The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet (17 page)

“It’s one of the mutts!” N’Doch waves at the dog, then whistles. “Damn! It’s one of Papa Dja’s old mutts!” He whistles again, but the dog stays right where it is, dancing from paw to paw and panting foolishly. “Okay, boy, wait there and we’ll come to you.” N’Doch breaks into a trot.

And is flung to the ground by a sudden shifting of the pavement. Paia stumbles as the street jerks sideways, left, then right, and left again, as if meaning to keep her tumbling. Scrambling to her feet, she hears a crackling and roaring, rolling down the canyon of buildings behind them. Grit swirls in the air, blinding her. Where did it come from? The streets are spotless. N’Doch is yelling over the roar. He grabs her under her arms, yanking her to her feet. The grit is sharper now, biting at her skin like a swarm of insects. The gusts tear at her hair and clothing.

“Inside!” N’Doch screams in her ear. “We’ve got to get inside!”

They race toward the café, the street bucking beneath them, the wind like a giant’s vicious sidearm punch. The crackling is behind them, approaching, nearing, deafening.

“Faster!” N’Doch bellows. “It’s after us!”

Paia can’t think about what “it” is. She can only run, as fast as she can, a frantic mouse scurrying for the baseboard. They gain the shadow of the canopy. The scalloped edges of the awning snap in the wind like the repeating crack of pistol shots. Empty coffee cups and butter plates are sliding, crashing to the pavement. The dog has vanished. N’Doch hauls Paia through the shifting maze of tables and chairs toward the door, shattered glass crunching beneath their feet. Paia fights off a flying tablecloth that’s wrapped itself around her face and breathes a little prayer of thanks, because
there is a door here and it’s opening, just in time to receive them as they stagger blindly through. It slams abruptly shut behind them.

The silence is almost as deafening as the roaring had been outside. The floor is steady and level. The air is still. Paia inhales the long-forgotten dark scent of coffee and the earthy sweetness of fresh bread. The dimly lit room is full of dogs, scattered about on the black-and-white tiles. Several of them thump their tails in greeting.

“There you are! Took your own sweet time as usual.”

An old man is standing behind them, silhouetted against the wall of windows fronting the café. His hand is on the doorknob. Paia cannot see his face. On the other side of the glass, tables and chairs are skidding and colliding in space like elementary particles.

N’Doch whirls. “Papa Dja!” He starts toward the man, then stops. “Damn, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”

“Glad you made it in one piece.”

Paia wonders if a penchant for understatement could be hereditary.

“A close thing, too,” N’Doch exclaims. “You oughta stand clear of all that glass.”

“We’re safe in here. It can’t come in.”

“It?”

The old man glances behind him as a wind-borne chair crashes twice against the door, like a giant’s knock. He lifts both arms in a gesture of resignation. “There is great evil abroad in this city, my boy.” He moves away from the door as if exhausted, and lowers himself into a chair by the window. A tiny white cup and saucer rest on the marbletopped table beside it.

“Man, it was . . .”

“I know. I don’t go out.”

N’Doch drops to a crouch beside the chair and grasps his grandfather’s knees, giving them a little shake. “Damn, when I got there and saw . . . I was sure you were . . .!”

The old man pats his grandson’s hands awkwardly, and then the head that drops to press itself against him. “So was I, for a while there.”

He is slight but elegant of manner, what Paia’s father would have called an old-world gentleman. His hair has grayed in tight curls like a woolly skullcap pulled back from
his high forehead. He’s wearing white, a floor-length tunic with full sleeves and gold embroidery around the open neck. Paia takes to him immediately, especially when he offers her a warm and intelligent smile, and his dark, slender hand in greeting.

“Who’s this, now? You’re showing off with a different woman every time I see you.”

“Not
my
woman, Papa.” N’Doch sits back on his heels with a damp and weary grin, one hand still resting on the old man’s knee. “This is Paia. She’s a dragon guide, too. Paia, this is my grandfather Djawara. Pay no attention to anything he says.”

N’Doch’s grandfather peers at Paia without a trace of myopia. “Hmmm. The Fire-breather’s, is it?”

