Make Me a City

by Jonathan Carr

  * * *

  I must be going mad. What am i doing? it was going fine until i started with Gus. Must rewrite from plates XXX to XLI. also remember to check I kept any refs to myself “neutral.” don’t want to lie, but don’t want to tell the whole truth either. make sure there is no stray “she” or “her” in there. Wouldn’t do, would it, for people to know a weakly woman had taken these plates, something perverted and Against Nature in the proposition. Unless I called myself Blenda, but only the Swedes would understand. Check I don’t sound too familiar with Gus. always MR. SWANSON.

  1886

  AN AMERICAN

  I AM ALWAYS waking early, but this morning there is much noise at the door. Open up, open up, they cry. Two police in blue caps are outside. They say come with us to the station. Now. I must be bringing papers. No possibility for to change into other clothes.

  In the station they take me into one small room with a table and chair. I ask why am I here. They lock the door and go away. I wait. When I think why am I here, what for, I catch only straws in my hand.

  I don’t know how many hours before they come back. Another man is come with them. This is the police captain. He brings a newspaper. He sits on the chair by the desk. He asks questions.

  My name is Gus Swanson, I reply. In age I am forty-six years. My parents are died long time before. My sister is living in New York. Yes, I am a citizen of America. Here are the papers.

  No, sir, I not saying I am born in America. I am saying I am a citizen of America. Yes, it is true I am born in Sweden. But I came to America when I was very young.

  One of the two police behind my back pokes me with his stick. You are not American, says the captain with a bad smile. You are born in Sweden, yes? Then you are a foreigner. Understand? It is foreigners that bring trouble to America.

  I don’t answer nothing to that. The captain asks me, have I a wife? No, I am not married up to this time, sir, I reply. But I am married today.

  The police behind my back hits me on the shoulder. Answer the question, Squarehead, he says. I hear him spit to the floor. The police captain still is smiling in the bad way. I say this is true. I am not married now, but I am married today at twelve o’clock.

  My wife her name is Miss Sofia Alfsson. She is American. Yes, her name is foreign. No, it is not German. Also it is a Swedish name. But she was born in America, sir. She was born in Chicago.

  The captain asks me what am I doing one week before? One week before, I say, this is also Saturday like today. It was May 1. The day of the march. I tell him I went in the Richelieu Hotel to watch the march go past on South Michigan.

  Do you know that march, what it was for? asks the captain. Yes, sir, I know. They want to make an eight-hour working day. No, I did not go in the march myself, sir.

  Miss Alfsson is a photographer. I am helping her with the photographs on May 1. I make for her a darkroom. I cleaned the glass plates and put on them collodion and then they must go into silver nitrate for three minutes.

  The captain says I am telling lies. No woman can be taking photographs. I answer nothing. Now I understand what is happening. It does not matter what I say, they will not believe me.

  The police behind hits me in the back. I am hurting but I pretend it is nothing. Why he does that to me, I ask the captain. Because you don’t tell the truth, his reply. You don’t tell us you have your own company. And this your company built the Richelieu Hotel.

  This is true, I reply, that Swanson & Co. is my company. It was started by my uncle but he is retired. Also it is true I was having the contract with the Richelieu Hotel. This is why I proposed to Miss Alfsson, that we go there to make photographs of the march.

  There are in your company Germans, yes, asks the captain?

  We have workers coming from different countries, I reply. This is normal. Some of them are living for a long time in Chicago, some not so long. When the captain asks this question, I fear I know what he is thinking.

  You miss the question, he says.

  No, sir. I don’t miss the question. We have some workers coming from Germany, the same we have workers from …

  He asks do I like Germans.

  Yes, I am liking Germans, I say. They are good workers. But I like all my workers, even they are not German.

  The captain makes a big sigh to show he does not believe me. Now he is asking where I am Tuesday last at night.

  I reply I am at the house of Miss Alfsson’s parents. They live on Tenth Street. We are doing preparations for the wedding. Yes, sir, of course I know what happened in Haymarket Square on Tuesday night. A bomb was thrown. We listened the explosion.

  The captain again he says, You were there, wasn’t it? No, I was not there, I say. Already I tell you I was at the house of Miss Alfsson’s parents on Tenth Street. So it is not possible for me also to be on Haymarket Square.

  The captain smacks the desk with his hand. Only you answer the question, understand? Then the captain says do I know a Swedish man was making dynamite? I say yes, I heard this. But I never saw dynamite, I say, not even once in my life. I don’t know how it is looking or how it is made. I am a builder, Captain. That is all. I don’t know someone who is making dynamite. No, I never met a Swedish called Mr. Nobel.

  The captain says if I know how many policemen were died on Haymarket Square? From the newspaper, I answer, I read seven policemen were died. No, I don’t know the number for injured. Sixty, sir? That is very bad, I agree. I ask the captain how many other people died.

  He smacks the desk again. Only you answer the question, understand?

  Yes, Captain, I say. But policemen shot people in the crowd with their guns. Not only policemen died at Haymarket. He is not listening me. He is showing me headlines on the front page of the newspaper. You know these men. They are friends to you, yes? The names he is meaning are Spies and Parsons. They are friends to you, yes, the anarchists?

