The Angel Esmeralda - By Don DeLillo Page 0,19

smoothly.

The lottery man cried, “Today, today.”

She tried to read through the edgy nights, the times of dull-witted terror. There were rumors that these were not aftershocks at all but warnings of some deep disquiet in the continental trench, the massing of a force that would roll across the marble-hearted city and bring it to dust. She sat up and turned the pages, trying to disguise herself as someone who routinely reads for fifteen minutes before dropping into easy sleep.

It was not so bad in school, where she was ready to protect the young, to cover their bodies with her own.

The tremors lived in her skin and were part of every breath she took. She paused over her food. A rustle. An easing reedy tilt. She stood and listened, alone with the shaking earth.

Edmund told her he’d bought a gift to replace the terra-cotta roof ornament she’d had propped against the wall above the bookcase, acanthus leaves radiating from the head of a sleepy-eyed Hermes, shattered in the first tremor.

“You won’t miss your Hermes all that much. I mean it’s everywhere, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I liked about it.”

“You can easily get another. They’re piled up for sale.”

“It’ll only get broken,” she said, “when the next one hits.”

“Let’s change the subject.”

“There’s only one subject. That’s the trouble. I used to have a personality. What am I now?”

“Try to understand it’s over.”

“I’m down to pure dumb canine instinct.”

“Life is going on. People are going about their business.”

“No, they’re not. Not the same way. Just because they don’t walk around moaning.”

“There’s nothing to moan about. It’s finished.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not preoccupied. It’s been less than a week. There are tremors all the time.”

“Growing ever smaller,” he said.

“Some are not so small. Some are definite attention-getters.”

“Change the subject please.”

They were standing just outside the school entrance and Kyle was watching a group of children climb aboard a bus for a trip to a museum outside the city. She knew she could count on the English Boy to be exasperated with her. He was dependable that way. She always knew the position he would take and could often anticipate the actual words, practically moving her lips in unison with his. He brought some stability to dire times.

“You used to be lithe.”

“Look at me now,” she said.

“Lumbering.”

“I wear layers of clothing. I wear clothes and change-of-clothes simultaneously. Just to be ready.”

“I can’t afford a change of clothes,” he said.

“I can’t afford the dry cleaning.”

“I often wonder how this happened to me.”

“I live without a refrigerator and telephone and radio and shower curtain and what else. I keep butter and milk on the balcony.”

“You’re very quiet,” he said then. “Everyone says so.”

“Am I? Who?”

“How old are you by the way?”

“Now that we’ve spent a night together, you mean?”

“Spent a night. Exactly. One night used up in huddled conversation.”

“Well it helped me. It made a difference really. It was the crucial night. Not that the others have been so cozy.”

“You’re welcome to return, you know. I sit there thinking. A lithe young woman flying across the city into my arms.”

The children waved at them from the windows and Edmund did a wild-eyed mime of a bus driver caught in agitated traffic. She watched the lightsome faces glide away.

“You have nice color,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“Your cheeks are pink and healthy. My father used to say if I ate my vegetables I’d have rosy cheeks.”

She waited for Edmund to ask, What did your mother used to say? Then they walked for the time that remained before afternoon classes. Edmund bought a ring of sesame bread and gave her half. He paid for things by opening his fist and letting the vendor sort among the coins. It proved to everyone that he was only passing through.

“You’ve heard the rumors,” she said.

“Rubbish.”

“The government is concealing seismic data.”

“There is absolutely no scientific evidence that a great quake is imminent. Read the papers.”

She took off the bulky jacket and swung it over her shoulder. She realized she wanted him to think she was slightly foolish, controlled by mass emotion. There was some comfort in believing the worst as long as this was the reigning persuasion. But she didn’t want to submit completely. She walked along wondering if she was appealing to Edmund for staunch pronouncements that she could use against herself.

“Do you have an inner life?”

“I sleep,” he said.

“That’s not what I mean.”

They ran across a stretch of avenue where cars accelerated to a racing clip. It felt good to shake out of