“Yes, sir.” Paia doesn’t ask how he knows. She can see that this family likes to spring their knowledge on you sideways, to see if you’ll startle. She hasn’t called anyone “sir” since her father’s diplomatic colleagues stopped coming to the Citadel, but the old gesture of respect comes back automatically with this man. She returns his handshake firmly. “We’re so glad to find you alive!”

Djawara raises an eyebrow at his crouching grandson. “Nice girl. Beautiful, too. Why isn’t she yours?”

N’Doch shoots a glance at Paia. “’Cause somebody else got there first.”

“And you’re honoring that? Good lad. Your manners have improved.”

“Funny. I’d have said I was losing my touch.” N’Doch’s hands are working patterns on Djawara’s bony knees, soft musical rhythms of distress. “Papa. Papa. I got some bad news to tell you. Real bad. Fâtime’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“She’s . . . um, she’s dead, Papa.”

Djawara’s smile drains away like the color going out of a sunset. His chin lifts. He turns his face away to gaze through the dusty window. Outside, the windstorm has passed, leaving behind a rubble of broken furniture. “How?”

“Shot. Murdered.”

“Murdered? Why? What for? For the house? For that ancient black-and-white TV? She had nothing worth killing her for!”

Paia pulls a chair over beside Djawara. She sits down and takes his hand. His skin is darker than hers, but just as soft.

N’Doch stands, walks in an aimless little circle, then goes to the door and leans his forehead against the glass. “Not a thief, Papa. It was too clean . . . like a hit. I think it was Baraga.”

“It was the dragon,” Paia says. “It was Fire. He’s the one to blame.”

“Who came after you, Papa? Your house is a pancake.”

Djawara nods. “My lovely, loyal house. Men, for sure. There was a lot of shooting. Maybe the dragon as well. It all happened so fast. But I saved the dogs, or I should say, they saved me. Dragged me into the trees, and poof! Here I am. I always knew there was something lurking beneath those boughs. Just couldn’t ever find it before.”

“There was a bird,” Paia murmurs.

“Oh, yes. He’s around somewhere. They all are.”

“But, Papa, why are we here in the Rive? No, strike that. Why is the Rive here?”

Djawara shrugs. “You don’t know?”

“Not a clue.”

“I thought maybe the dragons might . . . where are they, anyway?”

“On the way, I hope. We sort of got started without them.” N’Doch turns away from the door to regard the café in all its richness of detail: the cracked plaster walls hung with faded posters advertising travel to cities that Paia knows were under water long ago; the dark polished oak bar with its glimmering mirrors behind shelves stocked with bottles and glassware; the towering espresso machine in the corner, surrounded by stacks of white china. He spreads his arms wide. “But why are we here? Is it . . . an illusion?”

“I worried about that,” Djawara concedes. “I wandered for what seemed like days in this faceless city and suddenly, there it was, with a fresh cup of espresso sitting right there on the table, and the old horse trough full of water for the dogs.”

“Suddenly? You mean, like it hadn’t been there before?”

“Well, I don’t know that, do I? Every street in this city looks alike. But when I spotted that old familiar awning, I’d just been thinking of how restorative a good shot of
espresso would be. I walked in and everything, the whole room, was like the Rive, but not quite. Like a sort of sketch. Except for the steaming cup of espresso. That was so real, I burned my tongue.” Djawara pauses to moisten his lips as if testing for lingering tenderness. “That was several days ago, and I haven’t been hungry or thirsty since. And the place gets more like the Rive every day. If it’s an illusion, I doubt it could feed me so convincingly. The dogs are so pampered, they’re getting positively lazy.” He sighs, leans forward and sips at his cup. “Sometimes I think tea would be nice for a change, and there it is. If it’s an illusion, it’s not your ordinary kind.”

N’Doch walks to the bar, pats it, then leans against it and looks back at Paia. “This couldn’t all be Fire’s doing?”

She considers this nervously. But
La Rive Gauche
just does not seem to be Fire’s sort of place. It’s too pleasant and understated, too . . . democratic, and she says so.

“But,” counters N’Doch, “the weather can be a real bitch.”

