is wait. You don’t know what to do, do you? You poor little mixed-up bitch …”
The voice went on again, losing none of its gentle calm. “Now I’m gonna tell you about yourself,” it said. “You know what you look like? You’re a mess, honey. You are the biggest Goddam mess I ever saw. And take it from me, I’ve seen a few. If you ain’t crawling, I’m goin’ to be vastly surprised. Come to that, if I ain’t crawling as well before too very long I’m goin’ to be equally taken aback. Jeeze, this place stinks …” She lit another cigarette, very slowly and deliberately. “If you was to look in a mirror,” she said, “you would scare your little self one-half to death. Only maybe you ain’t ever seen a mirror. Maybe you don’t know what that is either.”
She added the match to the small pile by her feet. The eyes of the Rural followed the movement of her hand, returned to her face. “No mirrors,” she said. “And no America. How the other half does truly live … I bet you never smoked a cigarette either. I bet you don’t even know what they are.” She took the pack from the pocket of her jacket, held it out. The other’s expression didn’t change. The American girl shrugged and put the packet away again. She said, “Maybe you’re the smart one …” She blew smoke. “Well,” she said, “the day’s wastin’. And we ain’t no farther forward. On the other hand, we ain’t slipped back none …”
The notions of ‘morning’ and ‘afternoon’ were alike to the Rural; but she was acutely sensitive to sun angle. She snatched a hasty glance at the window, turned quickly to stare up at the back wall of the shack. The American girl brushed back a straying wisp of hair. “What’s the matter?” she said softly. “You expectin’ visitors? Or is it food parcel time again?”
No answer; and she shook her head. “Maybe you’re gettin’ hungry,” she said. “Or do you want a drink? What do you drink, anyway? Not that filth outa the canal, for Chrissake … Where’s your water?”
Something connected, in the Rural’s brain. Not words, but the shape the words made. A little husky soundescaped from her; and the American followed the quick turn of her head. She saw, for the first time, the lagged standpipe that protruded from a clutter of rubbish in the corner of the shack; the old brass tap, the pans and rusty kettle that stood nearby. She smiled, broadly. “Honey,” she said, “you know what we just done? We communicated. Now I call that real progress …” She repeated the word, quietly and deliberately; again, the Rural’s eyes moved to the tap.
“I got you wrong,” said the American. “You ain’t dumb at all. You’re real smart. Now, what you going to do? You want a drink, you just go right ahead. Go on, don’t mind me. Get yourself a drink.”
The Rural did not move.
“Then,” said the American, “I guess this is where we try something different. Take the process a stage farther on.” She stubbed the cigarette she had been smoking, and uncrossed her legs. Instantly, the Rural tensed. “Now don’t you go fussin’ none,” she said. “I’m goin’ to get a drink for you, is all. Nice and easy, nice and slow. Don’t you go panicking now. You just watch …”
She stood up, by degrees, moved slowly across the shack. “You got three choices,” she said. “You can stay right there, which I hope you’ll do; you can make a break for it; or you can come for me with that pigsticker of yours, which I profoundly do not wish …” She filled a saucepan from the tap, back half-turned but watching from the tail of her eye. The Rural didn’t move.
“Attagirl,” said the American. “That’s the way now. Nice and easy. Ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt you. Not for a little water … Now, I’m comin’ back. I’m goin’ to sit me down, just like before. See? You ain’t scared of me now, are you? Not any more …”
She rested against the doorframe, and
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