CHAPTER XXVIII: THE MOTHER AND THE WHORE

   Streets has this city which you never know where they start or where they end; exhausting streets where traffic becomes slow and laborious; arteries that lead to an unexpected square, a shady park, to the sudden confluence of a bridge, a river, a hope, a fate; but then they continue. Clean streets, dirty streets, sidewalks of dust and dirt, of dark earth, wet and muddy narrow places; cobblestones, cold asphalt streets, straight or winding, slopes, descents, fast contrasts; places that in winter even their inhabitants abandon or perhaps they look at them with disdain from any window and only beggars dare to go. My house is thus: the Torn Hand was going to be my bedroom; and now the time was come to explore the rest of the rooms. That morning my steps had taken me from the Heatherling to the Kilmourne. This afternoon I was to go the opposite way.

  O Poor River where to live, where to sleep and wake up, the hall and room for guests, in which to socialize with friends. And then Rich River of the poor, our pantry and dining area. My heart had taken me there and it was guiding me better than my unaccustomed feet. It sensed that the streets were awaiting me because somewhere life was waiting for me.

   All that afternoon I had the disconcerting feeling of not knowing who I was or where I was going. A beggar with millions kept in the bank, where have you seen that, Protch? But I wanted to go slowly. It was not only how Luke would react what until then had stopped me. If chance was favourable for me one day, first I had to measure my strength, my resistance, to face shame and the other indignities.

   There is no motif by Verôme where to put the lack of intimacy or hazards; they are in all signs. And sometimes our house is broken into, we open our balconies too much and anyone can enter and surprise us. I walked chewing this idea, recalling, however, I wanted to go back to sleep, as that other week in summer, to a place visible by everyone who walked nearby. I also meditated that the seven had contributed to that hour to my learning. I remembered the timeline of Lucy. The rest of us mortals has three directions, but the sequence of past, present and future is for us the fourth way, and you never know in which bend you will begin to find a meaning to your life, but if you have already found one, you don't have to divert, you already know what path you must walk on, where you must stay, where your home is; and it is a paradox, Protch, I never found mine until I went to the street.

   I did not know whither we were going, but we had taken north. Luke kept all that afternoon a deliberate silence, as he intended I made out my own conclusions without his experience bothering mine. He had not changed clothes and all of them were of light colours, notoriously stained, full of wrinkles, grease spots, with enough rags and misery signals. We moved silently, each with their own thoughts, as usual two friends remembering different things, who walk, however, accompanied. Luke did not speak to me about the street, but didn't want us to walk in silence. Before arriving at Alder Street, he turned to me and spoke to me:

− "Nike, my friend, so you're actually Nicholas Martin. I don't know if you know that I also have two names −and looking at him with curiosity, because I didn't know, he said−. My name is Luke Abram Prancitt. Perhaps this is not the right time to introduce ourselves, but you must know next to whom you are walking. And there is something else about me that you don't know. On July 30 you were 29, Nike, but so was I. So it is not wrong that we have called each other twins so often, because we were born on the same day. In different places, but I don't know if at the same time. Do you know what time you were born?"

− "My grandparents used to tell me that a clock located in the same room where I was born was striking 7 o’clock, at dawn."

− "It could not be otherwise, Nike. I was born almost at the same time. One twin behind the other. In my case they say that it was five past seven. Two brothers so long lost. We had to find ourselves."

   But we had finished Millers' Lane just then. After Alder Street, I thought that we would continue to Temple Road. But from Mill Bridge to this avenue there are countless dark streets on the right. One of them is called Damascus Road, close to the east, tortuous and poorly paved, which, however, is the most direct route to the area of Castlebridge, and if ever we needed it, God forbid, it would take us from our outskirt straight to The Great Hospital Philip Rage. But more to the west there was a clearer and wider street: Calvary Road. It is a street, the first time you walk it down, disturbing and confusing. It seems that it never ends, it is frequently oriented to the west, but when you think that you will find Temple Road unexpectedly again it twists to the east. But if you do not abandon it, it leads you from Alder Street to St Paul's Square.

− "Here we will begin. It is Calvary Road, in the Village, Nike."

   Templar Village, the Village, the Templar neighbourhood, St Mary's, so many ways to call a single maze. I barely knew it. And now I walked, not to think about what I had to face, trying to retain the names of the streets that we found suddenly on the left or on the right. In recent years it has recovered many of its old Templar names. There is a street Hugo of Payens and a St Bernard of Clairvaux. But as you get closer to Jerusalem Street, you find names that make you remember that part of the world and the Crusades: Holy Sepulchre, Sea of Galilee, even a street called Al - Aqsa Mosque; also the first square on the right: Baldwin I it is called. And Damascus Road, almost parallel, that at times we were able to glimpse. As you get closer to the church of St Mary everything becomes biblical names. Crucifixion Street, Sanctum Street and it caught my attention a street called St Luke’s Gospel, but I soon remembered that his name was that of an evangelist, after all.

   I walked looking at every crack that made me remember this area of the city, wanting to retain even the stains on the asphalt that surely would not be there the next day; or a balcony, a lattice, the double mirror of a window, a lamppost, a container. Delirious I was trying to remember even the dogs or cats that I found. It was an effort to memorize the terrain, the need to recognize my new Holy Land, in case one day I had to come alone. But today I was accompanied. I walked through a maze, but with the guidance of an experienced beggar who was talking to me again.

− "I have been calculating.  Do you know, Nike, how much time has elapsed since the day you left until today?"

   I started to count. All of August but six days, 30 days of September and three days of October. 25 + 30 + 3.

− "58?"

− "Sometimes numerology, so that calculations are right, should be helped by a small trap. And you may have to add August 6, because you were not all day with us, and also add this morning, for you were still absent. This way you will have 60. I don't know if you know, Nike, that in Babylon they had the sexagesimal system. For other people perhaps it was also an important figure. When you think that you are at the limit of your strength, perhaps it might be good for you to think about why so many people, just like us, have considered it a magic number."

− "Why number 60 is special? That's what I have to find out, isn't it?"

   The fact is his mysteries helped me to spend the afternoon, and throw dark thoughts away. You must not forget to make the mind start strolling if you go walking. I was a man of numbers and I nearly knew the answer. But Luke begged me not to answer him yet and I took more time. In something about figures, though today it was not invoices or balances, I didn't want to fail.

  And he still had an enigma to ask. We were already almost in Jerusalem Street, the main artery of the town, which crosses it from Arcade Bridge, on the east, to the west end. I looked to the right trying to find, unsuccessfully, Knightsbridge Street, Luke’s former street, starting at Knights Bridge, where I could have gone to see his brother James and I had not. I did not know yet that street or Arcade Bridge. Jerusalem Street does have a way out to Temple Road, and once it is past, already in civilization and asphalt, it is called Chamberlain Street. Or perhaps they are not the same street. But we turned to the church and already near St Mary he challenged me again:

− "The first time that each of the seven has gone to the street, he has thought about its fatigues or misery, but also about its greatness. So I want to know what you think at the end of the day, if you get to the end. So the question is: what is the greatness of the street, Nike, yours, the one you deduce?"

   That answer had to be well meditated. And I had all afternoon to decipher his puzzles. Luke was wise: to think of other things would help me.

   One or two silhouettes, I assumed they were beggars too, walked the Village, in a hurry but you could see they knew where they were heading. None stopped at St Mary. It was already quarter past seven. The mass was over 15 minutes ago and now there was nobody.

   Halfway between the Renaissance and the Baroque, St Mary's Church is within a confusing mixture of illuminated architecture and twisted, painful and upset sculptures. But I know the inside from other days. That afternoon its doors were already closed. Luke wanted to lead me, however, after a few steps, to its wide and well sculpted façade, twisted angels and saints, but with placid faces, carrying offerings to Virgin Mary. Jesus Christ must be there somewhere, but it was not that afternoon when I found him. I could imagine them all entering there the morning of September 16 for the wedding, I assumed that with friendship and joy. Now, I shivered when I was aware that we were alone, that no one was there.

