Free The Season of the Stranger by Stephen Becker

were on the stairs when he shouted the totals; the answering chorus came from the curtained doorways above them and the men lounging and smoking in the foyer below them. When they reached the bottom of the staircase three of the men came forward and bowed and hoped that the gentleman and lady had enjoyed everything. Girard bowed in return and told them that everything had been perfect and that this was a superior establishment. The fat one assured them that all Mohammedan places were superior establishments. He put his hands together and bowed deeply, and as he brought his head up the door opened and another head looked in and said very loudly: “The fighting is at a distance of four hundred fifty li.”
    The men stopped talking and one of them moved to the stairway and shouted the news to the second floor. There was silence immediately. Girard thought I wonder when the generals upstairs will have another banquet . The talk began again slowly and the fat man turned to them and started the farewells again. When they were through bowing they walked to the door. As Girard reached for the handle the door moved and he stepped back and held it open. A man and a woman came in and started toward the stairs. Girard looked at the lantern outside and then back at Li-ling. She had her hands in the sleeves of her gown and she was not looking at him. The man who had just come in was tipping his felt hat and the woman with him was nodding. Li-ling stood with her feet together and bobbed her head at them. All three turned to Girard at the same time. He bowed and started toward Li-ling for the introductions. The man looked at him and took the woman’s arm and they went up the stairs behind the short fat receptionist.
    Li-ling was outside under the lantern. He followed her and swung the door closed and stood feeling foolish and looking at the back of her head. “Who are they?” he asked.
    â€œThey are good friends of my father.”
    He adjusted his fur hat. “I am sorry that you have never let me meet your father,” he said. When nothing happened he said, “Is this a thing of trouble?”
    She shook her head. “No,” she said, “there is no trouble. But now that I have been seen in the City I think you should let me go home quickly.”
    â€œIt is early,” he said. “Not later than nine-thirty.”
    â€œNevertheless,” she said.
    â€œAll right. There is tomorrow. But I may not take you home?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI do not even know where you live.”
    â€œThere is no need to.”
    â€œAnd you will not tell me why?”
    â€œNo.” He knew why. Someday they would talk about it. Now he took her arm and they walked away from the lantern. When they reached the place of his fall he dropped her arm and crossed the alley. “Come here,” he said.
    The old man was there. Girard touched him. There was no movement. Girard felt his neck again. “His body is cold,” he said. “He must be dead.” A breeze limped through the alley, drying Girard’s lips. Squatting with his hand on the neck he could feel the warm full bulge of his own stomach and taste again the sweet grease of the meal. A muscle in his abdomen quivered once sharply and the memory of the hot grease receded as nausea came. He closed his mouth and swallowed, forcing his larynx to move and looking at the bald head, following the fold of the body to the feet, seeing in the lanternlight the ragged cloth hanging from the ankles and toes, the naked bonethin calf, the worn unpadded trousers frayed almost to the knee. The horsejacket too was torn (and lying on his side he was supported by the empty round belly pushing against the horsejacket, small and hard with the roundness of a tumor and not the swell of a pregnant woman or the layers of loose flesh of the old princes) and dirty, stained and smelling of the street and of the horses mules pigs chickens dogs and people who still