Gold Plates
by Grant Price
Find a place by chance. Courtyard back door on the latch, an invitation in any country. Press face up to glass, nose leaving a smudge, see building hallway. Staircase, corridor, front door to street. Lights off, no movement. Big risk to head inside, but perhaps no greater than seeking a warm spot elsewhere. Fatigue like concrete, fat wet darkness lying on everything. Snow started a few minutes before. Fingers grey and clumsy as they push the door, clumsier still as they close it tight shut afterward.
Button circled by red light next to the door. Click. Indoor world jumps out in orange. Letterboxes with mouths closed line the space under the stairs. Follow corridor to front door: on the right an elevator, silver and shiny; on the left plates of gold arranged in rows. Thin, polished, embossed with surnames in block letters. Light overhead makes them look deep as a river.
Floor under the stairs is clean and dry and hidden from view of the front door. Rucksack leaves grateful shoulders. Pull sleeping bag from rucksack, lay it on the ground. Light clicks off, darkness shrouds. Ease off shoes, climb into bag, put rucksack under head, draw bag up to chin. Knife within easy reach. Snow collects like bits of paper on the back door window.
Eyes fall shut.
Light explodes. Front door swings open. A sigh, the kind not meant for other people to hear. Plastic bags rustle. Don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t look. Don’t even think.
Hello.
Woman standing by the stairs, bags in both hands. Hat, glasses, scarf big enough to drown. Young. Asks a question full of foreign words. Waits.
Need to say something, anything.
Okay, okay.
Another question, more foreign words. Gestures work sometimes. Rub hands together, point to furred window.
Cold. Very cold outside.
Her turn to not understand. Shifts from one foot to the other. Time to leave. Roll down sleeping bag, sit up, pull rucksack from behind head.
No, no. She puts her bags down, raises her hands. No, no.
Not sure what to do. Give rucksack a push back to where it was.
She nods.
Draw sleeping bag up again, lie down. She picks up her bags.
Okay?
Okay.
She goes to the silver doors, looks over her shoulder, disappears. Elevator rattles the building’s backbone.
Timer light switches off. Like it had been waiting for her to get away safely.
Bag damp, cold air coming through cracks in door. Still, space is dry. Eyes close. Exhausted muscles throb.
Light explodes, elevator coughs, doors slide open.
Good afternoon.
Young man, hair slicked back, beginning of a beard. Speaks the same language. Accented, wobbly, but the same.
Hello.
He crouches down. In his hands a steaming mug, a bottle of beer, an apple.
Tea. Black.
Thank you.
And beer.
Thank you.
Puts mug and bottle on the floor, places apple on sleeping bag. Reaches into pocket, draws out a pair of gloves.
Here.
Thank you.
Three times now, a stuck record. He stares. Cracked, clumsy fingers touch the mug. Hot, like a bowl of sunlight. Hold it to chapped lips. Steam leaves a watery moustache.
He smiles.
Okay?
Okay.
Don’t want to do it. Better to hold tongue. But no other option. One full foreign sentence, learned by heart.
Have any coins?
A frown, perhaps a small sigh.
Cradle the tea in my hands. Smile. Thank you.
He stands up, retreats to the elevator. Gone.
Shouldn’t have asked.
Returns before the tea is halfway finished with fist balled tight.
Here.
Drops a handful of coins that chime like tiny bells. A quick, shameful glance. A few silver, a few copper, a few gold.
Silence except for a subway train burrowing underneath the earth. Suspended like that for a moment, the dull coins stepping stones connecting lives.
Thank you.
You are welcome.
Holds his hand out. Muscle memory kicks in. Hard, cracked palm against a warm, soft one. Up, down, grip strong but not uncomfortable. He smiles, warm enough to burn away a shadow. Gestures to lie down. Returns to elevator. Timer light switches off.
Eyes as heavy as they will ever be.
Boot in ribs is not gentle. Try to escape gluey sleep as quickly as possible. Sit upright. Two men: one old and round, moustache like cake frosting, one young and fresh with eyes that dance. Not the police.
Moustache speaks the same language. What are you doing here?
Pantomime arm rub. Cold. Very cold. Snow outside.
Dancing eyes pulls back his sleeve, reveals watch.
How long have you been lying here?
Always choose the easiest number. One. Hold up a cracked finger. One hour.
Moustache clicks his fingers together.
Get up. Get your things.
Bag off, boots on, rucksack packed on hands and knees, bottle of beer and apple on top for later. Ease gloves over fingers. Dancing eyes says something, but the time for listening is over. Snow crowds the back door window. Swing rucksack onto back. Moustache clamps a big hand on tired shoulder. Firm, not aggressive. Dancing eyes keeps distance, his discomfort clear.
Gold plates wink, outlines of greasy fingerprints visible around embossed names. Reach front door. Sound as elevator doors slide open. Glance over shoulder. Young man emerges. Locks eyes. Looks pained. Shrugs. Goes to space under stairs and retrieves mug.
A shove into the street. Door closes in face. Wind and snow jostle for superiority.
Disappear into darkness, looking for another place to sleep.
Grant Price is the author of climate fiction novels By the Feet of Men (Cosmic Egg, 2019) and Reality Testing (Black Rose, 2022). He has lived in Berlin, Germany, for too long.