Burning City

by Ariel Dorfman

“What?!” It came out with too much force, startled Silvia. Heller tried his best to recover from this tragic turn, managed to lower his voice. “Why?”

  Silvia raised her left leg. She rested her foot on the seat of Heller’s bike and slowly lifted her pant leg. Up past her shin, skin as tan as the rest of her body, or at least the parts that showed. Heller was confused and elated at the same time. She lifted her pant leg past her knee, let the cuff rest there.

  On her knee was a scar. An old one, no doubt about it, but a deep one. A purple sort of color, an exposed vein cruising the surface of her skin.

  “I got this when I was eight . . . ,” Silvia told him. “I don’t plan to get on a bike ever again.”

  Heller was speechless. He felt trapped by his own tactic, trapped between Silvia and his bike. He looked down at her scar, looked down with her, the both of them lost in silent contemplation.

  Silvia looked up into Heller’s eyes.

  Heller’s heart skipped a beat.

  “It goes farther up,” she said with a husky edge to her voice, eyes wide.

  Heller let out the breath stuck in his chest.

  Silvia put her foot back on the ground, and her pant leg fell back down around the ankle of its own accord.

  She kept her eyes on Heller’s, expectant, somehow.

  A couple burst out of the coffee shop, laughing and stumbling over themselves, breaking the silence, and that was that.

  Silvia gave a light wave, as though saying goodbye. “Try something different next time, bike boy.”

  She walked away, down the sidewalk, in the same direction as the time Heller followed her to the post office. She left him standing on his own, with his bike and a strawberry cake, baking on its own in the sunshine. The flies began to gather, and Heller had no choice but to get back to work.

  chapter thirty-two

  Heller strode through the offices of Soft Tidings, the cake of failure still in his hands, right up to Iggy’s desk.

  “Anything for me?” Heller asked, determined, angry.

  “We got something coming in,” Iggy said dismissively.

  “Do you want some cake?”

  Iggy glanced at the cake. “I hate strawberry.”

  Dimitri ambled over, considerably more under control than earlier.

  “Dimitri”—Heller was desperate—“take this cake, I’m begging you.”

  “Cake?”

  “It’s strawberry,” Iggy warned.

  “Well, I hate strawberry,” Dimitri said.

  Heller was incensed. “What’s wrong with strawberry?”

  “Nobody likes strawberry,” Iggy told him.

  “Ralph does!”

  Iggy read the frosting on the cake. “That’s just because his mamma loves him.”

  “DOES ANYBODY WANT THIS CAKE?” Heller cried out, needing very much to rid himself of any reminder of his encounter with Silvia.

  “Nobody wants your stupid cake,” Rich said from a nearby desk. He was filling out his forms on a clipboard, legs kicked up. He stared Heller down, annoyed. “You got that, Marie Antoinette?”

  “You see?” Iggy said, glad to have proved his point. “Nobody likes strawberry.”

  “I love strawberry,” Rich said, tossing the clipboard aside and crossing his arms with a satisfied look draped over his face. “It’s just that I already had some sweets with my coffee. . . .”

  Heller and Rich stared each other down.

  “Rich . . .” Heller couldn’t help it, felt it come out before he knew it was coming. “You’re a dick.”

  Rich smiled. “Interesting choice of words, Casanova.”

  “All right, that’s real nice, kids,” Iggy said diplomatically. “Rich, go bother someone else, or whatever it is you do around here. . . . Heller?”

  Heller wasn’t done drilling into Rich with his eyes.

  Rich didn’t seem the least bit concerned.

  “Heller!” Iggy slapped his ass and handed him a slip of paper and a green card. “You’ve got one Magaly DuBois, husband died in France, reasons unknown as of now—”

  Heller snatched the information out of Iggy’s hands, headed for the door, still holding the cake.

  “You don’t have an ASAP rush on that!” Iggy called after him, words bouncing off Heller’s back. “Rest for a few minutes. Don’t kill yourself over this, Heller!”

