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Dora first saw the young man on Voyager Road, at what was effectively the last stop of tram number 42. The actual last stop was some three hundred meters away, in a small wooded area near a makeshift Dolorian church. Almost nobody ever used it.
The tram rattled away after Dora disembarked. It would turn around on a little loop and head back east, all the way across the river.
Dora had lived in the neighborhood her entire life. It was green and quiet, a slice of suburbia within city limits. Three streetcar lines and a bus ran through it. The people who rode the 42 either worked cushy mid-level jobs in Revachol East or went to school there, like she did.
The young man did not appear to be a lawyer, real estate agent, museum curator, or student. He did, however, look classically handsome: a movie star acting the part of a ne'er-do-well. His leather jacket was cool, but inappropriate for the weather. His hair was thick and windswept. He was slouching against the stop, smoking a cigarette held loosely between the thumb and index finger. In his big hand, the stick seemed miniature.
He saw her staring and smiled a million-watt roguish grin. "Do you want it?"
The muscles in Dora's neck went warm and tight. "Excuse me?"
"The white stick of death." He waved the cigarette in the air, still grinning. His right cheek dimpled but not his left. "You look like you could use it. I have almost a full pack."
"Thank you, I don't smoke," Dora said, then realized how childish that made her sound. "I smoke a little bit."
"You smoke a little bit," he repeated. His eyes twinkled. "Is second-hand smoke more your speed? You can keep me company until the tram comes back."
Dora knew the effect she had on people. On public transit men would often try to strike up an acquaintance or ask for her number, and she smiled but refused to engage. The attention was flattering, but tiring.
There was some of that familiar awe in the young man's face, but it was largely hidden behind a curious, mocking scrutiny. Nobody had looked at Dora like that before — like she was a riddle to be solved.
Dora stepped closer. The man smoked in silence, flashing his eyes at her, waiting for her to pick up the conversation.
Beneath the nicotine, Dora could smell cheap, heavy cologne. The man had overdone it. He probably didn't know any better, and this endeared him to her.
"I haven't seen you around before," Dora said, feeling brave. Her corner of Jamrock was tiny, and she knew other people by sight if not by name. This was good small talk.
"No." His words came out in a puff of white. "I don't see why you would. It's my first time here."
"Did you just move?" Maybe he was a new neighbor. That would be nice.
"I wish. I was visiting a friend." He winked. "And I'm going to visit another friend, out in Revachol East."
The way he said friend made the real meaning quite clear. Dora was shot through with a bolt of jealousy. Whether she was jealous of him and his carefree male ways, or of the suave and adult friends who got to have him, she couldn't tell.
"I didn't know people in Revachol East had friends," she said glibly, putting extra stress on the last word. "I thought they only had spouses and passbooks."
He laughed smoke out of his mouth. "Spouses and passbooks! That's good. You're good. Well, some folks need a friend even with all of that around. The world is cold and lonely. Everyone wants to feel warm on occasion…" He trailed off.
The tram pulled up. The man made no move to get on. The air between him and Dora vibrated with possibility.
"Shouldn't you be going? Your friend will be waiting." She kept her tone casual, masking the hope she felt. She wanted him to say: I can stay longer. I can walk you home.
The man took another drag. "You didn't answer my question."
"You didn't ask it," Dora said, caught off-guard. She'd been doing so well in this verbal ping-pong, and then she'd fumbled and missed his serve.
"I implied it."
"I'm an art history student. I deal with enough implied things in class."
The tram pulled away. The bow collector erupted in a shower of sparks.
The young man jumped onto the coupler and gave her a little salute, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth.
Dora waved at him. She was eighteen, and for the first time in her life, she was in love.
***
Winter brought the Dolores-whore dichotomy into full focus. Girls either got chilled to the bone — but alluringly so — or dressed for the weather at the expense of style and beauty.
Dora aimed for the near-impossible golden middle. She put on a pastel blue sweater, a short skirt, and thick black tights. In the mirror, she looked sensible yet sexy — like a woman who could steal someone else's boyfriend and be gracious about it.
Étienne had called her earlier in the day and asked for a favor. His quasi-girlfriend, Michelle, was having what he called a cinq à sept — an affair. It probably wasn't a full-blown affair. It was more likely that Michelle and the mystery lover went to the movies together and held hands.
