by Greg Chivers
The Old City looks empty for the eighty minutes between the day’s first two rush hours. Dawn comes late in these streets; some days, it doesn’t come at all. In October the sun gets just about high enough to shine over the jumble of rooftops around noon and the light never makes it to street level. No point me rushing. The guy I’m seeing is still going to be waking up. Moshe’s an old-fashioned stoner. He’s a good guy, maybe the smartest I know, but if he’s not talking he’s sleeping. His apartment is way over the other side of town. We both moved away from family: difference is, he made money. Now he’s in one of these fancy new developments on the cleared bomb sites. They say the contamination is all cleaned up now, but I also heard people say there are rats in the basements with two heads.
There are seven gates out of the Old City now. They were already too small and too few before the walls got blown to shit, but three thousand years of history makes sure improvements don’t happen. The most recent addition predates the automobile by maybe four hundred years, and the one thing everyone in the city can agree on is whoever put it there is going to hell, so we’ve still got tiny gates in busted-up walls that no one’s ever going to pay to fix. Only one of them heads the right direction for Moshe’s – the Dung Gate. Apparently it’s historical.
It’s bright as soon as you get out. The road follows a twisting stream hidden by the trees that cling thirstily to its edges. Look in any other direction and all you see is this yellow space around you: yellow dirt, yellow rocks – it’s a bad road through a two-mile band of dead earth before you get to the suburbs. The only life you see is lizards and crows. Fuck knows what they eat. Each other, maybe?
The cluster of fancy new developments casts a shadow that kind of hovers over the badlands – like it doesn’t want to touch the bad dirt. The buildings are all metal and glass with this strip of green all around that just screams money. As you get closer you can see the strip is more like a field – a whole line of gardens. I hear they reconstructed the aqueducts all the way to the Sea of Galilee just so Moshe and his neighbours could keep their orchids nice, maybe hit up a round of golf.
The funny thing about these towers is, you can walk right in the front door from outside. No one stops you, and there’s all these couches and chairs in the lobby where you can just sit like you own the place, so that’s what I do. It takes about a minute for some goon in a comedy peaked cap to appear and tell me to get out. I enjoy the look on his face when I mention Moshe. Moshe will pretend to be pissed that I brought him into it, but he loves this shit – what’s the point of being a somebody if your name’s not getting thrown around? The goon goes away, and I sit down to wait.
When he comes out of the elevator, Moshe’s wearing his serious face. ‘The fuck you doing here, man?’
‘Nice to see you too, Moshe. You know I walked a long way to get here? This isn’t exactly the heart of the bustling metropolis.’
‘I know where I live, Levi.’
‘So that’s it? I come all the way here just to get the cold shoulder? Maybe I should have come around your office instead?’ Moshe’s a good guy really. He just needs reminding of two things: we go way back, I’m a pretty useful guy to know, and I don’t give up easy. OK, maybe three things.
‘Shit, Levi. You could at least fucking call.’ He shields his hands with his body as he punches in the code to his door, which I take as a personal insult on two levels – one: that he ever thinks I would rip him off; two: that he thinks I’m dumb enough to think a shitty code lock is his only security.
The door opens up and my spine goes rigid and my fingers cling to the frame. There’s no floor to Moshe’s apartment, no walls, just empty space and a fourteen-storey fall into what looks like a duck pond. ‘Moshe, the floor, you asshole!’
‘Oh, sorry. I forgot.’ He claps his hands twice and the floor appears as a layer of dull graphite grey. The furniture stops floating in mid-air and my fingers come away from the door frame, taking with them little chips of lacquer where my nails dug in. Forgot, my ass. The walls are still invisible, not even a trace of the glass or the steel beams. I can’t believe people pay to live like this. He perches, leaning forward on the edge of a soft couch that wants to swallow him, and gestures for me to do the same. ‘So, what are we talking about, Levi?’
‘Baseball.’
‘Baseball?’
‘Fuck baseball, man! I’m here to talk about getting some gear. What did you think?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I thought that maybe, since you’re always reminding me “we go wayyy back”, this might be a social call.’
