by Ian Orti
“She’s good, Laplante.”
“Yes, she is good, Lachaise. She is very good. Wait, did she call me a thief?”
“She did. I assure you I’m much different from my lanky friend here.”
“I assure you, you’re not. You are quite the same.”
“She’s not that good.”
“My God, what is that smell?”
“Ginger.”
“Only ginger?”
“No. Fennel. Cardamom. Cinnamon.”
“What else? There’s one more.”
“Clove.”
“Do you smell that, Lachaise?”
“Shh. Quiet Laplante. I don’t want the sound of your voice to ruin this.”
“It’s coming through my skin,” whispered Laplante. “I’ve never tasted anything like this.”
“The smell is exquisite.”
“How long will you be staying?”
“I don’t know now. Hoping something opens up before the snow melts.”
“Have you nowhere to go?”
“It’s not that. I just don’t know if there’s any way out of this place.”
“Transit strike?”
“Something like that.”
“Hmm,” strained Lachaise.
“This place is an island. Nothing exists outside of here.”
“My God, that smell.”
“What do you mean, an island? This place is completely landlocked.”
“She’s gone, Lachaise.”
“Oh, back to her place?”
“I suppose.”
“A nice one, she is.”
“Unlike you, Lachaise.”
“Do you think she’ll stay?”
“I wish she would. But no. I think she is the island, to be honest. Waiting for the ice to melt so she can float away.”
“I think we are nearing some kind of culmination to this story,” said Laplante.
“What makes you say that?”
“These pages. The ink is smeared. These edges of the pages are burnt. The words are written strangely, like they’re clawing their way off the page.”
“How do you suppose it will end?”
“For now there isn’t one in sight.”
22
THE NIGHT WAS PLACID, THE STREETS EMPTY. The air was cool and snow fell in dense flakes but Henry felt unusually warm. As a child, on nights such as this when the snow fell in abundance, Henry walked with his eyes to the sky and imagined he was flying through space. Falling white snow with its black sky backdrop allowed for this kind of make-believe and even now Henry could recall the same imaginary voyages he took through space as a child. He walked with his eyes to the sky, stumbling occasionally. But this time, as Henry neared the bridge he noticed the bank on the other side of the river. He had to open and close his eyes a few times to finally see clearly. It was gone. The bank was completely bare, as though no brick had ever been set there. It was desolate, and Henry paused. There were many times on many nights when he wished he could sweep his arm across the bank and sweep it clear of certain places, but now it appeared someone had done just that. There was nowhere to go. So he turned around.
When he returned, things in the café were not as he had left them. When he opened the door, objects orbited him as though he were stuck at the vortex of some merry-go-round. He ducked from chairs and tables, from knives and plates flying past him. But he remained unharmed. He reached behind him and felt for the door handle.
Outside the air was calm. There was a wind, but nothing that could lift heavy tables and objects as though they were but mere leaves of paper. Henry took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly. When he stepped back inside, things were different.
This time the walls were peeling. And though all was in its familiar place, it all bled into black pools at his feet, leaving nothing but negative space around him. Henry walked over the pipes dissolving at his feet, evading the water, which rose from their cracks. There was no place else to go. Across the river there was nothing but the hollow memory of a borough now erased, inside, destruction and disorder. He removed and folded his coat, placed it on the floor, lay down and closed his eyes.
When again he opened his eyes some time later, he found himself at home. Henry watched large snowflakes falling slowly outside his window. He lay there in silence until the pounding in his chest settled and the body sleeping next to him came into focus. In the dark, thought Henry, the light from the city trapped beneath the clouds, made L’s body next to him glow blue, her hair shine black. Slowly, with apprehensive hands, he brought his fingertips to her flesh, and traced a long delicate line from the base of her neck, along her clavicle, to her wrist.
Henry’s wife awoke with a start. “What are you doing?” He quickly withdrew his hand.
“If you can’t sleep, go make something to drink or sleep on the couch.”
Henry closed his eyes, held them shut, opened them again.
Outside the glass door he could see a pair of feet facing him. Henry could not make out the figure’s face and decided it was best to lay still. He held his eyes closed tightly and when again they opened the feet were gone and the inside was restored to normal. He began to panic. Felt the tightness in his chest amplify. Could find no breath, until he felt her hands on his chest.
“Tomorrow, will you show me your favourite view of the city?” asked L. But he couldn’t see her. Everything was dark and getting darker. She was gone. He rubbed his chest and closed his eyes for the night.
