Luca is a marvelous dancer. His feet seem to guide him more than his head, as if his body remembers a song his mind doesn’t. It’s the sort of skill that comes from teaching, and I wonder about his life before Gomorrah, his wealthy family who all passed away. Did one of them teach him to dance?
He grabs my hands and twirls me around quicker than Blister’s top, and I’m spinning too fast to remember to be sad. At one point, he dips me so low that my hair brushes the floor. He makes quite the show of waltzing me around the dance floor. I should’ve known he had a flair for the dramatic—he’s a performer, after all.
After several songs we stumble outside, dizzy with exhilaration. The night air feels like a sigh against my skin, though the atmosphere here isn’t peaceful. The Downhill paths are trafficked with wanderers, some drunk, some just looking for trouble.
We take a few steps behind the tent, halfway to Luca’s caravan. And I think about how close this tent is to where Luca sleeps, which I’m suddenly very aware of. Luca takes a deep breath of the night air and stretches. He laughs, a sound I realize I’ve rarely heard before. “You’re a terrible dancer,” he says.
“Am not.”
“Yes,” he says, grinning his dimpled smile, “you are.” He runs his fingers through his hair so it’s pushed out of his face. “That was fun.”
“More fun than spying and gossiping?” I say.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me what you were talking to that bartender about?”
“You’re awfully nosy,” he says. He steps closer and lowers his voice, so that no one around can hear us. I instinctively lean into him. “Why are you so curious?”
“Because I’m curious about what you do when you’re not with me. Because...because I’ve heard rumors about you, and I—”
“What rumors?” he asks sharply. He searches my face, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. His expression is always unreadable; he may as well also be wearing a mask. What does he think about my appearance? Does it bother him like it does everyone else?
“Nothing in particular,” I say.
He takes a step closer, so that we’re nearly chest to chest. There’s a rustle to our left from those passing us, but I’m too distracted to care.
“I know you’re one of those people who never talks about themselves,” I say. “I can tell. You don’t. But you can tell me. We’re friends, you know.”
“Friends?”
“Well, I’m not just your client. We’re clearly friends.” I’ve hoped this is true, but his tone is starting to make me wonder if he feels differently.
“Because we do friend things,clearly. Like interrogate people and...flee from tumultuous cities.”
I gesture between us. “But...I listen to you ramble. I tried your gin because you like it—even though it’s disgusting. I even had Nicoleta wash the white shirt you lent me. That’s something a friend would do. I say we’re friends. We’re...we’re at a party together.”
I don’t know whether it’s because I’m so far from my tent, from the depression that hangs over it, or if it’s because I’m feeling brave or desperate for human connection. But, for whatever reason, I press my lips against his. I didn’t dwell on this decision before I made it. I didn’t think at all.
His lips are soft and the skin around them is smooth from a recent shave. I inhale the scent of his sandalwood soap while pressing a hand against his vest. Maybe Kahina was wrong about romance in my fortune.
He stands absolutely still, tense. His eyes are closed, but he’s barely opened his mouth. Even though I’ve never kissed someone before, it doesn’t take an expert to realize when someone isn’t kissing you back. I pull away, mortified.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not sure what I was thinking.” Even though I know exactly what I was thinking. That maybe he saw past my deformity. That our relationship had extended beyond business.
He doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I have the urge to hide my face in my hands and run.
He studies the silver handle of his cane. “No. Don’t apologize. I’m not usually...put in thisposition. Can we talk about this tomorrow? I need to think.”
“You need tothink?”
“Yes. I need to think,” he says, suddenly flustered. I’ve never seen him so uncomfortable before. “Because I think about everything, over and over, and I think myself into things, and I think myself out of things. And I need to think. Are you...are you upset?”
“No.” I cross my arms, forcing my face into neutrality. “I’m fine. It’s fine. We’re fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He pauses once more to examine my face, his eyebrows knit together. Then he turns on his heels, straightens rigidly and disappears out of the green torchlight of the Downhill.
