by Daniel Mason
The truck slowed and drew up next to a pair of boys. They dragged a barrow with a broken wheel that scoured the road. As they walked, they talked to the driver. Then they shook their heads. The truck roared off.
‘They’re going, too, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ said the woman, pushing aside her wind-knotted hair. ‘But they have to walk.’ The words were accusatory, as if from another conversation that Isabel wasn’t hearing.
In the morning, they stopped at a rest station. The driver unlatched the bed and the passengers pattered out. A pair of men stood by the open door of a long truck. ‘Look, another shipment’s in,’ said one, loudly. Isabel kept her eyes down as she passed them. The hills were green, with taller trees than she had ever seen. She slipped off her shoes. It was the first time she had taken them off since home, and her feet were cold and pink where the strap pinched. She took long strides back and forth along a sandy patch lined with morning glories. When she got back to the flatbed, she remembered her cheek. In the side-view mirror, she ran her finger along the raised welt; it looked eerily blue beneath the light blue of her eye. Her forehead was lined with creases of dust. She spit on her fingers and tried to wipe it clean. She boarded the truck and it left.
An hour later, it began to rain. At first there was laughter and raised hands, and two boys did a little dance. Then it grew cold. There was a canvas tarp rolled up by the cab, but it flapped wildly in the wind when they tried to cover themselves. Isabel huddled with the others in the center. She licked the raindrops that ran down her cheeks. Water streamed back on the floor and fanned up from the wheels. A thick smell blossomed, like a wet animal. Then the rain stopped and she watched the clouds scurry off toward a low range of mountains.
Someone said, ‘It’s coming soon.’ The highway grew wider. Isabel went to the edge of the flatbed and stared at the road, waiting for the city to appear. She glanced behind her, ready to laugh, wanting to talk to someone, but there was only an old man, and he was quiet. She stood on her toes, as if it would help her see.
They passed more towns, the green spaces giving way to lots and dirt roads, fuel stations, hills of brick houses. The traffic thickened. Now and again, buildings in half-completion stood among the rest, concrete clinging to metal skeletons.
The highway joined a wide river with heaped banks and half-buried construction pylons. The water was brown, flecked by bits of floating foam. There was no green now, and the shanties seemed to cover the hills as far as she could see. At a wide sweep of the river, she saw lines of cars stretch unending into the far distance, where towers hovered in the haze.
After a while, they passed a dump across the river. She had never seen anything like it: a mountain, its base billowing against a long broken fence. Forms moved through openings in the chain links. A web of trails ran over the dun-colored swell, and the sky above was scribbled with the silhouettes of carrion birds. Its slopes seemed torn and tattered, littered with pale confetti. In places, larger scraps—a rusted car chassis, plywood, a door—hung like lone scales. Dogs trotted over the ground. Strange that they would put a dump in the center of the city, she thought, until a second thought came: Or the city has grown around it. She felt a chill and thought she might be sick again. The smell overwhelmed her, but no one else seemed to notice. On top of the massive rise she saw a row of lean-tos and two tiny figures running.
The traffic slowed without warning. The flatbed swerved off the highway. They passed a massive building covered with cracks, as if it had been dropped from a height. She thought of home and the houses crumbling out in the forest. You could take all of Saint Michael, she thought, and grind it up and pour it into this building and there would be space for many other Saint Michaels to fit inside.
Farther along, they turned onto a wide road that paralleled the arches of an overpass. On its flanks, storefronts crowded up against paint-stripped apartments with walls streaked the color of coal. Graffiti tattooed the narrow lintels, angry, spindled letters with swollen elbows. There were abandoned lots, backed by walls of advertisements and symbols of political parties, their cracked asphalt empty but for piles of concrete blocks and tangles of telephone wire. Alleyways gave onto cement towers and whorls of steel barbs. Antennae sprouted like an old man’s whiskers. There was no center and no order.