  Heller’s stride didn’t slacken.

  “There’s someone I need to see first,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Heller kicked the door open, cake weighing on his arms.

  He took to the streets on his bike, furious and looking for Salim.

  chapter thirty-three

  Humid and sticky, that was the atmosphere when Heller finally found him.

  Salim was bartering with the Jamaican umbrella salesman, trading a copy of the Tao Te Ching for a pair of black umbrellas.

  “Hey!” Heller called out.

  Salim and the Jamaican turned in unison as Heller burned to a stop in front of them.

  “I need to talk to you,” Heller said.

  “Too late!” the Jamaican said. “Just sold my last two! Ha, ha!”

  He wandered off, leaving Heller disoriented and Salim staring down at the cake on Heller’s handlebars.

  “Who is Ralph?”

  “You told me to slow down, to make her see me,” Heller blurted out, angry. “That she hasn’t seen me yet. Well, she just did and I think I may have been better off before.”

  Salim was trying to be diplomatic. “Did I promise you an outcome?”

  “What?”

  “Heller, you have to understand that when Hector was defending Troy, it wasn’t a question of outcome. The gods had already foretold his death. All he knew was that he had to fight, regardless of victory or—”

  “Salim,” Heller interrupted, “shut up. Shut up, or tell me something I can use. I’m sick of vague, cryptic answers to questions I don’t think even you understand.”

  “You know that even you don’t understand your questions.”

  “I know that you’re giving me advice about women and you couldn’t even keep yours.” Heller was venting, speaking faster than tact or consideration. “You left Nizima behind, trapped in a marriage you knew she couldn’t get out of, and I’m supposed to fight? I’m supposed to butt heads with Rich Phillips? Oh, let me guess, you’re about to bring up David and Goliath, aren’t you?”

  “All right . . .” Salim’s voice wavered under his calm. “Now I definitely don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s right, you don’t,” Heller told him, getting on his bike.

  “Does blaming others for your misfortunes really help you rest that much better at night?”

  Heller stopped, incensed. He opened his mouth and found himself choking on any possible defense he could come up with.

  “Heller, you shouldn’t—”

  “I shouldn’t waste time talking to someone like you,” Heller spat.

  Salim didn’t respond, his eyes still in a fractured expression.

  Hurt.

  Heller felt a sudden regret caught in his throat, a poisonous taste in his mouth.

  He shoved it aside, hit the pedals, and took off at full force, leaving Salim to stare after him, hands by his sides, each one holding a black umbrella.

  Heller turned down the first street he could find, eyes wild and blazing. He was trying all he could to bring himself back to his work, trying to remember where his next message was to be delivered, could only think of the name: Magaly DuBois.

  He cut through Washington Square, right down the middle. A few scattered cries and salutations from the park life, but Heller ignored them, shoved them into some peripheral section of his mind. Let them all slide by.

  Cut through an a cappella group singing a George Michael song. Baritones and altos turned to soprano screams as they dove out of Heller’s path. Reproach from some, approval from a group of skateboarders nearby, though Heller didn’t take note of praise or anger.
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  He sped past a flower bed, reached down low, and expertly uprooted a yellow flower with his hand. He held on to it as he exited the park, still balancing the malignant cake.

  Turned once, twice, westbound.

  There on the curb, ten seconds away, was Bruno’s police car, parked with the motor on. Bruno was leaning against his car, making time with a woman with coffee-colored skin whose hair reached all the way down to the top of her knee-high, black leather boots.

  She was smiling.

  Smiling at Bruno’s lines, broad shoulders, and superior build.

  The sight made Heller sick.

  He breezed past.

  Slowed after a few yards, stopped.

  He turned and watched Bruno in action, all charm, shiny badge, and well-fitting uniform.

  A light drizzle sprinkled on the city, nearly invisible.

  It was too much to bear.

  Sticking the flower between his teeth, Heller rode back toward Bruno, a steady growl growing somewhere at the base of his stomach. He hefted Ralph’s cake, Ralph’s strawberry cake, onto one hand. Prepared himself for a moment of pure satisfaction.

