Burning City

by Ariel Dorfman

  He didn’t stop even as he sailed over the edge.

  Airborne.

  Heller thought he might actually be flying. He didn’t look down at the sidewalk, just straight ahead, cherishing every moment he could with the view from up there. Weightless. Still pedaling in midair, effortlessly, with no concrete to interfere with his movements. The wind carried him, and Heller truly believed he had finally found the one spot in all of Manhattan that was an even, perfect seventy-five degrees.

  He didn’t even worry about hitting the ground.

  When it happened, he would deal with it.

  Rich Phillips swung around the corner and almost ran straight into Heller.

  Heller was standing alongside his bike in front of 1312 Greenwich Street.

  Rich dragged his heel behind him, came to a stop.

  Heller was calm and collected, looked at Rich offhandedly, as though it was some sort of coincidence they were both there. Heller didn’t budge, and the two remained facing off, as though there were still a race to be won.

  Rich wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around. “So you got here first,” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Rich spat on the ground. “I’m calling this a tie.”

  “How do you figure?”

  Rich pulled out an ambiguously light green card; 4 x 8.

  “I figure I’m the one with the message, Heller.”

  “You’re the one with the card,” Heller corrected him. “Either one of us can deliver the message.”

  “And who’s going to stop me from doing it, bike boy? You?”

  “Rich . . .” Heller took a breath. “It’s already been done.”

  Rich’s face fell. “What?”

  “I already talked to Durim Rukes,” Heller said. “I went up to his place, I sat down, and we had ourselves a little chat. This is me getting on my bike and going back to Soft Tidings after a job well done. . . .”

  Rich’s disbelieving look wavered. “Nobody’s that fast.”

  “I am.”

  “What if I go in there and check anyway?”

  “Sure. If you want to embarrass the company by being the second person to inform Rukes that his wife and kids are dead. . . . I wouldn’t mind Dimitri firing you instead of me.”

  With that, it was clear to both of them that Rich didn’t have it in him to remain skeptical. With his head start, he should have been in and out of that door before Heller had even cleared Fifth Avenue.

  Rich nodded and looked like he was about to say something else. He rolled backward a few feet, holding Heller’s eyes with his own. Then he turned 180 degrees and disappeared around the corner.

  Back the way he came.

  Heller let the moment stretch out for a while longer.

  It felt good. It felt satisfying.

  And it only lasted until Heller got back off his bike and chained it to a tree in front of him. He walked up to building 1312 and searched the buzzers, looking for the right apartment number.

  He found it, pressed down.

  “Hello?” came the splintered voice through the intercom.

  “Mr. Durim Rukes?” Heller asked.

  “Yes, this is him.”

  “Soft Tidings . . .”

  The intercom fell silent, and seconds later, Heller was buzzed in.

  chapter eighteen

  “Damn it,” Heller whispered to himself.

  He was standing outside Soft Tidings, leaning back against the building, baking in the heat, trying to pull himself together. His stomach was growling, matching the diesel trucks that went by in tone and volume. Heller’s whole body was shaking. Dressed in the same clothes as the previous night, wrinkled and dirty, hair a mess.

  It was Sunday. Almost 11:30. The sidewalks were letting their heat drift into the sky, white sunlight returning the favor for everyone walking underneath.

  Durim Rukes had been a tough one.

  Heller closed his eyes, tried to filter out the noise.

  The sounds of tires coming to an abrupt halt, the indignant yells of a driver.

  Heller opened his eyes and saw a young woman in a flowered dress. She was in the middle of the street, carrying a baby, trying to pick up a suitcase off the asphalt. In her other hand and under her arm were two more suitcases. Beige, tattered, and bulging at the sides.

  A cab was halted in front of her, its horn blaring. The cabbie was leaning out the window. He was beating the side of his car with his palm.

  The woman got a handle on the dropped suitcase, made a few paces out of traffic, then dropped all three.

  Heller watched, frozen, as she once again tried to collect her belongings.

  He didn’t move.

  A club promoter for the Limelight walked past, handing out flyers. Approached a pair of clean-shaved teenagers, stopped them just a couple of feet away from the woman, whose baby was starting to cry:

  “Saturday night there’s a party, only fifty dollars with this flyer . . .”

  The teens took the flyer, the promoter continued on his path.

  The woman looked up from her struggle, looked at Heller.

  In the distance, church bells started ringing.

  “We’re all asking for it,” Heller said quietly. He opened the door to Soft Tidings and stepped into the shade.

  Iggy was standing at the bottom of the steps:

  “I figured Durim Rukes would be a difficult one.”

  “What are you doing down here?”

  “I was coming to check on you.”

  Heller frowned. “How did you know I was outside?”

  Iggy turned and walked up the steps.

  Heller followed. “Sorry I was late, Iggy.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. I don’t pay your salary.”

  They walked into the offices. It was dead quiet. Only a few messengers and office assistants. Snail’s pace, even for the approaching lunch hour. Heller was mostly ignored. Garland Green shot him an ugly look from behind an AmericanBride magazine, which he was researching for possible clients. A select few bothered to say hello for the first time since Heller had started working there. He realized that he didn’t know any of their names.