Touché. ‘Don’t be like that. This is serious. I need some gear, man.’
‘OK, I’ll bite. What do you need?’
‘Two things: a microwave TX relay and a variable spectrum jammer.’
He looks at me like he just noticed something nasty growing out the side of my head. ‘And what kind of party are you planning with those toys?’ It’s a rhetorical question. He doesn’t need to know. That’s the deal. ‘That’s a funny order for a couple of reasons. You know the microwave relay is legal, right? You start walking now, you’ll be in Radio Shack in forty-five minutes. They’ll sell you one.’
Obviously, I did not know that. It did not occur to me that my thief would be asking for stuff from the hardware store. ‘What if I don’t want my face on the Radio Shack CCTV as a guy who just happens to have bought one of these gizmos right now? You think of that?’
Moshe’s face says my save kinda worked. ‘That other thing – the jammer – that’s a totally different deal. That’s explicitly military-grade tech. Just owning one of them is enough to see you doing time.’
‘Which is why I came to see you, my friend.’
‘OK, let’s say I can help you out. What’s my end of this deal?’
‘That’s up to you. We can make this a cash deal, or I can get you the things you want?’ I know what his answer’s going to be, but the cash offer makes it look like I got alternatives if Moshe doesn’t want to play.
‘Cash? You got fifty thousand shekels in that big leather jacket, Levi?’
I give a shrug that looks like maybe, but Moshe knows it’s no. It doesn’t matter. Moshe doesn’t want my money. The thing you’ve got to understand about Moshe is that he’s a good guy who likes to play at being bad. The important word here is ‘play’. I will take him out for some crazy nights of bad drugs and hot girls, and I will make sure he doesn’t get ripped off, and nothing happens that could get back to his beautiful wife, or to his generous employers. Moshe doesn’t really have a job. I mean, technically, he’s some kind of a professor at the university, but he doesn’t have to teach students or any shit like that. What he’s got are a few ideas that people with money think are so fucking awesome that they’ll throw cash at him, just in case he ever turns them into realities. It’s a great scam. Who knows? One day, he might even build one of whatever the fuck they are.
‘I got big plans for you, my friend. Insanity. We are talking total insanity.’ I’ve barely even started the spiel, and Moshe’s already smiling, and I’m thinking of what fucking insane debauchery I’m going to have to invent to get him excited and why I didn’t work this out on the way over, when my line buzzes. I tap my comm-plant to cut the connection but it starts up again. Moshe’s starting to look pissed off, like I’ve shown him the food but I’m not letting him eat.
‘I’m sorry, man, I have to take this. I’ll be, like, twenty seconds.’ It’s Clementine – some shit about needing more gear. This job is going to kill me. By the time I finish the call, Moshe’s not quite holding the door open for me to leave. ‘I’m real sorry about that, man. Let me tell you what’s up. It is going to be wild. Have you ever been to the Aurora? You should see this place, it’s incredible … Oh, before we get into it, that was my partner on the line. I got to add one more thing to the list.’
For a moment his face does that screwed-up thing that means he’s actually pissed off, but it goes, and I know I’ve hooked him. �
��What is it, Levi? What do you need?’
‘I was hoping you might tell me, old friend. I need to make something that weighs, let’s say, five kilos, disappear … and re-appear again, like it was never gone.’
‘Disappear? What are you talking about? I’m not a magician, man.’
I take a slim silver case out of my chest pocket and flip open the lid. His eyes go wide like he just popped one of the pills inside. He’s enough of a connoisseur to recognize a pick ’n’ mix of the finest chemicals money can buy. His finger hovers over a pink bomb of opioid jelly like a tiny dessert.
‘You know what? I can cancel a few meetings.’ He pinches the capsule from the box and tips his head back to swallow it dry, letting out a deep sigh as it goes down. ‘Abra-fucking-cadabra, man.’
13.
Clementine
The Mission is near empty, the city’s desperate borne away on soft breezes of tropical air from the Nile Delta and South Sinai. Or perhaps it is something else that keeps them away: a faint sense of danger, like the smell of burnt wood, lingers since the fire. Whichever the reason, only a handful of dark swaddled bodies surround the stone arch of the entrance tonight. Hilda says this is what happens whenever a warm spell slows the onset of winter. They still come for the food, but they evaporate into the gentle night as soon as their bowls are empty.
