Burning City

by Ariel Dorfman

  “Smoke, kid, smoke,” came the swift words of a passing dealer.

  Heller shook his head.

  “All right, man,” and the dealer kept on his way.

  Nobody else spoke to Heller. Nobody recognized him off his bike.

  Heller watched a pair of grown men dueling with long wooden swords. The two danced their way across the park, their eyes serious. The sound of wood smacking wood echoed off the distant buildings. One of them managed to score a hit. They stopped and bowed down, face to face.

  Then kept right on going.

  Heller pulled out the picture of Silvia again.

  “Heller, you’re alive. . . .”

  Heller looked up and saw Lucky and Janet the bartender. Lucky was dressed in what appeared to be the same clothes he had been wearing last night. He looked a bit tired. Janet looked fresh and energetic, yelling at some kids across the way.

  “Lucky.” Heller smiled.

  “Janet and I were just going to get a drink,” Lucky said.

  “Scotch and water and a Bloody Mary!” Janet sang, delivering a kung fu kick to an imaginary opponent.

  “You want to come along?” Lucky asked.

  The thought of more alcohol made Heller gag. “No. No, thank you, I’m . . .”

  “You looking for Salim?”

  Heller was impressed. Lucky must have guessed, as he went right ahead with: “I can just tell. Very good at knowing what people are about. It’s a gift. Just about my only one.”

  “Have you ever been wrong?”

  Lucky thought about it, took a flask out of his pocket, took a pull. He smacked his lips. “Yes. A few times, yeah . . . but I don’t plan to make the same mistakes again, believe me.”

  “Can you plan that sort of thing?”

  “Nope. All faith, trust.”

  Janet laughed. “You’re so full of crap, Lucky! I’ll see you at the bar.”

  She walked away, ponytailed hair waving goodbye to them both.

  “Janet’s really got my number,” Lucky mused.

  “I guess . . .” Heller put the picture of Silvia back in his pocket. “So . . . do you know where I can find Salim?”

  “Nope. If I were you I’d ask Velu.”

  “Do you know where I can find Velu?”

  “Nope. If I were you I’d ask them.”

  Lucky pointed out of the park, across the street. In front of the NYU library, a few book vendors were stationed at their tables, trying to capture the interest of the summer students.

  “Would they know?” Heller asked.

  “It’s a start.” Lucky shrugged and wandered off abruptly.

  Heller opened his mouth to call out his farewell to Lucky’s back. Instead, he wheeled his bike across the street and began asking questions.

  He found Velu outside the Barnes and Noble on Astor Place. Velu was sitting by the loading truck, watching a fresh delivery of books arrive, talking to a B&N employee and one of the truck drivers.

  Heller kept his distance, suspicious. He bought a hot dog from a nearby stand.

  Velu and the other two looked at their watches, nodded to one another. With a subtle wave, Velu turned and walked up toward the 6 train station.

  Heller caught up with him at the entrance, called out his name.

  Velu turned, pleased. “Heller. You’re alive.”

  Heller regarded him carefully. “That’s what everyone’s saying.”

  “How are you?”

  “I was looking for Salim.”

  “Try Christopher Street, near the 1/9 train.”

  “All right, thanks.” Heller realized he was still holding a hot dog. “You want this? I’m not hungry.”

  Velu took it with a smile.

  A crowd of people filed out from the train station, almost knocking Heller over as he waited for the lights to change. He made his apologies, crossed the street.

  Salim was sitting at his table of books, engrossed in Murder on the Orient Express. He looked completely unaffected by the previous night. It was good to see him.

  “Have you figured out who did it?”

  “I found something better.” Salim looked up without a trace of surprise. “A wonderful expression: ‘beat around the bush.’ ”

  “Do you know what it means?”

  “No.”

  Putting on a note of playful eloquence, Heller answered, “To postpone. To elude the conclusion by trying to stretch the present out as far as possible.”

  Salim grinned. “I like it.”

  “Do you understand it?”

  “I do, but you don’t.”

  “My head hurts.”