  No, I say. I never see these men in my life.

  You also are an anarchist, yes?

  No, I say. I am no anarchist.

  You are friends to the anarchists, yes?

  No, I am not.

  You are lying.

  I am not lying.

  Even though I know the police are behind me, I am not ready when they attack. One knocks over my chair and pulls my arms behind my back. I fall on the floor. The man spits to my face. Liar, he shouts. You know Spies. You know Parsons. You know Engel. You know Fischer. You are friends with Germans. You are an anarchist.

  No, I say. I never see these men. I never talk them. I am not an anarchist.

  If it is true I not know them, why does Swanson & Co. have an eight-hour working day? Explain that, they shout. Explain that, Squarehead. Explain, you fucking Squarehead.

  I try to stay calm but inside my heart is breaking with sadness. These police are like the loggers in St. Clair, all those years before. They are a tribe. Either you are in the tribe, or you are out.

  One police has his hand on my throat and it is hard to speak. I tell them we have an eight-hour working day at Swanson & Co. for two years already. Happy workers work good. I know nothing about the strikes or Germans or anarchists or the Haymarket bomb.

  Lying Squarehead, shouts one police. He punches me at the eye. I feel the pain like a dizziness. The other is spitting to me and kicking my stomach. The captain is watching. I taste blood. I am panting for breath. The captain plays with his pen. He says: You are a foreigner and a Swedish and we are watching you. We know you and your friends make the dynamite for Spies and Parsons. We will catch you and you will hang.

  When the captain speaks like this, I have the feeling that sometimes happens when I am on top of a metal skeleton. I am strong and filled by power. From the time in St. Clair, the danger of falling makes me feel free. I have no afraid in my heart. At the top of the skeleton, I take in charge my destiny. This is how I feel when I decide to listen no more to the captain’s lies.

  I tell him he is wrong to speak like that to me. I am American the
same as him, the same it says in my papers, the same like everyone else that come to America to live here their lives.

  The captain goes silent when I begin to speak. Maybe he is surprised. Maybe he feels my new power. He is not smiling. The other police want to grab me, but the captain says no.

  I tell him it is wrong to use Haymarket for the excuse to attack foreigners. I tell him it is wrong to start calling Americans like me a foreigner, because I am born in another country. Captain, I say, I don’t like anarchists. They are dangerous. And I don’t like the police when they behave like this. They also are dangerous. Tribes divide a country. So if you believe in the future of America, captain, you must stop making tribes.

  The captain stares at me, and I stare back. I do not care what he does, and he is feeling this. This is the power that comes when you take in charge your destiny. I am free to go, he says.

  On the street, I feel bruised but I am happy too. There is blood on my clothes. My eye is swelling where they punched me. I walk fast as I can to Tenth Street because I am married today.

  I am not easy in a frock coat. The boiled shirt is stiff at the collar. Sofia bought me new pantaloons. The parlor is very full and hot. The air runs sweet with perfume of the ladies and pipe smoke and warm brännvin. There are small plates of pickled herring and dumplings.

  Sofia is wearing black. This is the Swedish custom. A black blouse with a white collar and a black skirt. But she has no veil or bridal crown, and that is not the custom. She holds a bouquet of flowers. She smiles the same smile when she takes a photograph on the metal skeleton. It is encouraging of me.

  I cannot believe I am married today. All these years, I have only my work. And then Sofia arrive like a Småland girl from long time ago. Strong and beautiful, with straight blonde hair. A woman taking photographs that not even a man dares to try. I am the most lucky man I know.

  We eat lunch at the Boston Oyster House. This is favorite for Americans. The table is beautiful. A long white tablecloth. Bronze candlestick holders. Vases full with purple sage flowers. A gleaming silver plate at each place, with six holders for the oyster shells. There is one seat at the table end. Sofia says this the place I must sit.

  We eat Rockaways, Blue Points and Shrewsburys. We eat them fried and broiled. We eat them with different sides, dressings and sauces, with celery, mushroom, butter, cream and parsley. I like best the Cotuit. This is poached in sherry and butter sauce, and sprinkling on bread crumbs.

  Down here we are closed off from the city outside and its troubles. Those troubles will pass. I am certain of this. I look around my new family with happiness in my heart. And when they call Speech Speech, I am ready and on my feet.

  I begin: Friends, Chicagoans, Countrymen.

  1893–1900

  1893

  THE SMILING GHOST

  STEPHEN WAS IN front of the mirror, combing his mustache, unaware that Billy was about to jump. Taken by surprise, his comb flew out of his hands and he stumbled backward against the chest of drawers. Betty’s bottles of perfumes and Magnolia Balm and Bloom of Youth and Chinese Skin Powder and God knew what else, arranged on top, rattled ominously, but he was lucky. Nothing fell and broke. He landed awkwardly on his back, with a view of the ceiling. Betty had been nagging him about its state. The plasterboard sagged; the paint was yellowed and peeling. Billy laughed and began to ride his belly like a horse. Soon they were galloping into the Wild West, and he was beginning to sweat uncomfortably.

