Steve Almond's fiction has appeared in numerous magazines, including Playboy, Zoetrope: All Story, Ploughshares, and Tin House. His debut collection, My Life in Heavy Metal, in which "The Law of Sugar" appears, has been well received by readers and critics alike.

He lives in Boston, where he teaches creative writing at Boston College and Emerson College.

© Grove Press

Praise for My Life in Heavy Metal:

"Fourteen delightful debut stories more often than not about men’s powerlessness in the face of feminine beauty." - Kirkus Reviews

"A brilliant, sexy debut." - Stewart O'Nan

"I read these wonderful stories with awe, envy, and delight. Almond is a writer to watch." - Rick DeMarinis

"These stories are tender, funny, and magnetic.... Here's an exciting voice that's bound to make some noise." - Ernesto Quinonez

Law of Sugar
Steve Almond

The thing I had to realize was that all the laws kept changing. That was why Matesh was recommending Polish sugar. "Very unstable law," he said, as if I had disagreed. "With all the elections. Ha! Politicians are shit. So why are you going to risk? If you cannot protect?"

"A good point," I said again. "But now, I think, I must go."

"With sugar there is an agreement," Matesh said, pounding his fist on the table. "There is the guarantee." He called out for more drinks, but the waiter ignored him, judiciously. I reminded him that it was getting late, I had to go.

"Prague? Fuck Prague. Too much Germans already. Hungary? Too much mafias. Poland. This is the place! But not for buildings. Foreigners are not allowed to own the lands here. And with the elections, all the laws will change. So? So?" He looked at me with devout expectancy, like a child awaiting dessert.

"Sugar?"

"Yes! Sugar! Sugar!" He clinched with laughter. It seemed so obvious, so desirable.

The waiter made his way over with three more beers. Matesh clapped his tiny hands. "Good beer. Polish beer." He muttered something to the waiter, who wiped his hands on his apron grumpily. I pulled another bill from my wallet, but Matesh shook his head. He picked coins from his pocket, one after another, and handed them to the waiter.

"Please," I said. "Let me."

"It is too late." Matesh waved the waiter off.

"Yes," I said, "That's quite true."

Matesh's sister sipped her beer. She was lovely, as pale and smooth as new cobblestone.

Out beyond the cafe railing, girls strolled the square in short dresses and young men stumbled after them. Dusk was arriving and still everyone wore sunglasses. A man, apparently blind, played an eerie tune on his recorder. Dogs of indeterminate breed began swirling at the far edge of the plaza.

"You establish a fund for all this," Matesh said. "To protect your money."

"I haven't got any money," I said. "I'm a librarian."

Matesh nodded. He was delighted at my disavowals, taking them as an indication of vast wealth and abiding acumen. "Then there is one person who manages your fund, and you are sent dividends. Dividends, yes? The monies from your risk."

"Yes," I said. "That sounds quite good. I would like to think about it."

"What is thinking?" Matesh said. "Thinking is shit. While you think, the Germans move in. They are awful. I have met them. They will make all the money in sugar. Our money." Matesh fished for a cigarette, which seemed lit even as he drew it from the pack. He inhaled regally.

Matesh's sister smiled. She had crooked teeth and splendid pink gums. I detected the hint of an apology in her expression. I gazed at my beer.

"People will always need sugar," Matesh announced. "For cakes and candies and ice creams. The parliament knows this, so they have made an agreement." He tapped his head. "This law never changes, the law of sugar. If they change this, then what? No sugar! No cakes! Nothing!"

"Yes," I said, having a swallow of beer. "I see."

"What is a world without sugar?"

I checked my watch, and felt a great gladness I had left my bag back at the hotel.

"People need sugar. This will not go away. Even if the communists are elected again. The communists need sugar also!"

"Everyone needs sugar," I said. "Let me think about it."

"What is to think?" Matesh said sharply.

I felt something brush against my leg and noticed Matesh's sister release into the air a delicate sigh.

