Burning City

by Ariel Dorfman

  Dimitri looked up, face still concealed. “One last favor, then?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let me tell him. . . .” Dimitri sounded sad and relieved. He lifted his weight off the table and began walking back to his office. “Let me explain. I believe I owe it to him.”

  “I think you’ve done enough for my father,” Heller called after him.

  Dimitri paused, once again in the doorway, his back to Heller.

  “I will have after I’ve talked to him,” he said.

  It was clearly the end of the conversation, and Heller didn’t feel he had anything more to add to the abandoned office.

  “Good luck, Heller,” Dimitri said. “And close the door on your way out.”

  Dimitri closed his own door.

  After another minute alone with his old workplace, Heller did the same.

  chapter fifty-four

  Heller slept. Absolute and bottomless sleep. Not a dream graced his unconscious. Complete unawareness. Non-being. The comforting absorption of detail into shadow. Nothing but the drumbeat of blood, his own breath ringing somewhere in the darkness, the sound of cells dividing, surrounded by a mattress of numb deprivation.

  Freedom from exhaustion.

  His grandmother’s voice woke him up.

  Heller stirred, released a light groan. He rolled onto his back, sheets and blankets cocooned around him. Through his eyelids, he knew something was wrong with the light filling his room.

  “What time is it?” he asked, eyelids fluttering.

  “It’s two in the afternoon, dear,” Florence said. “You’ve been asleep for about fifteen hours.”

  “Crap.” Heller burped, sitting up. “I need to get in touch with Benjamin.”

  “You have a visitor, Heller.”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s someone here to see you,” Florence said. “Young lady, very pretty.”

  Heller breathed in abruptly, snorting, wide awake.

  “Yeah, all right.” His eyes searched his room, looking for his pants—any pair of pants. “Tell her to come in, sure.”

  Florence walked out of the room, closed the door behind her.

  Heller jumped out of bed and ran to his closet.

  The Rollerblades fell from their shelf, bouncing off his shoulder in a sharp burst of pain. Heller shook it off, tore some pants from a hanger, and slipped them on, hopping around the room.

  He zipped his fly just as the door to his room reopened.

  Silvia walked in, paused when she saw him half-dressed, torso pale and skinny.

  Heller kept stock-still, thinking the less he moved, the less chance there would be to blow this opportunity.

  In Silvia’s hand was a flower.

  Carnation. Red.

  Heller smiled. “Silvia . . . you’re here. . . . Hi.”

  Silvia walked up to him, handed him the flower.

  Heller accepted. His smile widened, and he leaned close to embrace her.

  Silvia put up her hands.

  “Stop it,” she said, voice cold.

  Heller froze. Silvia backed away slightly, face determined. She reached into her bag.

  Pulled out an ambiguously light green card.

  4 x 8.

  “Rich was supposed to deliver this,” she began flatly. “He said he couldn’t do it. I’d been to the offices looking for you. So I volunteered.”

  Heller was filled with a golden dread.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “ ‘Dear Eshu.’ ” Silvia read from the card, delivering her words with as much detachment as she could. “ ‘After all the comfort you have brought me, I wish I could do the same for you. I am so sorry to tell you that our dear Salim Adasi is no longer with us. He was found dead under the Williamsburg Bridge, not more than a few blocks away from Soft Tidings. The cause is still undetermined. I hope you can find comfort in my condolences as I did in yours. . . . Benjamin Ibo.’ ”

  By the time Silvia had finished, a certain vindictive quality had crept into her voice.

  “Today, I’m working for Soft Tidings,” she told Heller.

  Heller was unresponsive. It was almost comforting how little he felt, the complete lack of anything inside him. Silvia matched his silence. Heller let the air out, felt something rush into him with his next breath. A small, compact ball of something inside of him, fed by the very fact that he was alive. Whatever it was, it grew with every breath, even as he stood there, doing nothing, just standing in his room without a shirt and the afternoon sunlight spilling over his bare feet.

  Heller walked over to the nearest wall and tore down one of his posters. It was a completely visceral action, the experience absolutely sentient. The sound of the paper ripping, the sight of a bare wall underneath, how it felt to crumple that image of a world-class cyclist into a meaningless little ball.

  Silvia’s messenger facade wavered.

  Heller was hardly aware of her watching him. In slow, trancelike motions he made his way around the room, began to bring down the rest of the posters, repeating the process, with each one his thoughts growing more susceptible to what Silvia had just done.

  The favor returned.

  Heller strode over to his shelves, gaining momentum, knocked his bicycle models and figurines off their stands, some actually landing in the garbage. He walked to the edge of his bed, sat and took his copy of The Aeneid, began tearing out the pages.

  Silvia finally spoke. “This is no way for you to honor a dead friend.”

  Heller’s eyes shot up, back in the room for the first time.

  He reached under his pillow and pulled out his copy of Don Quixote.

  Opened it to the title page and ripped it out.

  He glanced up from the book to check her reaction.

  All he saw was a spark of confusion.

  Heller looked back down at the book and saw Silvia’s picture there, lying on the first page of text. He picked it up, stared at it for a long time, a memory that didn’t belong to him anymore, never had in the first place.