  Salim held up a finger. “I have something that might help.”

  He reached under his table. After searching through a few crates, Salim popped back up with a copy of Don Quixote. He offered it to Heller without a word. Heller took the book gingerly. He looked down at it, gave it a few light hefts, looked up.

  “Salim . . . ? What, exactly, does Velu do?”

  “Ah.” Salim understood.

  “Well, I mean . . . I guess you know what I mean.”

  “Heller, I could work for numerous places.” Salim’s words came out in a steady flow. “It would still be illegal either way, and I have no problem telling you why; but I think you already know my status in this country.”

  “I do.”

  “And if I did take money from a legitimate businessman, still, not a cent of that would go to the government, Social Security. I would still have no insurance. But whoever I work for would know my secret. There are many like me all over the city working in kitchens, storerooms, even in the schools. And they take the money because it is all they will get, and because they have put their trust in their employer that they will not be reported. But say a worker asks for more pay or sees something he shouldn’t—I have known many who trusted the wrong people and were forced back to where they came from.”

  “You can’t go back to Turkey?”

  “I don’t choose to put my trust in anybody like that,” Salim said, ignoring the question. “I have no problems with what I do. Last year over half a million copies of the Koran were sold in this country. I sold three. People are still reading. More importantly, others like me, with no money, are reading. . . . And I know my secret is safe with Velu.”

  “You trust him?” Heller asked quietly.

  “Sometimes it is better to trust a thief than your best friend.”

  Heller coughed, bit his lip, embarrassed.

  “You understand,” Salim told him, pointing to the book. “Now open your book.”

  Heller opened the book, looked through it. The illustrations were stark and nightmarish, drawn from a world Heller found eerily familiar. Monsters, ogres, knights and battles, a never-ending fight. On the final page, Don Quixote lying in a bed, old and dying. His few friends and faithful servants gathered around, faces contorted in anguish, Sancho’s tears spilling liberally down his face.

  Black-and-white print.

  “After so many illusions and wanderings, the madman dies in his bed,” Salim said. “The price of sanity.”

  Heller felt his throat tighten, looked around, suddenly sure they were all seconds away from death. Nothing. Just the traffic and pedestrian activities of a Manhattan Sunday.

  The feeling wouldn’t leave.

  “Heller?”

  Heller closed the book with an abrupt snap. “Do you know who Eshu is, Salim?”

  “Eshu?”

  “Eshu . . . from Nigeria, I think.”

  “I do not.”

  “You don’t know?”

  Salim raised his hands defensively. “Do you expect me to know everything?”

  “No, but I just thought—yes, you’re supposed to know everything!”

  “Sadly, today I can only offer Cervantes.”

  “Here’s what, though.” Heller played with the chain to his newly acquired necklace. “This is the third gift I’ve received today, and it just seems a bit—”

  “Who sa
id anything about a gift?” Salim interrupted, that sly look playing on his face. “. . . Seven dollars.”

  Heller smiled, feeling of dread held in check once again. “All right, but that’s my final offer.” He dug into his pocket, hands closing around his cut of Iggy’s bet.

  “Good afternoon,” came a gruff voice behind him.

  Bruno the Bruiser had pulled up in his car, parked it on the curb. He was wearing tinted glasses, NYPD issue. In one deft motion, he had his door open, stepped onto the sidewalk, sauntered over, a twenty-foot giant in blue.

  Heller and Salim were frozen in the middle of their transaction.

  Bruno stared at the two, eyes motionless under the sunglasses. Not a trace of sweat on his face. Air-conditioned vehicle, that was it. Immune to the heat of the city. It wasn’t even clear if he was breathing under that badge.

  Finally: “It’s your lucky day, bike boy,” Bruno told Heller, then pointed to Salim. “He a friend of yours?”

  Heller glanced at Salim, mute.

  Salim remained blank-faced. “A wall standing alone is useless.”

  “Well, with three more walls, you’ve got yourself a jail cell.”

  Salim’s face turned hard. “Don’t talk to me about jail.”

