Come Back, Zack! (Little Golden Book)
Contents:
A bag of trash outside a door on the third floor spreads a smell of rotten fish through the stairwell. No number, no name, just the gluey remnants of a torn-off nameplate on the mailbox. He pushes the handle down cautiously, expecting it to be locked, but the door swings open.
Come Back Zack Little Golden Book
He sees flickering light on the wall, then a gilded Buddha on a shelf, surrounded by four tea lights in lilac candleholders. Mi Mi stiffens when she sees the strange man step into the room with a pistol in his hand. And then the light of the street lamps flickering past the gap in the tarpaulin covering the back of the truck after she had said her tearful farewells to her family in the camp. Farewell to Yan Naing. The lights flicker past faster and faster. IN THE end the flickering light of the stroboscope gets to be too much. The lightness induced by the cocaine has faded and Zack can feel everything getting too close, bodies, sweat, desire.
He says a quick good-bye to Abdula, then swerves elegantly through the dancing crowd and practically runs down the heavy old wooden staircase toward the big metal door. He takes deep breaths of the fresh summer air, astonished at how beautiful the morning is and how alive the world feels. Then he starts to walk toward the city. A cool breeze from the sea caresses his face and bare chest, making the hairs on his arms stand up.
Then he remembers that his top is still hanging on a railing back inside.
He hesitates for a moment. Should he go back and get it, force his way back into that boiling cauldron of sweat? He looks up at the enormous building he has just left and suddenly feels very small. Huge, solid, and industrial, it looms above him in an almost eerily oppressive way. A remnant of a former age that refuses to surrender its pride. The large lettering on the wall has almost peeled off, but the outline is still legible.
Zack wonders why the powerful industrial conglomerate has left the building to stand derelict and decaying. As a memorial to a bygone era, perhaps? The muffled thud of the bass is making some windows toward the top of the building rattle. He turns around again and carries on toward the city. His T-shirt can stay where it is. Thin strands of steam rise from the tarmac as it heats up in the morning sunlight.
The water lies motionless beyond the reeds. On the other side of the inlet there are huge houses, row upon row of them. Luxurious new buildings with panoramic windows facing the water. Old stone buildings that look like manor houses, with heavy pillars holding up the roofs above their doorways.
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Overblown white motorboats moored at private jetties. Who lives like that? No, probably people with real power. Rich families with generations of greed and ruthlessness behind them. The sort who would have done business with the Nazis, like the Wallenbergs. The sound of the tires on the tarmac is soporific. A couple of police cars go past in the opposite direction. A succession of unimaginative apartment blocks flickers past, as tightly packed as those bodies on the dance floor.
Like the buildings where he grew up. Places that seemed to be built for gray anonymity.
People who just have to be stored somewhere. People kept in the dark. Like him and his dad. He remembers how his dad had done his best to make the whole thing sound exciting, telling him that they were going to live right at the top of a big building, and would be able to see for miles.
Then he had asked: Because Mom was dead. He remembers how his dad had tried to explain. They had a lot less money now, and that meant they could no longer live in the center of the city. Only people who were rich were allowed to live there. The concrete is replaced by vegetation again, woodland on both sides of the road now, the water visible through the trees on the right.
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Out onto Highway , so empty at this time of day it feels almost unreal. Past the quay where the Finland ferries lie ready to receive their next cargo of passengers eager to enjoy the fake luxury and the opportunity to be unfaithful to their partners. Past the junction at Slussen, then along Skeppsbron in Gamla Stan. The view toward the island of Skeppsholmen, its buildings clambering out of the rocks, is like a strange mirage from another time. The taxi has the streets to itself and the city center goes past in a flash.
Heavy stone buildings, old money, power passed down through the generations. Zack hands over some crumpled hundred-kronor notes to the driver and jumps out. The black metal gate swings open without a sound. He closes it behind him, follows the path across the neat lawn, and opens the heavy oak door.
It never ceases to amaze him that there is no coded lock on the building. What a paradise for the homeless. Especially in the winter. Occasionally he toys with the idea of spreading a rumor, so that the suited men with their briefcases have to climb over sleeping drunks and zigzag between pools of vomit and piss when they go to work each morning.
Come Back, Zack! by Trish Holland | www.farmersmarketmusic.com: Books
It would do them good. He opens the gate of the old Asea elevator and sits down on the green leather seat as he is carried up to the sixth floor right at the top of the building. There are only two doors up there. One leads to the attic. He rings the doorbell on the other one. A woman of about thirty, with tousled hair, steel-rimmed glasses, and a thin, black silk dressing gown opens the door. Her sharp cheekbones stand out clearly against the whitewashed walls of the hall, and she tilts her head slightly as she studies his face with a confident eye.
She walks up to him and gives him an intense kiss that she concludes with a little bite of his lower lip. Then she takes his hand and leads him through the spacious white hall, where works of art by Americans like Richard Aldrich, Justin Lieberman, and Gerald Davis fight for attention. And he knows how proud Mera is of the paintings. They go through the large sitting room with its tasteful mixture of eighteenth-century furniture and modern Danish design, with more contemporary art on the walls, and into the bedroom with its vast, bespoke, handmade bed that cost roughly twice what Zack earns in a year.
Mera takes her glasses off, opens her dressing gown, and pushes him backward onto the bed. The man pulls the trigger again. The silencer makes the shot sound more like someone hitting a punching bag than a bullet firing, and he feels the pistol jerk as another woman flies backward when the bullet hits her high in the chest. Two of the women are lying on the floor now. A third has ended up halfway off the sofa with her legs at an odd angle. Only one left now. Does she even know how filthy she is? The filth is going to be swept away here, and silence will reign. He closes his eyes.
Uses his other senses, feels her tiniest muscles cramping, and he likes the fact that he can bring her to this, that she can take him to this place, this moment, that belongs to them alone. He rolls her over onto her stomach. Kisses the back of her neck.
Pushes deep into her heat. She thrusts herself back. Bouncing herself off him. But Mera wants it like that. Wants it to hurt, until everything becomes a glowing, fluid now with no real boundaries. She screams out loud as the first wave washes over her. Zack is supporting himself on his arms, his hands and fingers splayed out on the silk sheet.
He pushes her down. Their bodies slap against each other. He shuts his eyes. The gaping black opening just under the tip of her chin. The darkness is never over. He can see a smiling woman looking up at him with clear eyes. Take a look at my other auctions and ebaystore , and if you buy more than one item I will gladly combine postage and try to save you some.
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Come Back, Zack! (Little Golden Book) [Trish Holland, Sachiko Yoshikawa] on www.farmersmarketmusic.com *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Zack is on the go in this. Zack is on the go in this adorable book that celebrates the many ways in which young children get from one place to the next. As he grows from six months to six .
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