Ch.22 Infectious Disease

Walking along Fleet Street, worn smooth by the soles of countless shoes, the shopkeepers were already opening their doors while the morning was still far from truly beginning.

Roland was among the third wave of early risers, roughly an hour after the first stirrings outside. He pulled his collar tight, clutching it firmly, and stepped out with his cane. Gray smog drifted from the nameless factory chimneys, looking down upon the worthless gears scattered on the ground.

The blind man tapped his cane, weaving through the opulent capital, through streets thick with filth and sewage. Today, he had intentionally taken it easy at the pharmacy and secured a day off, his pockets weighted with the money his uncle had given him. He planned to head a few streets over to buy a book in Braille—a place old Push had found for him.

Books were not found everywhere, and this one was particularly difficult to track down. "You have to find a way to learn some characters; I don't have the money to send you to school." When he said this, he would look him up and down, muttering, "And with those eyes, there’s no school you could attend anyway... why not ask around yourself?"

A good uncle.

"Low standards."

—This is good enough.

"Roland Collins has no need for a Braille book."

He did not truly need to 'recognize' characters. But who could say? Perhaps one day he would need to write.

—Can you write for me?

"You are a troublesome man, Roland Collins."

Because of his eyes, Roland had a shortcut: he did not need to wait for his uncle to have the time to teach him (truth be told, it was questionable how many characters his uncle actually knew). He only needed one Braille book for reference, and several storybooks with plenty of text to trace and study.

The time to start work arrived, and the streets grew crowded. It was still dark, but these men, with their hurried looks and hurried steps, moved along the street, parting behind Roland and merging again in front of him. Some muttered too loudly, their voices forming waves that condensed into massive, white, floating characters.

"Father of all, a monster..."

The voice drifted past.

Those familiar with the pharmacy could recognize Roland. They would gather in small groups to discuss Old Push’s brother: what crime Thales Collins or his wife must have committed to give birth to such a blind little monster.

Men’s conversations inevitably drifted toward other amusements. For instance, that Roland's mother had likely succumbed to the 'affliction' common to all women, and old Thales Collins had been none the wiser. Or perhaps, Roland's beautiful face had caused him trouble in his youth, such as... Old Thales Collins' 'favor'... and so on.

The story was easy enough to imagine. They used these diverting, lewd jests to digest the dry, coarse bread stuck in their esophagi, traded crumpled cigarettes from their canvas trousers to light up, and, while scanning Roland’s delicate face, swayed their way toward the factories.

"Filthy bastards."

"Roland Collins will remember their faces."

—Yes.

—When night comes, I will infect them one by one.

"Ignorance."

"Blindness is not a contagious disease."

—If the cracks in the wall are filled, the wind can no longer pass through.

"Pretentious sentimentality will lead to impotence."

—I don't know what you are talking about.

—I mean, I am fine.

—I have had Lady Yam and Lady Nina; is that not lucky enough?

"I hope they fall into the oil refinery."

—Count me in.

The 'bookstore' recommended by Old Collins was not a respectable establishment. Generally, these black-market shops, which had to dodge the patrolmen, were run by owners with the eyes of a hawk—able to discern who had money in their pockets and meant to buy, and who had nothing but was looking for trouble.

Like the one before him:

A thin woman with protruding joints leaned lazily against the window, occasionally peering out through the gap in the curtains. The moment Roland stopped, he was rudely shooed away.

"Don't you dare infect me with anything! Holy Father above!"

She glared at Roland, tapping the window with her finger; her voice sounded muffled behind the glass. She cursed and swore, and only when Roland mentioned 'books' did she, half-reluctantly, wrap her coat around herself and vanish behind the window.

A moment later, a head poked out from the wooden door, the flesh on her cheekbones sagging heavily.

"What are you buying?"

She watched Roland warily, constantly scanning his surroundings.

"Like a poorly grown toad."

Roland asked his question, and under the woman's piercing gaze, he stepped back again, creating a wide gap between himself and the wooden door. He was accustomed to being treated this way and had developed a set of coping methods in the long years that made things comfortable for both parties.

"How pathetic."

—She is nothing of the sort; I hear these black-market bookstores are quite profitable.