But Étienne's pride was hurt either way. He wanted to stage his own cinq à sept, with Dora. They would go to a party Michelle's friends were hosting, and dance cheek to cheek in full view of everyone. If all went well, Michelle would see Étienne's desirability and rush back into his arms.
Étienne was a good friend. He was the least effeminate of the boys in Dora's class, and quite handsome, too. It wouldn't be shameful to feign interest in him. In fact, Dora was thrilled to be asked — to be entrusted with making other people jealous.
Étienne was a good friend, but he didn't want to spring for a taxi. This was gauche of him, considering he didn't have to shiver through a streetcar transfer in a skirt. Maybe Michelle had the right idea to cheat on him.
But a deal was a deal. Dora had to remind herself of that as they made their way through a dodgy part of Couron. The district on average was lower middle-class, but pockets of it were straight out of poverty porn. Down the maze of dreary streets, weathered apartment blocks jostled each other for space. Many of the porches and benches were occupied by alcoholics. Étienne kept his head to the ground. Dora held hers high and looked nowhere except head-on.
They reached their destination and buzzed the intercom. The person on the other end took a while to answer and sounded near-incoherent. "Why the fuuuuck are you freezing down there? Come on up!"
The party was in full swing. The haze of cigarette smoke lent it a villainous, alarming air. Everybody seemed to be multiple drinks deep. People were shouting, playing cards, taking shots. All the furniture had been pushed to the walls, and a few stragglers were dancing in the middle of the room. There was no sign of Michelle.
"Let's go check the kitchen," Étienne said, "and grab a drink."
Dora slipped her hand into his and obliged.
A bigger crowd was packed into the kitchen than Dora had expected. These were people who wanted to be far from the fun, but close to the drinks and the snacks. Michelle was not among them.
Étienne poured himself and Dora vodka and juice, the former mixed in with a generous hand. "I call this the Cranberry Sunset," he said, as if that was a clever name.
Dora downed the glass as fast as she could. She felt too sober for the party, and too cold from the preceding trek. The vodka would get rid of both these problems for her. Étienne poured her another drink, and they returned to the laughter and music of the living room area.
"Come on," Dora said, "let's dance. Michelle will have to appear eventually."
***
Dora drank as she swayed to the music, all without spilling a drop. A fog of happiness was starting to cloud her thoughts. Opposite her, Étienne was shuffling with his own glass. They didn't touch much, but the angling of their bodies made it obvious they were together.
In the corner by the record player, an argument was growing in volume. "Stop! You will fucking break it!"
"Well, if it's so fragile, quit jostling."
"You're the one who started it, you big lug!"
"This big lug just wants to listen to something normal. None of that mopey guitar shit. Whose funeral is this? I want to dance. I want disco."
"Disco is stupid," Dora shouted. That was what they said in the papers — that the genre was made for the lowest common denominator. "Death to disco." She twisted in the direction of the arguing voices and met the happy, wide-eyed look of the young man from the tram stop.
Time slowed to a syrupy crawl. She became hyper-aware of her body, uncertain of how to make it move in an attractive manner. Her legs felt too long. Her shoulders, too stiff. The guitar song, which she liked, slid into an odd rhythm that she now couldn't match.
The young man strutted up to her. "What a lovely surprise." He addressed Étienne, "Did you know she's an art history student?"
"Yes," Étienne said. "I am also an art history student."
"Ah." The young man took in Étienne's skinny build and form-fitting sweater. Something in him relaxed. "Should have guessed."
The two men shook hands and introduced themselves. "Étienne." "Harry."
Dora was irritated at this boys-only greeting ritual, so she stuck her hand out, too. "I'm Dora."
Harry kissed it. "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman." Woman, not girl. "A beautiful art history student, if you so prefer."
"I do so prefer," Dora said, smiling. "I worked very hard to become one."
"Not too hard, I should think. I think you always had a natural knack for school."
"Oh, really? What else do you think of me?"
"That you wanted to study art, not art history. And that your parents love you and support your impractical career choices."
Well, damn. Dora folded her arms. "You have me at a disadvantage. I still don't know what it is that you do."