The flatbed stopped at a light beneath an overpass, the crowd broke around them, she heard shouting and the roar of motors. A group of boys around a motorbike caught her staring. One made a kissing motion, punched another. ‘I love you!’ he shouted, touching his heart. ‘Marry me!’ The others joined in, elbowing each other. ‘Not him! He doesn’t know how to treat a country girl! He’s a baby! Marry me! My love’s killing me!’ She began to smile, but as the cars moved on, the words turned to obscenities and they desisted only when the flatbed was far away. The girls she saw wore tight shirts and jeans, and she recognized none of the slow, familiar saunter of the women at home. They walked fast, pulling children so that they almost lifted them off the ground. The air stank of engine oil and exhaust.
The flatbed stopped, the crowd broke around them, she heard shouting and the roar of motors, the gunshot backfire of motorcycles, the rattling of the overpass. When the light turned again, they passed a giant intersection, four lanes across in each direction, the flatbed vibrating as it picked up speed. Shops lined the road. There were signs for cheap clothing, cheap burials, cheap legal work, mourning clothes on credit. There were butcher shops, barber shops, shoe shops, shops with big plush toys, bars, dark buildings with names hidden in the shadows.
As they slowed, they came up alongside a bus. Entranced, she watched her reflection float over the glass, until suddenly they passed an open window, where a pale girl with wide black eyes stared back.
The flatbed crawled forward and left the girl behind. When they stopped, Isabel could see the reflection of the crowded flatbed, but when she sought her face she couldn’t find it.
They drove and then they stopped again, the crowd broke, she heard shouting, hawkers’ cries and the roar of motors. It’s like I am going around and around, she thought, and she whispered to the woman beside her, ‘Is this it?’ ‘The beginning of it,’ the woman said.
They drove for another hour. Then the truck swung into an empty lot and skidded to a stop. ‘This is not the bus station,’ said someone. ‘The flatbeds no longer go to the station,’ said someone else and gave no explanation.
The passengers began to gather their bags. They filed away quickly and silently, turning into the street at the end of the lot. Isabel waited as the flatbed emptied. She went to the driver. ‘This isn’t the station?’ He shook his head. ‘The police started fining us. They say too many perches turn over.’ He paused. ‘You meeting someone at the station?’ She shook her head slowly. Somehow she had imagined Isaias there. The thought seemed ridiculous now; she hadn’t even spoken to him. ‘You know where you are going?’ he asked.
‘They said there’s a bus.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Of course there’s a bus. There are hundreds of buses. Do know which one?’
Her hand trembled as she pulled out a scrap of paper where her mother had written JUNIOR / 24TH OF AUGUST STREET / NEW EDEN / NEW SETTLEMENTS. She handed it to him. ‘New Eden!’ he said. He seemed to think it was very funny. ‘They should hang the guy who names these.’ But he shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Ask a taxi.’ ‘Ask what?’ she blurted, exhausted. ‘Which name is where I am going?’ ‘Which name? All of them. New Eden is what a priest with a cruel sense of humor called it. New Settlements is what it is.’ ‘It’s not the city.’ ‘It’s beyond the city. It’s what’s happened to the city.’
She walked slowly to the street, where a bus rattled past. She felt her face beginning to get warm. She could see a line of white taxis at the corner. A white car without markings pulled up next to her. Its driver put his head out. ‘Where are you going?’ She brushed back her hair. ‘New Eden. Do you know it?’ ‘Of course. New Eden. I’ll take you.’ She proteste
d, ‘I just wanted the number of the bus.’ He shook his head. ‘Nonsense, you remind me of my cousin. You think I would let my cousin try to find her way on the bus? I’ll give you a special price.’ The car looked like the taxis at the corner. She considered. She still had the change the flatbed driver had given her. ‘How much?’ ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We can figure out the price when we get there.’
She let him put her bag on the backseat, and he opened the door for her. The car was old, the floor was covered with muddy newspapers. ‘Close the door,’ he said. She looked at him. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got all night. I’m not allowed to park here.’
He reached over to pull the door shut, and his arm brushed against her stomach. ‘Sorry,’ he said politely, but suddenly she was afraid. She waited for him to ask for the street, but he was looking intently into the rearview mirror. He put the key in the ignition. It heaved but didn’t start.
