The Twenty-Seventh City

by Jonathan Franzen

  Lakshmi? Devi? Kamala?

  She opened the door, and Devi Madan stepped in. Her hair was tucked under the collar of a full-length red fox coat. “I have a cab waiting,” she said.

  “You can send it on. The neighborhood is full of them.”

  “No.”

  “Go get rid of it.”

  Devi slammed the door behind her. Jammu put away the vodka, shaking her head, and turned the gas on under the tea kettle. Devi Madan had made one fundamental mistake in her life, when without her parents’ knowledge she’d answered an advertisement in The Bombayite (“The Fun One”).

  Girls!

  Are you pretty? Are you liberated-responsible? Earn real good money modeling handsome USA/Japan/France fashion for fully referenced concern.

  Devi was rattling the doorknob. Jammu crossed the kitchen and let her in. “I’ll take your coat,” she said.

  Devi hunched her shoulders. “No.” She tried to shake back her hair, but it didn’t move; the collar held it close against her head. Her gloved hands trembled and sought relief in touching her face, her very exquisite face, and found none.

  “How are you?” Jammu said.

  Devi dropped onto the sofa and dug her wet heels into the cushions. She peeled off her gloves and balled them into wads. “You know.”

  “You’re very early.” She got no answer. “Wait here.”

  The safe was under the counter in the kitchen. Her spare safe and the uncut heroin she’d brought from Bombay were buried in Illinois. What was here was cut to 6 percent. She punched in the lock combination, released the latch, and rolled out the drawer. The gas elements were visible through the mesh the drugs and passports rested on, ready to burn if the safe was tampered with. Sick of Devi’s frequent visits, Jammu did not bother measuring out the usual amount but returned with a 50-gram bag.

  The living room was chokingly perfumed. Devi snatched the bag from her fingers and locked herself in the bathroom.

  While the teapot warmed, Jammu parted the curtains on the tiny kitchen window and raised the shade. Snow had collected on the outer sill. In the alley, glass clattered. A Balaban employee had dropped some bottles in a dumpster. Standing on tiptoe, he reached in after them. His shoulder jerked. Something smashed, tinkled, smashed. He was breaking the bottles on each other.

  Devi came out of the bathroom with her coat over her arm and her purse in her hands. “I want to stay here tonight,” she said.

  Jammu sat down on the sofa and poured tea. “I get up at five-thirty.”

  “I can sleep on the divan. Do you have a cigarette?”

  Jammu nodded at the kitchen. “On top of the refrigerator.”

  “Do you want one?”

  “No.”

  Devi’s youth was showing. She was twenty-two. In Bombay Jammu had been thrifty with her labor force, mothering her girls instead of just using them until they wore out. She’d regulated Devi’s habits, handled her money, given her an allowance, and paid for monthly medical checkups. Now, in St. Louis, she was trying to wean her.

  Devi returned French-inhaling and swinging her hips. “These are stale.”

  Jammu laughed. “Where are yours?”

  “I quit yesterday. I’m a Sagittarius.” She flicked her ash into the rug. “What are you?”

  “Leo, I suppose.”

  “What’s your birthday?”

  “August nineteenth.”

  “You’re almost a cusp. Mine’s next week. Tuesday.” She saw the tea and made a face. “Do you have anything else?”

  Jammu nodded again at the kitchen and gloomily regarded the cup and saucer on her lap. She wanted to be asleep. In the kitchen a beer bottle gasped. Devi came back with an Amstel Light and a cigarette in one hand, a jar of olives in the other. She drank from the bottle and Jammu winced at how close to her eye she brought the coal.

  “This is ninety-five calories, but it’s all carbohydrate. I was under a thousand until this.” She tried to remove a boot using her other foot, stumbled for balance, and finally got it off by wedging the heel against a sofa leg. She smiled and blinked at Jammu. “I’d rather have thirty olives than a martini. It’s the same amount of calories. I found out the other day how they tell how many calories food has? It’s called a calorimeter. Rolf’s company makes them.”

  She paused. Don’t answer, Jammu told herself.