"—...You idiot."

"I would like to buy a Braille book, ma'am."

"Mr. Push Collins said it was arranged with you," Roland said softly, reciting the 'code' his uncle had given him— "It is 'arranged'."

The woman slanted a look at Roland. "You’re the one... go on, don't stand in front of my door, go to the side." She nudged Roland’s leg with the toe of her shoe, as if pushing aside a dirty wine bottle. "Go wait over there... just one?"

She glanced back into the house, then quickly turned back. "Don't expect me to bring it out if you're going to ask for this and that—you know books aren't cheap, right? That old man didn't pay me! This book was hard-won by my husband's friend's daughter through some private channels... it’s a legitimate book."

At this, she realized she had said too much, emphasizing things she shouldn't have. She immediately snapped her mouth shut, glaring at Roland.

In reality, 'private channels' meant 'borrowing forever' from some gentleman's home without paying. Books meant knowledge, and knowledge was never free.

"And two storybooks." Roland thought for a moment and added, "For a child. My uncle gave me money for them."

He patted his pocket, and the coins inside clinked. The woman glanced at Roland’s stiff, unseeing eyes, her gaze darting left and right, and muttered, "You'll never see a word in your life; your uncle really doesn't know how to live..."

She closed the door again and disappeared inside for a long time. Roland could hear the sound of rummaging through cabinets inside. He leaned on his cane, waiting calmly by the door. Once the rush of workers passed, there were few people roaming the streets.

A street policeman in uniform spotted Roland from afar and immediately changed course, moving from the left side to the right—even though there was a puddle on the right, mixed with a murky, milky liquid. That trail extended all the way to the wall of a building, and upward, to the window.

"Lazy whore..."

He spat a glob of phlegm into the puddle, mixing it with the milky liquid, while calculating in his mind which regulation he could use to demand a bribe.

About ten minutes passed.

Not until the patrolman was out of sight and the 'poorly grown toad' lady had observed for a while did she open the door with a 'creak' and sneakily hand over a ragged bag.

The books were gathered. Besides the two Braille books and the storybooks, there were also some 'thin scraps of paper' mixed in that were not suitable for children, nor could a child understand them at all.

Roland did not pick them out. He settled the bill and hugged the books as he hurried away.

He felt a pang of heartache as he walked.

Books were simply too expensive.

And these weren't even new.

Just this once.

In this lifetime.

"A blind man who likes to read poetry."

—The first lesson I learned in the county was: don't look for trouble, especially when you can't see it.

Roland, of course, knew the woman had slipped a poetry collection or two into the books—nameless, handwritten on scrap paper, and privately bound—just to swindle him.

However, a word is a word, no matter where it comes from.

In any case, he had to learn to read and learn to write.

In his uncle's pharmacy, it wasn't always busy; not every hour, not every minute was frantic. Aside from the daily task of grinding and packaging fresh herbs, the rest was not strenuous work: greeting customers and chatting with his uncle's friends who stopped by.

Other than that, he had plenty of time.

His uncle would occasionally go out at night and return drunk, smelling of perfume and mold. Roland didn't need to ask; the text within his field of vision would 'proactively' remind him where the old man had been exerting himself.

"Perhaps your hundred pounds have all been spent on this."

—It is not 'my' hundred pounds; it is the inheritance of Thales Collins.

—It has nothing to do with me.

When he wasn't writing (he would soon be able to write his own name), he would find time to visit Mr. William’s shop, check on the little shoemaker princess Alice, and hang out with Rick Richie and the other children in the streets.

The children didn't mind that Roland had a 'contagious disease.' By the time they finished work, it was usually evening or night. Sometimes, when the young people gathered, they would splurge on a penny’s worth of fireworks to set off.

Usually, Roland was the only one who did this. The boys would prefer meat pies or the cool items the adults kept in their mouths: cigarettes. They were also quite confused as to whether something was wrong with a blind man buying fireworks.

Later, Alice 'enlightened' them:

Roland was setting them off for them to see.

Thus, they were even friendlier to their blind friend.

In short, Roland was quite happy—at least, much happier than he had been in the county.

Until a night several days later.