Stranger

by David Bergen

  SHE was persistent, and this being so she rode the bus again the following day, hoping to see Vitoria. When Vitoria climbed onto the bus she came right to her and sat down beside her. Vitoria’s hands were very clean, and her hair smelled of fruit, and so she must have washed, and Íso wondered how she had managed that. Vitoria sat quietly for a bit, and then she said that if Íso wanted a job in Zone 7, she would need a health certificate. She said it was mostly for TB but there were other diseases the rich were worried about. Especially if you’re coming from the outside. Which you are. She said she knew of a doctor who could do a physical. It would cost twenty dollars. Do you have that much? she asked.

  Yes, Íso said.

  I’ll take you, then. On the weekend.

  Thank you.

  And then Vitoria said that the man wasn’t her boyfriend. He just thinks he is. She spoke softly and apologetically, as if she might be confessing something. She said that it was safer to have a man than to be alone. To be alone was like an invitation, and wasn’t it better to choose than to be chosen? She said that Íso should find someone, and if Íso needed help doing this, she would aid her. She said that the idea might go against her morals, but reality always smothered principles. A man is a man, she said. She said that Íso should stop riding the bus. It was too expensive.

  Just before she got off, she said that there was a couple looking for a worker four days a week. They didn’t have children, so it would be cleaning and shopping and dog walking. Very easy, but the pay wouldn’t be great. She asked if Íso had permit papers.

  Íso shook her head.

  No one has papers, Vitoria said. But you’ll need the medical certificate. And she said they should meet Saturday morning at the greenway.

  THURSDAY evening, alone, she walked and walked. At one point, crowds of people were walking against her, moving towards the stadium. She put her head down and pushed forward into the commotion, banging shoulders with the passersby, hearing them speak, and their bodies and their voices were like scraps of wood that she received, and with these scraps she fashioned a raft upon which she floated, and she turned the raft and moved downstream with the crowd. She found her alcove, lay down on her sweater, felt the roar of the crowd, and heard the choir of seventy thousand voices.

  The night was very warm and very humid and she left her alcove and pushed the sleeves of her T-shirt up onto her shoulders and she found her place on the bench and she listened to Chaz. He kept wiping the sweat from his forehead, and then he’d wipe his hands on his black pants. He nodded at her when she arrived and he looked at her between songs. The looks he gave her were easy.

  That night, after his set, he asked her if she was still enjoying the Y and she said that she had moved out.

  Too nice for you? he asked.

  I have a place, she said.

  With a shower?

  She shook her head.

  Are you safe in that place without a shower? he asked.

  She said that she was safe. She could take care of herself.

  Of course you can.

  He rolled a cigarette and smoked. He asked if she was hungry.

  She said that she was sometimes hungry.

  Come, he said, and he pulled her to her feet. His hand was very large. She felt small.

  He took her to a grocery store and they bought eggs and bread and cheese and peppers and onion greens and bananas and yogurt and jam. He said that he was going to make her breakfast at midnight.

  She said that she couldn’t go. She wasn’t hungry anymore.

  Ah, don’t be frightened. Chaz isn’t dangerous. He said that he lived with his sister and her child. Come, he said. You’ll meet them.

  And hearing that there was a sister, she was less fearful, and so she rode behind him through the streets into a dark area of town where there were no street lights and where young boys and girls ran in packs, and Chaz seemed to know all these children, for he called out to them, and they to him. He locked his bike and she followed him up a long metal staircase attached to the outside of a building and through a screen door into a room where a large woman sat holding a child. The woman said Chaz’s name and then she said, Who’s this? and Chaz said, This is my friend Íso. Íso, this is Rita and her baby, Sutt.

  Sutt was bouncing on Rita’s lap and sucking his fist.

  Hi, Íso said, and she looked at the child and said his name, Sutt.

  He don’t speak yet, Rita said. Just eats and burps and shits. Gotta love him, though. She tweaked Sutt’s cheek and he kicked his fat legs and looked up at his mother and gurgled. Sucked some more.

  Chaz cooked while Íso sat on the couch and listened to Chaz and Rita talk. Chaz talked about this being the girl who’d brought him luck, and she was going to stay the night, in the guest room, after he’d fed her good.

  Rita laughed and said that Chaz was always bringing home strays. You watch out for that boy, she said to Íso. And don’t be thinking that when he says “guest room” you’ll be at the Hotel Ritz.

  Chaz said that he was the gentlest man in the neighbourhood. And anyhow look at her, he said, indicating Íso. Thin as a dime.

  They ate scrambled eggs on toast and then toast with jam and then yogurt and toast and then some toast with coffee. Chaz stood at the counter and sang as he produced the food and then Sutt was in Íso’s lap and she had her arms around him and she kissed his curly hair as he chewed on her wrist. When they were done eating, Rita gathered up Sutt and walked through a door from the kitchen into another room. She shut the door behind her, and Íso and Chaz were alone.

  I have to go, Íso said.

  Chaz took out his tobacco and asked if she would roll him one while he cleaned up. He gave her the package and the papers and then he stood and cleared the dishes. He ran water and soap into the sink and set the dishes into the water, turned off the tap, wiped the counter, dried his hands, and sat down across from Íso, who was struggling with the cigarette. She held it up finally and Chaz took it, studied it carefully, and then put it in his mouth and lit it.

  He exhaled and said, Made by Íso. He gestured down the hall. There’s an extra room. You’ll sleep there. Even has a lock on the inside in case you’re worried about Sutt breaking in. He grinned.

  He’s handsome, Íso said.

  He is that. You have children? he asked.

  She said that she did, and then she said that she didn’t.

  Which is it? he asked.

  No more, she said.

  He nodded slowly and then ashed his cigarette and he said that he was sorry.

  He finished his cigarette and he said that he was going to sit up for a while and listen to music, and she could do as she pleased. He pointed to where the bathroom was and he said that she might want to shower. It’s all yours. Though there’s no hot water. Can’t have everything when you squat.

  She didn’t know the word “squat,” and she didn’t ask.

  He stood at the sink while she crept down to the bathroom and locked the door and sat on the toilet. She could hear him humming some song. He had a clear voice. She didn’t want to shower. It felt too strange. And so she found the bedroom he’d indicated and she locked herself in, and she lay on the bed fully clothed and she immediately slept. She dreamed of the doctor, who was now fluent in Spanish, and it pleased her that the doctor had dedicated himself to learning her language. And then the doctor was holding her baby and he set the baby on the floor and the baby toddled over to her and she scooped it up and up and up and then they were flying. She woke from this dream and she knew that her baby was too young to be walking. She had a sudden thought that her child might be dead, but she put that thought aside and imagined her girl sleeping out there in the city somewhere, and her shoulders ached and she realized that she was holding her breath and that her heart was beating wildly. It took her a long time to fall asleep again.

  She woke early and tiptoed to the bathroom and stripped and showered quickly, shivering under the cold water, worried that she might be caught. Most of
her clothes were dirty, but she found the cleanest possible, dressed, and then slipped out of the bathroom and through the kitchen and down the staircase to the street below. She walked down to the river and watched the water tumble through the spillway.

  She found her way back downtown and in a park near the stadium she sat on the grass and watched a troupe of young girls, ballerinas, perform on a small stage. There was a smattering of a crowd—mostly parents, it appeared—and when the dance was finished, the small crowd offered applause and Íso joined in.

  Mid-afternoon, she returned to Chaz’s place and found him eating at the kitchen table. Sutt was in a high chair beside him.

  Look at you, Chaz said when she entered.

  Can I come in? she asked.

  Mi casa and all that, Chaz said. Hungry? He pointed at the cooker.

  She took a bowl and ladled some soup into it and she sat and began to eat. Chaz was feeding Sutt soup as well, just the broth and a few mashed-up carrots.