  Still looking down, Heller extended his arm, offering Silvia the picture.

  She walked over and took it from him. She held the picture to her face, recognizing it.

  Tears welled in Heller’s eyes. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you,” he said.

  Heller began to cry.

  Silvia stood by and watched him.

  Heller dug his face into his hands and cried. He felt as though he might never stop. There seemed to be nothing to hold on to, and he cried until his face was more liquid than skin, eyes swollen to the point where they might as well be closed, jaw contracting with the stress, sustaining the pain of a friend he would never see again.

  Heller cried, and each time he thought it would stop, it started over again, each sob a reminder of why it was there, and it kept on and on . . .

  . . . and gradually, it subsided.

  The tears stopped, the sobs became isolated hiccups, and a slow ache spread through his body, along with a newfound silence.

  Silvia hadn’t moved.

  Heller closed the book and put it aside.

  “It’s going to be all right, maybe,” Silvia told him. There was no way to tell if she meant it, if she cared, but she said it anyway. “Maybe it’ll be all right, someday.”

  Heller sniffed, nose dripping. “You went to Soft Tidings looking for me?”

  Silvia thought about it.

  She held up the picture. “I went to Soft Tidings looking for this.”

  She dropped the photograph into her purse and walked out.

  Heller heard the apartment door open and close.

  He let out a shaky breath. The remains of his room surrounded him. He slowly stretched himself out on his back. Before he could ask himself how such a thing was possible, he was asleep again, only this time, there were nightmares.

  chapter fifty-five

  Two days later saw Salim cremated in an inexpensive ceremony.

  Everyone involved in th
e search was seated among the cheap chairs of the crematorium, witness to the final rites. The morning washed in through a few windows.

  The door to the oven opened, a gaping mouth.

  Salim’s coffin was pushed into the flames.

  Heller stood at the front of the group, dressed in a mismatched suit, wearing a tie he had found in his grandfather’s closet. He read from a book Velu had given him the previous day, a poem by Nazim Hikmet.

  “I

  Want to die before you.

  Do you think the one who follows

  Finds the one who went first?

  I don’t think so.

  It would be best to have me burned

  And put in a glass jar.

  Make the jar

  Clear glass,

  So you can watch me inside . . .

  You see my sacrifice: I give up being earth,

  I give up being a flower,

  Just to stay near you.

  Then, when you die,

  You can come into my jar

  And we’ll live there together

  Until some dizzy bride

  Tosses us out.

  But by then we’ll be so mixed together,

  We’ll fall side by side,

  We’ll dive into the earth together.

  And maybe a wild flower will appear.”

  Heller closed the book and returned to his seat. Faced no applause, just the thoughts of the rest, and for what was left of the ceremony, focused on his own.

  And it was a simple, transparent jar into which Salim’s ashes were put.

  The undertaker handed it to Heller.

  Everyone got up to leave, a slow stream exiting. Each person gave Heller their condolences, handshakes, varying degrees of hugs on their way out. Heller responded accordingly, knew that the momentary somberness was all in passing, that it wouldn’t be long before he remembered that the ashes in his arms were once a human being.

  Heller’s grandparents approached.

  “The tie looks good on you, Heller,” Eric said.

  Heller understood. “I think I’ll keep it.”

  Florence gave him a hug. “Do you want us to wait for you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “We’ll be at home,” Eric said. “Could you please call if you’re not coming home soon?”

  “I will.”

  They left, and Iggy wandered up.

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” Heller asked.

  “Believe it or not, we haven’t gotten a single call today.”

  “I don’t believe it, actually. . . .”

  Iggy shrugged, at a loss. “The world’s resting up, I guess.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Richard couldn’t take off work, despite it all. He sends his regards.”

  “Tell him thanks.”

  Iggy hesitated, then: “What happened between the two of you?”

  “Truthfully?” Heller searched around, found no other way to put it. “I really don’t know.”

  “My father wanted to come, but . . . you know how he is.”

  “Tell him thanks anyway.”

  “I will.” Iggy nodded, shook Heller’s hand, and walked out, the last of the rest.

  Heller sat down in a chair, tried to make sense of things.

  It wasn’t working, and the undertaker approached him cautiously. He had an odd walk to him, as though the upper half of his body had a limp and his legs were perfectly fine.

  “Sir,” he said, “we have another party coming in. . . .”

  Heller nodded, stood . . .

  Left.

  chapter fifty-Six

  The sun was murder that day.

  Scorching. A desert posed as an oasis, and Heller was loosening his tie before even stepping out into the blazing heat.

  Silvia was standing outside. Next to her was an old bicycle, rust growing on its handlebars and spokes. Heller was far too involved with the morning’s events to be surprised.

  “What are you going to do with the ashes?” she asked.

  “I was thinking . . . just thinking about sending them to Nizima so she can have them. . . .” Heller finished loosening his tie. “But I’m not entirely sure that she loved him as much as Salim might have hoped, you know?”

  “I know there must be a post office somewhere in the neighborhood,” Silvia offered. “You can think about it on the way there.”

