The central district of Imani, where the river passes through, was lower than the rest of the city. The original settlers built the first houses here, houses long since demolished to make way for exclusive apartments, riverside parks, streets of restaurants and theatres and all the features of modern city life. In the bottom of the basin and in the centre of the sun trap, beside the gushing flow of the river, was the main park: full of lush grass, vibrant flowers, humming bees and exotic butterflies. Palm trees intermingled with other tropical tress spread their waxy green leaves out wide, unintentionally providing shelter for pigeons and visitors in the midday sun. The central avenue was gritted with a brown-pink gravel and lined with dark green wooden benches with black ornate metal legs ' every bench dedicated to the memory of one outstanding citizen or another, a name and a vague memory but little else.

Elsa had been here for the past thirty years. She knew the history of every bench in that damn park, but she knew she would never see her own name on a gradually tarnished plate nailed to the back rest. She had just turned fifty ' although she looked more like sixty ' and if one had not made some kind of success out of oneself by this age, then one was never going to get anywhere.

Of course Elsa was not over materialistic and arrogant. She had never wanted for a fat bank account, an amazing career, a great husband or even to have made a major impact on human society. She did not even particularly want to be remembered, although to be brutally honest, there was nothing about her that was worth remembering. That thought was void of self-pity and based on nothing more than reality and acceptance. Elsa had once dreamed of the little things: a home of her own, a good meal in the evening, a warm bed at night; but she had gone without these things for so long now that they were little more than abstract concepts to her.

Grumbling in the direction of a small group of pigeons that were daring to edge closer, she took off her grubby mittens ' for the sun was high enough in the sky for her not to need her night wear ' and picked up the half-eaten sandwich she had been overjoyed to find in one of the park bins that morning when she had woken up. It must be an exclusive sandwich, for it was wrapped in very fine white paper with delicate illustrations printed in dark green ink. It was still crisp, evening after the damp night they had endured. She bit into it; thoughts of who had already bitten it, and why they had not finished the sandwich carefully removed from her mind; for beggars could not be choosers; and savoured the feeling as the mayonnaise ran out from between the thick slices of bread, encircling her lips. This was a lucky find; it wasn't the kind of thing you found every day. Usually it was crusts and leftovers; the last few drops in a drink's can. Once, about fifteen years ago, she and another had found a bottle of champagne, still half full, in one of the bins. That had been a good night.

Elsa was homeless. Elsa was a tramp. Elsa was a bag lady, with her old shopping cart parked defensively up beside the bench. She had lived in the great outdoors of Imani for the past thirty years, the past twenty in this particular park. It was only by the grace of the warm climate of Imani and her cunning mind, that she had survived this long, for most did not last so many years out on the streets.

She was a small, thin woman, with leathery, sun-worn skin, a wrinkled face and small black eyes. Her hair was knotted up in a bun, hair that she never washed and never brushed. When it had grown enough so that the knot sagged, she could roll it up a bit higher; so over the years her hairy bundle grew, gradually layered like a tree. There were times when her head was covered with grease ' not that she cared ' but as Elsa knew, if you leave you hair long enough, it will clean itself. Her head was infested with fleas and lice on a regular basis, but she always had a bottle of powdered head lice remover in her trolley; one of the first things she stocked up on with money she got from the occasional begging; and she would regularly dust her head off as if she was a cake. She had a shabby, dark violet velveteen hat that she kept pinned on her head, almost to hide the extent of the state her head was in. She had some pride left after all, and she did not need passers by staring at her fleas in morbid fascination.

Finishing off the last crumbs, licking her fingers in satisfaction to the audience of disappointed pigeons, Elsa smoothed out the sandwich paper on her lap. It was very fine paper, there ought to be a use for such paper, and if nothing else, it would always serve as a reminder of that marvellous breakfast. Folding the paper neatly in half, she stretched across and set into one of the many plastic carrier bags that filled her trolley.