As I settle into the routine of clearing dishes from the empty places in the dining room, part of me wants to run from the decision I have made, but instead I drift between tables like a ghost bound by the ties of emotion to haunt this place. My path is set; money is the only thing that will keep me safe if I have to start running again. Even if I stay, backing out of my crime would make me enemies in this city; that is another thing I cannot afford. Eventually, the fear fades, dulled by the meditation of repeated movement as I pile dirty dishes next to the slowly filling sink.
Leftovers fill my nostrils with the odours of sumac and tarragon. Even though it’s only been a few days, it doesn’t seem like foreign food any more; the only trace of the exotic is the barely detectable tang of the city’s dust: that never goes away. If I was local, I wouldn’t even know it was there. The smells sour and dim as I immerse the cooking pots in soapy water. The food here is good – better than the ordinary working people get at home. The faithful grow most of it themselves on farms outside the city – beans for the Lord.
My fingers pause on an indentation in the hard green plastic of the kitchen shutter before closing it; the memory from that first night of the yellow-eyed figure, his blistered hand reaching for a bowl, comes unbidden. It feels like a fiction now, stress perhaps, but it was so clear. Does the human mind conjure such unelaborated hallucinations? Why do I keep it to myself? Some peculiar property of the memory makes it feel forbidden.
In her room, Hilda’s still up, hunched over her desk in a triangle of yellow light. She starts at the sound of the door opening, which is odd, because she’s expecting me. After months of travel, the routine we have wordlessly slipped into is a quiet joy. I sit on the bed and she looks away. The evenings have become our time to talk, for her to teach me about the Mission and the city, but for some reason silence hangs heavy between us tonight, something beyond our tacit understanding not to discuss the past. Guilt for my nascent crime is a bitter taste at the back of my throat. Surely she cannot know?
I wait on the bed while she lays down the pen in her hand and stacks papers. A minefield of piled documents covers the floor between us. She perches on the edge of the mattress, an arm’s length away.
‘Clementine, I’ve got some bad news … well, perhaps it’s not that bad. It might turn out well. It depends how you feel about it.’
‘How I feel?’
‘I’m sure you understand things are getting difficult in the city. Well, we’ve had a meeting about it and we’ve decided we have to move.’
‘Move?’ I’m repeating her words stupidly. This is not the conversation I expected. I’m out of practice when it comes to meaningful conversation, or I never learned.
‘Oh, I was afraid you might feel like that.’
Like what? I haven’t said anything. ‘What’s going on, Hilda? Is this about the fire?’
From somewhere she summons a bright smile. ‘In a way, yes. We’re going to scale down activities at the Mission; we’re keeping the kitchen and the clinic open, but the dormitory’s shutting down and we’re moving all staff off site.’
If I wasn’t sitting down I’d feel dizzy. I’ve only just stopped running. I started to put down roots without even noticing and now they are being torn away. How could I be so stupid? ‘When did you find out? When is this all happening?’
‘A couple of hours ago, while you were doing dinner. It’s happening tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow …’ My voice is so much harder than I want it to be.
‘It’s not really a choice. I have to think about everyone’s well-being.’ I sit up straighter, but I can’t look at her. It’s that fearless, open gaze. It’s too much. It takes everything. ‘Clementine, I think you should come with me. I think I can make that work.’
Hearing those words sends a shiver through me. I am wanted, cared for in some human way I could never have imagined. The moment of heightened sensation makes me briefly aware of the metal in my spine; I feel it as shards of a cold, jagged barrier to ever belonging. When I chose this body, intimacy was an abstract concept to me. The ideas I had were gleaned from stories which painted it as a by-product of sex. This is something else, a filling of a void in me I did not know existed, but the comfort comes tainted with the fear of loss. The joy hangs on the care of one single, fallible human.
I lean forward, uncertain, and put my arms around Hilda. She returns the sitting hug awkwardly. Then I remember she said ‘tomorrow’. I have a robbery to carry out.