  “You working for Soft Tidings today?” Heller asked, suspicious.

  “No.”

  “Oh . . .” Heller tried to give an edge to his voice. “So you’re not going to, like, walk me to the post office, then tell me my parents are dead?”

  “Do you really want to bring this sort of thing up now?”

  Heller really didn’t. “No.”

  Silvia motioned for them to start walking.

  They did, and Silvia rolled the bike cautiously alongside her.

  There was no post office in the neighborhood, it turned out, and the two of them walked all the way to Washington Square. The fountain was out of order, and what water remained was slowly evaporating. The complaints of tourists reached their ears from every corner of the park.

  “I don’t even know Nizima’s address,” Heller told Silvia. “Don’t even know what a rural address in Turkey looks like.”

  “Do you know where you can get it?” Silvia asked.

  “Where did you get the bike?”

  “Found it.”

  “Really?” Heller was incredulous. “You just found it?”

  “I was out for a walk,” Silvia said. “Debating about whether or not I should go to the ceremony. Then I saw the bike lying there in the middle of the street, just waiting to get run over. Like it was committing suicide.” She put her hand over her eyes, tried to shield herself from the white light. “So I thought I’d save it. Roll it over here.”

  “You missed the ceremony.”

  “I had to wheel the bike all the way across town.”

  “If you had known how to ride it, that wouldn’t have been a problem.”

  “I thought you might like to have it. Use it while you get another one.”

  “I don’t know if I’m getting another one.”

  “You don’t even want to try this one out, see how it handles?”

  Heller thought about it. There was an aggressive energy in the park that day, and it was hard not to notice. He shook his head, held up the jar of ashes, said, “I have to take care of these.”

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Silvia lifted the front wheel of the bike off the ground.

  “I don’t know. Use it.”

  “You mean ride it?”

  “Why not?”

  “How am I supposed to learn how to ride this?”

  “I don’t know,” Heller said, a slight impatience stalking him. “Ask for help. Ask someone to teach you.”

  “I can’t do that,” Silvia insisted.

  “Hey.” Heller stopped, stood in front of her. “He’s not coming back. . . .”

  Silvia looked at him, a deep sadness running down her body with the sweat.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she said.

  “I don’t know what you’re supposed to do, either.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I know how to ride a bike—you start pedaling.”

  “I’m going to fall.”

  “More than once,” Heller told her. “Start pedaling.”

  Silvia contemplated the bike. “You want to help me onto this?”

  Holding on to her, Heller made sure Silvia was resting comfortably on the seat before moving his hands to her hips, keeping the balance. Silvia placed her feet on the pedals. Heller began to walk, pushing her and the bike forward with his free arm. The chain came to life and made dry clicking sounds. Silvia began to pedal, uncertainly. They advanced, bit by bit. People walked by, some ran, others coasted by on Rollerblades or skateboards, all calling out to Heller, recogniz
ing him as the bike boy. Recognizing him despite the fact that his feet were on solid ground.

  “Keep pedaling,” Heller encouraged.

  He let go of the bike.

  He watched Silvia wobble forward for a few yards. She jerked the handlebars suddenly and fell to the ground. Heller stood still. Silvia sat up. There was a scrape on her shin. She held her leg, tears in her eyes.

  She looked at Heller.

  “Get up,” he said.

  Silvia didn’t move.

  Heller went to her side, stood over her.

  “Get up,” he repeated. “Let’s go. Get . . . up.”

  Silvia picked up the bike and got back on. She looked at Heller, looking for more encouragement. Heller thought about biting his lip. . . .

  “Does this mean I’m your boyfriend again?” he asked.

  “You were never my boyfriend.”

  “Am I your boyfriend now?”

  “No . . . All this means is that you are my teacher.”

  Heller smiled, but a look on Silvia’s face put a stop to it.

  “I promise you,” she asserted. “That’s it.”

  “I don’t entirely believe you.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to learn . . .”

  Heller realized there was something missing and nodded sadly. “Start pedaling,” he told her.

  Silvia was about to speak when Heller cut her off. “You can tell me some other time,” he said. “Go.”

  Silvia pressed down with her left foot, wound glistening red all along her shin. It looked as though she was going to fall again. Pumping her right leg, then her left, she managed to straighten the bicycle out and kept riding.

  “Go,” Heller said, and watched her cycle away, rounding the dying fountain once, then heading east along a side path and disappearing among the trees. Heller watched her leave him, wondered how long before he could get any of it back.

  He looked down at the ashes in his arms. . . .

  “You know what, Salim?” he said, now only sure of how uncertain it all was. “You know what . . . ? I need a gin and tonic.” He paused. “Just for today,” he said, remembering Salim. “I think God will understand.”

  Heller nodded to himself, then held the ashes close and walked south.

  The sun was directly overhead, and it was likely that the entire population of New York felt as though they could reach out and touch it. The heat wave engulfed everyone, and nearby a skirmish broke out between two people. Their words were lost to each other and the fight turned physical, punches exchanged, both of them falling into the grass before the police had a chance to break it up. A crowd formed around them, cheering or disapproving or simply curious as to what was going on in the park that day.