  “They burn food. They burn it and they see how much extra heat it gives off.” Devi propped her beer dangerously on the seat of the rocking chair and yanked off the other boot. “So I said, How do they burn milk? I thought I had him. He said they heat it until it boils and then they boil it until it burns. I had a picture of scientists in white coats standing around watching milk burn, and I don’t know what came over me, I started laughing, and then he spanked me.” She frowned at the smoked-out butt in her hand.

  “Tell him to cut it out.”

  Through a smile, Devi mouthed a sentence.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to shoot his wife.”

  Jammu closed her eyes.

  “I’m only joking.”

  “It isn’t funny.”

  “I said I was only joking.”

  She heard Devi open the refrigerator. She looked and saw her digging in the yogurt carton with a spoon. “Right between the eyes, Audreykins!”

  “Don’t eat that,” Jammu said.

  Startled, Devi turned, her eyes wide. “Why not?”

  “Because I said.”

  Devi stood frozen with indecision, the loaded spoon poised above the carton. Jammu set down her tea. She shut the refrigerator door, took the spoon from Devi and tapped the glistening yogurt back into the carton. “Listen,” she said. “You’re probably exhausted. I’m going to call you a cab, and you can go back and get lots of sleep, and I’ll tell you what. We’ll see if you can fly home to Bombay for your birthday.”

  Devi’s head shook no. “He’s my only friend,” she said.

  “He’s a rotten spoiled bastard.”

  The slap caught Jammu off guard. She spun into the sink, and the pain sprang like an answering hand from within her cheek. She looked back with lidded eyes.

  Devi had sunk to her knees. “He’s in love with Barbie.”

  There was something wrong here. Normally Devi was a lamb after a fix. “Did you just shoot up or didn’t you?”

  “Please let me stay here.”

  “No.” Jammu pulled her to her feet by the hair. A single tear had rolled a black track down her cheek. Jammu called a cab and then wiped the mascara away with a dishcloth.

  Devi frowned. “What time is it?”

  “Put your boots on.” Jammu followed her into the living room. “You said Rolf was in love with—another woman?”

  Devi nodded, pulling on her boots with underwater indolence. “Barbie.”

  “Barbie who?”

  “You know. The sister.”

  Jammu felt sicker than ever to her stomach. It took a conscious effort not to run to the refrigerator and grab the vodka. “Barbara Probst?”

  “We played Martin and Barbie.” Devi had unzipped her corduroys and was plucking on the black fabric of her underpants. “See we—”

  “Zip up your pants,” Jammu said.

  A car honked in the street. Devi allowed her coat to be pulled onto her. Jammu placed her purse in her hands. “Don’t lose this.”

  Devi shook her head obediently.

  “You’ll be all right.”

  It was the subcontractor’s fault. The concrete was like gluey oatmeal. It was the subcontractor’s fault. Probst was running across the freshly poured foundation at Westhaven. He was following a trail of footprints, trying to catch the man who’d made them. (Was it the subcontractor?) A skin of rainwater covered the concrete, mirroring the blue sky, but the sky wasn’t blue; it was the color of concrete. A purple bird flew across it, heckling and jeckling in its spiny tongue. Probst ran on and came to the crest of a concrete hill overlooking a concrete valley. The footprints, gouged into the slop
e, led to a figure far down in the basin. It was Jack DuChamp. The purple bird circled in the slaggy sky. Martin! The cry came from Jack, but it sounded like a bird. The footprints tugged Probst downwards. As he approached he saw that Jack had sunk into the concrete up to his waist, and that his eyes were crusted over with blood. They were cracked, swollen sockets. The eyeballs had been pecked out. Probst stopped, and Jack said, “Martin?” in a voice ragged with fear. Probst couldn’t speak. He grasped Jack under the shoulders to lift him up, but when he raised him he saw that Jack had no legs. Probst set him down again and Jack whimpered: Am I going to die? Probst couldn’t speak. He laid his hands on Jack’s forehead and inadvertently brushed the crusted eyes. They were soft. They felt like breasts, and Probst began to stroke them. Nipples came to life beneath his palms.

  “You can’t park here, man. Nobody parks without a sticker.”

  He was trying to park in the KSLX parking lot downtown. For fifteen years he’d exercised weekend parking privileges here. Jim Hutchinson had encouraged him to. The lot was generally empty, and if the attendant ever asked who he was he only had to mention Hutch’s name and he could park. He set the brake. “Do you think I have a bomb in my trunk?”

