Read Rose Online

Authors: Martin Cruz Smith

Rose

“THE MOST FASCINATING AND AMBITIOUS THRILLER OF THE YEAR.”

San Francisco Chronicle

“Superior … 
Rose
has one of those powerfully involving plots that keeps you in an enjoyable dither, eager to turn the pages and reluctant to reach the last one.…
Rose
clearly transcends the genre.”


Chicago Tribune

“Rich in historical and social detail … In
Rose
, Smith has once again succeeded in giving us a book that brings alive a people and place previously foreign. He’s made Wigan as real as Moscow.”


The Washington Post Book World

“Intriguing … Admirable.”


Los Angeles Times


THOROUGHLY INVOLVING
 …

Vivid writing and consummate storytelling … 
Rose
is a work of Dickensian complexity and plot twists, a literate mystery that’s as much concerned with the workings of the human heart as it is with whodunit and why.”


Houston Chronicle

“Smith molds a spirited, sexy mystery and fires it with his characteristic love of atmosphere.… Smith’s extravagant talent runs the spectrum here from sparkling dialogue and tantalizing mystery to grim, graphic descriptions of mining life that sear both the conscience and the imagination.”


Publishers Weekly

“Although they live in different eras, Jonathan Blair, the hero of
Rose
, is not so different from Arkady Renko, the protagonist of Smith’s Soviet novels.… [Smith is] a master craftsman at atmosphere.… Fine writing and witty dialogue.”

—USA Today

“Blair is out of Graham Greene and John le Carré…. The repartee in
Rose
is as sharp as a dagger … Another book on the exploits of Jonathan Blair would be very welcome.”


The New York Times


VINTAGE MARTIN CRUZ SMITH
:

full of menace and surprises, meticulously plotted, with terrific dialogue.… Like Arkady Renko, Blair is resourceful [and] tenacious.”


St. Petersburg Times

“The most compelling adventure written so far this year.… The surprise ending warms the cockles and one is left in the afterglow of Cruz Smith’s genius.… A book whose writing delights and whose characters, dialogue, and insights knock socks off.”

—Blade
(Toledo, OH)

“Crackling good … Blair is a nuanced, memorable character, a match for Arkady Renko of the Gorky Park series.”


Oregonian

“A splendid mystery … Probably [Martin Cruz Smith’s] best work since his debut.”


Detroit News and Free Press

A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1996 by Martin Cruz Smith
Map copyright © 1996 by Anita Karl and James Kemp

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

www.ballantinebooks.com

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99–91677

eISBN: 978-0-307-80976-6

This edition published by arrangement with Random House, Inc.

First Ballantine Books International Edition: March 1997
First Ballantine Books Domestic Edition: February 2000

v3.1

Contents

The most beautiful women in the world were African.

Somali women wrapped in robes suffused with purple, vermilion, pink. Around their necks beads of amber that, rubbed together, emitted electricity and the scent of lemons and honey.

Women of the Horn who peered through veils of gold, strands in the shape of tinkling teardrops. They stood veiled in black from head to toe, their longing compressed into kohl-edged eyes. In the Mountains of the Moon, Dinka women, dark and smooth as the darkest smoothest wood, tall and statuesque within beaded corsets that would be cut open only on their wedding nights.

And the women of the Gold Coast in golden chains, bells, bracelets, dancing in skirts of golden thread in rooms scented by cinnamon, cardamom, musk.

Jonathan Blair awoke tangled in damp sheets and shivering to the rain, gas fumes and soot that pressed against his lodging’s single window. He wished he could slip back into his dream, but it was gone like smoke. The Africa in his bloodstream, though, that was forever.

He suspected he had typhoid. His bedclothes were dank from sweat. The week before, he had been yellow
from his eyeballs to his toes. He pissed brown water, a sign he had malaria. Which last night had demanded quinine and gin—at least he had demanded it.

Outside, morning bells rang in another foul day, resounding like blood vessels exploding in his brain. He was freezing, and on the room’s miniature grate a pitiful mouthful of coals was fading under ash. He swung his feet onto the floor, took one step and collapsed.

He came to an hour later. He could tell by another outburst of bells, so there was some point to God after all, as a celestial regulator with a gong.

From the floor Blair had a low but excellent view of his sitting room: threadbare carpet of tea stains, bed with wrestled sheets, single chair and table with oil lamp, wallpaper patched with newspaper, window of weepy gray light that showed dead ashes on the grate. He was tempted to try to crawl to the chair and die in a sitting position, but he remembered that he had an appointment to keep. Shaking like an old dog, he struck out on all fours toward the fireplace. Chills squeezed his ribs and twisted his bones. The floor pitched like the deck of a ship, and he passed out again.

And came to with a match in one hand and a newspaper and kindling in the other. He seemed to do as well unconscious as conscious; he was pleased with that. The paper was folded to the Court Circular for March 23, 1872.
HRH the Princess Royal will attend a patrons meeting at the Royal Geographical Society with Sir Rodney Murchison, president of the RGS, and the Right Reverend Bishop Hannay. In attendance will be
 … That was yesterday, which meant he had missed the festivities, had he been, well, invited, and possessed the cab fare. He struck the match and used all his strength to hold the sulfurous flame under the paper and sticks, and to push them under the grate. He rolled on his side to the scuttle. Please, God, he thought, let there be coal. There was. He laid a handful on the fire. A kettle hung over the grate.
Please, God, he thought, let there be water. He tapped the kettle and heard its contents slosh from side to side. He fed the fire more paper and more coal, and when the coal had caught he lay as close as he could to the fire’s warming breath.

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