Read Interzone 244 Jan - Feb 2013 for Free Online Page A

an
informant.”
    Picture, then, Allenby. Not the way it was,
but the way it is. Surprisingly little has changed. It was a long,
dirty street, with dark shops selling knock-off products with the
air of disuse upon them. Carmel dawdled outside a magic shop.
Achimwene bargained with a fruit juice seller and returned with two
cups of fresh orange juice, handing one to Carmel. They passed a
bakery where cream-filled pastries vied for their attention. They
passed a Church of Robot node where a rusting preacher tried to get
their attention with a sad distracted air. They passed shawarma
stalls thick with the smell of cumin and lamb fat. They passed a
road-sweeping machine that warbled at them pleasantly, and a
recruitment centre for the Martian Kibbutz Movement. They passed a
gaggle of black-clad Orthodox Jews; like Achimwene, they were
unnoded.
    Carmel looked this way and that, smelling,
looking, feeding , Achimwene knew, on pure unadulterated feed . Something he could not experience, could not know, but
knew, nevertheless, that it was there, invisible yet ever present.
Like God. The lines from a poem by Mahmoud Darwish floated in his
head. Something about the invisibles. “Look,” Carmel said, smiling.
“A bookshop.”
    Indeed it was. They were coming closer to
the market now and the throng of people intensified, and solar
buses crawled like insects, with their wings spread high, along the
Allenby road, carrying passengers, and the smell of fresh
vegetables, of peppers and tomatoes, and the sweet strong smell of
oranges, too, filled the air. The bookshop was, in fact, a yard,
open to the skies, the books under awnings, and piled up, here and
there, in untidy mountains – it was the sort of shop that would
have no prices, and where you’d always have to ask for the price,
which depended on the owner, and his mood, and on the weather and
the alignment of the stars.
    The owner in question was indeed standing in
the shade of the long, metal bookcases lining up one wall. He was
smoking a cigar and its overpowering aroma filled the air and made
Carmel sneeze. The man looked up and saw them. “Achimwene,” he
said, without surprise. Then he squinted and said, in a lower
voice, “I heard you got a nice batch recently.”
    “ Word travels,” Achimwene
said, complacently. Carmel, meanwhile, was browsing aimlessly,
picking up fragile-looking paper books and magazines, replacing
them, picking up others. Achimwene saw, at a glance, early editions
of Yehuda Amichai, a first edition Yoav Avni, several worn Ringo paperbacks he already had, and a Lior Tirosh semizdat
collection. He said, “Shimshon, what do you know about
vampires?”
    “ Vampires?” Shimshon said.
He took a thoughtful pull on his cigar. “In the literary tradition?
There is Neshikat Ha’mavet Shel Dracula , by Dan Shocker, in
the Horror series from nineteen seventy two – ” Dracula’s Death
Kiss “ – or Gal Amir’s Laila Adom – ” Red Night “
– possibly the first Hebrew vampire novel, or Vered Tochterman’s Dam Kachol – ” Blue Blood “ – from around the same
period. Didn’t think it was particularly your area, Achimwene.”
Shimshon grinned. “But I’d be happy to sell you a copy. I think I
have a signed Tochterman somewhere. Expensive, though. Unless you
want to trade…”
    “ No,” Achimwene said,
although regretfully. “I’m not looking for a pulp, right now. I’m
looking for non-fiction.”
    Shimshon’s eyebrows rose and he regarded
Achimwene without the grin. “Mil. Hist?” he said, uneasily.
“Robotniks? The Nosferatu Code?”
    Achimwene regarded him, uncertain. “The
what?” he said.
    But Shimshon was shaking his head. “I don’t
deal in that sort of thing,” he said. “ Verboten . Hagiratech.
Go away, Achimwene. Go back to Central Station. Shop’s closed.” He
turned and dropped the cigar and stepped on it with his foot. “You,
love!” he said. “Shop’s closing. Are you going to buy that book?
No? Then put it