  She ate. And then took another bowl.

  Chaz said that Rita was out scavenging, looking for food and such, and he had to go out for a bit and would she mind looking after Sutt. Just for an hour. He likes the outdoors, so if you want to walk him in the stroller, you can.

  She was surprised. She couldn’t imagine taking care of a child. She’d already lost two children, her own and then Gabriel, but of course Chaz couldn’t know that. No one could know that. And so she nodded and said that she would be happy to take care of Sutt.

  His diaper’s clean. He’s fed. He’ll probably just sleep.

  When she was alone with Sutt she laid him on her bed and watched him roll from side to side. He touched her face, and then studied her hand. He hiccupped. He yawned. His cheeks were fat and his hands were fat and his skin was perfect like his mother’s, and like Chaz’s. All three were the same colour, brown going on black. He closed his eyes, opened them, and then closed them and he slept. She kneeled beside the bed and did not move for an hour. She stroked his face and his arms and she talked to him. She said that he was beautiful and that he was strong and that he was lucky. She said that she loved him, and saying this she realized it was true, that love for a child, even a strange child, might fall down immediately on the head of the keeper. Sutt shuddered as if a dream were rising up through his eyelids. He whimpered.

  Oh, you, she said.

  She heard Chaz return, and still she stayed where she was, as if afraid that if she let the baby out of her sight, he would disappear.

  Chaz knocked and stood in the doorway and said, Aren’t you two a picture.

  He’s beautiful, she said.

  How old was he? Chaz asked. Your child.

  One day, she said. It was a girl.

  Jesus, Chaz said.

  He was standing behind her now. She was kneeling and holding the baby’s fingers, and he was standing behind her. She could feel him there.

  Do not touch me, she thought. Do not.

  You all right? he said.

  She nodded.

  Okay, he said, and she felt him move away.

  When she came out into the kitchen holding Sutt, Chaz was on the fire escape. He called out to her and she stood in the doorway holding the groggy baby and he pointed out over the city, to the north, and he said that the riots might spill over into other zones and that would bring down a curfew, as it usually did. That’ll fuck things up good, he said. No more music for a while. Give, he said, and he held out his arms for Sutt. She handed him over.

  SATURDAY morning she found Vitoria sitting on the greenway, a single bag at her feet. She rose and came towards Íso and took her hand and together they crossed via the pedestrian bridge. Down past the truck docks and the warehouses and over the railroad tracks into a small enclave of office buildings, where they stopped before a glass door and Vitoria pushed a button. The round eye of an all-knowing camera hovered above the doorway.

  The doctor was young with dreadlocks and when he bent to place the stethoscope against Íso’s chest she smelled the sweat in his hair. The posters on his walls offered diagrams of internal organs and the bones of the human body and there was a ceramic knee on his desk with exposed ligaments. He weighed her and took her blood pressure and he felt under her arms and asked her to open her mouth. He lit a flashlight and inspected her ears. He pressed a small vial against her upper right arm and said that this was a Mantoux test, for TB. She was to return in forty-eight hours, he would inspect it, and if she was clean she would get her certificate. His voice was soft and he spoke with the same lilting affect that she had come to know from Doctor Mann. When he slipped on gloves and advised her that he was going to do an internal she closed her eyes and turned her head away. When he was done, he sat and wrote on a piece of paper while she stood behind the partition and changed. He spoke. He asked her how old her child was. She paused while buttoning her shirt and then she said that her child was five months old. When she came out from behind the partition he handed the signed papers to her and he said that she was very healthy, though she needed to put on some weight.

  She said that she would try.

  Eat starch, and drink milk. More fat.

  I’ll try.

  He asked if she had other family.

  Yes.

  Here?

  Yes.

  Good. Then he wished her all the luck in the world, and these words were strange coming from the mouth of a doctor.

  Thank you, she said. She said that she would come back in two days.

  Vitoria was waiting in the anteroom. Íso paid and then they walked out into the street together and she thought that now Vitoria would leave her, but they walked together in the sunshine, down into the streets of the city centre, and they bought and shared a hot dog and drank a bottle of water on the grass next to the stadium parking lot beneath a billboard that advertised a local fertility clinic. The image on the billboard was of a young woman holding a baby. The billboard was old and weathered and the young woman was missing an eye. The baby was naked and still had all its parts.

  Vitoria asked her if she believed that things happened for a reason.

  What things?

  Good things. Evil things.

  Man-made things?

  Or those things brought on by God. Like earthquakes and tornadoes and floods. She said that she had witnessed a tornado in Kansas when she’d first arrived in this country. The tornado was dark and powerful and it had a sound like nothing she’d ever heard before. And so she could not compare it to anything else. It hurt her ears. The wind ripped up the earth and the trees and the houses and it tossed over vehicles like toys. It was more frightening than an earthquake.

  You’ve been in an earthquake?

  Yes, twice. But they were short, and not powerful. If they aren’t powerful they are interesting. The ground moves, the lamps sway, the pictures on the wall shift. A tornado arrives like a lion.

  You know a lion?

  No. But I’ve seen movies, and heard the noises they make. She said that those were events directed by God. And then there were those events directed by men. She said that the night previous, their encampment had been raided. Soldiers had come and torn down the tents and destroyed their belongings. Everyone had been arrested.

  But you?

  I was fetching water. And when I returned I saw the lights and the cars and the horses with men in helmets and I saw the clubs and all I heard were the noises from the cars overhead on the freeway. I ran. And later I went back and found a few of my things. There was hardly anything left.

  Íso was quiet. She said that she was sorry. You must be sad.

  Vitoria shrugged. I was lucky, she said.

  And the others? Your friends?

  She shrugged again.

  What will you do?

  Find some new place. There are other places to sleep.

  There’s the Y, Íso said.

  Too much money.

  And so Íso did what she knew she must, though she also understood that her decision was a s
elfish one. She needed Vitoria.

  Chaz was at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and smoking his morning cigarette, when they arrived. Sutt on his lap. He saw Vitoria and he looked at Íso and before she could speak he said that if the new girl was going to stay, she’d have to sleep in Íso’s room. And then he grinned and said, Unless she needs someone stronger.

  They ate that night, the five of them, by the light of a candelabra that Rita had found while out foraging. Falsely gold-leafed, it sat in the centre of the table while five candles of various sizes and colours guttered and waved. They ate fried sausages and peppers and old feta and they ate doughnuts for dessert. They drank coffee and water and Vitoria and Chaz shared a beer. Chaz liked it that Vitoria was an imbiber, as he called it, and he asked where she had learned to drink.

  Is it necessary to learn? she asked.

  Íso here doesn’t touch the stuff.

  Is it okay? Íso? She was quite serious and would have handed back her beer if Íso had been offended.

  Don’t listen to him, Íso said. He likes attention.

  And she saw that Vitoria was willing to give it. She was intrigued by Vitoria’s comfort with Chaz, how effortlessly she spoke to him, how open she was. That night she lay beside Vitoria on their narrow bed and she asked if she had always found it easy talking to men.

  Am I easy? Vitoria asked.

  Not easy. But you’re not afraid to speak, or to laugh, or to offend.

  They were whispering, speaking their language. Íso was happy to have Vitoria’s body beside her.

  I learned young, Vitoria said. I was fourteen when my mother sold me to Daunte, the boss of the barrio where we lived. And she told Íso the story of her earlier life in the barrio flanking the garbage dump in Guatemala City. She said that her mother was a crier for garbage who had moved up to being a collector, and it was Vitoria’s job to help her mother. They lived in a shanty that belonged to Daunte. Daunte was not a man in the real sense. He’d been castrated by his enemies at the age of twenty, but this had in fact obliged him to appear unscathed, and so he chose young girls from the barrio to visit him, to prove that he had a potent beak, and Vitoria had been one of those chosen.