   We never got to sit down. I thought I understood his motives. He wanted to take me away from the greatest shame that I suspected I would feel sooner or later: the presence of the people, the hustle and bustle, even the possibility of being seen by some well-known face. But I knew what causes had led me to this place, and what I thought I was going to meet. That is why, in my need to learn, I looked at Luke with rebellion. Although we actually understood each other reading our eyes. Our dialogue was telepathic, but clearly perceptible. "Do not turn me far from the inevitable, my friend, all of you have gone through this trance and I just want to know; let the night tell me which has been the sentence, let me read in your eyes how I have behaved. But let's go away from here."

   His answer was also in his eyes. But finally he did speak out loud:

− "Whatever you want, Nike. We are close to the Basilica. Shall we go there?"

   I had assumed that it would be there where I had to fight, so I nodded. From St Mary to St Paul it is a short way. I walked thinking that I also needed to know the name of the sixth negative sign and that perhaps that afternoon I would learn it. Calvary Road finally ends, getting narrow and dark, forming a steep slope that ends in a steep mound. And in it, a disheartening building I did not know until Luke mentioned it to me:

− "This building you can see on your left, Nike, is the RASH".

   So that was the RASH. I had heard it a couple of times years before they named it again in the summer, but I had never been there. That day I just watched its exterior, but I trembled. Philip Rage, who founded it, should have taken for granted that four walls and a roof was all that beggars needed. And surely it was so. But at least he could have avoided the gloomy appearance. The white walls looked sickly, cadaveric, and it was not only neglect; it was its natural color. The windows, tiny and beaked, watched visitors with strabismic eyes. But perhaps their function was to blind the look, that the inside could not be perceived, since the little that was distinguished was part of its floor covered with dust. Its bricks seemed a poorly assembled jigsaw puzzle and maybe they had the only mission to remind the beggar that the house could come down.

   But I did not know it well and I did not make any comments. A speck in my thoughts, I shrugged and continued. Calvary Road ended finally in St Paul's Square. There finished the Village.

   Streets on the east and on the west, of mud or neatness, blessed or damned streets. Poorly regarded, my house has windows always open to any dirt and they can be walked without asking permission by the best or the worst of mankind. Well regarded, we must not deal with the cleaning tasks. Streets north and south; I had only begun to visit them. Streets where one can die, one can be born or, as it was my case, one can change his life.

  Only then I could see clearly the majestic towers of the Basilica. Of what I'll tell you now I'm not very sure, Protch. Its name actually is St Paul's Church. There is no reason to call it Basilica, though everyone in this city knows it with that name. From what I have been told, the name Basilica is given, after a papal prerogative, to a temple which has a regal architecture, which is the spiritual focus of a community and other characteristics I don't remember. But the name Basilica reminded me much of basilisk and Luke clarified me that originally basilica comes from king, a king house. And how to forget, there in St Paul, that both the father and the son of Luke were called Paul? It is without doubt the most monumental thing that this city has, but we should not forget the square that bears its name. On my left, I beheld again the wonderful neoclassical Town Hall, which, as it often happens to many people, after a stunning façade, hides an inner world of dark intentions. I had gone there a couple of times for reasons of work. Now I was going to stay outside and opposite, occupied in very different businesses.

   In this half moon St Paul's you must not forget the splendid High Bridge, the most beautiful of the many bridges of this town, which we had to cross to get to the other half moon, the Basilica. With the cold day the square was all day scarcely crowded. People seemed to have abandoned, as I had done, the rich river. Oh Heatherling of my prosperity, where I had left you and where I've come to find myself? But our goal was on the other side.

  High Bridge curves like the waist of a violin, and after descending we already were on the broad steps of the Basilica. One afternoon I got to count its steps and I remember they were 32, like the teeth. This dentition, not always clean, was ideal to take a last breath before entering the temple, or without euphemisms, so beggars can do our work. There were about 10 people sitting on the stairs, not more, but the façade seemed crowded. Generally, one beggar who arrives first sits at the top, and those who come later are placed as steps descend. Now that I know them well, I can tell you that the Trelawney, Melvyn and Rhoda, husband and wife, were placed at the top. Later I shall speak to you of them. And right down there were two men so similar that they could only be brothers, and indeed Luke confirmed they were Nathan and Joey Spence. Misery is often presented as a gust of crazed wind which surprises you so suddenly that you have had no time to put on a coat. A fire had destroyed everything that the brothers Spence had and they were not insured. Life sometimes changes your room and leaves you without any blankets.

   Something told me that, being the last ones to come, we should not sit on the steps, and in fact I said this to Luke, who was looking at me thinking that my learning was reaching me fast. And without exchanging, indeed, any word, I thought we should move to the left, where now several beggars were, sitting on the sidewalk. It was very unlikely that there we got something, but there was no choice. We finally sat on the west, facing south. I was the last one on the sidewalk and Luke was on my left and at his side there was a lady named Gwenda, so sullen that we hardly spoke any words with her. Moreover, she was newly arrived in the street, and still had a youthful and elegant appearance, and an unmistakable face still of fears and shame.

   We had not brought a handkerchief to clean the floor, but my fear was not exactly to get my trousers dirty. But it wasn't until we sat down when I discovered that Luke took out of his pocket what he called a hat and was in fact a practical cap, grayish and deep. I had never seen him with it, but I sensed that it was going to be a working tool. It was more useful than the ground to receive coins. Now they just had to rain, that they already had a lake. Luke threw one coin into the cap, one of 30 budges[1] and a couple of cigarettes, indicating that we would accept willingly money and tobacco. Still I had not felt ashamed because of sitting on the floor or sincerely, Protch, because of the miserable company. That I did never mind at all and I was there to be a beggar and, if I was lucky, to be called thus.

   Viewed from the west, the Basilica resembles a boat, if it weren't for its towers. With them as masts it can be a terrifying sight, a Valkyrie contemplated at night by some angle not illuminated, but always imposing and majestic. All the church is, however, bare, and like all the temples of this city, devoid of stained glass windows. Luke should be thinking something similar, for he said:

− "This city has no cathedral. But the scent of greatness, as in this church, is indeed present."

   I guessed what had to be done then, but even so I asked Luke.

− 'As you can already imagine, now you have to outstretch your hand. But let me remind you once again that when you want to stop, here we will leave it."

   So much I wanted to say without finding words that would ensure him that I did not want to give up that I got nervous and probably I raised my arm too much. At the time Luke looked at me with a cold sweat and twisted eyes. But as usual he was reading me.

− "Forgive me, Nike. So much dislike I have for my past that although perhaps the gesture that you have just done not even resembles it, you've raised your arm so much that you reminded me the fascist salute."

  And I had, moreover, made the mistake of a novice: to leave my hand facing the ground.

− "It is much simpler. Look at me. Can you see? You turn your elbow, next you raise your forearm... they are about thirty degrees, sure you know, sexagesimal system... can you see? Babylon again. And with your hand pointing to heaven, not to hell. And nothing else. There is not much to learn in this simple gesture.

   This simple gesture must have blown away stronger hearts. Since when would it be used? And there I was, capturing the humiliation of generations, as if raising my hands there came to me some waves of their ancient rebellion, of their silent protest, of the pain which leads to uprising. This way I was a long time, and now my fingers were heavy, until Luke recommended me not to have my hand always in the air, to lift it only when somebody was coming. I asked him which words I had to say, and he told me that was in the character of each beggar, but he sometimes did not say anything. Only a humble "God bless you" at the end, and not always.

