsty work.”
    The parson