WEEK 38

c 2007 Tristan Winter

 

 

They cleared the shops and hurled everything out into the street, where sparks promptly set the mountains of goods ablaze. The bells were deafening, ringing from everywhere at once and by now wracking through us like bombs. The last of the younger recruits staggered around wildly, ebola-eyed and hoarse, begging for even one barrel of water. Secretaries flew in and out of the Ministry rescuing armloads of protocols or desperately shoveling them out of the upper windows. The wind, which had always been our enemy, ransacked the archives and whirled them into the flames regardless. Several bodies of the Foreigners still depending from the lampposts began to steam and make ominous whistling sounds. The furniture makers had their shops throughout the alley behind the Bank, and the explosion of chemicals sent a flood of hellfire gushing through the street and bucking up to the rooftops. The Grand Dukes appeared at various points, then turned and whipped their terrified horses off towards the plains. Some of the crowd began beating the firemen and themselves turned the ruined hoses on the inferno. The smoke roared round in whirlwinds, the Palace only occasionally looming through it. General Kretschin ordered anyone within earshot to bring up the last engines from the bridge works caissons. The Police had all vanished to a man. A heartbreaking wail arose as the ancient dome hove in on itself and disappeared into the roiling, choking storm. And then, through the interminable chaos, a grand secret was whispered around: Be quiet. Wait. Men will pay us. Women will love us. Racing atop the battlements, a chimpanzee hollered down: “I’ll show you who wears the pants around here!”