Running

by Cara Hoffman

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  For J. N.

  First there is the World. Then there is the Other World. . . . the world of the stoplight, the no-smoking signs, the rental world, the split-rail fencing shielding hundreds of miles of barren wilderness from the human step. A place where by virtue of having been born centuries late one is denied access to earth or space, choice or movement. The bought-up world; the owned world. The world of coded sounds: the world of language, the world of lies.

  —DAVID WOJNAROWICZ, Close to the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration

  Jasper died a week before I returned to Athens, so I never saw him again. They carried him out and down and he died in England, or maybe on the plane. There were witnesses in the lobby. There was a story in the newspaper. There was, the drunk boy said without raising his eyes to meet mine, proof.

  Out on the street, a hot breeze moved the suffocating air around and kicked up grit from the gutter. I stood for a time by the door of the bar waiting to feel something, then walked in the direction of Monastiraki.

  When I met Jasper in the spring of 1988, I still had fifty dollars, which was fifty dollars more than I had now. He wore a faded black T-shirt and dark pin-striped cutoffs that looked like they’d once been the trousers of a school uniform. His lank, oily blond hair was shaved in the back, hung in his face, and he was sweating.

  “I need to make some money right away,” I told him.

  Jasper nodded, lit a cigarette.

  “There’s quite a lot of ways to do that here,” he said, his voice smooth and kind, his pale green eyes trained on my remaining possessions.

  We recognized one another. I wasn’t a tourist. He’d get nothing for bringing me back to the hotel.

  We stood in the aisle, away from the seated passengers, with our arms hanging out the window, the bright hot sun burning down and a breeze born from the speed of the train blowing in upon our faces. Outside, terraced slopes of silver-leaved olive trees dotted the rocky yellow landscape, and piles of plastic bottles lay strewn by the edge of the track. He told me about a punk show he’d seen in London where a guy set his cock on fire using aerosol hairspray, and about a journal Alexander Pushkin kept that had been published after being banned for one hundred years.

  “I’ve been rewriting the want ads in dactylic hexameter,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s funny. Because it makes them more beautiful,” he said. “Obviously.” Jasper described the city planning of Athens and the ruin that was London and the prospects of getting work in the olive groves of Artimeda. I wasn’t used to people talking so much.

  “Where you from?” he asked.

  “The States,” I said.

  “Originally,” he said. “I mean where are you from originally?”

  “The United States.”

  He shrugged as if I hadn’t understood the question. “Athens is okay,” Jasper said. “But you can’t sleep out and you can’t sleep in the underground. The idea is to get to the islands. You know, make enough money in the city or picking fruit somewhere. Or,” he said, “by better, quicker means.”

  His breath had the sweet medicinal bite of licorice and a cool flammable underlay. His eyes were a calm marbled green; skin so tender it looked like he might not yet shave; dimples beside a pair of fine, full lips. Jasper’s was the kind of elegant placid face you saw in old portraits. His posture straight, his shoulders wide. It was only after half an hour of standing beside him that I noticed his left arm was in a cast.

  As we got closer to Athens, ragged, hungry-looking boys holding leaflets jostled onto the train, crowding the aisles, leaning on the arms of seats, talking to people about the islands or the Plaka or Mount Olympus. Saying they’d bring you to a nice place to stay; they’d take you to the ruins, to the port, to the bluest waters waiting just one more town away.

  “None of it,” Jasper said, his eyes gone flat and dark as we approached the station, “is true.”

  * * *

  Back then I also had a small bag. Carried my last pack of Camels and a lighter, my passport, newly exchanged blue drachma notes with statues of gods printed on them. I had a pair of cutoffs, a T-shirt, a pencil, some soap. I had a wool sweater, ammonium nitrate, electrical tape. I was flush with riches even after a year of sleeping out in train stations, church doorways, and parks. I had good boot laces. I had fire.

  Now I was sufficiently pared down to the essentials. The sweater was unnecessary; the extra T-shirt had become a towel.

  I’d come back to Athens after three months away picking olives, wandering the streets in Istanbul, and living in a border village that was a tight, rocky knot of land claimed alternately by Syria, Lebanon, and Palestine. I’d come back against every rational instinct for self-preservation I’d ever known.

  We had lived together, Jasper and Milo, and me at a four-dollar-a-night hotel on Diligianni Street across from Larissis train station and a sick sliver of scrub grass littered with condoms and empty bottles that people called a park. Sometimes when Declan was between jobs he would stay there too.

  The city was like a beacon. And it drew us from wherever we’d been left. For me, the outskirts of a smoke jumpers’ base in a cold mountain town, for Jasper and Milo the London suburbs and rain-soaked council housing of Manchester. We were looking for nothing and had found it in Athens: Demeter’s lips white as stone, Apollo’s yellow mantle sun washed, sanded, windblown to granite. The barren, blighted street outside our room in the low white ruin of the red-light district smelled like burning oil and a sooty haze hung in the middle distance. The hotel had no sign, but everyone called it Olympos.