   We had sat shortly after ten past seven; the mass was already started. The pastor was logically on his east, at the altar, and from our western position we did not always perceive his words, but many of them came to us like an echo. He began to read a letter of St. Paul to the Romans: Mutual Love; I still remember the name. And next to Luke and silent, I began to listen to what little I could distinguish: "Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the faith God has distributed to each of you." As I was listening, I meditated, but in the first words I had nothing in fact to think about. I couldn't help thinking if it would be right in a beggar to question what he was listening to. "Let your charity be without hypocrisy." Then perhaps the voices of the other beggars prevented me from hearing how it continued. And that line ended, as I remember it: "practicing hospitality". Perfect. We had arrived when the mass had already started and we had lost the arrival of the believers to the temple, one of the two best moments for the beggar, as you can imagine. But the priest encouraged them to charity. I naively believed that exhortation would give them a heartfelt willingness to open their wallets and charitably give us alms. The reading concluded more or less thus: “But if your enemy is hungry, feed him, and if he is thirsty, give him a drink;
for in so doing you will heap burning coals on his head." I never understood that about the burning coals, although once Luke explained it to me, always with a Bible in his tent. I wasn't sure what he believed but family history had made him maintain one and he was constantly reading it.

   I didn't know what to think, but my eyes diverted my mind for a second. The sky was briefly adorned by a stork, which didn’t take long to enter its nest again, one it had built in a corner of the northern tower. It was then that I thought that storks are like beggars: they live on temples, but they do not go into them. Then I saw a mature man in a gray suit, who was the first to abandon the mass. He seemed to have something wrong and he went down the stairs without paying attention to the beggars sitting there. Then he took our direction and I saw him a second opening his wallet with the apparent intention of some alms-giving. It took him so long to decide that when he finally did he was close to us, and a coin fell on Luke’s hand, which he soon put into the hat. They were 30 budges. Luke looked at me with a smiling face and I gave him back a look of hope. We had begun to get some money. But then he said to me:

− "At the end of the day, whatever has come into this hat will be divided into two parts."

   Two parts? Luke must have read, as so many times everybody, my face of protest. "We shall see when we get to the end the day, my friend", I thought, but at the moment I said nothing. The most correct thing, I kept pondering, would be to divide it into four parts, for you have two more people to feed. Such small issues were worrying me all afternoon. I had come with him and I knew what I could get: Lucy, Paul, you and I are four. I will not meekly accept half of the money.

   The priest was still talking. After the reading, he began the sermon. Now his words came in small waves. "Verily, brothers, the chosen people always have to be charitable with the underprivileged. God’s flock is very great and not all sheep have the same function. And those sheep in front must not forget, therefore, to the further behind". The chosen ones and the underprivileged. My face no longer could assume it without protest, and perhaps for this reason, Luke spoke to me:

− "Eris sacerdos in aeternum." You are a priest forever. It is the Psalm 110. My father used to recite it to me on many occasions. He had to leave his Ministry to marry the woman of his life, Margaret, my mother. But he never abandoned his readings or his religious concerns. Many evenings we spent reading passages from the Bible together –his face was wet as he was speaking tenderly of his father− and I have read St Paul many times. But we of the Torn Hand don't like compassion, charity and sin. What do you think of charity, Nike?"

   I had to take a few minutes to think. And it took me long to mutter an answer. The mass was meanwhile progressing and coming to an end. Luke’s eyes seemed to nod to me when at last I spoke, but I don't know what you may think, Protch.


 

−Tell me, Nike.

−It wasn’t a conclusion only of that day. But after long years on the street, I think charity is an easy instrument that the powerful have so that the social pyramid will never alter. Thus those above always have a remarkable place and those at the bottom will never rise from the level of misery that they should have. Good works, charity, a coin, a piece of bread, they help the miserable people one day but they do not alter their misadventure. You do not seek to transform their unfortunate circumstances so that they end forever away from that mud of begging. Charity seems to me a way of forgetting: you drop money into a hand and you no longer have to think twice of the beggar. And I know that despite what I'm telling you, Protch, my, our great contradiction is that the eight of the Torn Hand don't want to get out of there. But we are the exception. How many times I've thought, seeing those who are already of my class, shivering in the streets, poorly clothed and starving, how good it would be for them some friendly hands that speak them not of charity, but that truly transform them and save them from the street. But tell me what you think.

−Nike, about charity you must have pondered much more than I, that I am not a devotee or a stork or a beggar. In these moments I neither live on temples nor do I enter them. And to answer you with all the respect that I want to do it, I have to reflect a lot first. Now I can only say that I share your opinion.


 

   The mass was ending. Some devotees began to come out of St Paul. Perhaps because of the cold, perhaps because it was easier to hear a sermon and forget its teachings later than practice charity, but they were very few those who were willing to open their wallets. I could not even call a drizzle to the few budges given to the beggars above. To our place on the sidewalk several people came, but there was no reward. I watched them patient. I sensed that charity was not easy to get and I had to work hard for it.

   And it was then that I looked to my left. A woman about 50 years old approached. She came from the side of Knights Bridge; she was not coming out of the Basilica. She had something venerable, her face a clear signal that she was thinking about something carefully, perhaps with bitterness, her clean grey hair in a chignon, a long dress of a bright blue color and her eyes, also blue, which unexpectedly found mine. I don't know what strange lights she perceived weak in my lakes, but she wanted to hold my gaze as one who is looking at me and showing me understanding. I saw her open her purse slowly. Nervous, she failed at the first attempt. But once it was open, she took out a 20 budge coin and deposited it on my hand.

   Everything had been fulfilled. That was my first charity. Fate had befallen me. From that time my name was already a beggar. We kept on looking at each other. For that lady it must not be easy to understand why a well dressed beggar required her help. But in her eyes you could read respect. She must understand my honest plea, the need that urged me. They were no more than ten seconds, but I will never forget her eyes. I talked to myself sweetly then, wondering: "what may be your name, lady? I'd like to know where you come from. I really hope everything is ok with you in life." And in my silent conversation with her, I concluded: "thank you, good woman. And may God pay you."

  Finally she went to her affairs. I watched her until she disappeared turning south, down Temple Road, as if something made me want to follow the steps of my first alms giver. It took not long for me to see her again one other day in very different circumstances; and she still lives, Protch. Just yesterday I saw her again. Whenever she sees me, she leaves something in my hands. I will never forget her.

   With watery eyes, burning factions and my mind resting comfortably in what had just happened, I threw the coin into the hat and I dared to finally watch Luke, whose eyes seemed to be in a quiet corner, maybe liquid, flavoured of friendship.

− "You already have your first coin, Nike. I will ask you once more if you want to continue, but not now. Your eyes are answering me. You're finally where you wanted, my mate."

   My mate. My mate! It was the word that I most needed to hear. I had spent two months longing for it. If it is true that God has created man from mud, a word can be as creative as the primordial mud. If something I am at this moment, it is because the vocative blew life into my sculpture. I couldn't help my eyes to leak its first tears that afternoon. At the end I was his mate. Luke’s mate. I wanted to hear the same flattery soon to the other six. A friend approaches at your side to respect your life, a mate shares it. And to share it, I should give Luke back the same caress, the same vocative. It was the first time.

−“Thank you, my mate." It was my intention to leave love sleeping all afternoon, that the only light he could find in my face was friendship. When I called him my mate, I noticed that he shivered. And maybe then time stopped.

   But for the rest of the human race it was still running. From my position I could see devotees come down the stairs with a different face, which became sour when observing the legion of beggars there was. They complained that it was increasingly more complicated to open passage and descend. They got angry and could not avoid making harsh comments.

− "What a comfortable life that of this rabble. They live without work and what for should they make an effort to find a worthier way of life, if this way they get everything from us?"

  And someone at his side answered:

− "Yes. It is much easier that it is us the ones who work. They will live on the salaries of others."

   This and other comments made me stop to deeply think, recalling the seven one by one, who I was not able to see as lazy people. I could not imagine a harder life. I remembered Mistress Oakes. Fifty years here, up the streets, down the streets, with a sense of tiredness, dust and misery. Nothing to consider hers; a long path of hunger without complaint. I remembered Olivia, not knowing her story yet, whose face had shown me always a long trail of horror. Lucy, who had never known a different home and had not chosen her circumstances; Bruce and with what quiet control over himself he earned his living wondering what places he would go to, and if the reaction of people would be different with him. Miguel, of whom I hardly knew that he had chosen this path and he went along it without disorientation. John, oh, my dear friend! How was your first day, you who in appearance had so much, but you preferred to do the same thing I want to do today? Luke, who, sitting at my side, hardly resigned to receive this hailstorm of sour comments. With what dignity all of you were drinking the juice of life, trying to leave aside pain and humiliation. How easy, I thought, it would be working and putting away forever the long fatigue, sterile and cruel, of their existence. But those who came down also afforded to give some advice. They showed you a lot of better alternatives, logically with money. A gentleman wanted to give a beggar woman the phone of a charitable organization. And a lady in an arrogant face came towards us and predicted a long path of humiliation for us that we still were, according to her, beginning.