She froze in position as a creak groaned along the length of the bench. Cautiously, suspiciously, she slipped back into position, and without trying to make it too obvious, she examined the rest of the bench to see who had joined her. Her first presumption was that it must be another one of the homeless, for regular citizens never dared sit near her. There was always a risk that old Willie had crept up to try and steal some of her precious items; the old sod had taken two perfectly good green glass bottles from her trolley once. She would not let that happen again.

Elsa was surprised to discover that she was mistaken in her presumptions. The man sat on the bench was refined, well dressed, and to put it frankly, you could smell the money on him. He was the grey man, with silver grey hair, a grey wrinkle-free suit and dark grey shoes, freshly polished. He had a dignified air about him, and a faraway look. He was probably a great businessman, making international deals, flying around the world, making and breaking the future of thousands upon thousands of workers. It was a life barely imaginable for Elsa; she had never even been out of the city limits of Imani.

The man opened his mouth, shifted his gaze as if he were about to say something, but words seemed to fail him and he just sighed. Elsa shuffled awkwardly, something that essentially never happened these days, as she was long past caring what others thought. She was the one who made happy couples and strolling philosophers uncomfortable with her presence. Elsa looked down at her dirty mittens, suddenly ashamed of them; she stuffed them into her coat pocket.

'Tell me,'� the man spoke without prompting. He still stared away into the distance, but there was no doubt that he was talking to Elsa. Besides, there was no one else in the park at this time of the morning. 'If you had a million, what would you do with it?'�

Elsa raised her eyebrows, almost as if she was insulted. 'What makes you think I don't have a million?'�

He smiled wryly at this comment, and for the first time shifted in position and looked her straight in the eye. 'How long have you been living here?'�

'This park? Maybe twenty years now. I can't complain.'�

'It's a very fine park,'� the man agreed. He looked a little concerned, to think that this woman had lived here for twenty years ' and that was only this park. He suspected she had been living rough before that as well. 'But have you never been able to get yourself a home? A roof over your head?'�

'And how do you propose I do that?'� she sniffed at the very suggestion. These rich, happy people had no idea how the other half live. 'I have no address so I can't get a job. I have no job so I can't afford rent. It's the way things are.'�

'The system, it's a terrible thing,'� he agreed. 'So what would you do with a million?'�

'I would buy a house and move in of course!'� Elsa responded sharply. It was such a stupid question. 'So what would you do with a million?'�

'Oh, I have several millions,'� the stranger replied in an off-hand manner. 'Or at least I do at the moment. My wife is filing for divorce. She will take as much as she can get. She is very greedy, I think she only married me for my money'�'�

Elsa felt uncomfortable in this sudden splurge of intimacy. She did not know him, why was he opening his soul to her? She looked down at her shoes. They did not match, and there was a hole in the toe of one of them. She would have to try and find at least one new shoe, in the bins or left somewhere, soon.

'And she will get millions. She doesn't even need it. I know already what she will do with the money, fritter it away. She is a spoiled greedy child. And it is so unjust, because there are people like you who could make much better use of a million'�'� he drifted off and looked across at Elsa as if the light of inspiration, the answer to all his woes, had finally come to him.

'What is your name?'�

'Elsa.'�

'But your full name?'�

'You mean my second name?'� Elsa paused thoughtfully, trying to remember her old ties to the civilised world. 'Abun. My name is Elsa Abun.'�

'Elsa Abun,'� the man repeated as he took an elongated notebook from his jacket pocket. This was followed by an expensive looking pen. He opened his pad and began writing. He did not have many notes to make, and soon his proud work was completed. Satisfied that he had finally done something right, he tore off the page and handed it to Elsa.

'This is for you, Elsa Abun,'� he spoke as he stood up, pocketing the pen and the notebook. 'May it bring you happiness and shelter.'�

Elsa was deaf to him, staring in pure shock at what she had just been given. It was a cheque for a million. In the breath of a second, she, Elsa Abun, bag lady and despised homeless person, had become a millionaire.


