drawn from Manhattan’s sunken wells. Having the Croton River piped in your home means your landlord paying up front for the service, which happens just as often as the Atlantic freezes so a man can walk to London. Better to live by a free public pump. Second, residing above a bakery meant cast-off day-old bread. A baker is a thousand times likelier to give neighbors the surplus rye loaf than a stranger. Third, bakeries stoke up their ovens twice a day, which come November meant a pallid fraction of most people’s heating costs, since the ovens would be baking caraway rolls while heating my floor.
Finally, Mrs. Boehm’s meant a widow. Women can’t start their own enterprises, but they manage to inherit them when very careful. And I could see where the sign’s paint was fresher on the “Mrs.” than on her surname. Making shortcut number four. If you’re short on rent and a widow needs a roof mended, you might not find yourself back on the streets.
I pushed open the door to the bakery.
Very small, but well loved and well cared for. A simple pine counter displayed stacked rye and plain brown farm loaves, the smaller treats arranged on a wide flower-patterned serving dish. I could see sultanas poking out of a thousand-year cake, and its smell of candied orange peel livened my senses.
“You would like some bread, sir?”
My eyes swept from the baked goods to the woman who’d made them, approaching me as she rubbed her hands against her apron. Mrs. Boehm looked around my age, closer to thirty than twenty. Her jaw was firm and her faded blue eyes alert and inquisitive—which,combined with the newness of the “Mrs.” above her door, led me to believe her husband hadn’t long been absent. She’d hair the color of the seeds dotting her sunflower rolls, a dull shineless blonde that looked nearly grey, and her brow was too wide and too flat. But her mouth was wide too, a generous sweep that oddly reversed how thin she was. When just her lips were considered, I could picture Mrs. Boehm scraping ample butter over a thick slice of her fresh farmer’s loaves. I liked that at once, felt strangely grateful for it. She didn’t seem
mean
.
“What’s your best seller?” I was pleasant but not smiling. Smiling sent a burn like a brand through my skull. But it doesn’t take much effort for a barman to sound friendly.
“Dreifkornbrot.”
She nodded at it. Her voice was low, pleasantly rough and Bohemian. “Three seeds. A half hour ago I baked it. One loaf?”
“Please. I’ll be having it for dinner.”
“Anything more?”
“I’ll be needing a place to eat dinner.” I paused. “My name is Timothy Wilde, and I’m pleased to meet you. Has the upstairs room been let yet? I’m in terrible need of lodgings, and this seems the perfect fit.”
That afternoon, I bought a fresh and nicely stuffed straw tick mattress with Val’s money and hauled it back to Elizabeth Street over my shoulder, ribs protesting with every step. My new home had two rooms: the main chamber measured twelve feet by twelve with a pair of stunted windows overlooking the chickens in the dull brown yard below. For the moment, I ignored the windowless sleeping closet in favor of bedding down in the living area.
Laying the rustling tick before my open windows, I stretched out just after the sun vanished in a lingering smear of red. At least in the main chamber I could get a breath of cool starlight. Which was much to the good, for I felt like the only silent point in a geographyof alien noise. A dogfight howled somewhere in the distance, wild and exultant. German men hunched around tankards of beer in the crowded house adjacent sent a low thrumming through the thoroughfare. I missed my books, and my armchair, and the particular blue of my lampshade, and my life.
I’d live here, I thought, and I’d do police work though nobody knew how, least of all me. And it would get better in slivers. It had to. I’d been knocked considerably sideways, so
Finally, Mrs. Boehm’s meant a widow. Women can’t start their own enterprises, but they manage to inherit them when very careful. And I could see where the sign’s paint was fresher on the “Mrs.” than on her surname. Making shortcut number four. If you’re short on rent and a widow needs a roof mended, you might not find yourself back on the streets.
I pushed open the door to the bakery.
Very small, but well loved and well cared for. A simple pine counter displayed stacked rye and plain brown farm loaves, the smaller treats arranged on a wide flower-patterned serving dish. I could see sultanas poking out of a thousand-year cake, and its smell of candied orange peel livened my senses.
“You would like some bread, sir?”
My eyes swept from the baked goods to the woman who’d made them, approaching me as she rubbed her hands against her apron. Mrs. Boehm looked around my age, closer to thirty than twenty. Her jaw was firm and her faded blue eyes alert and inquisitive—which,combined with the newness of the “Mrs.” above her door, led me to believe her husband hadn’t long been absent. She’d hair the color of the seeds dotting her sunflower rolls, a dull shineless blonde that looked nearly grey, and her brow was too wide and too flat. But her mouth was wide too, a generous sweep that oddly reversed how thin she was. When just her lips were considered, I could picture Mrs. Boehm scraping ample butter over a thick slice of her fresh farmer’s loaves. I liked that at once, felt strangely grateful for it. She didn’t seem
mean
.
“What’s your best seller?” I was pleasant but not smiling. Smiling sent a burn like a brand through my skull. But it doesn’t take much effort for a barman to sound friendly.
“Dreifkornbrot.”
She nodded at it. Her voice was low, pleasantly rough and Bohemian. “Three seeds. A half hour ago I baked it. One loaf?”
“Please. I’ll be having it for dinner.”
“Anything more?”
“I’ll be needing a place to eat dinner.” I paused. “My name is Timothy Wilde, and I’m pleased to meet you. Has the upstairs room been let yet? I’m in terrible need of lodgings, and this seems the perfect fit.”
That afternoon, I bought a fresh and nicely stuffed straw tick mattress with Val’s money and hauled it back to Elizabeth Street over my shoulder, ribs protesting with every step. My new home had two rooms: the main chamber measured twelve feet by twelve with a pair of stunted windows overlooking the chickens in the dull brown yard below. For the moment, I ignored the windowless sleeping closet in favor of bedding down in the living area.
Laying the rustling tick before my open windows, I stretched out just after the sun vanished in a lingering smear of red. At least in the main chamber I could get a breath of cool starlight. Which was much to the good, for I felt like the only silent point in a geographyof alien noise. A dogfight howled somewhere in the distance, wild and exultant. German men hunched around tankards of beer in the crowded house adjacent sent a low thrumming through the thoroughfare. I missed my books, and my armchair, and the particular blue of my lampshade, and my life.
I’d live here, I thought, and I’d do police work though nobody knew how, least of all me. And it would get better in slivers. It had to. I’d been knocked considerably sideways, so
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