Angel Fire

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 36

 

  “Hospitals for all!” shouted a voice. “We need more beds, more doctors!” Glancing over his shoulder as he crossed the street – darting between the girl dancers and a donkey pulling a flower-laden cart – Seb saw a large group approaching, carrying signs: El DF is Dying for More Doctors, and Angels Don’t Need Money – The Sick Do!

  Immediately, the mood of the crowd changed, the auras around him almost crackling with emotion. A woman sitting in a wheelchair yelled, “The angels would help you if you had faith!” Her cheeks looked sunken, her eyes fervent. Several voices called out in agreement, booing the group marching past.

  Seb was glad to leave it all behind and reach the street that his hostel was on. Though even here, it looked like they were getting ready for some kind of dance later; there was a stage being set up, and green, white and red bunting hanging from the wrought-iron balconies above. The hostel’s outer walls were once tan, now smudged grey with pollution. Seb knew he’d been lucky to get a bed. Like every other hostel in the city, the place was packed with Church of Angels followers from around the world, here to see the newly converted cathedral. He passed a few of them now on the way to his dorm – a trio of pretty French girls in angel wings, who he’d encountered a few times in the lounge in the evenings.

  “Bonsoir, Seb,” said one of them, Céline, with a flirtatious smile as they passed. “Ça va toi?” He summoned up a smile as he returned the greeting, trying not to notice how sick her aura looked. Being around people who’d been hurt by the angels depressed him; he preferred to avoid it.

  Thankfully, his dorm was empty. Seb stretched out on his bed, and lay staring upwards. His birthday had been the week before, making him eighteen now; he hadn’t even realized it until the next day. All he could think of was the half-angel girl – she was so close now he could almost feel her, yet in a way she seemed further away than ever. To know that she was probably right here, in this very city – only a few miles away from him at most – but to have no idea where exactly, was agony.

  The framed photo was a small, solid rectangle in his jeans pocket. He didn’t need to take it out to bring back the girl’s image; he knew it by heart now. Her spirit was with him already, just as it had been for so many years – and since touching her shirt with its whispers of her energy, this sense felt even stronger: a line drawing brought richly to life with colour. Seb shoved his hair back as he regarded the dingy plaster ceiling. God, he was in love with a girl he’d never even spoken to. But he knew her, inside and out.

  Could she sense him as strongly? Had she always been in love with a shadow too?

  Outside, music had started up. With a restless sigh, Seb swung his feet off the bed and went to the ancient French windows; he swung them open with a creak and stepped out onto the small wrought-iron balcony. On the street below, couples were beginning to dance; paper lanterns cast a festive light. Seb stood against the railing, looking down.

  During the day he was single-minded. Mostly he searched Bosque de Chapultepec, but he went to other parks too – always scanning non-stop, not letting himself believe for a second that he wouldn’t find her. It was these other, quieter times when doubt swamped him, leaving him cold. What if he’d gotten the girl’s dream wrong? What if the park they’d seemed to be in wasn’t in el DF at all, but somewhere else? She was American; it could be someplace in her own country – which spread across thousands of miles, and contained probably millions of parks. He’d most likely never find her at all, if that was the case. And to know that she really existed, that she wasn’t a dream, but to never be able to locate her. . . Seb swallowed. No. He wouldn’t believe that. He couldn’t.

  The door opened behind him. “Oh, hey Seb,” said a voice.

  Mike, one of the Americans staying in the dorm – and one of the few people at the hostel undamaged by the angels. “Hi,” said Seb from the balcony. Mike joined him; he was nineteen, with floppy brown hair and a friendly smile.

  “So what’s this all about, anyway?” he asked, resting his forearms on the railing as he took in the dancing. “Is it like the Fourth of July back home?”

  Shoving his thoughts away with an effort, Seb tried to remember what he’d heard about the American holiday. “What’s the Fourth of July? You have fireworks then, yes?”

  In that way Americans sometimes had, Mike looked surprised that Seb didn’t know – even though he had no idea what Revolution Day was. “It’s when we got our independence from Britain,” he explained. “You know – the Boston Tea Party, Paul Revere. And yeah, lots of fireworks. ”

  Seb nodded, remembering now. “It’s sort of like that,” he said. “It celebrates the day we started fighting to get rid of the dictador Porfirio Díaz. ”

  “You got rid of a dictator? Cool,” said Mike cheerfully. “And anyway, any excuse for a party, right?”

  This made Seb laugh in spite of himself. “Yes, if you’re Mexican. We like parties. ”

  “Man, you’re not the only ones. You should come to America sometime. Folks love to party there. ”

  Seb knew he might have to someday, if his search in el DF proved fruitless. Except how could he ever leave, when the rest of the girl’s dream had so obviously taken place here? Her light-blue shirt was still folded neatly in his knapsack, but he resisted the urge to bring it out again; its images were becoming fainter each time he touched the soft fabric, diluting the girl’s energy with his own.

  The evening softened into darkness, the lanterns glowing brightly as the jubilant sound of guitars and trumpets soared around them. Mike had brought some cold beers into the room; he offered one to Seb and they stood drinking them, gazing down at the swirling dancers.

  “So I’m planning on going to Tepito tomorrow,” said Mike, leaning against the wall and stretching his legs out. “Can’t find anything about it in the guidebook, but it’s north of here, isn’t it?”

  Seb was smoking a cigarette as he thought about the park again – wondering if he should focus more on its woodsy third section, instead of the more popular first and second ones. At Mike’s words, he blew out a quick breath of smoke and glanced at him, startled. “What? Why?”

  “To see it, man. I want to see all of this place. ”

  “No,” said Seb flatly. “Don’t go there. ”

  Mike blinked. “Why not? It’s just a market, right?”

  “It’s the worst barrio in the city,” said Seb. “A gringo with a camera and cellphone, who barely speaks Spanish? They’d think Christmas had come early this year. You’d be robbed in minutes, or worse. ” It was where he was from. The dark streets of Tepito, with the rustling, plastic roofs of vendors’ stalls, were as familiar to him as the various scars on his body – and living there had been just as enjoyable as getting them.

  The American looked sceptical. “It can’t really be that bad, can it?”

  “Yes,” said Seb. “Trust me – stay away. Go do all the tourist things in your guidebook. They don’t put Tepito in there for a reason. ” He smiled, took another puff of his cigarette. “The paddle boats in Chapultepec Park are very nice. ”