  I first arrived in Greece by boat the year before, and didn’t have money for meals. I had been hungry on that trip from Brindisi in a way I’d never experienced before. The heat, the vast, wind-filled open ocean, dark water shining like mercury beneath the sun; bright blue sky and wind, salt and sweat drying against your skin. I’d had a deck-class ticket and drifted along near the dining room’s outdoor tables waiting for people to leave before they finished their meals. Then I’d slip in quickly for their leftovers. People think they need things. Money or respect or clean sheets. But they don’t. You can wash your hair and brush your teeth with hand soap. You can sleep outside. You can eat whatever’s there.

  Once you’re in a warm place, you can live for years and years and years on one five-dollar bill to the next. Five dollars is a reasonable amount of money to come across in the course of a day.

  Jasper and Milo knew this before I did; good at surviving week to week, sipping sweetly from bottles of ouzo and Metaxa, reeling arm in arm before the Parthenon or the big television at Drinks Time. They were runners. We were all runners.

  I tried to imagine it now, to feel their presence again amid the concrete and noise, to hear Jasper’s footsteps on the slick granite sidewalk. There was no money left to buy a train ticket or a deck-class. I’d been robbed in Tarlabasi and the last of the money we had made together was gone. I could stay or hitchhike but I was weighted down, tied, tired.

  The dementing arid heat of day was high and powerful and I could feel the sweat crawling across my scalp. Compact cars sped by on the dirty thoroughfare. I turned up Karolou Street and walked on the shadowed side along a block of empty buildings and shuttered cafés to get some reprieve from the sun’s glare and the roar of the high
way.

  I stopped at a kiosk to ask for a cup of water and when the man inside handed it to me his fingers grazed mine for a second and I had to look away.

  Milo Rollock left school in the spring of 1987 because he believed he could make money fighting. He had been living with his mother in a council estate in Manchester when Jasper came out of nowhere. Walked down the church basement steps two rounds in, wearing a wet, rumpled Eton uniform. He was pissed, reckless; hovering on the outskirts of some eclipsed nihility to see if he could get himself stomped, and there were always people to oblige a boy like that.

  Milo bit down on his mouth guard. This boy was like an apparition. He’d shown up so that people would know. Not suspect but know. He’d shown up to force Milo’s hand.

  Milo’s mother worked assembly line until made redundant. They were home all day. Beans on toast for two meals and tea. She’d tried not to let him out of the building when he was a boy except for school. Saw something in him that needed protecting; all but made the whole of Salford promise to watch out for him. She was powerful, Colleen, powerful in the building and in the neighborhood. He never knew why.

  There was nothing outside Canon Green Court but a square metal playground on a cracked cement slope where junkies nodded out on benches and kids splashed in puddles or played rough. Football games in the court were so violent, boys would sometimes search for teeth that’d scattered like dice cross the pavement.

  Colleen was twenty-seven when Milo was in junior school, wore her hair in long braids that smelled of coconut oil; stayed up reading and smoking all night, listening to the 13th Floor Elevators on a little Bakelite record player she’d had since she was a girl. He’d curl up beside her sometimes and they’d paint their toenails or talk about books, build tiny houses out of paper, and set them alight in the ashtray.

  From his room Milo could see the rooftops of the city, low slate-shingled row houses and stout chimneys, and in the distance the metal roofs of the warehouses and the factory stacks pumping out opaque plumes of orange and gunmetal gray in a long rushing column that cut through the rain. You could smell the smoke with the windows open and sometimes with the windows shut; sulfur, rubber. It burned your eyes.

  During the day, streets were jammed with people going about working. But it was a ghost town after dark, the towers and stacks almost invisible against the sooty evening sky. He would gaze out upon these columns and dream about being down in the empty cobbled streets, small among the tall, wide weight of buildings, cradled by the whole filthy town, running wild. He wanted to go kick the ball around, but even that scared Colleen, seemed to scare her more the older he got. So he stayed home and read Jean Genet, because she said Our Lady of the Flowers had been written twice, once destroyed by prison guards. She said it was good. And she was right. She was educated, Colleen.

  When he started disobeying, fighting, not coming right up after school, she saw to it that he box. Just like that: brought him to the gym, dropped him off. The men there knew her name and for some reason they knew his, treated him like he was dead tough even though they could already tell. Everyone could. She did right by bringing him there.

  Jasper’d said that night, down in the basement, that he’d left school and hitched north that morning; that he’d stopped at every bar between Windsor and Salford; that he’d heard the bell for the rounds outside while he was pissing by the cellar door, and had a premonition, which was why he’d bet on Milo. And now wanted to buy him a round. All these claims seemed utter shite. Sixteen, not a hair on his face, blond and pale, his wrists jutting out of a shaggy wool jacket that smelled like wet dog and sported the fancy crest: a lion, white flowers on a black field. His weight slung low in his hips, the delicate way he held his cigarette, that boy was not coming close to passing. Didn’t care about passing; stared around the place like it might have been an amusing hallucination. Milo got him out of there because he was embarrassed, because he was crushed by his beauty, because he knew Jasper’s blood would make a mess of the floor.