  “You said it, not me.” The attendant had a pimply shady face, the face of a small-time counterfeiter or smut dealer. He picked his nose and molded the pickings.

  “What seems to be the problem here?” A black policeman had appeared.

  “Bozo thinks he can park here,” the attendant said.

  “Now look—” Probst began.

  “Oh he does, does he?”

  “He’s making ‘jokes’ about bombs.”

  “He is, is he?” The officer brushed the attendant aside and bent down so close that Probst could smell his coffee breath. “Who are you?”

  “Martin Probst, I’m a good friend of Mr. Hutch—”

  “Afton Taylor, first precinct,” the officer drawled, his mouth moisture clicking. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Boabst, now if you could just move your car out of this lot…Parking’s restricted by order of the police chief, I’m sure you’re aware of the circumstances.”

  Probst closed his eyes.

  “There’s plenty of public parking, Mr. Boabst. Plenty indeed. Where do you think the rest of the world parks?” Officer Taylor stepped back and motioned with his nightstick towards the street. The attendant waved a sissy good-bye with his fingers. Neither had recognized Probst, not even his name.

  He’d gotten a late start this morning. He’d waited forever in line at Mr. Gas in Webster (the line at the other pumps had moved right along) after tarrying too long at home. Barbara had affected puzzlement. “You’re going with Jack DuChamp?”

  “Yes.”

  She grimaced. “Jack DuChamp?”

  “Yes. I’m actually thinking it’s going to be pleasant.”

  “It’s fine with me,” she said. “But I thought he’d fallen by the wayside.”

  “Well.” He never knew what to say when she discouraged a generous sentiment of his. “We’ll see.” He didn’t mention the dream to her. If he had, she probably would have drawn the same conclusion he himself had reached, namely, that he felt guilty about Jack. He did feel guilty. And yet it was the memory of the breasts that lingered.

  On Market Street he took a parking space in front of a hydrant, figuring he could pay the ticket. They wouldn’t tow him on a Sunday.

  The sky spat a few drops of rain as he approached the stadium. Jack was standing in his wool coat and beige muffler by the statue of the Baseball Star, as agreed. He was rocking on his heels, beaming amiably at the indifferent world. When he caught sight of Probst his expression didn’t change in the slightest.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Probst said.

  “Nooooooo problem. No problem, no problem.” Jack chuckled in his salesman’s baritone. “You think they’d start without us?” He handed Probst a ticket and then followed him to the gates, a quarter step behind him. The arm of a turnstile pushed across Probst’s groin. “All the way up,” Jack said.

  Though high, the seats weren’t bad. Behind them, the wind cut through the rim of the stadium, through ornamental arches modeled after the primary Arch, the top of which was looming across the field from them, dark gray and proximate. With its legs obscured, it seemed to be standing not six blocks away but on the plaza right outside the stadium, creeping up and looking down on the bluish Astroturf, where the Cardinals and Redskins were locked in combat. “Missed the kickoff,” Jack said. “Second down.”

  Probst crossed his arms and leaned forward. The Big Red had the ball on their own 17. An auspicious beginning. The Redskins in their crimson pants and white jerseys kicked at the turf with casual confidence. They’d already clinched the Eastern Division title, whereas the Big Red—“Give it to Ottis for a change, why don’t you,” Jack muttered—the Big Red, for the second year running, were stalwartly defending fourth place.

  “Bumber Brarkty-Bee, Bardkdy Brarkerbark, bicking for the Brarkinals,” the loudspeakers boomed. Acoustically these seats were inferior.

  “Way to go,” Jack said savagely. “Gimme a break?” He shook his head as the Cardinal punter lofted a good kick that bounced out of bounds at the Redskin 40. Then he turned to Probst, waited for their eyes to meet, and smiled. “How’s Barbara? She come down here with you?”

  The fiction was that Probst had been unable to ride down with Jack because he was going out with Barbara after the game. He was prepared for the question. “No,” he said. “She decided not to. I’m going to meet her in Clayton. She—”

  “What’s she up to these days?”

