by Markus Zusak
“It wasn’t anything —”
“No. Don’t lie, Cam. It was something.” He stood above me, but it was only a physical thing now. A matter of height. “It was something, all right?”
I agreed with him. “All right.”
Steve stood there.
I stood there.
The silence collected between us, and we smiled at each other.
He went inside a bit later but didn’t stay long. He came and said good-bye not long after I went in to write on the typewriter. No words came.
In truth, I think the typewriter scared me, because I wanted to write perfectly on it. I was still staring at it just after ten o’clock.
Soon, I thought. The words will come soon
The weeks traveled and winter was drawing to a close. Steve won his grand final. Rube and I were brothers again, though things had changed now forever. He healed up nicely and was still far too handsome for his own good. If anything, his scars would make him even more desirable.
Dad didn’t need us at work too much, and one Saturday afternoon, I was curious about Octavia Ash. I still wanted her badly, and on many occasions I’d imagined us being together. I hoped she felt the same. There were no days or nights without her, and on the last Saturday of winter, I went down to the harbor to see if she was there. I hoped she was, mainly because I didn’t want her to still be hiding from me. I wanted her to stay as she was, whether she wanted me or not. The harbor belonged to her, and I would have hated myself if I took that away from her.
I boarded a train at Central and made it in quick time to Circular Quay.
From the platform, I saw the people.
They were crowded around the girl with the harmonica, and a familiar feeling showed its face in me again. Octavia Ash, I thought, and I went down there, to watch from far away, and maybe hear just a few musical glimpses that came from her mouth. One more chance, I thought.
I caught a bus to Bronte in the afternoon and looked for another shell. I didn’t find one like the first one. I didn’t even try. The one I found was slightly broken, but it was beautiful nonetheless. It had soft ripples and a tanned color that was worn into it. That night, I told Rube what I’d be doing with it the next day. He didn’t object. In fact, I think he was glad. He wanted it.
“Y’ don’t mind?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No — I’ll even come with you if y’ want.”
It didn’t matter anymore. There was no animosity. Not even any thought that Octavia and Rube had ever been together. That felt so long ago now. We were different people. Octavia never had been with Rube — not in this life. Not in the life that began the night I carried my brother home.
“So do you mind?” he asked again.
“What?”
“If I come with y’?”
I thought about it and it felt right.
“No worries,” I said.
The next day arrived and we caught the train. On the platform at Circular Quay, I took the shell from my pocket and we made our way down.
“Good luck,” said Rube. He stayed back and waited.
The crowd was there.
The girl was there, and today, I didn’t hesitate.
I walked through the crowd and stood before her, then crouched down. When the music, I kissed the shell and gently placed it in the jacket, stood back, and looked into her. “I’m Cameron Wolfe,” I said. My eyes blurred but I kept talking. “And I miss you….”
The words registered and for a moment, Octavia and I stood there, silent, along with the crowd.
“Well?” some old lady asked, just as I noticed that Octavia was still wearing the necklace she’d made out of the previous shell. Maybe there was some hope….
I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted her to say that she already had a shell like that but that she’d take it anyway. And I wanted to see her smile — the straight line of teeth that crowded at the edges.
None of that came, though.
We only stood.
“I’ll wait by the water,” I spoke quietly. “If you want to come over when you’re finished, I’ll be there. If not, it’s all right,” and I walked away, back through the crowd. A silence stretched itself out until the music arrived like a knot. When I crouched at the water, I could still hear it, and I knew I’d done enough, whether she came to me later or not. I’d done enough.
I’d forgotten all about Rube, but it wasn’t long until he was behind me. “Cam?” “Hey Rube.” “It went okay?” “I think so.”
As he crouched down, his hands played with his pockets. We both stared at the water, and I could tell Rube was falling apart, just slightly. He looked on and said, “I’ll go in a second, but first I have to tell you somethin’….” He looked at me now. We were in each other’s eyes.
“Rube?” I asked.
The water of the harbor rose up and dived down.
“See,” he said. “All my life I sort of expected you to look up to me, y’ know?” The expression on his face only just held on.
I nodded.
“But now I know,” he went on. “Now I know.”
I waited but nothing came. I asked. “Know what?”
He stared into me and his voice shook as he said, “That I look up to you….”
His words circled me and went in. They got beneath my skin and I knew there was no way back out. They were in there for always, and so was this moment, between Ruben Wolfe and me.
We crouched there, and when we finally stood up and turned to face the world, I could feel something climbing through me. I could feel it on its hands and knees inside me, rising up, rising up — and I smiled.
I smiled, thinking, the hunger, because I knew it all too well.
The hunger. The desi
Then, slowly, as we walked on, I felt the beauty of it, and I could taste it, like words inside my mouth.
THE EDGES OF WORDS
I sit here by the water, writing only in my mind.
At home, the typewriter waits.
At my side, a girl sits silently, and I’m thankful, because, in the end, I realize I didn’t get this girl, in every way that that means—
I found her.
And I want to keep finding her, for as long as we allow.
… The water looks at us, and I think now, of the edges of words, the loyalty of blood and the music of girls. I think of the hands of brothers, and of hungry dogs that howl through the night.
There are so many moments to remember, and sometimes I think that maybe we’re not really people at all. Maybe moments are what we are.
Moments of weakness, of strength.
Moments of rescue, of everything.
I see people walking through the city and wonder where they’ve been, and what the moments of their lives have done to them. If they’re anything like me, their moments have held them up and shot them down.
Sometimes I just survive.
But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more. That’s when the stories show up in me. They find me all the time.
They’re made of footsteps not only to the girl, but to me. They’re made of hunger and desire and trying to live decent.
The only trouble is, I don’t know which of those stories comes first.
Maybe they all just merge into one.
We’ll see, I guess.
I’ll let you know when I decide.
ALSO BY MARKUS ZUSAK
Fighting Ruben Wolfe
Getting the Girl
I Am the Messenger
The Book Thief
Copyright
The Underdog, copyright © 1999 by Markus Zusak
Fighting Ruben Wolfe, copyright © 2000 by Markus Zusak
Getting the Girl, copyright © 2001 by Markus Zusak
Additional text copyright © 2011 by Markus Zusak
Cover image © 2011 by Michael Frost
Backgroundge: Dave Nagel/Getty
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi and Steve Scot
t
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First omnibus edition, August 2011
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eISBN: 978-0-545-38835-1
