The Labyrinth of Souls

by Nelson Lowhim

  We make our way out. We’re on the grand concourse, which is abandoned for this time of day. A few people sit on their porches and don’t pay us attention.

  As we walk I lean into Khalid. “So what was the deal with Vargas?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why didn’t you at least ask him for weapons?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  We walk to the 161st station. But there are police crawling everywhere. I don’t feel their eyes on me, but I remember how good the photo they had of me was. And I remember that Khalid didn’t have a photo after all. I start to sweat, to even think that this might not be the best idea. It’s a sunny and warm day, only a few wisps of clouds in the air twirling in the blue sky, but a darkness envelops me and my thoughts. I fight through the shivers and walk on.

  As I make my way to the steps, I try to act jittery. Maybe they’ll take me for a crackhead and leave me alone. But maybe they’ll stop me to frisk. So I stop that and walk with a shuffle. People melt away from me, scrunching their noses as they go by me.

  I turn and see that Khalid has not followed me. I’ve lost him. For a second I imagine the worst. I sense that the police are moving in on me. I freeze. Surely Khalid has turned me in, perhaps he was working against me the entire time. Perhaps that’s why he wanted to wait a little longer with the chai, let the units move in place. But the police walk by me. I stay frozen. Where is Khalid? There’s still the possibility that he’s working against me. That he’s meeting with his cop liaison.

  Then I see him far in the distance, going back towards the mosque. I hesitate, wondering if I should just cut my losses, just leave him be. But something in me doesn’t want to do that. I go after him.

  When I catch up to him, he’s trembling and shakes off my hand hard enough to unsettle my joints.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  He tries to move past me.

  “Are you scared of being caught?”

  A police squad come roaring down the street, sirens blazing. It’s saying something through its loudspeaker. I freeze. Again. Is this going to be the best reaction I can muster? The siren moves past and away from us. I see that Khalid has acted in the same way. That would be a huge marker, something I’m sure wasn’t lost on the cops, if it wasn’t that almost everyone on the sidewalk reacted the same way. A handful of old hands, with bright white smiles and coats much too warm for the summer laugh and shake their heads. Some life, living knowing that the next siren could stop and end your life on a whim.

  “You should be too. You—“

  “I know,” I say. “I haven’t been through what you have. I know that.” Now he allows me to place my hand on his shoulder. I’m thinking of how to coax him back. Surely he was once a lion? “But do you want them to win? I know you don’t want that.” He eyes me suspiciously.

  “I’m telling you that this is the only way to get anything done. We need to bring the fight to them. Don’t you want to get back home?”

  But Khalid isn’t listening. He’s trembling again. “No.”

  I try to hold on to his hand, to cajole him.

  “No,” he says and walks away.

  I run up to catch him. It’s horrid to see him fall apart like this.

  He starts to murmur no, as if it’s a prayer. Now I wish I knew some Arabic prayer to help soothe his soul. But it only gets worse. He starts to run, and as I break out into a run, I notice that people are staring at us. I stop then break into small trots, keeping my distance from Khalid. I don’t need this. I need to spare my energy, but there won’t be any of that if I continue down this route.

  I miss the walk signal on the next intersection and he disappears. On the next corner I see an alley and I sense something about it. About ten feet from the side walk, sitting between two cans is Khalid, trembling. There’s fresh vomit next to him. I sit a few feet from him.

  “We don’t have to go,” I say. I’m thinking of my wife because I need to see her. This separation—physical and mental—is driving me insane, energy and hope drips from my soul every second away from her. I think on her smile while I held her in my arms. I look up as Khalid, still murmuring no while rocking and holding himself, lets out a short yelp. My heart’s filled with the immense sadness of my situation. I trace my hand over some pebbles on the concrete. There’s a used condom not too far from me. Another siren comes blaring by, but I don’t freeze. If it comes, it will come. The vomit smells of eggs and bile. I try not to think about it.