He cursed, tried again. ‘Wait a moment.’ He opened the door and walked quickly to the hood. On the floor beneath her, she saw a crumpled blouse. Her heart pounded. She told herself, It’s just a shirt, but then she grabbed her bag, pushed the door open and ran. She didn’t stop until she found herself in a crowd.
She walked for many blocks without knowing where she was going. Movement calmed her. She felt that if she just kept walking she would know the way, but soon she found herself at the edge of a dark street of warehouses. She turned back.
Her shoulder began to hurt from her bag. She wanted to carry it on her head, like she did with laundry at home, but she was afraid of people knowing she was from the backlands, and worried someone would snatch it. So she switched the bag back and forth between her hands, and wiggled her fingers to keep them from cramping. She felt very small. She had never been in such a crowd, except the New Year’s at the beach, long ago. She wanted to ask for help, but now she feared someone would take advantage of her. The shoes hurt her feet. The people walked swiftly and bumped her if she stopped.
Finally, she paused by a woman outside a butcher shop. The woman wiped her hands on an apron, peered at the little paper and shook her head.
A young couple at a bus stop also shook their heads. ‘You’re not from here, are you?’ said the girl, her eyes darting from Isabel’s bag to her face. Another man joked that he knew ‘New Hell’ but not ‘New Eden,’ and another laughed, ‘If you find it, let me know!’ They spoke with a different accent, without the lilt she was used to. She thought, What if Manuela was wrong? She thought of calling, but she would have to buy a token somewhere, which meant putting the bag down. She was now certain someone would steal it.
It was night. She stopped at a vendor selling corn, a boy her age. He stood in the street, his shirt whipping in the wake of the speeding cars. She stared hungrily at the boiled cobs. ‘You’re lost,’ he said. She showed him the address, and he whistled. ‘New Eden, huh? That’s the real thing. I hope you know someone there.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean not everyone there deserves to be in Paradise.’ He pointed across the street. ‘Bus passes there. Just look for the word Settlements in the window. You can spell, can’t you?’ ‘Of course I can,’ she snapped. He held up his hand. ‘Of course you can, no offense. Many people can’t. Even good proud people.’ She paused. ‘I thought maybe I’d have to spend the night here.’
‘On the street!’ he said. ‘You?’
At the bus stop, she stood next to a pair of older boys arguing loudly in a slang she hardly understood. ‘You looking at something?’ asked one of the boys, glancing over his shoulder at her. She moved to stand by a black woman with a faded dress and straightened hair. Again, Isabel caught herself staring. She felt as if she was registering everything from this moment: the stench of exhaust, the pounding echo of the overpass, the boys’ thin shoulders, the splitting calluses on the woman’s feet.
The bus came. They passed through a grated turnstile and paid their fares. It left the wide avenue and entered a maze of empty streets with names of dead ministers and doctors and generals she had never heard of. It seemed to be a residential neighborhood, with apartments guarded by steel grates and metal shutters and shattered bottles set teeth-up in cement, but it was empty. They pitched through at strange angles, there were no straight lines.
They climbed a massive span, over a road glittering with car lights and a distant view of a floating city. It seemed as if they were driving away again.
She lugged her bag back up the aisle to ask. The fare collector laughed. ‘Easy. I’ll tell you.’
They dove back into the dark streets. She pressed her face to the glass. Now the city seemed to have been replaced by vast fields of shanties. In some places, ranks of identical row houses made patterns in the dark; in others, the shacks swarmed over one another without reason.
The bus was nearly empty when it pulled up at the base of a hill. She descended behind a pair of middle-aged women. There was a single road; the pavement ended after several steps, the rest was a paisley of cobbles, broken asphalt and gravel. A stream ran by the road, littered with trash. She ran until she caught up with the women. ‘I am Isabel,’ she blurted. One of them looked at the other. ‘Yes? Is that supposed to mean something? Am I supposed to know you?’ ‘I’m going here.’ Isabel pointed at the piece of paper.