  “MAMMA LOVES YOU!” Heller screamed at the top of his lungs, voice grabbing the attention of everyone on the street, shoppers looking out of windows in surprise.

  The cake flew through the air, a perfect arc, a rainbow of pure red.

  It dropped, plastering the windshield of Bruno’s car.

  Flecks of frosting sprayed onto Bruno’s uniform, drops of strawberry blood on him and the breasts of his woman.

  Heller glanced back.

  Saw Bruno jumping into his car, closing the door, and taking off in hot pursuit.

  Kicking his speed up, Heller sped back to the park. His mind was racing, free of any thought, completely trapped, locked into motion and a never-ending moment.

  From behind, he heard Bruno turn on the siren.

  Its wail was almost immediately behind Heller, who had to respect that he could not outrace a car. Just as he felt the grille kissing his heels, the hot breath of the engine melting the rubber of his wheels, he stuck out his arm. Fingers and palm wrapped around a lamppost. Holding on tight, his momentum swung him ninety degrees, out of Bruno’s path. The police car blasted past him, a definite stirring of the air touching the back of his neck.

  Heller realized Bruno might actually be trying to kill him.

  He broke out into a sweat, heard Bruno doubling back.

  The rain started to come down harder.

  He crossed corners, almost colliding with an ice-cream truck. He sought refuge in the park, once again among the squirrels and summertime outcasts. The green foliage shone with water drops, beads of light streaking past.

  Another burst of thunder split the sky, and Heller hit his brakes.

  Before him was a policeman on a black horse.

  The ground was slick with rain, and Heller’s bike skidded of its own accord, stopping inches before the steed’s hooves.

  Eyes wide, Heller craned his neck as the black horse reared on its hind legs, pawed at the sky, towering over the boy and his bike. Nostrils flaring, spit flying through powerful teeth, and muscles tight like the thickest rope. Eyes cavernous and gleaming.

  Heller reared his bike, mouth open in a silent scream, put his front wheel down to the ground, and peeled out, the dark horse following him, and he was certain there would be no escape.

  All through the park, people ran in every direction, fleeing the summer storm. The rain was coming in sheets, turning the ground into a river. Heller wove in and out of inlets and the rush for cover, hooves crashing down behind him, gaining far too fast.

  Against his better judgment, Heller looked over his shoulder. . . .

  No horse.

  Before Heller could reason with his newfound safety, he was out the south side of the park, and Bruno’s car squealed around a corner, joined by another, pursuing him, their tires making waves.

  Heller stood, lifted himself off the seat, pumped at the bike with every ounce of energy, his clothes weighing him down, lungs burning, breath coaxing the flames to rise higher through his chest. He turned left, hoping to catch a one-way street the police couldn’t follow.

  No good.

  Immersed in his plight, Heller didn’t notice when he blew past Salim’s stand for the third time that day. Didn’t notice Salim calling out his name, still holding one of the umbrellas in his hand as he waved frantically. Didn’t notice a roadblock for road construction until seconds before collision. Eyes suddenly focusing on orange-and-black warning signs, brakes applied.

  Too much speed.

  Heller’s bike tipped in midskid, sending him to the ground and crashing against a wooden barrier. Heller’s legs were tangled in his bike, wheels still spinning, going nowhere. He stood, checked himself for injuries, could only locate a few bruises on his legs, shoulders, forehead. A bit of blood on his lower lip, quickly diluting with the water pouring down his face.

  In an instant, he was trapped. The two police cars halted in front of him, Bruno’s still caked with frosting, now a mush of crumbs and sugary residue.

  Four policemen stepped out, Bruno taking the lead, drawing out his nightstick.

  Heller felt a rush through his body, head elevated, rising far above all the conflict, watching from above, putting everything into third person, filling Heller with a frightened sense of defiance.

  “You’re coming with me, bike boy!” Bruno yelled, advancing slowly.

