The Bridge Painters – Part 1: Scaffold

They painted the Chain Bridge at night, when the traffic thinned and the Danube turned to black glass.

Réka stood on the narrow scaffold forty metres above the water in a harness, a helmet and a borrowed pair of gloves, trying to look as though she did this every day. She had been a graphic designer until March. Then she had decided she wanted a job where she could see the sky.

"You're gripping the rail," said the man clipped in beside her.

"I'm admiring it."

"With both hands."

"Very closely."

He was thirty-one, broad-shouldered, with a short dark beard and a face crinkled by laughter. Gábor, according to his helmet. He had been on the crew six years.

"Here," he said. "Your knot is wrong."

"It's a good knot."

"It's a terrible knot. It's a bow. For shoes." He reached over and retied her carabiner line with brisk, practised hands. "There. Now you won't die."

"Thank you," said Réka, a little stiffly. "I'm not usually this bad at things."

"You're not bad. You're new." He grinned. "I was sick over the side my first night."

She laughed, in spite of herself.

For the rest of the shift, he worked beside her, teaching her to angle the brush, to feather the paint in long even strokes. The city lay spread beneath them like a jewellery box, the Parliament glowing gold across the river, the lights of the castle above. A tram bell rang below.

"Can I ask you something?" said Réka.

"Yes."

"Do you ever stop noticing it? The view?"

"Never," said Gábor. "That's why I stay."

At dawn, the crew packed up. She lingered on the scaffold with her flask as the sky turned pale pink over Buda.

"Green?" said Réka, mostly to herself.

"Green," said Gábor. "Very green. Tomorrow. Same bridge. Better knot."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Last Coat.