The City We Became

by N. K. Jemisin

  “Powerful, aren’t they?” asks the woman as Bronca stands there staring. She’s looking at Bronca’s favorite piece, although it’s also the one that feels as if it has a slightly different eye. In the image, seen from above, a body curls sleeping atop what looks like a bed of old newspapers—not just Village Voices and Daily Newses, but really old stuff that Bronca barely remembers from her childhood, like the New York Herald Tribune, and obscure stuff like the Staten Island Register. The papers are in bundles, still wrapped with twine or plastic. The figure atop them is centered and almost photorealistic amid a pool of light: a slender young dark-skinned Black man in worn jeans and a stained T-shirt, asleep on his side. His sneakers are nondescript, canvas, dirty, and there’s a hole in one of them. He can’t be much more than twenty years old, though it’s hard to tell because his face is turned into the papers, hidden except for one baby-smooth cheek. There’s a little meat on him—wishful-thinking biceps peeking from the sleeves of his shirt, a suggestion of deltoids underneath—but overall he’s skin and bones, to the point that Bronca’s tired maternal instincts make her want to just feed the poor child ’til he fills out.

  The framing of the painting is the really interesting thing—as Bronca has tried to capture by having the photograph cut into a circle. The whole thing is circular, positioned above the painting’s subject, as if the painter is gazing down at him from the top of an open well. Bronca thinks there is adoration in this framing; it emulates the gaze of a lover, looking down upon a sleeping partner—or a parent, watching over a small child. She has seen the same tenderness of positioning, the same lighting, in classical painters’ depictions of the Madonna. But then, she knows why this painting is different. It is a self-portrait, but the boy didn’t paint it.

  “This one especially,” says the woman in the white pantsuit. On a whim, Bronca walks into Murrow Hall to stand beside her, looking more at the woman than at the photograph. She’s almost as pale as her outfit, Bronca sees, though this is exacerbated somewhat by her tawny, near-white hair. She doesn’t look at Bronca, keeping her avid gaze on the image of the boy. “I feel like it’s trying to send me a message.”

  It is, but not to some random stranger. Bronca folds her arms and decides to play along, though. “We’re all big fans of Bronx Unknown here,” she says. “What message do you think he’s trying to send?”

  “I think it’s saying, ‘Come here,’” the woman says. “‘Find me.’”

  Bronca stiffens and turns to stare at the woman, who grins. In profile, this makes Bronca notice the woman’s canines before anything else. They’re badly proportioned, out of alignment with the rest of her upper teeth and slightly too big. The white suit looks expensive. Anyone making that much money ought to be able to afford custom orthodontics.

  And that is completely beside the point, Bronca realizes, as a ripple of unease prickles over her skin. Unease and… recognition? If something so atavistic can be called that. When a mouse that has never before seen a cat spots one for the first time, it knows to run because of instinct. Something in the bone knows its enemy.

  Not that she’s a mouse, though, so Bronca only regards the white-haired woman evenly and says, “Maybe so. But I’m getting a lot of warning vibes off it, too.”

  The woman frowns a little. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s subtle. All of this is conjecture given that we don’t know anything about the artist, but I’m thinking Unknown is homeless, or in such precarious circumstances that he might as well be.” Ignoring the woman for the moment, Bronca steps forward and points at the unfashionably torn jeans, the dirt on his plain white T-shirt, the worn-out, generic shoes. “These are the kinds of clothes you get out of a Goodwill pile when you’ve only got a few dollars to your name. And he’s not wearing anything that would make him stand out. No hoodie. No colors or accessories. White folks will call the cops on a Black kid for wearing just about anything, but he’s dressed as down as you can get without going naked.”

  “Ah, the better to go unnoticed. You think he’s hiding from something?”

  Bronca frowns at the photo, startled to realize it’s a good question. But he’s supposed to be fine at this point, isn’t he? The city is alive. Then again, Bronca’s supposed to be fine, too, and she’s been seeing too many signs in the past day that something is very wrong with the city.

  For the third time that morning, she wonders again if she should try to find the others—

  No. “Yes,” she says, to the woman’s question. “I think he is hiding, now that you mention it. Huh.”