  “I’m not going anywhere!” Heller replied over the roar of the weather.

  “You see this badge?”

  “Yeah, but it’s hard to see you hiding behind it!”

  “All right.” Bruno was almost upon Heller. The rest of the officers were looking nervous, worried and ready, arms poised for action at a moment’s notice. From behind them all, Salim was running to the scene, umbrella unconsciously brandished, trying to stop things before they went any further.

  “No more cycling for you, bike boy,” Bruno declared, only feet away from Heller.

  Salim broke through the line of policemen, provoking a reflexive yell:

  “Bruno, watch out!”

  Everything after that happened almost too fast to remember later.

  Bruno turned just as Salim was reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. The policeman lashed out, dug his club into Salim’s gut.

  Salim doubled over. One arm covering his stomach, the other one held up, silently asking Bruno to back off, hold on a moment.

  Bruno took it as a threat, struck Salim across the back.

  Salim hit the pavement.

  The other policemen stood by and watched as Bruno’s blows rained down on Salim.

  Head, back, shoulders, arms.

  Heller watched in horror, paralyzed. Water gushed into his eyes, dripped off his face, blurred his vision, leaving him with only the wet, smacking sounds of Bruno’s club to drown out every last detail.

  Nothing but the sound of flesh tearing, the cracking of bones.

  He blinked, and in the seconds before it was over, his vision cleared.

  Salim looking up at him, those eyes looking into his eyes, that face a grimace of pain.

  That face a trail of blood.

  The rest of the policemen ran over to Salim, dragged him by his arms to Bruno’s car.

  Threw him inside.

  Slammed the door with the accompanying clap of thunder.

  Heller’s paralysis broke, a sudden overdose of sensation.

  The police cars had already begun to drive away, and Heller screamed for them to stop. Leaping onto his bike, he chased after them. Managed to take two sharp turns, his efforts valiant, but technology finally triumphed.

  Heller’s pedaling slowed, tapering off into a dead stop.

  He watched the cars disappear into the distance.

  The vanishing point spread out far in front of Heller. His breath came out in heavy bursts, mind running in twelve different directions at once, wondering where
they were taking Salim, what they would do to him once hidden from the eyes of the city, if he would ever see his friend again.

  The rain suddenly stopped.

  All at once.

  The empty streets were quiet, remembering the storm, keeping it close.

  Then the slow appearance of people. Coming out from doorways and overhangs, searching through remains of the deluge, eyes unfocused, as though seeing things for the first time.

  Activity again, the city restored.

  Heller looked down at his hand.

  Saw the flower for Magaly DuBois resting there.

  Not knowing what else to do, shocked beyond the capacity to do anything other than what he had set out to do at the start of his day, what he was supposed to do, what everyone expected.

  There wasn’t anything else to do anyway.

  chapter thirty-four

  It was strange to be back to work.

  Standing in front of another door, waiting for the inevitable answer.

  It was as though nothing had happened.

  Heller was amazed at the odd state of calm surrounding him.

  He felt himself start to cry.

  Stopped, bit his lip . . .

  Suddenly all right, once again at peace.

  The door opened.

  “Madame Magaly—” Heller began, before cutting himself off.

  Magaly DuBois was standing in the doorway, fresh out of the shower.

  Towel wrapped around her head. Towel wrapped around her body.

  She was maybe twenty-nine. Thin, angular features, oddly framed by full lips and eyes that resembled the indifferent flash of a camera. Shapely legs, excessive hips for a woman so thin. The leftovers from her shower still glistened on her arms, neck, face moist and shimmering. She stood poised, erect, clearly in her element.

  She moved her eyes up and down Heller’s body, taking him in.

  Heller tried not to do the same.

  “Magaly DuBois?” he asked, finally finding his voice.

  “Yes . . .” An unmistakable French accent colored her words. “Who are you?”

  “I’m . . . with Soft Tidings. . . . I have a message for you.”

  Magaly’s eyes softened, though not with concern of any kind. If anything, they developed a certain light or sultriness to them.