Harry gave her a lopsided grin. "What do you think I do?"
"Private investigator."
"Oh-ho! Like Dick Mullen?"
"No, Dick Mullen is a pig." This was her friends' opinion; Dora had never touched any of the books. "Like Cole Crest."
"Ah, a fan of the more sensitive type? I can dig that. But you're off. Try again."
Étienne picked this moment to sneak away.
"Actor."
Harry shook his head. "I'll give you a hint. It has something to do with sports."
"Rugby player?"
He laughed. "You flatter me. It's nothing so glamorous. But one of my former students is on the Renegades roster." He was pink in the face: from the laughter, or the drinks, or the dancing. "No, I'm a teacher. I teach gym here in Couron."
Dora set her empty glass down and put her hands on Harry's shoulders. He put his on her waist.
"Most people don't think it's cool," he said. "Teaching. But most people are idiots."
"I think it's cool," Dora lied. Teaching gym was a step above being a school janitor. But she was willing to be convinced otherwise.
"Who else will keep these weak modern children in shape? Where will they learn teamwork and self-discipline? Not in a math class, I can tell you that."
"You're passionate about this."
"I am. I'm a fucking fantastic teacher. I can run a kilometer in under four minutes — I'd like to see Mullen try that. All my kids think I'm disco. Hey!" He let go of Dora's waist to yell and wave at someone behind her. "Charlie! You think I'm disco, don't you?"
"Sure!" someone slurred back.
Harry's hands drifted back to Dora, settling lower than before. "Charlie's a former student, too. He's the one who invited me here today."
That explained what Harry was doing at the party. Other guests were around Dora's age, but he was visibly older, with a five-o-clock shadow and impressive upper body mass.
"I'm not, like, a sleazy old man," Harry said, misunderstanding whatever expression was on Dora's face. "I just turned twenty-four. And we started hanging out after he graduated. I'm an athlete and a gentleman. I don't consort with students, not unless they're university students."
"We should go get drinks," Dora said. She would need more than two for what this was shaping to be. "We should go put a better song on."
***
Somebody had unearthed a disco ball. It was probably a New Year tree ornament, with how small it was. It hung under the lamp and studded the ceiling and wallpaper with tiny white stars.
Dora and Harry drank and danced. Harry showed her how he could open a beer bottle with his keys and do a handstand at the wall. They discussed music, movies, and their favorite places in Revachol. As they talked about these everyday things, their bodies and eyes said something else entirely.
***
The disco ball was spinning, and the room was spinning with it. The faces around Dora were turning, changing, swimming in and out of focus. She was getting tunnel vision. When she closed her eyes, she felt nauseous and confused, as if she was trying to hold onto a tilt-a-whirl that was careening into the ocean.
Harry had gone to get them another round and disappeared. She could go find him. Or she could go and find some fresh air.
The door to the bedroom had been left closed for the evening. It was dark inside when Dora snuck in. A person — possibly one of the hosts — was in bed, asleep or passed out. But there were other shapes in the gloom, scrambling around and making noise.
Somebody was whimpering and crying. Somebody else was laughing and saying, "I don't know what you mean. Speak normally. I don't know any Suresne," which had to be a lie. Suresne was the official language of Revachol, and everybody spoke it at least a little.
Dora turned on the light. It took her a beat to understand what was happening.
A gangly teenager was trembling in the far right corner. Dora had seen him earlier, guzzling vodka and glaring at other partygoers. He had a distinct pockmarked face and was dressed like a football hooligan, in a stretched Couron FC polo and dusty FALN joggers.
A second person, broad and thick-necked, was crowding him against the wall. He had one hand around the boy's windpipe and the other at the waistband of the FALN track pants. The pants were several sizes too small. This, and the boy's struggles, made their removal difficult.
"Hey!" Dora shouted. "Hey, asshole!" She flicked the light switch off and on. "Stop that."
Thick Neck didn't even turn around. "Get lost. We're busy."
Dora marched up to him and hit him on the back. "I said stop!"
At that, he did turn to face her. His eyes were red and bloodshot. His mouth twisted in a snarl. "Piss off."
Too drunk to be scared, Dora shoved him. He stumbled; he had probably expected her to back down. His surprise gave Dora enough time to grab for the nearest solid object — a bag — that she then swung at him.