  “What could it be?” The woman asks this with such wide-eyed innocence that her tone alone sounds like a lie. “What frightens such a bright, vibrant young man into concealing himself?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Then Bronca remembers that she’s trying to make a point. She taps the boy’s hand, which has been rendered in marvelous detail. They are the hands of an artist or a basketball player or both: long-boned and long-fingered, with a broad palm. Across the knuckles there are faint, old, keloidal scars. “He’s a fighter, though. That’s the warning. He hides, runs when he has to, but corner him, and that’s your ass.”

  “Hmph,” the woman says. Her tone is inflectionless, but Bronca hears the scorn in it. “Yes, that explains a great deal. Wouldn’t have thought him so vicious, to look at him. Such a scrawny thing. Barely more than a child.”

  Yes. The young avatar of a very young city—relatively and globally speaking—that seems more bluster than bite. But anyone who actually thinks that has never noticed the large canines amid New York City’s own charming smile.

  “The thing a lot of people don’t get about fighting is that it’s not really the big guys you gotta worry about.” Bronca turns, which puts her between the woman and the painting—not blocking the woman’s line of sight, but planting herself at the side of the portrait. This is a place of art, and symbolic gestures matter. “Big guys, sure, some of them have been tested, but a lot of times, they don’t have to fight much because they’re big and intimidating. The ones who’ll tear you a new one are the kids like this: the scrawny pretty-faced ones, poor and dark and wearing cheap clothes. Kids like that have to fight all the time. Sometimes the abuse breaks them, but sometimes—often—it makes them dangerous. Experienced enough to know exactly how many hits they can take, and ruthless enough to apply scorched-earth tactics.”

  “Hmmph.” The woman sounds disgruntled. She has folded her arms as well, in a way that Bronca reads as sullen. “Some might say it also makes them monsters.”

  Bronca lifts an eyebrow. “Some, I guess. But I always figure those people must be the ones starting all the fights.” Bronca shrugs. “Abusers know kids like this are the ones who sometimes grow up—if the abusers don’t kill them first—to fix the world wherever it’s broken. Enough kids like this equals the end of abusers.”

  “That is pie in a sky,” the woman says. Bronca frowns a little at the odd phrasing. “Cruelty is human nature.”

  Bronca restrains the urge to laugh. She’s never liked that little bit of bullshit “wisdom.” “Nah. Nothing human beings do is set in stone—and even stone changes, anyway. We can change, too, anything about ourselves that we want to. We just have to want to.” She shrugs. “People who say change is impossible are usually pretty happy with things just as they are.”

  It’s a dig at the woman, with her expensive suit and power-professional haircut and the whole more-Aryan-than-thou aesthetic she seems to be working. All Bronca’s life, women like this have been the ones to watch out for—“feminists” who cried when their racism got called out, philanthropists who wouldn’t pay taxes but then wanted to experiment on kids from broke public schools, doctors who came to “help” by sterilizing women on the rez. Beckies. That’s why Bronca’s not going to call Yijing that name anymore. It should be reserved for those who earn it.

  The woman starts to open her mouth, then picks up on Bronca’s insinuation. Instead of ignoring it or g
etting snitty, though, she grins. It’s a huge grin, showing nearly all her teeth. How has her mouth opened that wide? Jesus.

  “I’m White,” she says, holding out a hand to Bronca. Bronca suffers a moment’s confusion before the woman adds, “Of the BNY Foundation? Dr. White, that is.”

  Bronca shakes. “Dr. Siwanoy,” she says, with the same emphasis and a smile. She shifts to her white voice, too, since this feels like that kind of party. “But please feel free to call me Bronca.”

  “Director Bronca.” The woman is still smiling with all those teeth. It looks like it hurts her face. “I understand you spoke to some friends of mine yesterday. A lovely group of young artists.”

  Well, fuck. Bronca keeps her smile in place, but it takes doing. “The ‘Alt Artistes,’ yes,” she says, deliberately using the name the group didn’t give. “I’m afraid their work was in violation of our center’s longstanding policy against promoting bigotry.”