  I get up and stand over Khalid. “We don’t—”

  “But your wife,” he says while looking ahead.

  “Let’s get some rest.”

  He rocks for a few more minutes then lets me stand him up. We walk, slowly, until we get to the fringes of Van Cortland Park, a place I spent many a day running through. It’s sparsely populated, for New York. The sun’s setting as we make our way past the golf club house. First place in the States that apparently allowed black people to play. I never understood golf. But the older I get the more I understand that other’s reasons to be invited to a clubhouse, even if you don’t play golf.

  We stop at the bridge. Some young teenagers sit as one of them, taller but not much older, fishes. We sit next to the fisherman who acknowledges us with a brief nod of his head. He seems Dominican. He speaks Spanish to his entourage of two boys and a girl. Teens as well, blossoming into youth. I wonder if there’s hope there as well. They seem to be happy enough not to have too many worries. The girl is shy, and just coming into her new characteristics. I smile. But the smile seems to twist her. I want to tell her that I’m not hitting on her. That such things are the furthest things from my mind; me the man who’s being chased. Who, if a police sniper had a bead on me would be nothing but crushed skull bone and flesh and blood. Who technically has no rights at this moment because that’s what all good leaders do, they listen to the mob in the best fashion possible. I want to tell her this, but I look away instead because I’m making her uncomfortable, because she has associated all manly stares with an odd desire that she doesn’t care for right now, and that she thinks I’m another one of those men.

  Khalid doesn’t notice any of them. He stares off at the ducks in the water. The water ripples, leaves and trash in its wake. I relax. I feel better. Is it the presence of these youth? The sky is turning into an orange hue. A burst of beauty comes over the trees and a dull glow hits all the land. My heart warms up even further. A squeal turns my head. It’s the girl. Her younger friend, brother possibly, is pulling her hair and she tries to break free from his grip. They’re children still. Still weighing what it means to be an adult. Now I realize what was meant when my elders told me to enjoy my childhood instead of rushing forth into adulthood. I suppose that they never expected me to fall this far. To not be able to enjoy the fruits of their labor. To be hunted like a dog. I think on a sniper in the woods. Breathe out. Squeeze the trigger. I hope the kids won’t have to see. I hope the adult-like teen who’s fishing will usher them off. No need to see my brains on the dirt. It’s of no consequence. I feel sad again. Christ. What’s wrong? A second ago I was feeling better.

  Another squeal and I look over, as does the fisherman who barks in Spanish at them and they all fall silent. This time I smile as if to tell them to hang in there, though it might also be, don’t worry if my head pops open, and the girl smiles back. That makes my day. There’s an innocence in her smile that reminds me of my wife. I turn back to the small lake in front of us. Khalid still stares ahead.

  “You think too much,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I can tell. Anyone can.”

  “He’s right,” says the fisher man in a thick newyurican accent.

  I chuckle.

  “Your thoughts are dark. They’re scaring off the fish.” He flashes a smile that glints of the setting sun. I smile back.

  “My bad.”

  “Of course not. Dark thoughts are needed sometimes. Especially if you’re being chased.”

>   I freeze.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t snitch.”

  I nod my head downwards. He returns the acknowledgement.

  “I didn’t do it,” I say.

  “Makes sense,” he says and pulls the line out of the water and whips the pole, flinging it back into the water. “What do you do next?”

  “A short break,” I say. Then wonder what else to say. “Then clear my name.”

  The fisherman nods. The younger ones have joined us on the metal bridge ledge. And the girl and her brother sidle up next to me.

  “I’m Vargas,” says the fisherman.

  “George.”

  Khalid starts to hum a call for prayer. I imagine it’s time for him to pray. I don’t ask him though, and he continues singing. All of us fall silent. And the kids stare at him. When he’s finished. The sun has set and the dusk turns the trees black against the gray sky. I feel good again. This is a better place than thinking too much.

  Khalid opens his eyes.