  That was how Betty found them. She swept Billy up in her arms and, with a withering look, slammed the bedroom door behind her. For a moment, he stayed where he was, panting. He remembered how, when he was that age, he used to do exactly what Billy had done whenever his father returned home from the store.

  He heaved himself to his feet. He was dreading the day ahead. He returned to the mirror and resumed his grooming. His cheeks were an unpleasant blotchy red. Must be from Billy’s horse ride, he told himself. He had always taken trouble over his appearance, even in the darkest of times. Feeling smart was a way of maintaining equilibrium. Perhaps that was something he had inherited from his mother. Everyone inherited something from their parents, didn’t they?

  He oiled what was left of his hair before trying to brush it over the bald crown. Even with moisture, it was hard to keep down the curls. He then applied a darkening lotion to his mustache. It was a trick he had learned from John Graves Shedd, the sales genius at Marshall Field. The deeper color made the growth look more substantial. He adjusted the shirt collar, straightened the tie and brushed down his brown wool coat. Both sack suits and check designs were out of fashion, but it was the best he had. He had put on weight, which made it tight at the waist. His Oxfords were also showing signs of age. They were polished well enough, but it was hard to tell they had once been tan-colored. He set his watch in his pocket.

  After checking, with his ear to the door, that Betty was still in the kitchen (there was the scrape of a pan), he knelt down and felt behind the wardrobe. After withdrawing the bottle, he pulled out the cork and tipped it back, finishing what was left in one swallow. He contemplated hiding it behind the wardrobe again, but instead slipped the bottle in his coat’s inside pocket. He rinsed his mouth with a mint and vinegar solution of Betty’s meant to freshen the breath, grimacing when he had to swallow it, before popping in a piece of chewing gum.

  Standing in front of the mirror, he smiled at himself. This was another trick he had learned from John Graves Shedd, who said it was not merely the act of smiling that boosted one’s confidence. Just as important was observing oneself smile. “Today’s going to be my lucky day,” he told his reflection.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to the parlor where he found Jack and Billy on the floor, trying to tug open the lock on his grip. He charged across the room, telling them to stop that at once.

  “There’s no need to shout,” called Betty, from the kitchen.

  “No dear,” he replied. “My mistake.” He raised his eyebrows in a way that made Jack and Billy giggle, as he dragged them away from the grip. “You should know better,” he told Jack, wagging his finger in a way that made them giggle again, “leading your brother on like that.” Jack was eleven; Billy was six.

  “But why can’t we see?” Jack complained.

  He was trying to herd them back to the breakfast table. “Because there’s a secret whim-wham inside,” he whispered. “But ssshhh, don’t tell anyone.”

  “Are there whim-whams at the Fair?”

  “Hundreds of them.”

  “Are there whim-whams at Marble Fills?” asked Billy.

  He laughed. “Yes, there are also whim-whams at Marshall Field.”

  “What’s a whim-wham?” Jack wanted to know.

  “A whim-wham’s a new thing, that’s all. A thing that’s never been seen before.”

  “It sounded like a bockle inside to me,” said Billy.

  “Well, it’s not,” he said, more defensively than he should have done. “It’s a whim-wham to show my customers.”

  “Why won’t you take us to the Fair? Everyone at school’s gone already,” wailed Jack. “I want to go with you to Buffalo Bill’s show. I don’t want to go with Grandpa.” Betty’s father had promised to take them the next weekend.

  “Now, now, Jack. Tell you what. When I get back, that’s the first thing we’ll do. You and Billy and your pa will go to the Fair, all three of us, and we’ll have the day of our lives.”

  “What about Ma?” whined Billy. “Can’t she come too?”

  “Why sure your ma can come too.”

  Betty came in and put a mug of tea on the table for him, a plate with two slices of toast soaked in butter and a wedge of cheese to the side.

  “You’ll come to the White City with us when I get back, won’t you honey?”

  She told the children to come straight back to the table and finish their breakfasts. “Jack, stop drawing.” Sitting down, she nibbled on her own piece of toast. “Must you chew gum at break
fast?” she said, without looking at him.

  He made an “I’ve been caught” face, which made the boys giggle again.

  “I’m sorry, you’re quite right, dear.” He took out the gum and lodged it in a corner of his handkerchief.

  Jack held out the drawing pad to show him his picture. Drawing was the boy’s obsession. This picture showed two figures seated at a table. It took him some moments to work out who they were. The woman crying was Betty. The other person was him.

  Jack was watching him closely. He smiled and patted the boy on the head. “Very good. May I keep it?”

  “Sure,” said Jack.

  He tore the sheet off the pad, folded it and put it in his pocket. Jack had depicted him as a ghost. As a smiling ghost.

  “We’ve run out of tea and coffee,” said Betty. “And I shall need some money to buy kerosene.”

  “Of course, dear.” He helped Billy onto his chair and rubbed his hands together with vigor. “Well, my young soldiers, shall we tuck in?”