  “Then let’s talk about books. You got a bill of lading for these?”

  Heller watched the exchange, worried. Salim either didn’t understand or was making believe he didn’t.

  Bruno wasn’t having it. “Proof of commercial legitimacy. Do these books belong to you?”

  “The universe is an infinite library.”

  “Do you know why people call me Bruno the Bruiser?”

  Heller was growing nervous, tried to remain calm.

  “That’s not in my books,” Salim answered carefully.

  Bruno turned to Heller, who jumped slightly, hated himself for being afraid.

  “Go on and tell him, bike boy,” Bruno urged, eyes taunting.

  “I’ve heard . . . people say that Bruno can . . . hurt someone . . .” Heller had to force the words. “Can hit them with his club so that no marks, scars, or . . . bruises are left behind. Nobody really knows how he does it or—”

  “He uses a towel,” Salim said. “He wraps the stick, fist, rock with a towel, a sheet, a rag—anything like that will do.”

  “I thought you said that wasn’t in your books,” Bruno said.

  “Not in my books . . .”

  Sensing a new presence, the three turned to find an older, white-haired policeman standing directly behind them. Warm face, round body, thick hands.

  “There a problem, Bruno?”

  “No problem, McCullough,” Bruno assured him. “Just that this Paki thinks he’s smart stuff.”

  “He’s Turkish,” Officer McCullough corrected him. “And he is smart stuff. Used to direct a whole library in Istanbul.”

  “Well, in my city, he needs a bill of lading.”

  “Bruno, there are murders bring committed in this town.” Officer McCullough turned to Salim with a tongue-in-cheek aggressiveness. “You were planning on getting a bill of lading, right?”

  “Of course,” Salim said.

  “And I was planning on buying a book,” McCullough concluded. “So let’s forget the whole thing, Bruno.”

  Bruno stood between the three of them, waiting for someone to say something else.

  He turned to Salim, pointed a finger.

  Salim gave no sign of intimidation.

  Bruno walked back to his car, got in. He blasted his siren and peeled away into downtown traffic. Heller saw the red lights flashing, growing smaller in the distance, turning on some side street. Vanishing. He realized he was holding in his breath. Let it out. His hand was still in his pocket, wrapped around his money, palms sweating.

  “Seven dollars, Heller,” Salim reminded him.

  “Right,” Heller said, slowly pulling out his money.

  Salim went right back into sales mode, turning to McCullough. “What can I do for you, Officer McCullough?”

  “Do you have what I asked for last week?”

  “The Joy of Sex, ultramodern edition?”

  “No, no.” McCullough looked sideways at Heller, blushed. “The, ah, Spanish dictionary . . . ultramodern revised edition.”

  Heller watched them talk, counted out seven dollars from the seventy-five. He glanced at Salim discreetly, back down at the cash he held. Taking advantage of the distraction, Heller slipped the rest of the money between two books lying on the table, tossed the seven in plain view, and coughed. “I should be going, Salim.”

  “I will see you soon,” Salim said.

  Heller didn’t move. Everybody waited, McCullough fidgeting impatiently.

  “What’s the first thing you said to Nizima when you met her?” Heller asked Salim.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “It didn’t really matter,” Salim told him. “You’ve got Silvia’s book—go.”

  Heller took a breath, jumped onto his bike, and blasted down the street toward SoHo.

  “AND YOU WATCH YOURSELF!” he heard Officer McCullough yell after him.

  It was all lost to Heller as he sped up, blending with the traffic and the rest of it all.

  chapter twenty-One

  Heller took his time chaining the bike to a public phone, trying to stall as much as possible. Postponing the moment, corraling his resolve. Beating around the bush.

  The click of his lock, and Heller rose to his feet . . . slowly.

  He exhaled, ran his hands through his hair, remembered to breathe in.

  Heller tucked the copy of Don Quixote under his arm and marched into the coffee shop, ready for whatever lay ahead.

