The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(31)

“You got rich off my match last night at Commissioner’s.”

“Oh, was that you? I didn’t recognize you without blood all over your face.”

The man ran his tongue over his split lip. “That was me,” he said, speaking with the deliberate precision of a drunkard. “You bet against me. I threw the match.” The sailor leaned heavily on the table with his fists; his knuckles were raw. “I get a cut, that’s the deal.”

“We never made a deal.”

“Just give him the money, Kash.”

“Your mulatto’s talking sense.” He was nose to nose with Kashmir, and his breath was brandy fumes.

“It’s not his, amira.”

“It’s not worth a broken jaw,” I said through my teeth.

“No, but it was worth the dresses I spent it on this morning.” Kash placed his hands primly on the edge of the table. “Look, sir, I’m sure we can settle this like gentlemen—” Without changing his expression, Kashmir lifted our side of the table. The sailor went down, smacking his forehead against the wooden tabletop. He collapsed in a heap, covered in beer, and we leaped over him; Kash didn’t tell me not to run this time.

We had half a minute’s lead before the sailor stumbled out of the bar and into the muddy street, screaming obscenities, blood pouring from his nose. Kashmir looked back over his shoulder and laughed. “Now I recognize you!”

Another thirty seconds, and patrons came tearing out after the sailor, including two members of the Honolulu police force, hastily shoving their red caps onto their heads. Kashmir and I splashed down a crooked alley, cut through the yard behind a laundry, and finally hid down a basement stairwell across from the Royal Hawaiian Opera House. We pressed into the shadows against a thick wooden door, trying to hear footsteps over the sound of our pounding hearts. Something wet started wicking up my skirt, and I hoped it was only water.

It had been quiet for a good five minutes before my shoulders started shaking.

“Amira . . . are you laughing or crying?”

“Both?”

He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close, my back against his chest. “Shh, shh, shh. Negaran nabash, cher. Negaran nabash. Shh.”

Whatever he said, I knew what he meant, and his tone was soothing. I took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped my nose on my sleeve. “I don’t know how you stay so calm.”

“I did warn you, amira,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. “But I’ve seen much worse.”

I dabbed my eyes with the square of silk and tried to steady my voice. “I didn’t realize how seriously you took your shore leave.”

“This was years ago. Before I came to the ship. Our friend back there wasn’t half as menacing as the Sofoor. The Street Cleaners.”

“Street Cleaners?” I refolded the handkerchief; it was monogrammed B. L. I traced the initials and wondered whose they were. “Not the type with brooms, then?”

“They swept you up like trash. If they caught you sleeping, you’d wake up in the refuse pits outside the city, with the dead dogs and the dung and all the other waste.” His chest rose and fell against my back. “We used to argue about it—what we would do if it happened to us. You could live a very long time down there. There was plenty to eat.”

For a while I had no words. In the silence, the incongruous sound of laughter floated from a nearby bar. “That’s . . . horrifying.”

“There were many who praised the shah,” he said softly. “Indeed, the city had never been cleaner.” He shrugged. “See? It could always be worse. For example, we could have been facing the winner of the fight.”

The mirth stole back into his voice, but I couldn’t let go of the images of the pits, the waste of it all. I shuddered. “I’m glad you’re with us now.”

He laughed a little, then rested his chin on my shoulder. “Me too, amira. For many reasons.” His breath was warm on my neck, and I shivered again, but not from fear. For a moment, all I wanted in the world was to turn around, like Lot’s wife, like Eurydice, to see what was in his eyes, but before I could gather the courage, he gave me another squeeze and dropped his arms. I sighed with regret, and with relief. “Let me take a look. Count to sixty. If I don’t swear and start running, you can come out.”

“And if you do swear and start running?”

He flashed me his teeth. “Then wait ten seconds and start running in the opposite direction.”

He didn’t swear, and neither of us ran. We returned to the ship as dawn was breaking, and as we passed under a thick banyan tree, I learned that on land, the first sign of a new day is not sunlight but birdsong.

I climbed the gangplank with my eyes half closed, but I stopped dead at the top. The captain was sitting stooped on my hammock. Suddenly I was wide awake.

His hands were wrapped around a mug of his vile instant brew, and his eyes were so hollow as to seem blackened. They cut from me, to Kashmir, then back, taking in my flushed face and my dirty dress. “You smell like beer.”

“And you look like hell.”

Something—a shrug or a laugh, I couldn’t tell which—made the hammock swing. “Where have you been?”

“Exploring paradise.”

Slate raised an eyebrow, and Kashmir drew himself up. “We went to a pub for dinner, captain.”