He caught it mid-air and pulled, but Dora didn't let go. The drink made him clumsy and her desperate. They were evenly matched. With the bed occupying a large portion of the room, there was little space to maneuver.
"You fucking bitch," Thick Neck growled. "If you wake Nina up —"
The door flew open. Somebody barreled in and charged past Dora and into Thick Neck, shoving him against the wall. "What the fuck did you call her?"
It was Harry — of course it was Harry. A Harry who was wild-haired, wild-eyed, absolutely rabid. "What the fuck did you call her, you unaborted shitstain?" He grabbed Thick Neck by the hair and slammed his head into a wall.
"It slipped out. She was bothering me. I was just about to get some —"
Another slam. "Shut up. How dare you touch her —"
"He didn't touch me," Dora interjected. That was an important point to clarify. "But he was touching that guy." She pointed to the pockmarked teen. "He was trying—" Her throat spasmed. She had never had to say those words before.
Harry appeared to realize there were other people in the room. He looked at the boy, who had slid down to the floor now that nobody was propping him up. "Bloody hell," Harry said. "How old is he, thirteen, fourteen? You sick fuck." He punched Thick Neck in the stomach, and kneed him in the crotch when he doubled over.
"He wanted it," Thick Neck gasped out. "He was all over me earlier, you can ask Paul and Natalie —"
"I don't know who they are and I don't care," Harry hissed. "You think you're so big and strong, you can overpower a drunk child. Well, newsflash. I am bigger and stronger than you. In fact, I'm bigger and stronger than every last person at this party. I'm the fucking apex predator. Would you like it if I touched your little chub?" His hand drifted down to Thick Neck's crotch and hovered there.
"No," Thick Neck whined. "I'll scream —"
Dora felt disgusted: with Thick Neck for being so weak and pitiful, with herself for being unable to stop him, and with Harry for stopping him too well. "Harry, don't," she said. "He's not worth it."
Harry breathed hard, like he'd run a marathon. "It's your lucky day, you degenerate demon spawn. I am giving you one minute to disappear. If I walk out of this room and I see you around, I will rip your tiny cock off. Capisce?"
Thick Neck's head bobbed in panicked nods.
"Hmm. No, I don't think you capisce." There was a sickening crack and a pained whine. "Now scram," Harry said. Thick Neck ran out, cradling his right hand to his chest.
Did the pockmarked teen understand what had happened? It was hard to tell. He was shaking and barely lucid; his pupils were huge. He had stopped crying and was mumbling something in Suresne. In the flow of garbled syllables Dora caught "putain" and "laisse-moi."
Harry grabbed the boy's collar and marched him out of the room. "Whose child bride is this?" he bellowed. Most people shrugged, but two or three pointed toward the kitchen.
"You!" In the kitchen, Harry zeroed in on another — older — youth in Couron FC colors and shoved the boy in his direction. "We just saved this twerp from a crime of a sexual nature. Some guy had a hand down his pants while you were chilling here chugging piss. What do you have to say to that?"
The older hooligan cuffed the boy on the ear. "Fucking f****t," he said. "Fucking lowlife skank." As he was muttering that, he was running a tap and filling a glass with water. "Drink this. Fucking idiot." His voice had gone softer, the tone scared rather than angry.
"He was out of it," Harry said. "He couldn't defend himself. Maybe don't bring your boytoy to adult parties."
"He's not my — whatever. I told him to stay put, but this fucker wouldn't listen. Right?" He shook the boy by the shoulder. "Right? Stubborn bastard."
The boy rasped something in response and burst into a fresh fit of tears.
Harry grabbed an open bottle from the counter and took a huge gulp. "Come on," he told Dora. "They have it handled." His eyes were wet. The moment they were out of the kitchen he wiped angrily at his face. "Fuck! This could have been one of my kids. This could have been you." Tears ran freely down his cheeks. "I'm sorry you saw that. Fuck, what a shitshow." He took another swig out of the bottle and grimaced. "This is vile. What even is it?" He checked the label. "I can't even tell what this says. Can't find a normal drink, can't keep a party in check… fuck."
