The sky drizzled with rain. London at dusk looked as though an old painter had carelessly spilled his palette, staining the skyline with a hazy blend of gray-blue and dark purple. The fine rain wove silently into a gauzy veil over the entire city. Though it was not heavy, it was enough to make the air damp and oppressive, mingling with London's characteristic smog to form an indescribable mist that seemed almost tangible.
"What awful weather."
Ms. Elena opened an umbrella, then handed one to the little fellow as well. Raindrops slid down the ancient black canopy, making soft, crisp sounds.
"Even in summer, the smog is this bad?" Ian was somewhat surprised. The haze did not merely blur the outlines of distant buildings; even nearby pedestrians had become shadowy figures, as if everyone were a vague silhouette of the city, hurrying through the fog where history and reality intertwined.
There was a reason so many films emphasized London's sense of weight. Standing within it, one could indeed feel two entirely different eras merging within this once-glorious city.
"It's all those damned capitalists." Ms. Elena did not notice the little fellow lowering his head with a guilty conscience. Like most British citizens these days, she continued to complain indignantly.
"The economy is getting worse and worse. You often see poor homeless people on the streets, but those capitalists' factories are still operating twenty-four hours a day without stopping."
"They tell people there are no jobs and no profits, cutting people's wages like mad while trying to make fewer workers do the work that should take two or even three people."
"What a joke. What do they mean, no profits? If there are no profits, why have I never seen them stop their factories for even a moment? Every day, massive