  “You all staying staying here tonight?” Vargas asks.

  “Don’t have a choice.” A light above me turns on. Some insects fly to it and orbit. I focus on a vector of water underneath me, moving fast and yet the remains of leaves and bark float above the hectic water, shaking, but not moving from the spot. Underneath the smell of the soil and water and fish and trees, there’s the sense of the city in the fumes and the stagnant water and something like sewage. It’s not immediately obvious, but it’s there. And now I’m aware of the cars in the distance, the shrill highway above the chirping. This is New York. There’s never an escape.

  Vargas pulls his line out of the water and gives us a polite nod. He barks at the younger teens and they pick up bundles of newspaper that I can only imagine hold fish. My mouth salivates. I say good bye and Vargas freezes. He seems to think on something, but then thinks better of it. He bids us good bye and disappears with his entourage in the darkness.

  I wonder what he stopped for, then remember that we’re, on top of being wanted, homeless now, and in dire need of a shower. So that’s what I’ve become?

  “What next?” Khalid asks.

  “We sleep.”

  “What about him?”

  “Vargas is fine.”

  “Will he tell?”

  “He won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He won’t.”

  “He’s poor. In my experience that means he’s looking for a way up.”

  I hesitate, unsure as to whether we should have trusted Vargas. How can I be the judge of anything after my fall? After my own wife decided to sever all relations between us?

  “We can move from here.”

  I lead us down the trail I’ve taken so many times before. I can feel the sense of being homeless seeping into my lungs. Not that I haven’t slept outside under the sky before, but when you have no other choice, there’s an accompanying strangulating sensation.

  The darkness is now complete, and though the small artificial forest chirps about us, I sense the quiet of night moving in, coaxing me into a sleep. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been. I can smell the fish that Vargas caught. My stomach’s shrinking, but my body is growing weak. When I think we’ve come close to an old unused overpass, I nod to Vargas, then remember that he can’t see me. I tap him. He startles, grunts—which is much too loud for my tastes—and grabs my hand. I turn and push my way through the bushes. Twigs snap. A few branches fight back and smack me in my face. I shield my face with one arm. The twigs and sharp ends and possibly thorns rip through my hand. I want to stop, but I know we have to move far away from the trail. We have to be invisible. But just when I think that there’s a good spot to stop, my feet splash around in the mud. I walk further, but there’s still the mud underfoot and its distinct smell in my nose. For some reason this sets a series of depressing thoughts in motion. I almost feel like falling into the mud, but I know that without access to a shower that will only lead to worse outcomes for us.

  I push on, somehow finding the energy when I think that there might be voices on the trail.

  Finally I find an opening in the brush that isn’t wet. I tug Khalid’s hand downwards. He falls and starts to snore. I crawl up in a ball and I wait. There are no other voices out there. The ground pulls me down into darkness; soon sleep enters my mind.

  I awake, startled. I realize that I have a piece of sky to watch. I stare at the highlighted clouds above. Only a few stars shine. I remember that we’re still near a city. Khalid snores next to me. Then I hear the crack of a twig. I sit up, my back aching from the uneven earth. Cocking my ear, I hold my breath. Nothing makes a sound for at least a minute. My eyes have fully adjusted to the dark, but all around me is the forest floor. It’s too dark to make out any specifics. Some dark bars seem to indicate tree trucks, but when I shrift my head they morph into the darkness. Everything morphs from shades of dark to darker. After a few minutes, I decide to try to sleep.

  Another crack. This time it’s farther away. But I’m certain that’s someone or something out there. If we are being hunted, and the cops are nearby, they’re probably using night vision and we’re at their mercy. That means that they can kill us at will, or decide to take us alive.

  Leaning over, I shake Khalid and place a hand over his mouth. He wakes up trying to fight me. I hold him tight then whisper that I think there’s someone out there, crouching in the woods, possibly hunting us.