He lifted the bottle back to his mouth, but Dora took it from him and finished it. Harry's tears unsettled her more than his previous show of violence. She too was thrumming with leftover shock, but she was being a trooper, ready to leave the incident behind them.
"Let's go wash up," she said. A splash of cold water would do both of them good.
***
The medicine cabinet offered a meager selection of drugs, typical for a student apartment. Dora found a strip of activated charcoal and swallowed two pills. The actual rule was one pill for ten kilos of body weight, taken before drinking. But this was better than nothing.
A red-faced, red-eyed girl stared at her out of the bathroom mirror. When she glanced to the side, she could see Harry in the reflection, hugging the toilet and retching. The noises and smell were making her gag reflex act up. Fuck. They were both more far gone than she thought. She drank from the tap and splashed water on her face, and waited until she heard Harry flush.
"Sorry about that," he slurred. He joined her at the sink and washed his hands and mouth. "Shit, that felt great. You should do that, too. Get everything out."
"No, thank you. I'll manage."
"Did you take the charcoal?"
"Yes."
"Your tongue is all black. Giraffes have black tongues, you know. You're in good company."
He swallowed some charcoal dry, pocketed two pill bottles from the cabinet, and staggered back to the toilet for another round of vomiting.
"Where do you live?" Dora asked once he was finished.
"Stoppard Street."
She didn't know where that was. "I'll take you there," she said. Harry was both pathetic and appealing in his current state, and her lungs brimmed over with warmth and protectiveness. "But I'm not sleeping with you tonight," she added after his face lit up with wonder.
"Okay." The wonder did not leave his expression.
"I mean it."
"Okay."
She phoned her parents to say she was staying over at a girlfriend's, and ventured out into the night.
***
They stood by the side of the road, trying to flag a motor carriage. A hitchhike was cheaper than a taxi, and Dora had nothing to fear with Harry for company.
After ten MCs in a row sped past, Dora made Harry move farther back, away from the streetlamp and into the shadows. This way, she would seem like a single young woman in need of assistance.
Within three minutes, a beat-up Coupris screeched to a halt next to her. A window rolled down.
Dora peered inside. "Good evening!" she said in what was hopefully an even and polite voice. "Could you please give me a lift?"
A Seolite boy stared at her out of the gloom of the carriage. Round face, round glasses, weak chin. "What is the address?"
"Stoppard Street."
"That's not far. Hop on in." He reached back to unlock the door for her.
Dora held it open and waved and shouted at Harry, who sprinted toward the carriage and flung himself bodily into the back seat. Dora followed, only to find a gun pointed at her face. Her lungs frosted over.
"I can't say I appreciate this show of chicanery," the boy said. "Or the extra passenger. I suggest you both get out."
"I didn't know they let skinny binos into the militia," Harry slurred.
Belatedly, Dora saw what he meant: a white RCM rectangle was glowing on the sleeve of the boy's winter coat. This was bad.
"They let just about anyone in," the cop replied. "Even peroxide blondes and badly dressed drunks. It's something to think about."
"You're what, sixteen? They shouldn't give… shouldn't give fucking guns to fucking sixteen-year-olds."
"I'm older than I look. Please vacate the vehicle."
"'M sorry." Harry finally pulled himself upright. "Sorry we tricked you. But we're not like the sexy legends Connie and Blythe. We're not a criminal couple. We're not even a couple, yet."
"That's good to know." The cop's tone was unimpressed, but he finally put the gun away.
"Key word 'yet.'" Harry rocked back and forth, looking half-asleep. "Key word 'yet…' Also, 's not peroxide, 's her natural hair color."
The cop's glasses caught the light of the streetlamp and turned into glowing yellow circles. "Again, thank you for these interesting facts."
"We really do need a ride," Dora blurted out. "Nobody else wanted to take us."
The boy appeared to stifle a laugh. "I can't imagine why."
"We can pay you for your time."
"That would constitute a bribe, which is a criminal offense."
"We can make it a donation. Please don't arrest us."
The cop turned his back to them. "What would I arrest you for? Partying too hard? This district isn't even my jurisdiction. I work in the Harbor."
"Then what are you doing so late in Couron?" Harry sounded genuinely curious.