“That was no simple windstorm,” Djawara says. “There are monsters roaming the streets, make no mistake about it. I don’t go out. Neither do the dogs. Not since we lost three of them. That’s why I sent the bird. For some reason, they can get through.”

“But, Papa, we gotta go out sometime. Can’t just sit in here for the rest of our lives. Much as I love the Rive, and all. Remember, when I was little, you always gave me one of . . .” N’Doch looks around, then strides to a table to grab up a glistening brown lump from a white porcelain bowl. He holds it up, triumphantly pincered between thumb and forefinger. “. . . one of these! And sent me home to Ma.” His grin fades. He returns the lump to the bowl. “Papa, I couldn’t even bury her or anything. The whole town’s a war zone.”

“It was more important to find you,” Paia adds softly. “Alive.”

“We’re all the family we have now, boy.”

“You got it, Papa.”

In the silence that visits uninvited, Paia’s relief and exhaustion draws up around her like a warm blanket. She yawns, wishing for a more comfortable seat than the rickety metal chairs around the tables.

“Can I get you anything, my dear?” the old man asks.

There is a pitcher of water on the table now, with three glasses beside it. Lemon slices float among the ice cubes. Paia lets Djawara fill a glass for her. She’s too tired to eat. N’Doch wanders about the little café, poking into cabinets and corners, lifting lids and uncorking bottles. Djawara sips his coffee silently and lets his grandson wear out his restless energy. Finally, N’Doch comes back to the table and drops heavily into the third chair.

He pours himself a glass of water and drains it. “Okay. Now, let me get this straight. You think real hard about what you want, and it appears. It does this right in front of you?”

“No.” Djawara sets down his cup. “I always come upon it, as if it’s been there all along. And asking for silly things doesn’t work. Apparently, it has to be something I really need.”

“Like coffee?”

“Well, need is evidently relative in this situation.”

Paia yawns again, laying her head on her propped-up palm. “Maybe you just need to think you need it.”

“What happens if I do it?” N’Doch asks.

“I don’t know. Try.”

N’Doch closes his eyes. In her sleepy stupor, Paia finds this comical. She giggles. N’Doch’s eyes pop open in a glare, which makes her giggle again. “Why don’t you try it?” he growls.

“I’m too tired.”

He closes his eyes again. “I’m imagining a big plate of steak and
pommes frites
.” After a moment, he opens his eyes. All three survey the room. Nothing has magically appeared on any surface. N’Doch tries again. Nothing.

“What the hell? What am I doing wrong?”

“Maybe it’s like making a wish,” Paia offers. “You shouldn’t tell us what you’re asking for.”

N’Doch makes a rude noise. “What does it care if I tell you or not?”

“Interesting,” Djawara says. “That you say ‘it.’ I also find myself personifying these appearances, as if they are a gift from some entity, rather than an inherent reflex of the landscape.”

“Perhaps
you
must make the request,” Paia suggests.

“Go for it, then, Papa. I’m getting hungrier just thinking about it.”

“Or perhaps,” Paia amends, not sure what has made her think of this, “N’Doch should sing it.”

“Hey, off my back, huh?”

“I’m serious!”

“It’s not such a bad idea,” Djawara adds.

“What, sing about food? Oh . . . you mean like . . . oh, man, I gotta make up a song about steak,
pommes frites
?”

N’Doch shifts his chair irritably, allowing Paia a new angle of view that reveals an informal seating area in a far corner, with sofas and easy chairs arranged like her mother’s reading parlor in the Citadel. While N’Doch fulminates about singing for his supper, Paia gets up and drifts across the room to the nearest sofa. A worn patchwork quilt like the one from her childhood lies folded over one pillowy arm. The cushions receive her softly as she throws herself among them, sinking gratefully toward sleep. The last thing she hears is N’Doch’s musical mutterings resolving into a melodic hum. But what ushers her into delicious slumber is the homey odor of potatoes frying.

T
he white-tiled terrace holds his weight as he steps out onto it. The Librarian had been worried about that. The surface looks insubstantial, transparent, like the reflection on a still pond at dawn. He remembers such a pond, from his earlier days. But that pond was sanctuary. This is . . . something else.