  Iggy sat down at his desk. “Did you write out a receipt, get a signature from Rukes?”

  Heller reached into his pocket and handed Iggy a slip of paper.

  Iggy looked at it. “. . . This says ‘Ham in fridge.’ ”

  Heller stood to one side as Iggy called over a courier and handed him his charge for the day. Heller watched the messenger go, went back to staring at Iggy.

  Iggy looked up from the computer screen with an innocent look.

  “Yes, Heller?”

  “Got any work for me?”

  Iggy thought about it. “No.”

  “Have I been fired?”

  “Once again, I don’t pay your salary, so I can’t very well fire you.”

  “So . . .”

  “So we don’t have any messages for you to deliver.”

  Heller blinked. “What do you mean, no messages?”

  “I said, no messages for you.” Iggy picked up a few forms and went through them: “Anniversary, fifty years married. Birthday, little Jane is getting a pony. Birth, blond hair, blue eyes. Graduation, degree in poli science. Marriage, Travis and Kathy. Son paroled, ha— Do you want any of these?”

  Heller didn’t answer.

  “You look terrible, Heller.”

  “No messages?”

  “Terrible but older. At least a few years.”

  “Nobody else from that boat wreck?”

  Iggy smirked. “Let’s see if I can’t make things better.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of money, and offered it to Heller.

  Heller took the money suspiciously.

  “You earned me a hundred and fifty dollars this morning,” Iggy said. “And you were the one doing all the work. Your cut is seventy-five.”

  Heller looked down at the money, not entirely believing it
was there.

  “You’re the best, Heller. Though I suspect you won’t be working here much longer.”

  “What?”

  The intercom buzzed. Dimitri’s voice cracked through the speaker:

  “Heller, can I see you, please?”

  Iggy looked up at Heller, raised his eyebrows.

  Heller pocketed his money. “To the Grand Tour.”

  “To the Grand Tour,” Iggy agreed.

  Heller went to Dimitri’s door, opened it.

  “Heller?” Iggy called over his shoulder.

  Heller turned.

  “What the hell does that mean, anyway?”

  A shrug of the shoulders and Heller was back in Dimitri’s office for the second time since his sixteenth birthday.

  chapter nineteen

  The television was on mute. A documentary about Reagan and the Cold War.

  Dimitri sat at his desk, wearing dark sunglasses.

  Heller sat across from him, wishing he had a pair of his own. Dimitri was drinking a bottle of Sprite. He took quick sips, returning the cap to its resting place each time. After the fourth nip he slid the bottle over to rest in front of Heller, made a motion to suggest Heller should try some.

  Heller unscrewed the cap, took a swig.

  Gagged, tasting an acrid bitterness under it all.

  He put the bottle down, slid it back over to Dimitri.

  Dimitri took another sip, leaned back in his chair.

  “Did you know that vodka is supposed to be tasteless?” he asked.

  Heller shook his head, wiping his mouth.

  “But it isn’t,” Dimitri continued. “It has a definite flavor. An elixir disguised as water.”

  “You and Iggy talk exactly alike sometimes.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  Heller paused.

  Dimitri’s face was serious, inquisitive.

  “What did I say to Iggy?” Heller asked.

  “What did you say to Durim Rukes?” Dimitri leaned forward, arms on the desk. “He saved for years and years for his family to join him and now . . . What is it about you? What do you do in there?”

  “I don’t know what I do,” Heller answered, uncomfortable.

  “What could an American kid possibly say to ease their pain?”

  Heller felt a twinge of impatience, didn’t need this sort of thing on top of his headache and the moans from his stomach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, you are American.”

  “I don’t know what it means to be American.”

  “And I don’t know how you could possibly understand their pain.”

  “I think very few of the people I visit understand their pain. . . .” Heller spoke with a deliberate confidence. “I think very few people in general understand their pain.”

  “Then what do you say to make it better?”

  “Do you understand your pain?” Heller continued.

  “I only want to know what you say—”

  “What do you need to hear from me to feel better?”

  Dimitri stared at Heller incredulously. His fingers stiffened around the Sprite bottle, and the plastic made light crumpling sounds under the pressure.

  Heller was surprised at himself. His heart was pounding in tandem with his head. He was having trouble keeping his breath regular, wondered where all that had come from. The Reagan documentary continued playing on the television, images flickering in an electronic fireplace.

  Dimitri’s grip relaxed, and his face returned to its regular status as employer: “I would be very curious to come along on your next assignment.”

  “When was the last time you rode a bike?”

  “Rollerblades, Heller.” Dimitri’s voice was past asking. “Don’t tell me you have something better to spend those seventy-five dollars on.”

  “Well, I can guarantee you, it won’t be an elixir disguised as water.”

  Dimitri drew in his breath. . . .

  There was a knock on the door, a turn of the knob, and Iggy popped his head in. “Someone to see you, Heller.”

  “Police?” Dimitri asked. His tone was as hopeful as it was apprehensive.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Dimitri nodded, turned to Heller with a genuine scowl. “Close the door behind you.”

  Heller got up, turned, walked into the main offices.