  Not every day is like that. But this is part of our work. I preferred to look at Luke and observe his features. It seemed that in eleven months he had time to get used to the idea and he heard it all serious but considering it as the usual accompaniment of his daily work. I was now silent. Through my ears entered the rebukes that later went down my throat and digested. It was the first time I chewed all this incomprehension and I had to wait for my stomach to be filled. Or my heart, which still unaccustomed to be inhabited by seven faces, was still thinking with which bloods of respect to flood them. Throughout the afternoon they were with me, their serene faces in contrast with these cold moons, more and more marked of pride and fury. Anger is a sword in the hands of an apprentice who, inexpert, you see coming to cut your skin or penetrating carelessly in your flesh. The wrath of every afternoon in all streets attacks and hurts you as incomprehensible. Or maybe it was that I was unable to decipher it. Almsgiving is a hurtful, but honest transaction. I lift my hand and the alms giver freely considers if he wants to give me something. As different to the lady with white hair, whose will understood my will and made that both currents crossed respectfully. But all these... why those looks of contempt? Where from their anger?

   The flock of the blessed people who had come to the Basilica was leaving in cold and unwillingness, and returned to their homes, and the staircase also started to get without people. First they were the Spence brothers, I don’t know with what fortune. The Trelawney began to come down. On the sidewalk, Gwenda had offered all the mass a frantic stillness. Only when she stood up, I could finally hear her voice, speaking to Luke. You can see that they already knew.

− "I should not have come today to the Basilica. The day had already been good enough for me, Prancitt. And also my family has always venerated Saint Francis of Assisi. Today it is celebrated and they have not even mentioned him."

− "From where we are it is not possible to hear it all, Gwenda. Perhaps they have done."

   But she went away, according to all appearances, indignant. Luke was talking to me.

− "My father, Nike, has always had for his memory a great deal of respect. He used to remove the saint. He said that Francis of Assisi is quite exemplary as to be held in high esteem also by the multitude of non-believers and in his later years, as his faith was dying, he told me that the "saint" corrupted him. I am what you could call an agnostic, but I still keep a great veneration for his figure."

   So I went to the street on Francis of Assisi day, we always name him without the "saint". But I had almost no time to think about anything else. Melvyn and Rhoda Trelawney came close to us and then the husband started to talk to Luke.

− "Take care of her for a moment, Prancitt, would you like? −Everybody knew Luke by his surname. Mr. Trelawney was a man of about 60 years, better dressed than his wife in clothes not too dirty and well sheltered. But I couldn't help thinking that his face reminded me of myself in the dark times of the poisons, degraded and harsh. And I thought I saw something else in him. A face much used to anger that would easily become a demon for his wife−. I'm going a while to King Alfred for a coffee. Take care of Rhoda. It will not take me long −and realizing just then my presence, he added−. I have not seen you before here."

− "My name is Nike –I introduced myself. Two seconds for the usual reaction to a name that he had never heard and I had to explain−. Or Nicholas, as you prefer."

   But, without further comment, he walked away to King Alfred. Not even for a moment I thought he was going there with the intention to have a coffee. And in fact, when he returned, he smelled of beer. To the northeast of the square you could distinguish two bars, one next to the other. One, best looking, called The Sword. And on its right, King Alfred, more austere. Melvyn Trelawney was moving away and Luke turned to his wife.

− "Now we could get close to the stairway. There is no longer anyone and we'll be there best. Come with us, Mrs. Trelawney."

   I can't describe to you my dear Rhoda’s aspect, since that time always in my imagination. I think that actually she is about ten years younger than her husband, but she looks ten years older. Her clothes were stained, dirty, neglected. They did not seem to cover her enough or his husband seemed to mind. But her smell is very striking. My voice hesitates to tell you, Protch. I don't want to describe her incorrectly, poor woman. But I could swear that she smelled of urine. I trembled and started inadvertently to discover new faces of misery, of so many people I did not know. It seemed to me that Rhoda Trelawney was sick and that nobody took care of her. Maybe her mind was somewhat lost, after long years of violence and misery, but what surprised me most is that she spoke of her husband with love.

− "He must have gone to have his usual beer. If the day is half good, he always does. But he believes that it is more convenient to deceive me. And I pretend not to notice. Melvyn has always been this way, my poor child; he tries to avoid me the bad times. Today he is in a good mood. Maybe it doesn’t rain."

  Maybe it doesn’t rain. I don't know what insights the street was giving me, but I understood from her face that she was not talking about the weather. She meant that maybe that day he would not rain any blows upon her and her husband would leave her alone for a time and would not touch her, because if he touched her it was to beat her. She had no scars that afternoon, but I did see her covered with bruises. Watching her I wondered what different realities I had yet to meet because they had never really concerned me. It was time to look at the beggars from outside, as Luke used to call them, and to find as best I could which things we had in common. That evening I remembered all their names and, little by little, much of their stories.

− "You have the looks of a good guy –she told me, covering her shoulders as best she could with an insufficient reddish shawl− but what a strange name. Luke resembles more a Christian name."

− "How long have you been married?" −I asked unsure. When I have just met someone, I never know what to talk about.

− "In August it will be 29 years −all my life, I thought-. Melvyn was such a nice neighbor. He earned his living in a dairy. I fell in love with him right away and I was reciprocated.  If I were born again, I would like to be again Mrs. Trelawney."

   It was that pathetic. She still loved him. I rebelled seeing her dirty and miserable looks and inwardly I cursed her husband. But what options did I have? Even if I had been tempted to use my money to get her out of the street, I could not save her from him. She was still deep in love with Melvyn and was resigned before the life he gave her.

− "He is sometimes a little devil –she said with a cloudy face, but with a clear expression of happiness−. But he has many moments of tenderness. He still loves me, I know."

    That I could not discuss. But it was completely impossible to imagine his little devil, as she had just called him, with moments of tenderness.

   The few beggars who were still there began to leave. We were only now Rhoda, Luke and I. The square was slowly filled by a lot of black veils. It was getting dark and though with the dim light of the illuminated square I could not, in fact, distinguish Scorpio, my mind, which knew where to find it believed at least to perceive the light of Antares, now about to hibernate until the following spring. But I guessed that it would only be a second. The night had come with a full moon, and even if it didn’t rain, its enormous luminosity soon would hide all lights in the southern sky. We were taciturn for ten more minutes waiting for the return of Melvyn. His wife spoke few times more, shivering, but patient waiting for her husband to return for her and to write that night the next chapter of her life. I didn't know whether they slept on the street or had a home to which to return. I continued looking at her tenderly, but unable to decide how to react. Luke looked at me understanding what I was thinking, knowing that he had been previously there. When Melvyn did return, we looked at each other impotent, both aware that now nothing could be done.

− "I hope you have not made these gentlemen dizzy, Rhoda −he said to us with an unmistakable breath of beer−. Thank you for taking care of her, gentlemen, Prancitt and company. Come on, let's go home."

  Home. Perhaps they had a home somewhere. For God’s sake, I thought, I hope no cold street or dark bridge is awaiting them now.

− "Where are they going, Luke?"

− "We beggars tell one another things frequently. I'm not sure, but I think that a cousin of Rhoda’s has lent them a room somewhere in Riverside and they don't have to pay rent –and looking at me with a serious face, he told me−. We can do nothing, my mate. Calm down and let’s pray so that this evening that son of a bitch doesn't rain her."

