The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [40]
"Spices! Spices from Zanzibar!"
"Hot curry powder!"
"Cannabis! Home-grown cannabis!"
"Puppy dogs!"
"Bananas! Bananas fresh off the ship!"
"Ladders! Sturdy ladders!"
"Marjoram and sage!"
"Do you want any matches?"
He passed a solitary woman standing on the corner of Haymarket who was singing in a high, clear, beautiful voice. It was a wordless song, a melody that, for a moment, reminded him of the songs of the whales, and he stopped on a whim and put a coin into the box that lay beside her on the pavement.
She did not stop her singing but she looked at him, and inched her head slightly in acknowledgment, and he was moved by the beauty of her face, and by the unexpected sadness that he found there, reflecting his own. He hurried away then, suddenly uncomfortable. He kept glancing at women in the crowd only to think he had discovered Lucy, but as he looked the women always turned out to be someone else, without the remotest resemblance to his love. Would she appear to him again? he wondered. Was she even now seeking him out, lost in undeath, a prisoner of the Bookman?
But she did not reappear.
"Hot spiced gingerbread, smoking hot!"
"Turnips and carrots!"
"New love songs, very cheap!"
"Primroses!"
"Jam! Blackberry jam!"
"Onions! Buy a rope of onions!"
"Music boxes for sale!"
"Edison records! Get the latest sounds for a peaceful sleep! The call of African birds and the sleep-song of the Nile!"
And here and there as he walked past the Circus the songs of merchants, as old as the city itself, rose to greet him as he passed, a hundred salutations assailing his ears.
Young gentlemen attend my cry,
And bring forth all your knives;
The barbers razors too I grind;
Bring out your scissors, wives.
And:
With mutton we nice turnips eat;
Beef and carrots never cloy;
Cabbage comes up with Summer meat,
With winter nice Savoy.
He was nearly there. The street was clogged with horsedrawn carriages and, in between them, though much aloof, were the curious steam-powered baruch-landaus that carried inside their shining metal bodies those rich enough to afford them. They were shaped a little like a conventional carriage, but with a large, round, black pipe sitting on their heads like a top hat, and they belched constant steam. The wheels were large and wide. In the back of the machine an enclosed black box contained the engine, and a stoker could be seen crouching in his own small space (similar to a theatre's whisper-box, Orphan thought) like a semi-naked demon caught in an eternal inferno. Past the engine was the passenger box, windows darkened to prevent the rabble from looking in on the distinguished riders, while in the front the driver sat in full majestic uniform and controlled the vehicle by means of a large metal stick.
The baruch-landau drivers had at their disposal an array of loud noises (to clear traffic) and flashing lights (for purpose of the same) and as they passed through Piccadilly they were cursed at by the common drivers of the public carriages, to which they replied with cool indifference and the application of louder and even less wholesome noise.
"Sand! Buy my nice white sand!"
"Young radishes!"
"Read the Tempest! Read the publication they don't want you to read! Find out the truth about–"
This one cut short as two uniformed bobbies came past (walking slowly) and the caller hastily disappeared up Glasshouse Street. It was Jack's publication; and Orphan shrugged and walked on. He was not interested in conspiracies.
"Door mats!"
"Quick periwinkles!"
"Song sheets! Get the latest Gilbert and Sullivan for half the price of the theatre!"
"Southernwood that's very good!"
"New Yorkshire muffins!"
And from a seller of brooms and combs came:
All cleanly folk must like my ware, For wood is sweet and clean;
Time was when platters served Lord Mayor And, as I've heard, a Queen.
And from a stall nearby:
Let fame puff her trumpet, for muffin and crumpet, They cannot compare with my dainty hot rolls; When mornings