Monday, August 8, 2011

Gandor Chapter 2

She lay there, on her thin cot, covered by thinner blankets. She could see through the dirty window-pane that it must be a bright grey day outside. The kind of day when fish-mongers and chestnut peddlers would be out on the street hawking their wares. It was the kind of day that was a time for work and not play, when families in this lower district huddled together at night to keep warm. But for Adela, there was no family, and she reasoned, soon there would be no need for one. She could feel the fever eating away at her from the inside. It was unlikely that she would survive the night much less another day.
She writhed on the cot. She had been lying there for who knew how long. She wanted desperately to get up. Well why not? A little voice whispered from the back of her mind, It’s not like you have anything to loose, I doubt you’ll even live long enough to regret it.
“Your right.” Adela whispered to herself, “I should get up and go out, for one last time.” Getting up was easier said than done, but after much effort Adela was able to get herself up and to the door. She held one of her thin blankets around her shoulders over the calf-length grey dress she wore. She leaned momentarily on the door-handle and took several deep breaths before turning the knob and stumbling outside. The light was much brighter than it had appeared through the grimy window and Adela had to blink several times before her eyes, used to the dim light of the apartment, could adjust. She drew shallow ragged breaths and leaned against the wood-slatted wall of the building for support as she walked. There wasn’t much to see, just the alleyways and back streets of the poor section of town where Adela lived. But coming out wasn’t really about the scenery, it was about that one last act of defiance against the disease that was killing her. Her last rebellion against death.
Adela trudged along without a plan for stopping, she rounded corners, and staggered down alleyways where there didn’t seem to be people. She didn’t want to be stopped by anyone, concerned or otherwise. Also, there was no sadistic wish inside her to infect other people, to pass on the curse that she carried; she simply wanted to walk, alone, until death came to get her.
Finally she reached the breaking point, where she could not walk any further, and so she sank to the alley floor and leaned against the brick wall. The sky was just beginning to darken and the building cast the alleyway in shadow. Adela closed her eyes and waited. But fate, or death, did not smile on her. For a few moments after she sat down, a group of people, all young men, entered the alleyway. They were obviously drunk, even in this time of prohibition, and they talked in boisterous rowdy voices, using crude, slurred language. Adela’s face contorted in distaste, and she hung her head in an attempt to go unnoticed by this group.
“Heeeey there!” the voice came.
Oh no. Adela thought.
“Weeeell, what’s thiiish?” the sloppy words were closer and jeers and cat calls from the others began.
Hasn’t fate dealt me a cruel enough hand? Why this? Why now? A sticky set of fingers grabbed her by the arm and lifted her up. Adela opened her eyes to see an unshaven, leering face with heavy eyebrows and bloodshot eyes. His breath reeked of booze and smoke, his teeth were yellowing. He pulled her face close to his own. One last shot of survival adrenaline coursed through her veins and she tried to pull away from her assailant. But her body was just too weak, and he merely jerked her roughly back, slamming her into the wall. The blanket fell softly from around her shoulders. The other men in the group were obviously hoping to get in on whatever was about to happen, and they pushed closer. The thug holding on to Adela laughed manically and grabbed at the front of Adela’s dress, ripping the buttons open, and exposing her brazier. He was just shoving his hand down onto her breasts and thighs when a shout came from the other end of the alley.
“Hey you! Bozo, get your hands off the lady.” The voice was that of a young man with a strong New York accent. The man and his friends were momentarily stunned by the appearance of a rival, and Adela struggled in the drunkard’s grasp to try and see who was talking. He was dressed in a simple grey-green suit with a beige fedora. His hands were in his pockets, and he appeared unarmed. He was medium build, small but strong looking. His face was young and mischievous at first glance, but there was a hard gleam in his eye, and the sober set of his mouth told the gang that he was completely serious. Adela wanted to tell him to forget it, she was done-for anyway, and that she wasn’t worth five to one odds. But she didn’t. And he took a few steps forward.
“I said, Get. Your. Hands. Off. The lady. Or didn’t you hear me? Last chance.”
“Who in Hell are you?” The drunken guy holding on to Adela demanded, suddenly a tad more articulate. He took his groping hand off her body, but grabbed her by the upper arm and jerked her along with him as he turned to face the young man. Adela fell on her knees beside him.
“I’m Firo Prochainezo of the Martillo family, not that you need to know. All you need to know is that I’m the guy telling you to leave the lady alone, or regret it.” He spoke with a twang that almost sounded like he was teasing them, but that, like his mischievous looks, was underscored by a real threat. The thugs laughed.
“Like you’re gonna do anything to us, kid. Get lost, mind your own business.” The assailant answered him.
The man sighed, “Well, I tried to warn ‘em.” He said to himself, “But … then again. I’m not sure that they even deserved that chance.” And he walked forward a few more steps. The thug yanked Adela upward and at that moment the young man’s fist collided with drunkard’s face. From that point he didn’t throw a single punch, he just seemed to play with them, rather like a cat plays with a mouse before eating it. They all came at him with everything they had in their inebriated states, but it didn’t do them any good. He threw them, dodged them, and used them against each other. He even threw in a few hat tricks. None of them stood a chance.
The fight ended with him sending the leader packing with a sound kick in the back. Adela half sat half lay on the ground, looking at the man who had saved her, and the unconscious bodies of two of the thugs who hadn’t managed to run away. He turned around and crouched down beside her.
“Sorry that took so long.” He apologized with that same hint of cheer; perhaps he was unable to banish it from his tone, “You alright? My name is Firo Prochainezo, Miss…?”
“Aeda...,” she was suddenly overcome by a fit of coughing and faintness. Was this death coming in full force of irony? She fell to her elbow, trying to face away from him; it wouldn’t do to get the man, who had just saved her, sick. “Please, don’t come near. I have a fever. I’m going to die anyway.” She looked up at Firo Prochainezo to make sure that he understood. But instead of fear, or revulsion in his face, all she saw was shock and an incredible amount of sympathy.
“Now, don’t talk like that!” Firo protested. He kneeled and lifted her up in his arms. “I’m not about to let ya’ die on me, just now that I’ve saved you.” He smiled and began walking.
“You shouldn’t.” was all Adela could get out as a protest.
“Yeah I should, and don’t worry about me. I don’t get sick.” Firo answered. Adela could no longer argue for just then she blacked out.

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