"I was seeing a… friend." A friend who lived so far away, and yet the boy had refused to stay the night. Men and their friends. "At any rate, I deal with Juvenile Crime. Are either of you under sixteen?"
"No."
"That's what I thought. Problem solved. Now be quiet and let me drive you." He met Dora's eyes in the rearview mirror. "But if you vomit in the carriage, I will throw you in jail."
***
"I noticed a cloud of loneliness about him," Harry said. "A dark, dreary storm cloud. He craves a connection, but he's ashamed of wanting it."
"You're projecting." Dora cradled a mug of weak tea in her hands. The mug was plastered with Guillaume le Million's face, over and over, to unsettling effect. Dora's vision was still off from the drinking, and the mug kept splitting itself into two versions. One was the real thing and the other, its ghostly twin. The many faces of le Million were winking and grinning at her lasciviously, as if they knew she was in a strange man's apartment.
"I'm not projecting. I'm never ashamed of wanting anything." Harry was drinking tea, too. He had already spilled some onto himself after misjudging the distance between the mug and his mouth. "But that po-po was one sad little cookie. I should have asked for his number and bought him a pint tomorrow in thanks."
"Are you going to ask for my number?"
Harry smiled into his mug. "I was hoping you'd volunteer it." He stumbled out of the kitchen and came back with a notebook and a pen. "Here."
Dora flipped through the pages. Some had disturbing ink drawings on them — twisted, barely humanoid shapes. Others had lines of indecipherable handwriting. She found an empty spread and jotted her number down, then labeled it, Dora Ingerlund (art history student).
"You didn't have to add that," Harry said. "I could never forget you. Did anyone ever tell you you look like Dolores Dei?"
"Dolores Dei, renowned war criminal."
"Well, she was different things to different people. And you're an improvement over her."
"Rather blasphemous, but thank you." Beneath (art history student) Dora wrote, NOT Dolores Dei. She underlined the NOT and pushed the notebook towards Harry. "Your turn."
He scrawled his digits on a different page, ripped it out, folded it into a paper rose, and presented it to her. "M'lady."
"Does this routine ever work?"
He shrugged. "You tell me. It never hurts to try."
"It's working a little," Dora admitted. "But I'm still not sleeping with you." She felt like she was in a movie, saying all these adult things.
"Yes, you mentioned that already, and I said okay."
"You didn't sound happy as you said it."
"Can you blame me? I'm a man — I have needs. But I won't bug you about it. I can wait."
"Because you have friends to take care of it in the meantime."
Harry choked on a sip of tea. "Well, this is my cue for a smoke break."
Dora joined him on his tiny balcony. Above them, mysterious lights moved through the sky: stars and other cosmic objects, airships bound for foreign lands. Below, Revachol slept beneath a blanket of snow. A faint outline of La Delta was visible to the east, where the sun would rise in several hours' time.
"You shouldn't be jealous of these other girls," Harry said through a white cloud of smoke. "They have nothing on you. If right now you…" He went quiet.
Dora plucked the cigarette from his fingers and took a puff. In her mind's eye, she looked cool and composed doing it. In reality, she inhaled too much too fast, and coughed.
"If right now I…?" she prompted once she got herself together.
"If you said the word, there wouldn't have to be other girls."
Dora was silent. Their playful banter was edging into serious territory.
"I know this is too soon," Harry continued, "but I'm a pretty intense guy. I'm already sure about this, and I can't torture myself waiting for a maybe. So I have to know now." He huffed out a laugh. "Shit, I've never had to do this in so many words. It's not very disco, but I guess I'm asking — would you like to have a go at it? Would you like to be my girlfriend?"
This was a moment full of glorious possibility. If she said no, she could later fantasize about this night and its many what-ifs. She would never have to find out whether Harry snored, tipped his waiters, had ambitions, wanted children. The adventure would become a funny story to tell at parties. The memory of Harry would remain pristine like a dewdrop, untainted by reality.
If she said yes, their relationship — whatever it was — would be a pallid double to the visions in her imagination.
But she wouldn't have to brave it alone. She and Harry would discover its joys and sorrows together, day after day. It wouldn't be as dreamlike a process, but it would be shared. It would be real.
"Actually," Dora said, "I think I would like that very much."