23
WHEN HE WOKE UP ON THE FLOOR beneath his coat, it took him a minute to situate himself and he ran through the events of the previous night. He propped himself up, leaned on his elbows and looked outside the window to the overcast sky where clouds lingered from the previous night’s snowfall. Snow covered the entire street. Not a single shop was open, a single lamp lit. Snow had taken over everything. He appreciated winters for this. How in a single night the city became a blank slate. Before the hard metal edges of shovels scraped against the streets and staircases in the city, the iron spikes on church fences and the hard corners of the buildings would lay muted beneath the snow. There was a state of calm that came with a heavy snowfall. He recalled images on the old television, the tanks and soldiers, desperate civilians and sudden tempers. There was nothing to cool them off, nothing to soften the hard edges of their own stained cities, nothing that could bury their tanks and convert them to white hills.
“Would you like some tea?” L was sitting at the end of a table. A mug between her hands. “You didn’t get very far last night.”
“The snow was worse than I thought.”
“You don’t look very comfortable.”
“It’s okay.” Henry turned his eyes to the empty street.
“You could’ve come up.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” L followed Henry’s eyes outside.
Henry turned to L. “Do you want to go for a walk? I want to show you something. And there’s probably no point in opening.”
“I thought that was the agreement.”
Henry took a candle and a book of matches from a drawer.
“What’s that for?”
“You’ll see.”
The shop awnings outside were completely covered; snowdrifts climbed windows, blocked entranceways and piled around lampposts. Street signs were reduced to single letters peeking out from behind the snow. As they left the café, a solitary figure in the distance watched them disappear, then walked through the snow in their direction.
As they walked towards the church, pockets of sunlight warmed their faces and they passed beneath trees bowing under the weight of the snow on their branches. Henry knew the tiny door at the base of the church tower was seldom locked. He removed the snow with his hands then they both crouched and entered the dark stairwell. Henry pulled the small candle from his pocket and lit a match. L lit a cigarette from the candle and clung to Henry’s arm. As they ascended t
he narrow stairwell, L watched the smoke from her cigarette rise until it escaped the glow of the candle, disappearing into the darkness above. She would stop when she heard him short of breath, kiss him and say, “Fifty more steps, you get five kisses.”
When they reached the top of the stairs, Henry blew out the candle, placed it in his pocket and asked L to close her eyes. She held his arm as he led her outside. He stood behind her and held her hands palm to palm. Then he slowly opened them, holding them flat in front of her face.
L opened her eyes.
She was horrified. It was not what he was expecting either, but he tried to make the best of it.
“You can hold the entire city in your hands from here,” said Henry.
L stood for a few moments in silence, cupping the murky river and the stained buildings across the river. It was not what she was expecting, not what she had planned, and she stared contemptuously across the bank.
“Too bad it’s rotting. It grows like a mould.” L lowered her hands to the stone railing.
“Some things are worth holding. Like that park over there. See how it sits in my palm—”
“Nothing in this city is worth holding.”
Henry stared across the bank with her.
“I’m sorry Henry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Maybe you need to find a new city.”
“Things aren’t that simple.”
“Sure they are. You just have to leave,” said Henry. “We could leave,” he added. “Find another place.”
“It’s not possible.”
“Together.”
“Stop it, Henry.” L pressed her fingertips into the railing. On a ledge below, the tattered remains of an empty nest. They both stared at it. There was silence. It filled the spiral staircase, filled the air around them, blew across their faces, pressed down on their backs. L whispered, “I’m sorry I didn’t like the best view of the city.”
Henry stared across the river towards his house. He squinted his eyes as the sun stole through the clouds, reflecting from the windows of the stained buildings and the snow surrounding them. The buildings along the bank faded behind the reflection of newly fallen snow. Still squinting Henry said, “I haven’t even shown you the best view of the city.” He hoisted himself upon the wide stone railing, feet and hands together. Shaky hands, then his fingertips extended above the railing. He stood. He told her he had never been a good dancer, but he was willing to try. He took a hop, one foot to the next. Pirouette. Arms extended, palms faced upwards. Below Henry and L, below the shelled nest, a voice from the street called up.
“I think he wants to see more,” said Henry.
“I think he wants you to get down.”
“Are you sure? It’s a long fall,” said Henry. He called to the figure below with the waving arms. “I can’t hear you. Too windy.”
“That place belonged to your father. I don’t think you want to give that up for someone like me.”
“He’s dead. It’s no longer of any use to him. I have to worry about the living.”
“If you don’t get down from there right now, you won’t be among the living.”
“If we stay here, we’ll both die.”
“What about your wife?”
“You are my wife.”
“You just gave me this city and now you want to take it away.”
Henry shrugged his shoulders.
“Fucking come down from there, Henry!”
24
“LAPLANTE?”
“What do you want now, Lachaise?”
“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“The planet. Speeding around the sun. It’s moving so fast it’s—it’s pulling the very flesh from my bones. My skin…I can feel it stretching from my face.”
“You have wrinkles because you’re old and miserable.”
