Read Levels: The Host for Free Online

that. He really liked the old man. The guy was a fuck. If it weren’t for him, Watly never would have made it into Manhattan. Nowadays you not only needed a clean identicard, travel pass, and visa to get into Manhattan, you also needed a recommendation from a current resident and proof of some kind of legitimate housing waiting. Narcolo had vouched for Watly and promised to supply lodging for him. Watly still couldn’t thank him enough. It was amazing how the old man had helped out to such an extreme. Watly barely remembered meeting him more than a few times as a kid.
    “Say hello to your Uncle Narcolo, Watly,” and, “Say goodbye to your Uncle Narcolo, Watly.” They hadn’t been in contact since. Yet here this old guy takes in a nephew he hardly knows, feeds him, shelters him, and gives up his solitude. Of course, Watly suspected the guy had been more than a little lonely all by himself. It was pretty obvious Uncle Narcolo enjoyed the company. On Watly’s arrival, the old man had hugged him tightly and his eyes had watered some. “Ain’t hardly such thing as family anymore, Watly Caiper,” he’d said quietly.
    But, whatever the reason, Watly still felt he owed Uncle Narcolo Caiper a lot for his help. As soon as the money started coming in, some of it was going to the old man.
    “It’s a stew I’m making, Watly.” Narcolo carefully stirred as he spoke. “And we’ve got a hardloaf and some sunbeans and stuff. Be ready in just a—be done soon here. What’ya got on the coffee table, Watly? Bottles?” The old man strained to see. Narcolo had neither the money nor the patience to keep his eye care up to date. His sight was probably a good deal worse than he let on, and he tended to squint at anything more than a few yards away.
    Watly raised the two bottles and held them out over his head in a rough imitation of a police victory salute.
    “Booze, Uncle Narcolo. I bear booze.”
    The old man’s stirring hand faltered. “Booze?”
    “Not just any booze. .. expensive booze. Forty New York dollars a bottle!”
    “Where’d you get— How did you get that kinda. .. ” Narcolo stared at Watly. His right hand continued stirring as if it had a mind of its own. To Watly’s surprise, the old guy looked suddenly sad. Maybe even disappointed. The strong creases in Narcolo’s wrinkled face all sagged downward, pointing toward the placene floor tiles. “You went to Alvedine today?” he asked.
    Watly let his mouth spread into the smile he’d felt coming a long while—the smile he’d held inside ever since he got the job. He’d spent all day smiling, but not like this. This was not a polite, subservient grimace of a smile. This was a real smile. It stretched out his lips and pushed his cheeks up into his eyes. It was a smile that came from inside.
    Narcolo stopped stirring altogether. “You mean. .. you mean you’re in , kiddo? You’re a host now?”
    “Damn right,” Watly said, still grinning, waiting for his uncle to jump up and down, to race around the counter, to grab Watly and spin him in a dramatic circle punctuated by bear hugs. He waited for the love, the admiration, the pride, maybe even a touch of good-natured jealousy. He waited for that friendly old face with the wide mouth and the broad nose to break into a glorious smile that folded all those character lines around the thin edges and gathered them into deep folds of amazement on the sloping forehead. He got none of this. The old guy just stood there, frowning.
    “Yes,” Narcolo said quietly. “Yes, I see.”
    “I did it, Uncle,” Watly said, jumping up. “I terradamn did it. You know the odds? You know the raping odds? I’m a host! I’m on my way!”
    Narcolo turned down to look into the stew. “No surprise to me, kiddo. No surprise.”
    “No surprise? Nobody gets to be a host. I don’t even know how I did it.” Watly ripped off one of the bottle caps and grinned widely again, hoping this excitement would be contagious. “One