with soot.
The Stone Man came after her with her pack, which he dumped on the floor, and clambered back up
the stair, out of sight.
The house was as boxy inside as out. It was just a single room, without partitions. Descending the last steps, Emeline had to avoid a hearth set on slab-like stones, which smoldered under the ceiling hole that served as both chimney and doorway. Lamps and ornaments stood in wall alcoves: there were figurines of stone or clay, and what looked like busts, sculpted heads, brightly painted. There was no furniture as such, but neat pallets of straw and blankets had been laid out, and clothing and baskets and stone tools, everything handmade, were heaped up neatly.
The walls were heavy with soot, but the floor looked as if it had been swept. The place was almost tidy. But there was a deep dense stink of sewage, and something else, older, drier, a smell of rot.
A woman, very young, had been sitting in the shadows. She was cradling a baby wrapped in some coarse cloth. Now she gently put the baby down on a heap of straw, and came to Bloom. She wore a simple, grubby, discolored smock. He stroked her pale, dust-colored hair, looked into her blue eyes, and ran his hand down her neck. Emeline thought she could be no more than fourteen, fifteen. The sleeping baby had black hair, like Blooms, not pale like hers. The way he held her neck wasnt gentle, not quite.
Wine, Bloom said to the girl, loudly. Wine, Isobel, you understand? And food. He glanced at Emeline. Youre hungry? Isobel. Bring us bread, fruit, olive oil. Yes? He pushed her away hard enough to make her stagger. She went clambering up out of the house.
Bloom sat on a heap of coarsely woven blankets, and indicated to Emeline that she should do the same.
She sat cautiously and glanced around the room. She didnt feel like making conversation with this man, but she was curious. Are those carved things idols?
Some of them. The ladies with the big bosoms and the fat bellies. You can take a look if you like. But be careful of the painted heads.
Why?
Because thats exactly what they are. Isobels people bury their dead, right under the floors of their houses. But they sever the heads and keep them, and plaster them with baked mud, and paint themwell, you can see the result.
Emeline glanced down uneasily, wondering what old horrors lay beneath the swept floor she was sitting on.
The girl Isobel returned with a jug and a basket of bread. Without a word she poured them both cups of wine; it was warm and a bit salty, but Emeline drank it gratefully. The girl carved hunks of bread from a hard, boulder-like loaf with a stone blade, and set a bowl of olive oil between them. Following Blooms example, Emeline dunked the bread into the oil to soften it, then chewed on it.
She thanked Isobel for her service. The girl just retreated to her sleeping baby. Emeline thought she looked frightened, as if the baby waking up would be a bad thing.
Emeline asked, Isobel? Bloom shrugged. Not the name her parents gave her, of course, but that doesnt matter now. It looks to me as if you have it pretty easy here, Mr. Bloom.
He grunted. Not as easy as all that. But a man must live, you know, Mrs. White, and were far from Chicago! The girl is happy enough however. What kind of brute do you think would have her if not for me?
And shes content to be in the house of her ancestors. Her people have lived here for generations, you knowI mean, right here, on this very spot. The houses are just mud and straw, and when they fall down they just build another on the plan of the old, just where granddaddy lived. The Midden isnt a hill, you see, it is nothing less than an accumulation of expired houses. These antique folk arent much like us Christians, Mrs. White! Which is why the city council posted me here, of course. We dont want any friction.
What kind of friction?
He eyed her. Well, you got to ask yourself, Mrs. White. What kind of person hauls herself through such a journey as you have made?
She said hotly, I came for my husbands memory.
Sure. I know. But your husband came from this areaI mean, from a time slice nearby. Most Americans dont have any personal ties here, as you do.