Читать книгу The Grand Dark онлайн | страница 12
She stubbed out her cigarette. “You think so?”
He laid his head sleepily against her shoulder. “No question. It used to take you days. Now it seems like you have a new script in your head by the time you finish reading it.”
“I hadn’t really noticed.”
Largo yawned. “You learn the words and blocking faster and better than ever. Are you doing something different?”
Remy shook her head. “Nothing. But I’ve felt better since the doctor gave me a shot. Sharper. More clear-headed.”
“What kind of a shot was it? I could use one.”
“Vitamins, I think.”
As he went to check on the tea, Largo said, “You haven’t had one of your attacks in a while.”
“That’s a relief. Now leave me alone. I have to work.”
He poked his head out from the kitchen. “You’re quite sure there’s no more cocaine?”
Remy playfully tossed a pillow at him. “Finish making the tea and be happy I don’t push you out the window for interrupting my work.”
Largo froze in the doorway. “Work …”
He lurched to his feet in the bathroom stall, realizing he’d nodded off. He checked the address on the package one more time and left the building through the loading dock so that he didn’t have to pass Herr Branca’s office again. Promotion or not, he’d had enough of the old man’s scrutiny for one day.
Outside, the fog had begun to lift somewhat, but the sky was still gray under the smokestacks of the armaments factory. A light mist fell as Largo pedaled along Tombstrasse, making the air smell fresh and clean. With the welcome promotion, good air in his lungs, and morphia in his blood, Largo felt better than he had in days.
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From Noble Aspirations and Hard Realities: Life in Lower Proszawa by Ralf Moessinger, author of High Proszawa: A Dream in Stone
A haze, perpetual and gray, hangs over much of Lower Proszawa, like a murder of crows frozen in flight. Below, the coal plants that dot the city smolder and roar, roiling black ribbons of soot into the atmosphere. There, they’re caught by the wind and distributed throughout the city. The dust settles everywhere, on the rich and poor alike. Of course, the wealthy have the means to sweep their streets clean, as if soot wouldn’t dare venture into their districts, griming the windows and tower rooms that overlook the roofs of the less fortunate.