  Barbara wasn’t the kind of person who was “up to” things.

  “She gets around,” Probst said. “How’s—”

  “She’s doing great,” Jack said. “Just great. I tell you she went back and finished her degree at St. Louis U.?”

  “Really.” (Elaine, of course. Elaine.)

  “She liked it so much she kept right on going. She’s going to get her master’s in June.”

  “Kerking na tackle, Bumber Berky, Bork McRukkuk…”

  “Economics. The good Lord only knows what she’ll do with it. Remember we had an agreement she could go back to school soon as the kids were in high school? I’d honestly forgotten all about it, but she really got into it. She was doing homework? I’ve even ironed a few shirts since she started. It’s done us a lot of good, a hell of a lot of good, Martin. Women these days, they really need that extra, that extra…that extra, I don’t know, ego boost, now that’s a play I’d like to see ’em run more often.” The crowd roared significantly for the first time. “You see the right linebacker move up?”

  Probst made a circular yes-no with his head.

  Jack covered his square chin with his hand and studied the field. The score? Zero-zero. Probst stole a series of glances at Jack, whose next question had begun to gather like a squall, his eyes darting, shoulders rolling, fingers knotting, until it broke: “Luisa must be starting college soon.”

  “Forkty-rork, Dwight Eigenrarkman…”

  “She’s applying.” Probst hoped he wouldn’t have to mention where.

  “It’d be great to see her all grown up. You know the last time I saw her she couldn’t have been more than four or five. It’s like yesterday, isn’t it? I remember you used to take her on walks, and the time I asked her if she liked walking with her daddy? Remember what she said? ‘He’s too slow.’ In that kind of voice. I’ll never forget that. ‘He’s too slow.’” Jack slapped Probst’s knee. “But now she’s got her own share of admirers, huh?” Jack smiled at the playing field. “Yes sir.” His face went serious. “She have a boyfriend?”

  “She…”

  “Ten of ’em! Ain’t that the truth. And a different one every week. She’ll—John-son! What in tarnation is he doing? The entire play’s going left, what’s he doing?”

  Probst took off his coat and folded it across his lap, baring his shoulders to the
wind. “Well yes,” he said. To his right a quiet man and woman, both sixtyish, were carefully pouring coffee from a thermos into styrofoam cups, the woman peering down as if the cups held something more precious than coffee, her eyes brimming with a sweet purity of concern. It had been a long time since Probst saw such a pretty older woman.

  Penalty flags were flying, whistles blowing. The crowd rumbled with disappointment.

  “Ladies engentlemork, the palark deparkbark has issued—”

  Silence fell in the stands.

  “Laurie’s been going steady with the same—”

  Probst clutched Jack’s arm. “Shh!”

  “…the stadium officials. Thurkiss nork—”

  “She’s been going with—”

  “Shhh!”

  The stadium was holding its breath, the players in disarray, the field a jostled chessboard.

  “What is it?” Jack whispered.

  “Securicle. Woorpeat. Do. Not. Panicprosurdlenerst gate.”

  It was the end. Still as death, Probst felt his body detach from his soul and billow into the sky, leaving the soul a cold lump in the pink plastic seat to await the firestorm he knew from long anticipation. Behind him a woman moaned. The stadium began to buzz. Murmurs. Voices tightening and rising. Sirens chirruped in the streets, echo on echo on echo. People were standing up. “Come on,” Jack said.

  Flight was pointless. Nowhere to run.

  “Come on.” Jack pulled him to his feet.

  “It’s a hoax,” a man growled. “Just a goddamn hoax.”

  Probst turned to Jack. “What is it?”

  “Bomb threat.” He nodded down the aisle. “Let’s go.”

  Bomb threat? Probst shut his mouth, embarrassed. He’d thought it was something worse.

  “Ladies engenitoll, we rorpeat to thar palark deparkspark information concernk appossiblomp athorken reorgort the disrupture today’s game between a Warninghorn Rorskins and your St. Louis Brarkinals…Please prosurdle the nearest hexit floor the structionork the stadium officials.”

  The official clock showed 7:12 remaining in the first quarter, 7:11, 7:10, 7:09. They’d neglected to stop it. On the main scoreboard a message was flashing on and off: