Burning City

by Ariel Dorfman

  Heller kept walking, thinking about everything that had already happened. He didn’t smile because he knew it was all right.

  It’s getting interesting now, Heller thought.

  Thermometers across the city agreed silently, and couples in the park sensed it as they smiled through their kisses, serene in the midst of the burning city.

  Picture this:

  Ariel Dorfman is in his study at six in the morning, fresh from a shower, searching for a book on the history of India. He opens it to a dog-eared page. Takes off his glasses, chews on one of the ends.

  The door bursts open, and in walks his son, Joaquin. Hair a mess, tired eyes, and clothes smelling like his favorite billiard club. Computer disk in one hand, copybook stuffed with printed notes in the other. He walks straight to Ariel’s computer, prints ten pages, tosses them in front of Ariel.

  “I’m going to sleep,” says Joaquin.

  “You’ve done a great job on chapter one. Chapter three is too dark.”

  “Dark is how I write, old man,” retaliates Joaquin.

  “What do you think of the name Velu for the Indian book vendor?” asks Ariel. “Famous rebel in Kerala. What do you think?”

  “I think there aren’t enough women interested in guys like me,” observes Joaquin.

  “And I think chapter three is too dark,” replies Ariel.

  “And I think your nose is too big,” Joaquin snaps. “And I’m going to sleep.”

  “And I’m going to do a little rewrite on this chapter,” says Ariel, smiling.

  “See you at midday,” says Joaquin, with a genetically similar grin, and plods off to his own house across town.

  Ariel sighs, picks up a pen, just starting his day.

  Try to picture this several hours a day, every day of the week, for several months.

  Try to guess which one got in the last word.

  Having a problem? King Of cool Sebastian Montero can make it go away. . . .

  Don’t miss Joaquin Dorfman’s exciting solo debut

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  Now in hardcover from Random House

  PART ONE

  THURSDAY

  Excerpt copyright © 2006 by Joaquin Dorfman.

  Published by Random House Children’s Books.

  1. Only If It’s an Emergency

  Cesar dropped us off at my house.

  It was four in the afternoon, and spring was making its presence known. Sun at a flattering angle to the neighbors’ lawns, single-story houses laying low beneath clear blue skies. Slight humidity, birds engaged in sweet-sounding conversations. Regenerated trees rustling with a little help from the southern breeze. Smells of a nearby cookout, kids reclaiming the streets with their bikes, music from an open window filling the gaps of activity.

  Train whistle in the distance.

  All the deceptive makings of a small town in North Carolina.

  I got out of the car, shut the door to the passenger’s side.

  Jeremy got out of the backseat. Headed for the house.

  Cesar kept the engine of his rust-red Pontiac idling. Earnest seventeen-year-old face looking up at me through rolled-down windows. First-generation Mexican American, eyes still remembering where he came from. Genuine hope displayed in a smile of well-intentioned teeth.

  “You really are something, Seba,” he told me.

  “You’re the one who asked her,” I replied.

  “I didn’t think Nicole would say yes.”

  “Waste of a good worry, Cesar.”

  “There’s still tomorrow night.”

  “Come on, Bastian, let’s go!” Jeremy called out from behind me. Waiting by the curb, fidgeting impatiently. A long-established habit of his.

  I ignored him. A long-established habit of mine.

  “Tomorrow night’s taken care of,” I told Cesar. “I’ve made reservations for two at the Mezzanine.”

  “The Mezzanine?” Cesar was back to worrying. “I can’t afford a place like that. Ten-dollar soups, the catch of the day’s the same price as the boat they used to catch it—”

  “There are ways around money.”

  “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “My mother needs the car Fridays,” Cesar mumbled.

  “Just tell Nicole to meet you at the restaurant at eight sharp. I’ll be by your house to pick you up at seven.”

  “And after the date, I’m just supposed to ask her for a ride?”

  I shrugged. “It’s the nineties.”

  “So were the eighties.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Cesar sighed. Nodded, put the car into first. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I always know what I’m doing.”