  “Oh, but bigotry is such a moving target, with art.” The woman wrinkles her nose a little, still grinning. “Is it parody, or serious? Maybe they meant to fight bigotry.”

  “Maybe so.” Bronca’s still smiling, too. Smile versus weaponized smile, in the arena of professional fuck-yous. “But our policy is based not on intentions, but outcomes.” Bronca shrugs. “There are ways to subvert stereotypes that don’t simultaneously reinforce them. Good art should be more layered than just thoughtless regurgitation of the status quo.”

  “Layers,” says Dr. White, her smile fading at last. For a moment, she looks weary. “Yes. So many layers to existence. Hard to keep track of them all. So let’s make this simple.” She turns the clipboard around so that Bronca can see the business check attached to it. Frowning, Bronca leans over for a better look—and freezes as she sees the amount.

  “Twenty-three million dollars,” says White. “I believe that would cover a substantial portion of your operating and capital budgets for the next few years? There is a catch, though. Of course.”

  Bronca stares at the check. She’s never seen that many zeros written out by hand. And White has put little doodles on some of them—pupil-spots in the zeros to make them googly eyes, and little eyebrows over them, in pairs. She’s gone a little nuts with the zeros for cents, however, which each have multiple eye-spots all over the place. This last bit makes Bronca frown up at her. “Is this a joke?”

  “No. Would you prefer a wire transfer?” White tilts her head. “You should have gotten a call from a board member about me, verifying my identity—and that the funds being offered by my foundation definitely exist.”

  Shit. Bronca remembers hanging up on Raul’s message before finishing it. Still. This is bullshit. It has to be. People do this sometimes with nonprofits—dangle money and expect them to hire incompetent relatives, name buildings after dead pedophiles, and so on. And there’s actually some wiggle room for all that. Cost of doing begging-for-money business. But not as much as people seem to think.

  “Let me make sure I understand you,” Bronca says. She’s still smiling, although it’s taken a hit. “You want to make a donation to the Bronx Art Center? Of twenty-three million? We’re delighted, of course, but… you mentioned a catch.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” White’s smile has crept back, though not as broadly, becoming instead something sly and smug. “We just want you to make room in your gallery for some of the Alt Artistes’ pieces. Not the ones you object to!” She holds up a hand quickly as soon as Bronca opens her mouth. “You did explain your policy, and I’m in complete agreement. But they have a lot of pieces, beyond what they showed you yesterday. I’m sure they’ve got something almost completely bigotry-free. Let’s say you put up three of their works. Just three.”

  It sounds reasonable. Slippery slopes always do. Bronca narrows her eyes. “I’ve seen their videos. Their whole shtick is trying to prove they’re being discriminated against because they’re a bunch of rich white boys—”

  “So put up some of their art to prove them wrong.” Dr. White looks at Bronca as if this is the obvious solution.

  “Dr. White, I’m afraid your friends’ work isn’t very good. That’s why I rejected it.” And it isn’t very good because they’re a bunch of rich white boys making art as a prank—and apparently expecting a wealthy benefactor to open doors for them.

  White sighs as she lowers the clipboard. “Look, we both know that sometimes you have to make compromises. This one is simple: put three of their works up, get twenty-three million. Unrestricted funds.”

  Unrestricted? That, Bronca really doesn’t believe. Philanthropists don’t think nonprofits know how to spend money—or that they won’t just embezzle it all. Because that’s what they would do if the chance presented itself, she suspects, and they figure everyone has the same wonky moral compass. It’s time to call bullshit.

  “What’s your gain from this?” Bronca demands. It comes out belligerent. She’s lost her smile, too, because she doesn’t like being fucked with. “Are these boys your relatives? Are you with, I don’t know, some kind of religious group or something?”

  Dr. White’s smile has turned pitying. “No, no, nothing like that. I just believe in… balance.”

  “How is—” Okay, this is pointless. Trying to reason with bigots is always a losing game. And Bronca can already tell there’s going to be an epic explosion from the board if she refuses the donation. With a frustrated sigh, Bronca rubs her eyes. It is a small concession to make, isn’t it? A few terrible paintings on the walls for a few weeks, in exchange for enough money to keep the Center running at peak for years, even if the city reduces its funding. With that kind of money, Bronca could make a real difference in the lives of the keyholders. She could hire more staff, finally make Veneza full-time, offer more programs. She could—

  “Also,” says White, sliding that into the silence as if she can smell Bronca’s imminent capitulation, “there’s just one more thing. I’d like these taken down.”