   And with this statement we spent ten minutes in each other’s thoughts, still on the steps. The Basilica doors were still open. Sitting there and while darkness was covering us, I did count our scarce profit. Some people had dropped a cigarette. At the end of the night there were eleven; tobacco, at least, would not be lacking. But there were only 50 budges so far in the hat. That year that was the price of a cup of coffee; and by the double amount, and not everywhere, you could order a hamburger. Perhaps Luke and I managed to eat at least half, but I was calculating for four people.

   In these calculations I was, when I saw somebody coming out of the temple. What I've learned from him later prevents me to call him a gentleman. He was a man, leave it there. Perhaps he had stopped to talk to the priest, because it was clear, due to his appearance, that he was wealthy and maybe contributed in some way to the livelihood and good work of the Basilica. Or perhaps he had been exchanging some devout words with the vicar.

   Even his way to come down the stairs seemed cocky and presumptuous. I couldn’t say: it was on his way of treading the steps, the haughty trunk and looking at the horizon as one who is looking at heaven, his next luxurious dwelling, well earned and obviously newly purchased. But it was not that which surprised me. What in his eyes was notable stiffness reminded me of some other eyes, warm and loving, the living flame of a loved one. I could not help feeling this while his footsteps sounded like snaps. I remembered a predator in the seconds leading up to attack its victim, a bird of prey or maybe...

   But he had already descended and was right next to us. And his voice sounded like a whip, lambasting and rude.

− "Today you have preferred to change –he said to Luke with derision− the cute redhead woman that sometimes accompanies you for this well-dressed novice –he continued talking as he was opening his wallet−. As a matter of fact I don’t really care."

   Despite his rudeness, that guy brought with him the rain that could save us that evening. I saw in his hands the greatest silver coin, the two-dain coin. It shone in the air seconds before it fell on my hand. O silver that thus you bathe us, thank you. But that man had something to add:

− "You are here because of your sins. Repent before hell opens for you."

  Because of our sins. Actually were we there because of our sins? I looked at Luke for a second. He had redeemed in the street and I was on my way to do so. I remembered the other six. I could not find the shadow of a taint in whatever reasons had led them to begging. And in all the other beggars I had just met and I continued meeting... does Sin actually mean something? Is there a penalty that we have to pay for original sin? Are they not thousands of different circumstances, without a guilty motive, which lead everybody to their descent?

    I hadn’t previously responded to anger with anger. But misunderstanding was stronger than I. I don't know what outburst it took me, but if it was madness it was in memory of those I loved. Without really thinking what rebel will was taking control of my hand, an unknown fury made me throw away that coin, which was soon lost forever in a sewer. I think the gentleman saw me, but if he was upset, he kept silent. It was nothing to him two dains. And soon I lost his sight. Blushing, I turned to Luke, who was looking at me without anger.

− "Sorry, my mate. I don't know what has happened to me. I shouldn’t have done it."

− "Nike, you have been a beggar for a while now, and no matter if you are only tonight or many other nights. We also have the right to have our own opinions."

− "But hunger..."

− "Sometimes my reactions have been similar, although I have never thrown a coin away. But I should have. So in the name of what so many times I've desired to do but never done, thank you. And you don't need to add anything else."

   He seemed sincere, but I wasn’t completely calm. If it weren’t because it was necessary to think about Lucy and the little king and it were only his hunger and mine, I wouldn’t have minded so much what I had just done. But this way... Seeing my face still a burnt red, he wanted to talk about the same thing, but with a different tone.

− "This man we have just met... is William Rage, the second male of the sixteen children of the great Philip Rage."

   He was the second male, but the third son. I had met the eldest son, named Philip, as his father. Some business had led him at times to the Thuban, and I knew that between both men there was a sister called Carol.

− "He is one of my neighbors –he continued. But soon he rectified−. Forgive me; I'm speaking of Knightsbridge Street as if it were still my street. I should say that he is still my brother's neighbor. It is the first house next to Knights Bridge, number one; if someday you come there, well... dunno what you may think, but it seems to me futile and tarnished, even if it is the most magnificent and grandiose. He lives there with his second wife, and a son they have"−and he did not want to add anything else, as if a shadow had just crossed his eyes, recalling the son of the Rage.

  I saw how William Rage moved away, while I kept meditating if what I had just done would not be objectionable, and still annoyed by the feeling, that I could not get rid of, that his face reminded me of someone. But it was more than a month before I met him again, damn the time I saw him.

   People crossed monotonous the square without looking in our direction. Actually many glimpses were not even furtive; they did not reach us. I started to realise how often people don't want to see us; we must be on the street like lampposts, but with less light. Some beggars remained on the square, away from the Basilica. The old Edwin, less crazy than people think sometimes because of his long beard down to the waist, must be seeing how the few passers-by walked by his side and didn’t look at him. And I was silent, but an hour after arriving, I had an urgent need to go to a toilet. But, since it was also true, I preferred to tell Luke.

− "I am thirsty."

   I told him that I was going to go to one of the bars opposite. He said nothing, but looked at me for a few seconds as if he wanted to tell me something. He must have thought it was best to remain silent and continued like that. I walked away to the north-east end. I checked that I was walking with some difficulty, but this time it did not seem to be the bite from the basilisk. My feet were not accustomed to walk and I had been all day tiring them. It is not only that The Sword had a best aspect and that the instinct of my many years as a Siddeley preferred it. From the Basilica to the bar it was almost a straight line. When I arrived, the head waiter, or perhaps the owner, stopped me before entering.

− "Excuse me, but you cannot enter".

   I asked him to give me some reason. If only I had some money for a cup of coffee.

− "We have admission rights reserved. You can read it."

− "But why?" –I insisted.

   I saw he was unwilling to give me further explanations, but reluctantly, he said:

− "Nobody can enter who has previously been on the stairway of the Basilica. They are house rules."

   It was useless to argue. I was filled with helplessness and I do not know if it was good at all the decision I took then and still keep: not to ever return to The Sword, even though the next day I lamented being a beggar and my pockets were full. If none of the seven, or the more or less seventy we are in this city, can pass through these doors, wild horses would have to take me to its interior.

   But I didn't want to urinate in the street, there in the urban centre. Being patient, and expecting a similar reaction, I tried my luck in the adjoining bar. In King Alfred they saw me enter, go to the toilet and leave without having asked for anything, but they made no comments. I even dared to ask for a glass of water and without anger they gave me one. In this bar they admit beggars, I said to myself, and I promised that when I could afford a coffee, I would have one inside.

   Back to Luke, I saw that he looked at me with concern. On my face he might be watching rebellion and shock, as wounded as if a wasp had stung me. I was unable to say something different from ah, tense hands and a tearful face. I went back to sitting in an eloquent muteness, sensing that I was on the verge of knowing the sixth motif by Verôme in the negative. We spent five minutes without exchanging a single word, he respecting my silence. But finally I had to ask him.

− "Luke, my mate, I don't know if now I would have the right to know −and after a few seconds in which he encouraged me clearly to ask him−, but the sixth negative sign... Mistress Oakes called it invisibility, but could it be expulsion or marginalisation?"

− "You are in the street and have the right to know. Since that is the sixth negative sign, it also belongs to John and indeed it was what more forcefully attacked him and almost knocked him down. Expulsion or marginalisation are only part of a word that stands for everything: Exclusion. You are no longer allowed access to where you've always entered."

− "Ah" –I exclaimed again. My learning was completed with pain and surprises. But so it should be.