  Cesar knew it, too. Drove off without another word.

  I watched him go.

  “I’m glad you know what you’re doing,” I heard Jeremy say. “Because I don’t have a goddamn clue.”

  I turned and saw that Jeremy had sat himself on the curb. Brown sweater and khakis hanging uncomfortably off his scrawny frame. Sneakers tapping against the ground, body bouncing slightly. Blond hair stopping just short of blue eyes that were always thinking two disasters ahead of everyone else. Top set of teeth nervously working on his lower lip. Fingers toying with each other.

  I walked past him.

  Jeremy stood up and followed me. White aluminum siding accompanied us around the house, through the backyard. Sneakers cutting through tall grass, swishing sounds with each stride as he started in. “We leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “Excited?”

  “Try unprepared.”

  “We’re all the way prepared.”

  I opened the back door, and the two of us made our way through the small kitchen. Down a dark hallway, floorboards creaking.

  “You may be all the way prepared.” Jeremy’s words were starting to gain momentum. “But this is all happening very fast for me. I need to go over this at my own pace, I need details. Contingency plans. We leave the day after tomorrow, and this was supposed to be our day to work on things, get our stories straight. And so far, what . . . ? After school, we dropped Sara off at the clinic, paid Mr. Wallace a visit, fixed Cesar up with Nicole—”

  “Your father’s probably just as nervous as you.”

  Jeremy took a moment to find his breath. “Which one?”

  “The one in Wilmington, what do you think?”

  Another door open, and we were in my room. Nothing special to look at in there. I was never one for decoration. Typical posters and teenage paraphernalia replaced with my own view of the world, simple and clear-cut. Personal touch abandoned in favor of only that which was necessary . . . a bed, two chairs. Bookshelves and a wardrobe. Squat, secondhand desk.

  Answering machine.

  “I think,” Jeremy collapsed in a chair, “that what my . . . father thinks isn’t for you to say.”

  “He’s waiting for you with open arms,” I assured him. Went back over familiar territory as I took off my jacket. Leaned against the desk with my arms crossed. “Waiting for both of us with open arms. That’s got to count for something.”

  “Won’t count for much when we get to Wilmington only to have your switch blow up in my face.”

  “It’s our switch, Jeremy. And nothing’s going to blow up.”

  “What are you doing?”

  I stopped, my finger inches away from the answering machine. “Checking this message.”

  A miserable look crossed Jeremy’s face.

  “It’s just one message,” I told him.

  “Doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “Jeremy—”

  “I don’t even need to hear that message.” Jeremy was talking fast again, repeating himself. “Don’t even need the details to know what’s going to happen next. You promised me today’s our day to get things done, smooth out the specifics, and now we’re going to end up going off on some other—”

  “Jeremy .
. .” This conversation was a familiar one. “You asked for my help. You’ll get it. But right now I need you to shut up and control yourself. Otherwise, I walk away and you can face your father on your own.”

  Jeremy stared up at me. “Not likely.”

  “Not likely, what?”

  I returned Jeremy’s stare. Trying not to let a lifetime of friendship interfere with what had to be done. Never letting a trace of struggle come to the surface, despite recurring doubts about whether it was Jeremy who couldn’t live without me, or possibly the other way around. . . .

  “Just check the message,” Jeremy conceded, leaning back and crossing his arms.

  A moment later, and the tape was playing back Sara’s voice for me:

  “Bastian, it’s Sara. . . . I’m still at the clinic. Oh, God, you’re not going to like this. . . . My mother’s outside, and she’s got around twenty of her friends with her. They’ve all got signs protesting the place. They’re not going anywhere, Bastian, and the clinic closes at six. . . . Please think of something. I can’t stay in here forever. . . .”

  End of message.