“No Laplante, I haven’t aged at all. I’m wrinkled because I’ve been flying through space for so long and at such a tremendous speed that it’s tearing me apart. Soon there will be nothing left of me but dust. Don’t you hear it?”
“I’m reading. I hear nothing. Especially the sound of your voice.”
“What are you reading? Tell me what’s happening?”
“Nothing. Everything.”
“That’s a weak answer.”
“An embrace.”
“An embrace?”
“I’m reading about an embrace.”
“But you’ve been reading for quite some time.”
“It goes on for pages.”
“Well tell me about it. I’m a dying man.”
“Read your own embrace.”
“I can’t.”
“You’ll have to imagine it for yourself.”
“How could I do that?”
“Easy. Imagine an embrace that lasts for pages and pages.”
Lachaise closed his eyes.
“There, I did it,” said Lachaise
“Wasn’t so hard was it?”
“It was rather nice, actually.”
“Lachaise?”
“What?”
“Do you hear that?”
“I hear something.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Something.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“What kind of answer do you want? Something is coming.”
“But what?”
“The end.”
“What does it look like? Does it have a face?”
“I can’t see it. But it’s being chased across the city.”
“By who?”
“Its enemy.”
“Who is its enemy?”
“The beginning.”
“Why do you always talk out of your ass, Lachaise?”
“You asked me to tell you.”
“Lachaise?”
“What do you want Laplante?”
“Are you going to finish your water?”
“I suppose you could have it.”
“Wait.”
“What is it now?”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But it’s definitely getting closer.”
“Hold steady, Lachaise.”
The stranger stood over Laplante.
“Where did you get these?” he demanded, holding Laplante by the neck.
“Let him go,” Lachaise inched closer to the stranger.
“In a moment I am going to break both of your arms,” the stranger said to Lachaise. He let go of Laplante and lifted Lachaise off the ground, throwing him against the countertop where both of his arms broke.
“They left,” hollered Laplante. “They were here but they left.”
“Shut up, Laplante. Don’t tell him anything,” Lachaise wheezed before the stranger put his boot in his back.
“They left about an hour ago. They’ll be back.”
“Where did they go?”
“Out—”
The pair heard the bell above the door. Laplante curled his wiry arms around his friend. “We have to go Lachaise. I have to get you out of here.”
“I can’t move, Laplante.”
25
HENRY AND L WALKED TOGETHER FROM THE TOWER. In winter when darkness seemed to permanently shroud the city, there were the odd days like this when it was brighter than the clearest summer day. Light came from every direction, reflected off the snow and windows, making it almost impossible to see. They walked along squinting their eyes. Ahead, everything seemed to glow white.
As they continued, needing and wanting to say nothing at all, marking deep footprints in the layer of snow covering the sidewalk, a sound began to trickle through the street. Neither Henry nor L noticed it until it grew slowly into a massive wave, deepening and widening into the chanting and drumbeat of a mass of people approaching them. Even without the snow, which drifted up to their knees at certain points, it would’ve been impossible for any traffic to pass on the str
eet with a swell of people this large moving towards them. L tightened her grip on Henry’s arm and leaned her face into his shoulder as people swarmed past them. It was almost impossible not to get pulled into the current of this tide of bodies and banners. Henry and L stood still.
The transit workers’ strike had unexpectedly grown into a much wider struggle now involving other municipal workers, students, homeless people, nurses and construction workers. Some threw their voices into the air, and others walked silently.
And there were Henry and L.
Two heads in a sea of moving bodies.
“I suppose we’re not the only ones who have a problem with this place,” said Henry.
“Maybe they’re striking against winter,” said L with a smile, while another thick swell of bodies marched past them. For awhile they just stood there. For L, it was one of the few times the cries of humans felt soothing and she smiled at the passersby and they smiled back. But not Henry. He stood motionless, wondering what had become of his energy. If he had recalled to himself a time when in his younger days he also marched through the streets demanding a better life, as these people were doing, he might have found a reason to move forward with them. The signs he watched pass were the same he watched pass decade after decade. At times people had stopped in for a coffee or hot chocolate to fuel them through the cold days, or cold water for hot days, or to kindly allow this child or that child to use the bathroom. At other times, though rare, young people came in asking for empty bottles, which they filled with gasoline to illuminate the streets with their bright ideas. Not once in all these years did Henry march with any of these people who seemed to share the same anguish for the city, but he had at least never refused any of their requests. That was his contribution, he assured himself, as he stood idle in the crowd. If he had done nothing that gave him meaning in his life, nor given meaning to someone else, he at least fed one who had, or had given water to someone who was willing to speak for one who could not. He had ignited his own small fire, or at least provided the empty bottle for it.
L clung firmly to Henry’s arm and wore an enthusiasm he hadn’t seen before. “This is romantic. These people are alive. They want to change things,” she said. “There’s beauty in that. There’s romance in that.”