They shook their heads with the name of the street. ‘Love, the City gave the streets those names. No one uses them here.’ Isabel looked back at the note. ‘It’s across from Mr. Junior’s store.’ ‘That’s up the road. Whose house are you looking for?’ ‘My cousin—her name’s Manuela.’ ‘Of course. Good Manuela. We know Manuela.’ The women looked at each other. ‘She’s not home, though. She works all week.’
Isabel thought she heard envy in their voices. ‘She told me she would give a key to Junior at the store,’ she said.
She marched behind them up the hill. The street wound through houses of concrete, brick, clapboard, widening in places and then narrowing again. She stayed close to the women, afraid she would lose them. She wanted them to ask her about the journey, but they spoke to each other in low voices and she couldn’t hear. On poorly lit corners, people were gathering. She could smell food, something burning. The road passed through long stretches of darkness, broken by the red stutter of street lamps.
A pair of girls walked past in bright skintight shirts covering only one shoulder. They looked Isabel over before stopping by men drinking and dancing around a radio. From an alley, a woman ran out, cackling, holding a baby above her head, away from a girl who reached for him.
The women stopped before a pair of metal tables outside a shack. A television flickered above a billiard table with torn baize, where a fat man was eating a plate of sun-dried beef. He was unshaven, and his breasts sagged in a ribbed undershirt. ‘Junior,’ said the woman. He looked up. ‘What is it, love?’ It was the voice that answered the telephone. Isabel felt she could cry with relief.
‘He’s a charmer,’ whispered the woman to Isabel. To Junior, she said: ‘This is Manuela’s cousin.’ She paused. ‘She just arrived from the north.’
He grinned. ‘My beloved backlands.’ A fly crawled on his shoulder, and he shivered it off. ‘I never could’ve guessed you just arrived.’ He winked at the women. Isabel brushed her hair back with her free hand. ‘I came on a perch,’ she said awkwardly.
He took another bite of meat and offered her a piece, glistening on his fingers. Isabel almost took it, but she was afraid that she would eat so ravenously that she would humiliate herself. She shook her head, immediately regretting it.
Junior lumbered out of his chair and led her across the street. Several yards away, they stopped before a brick house with a concrete roof. He squinted at his key chain. ‘Good Manuela. Works hard, your cousin. She’s done well for herself. Good roof. Not many people have a house like this to themselves.’ He patted the wall as if it were a friend.
The door was stuck against the jamb, and he had to tug up on the handle to slide it open. He handed her the key a
nd left. Who will be with me, on the last perch in the world? he sang as he trudged back up the street.
Inside, Isabel set the bag down slowly. The room was small, scarcely twice the size of the single bed, a thin mattress stretched partway over its boards. A table sat against the far wall beneath a window, one of its legs propped on a stack of cardboard coasters that had been taped neatly together. On a wire shelf, a plastic clock ticked. She went to look at it. Its face showed a smiling cat, paws pointing to the numbers. There was also an illustrated Bible, a stack of old beauty magazines and news journals, artificial flowers with clear plastic drops of water on their leaves, a glossy statue of Saint Joseph with a dewlapped robe and a broken ear.
A hammock hung against the wall. Inside was an imprint of talcum powder. The baby must be with the woman who watched him while Manuela worked, she thought. Him, or her. She didn’t even know the baby’s name.
In a second, smaller room she found a stove, an old icebox, a washbasin and lines with stiff clothes that smelled of detergent. She was impressed: she didn’t know Manuela was rich enough to afford an icebox. There was a short stack of plates with chipped rims. The glasses were from cream containers, the expiration dates still stamped on the bottoms.
On the wall was a fragment of a mirror with a single intact corner. She stood on her toes. In the sharp beak of the glass, she could see the saint’s icon behind her. The single bulb backlit a nimbus of wild strands of hair. Her cheeks were dusty; the bruise seemed even darker and made her irises almost clear. She stared. What a strange sight I must be to other people, she thought.