Noir

The fundamental element of the fox-trot derives from mechanisation, suppressed eroticism and a desire to deaden feelings through drugs.

– ANATOLY LUNACHARSKY (1875-1933)

Peoples’ Commissar for Education, USSR

TWENTY-FIVE

THE KIND OF THING THAT HARDLY EVER HAPPENS ANYMORE

Tell me a story,” said the professional child.

“All right.” November laid her hands on top of the briefcase in her lap. The Asian shores of the Gloss rolled by outside the train. She took a deep breath before starting. “Once… there was a man and his wife. And they died.”

“That’s sad.” The professional child’s lower lip trembled. “Did they die together? At the same time?”

“No, they didn’t.” November gave a slow shake of her head. “She died quite a while before he did.” Her hands smoothed across the expensive leather surface of the briefcase. “But it’s not really so sad. Because they didn’t die the way people are supposed to. In some ways… they’re not really dead at all.”

“I know what you mean.”

A nod. “And because he died for her-kind of-now they are together. Forever and ever.” November managed a smile. “So he got what he wanted. That’s the kind of thing that hardly ever happens anymore.”

“No, it doesn’t,” agreed the professional child.

“So you see-” November wiped the corner of one eye. “It’s not really a sad story at all.”

“Then why are you crying?” The professional child sounded genuinely concerned for her.

“Just for myself.” She let the smile turn embarrassed. “Because I’m not as lucky as those people are.”

“Nobody is.” The professional child regarded her with a wise, ancient gaze. “Nobody ever is.”

She gave the professional child the standard fee, and let her skip down the passenger car’s aisle to the next customer. November closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the padded seat. At the edge of sleep, or something like it, she felt the motion of the train’s iron wheels, the ocean’s stately tide, the meshing of all the earth’s gears.