A block or so down the road there was a bench, and when I reached it I sat down. I threw the stub of the cigarette onto the pavement, hard, and watched it shower orange sparks.
Someone said, “I’ll buy a cigarette off you, pal. Here.”
A hand in front of my face, holding a quarter. I looked up. He did not look old, although I would not have been prepared to say how old he was. Late thirties, perhaps. Mid-forties. He wore a long, shabby coat, colorless under the yellow streetlamps, and his eyes were dark.
“Here. A quarter. That’s a good price.”
I shook my head, pulled out the packet of Marlboros, offered him one. “Keep your money. It’s free. Have it.”
He took the cigarette. I passed him a book of matches (it advertised a telephone sex line; I remember that), and he lit the cigarette. He offered me the matches back, and I shook my head. “Keep them. I always wind up accumulating books of matches in America.”
“Uh-huh.” He sat next to me and smoked his cigarette. When he had smoked it halfway down, he tapped the lighted end off on the concrete, stubbed out the glow, and placed the butt of the cigarette behind his ear.
“I don’t smoke much,” he said. “Seems a pity to waste it, though.”
A car careened down the road, veering from one side to the other. There were four young men in the car; the two in the front were both pulling at the wheel and laughing. The windows were wound down, and I could hear their laughter, and the two in the backseat (“Gaary, you ass**le! What the f**k are you onnn, mannnn?”), and the pulsing beat of a rock song. Not a song I recognized. The car looped around a corner, out of sight.
Soon the sounds were gone, too.
“I owe you,” said the man on the bench.
“Sorry?”
“I owe you something. For the cigarette. And the matches. You wouldn’t take the money. I owe you.”
I shrugged, embarrassed. “Really, it’s just a cigarette. I figure, if I give people cigarettes, then if ever I’m out, maybe people will give me cigarettes.” I laughed, to show I didn’t really mean it, although I did. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Mm. You want to hear a story? True story? Stories always used to be good payment. These days . . .”—he shrugged—“. . . not so much.”
I sat back on the bench, and the night was warm, and I looked at my watch: it was almost one in the morning. In England a freezing new day would already have begun: a workday would be starting for those who could beat the snow and get into work; another handful of old people, and those without homes, would have died, in the night, from the cold.
“Sure,” I said to the man. “Sure. Tell me a story.”
He coughed, grinned white teeth—a flash in the darkness—and he began.
“First thing I remember was the Word. And the Word was God. Sometimes, when I get really down, I remember the sound of the Word in my head, shaping me, forming me, giving me life.
“The Word gave me a body, gave me eyes. And I opened my eyes, and I saw the light of the Silver city.
“I was in a room—a silver room—and there wasn’t anything in it except me. In front of me was a window that went from floor to ceiling, open to the sky, and through the window I could see the spires of the City, and at the edge of the City, the Dark.
“I don’t know how long I waited there. I wasn’t impatient or anything, though. I remember that. It was like I was waiting until I was called; and I knew that some time I would be called. And if I had to wait until the end of everything and never be called, why, that was fine, too. But I’d be called, I was certain of that. And then I’d know my name and my function.
“Through the window I could see silver spires, and in many of the other spires were windows; and in the windows I could see others like me. That was how I knew what I looked like.
“You wouldn’t think it of me, seeing me now, but I was beautiful. I’ve come down in the world a way since then.
“I was taller then, and I had wings.
“They were huge and powerful wings, with feathers the color of mother-of-pearl. They came out from just between my shoulder blades. They were so good. My wings.
“Sometimes I’d see others like me, the ones who’d left their rooms, who were already fulfilling their duties. I’d watch them soar through the sky from spire to spire, performing errands I could barely imagine.
“The sky above the City was a wonderful thing. It was always light, although lit by no sun—lit, perhaps, by the City itself; but the quality of light was forever changing. Now pewter-colored light, then brass, then a gentle gold, or a soft and quiet amethyst . . . ”
The man stopped talking. He looked at me, his head on one side. There was a glitter in his eyes that scared me. “You know what amethyst is? A kind of purple stone?”
I nodded.
My crotch felt uncomfortable.
It occurred to me then that the man might not be mad; I found this far more disquieting than the alternative.
The man began talking once more. “I don’t know how long it was that I waited in my room. But time didn’t mean anything. Not back then. We had all the time in the world.
“The next thing that happened to me, was when the Angel Lucifer came to my cell. He was taller than me, and his wings were imposing, his plumage perfect. He had skin the color of sea mist, and curly silver hair, and these wonderful gray eyes . . .
“I say he, but you should understand that none of us had any sex, to speak of.” He gestured toward his lap. “Smooth and empty. Nothing there. You know.”
“Lucifer shone. I mean it—he glowed from inside. All angels do. They’re lit up from within, and in my cell the Angel Lucifer burned like a lightning storm.
“He looked at me. And he named me.
“‘You are Raguel,’ he said. ‘ The Vengeance of the Lord.’
“I bowed my head, because I knew it was true. That was my name. That was my function.
“‘There has been a . . . a wrong thing,’ he said. ‘ The first of its kind. You are needed.’
“He turned and pushed himself into space, and I followed him, flew behind him across the Silver city to the outskirts, where the City stops and the Darkness begins; and it was there, under a vast silver spire, that we descended to the street, and I saw the dead angel.
“The body lay, crumpled and broken, on the silver sidewalk. Its wings were crushed underneath it and a few loose feathers had already blown into the silver gutter.