me as an amulet, a tiny shield to ward off despair.
Then my luck changed. It must have been a month or two after I began working as an object hunter, although that is just a guess. I was walking along the outskirts of the fifth census zone one day, near the spot where Filament Square had once been, when I saw a tall, middle-aged woman pushing a shopping cart over the stones, bumping along slowly and awkwardly, her thoughts obviously not on what she was doing. The sun was bright that day, the kind of sun that dazzles you and makes things invisible, and the air was hot, I remember that, very hot, almost to the point of dizziness. Just as the woman managed to get the cart into the middle of the street, a band of Runners came charging around the corner. There were twelve or fifteen of them, and they were running at full tilt, closely packed together, screaming that ecstatic death-drone of theirs. I saw the woman look up at them, as if suddenly shaken from her reverie, but instead of scrambling out of the way, she froze to her spot, standing like a bewildered deer trapped in the headlights of a car. For some reason, and even now I don’t know why I did it, I unhooked the umbilical cord from my waist, ran from where I was,grabbed hold of the woman with my two arms, and dragged her out of the way a second or two before the Runners passed. It was that close. If I hadn’t done it, she probably would have been trampled to death.
That was how I met Isabel. For better or worse, my true life in the city began at that moment. Everything else is prologue, a swarm of tottering steps, of days and nights, of thought I do not remember. If not for that one irrational moment in the street, the story I am telling you would not be this one. Given the shape I was in at the time, I doubt there would have been any story at all.
We lay there panting in the gutter, still hanging on to each other. As the last of the Runners disappeared around the corner, Isabel gradually seemed to understand what had happened to her. She sat up, looked around her, looked at me, and then, very slowly, began to cry. It was a moment of horrible recognition for her. Not because she had come so close to being killed, but because she had not known where she was. I felt sorry for her, and also a little afraid. Who was this thin, trembling woman with the long face and hollow eyes—and what was I doing sprawled out next to her in the street? She seemed half out of her mind, and once I had my breath back, my first impulse was to get away.
“Oh, my dear child,” she said, reaching tentatively for my face. “Oh, my dear, sweet, little child, you’ve cut yourself. You jump out to help an old woman, and you’re the one who gets hurt. Do you know why that is? It’s because I’m bad luck. Everyone knows it, but they don’t have the heart to tell me. But I know. I know everything, even if no one tells me.”
I had scratched myself on one of the stones as we fell,and blood was trickling from my left temple. But it was nothing serious, no cause for panic. I was about to say good-bye and walk off, when I felt a little pang about leaving her. Perhaps I should take her home, I thought, to make sure that nothing else happens to her. I helped her to her feet and retrieved the shopping cart from across the square.
“Ferdinand will be furious with me,” she said. “This is the third day in a row I’ve come up empty-handed. A few more days like this, and we’ll be finished.”
“I think you should go home anyway,” I said, “At least for a while. You’re in no condition to be pushing around this cart now.”
“But Ferdinand. He’ll go crazy when he sees I don’t have anything.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll explain what happened.”
I had no idea what I was talking about, of course, but something had taken hold of me, and I couldn’t control it: some sudden rush of pity, some stupid need to take care of this woman. Perhaps the old stories about saving
Then my luck changed. It must have been a month or two after I began working as an object hunter, although that is just a guess. I was walking along the outskirts of the fifth census zone one day, near the spot where Filament Square had once been, when I saw a tall, middle-aged woman pushing a shopping cart over the stones, bumping along slowly and awkwardly, her thoughts obviously not on what she was doing. The sun was bright that day, the kind of sun that dazzles you and makes things invisible, and the air was hot, I remember that, very hot, almost to the point of dizziness. Just as the woman managed to get the cart into the middle of the street, a band of Runners came charging around the corner. There were twelve or fifteen of them, and they were running at full tilt, closely packed together, screaming that ecstatic death-drone of theirs. I saw the woman look up at them, as if suddenly shaken from her reverie, but instead of scrambling out of the way, she froze to her spot, standing like a bewildered deer trapped in the headlights of a car. For some reason, and even now I don’t know why I did it, I unhooked the umbilical cord from my waist, ran from where I was,grabbed hold of the woman with my two arms, and dragged her out of the way a second or two before the Runners passed. It was that close. If I hadn’t done it, she probably would have been trampled to death.
That was how I met Isabel. For better or worse, my true life in the city began at that moment. Everything else is prologue, a swarm of tottering steps, of days and nights, of thought I do not remember. If not for that one irrational moment in the street, the story I am telling you would not be this one. Given the shape I was in at the time, I doubt there would have been any story at all.
We lay there panting in the gutter, still hanging on to each other. As the last of the Runners disappeared around the corner, Isabel gradually seemed to understand what had happened to her. She sat up, looked around her, looked at me, and then, very slowly, began to cry. It was a moment of horrible recognition for her. Not because she had come so close to being killed, but because she had not known where she was. I felt sorry for her, and also a little afraid. Who was this thin, trembling woman with the long face and hollow eyes—and what was I doing sprawled out next to her in the street? She seemed half out of her mind, and once I had my breath back, my first impulse was to get away.
“Oh, my dear child,” she said, reaching tentatively for my face. “Oh, my dear, sweet, little child, you’ve cut yourself. You jump out to help an old woman, and you’re the one who gets hurt. Do you know why that is? It’s because I’m bad luck. Everyone knows it, but they don’t have the heart to tell me. But I know. I know everything, even if no one tells me.”
I had scratched myself on one of the stones as we fell,and blood was trickling from my left temple. But it was nothing serious, no cause for panic. I was about to say good-bye and walk off, when I felt a little pang about leaving her. Perhaps I should take her home, I thought, to make sure that nothing else happens to her. I helped her to her feet and retrieved the shopping cart from across the square.
“Ferdinand will be furious with me,” she said. “This is the third day in a row I’ve come up empty-handed. A few more days like this, and we’ll be finished.”
“I think you should go home anyway,” I said, “At least for a while. You’re in no condition to be pushing around this cart now.”
“But Ferdinand. He’ll go crazy when he sees I don’t have anything.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll explain what happened.”
I had no idea what I was talking about, of course, but something had taken hold of me, and I couldn’t control it: some sudden rush of pity, some stupid need to take care of this woman. Perhaps the old stories about saving
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