  And she nods at the photographs of Unknown’s graffiti.

  Bronca inhales in shock before she can think not to. “What? Why?”

  “I just don’t like them, that’s all.” White shrugs, then extends her hand to Bronca again. “Those are my terms. Do let the board know of your decision by the end of today, will you? They’ll take it from there if you decide to accept.”

  Bronca stares at her, though she takes the proffered hand. Habit. When she does, there is a quick, sharp stabbing sensation in many points all over her palm, which makes Bronca jerk back in surprise and stare at her hand. “Ow, shit!”

  White sighs in palpable irritation and says, “Something wrong?”

  “I don’t… Felt like something… I don’t know.” Allergies? Eczema? Maybe she’s getting shingles. She’s heard that hurts. “Sorry.”

  White smiles again, and it feels put-on this time. “Well, you’ve got a lot to think about. I’ll leave you, for now.” More odd phrasing. Bronca follows as White turns and heads out of the Center. Privately she marvels at how quietly White moves. She’s wearing pumps, but the floor creaks only faintly beneath her feet. Light-footed as a dancer.

  And then, just as Dr. White lets the glass door swing shut behind her, Bronca notices something else strange. White stops on the threshold for a moment as if to let her eyes adjust to the bright sunlight outside. Then she… wavers, sort of. There is a heat-haze flicker, a channel-change interstitial instant. It passes before Bronca can really register it, and then White visibly sighs and turns to walk out of sight—but a few startling observations lodge in Bronca’s mind at once. First, that White sort of shakes herself a little with that sigh, which is just an odd movement for her to make. Like she’s shaking off the unpleasantness of Bronca’s presence, or something. Second, wasn’t White’s hair white or platinum blond, a moment ago? Now it’s honey blond. And her heels aren’t white, but a pleasantly summery yellow.

  And lastly, in that half an instant, Bronca noticed White’s shadow. Moving, before she started moving. Contract
ing, for one fleeting glimpse—as if it were much, much bigger a moment before.

  Then White is gone.

  Bronca lifts her hand to examine it, in the wake of that strange jabbing prickle. It’s fine. Didn’t even hurt much, really. But there are tiny indentations all over the palm, like if she grabbed a hairbrush bristles-first.

  Bronca casts about in the lexicon of knowledge that she possesses, but finds nothing that can explain the encounter. The Enemy has been a thing of immensity and animalistic savagery for tens of thousands of years. It has never been a small rich passive-aggressive white woman. Which means that Bronca’s just seeing danger under every extremely large check.

  Still.

  Yijing wanders in, texting something on her phone with one hand and waving absently to Bronca with the other, either not seeing or ignoring Bronca’s tension. Bronca heads to the reception desk. Veneza is part-time and doesn’t come in ’til later, so Bronca’s the front line ’til then. She sits there for a minute, processing that whole interaction—and coming to the rapidly growing conclusion that lexicon or no, something was very, very wrong about Dr. White.

  Then the phone rings. It’s Raul. “I know what you’re thinking,” is his lead.

  Bronca’s thinking of closing her office door and trying to squeeze in a nap once Veneza comes in. “Well, hello to you, too, Mr. Development Chair. Is that an official ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ or an off-the-record one?”

  “It’s a warning,” Raul says, which yanks Bronca wholly back to business. “The board members have been discussing White’s donation all night, by phone and email and even text. When money’s involved, some of these people don’t fucking sleep.”

  Yeah, that about fits Bronca’s observations of the Bronx Art Center board of directors. A few are prominent artists, but those aren’t the important ones. The ones who really control everything are CEOs, scions of old-money families, consultants for think tanks, and retired versions of Bronca who were clearly better at their jobs than she is, because they ran nonprofits and somehow came away millionaires. “Okay, and the consensus was—wait, let me guess. Take the money.”