   There sitting, beaten again by the cold, I began to list the names of the eight negative signs, now that I finally knew them all: Shade, Hunger, Cold, Scarcity, Temptation, Exclusion, Dirt, Shame. I paused only a moment to think of the sixth; and in the man to whom it concerned. Dear John, how many years without wanting to hear from you, how much you must have gone through that I could never have imagined. And I was the eighth sign. It is true that I could not recall that so far Shame had bitten be, but an inexplicable discomfort made me look at the cap again. Just at that moment came a well dressed gentleman, even well equipped with a scarf, and dropped other 30 budges, neither into Luke’s hands nor into mine; they hit the hat. We had already 80, if I was not wrong. Not even a miserable dain. I regretted again having wasted William Rage’s coin. Luke, my mate, you still look at me with kindness, but you should not have come with me. The truly essential I throw away and forget your need. And nothing falls for us. I didn't know yet that the street has its rhythms and that on cold days like today it was more convenient to work in every hour of sunshine. My stomach was protesting; I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But hunger could not yet defeat me. I would never have thought it by myself, but I should remember Luke, never forget that he was there begging for three. I finally found myself guilty for the defeat. I had failed to find some rags hours earlier in Deanforest and my aspect didn’t inspire confidence. I needed some more frayed clothes, with more wrinkles or dirtier. My fellow mate watched me carefully, understanding the battle I had with myself. "I don't want to go, my beggar", my face was telling him, "but what else can I do?" If I leave you alone, it will be easier for you to earn your bread without me, away from this ghost of a well dressed beggar.

   His gaze severely answered me: "If you really feel defeated, choose whatever you prefer. But for you. Many days for me and for my wife, the reward is hunger. At this time of the night, Nike, we are together; and together we will harvest whatever there is in store for us, if you prefer to stay."

− "Then, my mate, do you want to leave?" –he finally said after a few tense minutes.

− 'No, Luke, I will continue here"−I said with confidence.

− "Have you eaten anything today?" −he asked me with sweetness and real concern for me.

   Then I was talking to him about that brioche of breakfast, in Havengrove Avenue.

− "Don't worry about my hunger, my beggar, I still resist."

−"You have the strength of a bull, my mate" –he said.


 

  In many ancient cultures the bull has symbolized strength, from the paintings on the walls of ancient caves to the bull Apis, sacred in ancient Egypt, conceived by a shine of blue light. The new beggar did not know it yet, but his resistance was inexhaustible, and fertile or sterile, his strength helped his steps, which tirelessly trod the ground. On his stellar tour of that October 4, the third constellation in a single day, Nike could already move to Taurus.


 

  The moon of that night, with a cute face but its hair in a mess, looked briefly at Knights Bridge as if it wanted its hair wet. I could still see it, but the southern sky, I assumed that also the northern sky, was covered in lead colour clouds, increasingly threatening, which definitely darkened all the lights of the stars, icy stars and some planet which shyly wanted to accompany them. But the moon was soon lost and I no longer saw it. And I didn't want to look at my right. They are not perceived from the Basilica Deanforest or Newchapel, but one gets to guess the spectral shape of Hammerstone Bridge. That night I wasn't going to let my room be in that cardinal point.

  My fingers were freezing and a slow pilgrimage of pain suggested to me that next afternoon I should come protected by a pair of gloves. But perhaps the concern I had about my mate had made my own temperature illogical. Because while I was in black omens about Luke and his family, slowly from my forehead began to slip an unmistakable drop of frozen sweat.

   The first drop of sweat was followed by some more, while my wondering gaze was fixed on a girl about 9 years old coming to ourselves from the west of Castle Road. It was for me unintelligible that she approached licking an ice-cream. I know that there are several ice cream shops across the street and St Paul's square, but I never knew of one that was still open at the beginning of October. Perhaps she brought it from home. It is strange that not all of us have the same body temperature. For that girl, short sleeves and still her knees in the air, it was still summer.

   She was humming and so absorbed, without looking at the ground, that when she came closer she must have tripped over something. She was wobbly a second. She was so close to me that I wanted to stand up and help her, but with no time to do so, much of the ice cream fell on me, staining the collar of my shirt. She didn’t even utter a polite "excuse me". She went on her way eastward without remembering us anymore. A new human being that had not seen us.

   There was nothing to clean myself with no matter how thoroughly I looked around for a piece of paper or even the leaf of a tree. And I did not know if rubbing myself with saliva might be worse. So I took off the ice cream with my fingers as best I could. The shirt collar has a neglected aspect now. I was beginning to look sloppy. Luke watched me solicitous while I returned him a smile that wanted to become a bell for not daring to become laughter.

   But a west wind was slowly taking away the few lights that still resisted, and also, already exhausted, the distant moon. It was blowing hard and we began to freeze. It was then when Luke spoke.

− "We should move from here, my mate, if you want to keep trying."

   And with a firm will I said:

− "Let us continue, Luke, please."

   He suggested a square angle, well protected from the west, the hallway of a bank that is past the Basilica if you're heading north. Protch, you must know it, so I will not name it. Does it matter the name of a bank? We beggars are only interested in being protected from intense winds on cold days in its warm façade.

   Viewed from there, the towers, which are oriented to the west and are only two – why? −, had a less terrifying aspect. For a minute I began to contemplate the Renaissance tympanum, recalling once again to whom the church is dedicated. It was a scene of a multitude. Paul of Tarsus, called the Apostle of the gentiles, clearly perceptible in the center of the image, seemed sharing a masterly teaching with the chorus of characters surrounding him, presumably some of the Apostles. His face was severe, despite his known transition from scourge of Christians to their strongest supporter. He did not have, however, a happy face, not even at the top of St Paul.

   Once we arrived at last at the entrance of the bank there, half crouched and somewhat protected from cold, we would spend more than half an hour. But it was more and more difficult to even glimpse the fleeting face of some frozen passerby that was going back home. Whenever I watched someone approaching, I raised my hand again, but unsuccessfully. Edwin had already left and there only was around still, besides us, the indefatigable Emil West, giving furtive sips from a bottle of gin, increasingly drunken. He interrupted an interesting dialogue that he should be having with himself to greet Luke, who he already knew: "Goodnight, Prancitt." And little else.

   A passer-by came then walking from the village. When I saw his silhouette, still abundant hair and the same troubled way of walking, I began to have first a suspicion, but as he progressed, more and more a certainty. So many years and I saw him again. He did not recognize me. He was walking towards the centre of the square, almost in the sidewalk opposite. I had to call him.

− "Simon! −and already shouting at him−, Simon! −and finally hearing that ear-piercing sound which called him, approaching the strange beggar who appeared to shout his name, I asked−, are you not Simon Bonner?"

   He spent a few moments trying to decipher a face that he seemed to know.

− "Excuse me, do I know you?"

− "If you're Simon Bonner, you do. I'm Nicholas Siddeley."

− "Nicholas, whom many called Nike, from Siddeley Priory? But what the hell...?" –and he didn't know how to follow. It was impossible for him to imagine a Siddeley in the street.

− "Siddeley Priory still belongs to me. It is not easy to explain why I am now here and that this is, in fact, my first day. But I assure you, Simon, I'm where I should be. Your road is sometimes distorted and takes you to strange hills, but on top of them friendship and loyalty may be awaiting you; and if you get to know them, a dirty and cold street is seen as a beautiful carpet. Believe me: I have arrived where I had to arrive; now I have to measure my strength and who knows tomorrow where I'll be –and realizing just then the beggar who accompanied me, who warmed himself with his hands on his shoulders, I said with a big open smile−. This is Luke Prancitt, my mate and my friend. Luke, this is Simon Bonner, my first groom."

   The ambiguity of the words caused me to blush for a few seconds. But that fire turned into a brown, that of Luke’s eyes, who now looked at me stunned. He maintained that face the rest of the night. He did not appear to be the same again. They shook hands with security. I went back to Simon.

− "But I did not know that this was your city. Or are you only coming to visit?"

   All the time he was looking at me doubting what strange individual he had met and if he would be sane. But he always kept his friendly face.

− "I don't live here, but I have a sister who lives in this city: Lindsay Bonner, or rather, now in fact Mrs. Wilkins. She has married today in the Church of St Mary, at noon. They are still celebrating it. But I woke up this morning taciturn and I am spending the afternoon this way, sometimes returning to the banquet, at times walking. It doesn't seem that I have chosen a good day for walking. But speaking of something else, how are the horses?  I suppose there are still horses at Siddeley Priory."

