The Black Envelope

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IN THE KIOSK WINDOW, the lovely curled head of a spring morning. Small black eyes. Crimson lips, pink-enamel cheeks.

“The newspapers! They’re just coming. The papers will be ready in a second.”

The men huddling around the window came to life.

The girl moved back inside the kiosk to arrange the stacks of papers. The pavement was no longer large enough. There were pedestrians darting everywhere, casting impatient glances to left and right — wave upon wave of bustling ants. The line for the paper grew longer.

“I haven’t got any more Flacras,” announced the soprano. “And this one is the last România Liber. You can whistle for Filatelia and Pescarul—they’re real vintage wine. No, I haven’t got Rebus. Maybe tomorrow.”

The tall, pale man moved beside the lamppost with a bundle of fresh papers under his arm. He opened them up and began skimming through.

“What could have got into them?” grumbled a little old woman leaning on the rubbish bin. “Newspapers — lining up for the paper, would you believe it. Stupid brats. As if they’d find anything out by reading them. I tell you, sir, they’re the same. All the same! Money down the drain, I say.”

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