A group of street performers had congregated at the center of the square, and one of them, obviously quite drunk, was spitting fire using a bottle of clear alcohol with an old wick. It was the fire that attracted the dogs, I think. That, or the blind man's piping. I watched them establish flanks and begin a run.

"This doesn't take long," Matesh said. "A few months, no more. And then we are rich. Or, if you like, a year. Even richer. I have helped many men. There are others who would make you wait for many years. I do not. How it begins is what you call a wire transfer. 'Wire transfer,' yes? No one sees the wire. They are just numbers in a bank. Ha!"

"I'm a librarian," I said. "I work in a library."

"Yes," Matesh said. "Like in the library. But not taking books. Taking sugar!"

The dogs were making noise now. Not barks, or snarls, but a kind of a throttled hum. "In the last year, the beets were excellent. But this year, not enough beets. Not much beets, not much sugar! You see? The prices go up up up."

Matesh's sister had caught sight of the dogs. She had sunglasses on, but you could see she wasn't happy about it. She whispered to Matesh, but he waved his cigarette, erasing her with smoke. The waiter stationed at the entrance of the cafe adopted a look of slight concern and began stacking the thick wooden chairs. He shouted at the blind man to stop playing. The blind man nodded, as if in acknowledgement, and began playing louder.

The dogs had reached the street performers. One clamped onto the leg of the master of ceremonies and the tumblers circled them, leaping and yipping pointlessly. The couples who had gathered around began edging backwards. Only the intervention of the man breathing fire brought the attack to an end.

"Once you are in with the sugar," Matesh said, leaning toward me, "this can lead to other risks. Good risks."

"The dogs," I said. "They seem to be heading this direction."

"It is not worth waiting," Matesh assured me. "Some risks are too good. If you wait, they are gone. With the wheat, during the time of Jimmy Carter, it was like this. You wait and it is over. Gone. Poof."

The dogs were moving now with real assurance, carving a path across the plaza. I didn't know what to do. I didn't even know how I had wound up here. I wanted to tell someone there had been a mistake. Rather a large one. But in these situations, who does one tell? The waiter stepped inside and bolted the door, locking us out. The young men and women of the plaza dispersed. The blind fellow continued to play, but falteringly, dipping his chin, as if someone were yanking at his beard. I began casting about for a nearby corner.

"This is where connections become necessary," Matesh said. He was back to tapping his head. "Not for the law, because this does not change. But to make sure that we have the position we need. There are, perhaps, others who would like our position."

The dogs had set upon someone, or something. You could see their muzzles knifing in, tattering a bright fabric. They sounded serious and awfully happy. I strained for a better look, but Matesh kept his head in front of mine. His nose was the color of wet brick.

"Really," I said. "I think it best if we go."

"There is no need for a contract," Matesh decided. "Perhaps if you were German, but we are gentlemen here."

"The dogs," I said.

"A contract is shit," Matesh said.

"So, really--" I stood and held out my hand. Matesh finished his beer, frowning.

The dogs were through with whatever it had been and were now scouring the cafe two down from ours. I could see their fangs and a bit of froth. I stood for a moment longer, offering my hand, but Matesh seemed downcast. An air of tragedy descended onto him. His suit, which had looked so shiny an hour ago, now appeared dull and uninhabited. One of the smaller dogs, a kind of terrier, leaped onto the railing a few tables away. My hand hung in the air. And hung. It felt dead, felt connected to other dead parts.

And then, as these things sometimes happen, it did: Matesh's sister reached out and took my hand and rose to her feet, like a long stem. Quite quickly, we were gone. It was the first time I had run in weeks, months, and her hand, in mine, felt new and alive. Behind us we could hear Matesh. He was scolding the dogs. "What are you?" he shouted. "You are dogs. You know nothing of risks."

Matesh's sister was fleet and she knew the streets and I feel confident in saying there is no man on this green, green earth who could have kept me from following her, just then.

© Steve Almond