   We were chatting a while of the stables which he knew so well. I had to admit that now, in my absence, Siddeley Priory was in charge of my cousin Edmund. And I could tell him very few pieces of news. He also had married five years ago. I tried to imagine what Mrs. Bonner would be like. "I hope that she fills you with bliss, Simon. I don't know really if I loved you, but you're almost my only pleasant memory of those years of my life. May your years always have abundant happiness."

   Luke heard all this dialogue with interest; his face increasingly an ode to friendship. But Simon doubted. Perhaps he had no intention to know me if some other day he found me on the streets begging. But the memory of a former comradeship with that strange teenager, heir of the Siddeley, made him not desire to leave our company yet. And it was obvious he wanted to take out his wallet. I waited for a few seconds, but in the end, his money in his hand, I told him:

− "Simon, we do not accept charity from friends. Hopefully, if one day you see me again in the same circumstances, we could talk again. I have great memories of you. May everything be good in your life, my friend. I hope you allow me to call you so."

   Still stunned, but with a warm "goodbye, Nike" he returned to Calvary Road. I continued next to Luke dining cold and darkness. But I found my mate unable to speak.

− "You are... Maybe you don’t understand but the word mate is really suitable for you."

   Emotion palpably bathed him, but I did not understand why. And his face went through all the phases, like the moon, painting new cartographies full of unknown lands as someone who doesn't know what strange landscapes he is discovering but knows well that he is reaching somewhere. He occasionally muttered which sounded like "twice in the same day", and any detectable "my mate" and "my friend". But looking silently at each other, both accompanied by sudden but large emotions, finally he looked at me again and said.

− "My mate, some days are sterile. And today it does not seem to be a lucky day. As I have not come alone, I ask the beggar beside me: had we not better go?"

− "Luke... half an hour more. If only it were you and me..."

− "What are you thinking, Nike? Or about whom? What is what is really worrying you?"

− "Perhaps we should leave, but not before –and finally I dared say it− bringing something to the little king, his food for tomorrow."

    Now Luke did begin to cry. What had previously seemed shaking was now an absolutely tender voice talking to me, my best blanket for that hour.

− "My mate! My dearest mate! –it was difficult for him to continue− thank you very much for thinking of him. But at the moment he only needs his mother's milk. It is necessary that he is always well fed. And he is. I assure you that he is. But finally it could not be otherwise, at your side I always shudder and I end up crying. What a joy I have met you again."


 

   Rarely is visible the halo that often surrounds the new moon. Nike seemed rapt trying to figure out if it predicted water. Meanwhile the flames danced and the stars, with a dim moon, seemed to bend to its heat.

− "I’ve listened to your story many times and I am still surprised. Did you really think that Paul’s meal was under your responsibility that night?"

− "I had many things to decide, and my mind was a mess then. I should have supposed it, but the maze of my thoughts had more than one corridor that day: Lucy’s full smile, little Regulus’ quiet sleeping in my arms."

− "And Luke?"

− "Hard as I tried, I couldn’t find the words to apologize."

− ' You know how much I love all of you and how I have followed your next steps. And your effort still moves me never to let him starve and have everything he really needs."

− "But that night we didn't bring him anything." I continued as if I was still forgetting that the little king already had his food. But the new moon is an absent light that imposes its oblivion. Or perhaps it evokes you other memories, as the insufficient moon of that October 4.


 

− "Then, Nike, and now that you know, what do you want to do?"

   Sometimes a memory begins to bleed, it pierces your flesh drop by drop, it makes you wet and it floods you, but it never perishes. That day I had to try any way to improve knowledge. I had spent two months evoking a few words from John that still resounded like a shot. I hadn’t mentioned it before because we could not carry those impurities to the little king. But knowing well that even if it wanted to, his food actually did not depend on me, I dared to say:

− "My mate, once − my voice faltered, but it was going straight to its target− I was told that there is another way of earning your living when the itching you have in your empty stomach requires desperate measures. Perhaps... we should try it."

− "Nike, I don't know if I understand. What are you thinking about?"

− "We are not going to get any food by begging. And if I am not deceived, you are sometimes looking for food in containers. I would be willing to do it."

   It was only a thin voice now that he was able to utter. He looked at me with clean and quite red eyes. But finally he spoke:

− "I’m starting to know, my mate, that from you I can expect anything. Okay, Nike, if you are determined, we will do it. I had to try it when it was my turn. And sometimes I'm still doing it. But it is not necessary to always follow this method. It may be something similar. Come with me. And may nothing make you lose that strength, my beggar."

   My mate then extracted the miserable harvest that had rained us: 80 budges. Two coins of 20 and one of 30. It was not easy to divide it in half. But after some discussion, Luke gave me 50 and he got 30 budges plus the 30 which he had brought and thrown into the hat at the beginning of the afternoon.

   We finally got up and crossed the square back in the direction of the Templar neighbourhood. There is a well known multinational company of hamburgers that you surely know. But Luke wasn’t going toward the entrance, but toward the back door, a dusty and dark alley not going anywhere. Not even a name it has. I could not, even if I tried, describe to you a misery that is only for beggars. Near the back door, and not always, waiters pile up boxes where sometimes they threw the leftovers, everything customers have discarded and have not eaten, but after all remains of food in good condition. We saw one or two dogs that probably with a better sense of smell did not dare to dig there. Of those boxes many fellow mates often get cardboards that become a shelter for the night.

   At last we arrived. That night there was only one box. Being the only possible destination, I walked towards it without hesitation and opened it. Actually not only were there remains of hamburger, but one or two practically complete. It could be worth to satisfy two appetites not too demanding. And I was about to take a valuable piece of meat out when I heard Luke shouting:

− "Nike, do not taste it –and with a twisted face he pointed at a white thing that began to appear−. Rats."

   A phobia has a component of fear and other of disgust. My fellow mate Miguel surely shared both. For Luke and for me it was just repugnance. Some rat we had seen that evening in the landfill, but then they did not affect us. The ones I saw now made me forget hunger for a few moments. And in shivers I looked a second at the entrance of the passage. And I felt I glimpsed a well known face. Maybe he was going to eat there, within the bar; and logically through the front door. Or perhaps he was going somewhere else. I would not have paid him any attention if it wasn't because he seemed to watch me carefully, wanting to be certain that his eyes were not deceiving him and that there was Nike, humbling himself among cardboard boxes and rats. Finally he was lost from sight.

− "I think, Luke, that a man who has just passed, you've surely seen him also, is Walter Hope, a coworker in the Thuban. He has always disliked me and he talks too much. I swear, if it was indeed him, tomorrow it will not be long until everyone knows it."

− "Believe me I'm sorry then, Nike."

− "Fear not, Luke −and almost laughing and with an unknown security, I said−, this is going to make it easier."

   Up to then I had two rivers to choose from, and I was no longer sure that the next day I could, of either of them, retain its waters. But at that time, whether to choose a world or other truly was in my hands, I knew at least which world I was not willing to quit.

− "Tomorrow in the Thuban I was going to explain myself anyway. Now I just have to think about what words to use and whatever it is, so be it."

   There were no more boxes where to look then. And I was still thinking about Lucy. Surely her fellow mates would feed her if Luke and I could not bring her anything to eat. But for a second I saw the pure face that had accompanied me all afternoon, crossed by lights pointing me with confidence. Her smile did have words: "Nike, come back whenever you want. I could not have better food tonight than to see you come back, tired but having fought. Don't worry more about me. Let me feed on your inner strength and that later it becomes for me a warm blanket that wraps my hungry sleep. Return."

   Defeat was the bitter harvest of that night. And at that time, nine o’clock, it had come with some new feathers. Still in that alley, black of rats and oblivion, facing the square I started to realize how it was starting to fill with a few undeniable pearls, sufficient signals that finally the sky had decided to downpour its tears. It was a drizzle, but it was going to be persistent. With a downcast face, understanding that there would be no occasion to search in other containers and that Luke, accustomed to hunger, would not allow me that to struggle anymore, I ended up telling him.

− "My mate, let us go; it is no time to eat."

