Never again.
Never.
Again.
Remy’s beautiful face swam into his head and he couldn’t help but close his eyes. Just for a second.
And drifted back to earlier that morning.
Remy was in bed, wrapped in a sheet. She turned the pages of a script with one hand and smoked a cigarette with the other. Largo was in the little kitchen of her flat making tea for them both. It was still dark outside. They hadn’t slept much the previous night.
While he waited for the water to boil, Largo took a step out of the kitchen and called to her. “Is there any cocaine left? I could use a bit to help me wake up.”
Remy glanced at the bedside table. “Not a speck.”
“Damn.” He leaned back against the wall. “It’s your fault for keeping me up so late.”
She didn’t look up from her script. “Yes, dear. I distinctly remember you saying how much you wanted to sleep as you took my clothes off.”
The teakettle whistled and Largo turned off the burner. “If only I could have found your pajamas, none of this would have happened.”
“Hush,” Remy called. “I need to learn this script.”
As the tea steeped, Largo went back into the bedroom and lay down next to her. “Please. You don’t need any time. You memorize those things in a flash.”
She stubbed out her cigarette. “You think so?”
He laid his head sleepily against her shoulder. “No question. It used to take you days. Now it seems like you have a new script in your head by the time you finish reading it.”
“I hadn’t really noticed.”
Largo yawned. “You learn the words and blocking faster and better than ever. Are you doing something different?”
Remy shook her head. “Nothing. But I’ve felt better since the doctor gave me a shot. Sharper. More clear-headed.”
“What kind of a shot was it? I could use one.”
“Vitamins, I think.”
As he went to check on the tea, Largo said, “You haven’t had one of your attacks in a while.”
“That’s a relief. Now leave me alone. I have to work.”
He poked his head out from the kitchen. “You’re quite sure there’s no more cocaine?”
Remy playfully tossed a pillow at him. “Finish making the tea and be happy I don’t push you out the window for interrupting my work.”
Largo froze in the doorway. “Work …”
He lurched to his feet in the bathroom stall, realizing he’d nodded off. He checked the address on the package one more time and left the building through the loading dock so that he didn’t have to pass Herr Branca’s office again. Promotion or not, he’d had enough of the old man’s scrutiny for one day.
Outside, the fog had begun to lift somewhat, but the sky was still gray under the smokestacks of the armaments factory. A light mist fell as Largo pedaled along Tombstrasse, making the air smell fresh and clean. With the welcome promotion, good air in his lungs, and morphia in his blood, Largo felt better than he had in days.
From Noble Aspirations and Hard Realities: Life in Lower Proszawa by Ralf Moessinger, author of High Proszawa: A Dream in Stone
A haze, perpetual and gray, hangs over much of Lower Proszawa, like a murder of crows frozen in flight. Below, the coal plants that dot the city smolder and roar, roiling black ribbons of soot into the atmosphere. There, they’re caught by the wind and distributed throughout the city. The dust settles everywhere, on the rich and poor alike. Of course, the wealthy have the means to sweep their streets clean, as if soot wouldn’t dare venture into their districts, griming the windows and tower rooms that overlook the roofs of the less fortunate.
But even the rich can’t entirely keep ahead of it. The dust invades homes, offices, and churches, drifting down chimneys, snaking through cracks in window frames and under doors. The outdoor cafés and markets that display fruits and bread in the open air employ troops of ragged children armed with horsehair brushes and dustpans to wipe every surface clean. They throw the soot into the sewers, where it mixes with the city’s waste and drifts out to sea in a black tide that stains the hulls of fishing boats and smuggler ships alike a uniform gray. People call the color “city silver” and laugh it off because what else is there to do?
Thus, the citizens of Lower Proszawa have learned to live with the dust, even be amused by it. Of course, in the postwar elation that’s gripped much of the city, almost everything is amusing. Besides, it rains frequently and when the clouds part, the streets are washed clean, if just for a day or two.
Rain or shine, however, the power plants are nothing compared to what truly fills the skyline. Dominating much of the city are the cluster of immense foundries and assembly lines that make up the armaments factory. Unlike the streets, it is never completely clean. The coal dust clings to its sides and roofs. When the rains fall, they leave strangely beautiful ebony streaks and rivulets down the exteriors of the buildings, making the factory look ancient—like a mountain range that has been rooted to the spot forever.
Districts such as Kromium and Empyrean are kept pristine by cleaners who work in clouds of filth. Ironically, in some ways these workers are the lucky ones. While they go about their jobs, the crews wear surplus gas masks left over from the war. That means that for a few hours every day, they breathe air cleaner and sweeter than that of even the wealthiest industrialist or banker. Still, not everybody has the means to cope with the gray air so easily. It is a particular problem in the Rauschgift district.
Among the people I interviewed for this piece, Frau Mila Weill’s story is typical of the area. She lives in a cramped apartment with her children and grandmother. Herr Weill died suddenly from the Drops a few months earlier, leaving Frau Weill as the sole breadwinner. There are many explanations for the Drops among the ignorant class in these poorer districts: that foreigners from the southern colonies put it in the food shipped north or that chimeras that gobble trash in the gutters spread it with a bite. Frau Weill saw her husband die in agonizing convulsions and wonders if that is her fate too. She has a chronic cough, which is typical in the area, and it has advanced to the point where there is often blood in the sputum. Unable or, perhaps, afraid to go to one of the city’s hospitals for the indigent, she relies on the advice of her grandmother. The old woman tries to comfort Frau Weill using the only tools she has: folk remedies from the ancient past. She assures Frau Weill that she merely has a “touch of Rote Lungen,” and that “thistle-root tea will clear that right up.”
Frau Weill wants to believe her grandmother, but no amount of tea helps her condition. Each day, the red marks on her handkerchief grow. During one of our interviews she confessed that she had thought about finding someone—anyone—to marry so that he would be obliged to care for her family after she was gone. (There was an awkward moment in that day’s discussion when I suspect she considered