The obvious place for any discerning wealthy person to be seen was the national bank, just the bank that had so kindly provided her benefactor with the chequebook necessary for supplying her wealth. Once the man had left ' Elsa waiting as if any strong display of emotion would have been a sign of disrespect to him ' she pulled the chock out from behind her trolley wheels and headed out of the park for the first time in months.

The like of it was unheard of, one of the homeless, one of the destitute, heading for the rich quarter, where all the law firms and exclusive banks were situated. Elsa was new money now, and with a sudden sense of quality, she wanted nothing but the best.

People stepped aside with a mixture of bewilderment and disgust as the old bag woman came trundling up the clean street, dragging a squeaking, rusting shopping trolley behind her. They would huddle in clusters at the side of the pavement, passing comment on the strange creature that dared to step into their blissful world. Some even shuddered, despite the warmth of the sun.

She soon reached the intended bank, gazing up at the glowing, immaculately clean sign as if it were a portent from the gods. Swinging the shopping trolley around, she parked it up outside the main entrance. The sudden jolt shifted the plastic bags enclosed within, and a strange smell erupted from somewhere within the masses of objects she had collected and forgotten about over the years. Elsa had very little sense of smell left, and already numbed by her own unique body odour, did not notice the distinctly unpleasant stink from her personal belongings. Trusting that the people in this area were too well off to want to steal an old woman's possessions, she walked confidently into the bank, clutching her cheque.

The counter staff smelt Elsa's entrance before they witnessed it, and all involuntarily leaned back from the clear plastic screen separating them from clients. It had been a quiet morning up until now, there was no queue, and Elsa would have her pick of the employees. Every single person working that shift prayed they would not be that unfortunate being.

The young woman who had only been with the bank a month; still full of company policy, idealised in company-client relations, and still far from disillusionment that had hit many of her co-workers, wrinkled her nose and tried not to gag as Elsa approached her counter.

'Good morning,'� she chirped, immediately regretting such a deep intake of air.

Elsa ignored the pleasantries and went directly to business. She was lost to social niceties, for out on the street there was no place for such meaningless gestures. If you stopped to say 'hello and how do you do?' you were more than likely going to loose your bench for the night and those few crisps you spied lying in a half-eaten packet.

'I've got a cheque.'� Elsa declared, pushing it under the screen to the girl. She was not sure quite what she ought to request, only that she wanted her money now.

'Well, what do you want to do with it?'� the girl asked, gingerly accepting it. 'Do you want to cash it?'� She glanced down at the educated flair that had filled in the cheque. One million. This was a little more than she had presumed such a woman would have. Surely if she was so rich she could afford some reasonably new clothes and a little perfume.

'Perhaps not.'� Elsa responded. 'That's too much cash to be carrying around.'�

'Quite right.'� The girl pushed her chair back from the counter slightly. 'Well, we can deposit this into your account, and then you can just use your cash card to get money out whenever you need it. Do you have your account number?'�

'I don't have an account.'�

'You don't have an account here?'� The girl raised her eyebrows, wondering exactly what this woman was expecting.

'Don't have an account anywhere,'� Elsa stated truthfully. This was not going to be quite as easy as she had presumed. It was hard to know exactly what she ought to do. It had been so long since she had really been in civilised society that she really couldn't recall how the system worked. 'I'd like an account here.'�

'And then you can deposit the cheque,'� the girl concluded for her. 'Very well. I will need some form of identification to open an account.'�

Elsa narrowed her eyes. She should have known these people would try to play games with her. She had no identification. She had never travelled anywhere, she had never taken her drivers licence and she had certainly never opened a bank account before. How could she gain identification now, with no address and no purpose? Some days it was hard enough to remember who she was herself, never mind proving it to the rest of the world.

'I've changed my mind,'� she abruptly snapped, her mood swiftly souring. 'I just want my money.'�

'I need identification,'� the girl reissued the request. 'How am I supposed to know that you are'�'� she broke off, examining the piece of paper she had been given. 'Elsa Abun?'�

'Because I gave you the damn cheque!'� Elsa threw back, her voice rising in volume.