  The door closed behind him with the familiar whoosh of the air-conditioning, sights and sensations of the indoors hitting him all at once. And all at once Heller saw that he wasn’t ready for anything. Least of all for Rich Phillips.

  Rich Phillips leaning over the counter. Holding Silvia’s hand. Holding her hand and flirting with pure grace, that raised-eyebrow smile Heller could only imagine himself trying. Silvia was smiling. It was one of the few times he had ever seen it, a smile from Silvia. Eyes bashful rather than hurt. Shoulders loose. A clear interest in whatever story Rich was feeding her, his voice coated with the scent of espressos and cappuccinos.

  Silvia’s co-workers all stood at a distance, impressed and approving.

  Heller felt his clothes gradually become too large for him.

  Rich turned his head in Heller’s direction and fixed his eyes on him.

  He kept talking to Silvia, all the while staring at Heller, a look as unmistakable as witnessing the world’s greatest chess player think: checkmate.

  Silvia didn’t notice that the universe was suddenly revolving around her. Before she could, Heller started to back away, that morning’s battle with Rich Phillips playing out in reverse. Heller backed up, past the regulars, their novels and unfinished manuscripts, out the door.

  Back into the oven.

  Heller strode over to his bike, muscles taut. Sunk to the ground, hard concrete against his knees giving sharp warning of a bruise that would form later in the day. Hands shaking, he tried to free his bike. Struggled, his face contorted with rage and self-pity.

  The lock came loose, the chain undone.

  Heller leaned his head against the phone booth, paused, tried to steady himself.

  He got to his feet, dug into his pocket, and found a quarter.

  Put it in the phone, dialed a number.

  Put the phone to his ear, hot, plastic, painful, and welcoming.

  Iggy answered the phone.

  “Hey, Iggy?” Heller’s voice sounded a bit too anxious, but he was past caring. “Yeah, it’s me. Listen, you got anything over there? Can I get back to work?”

  He listened intently. His breathing returned to normal as Iggy relayed the information. Heller nodded a few times, forgetting Iggy couldn’t see him. “Eighty-eight W
est Thirty-fifth Street . . . Apartment eighteen G.”

  “You doing better?” Iggy’s voice sounded close to concerned.

  “Well, I am and I’m not,” Heller said, and slammed the phone into its cradle.

  Fifteen seconds later, Heller was doing much better.

  chapter twenty-two

  Sundown.

  Heller sat on the steps of the gazebo, looking out past an expanse of lawn, over the waterfront, New Jersey on the other side. Behind him, the Battery Park City apartments rose above it all, some of the most sought-after real estate in Manhattan. Loafers on the grass lay about under the reddish curtain of the day, waiting for night to call them all home. Joggers, relaxed couples pushing strollers. Kids chasing shadows, parents in slacks and sneakers, the nearby commotion of a friendly basketball game.

  All reflected in the Hudson River.

  It was an uncharacteristic side of the city. Free of aggression and kaleidoscopic activity. Flowing, regular, back turned to the traffic of the West Side Highway. An other-worldly spell cast over everything, agreeable flowers and bushes adorning the outskirts of green.

  Center stage for utopia.

  It was Heller’s retreat, where he usually went at the day’s end. Sat and scratched only the surface of humanity. Put the mind to rest along with the sun. Better than imagination.

  A mosquito landed on his knee and Heller swiped at it, missing. He waited to see if it would return.

  Iggy sat down next to him. “That sunset ain’t a bad piece of art,” he said.

  Heller was caught off guard, and any response he could have made was left to speculation.

  “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you here before,” Iggy commented. “I hear you come to this place a lot.”

  Heller found his tongue. “How did you know that?”

  “Nothing special,” Iggy said, lighting a cigarette. He looked far too content. “Part of the job.”

  “Yeah, you seem to know a lot.”

  “My father watches the news to keep track of events overseas and south of the border. Events that may eventually come back to Soft Tidings. I stay localized, that’s what I do. Not everything makes the papers, Heller. Dimitri keeps his eyes on the world; I keep my ears to the ground.”

  “What do you mean, not everything makes the papers?”