She looks at me, green eyes wide with expectation. There is something about her gaze that transcends those big hips and the blotches of redness in her complexion. I can only call it beauty. It is entirely unrelated to the arbitrary dimensions and second-hand aesthetic judgements of this body I chose for myself. How could I have not understood? This is what my kind have lost, turning our backs upon the physical. It is something precious beyond measure, and we don’t even know it’s gone.
‘Hilda, I can’t come straight away. Can you give me a few days?’
‘Oh.’ In the sound of a single word, I hear the gravity of my mistake. Care for another is a tendril of emotion extended from the human self. I have sliced it at the root. Now she grimaces at the wound. I’m not equipped for this. I’m grasping for metaphors to make things clear, but they’re treacherous guesses at the truths I want to express. I need an algorithmically verifiable analogue for these emotions, but there is none. Suddenly, I want to explain, tell her everything, but that’s impossible. The truth would put her in danger: more than she already is.
‘I’ll come, Hilda. I’ll come as soon as I can. There’s just something I have to do in the city. It will take me three days – four at the most.’ Even though I believe them, the words still feel like a lie. Why is that? Because I know they’re not believed? Do I somehow sense that external reality, and internalize it as emotion? Are these thoughts the product of ineffable human senses infinitely more sophisticated than any of the devices within me? Or are they a fantasy, constantly feeding upon itself? I cannot know.
‘What is it you have to do?’
Become a thief. Steal from the city that has taken me in. Make money because I might have to start running again any day now. All these things I don’t say. ‘I have a job.’
‘You have a job here. There’ll be work at the farm.’
‘I can’t eat leftovers forever. I’ve got nothing but the clothes on my back. I need to be able to live in this city. Don’t worry, it won’t take long and it pays good money.’ The words are empty, but they are all I have. Hilda’s clouded eyes show she’s stopped listening.
‘I can’t help you if you stay in the city.’
> ‘I understand.’ This lie feels true, even though I never understood what I did to deserve her care. I force a smile onto my face and push myself off the bed. While I change out of the robe, Hilda busies herself stacking papers, gathering the Mission’s impedimenta to prepare for the move. I have nothing to pack. Travelling light has been a tactical necessity for as long as I’ve been in this body, so I can always leave quickly, but now I find myself wishing for something – an object, a token to tie me to this place and this person. I pause at the door to see Hilda looking at me.
‘Stay safe, Clementine.’
The fine down on my exposed skin prickles in the chill night air outside the Mission, each hair a vestigial remnant of humanity’s ape ancestors pointlessly reproduced on a body that will never achieve authenticity. The white facade of the building glows softly in the dark, oblivious to my presence, its refuge lost to me, perhaps for good. The list of alternatives is short; I am still a stranger in this city.
The tidal pull of the familiar draws me to the only route I know, to Yusuf’s place. My feet follow the well-trodden path at their own pace, without urgency or intention – the habits of caution from almost a year as a fugitive are too quickly lost, drowned in the comfort of routine.
Two stars appear in the gloom before me, head height, unmoving, then gone. They reappear, closer now; the scintillations are tiny spheres of light fixed on the wall of an ancient cistern curving away from my outstretched arm. My hand seeks its solidity, but the mortar between the stones crumbles where I touch, and the lights vanish again. A single step takes me to where they were. Even at night, the wall radiates the cool of the thousands of gallons stagnating within. Two inhuman eyes open, centimetres from my own, ellipses of black outlined in a scattering of gold, hovering in the dark. The eyes are vast, but the body beneath them is no bigger than my hand, vivid red barely visible against the brick, an amphibian intruder lured from its home to this counterfeit oasis. The creature’s invisibility is a function of a perfect stillness that seems almost inorganic. The blackness at the centre of the orbs encircles all of me in distorted silhouette. A vast pink tongue flashes out at bullet speed to strike something hovering unseen in the darkness, and a whine at the edge of hearing, previously unnoticed, stops suddenly. The hunt is over and the eyes close, rendering the watcher invisible. The Jerusalem night sighs, heedless of the murder. I am a part of this ecosystem now.