  Sara Shaw, fifteen years old. Daughter of Esther Shaw, head of the North Carolina chapter of the Concerned Women for the Right to Life. If Esther caught her daughter leaving that clinic, questions would lead only to unfortunate answers. Shocked onlookers. Resulting punishment that would most likely stretch itself out over the rest of her life. Sara Shaw, who had always struck me as a different breed of high school girl. Strangely in touch with her surroundings, brief conversations between us that revealed a sweet sort of kindness. None of that naïve certainty that dictated every teenager’s mindset and attitude. An innocent, despite her many mistakes, and I didn’t want visions of her tear-streaked face anywhere near my thoughts. No time to panic, no room for hesitation under the glare of those four, poker-faced walls.

  I was already at the door to my room. Jacket on, doorknob waiting for a twist, when I heard Jeremy say something. I turned, saw that he hadn’t budged from his chair.

  “What?” I asked, impatiently.

  “The clinic closes at six,” he told me. “It’s four. In sixty minutes, it’ll be five. Can we at least spend this one hour getting our plans straight?”

  “This is important.”

  “So is my father.”

  I let a couple of thousand thoughts play out in my head.

  “You’re already halfway to figuring how to get her out,” Jeremy continued, watching me with intent eyes. “I know how your mind works. Those protesters aren’t going anywhere, and neither is she. So come on, Bastian. Let’s, just please, get something done today.”

  His words reached out from across the room and took hold.

  I let my hand fall from the doorknob.

  Jeremy nodded, sighed. “All right . . . good.”

  The phone rang.

  Jeremy bolted upright. Sitting position, body tensing all over again. Waiting for that second ring, silently praying that maybe the first one hadn’t even happened.

  It didn’t work, and the phone continued to ring.

  “Don’t answer that,” he told me.

  “What if it’s an emergency?”

  “We’ve already got one of those.”

  “What if it’s another one?”

  Jeremy hesitated, maybe because he already knew. . . . “Only if it’s an emergency.”

  The answering machine came to life: “Hey, this is Sebastian’s phone. Keep it simple.”

  A beep.

  Then, Jenny’s voice:

  “Bastian, this is Jenny, pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up. . . . All right, I guess you’re not there. Here’s what: Paul’s going to kill himself and he says he’ll only speak to you—”

  Jeremy: “Damn it!”

  I picked up the phone. “Yeah, Jenny, I’m here. . . .”

  A whole slew of words on the other end, dramatic display of panic in each one. I cut through them, just the facts. Paul. On the roof. Legs dangling over a redbrick patio. No idea why. No response to conventional questions. . . .

  “He’ll only speak to you, Bastian,” Jenny finished. “Mom and Dad will be home in an hour.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I hung up and strode to the door.

  This time, Jeremy followed. Feet dragging through the hallway, into the kitchen, and back out into idyllic afternoon light. Circling the house again, once more on West Knox Street. Sounds of a distant train whistle floating through the air as we stopped in mid-stride . . .

  Hopscotch court on the street where my car should have been.

  “Bastian . . . ,” Jeremy managed. “Cesar dropped us off.”

  “Yes . . .” I nodded a few times. “Yeah. I think this is going to get complicated. . . .”

  It was ten past four in the afternoon.

  Copyright © 2003 by Ariel and Joaquin Dorfman

  Poetry selections on pages 65, 89, 251, and 252 are from Poems of Nazim Hikmet,

  translated by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk. Translation copyright © 1994, 2002 by

  Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk. . (New York).

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of

  Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in.Great Britain as The Burning City

  by Random House Children’s Books, London, in 2003.

  First U.S. trade paperback edition May 2006.

  RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at

  www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dorfman, Ariel.

  [Burning city]

  Burning city / Ariel and Joaquin Dorfman. — 1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  Originally published in Great Britain in 2003 under the title: The burning city.

  SUMMARY: Sixteen-year-old Heller Highland, who is living with his grandparents while his parents

  are away, burns rubber across Manhattan delivering bad news by bicycle, and as a summer heat

  wave melts the city, he is struck by first love.

  eISBN : 978-0-307-43320-6

  www.randomhouse.com

  v1.0