The girl was uncertain how to proceed. It was doubtful that logic would win this argument. 'That doesn't prove anything, madam,'� she replied politely. 'If you think like that, then I could be Elsa Abun now. I am holding the cheque.'�

Fury lurched up in Elsa's eyes. 'Give me my damn cheque!'�

'Are we having problems here?'�

The girl's shoulders sagged as the voice of her superior, a smug and highly patronising man from the south, appeared from behind her. He had been constantly omnipresent behind her during her first weeks here at the bank. He had been absent the past couple of days, and she had thought with a smile that management now deemed her capable to work on her own. Clearly it had just been a test she had somehow just failed.

She swung around on her chair to try and look him confidently in the eye. 'This lady wants to pay in this cheque, but she will not give me any identification.'�

'Lady?'� He raised a solitary eyebrow in a suggestive arch. 'I somehow suspect that she does not own any identification. Not only that, but I would go further and suggest that this is not even her cheque.'�

Elsa was ready to fight for what was hers by this point, nails out and prepared to scratch. She would draw blood and she would poke out eyes if she was forced too. 'You give me that back!'� she screeched as the supervisor took the cheque from the girl. 'You'�'�

'Guards!'� shouted the supervisor.

Bank guards rushed across, heavy footsteps echoing on the cold, polished flooring slabs that covered the massive entrance hall. The supervisor smiled like a demonic cat as the two well-built men picked Elsa up by the arms and bodily escorted her from the building, her feet dangling above the ground. Elsa screamed and cursed, but to no avail. That was the last she ever saw of her fortune.

Having been thrown back on the street, Elsa was horrified to see someone emptying her trolley of all her plastic bags. Scrabbling up from the dust, she hurried across, waving her fists at him.

'What do you think you're doing?'� she yelled as the man started to push the trolley away. She jumped in front of him as if daring a game of chicken, facing him down in the headlights of his single-tracked mind. 'That's my trolley.'�

'No,'� the man retorted simply. 'This trolley belongs to the supermarket where I am a manager. I am taking this back where it belongs.'� Pushing her out of the way as if she were a trifling insignificance, he started to wheel away the contraption.

'Since when did managers care about trolleys?'� she demanded furiously.

As he hurried away with the trolley, he glanced back over his shoulder at her. 'Where I work, we care.'�

Leaving the line that came from a bad advertisement as her final memory of him, he turned the corner up at the cross-junction and disappeared from sight. Elsa sighed deeply and looked down at her mouldering collection of plastic bags. Today had not been a good day. She wished she had never met that millionaire at all. Money only led to trouble and misery. She had heard it said many times and now she had experienced it for herself. That was the last time she would try to be rich.

'God damn it!'� she cursed to no one in particular as she turned back to her collection of plastic bags. There was no point trying in this world, you would never win at the game.

A dark green bag rustled, drawing her sharp little eyes away from the group as a whole. It moved again, as if something stuffed in the bottom was trying to get out. No matter, she couldn't possibly carry all these bags away with her, so that one could stay, perhaps as a little gift to the bank that had taken her fleeting moment of wealth away from her.

Selecting four bags from the heap of refuse that marked her life, she hobbled away from the bank with a sour look on her face.

That day was not a good one for Elsa. It had started so promisingly, yet she had been a fool to trust in any ideas of karma and the equalling out of luck. She had actually hoped that it would be possible, for she had suffered greatly during her life. Karma ought to have handed her a million in cash and a mansion in the hills. Karma had been lost somewhere, of that she was convinced.

Tramps are not as senile as they may appear to be to the passer by who hurries along and hopes they are not approached. The familiar faces had seen her leave the park, and immediately picked up on the fact that she returned, she had lots her wheels. Her trolley was gone, as were the majority of her worldly goods. One of the few pleasures for people down in the gutter was revealing in other people's misfortunes.