  Benjamin Ibo was standing there.

  Heller stopped short, recognizing him, unsure how to place Benjamin outside of his apartment. He looked around. A few of the other employees had stopped to stare.

  Benjamin was dressed in a black suit. White shirt, black tie, white socks, black shoes, old and dusty. His face was solemn, quiet features drawing more and more attention with each passing second of silence.

  “I just got off the plane,” Benjamin explained.

  Not much Heller could say yet.

  “I just got back from Nigeria. . . . The funeral was yesterday. . . .”

  The entire office was watching.

  “Or today,” Benjamin continued. “I’m still not sure, what with the time switch. Perhaps the funeral is actually tomorrow and I will have another last chance to see my mother’s face again.”

  Benjamin took a few steps forward, stood face to face with Heller.

  “Last week, I wasn’t able to thank you properly. . . .”

  All those eyes. It was a first for Soft Tidings. Most of the messengers never delivered the sort of news Heller did, and none of the office hands had ever laid eyes on a single client. Heller could feel their wonder resting on his shoulders.

  “I’m sorry . . . ,” Heller stammered. “I . . . don’t know—”

  “It’s all right,” Benjamin assured, holding out a necklace. “I know you are the messenger, and I know she would have wanted you to have this. . . .”

  At the end of the necklace was a black stone, carved into the shape of a palm nut.

  Heller hesitated.

  “It brings good luck,” Benjamin told him.

  “I don’t need good luck.”

  “How many times a day do you tell yourself you need oxygen to live? It’s easy to forget what’s all around you, Eshu.”

  Heller reached out, stopped.

  He took the necklace.

  “Thank you,” Heller said.

  “Thank you,” Benjamin insisted. “For everything.”

  “I really didn’t say all that much,” Heller mumbled.

  “You said very little,” Benjamin concurred. “That was enough, Eshu.”

  He gave a light bow and walked out.

  Heller put the necklace on, felt its tug.

  A phone rang somewhere in the office.

  Slowly the office started up again.

  “Hey, Heller,” Iggy said. “Who’s Eshu?”

  “Huh?”

  “That guy called you Eshu.”

  “I don’t know what he was talking about.”

  “Huh,” Iggy said. “Well, we still got no work for you. Go grab some lunch, do some goddamn thing before anything else happens around here, Heller—if that is your real name.”

  Heller reached into his pocket, pulled out his picture of Silvia reading her book. Looking at her more closely under the office lights, he noticed she was reading Don Quixote. An old copy, yellow edge to the pages.

  He turned to Iggy. “Iggy, can you find me a book dealer named Velu?”

  “It’s possible,” Iggy said, hitting a few keystrokes on his computer. “Who does he work for?”

  “I don’t know. . . . He supplies books for a street vendor named Salim Adasi.”

  “Street vendor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I can’t help you.”

  “Why?”

  “Sounds like your ‘book vendor’ is an illegal immigrant, my friend. And on the subject of illegal, your ‘book dealer,’ Velu, is probably a thief.”

  Heller wasn’t buying it. “Thief?”

  “Street vendors don’t always get their own boo
ks. Sometimes they get them from a fence. These are guys who know people who work for major book distributors at the warehouse level. They also know the guys who do the ground-level paperwork, so they can skim a few books off the top, sell them on the streets, and make a bit of change.”

  Heller felt caught, bit his lip.

  “Don’t worry,” Iggy said, smiling, going back to his work. “The last thing a guy like you needs to worry about is arrest by association. I can’t believe that bike of yours hasn’t already been impounded.”

  It didn’t make Heller feel any better. “So how am I supposed to find this guy?”

  “Salim or Velu?”

  “Either,” Heller said innocently.

  “I don’t know, Heller,” Iggy answered with an exasperated sigh. “I’m busy. Go see your girlfriend or something. Just leave me alone.”

  “I need to find Salim first,” Heller muttered.

  “Then go find Salim,” Iggy said absently, staring at his monitor. It was clear to Heller that Iggy was going to be of no further help. He looked back to Dimitri’s office. The door was open a crack and closed abruptly. Not fast enough for Heller to miss his boss looking at him. Not fast enough for Heller to miss the look on Dimitri’s face. The same face he’d seen in Creole Nights.

  Yes—an elixir disguised as water.

  chapter twenty

  When Heller walked out of the Soft Tidings building, the woman with the three suitcases and baby was gone. Just a steady flow of traffic and a few Chinatown residents.

  He wheeled his bike down the street slowly, looking around as though searching for something with great deliberation. The sun was high in the sky, saturating the city with light and leaving few places for shadows to breathe.

  Heller squinted.

  Sitting on a bench in Washington Square with a one-liter bottle of water.

  The park was brimming. Heller looked across the way. Some players were kicking a soccer ball around. Blues man playing his guitar nearby, seated with strangers, all bobbing their heads to their own memories. The old folks in white slacks and gray caps playing boccie ball. Dogs chasing each other in circles, darting from place to place on instinct, owners’ futile efforts to command some sort of obedience. Children splashing in the fountain. All around, sunbathers and the homeless lying down with closed eyes.