  Their shoulders brushed against one another’s as they walked and Milo cut his eyes away until they were out and on the street and even then he knew the boy would get him in trouble. The roads were slick and shining beneath the streetlamps and they trudged, hunched against the chill, hands in pockets through the misting drizzle from pub to pub, looking past one another, sitting close behind their drinks. Jasper’s finger lightly grazing the back of Milo’s dark, swollen-knuckled hand was already more than he’d thought possible in this world.

  Out on the docks past midnight with the black water lapping against the break wall, Milo pressed his body against Jasper’s and felt the boy’s breath on his lips, put his hand up beneath Jasper’s oxford to feel his thin smooth chest, brought his face down against his skin. His nipples were hard, petal pink, tasting of sweat. When Jasper knelt before him glassy-eyed, smiling, he felt his skin grow tighter. Tight to bursting at his touch, at his wet mouth, his tongue, the slick hard edge of his teeth. Jasper’s throat opened as Milo moved deeper, holding fistfuls of his rain-soaked white-blond hair.

  Milo left with him that night. They were on a ferry to Calais next morning still drunk. As the ship left dock, Jasper pulled a square of glossy paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it: a map of the continents torn from an encyclopedia.

  “The problem is,” he’d said, and Milo could still taste him, didn’t care if anyone saw how close they stood, “there’s no way out.”

  A runner’s job is to lie about where he lives, then convince people to come home with him. Every runner’s hotel was nearly identical, part of a cluster of brick and concrete walk-ups in the red-light district; none had bathrooms in the room, rarely was there hot water, never was there breakfast. They were stifling, blazing hot in summer, and far away from the kind of ruins everyone wanted to see.

  We would take the train outside the city to a smaller city—Elefsina or Corinth—and then get the next train back in, which would be packed with tourists from Northern Europe or the port at Brindisi.

  Our job was to intercept them, sell them on our hotel while they were still captive on the train, dreaming about the birthplace of civilization. Then we’d walk them from the station to Olympos and make sure they checked in. Ideally two or more people ran a train. One laughed at the other’s jokes, one confirmed the other’s lies. And, back at Olympos, one stood behind the tourists so they didn’t leave once they saw what the hotel was really like. After they had checked in and paid, after their passports were taken and stored, we got our commission money and went directly to Drinks Time to spend it. What happened later to all their nice things was purely a matter of chance.

  In exchange for these services, we lived for free in a small room on the top floor where we could see, at night and far in the distance, the tiny Acropolis lit up in the twilight haze like a state park diorama.

  Apart from our room and one other, the top floor was gone, the walls had crumbled; brick and plaster and cinder blocks lay strewn across the cracked tile and you could see beyond the missing wall what had once been a rooftop terrace. It was the kind of mess caused by a construction project given up mid way. Or, if you are more observant, by a small bomb.

  Declan was not truly a runner. Sometimes he went away to places where there were wars and came back with money. Boyhood skills he’d honed fighting the Royal Ulster Constabulary made for a good second career when he had to leave Ireland. Now he lived in hotels. In Athens for years, and, before that, Gaza, Angola.

  We were supposed to think of ourselves as a squad, Dec­lan said, to strategize our runs, to answer to him and “be good,” never draw attention to ourselves. We were like the Spartans, he said. Spartan soldiers.

  “Too right,” Jasper said. “But not for the reasons he thinks.”

  The names Seamus, Joseph, and Tommy were tattooed on Declan’s right forearm. A rising phoenix bloomed in faded red across his muscled back, interlocking
shamrocks on the side of his neck, his arms a junkyard of symbols, his earlobes marked with stars. He saw the three of us as some kind of project: a girl and two queers, people in need of protection, people who’d be grateful to him, because without him, he reasoned, we’d be dead. We were the way he tithed.

  Declan was paranoid about police and extradition. He’d mention having to kill one of us at least once a day, wanted our obedience, insisted on politeness; mind your fucking manners and watch your fucking mouth. I liked his sense of humor but never understood why he couldn’t keep quiet about what he did.

  “’Cause he’s a fucking nutter,” Jasper said. “Really not a mystery, is it? Man who stabs a cat, throws it from the balcony on passersby—isn’t exactly inauspicious, now, is he?”

  “When did he do that?” I asked.

  “He didn’t,” Milo said.

  “He might have,” Jasper said. “We don’t know. We’re not with him every second of the day.”

  Standing in line at a kiosk outside Larissis station in the morning amid the crush of people pressing past, clean and bright for work in the dirty city, some wearing dust masks against the smog, we lined up to buy our cigarettes and beer and lemon crème cookies, staples for the ride and the run. We were tired but feeling good in the relative cool and didn’t mind when an English tourist carrying a tall pack cut in front of us.

  Declan did mind, though; tapped the man on the shoulder, asked him to step aside. The man’s eyes skated over us, rested for a second too long on Milo, before he smirked and spat on the sidewalk. Milo winced and Jasper started laughing and Declan grabbed the man rough and quick by the sides of his face, pulled him forward with a vicious nod, snapping the man’s nose flat. He yelped, twisted away; blood poured down his shirt, painted Declan’s forehead bright, splattered across the sidewalk.