She was mocked and ridiculed for the rest of the day. Elsa was just too angry to respond, and sat like a wind-worn statue on the park bench: her face taught and unresponsive, her eyes blazing with anger at the injustice of the world. Whatever she did, she was damned, so there seemed little point other than to sit here and wait for the end. Daylight hours passed by and dusk sank upon them, blotting out colours and pulling shadows from their hiding places. A couple of tramps filled a metal wire rubbish bin with wood and newspapers, setting the contents alight. A beacon in the darkness, they stood around the hypnotic flames chattering and warming their dirty fingers, heating up various scraps of food they had gathered over the day. The world continued in the fashion it had always moved. Things were not meant to change.

Elsa's eyes flashed irritably as someone sat down beside her. She glanced across, shuddering to see it was old Cuth: a grey grizzly bear of a tramp with a flabby face, scruffy hair and a green woollen malformed hat permanently set upon his head regardless of the weather. There was a rumour going around the residents of the park that under the hat was a balding patch. Cuth was a man who was unnecessarily vain.

'Now, Elsa,'� he greeted her casually, spooning some cold baked beans from a can into his mouth. He paused, offering her some ' an offer replied with disdain ' before continuing. 'I see you lost your trolley today. No one was as surprised as I was, because I know how fiercely you defend that heap of rusting metal. What happened?'�

'You think I want to talk to you!'� Elsa screeched, speaking for the first time since the drama at the bank.

'Probably not, but I am here anyway. You know, someone saw you talking to that rich man this morning. Said he gave you a piece of paper.'�

Elsa's eyes narrowed. They were like vultures, circling around and ducking down for scraps. They would be gravely disappointed this time.

'Then you leave the park, trolley and all. Disappear for hours, then return with only a few plastic bags. This is strange, indeed. What happened? Did he buy your trolley off you?'�

She scowled. 'You know full well he did not,'� she spoke indignantly. 'If you must know, he gave me a cheque for a million and I went to the bank to claim my money. I should be in my own home by now! But they refused me my money, said I needed identification.'�

Old Cuth laughed, not a malicious laugh, but a sad, wry response to the way of the world.

'Then someone took my trolley saying it did not belong to me.'�

'Well, that much is true.'�

'They took my cheque. That had my name on it.'�

'For a moment you were a millionaire. This is the system. It is designed by the rich and the fortunate to sustain them in this perpetual state. And to keep the poor and the luckless down. For if we were all rich, there would be not enough wealth to go around. And if we were all well-off, to be well-off would have no meaning for we would have nothing to compare it against.'�

'It's not right,'� Elsa muttered.

'It's not right, but it is the way of the world,'� Cuth sighed. 'You may wish the world to change, but it won't. You're just as well waiting for the snow here. You know it doesn't snow in Imani, we're too close to the equator.'�

Elsa waved her hand dismissively at the end. 'So it is all for nothing.'�

'Perhaps so. But it is a waste of time to become angry over the system, over our bad luck. This is the way of the world and there is nothing we can do. We must accept our fate.'�

Elsa pursed her lips together and said no more. Cuth was renowned for being pessimistic in a dry, realistic way. Local hearsay had it told that he had once been a well-respected professor who had lost everything on an ill-informed bet on the horses. Everyone had his or her own way of dealing with personal tragedy.

Setting her mitten-warmed hands back on her lap, she noticed some white fluff on one of them. Raising her hand to blow the dirt away, she was surprised by its delicate form, witnessed for a moment before the thing disappeared, seemingly melting away and becoming one with her mitten. What was that?

Leaning back, she gazed up at the sky, where the dark backdrop was speckled with tiny dots of white fluff falling from unseen reaches. Gently, gracefully, they wound their way down air currents to settle on the ground, on fabric, on trees and grass, to become caught up in strands of hair. She looked across at her neighbour.

'Well I never,'� Cuth laughed as he looked around him. 'It is actually snowing. Maybe we have waited long enough. Perhaps change is on the way now.'�

Elsa gazed across the park, the other tramps and bag women suddenly silent, captivated by the falling snow, the first Imani had seen in over a hundred years. She wondered what tomorrow might bring.

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