  After a few minutes Khalid pinches me and whispers in my ear: “I hear nothing. Sleep.”

  He’s back to a light snore in no time. I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. They beg to be closed. Every blink threatens to push me back to sleep, even though the hairs on my skin are standing tall. My mind flashes back now to the times when I was a child, staring at the dark, odd noises, the house settling and not being able to fathom anything short of a hideous monster doing just that. How things were as a child, the largeness of the world, the possibilities, and the impossibilities. This is what becomes of a life with lost bets, I suppose: one looks at states of ignorance with a certain level of nostalgia.

  I hear a twig snap. I’m certain there’s someone out there. The sky above me is silent except a few punctuations of planes moving in to land at La Guardia. A child. To be a child. Or to be someone who’s ignorant of the world’s duplicitous ways. Or at least completely accepting of them. When did I lose that?

  The forest around me falls completely silent. If there are men out there with night vision, taking notes of what I’m doing, I’ll have no hope. I close my eyes. Things do tend to be easier when you give up. There’s a certain freedom to that. Sweet sleep.

  The sun pries my eyes open. I stare at the foliage above me. I look over to see that Khalid is still sleeping. I’m still tired. Hungry too. I should move and get some food. I should do something. But I remember my wife, and a melancholy slips into my veins and I make my way back to sleep.

  A twig snaps, or at least I think it’s that. I wake up, sweating and chilly. It’s night time again. The forest is quiet. I fondle my private parts. I need to pee. I roll over, pulling out my cock, glad that it doesn’t seem all that wet down there. But as I piss a putrid smell reaches my nose. I’m in dire need of a shower.

  I close my eyes. Khalid is snoring. Should I wake him up and tell him to keep it down? What are we going to do? There won’t be much more energy left in us if we stay here. We at least need some water. But I have no method for acquiring that. I used to hike. I used to know the hacks to find water, but since I’ve come to the city I’ve grown soft and stupid in such ways. I try to remember my time in the maze underground, where the robot spoke to me and told me that my profession was dead. Something to hear. But it’s something all right. I listen to my heart beating hard, sending out distress signals to my body. A spurt of energy threatens to make me move. But I hold my breath and think, over and over. There has to be a next step. My heart calms down some. I close my eyes, my body now truly sapped of energy.

  Wh
en I wake up, the sun’s directly in my eyes. It’s coming down—somehow I can tell that it’s afternoon.

  “He awakes.”

  I stare at Khalid. He’s sitting cross legged and chewing on something.

  “What is that?”

  “Leaves,” he says and indicates to the trees around him. “Why?”

  I’m wondering how stupid he is to do something like that, when a pang of pain in my stomach doubles me over. I reach for the leaves, then take another look at them.

  “You know what to eat in these forests?”

  He nods his head.

  Just then a helicopter flies overhead. I duck, as does Khalid. As the sound of the chopper cuts through the air—it sounds like it’s hovering over one place nearby—I instinctively move towards a bush, crawling so that I won’t be seen. Khalid follows me. My chest tightens. My legs go weak. I wasn’t expecting this. The pain in my knees reminds me of kneeling on the concrete. I remember the woman I saved. Khalid’s breath warms my shoulder and I can smell the old eggs and leaves in his mouth. He pushes up on me, trying to move away from the open sky. His chest against me, I can feel his heart beating so fast it’s almost continuous.

  The chopper’s blades continue to beat. I wonder what it is that they are looking for. It doesn’t have to be us. This is the Bronx, even if it’s the nicer part, and there are plenty of times that I’ve seen the helicopter flying around looking for random assailants. That relaxes me some.

  “You think it’s for us?”

  I shake my head.

  A rustle in the bushes and I turn to see. The helicopter still isn’t moving, and now I can hear a distant loudspeaker with the brazen disrespect as only the police in the Bronx can have.

  But the rustle in the brush nearby turns into a torrent, then the distinct sounds of footsteps crushing twigs and leaves and crusted mud.