you know that with your promotion you have a good chance to make some extra money.”
“You mean the tips? I know. Isn’t it great?”
“I’m not talking about that,” said Parvulesco. “König said there were other ways, but the prick would never say what. So keep your eyes open for money falling from the sky.”
Largo was intrigued by the idea, but annoyed at König for keeping the secret to himself. “He didn’t give any hints about how or what to look for?”
“Not a one.”
Something occurred to him. “How do you know about it? Did everybody know about it but me?”
Parvulesco let go of the handlebars and rode that way for a few minutes. “I’m probably the only one. I caught him with a pretty prostitute by the girlie cinema near the docks. That’s when he told me and gave me a few coins to keep my mouth shut.”
König wasting his extra money on prostitutes struck Largo as the height of stupidity. There were so many better things to spend your money on, he thought. Like Remy. “I’ll be sure to be on the lookout for opportunities.”
“Good. And when you find one, you’ll owe me a beer.”
“Done.” They slowed when they reached a fork in the road. As Largo steered away, he shouted, “Good night. And thanks!”
Parvulesco veered off in the opposite direction, calling, “Say hello to Remy for me.”
“And hello to Roland for me,” Largo replied.
With the image of Remy’s face in his head, Largo rode to his dismal flat in record time.
He lived in a third-floor walk-up in the Rauschgift district, more commonly known as Little Shambles. While his building was superficially cleaner than the one he’d entered in Haxan Green, the stairs and halls nevertheless reeked of cooking fat and rotting vegetables. Layers of wallpaper flaked from the walls, revealing generations of decorations, like geological layers. Red and white peppermint stripes lay atop a beige pattern of waterfowl, which revealed flocked turquoise squares. Largo’s flat was at the end of the hall near the shared bathroom, which was both a blessing and a curse. If he was careful, he could be first to wash and shave in the morning, but it meant that he had to listen to everyone else on the floor groan with dawn hangovers and curse the lack of hot water.
He opened the three locks that secured his flat and went inside.
Without turning on the lights, Largo went to the tiny kitchen and turned on the small Bakelite wireless Remy had given him the previous Christmas. Tinny dance music, all trumpets and drums, filled the flat. Through the small living room, he went to an even smaller room that housed a loft bed and a wooden writing desk that Largo hardly ever used for its intended purpose. The desk, with its numerous drawers and cubbyholes, functioned mainly as his dresser. He stripped off his clothes, hanging his damp suit from the underside of the loft bed, before turning on the light. More than the smells in the hall or his cramped quarters, it was the light that drove Largo mad.
The lone bedroom bulb hung from the ceiling by a thick cord. It flickered twice before fully illuminating. The light it gave off was a yellowish white that made Largo think of piss or cheap cheese. It covered everything, including him. He couldn’t comb his hair in the morning without feeling slightly dirty. Remy, of course, loved it. On the nights she’d stayed there she said it was like swimming in egg custard. Largo always smiled at the description, but he died a little inside each time he heard it.
The reason for the piss light and the perpetually black skies over Little Shambles was simple: the coal-stoked power plant on the next block. You couldn’t escape the stink and it covered all the streets and windows with a fine layer of soot. So different from Remy’s flat in Kromium’s artists’ quarter, which was powered by cool and lovely plazma. Her wireless was twice the size of Largo’s and the lights throughout her rooms were as bright and white as new-fallen snow. As he dropped the small coins and the Valda into a tin box he kept under his mattress, Largo debated with himself.
With my new position and the prospect of more tips like today’s, there’s only one question: New clothes or a new flat? If the company is going to supply me with a new suit, maybe I can think about rooms in Dolch or even Geschoss. No coal in Geschoss.
It was a wonderful thought until reality hit him. A flat in Geschoss would cost easily more than double his current rent. And yet … it was sure to come with a private bath. That alone might be worth the expense. As much as his custard-colored flat amused Remy, rooms in Geschoss would really impress her. They would make him seem more serious and substantial, and less of a frazzled boy. And, just maybe, perhaps a new flat would be enough that she’d even consider moving in with him.
But that’s a long way off. One Valda and a couple of small princes aren’t going to get me far. I need to cut my expenses and save every penny. It’s only the essentials from now on.
Which made him think of morphia.
It had been hours since he’d fortified himself and he was beginning to feel the lack of the drug. He took the little bottle from his jacket and put two drops under his tongue. The effects were immediate and heavenly. He dropped to the rickety wooden desk chair and let his head fall back. When it came to cutting expenses, morphia wasn’t an option. It was the only thing that made the squalor of his rooms and the monotony of his job bearable. What else was there to cut down on, then? But his mind was already drifting, softened in morphia’s gentle warmth. He’d worry about expenses in the morning. Now there was nothing but bliss, and soon there would be Remy—another, even better kind of bliss.
On his way across town, the coal-powered streetlights of Little Shambles gave way to the plazma illumination of Kromium. Where Copper Weg crossed Bronzegasse, a Black Widow carried a load of machine parts to the armaments factory. With his general hostility toward Maras and his frustration at the confrontation with Andrzej, a delicious thought came to him.
Largo knew that interfering with the armament factory’s business was a jailing offense and could get you a sound beating by the bullocks. Still, after checking the street twice for police, Largo sped along in front of the Widow and, while passing a shuttered greengrocer, kicked a trash can into the street. Under its load, the burdened Mara was too slow to sidestep the obstruction. One of its front feet came down on top of the can and pierced its side such that the can became stuck on its leg. The Widow stumbled drunkenly this way and that, trying to kick the can off. Before he turned off Copper Weg, Largo looked back and saw that a crowd had gathered where the great black spider was still hopping in the street. They smiled and applauded the contraption’s improvised dance routine.
That’s one for our side, he thought. He was sure Parvulesco would have agreed.
The marquee for the theater—his destination—lay a long block ahead, but it was still bright enough to light the whole street. With the morphia in his system and the theater just ahead, whatever memories Largo had of his strange day faded away.
Of course, the Grand Dark wasn’t the theater’s real name, but it was the one everyone knew it by because its real name was a mouthful. Over the box office, the marquee proudly shouted its true name to the whole district.
THEATER OF THE GRAND DARKNESS
Dr. Krokodil