   He began to walk with decision returning to St Paul's Square, but I could not follow him. He realized then my difficulties and asked me what was happening to me. I didn't know whether they were blisters or calluses. Obsequious, he led me to a threshold where I took off my shoes.

−“They are blisters –he said−, nothing serious but they will make you walk with difficulty and pain. Sometimes I have also had them. Olivia knows a way to remove them. But now she is not close. And we cannot stop to sleep here. You will have to walk as best you can, and if you find it impossible, I will have to take you on my shoulders. And it is not the first time that I regret not having brought any umbrellas. Wherever we go, we will have to get wet."

   At a snail's pace, slowing his pace to accompany me throughout the walk, Luke came with me thoughtful and silent. The hidden moon seemed to rebel before that blanket of clouds and have gone to settle in his eyes. Defeat was not the only reward for that night. On that day of gifts, my mate had just given me shared hunger and devouring this wretched bread with me his moved mirrors were illuminated. Five minutes it took us to cross the square, but finally my lacerated feet were walking High Bridge. We walked back all the time getting wet, but it also hurt me that, because of me, he was hungry and soaking.

   Once with difficulty we crossed the river, and already my feet guided me southwards, Luke paused a second to ask me:

− "I do not know if you will consider right my asking you this, but at this point roads intersect and I should ask you. Would you like to go west, towards Deanforest? I assure you that I would accompany you there. Or south, to the Torn Hand?"

− "To the Torn Hand –I answered without a single sign of vacillation−. Tonight I want to be where I have spent the first hours of the afternoon, where you helped me to find a home. But I am afraid that going at my pace you'll soak."

− "Let your thoughts rest at least of that idea. In any case, I am to blame for not having brought an umbrella. I have got wet many nights, alone or with Lucy, and I'm used to it. And I will not forsake my mate because of a little water."

   We began the endless Temple Road, because Luke thought that my feet were not then ready to return down the difficult paths of the Village. Walking while you get wet is not hell if you can do it smiling. I left my mind wander down the crystals that the rain gave to puddles, turning them into different colors. Later those stained tears would fall to the Heatherling, still alive, before its agony at Rivers' Meet. I didn't know how many bridges there were in this street. To let my mind walk along a silk other than the tapestry that my aching feet could not tread on, I began to count them. They are four from High Bridge to Rivers' Meet. But to think of numbers reminded me that I still had to give Luke some answers. We were going down the eastern sidewalk, fuller of balconies, and sometimes we stopped for a second if the rain was stronger. We were almost a quarter of an hour under one, because in those minutes the rain became a torrent. And though he didn’t ask me, I took the opportunity to tell him:

− "Luke, number 60..."

− "Tell me, Nike"

−"... It is the smallest number which has ten divisors, and they are all special numbers: look, if we don’t take into account the division by itself or by one, they are 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 10, 12, 15, 20 and 30. "

− "I knew you were not going to fail. I don't know if that's why it has been a magic number for so many people. You know? Mistress Oakes has spent years thinking of creating herself a Tarot having 60 cards. And each would be part of an endless number of sections. Look for example at number 23: it would be the first in the 12th pair, second in the eighth trio, third in the sixth quartet... no need to follow.  Every arcane she invented would be in relation to all the nearby ones in sections of 2, 3, 4... At the moment she seems to have arrived from 1 to 30 be the positive arcanes, and from 31 to 60 the negative ones. I don't know if she will be already a little more advanced. At times of hunger or cold she leaves her mind loitering those puzzles."

  She never stopped surprising me. But this way, leaving one’s mind walking, one’s body can resist many years, even in the greatest hardship. Unknown things, forces, resistance... there the solution to the second enigma should be. Almost three quarters of an hour later, we were already walking Alder Street. Being so close to my homeland must have caused my poor feet to have an unusual boost and despite the pain, they were almost flying. I wondered if there would be a fire in a place protected from the rain. But before turning to Millers' Lane my mate wanted us to stop again under a balcony to take a last breath. It was then when I finally dared to speak.

− "Luke... the greatness of the street... I don't know if these words have some value. To be a beggar every day is something like the existence. The morning wanes and its new gaze you don’t know if it will come full of hopes. So that it makes any sense at night, or at gray hair period, you should get that pain, hunger and fatigue transform their faces into the prize of their laurel wreath: food, your fellow mates’ words, the cold ground turned into home, your homeland. Then night waxes and, whether you eat or not, it becomes full."

− "Four phases –he smiled−. The moon, one day, life, streets... Always four paths. And your conclusion also has been waxing and it is full now."

− "What was your greatness, Luke?"

− "I don't remember the exact words, my mate, but they are parallel to yours. They had to do with effort. You have to work the streets, like life, so, as you have suggested me, night or old age arrive to you with a full moon."

   The rain was dying down, enough so that we finally turned to Millers' Lane. And it was only then that I fell into the account. A forgetfulness of difficult solution. But as usual my expressions were transparent.

− "What’s the matter, Nike?"

− "Tomorrow I have to go back to the Thuban. Whether Walter Hope has seen me or not, I want to give an explanation, and that it is good enough to continue working there in the mornings. Every afternoon, if I am strong, I'll be back with you in the streets. But so far from Deanforest, and not before, just now I remember that I have not brought an alarm clock. And the watch I have on has no alarm and it is impossible to make it ring at a specific time."

− "Don't worry about that. They say of me that I am a watch. But it is not quite true. I only work at night. For years, even before the streets, I used to schedule the time I wanted to wake up. And in the hours of darkness I succeeded, even with exact minutes. For that reason, Lucy and I have not even an alarm clock, but believe me, not even once we have needed one. You just tell me what time you want me to wake you up and I go then to your tent. And if you don't trust me, I will go one second to Miguel’s tent to ask for one for tonight."

− "I will trust in you, my mate. How many facets I have yet to discover in all of you −and I started to calculate−. Let me think. At this rate of my useless feet, it will take me more than an hour to reach Deanforest, where I want to go just to have a shower and change clothes. And then I'll need half an hour to reach the Thuban. I start work at 7. Won't it be much trouble for you to get up so early and wake me up at 5 o'clock?"

− "I will go to your tent at a quarter to five Trust me. I have not ever failed in the past 15 years. I won't begin to fail tonight."

   All this speech we had in Millers' Lane. We could already see the camp. There were our tents, but it was unusually deserted. Anyway, I finally arrived to the harbour. It was very close to 10 o’clock and for that day streets came to an end.

   Streets this city has which you never know which face they are showing to you. Wide and illuminated avenues that suddenly bend and become cold, dusty, dangerous streets. Streets that sometimes you walk with the smile of the sun or the tears of the rain. Or which, as a girl insecure of her beauty, wants to conceal her face in a shawl of elusive fog that hides her imperfections somehow, and has not yet learned that her face is beautiful, that she should not veil among mists. Streets once maternal, which at times breastfeed you among sweet lullabies; and other days they show you her face of a whore, her decrepit wrinkles of an old tired lady. But that night we did not return with fog: Thursday, October 4, year 29, my first day on the street, down those streets... my streets, my halls, my room, my country. But Luke was talking to me.

− "They are all in their tents. It is our sixth code. Forgive me for not having told you previously that you wouldn’t find them here. The beggar on his first day must have the right to meditate alone when he returns, and not to be asked uncomfortable questions. And that is why you don't see them. There will be other nights of bonfires, Nike. Tonight, however, it would have been very difficult to find a place where to light it without the chance of firewood getting wet."

   We had already climbed the hill and reached the land of our country. I nodded to his words, wondering what strange wisdom would have engendered their codes, or from whom they would have emerged. Anyway, tired and hungry, I would not have been that night a good conversationalist. I went finally to my tent, knowing that this time the possessive was already suitable. Luke was telling me, next to his tent, that he was going to enter there a moment to kiss his wife and his son and that he would soon return with me to bring me a couple of blankets. Only a second before entering my hut I saw the rain had stopped. And I don't know if that night it continued raining. At dawn it was only dew the cotton of those clouds.

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[1] The dain is divided into a hundred budges, and there are coins of 5, 20, 30, 50 and 60 budges.