Memoria

by Alex Bobl

  "Catch her," he pushed the doll-like body into Max's arms.

  She was too tired even to cry out. Max grabbed her in his powerful arms, not to let her go underwater, then turned the girl onto her back and swam to the bank, pushing her along.

  Frank looked out. Encased in a concrete foundation, the tunnel hung over the river. Overhead, tree tops rustled over a high barbed-wire fence. Further on, the river meandered preventing him from seeing how far the fence stretched along the bank slopes.

  He looked in the opposite direction and still couldn't work out how far the 151th Street station platform was with its stadium and the checkpoint.

  "Jump!" the coach called out as he helped Maggie to get out of the river.

  Frank lifted the attaché case overhead and stepped out. Cold dirty water enveloped him, his feet bogged down in the silt. He pulled one out, lay on his chest and struck out with one arm to free the other foot.

  "Hurry up!" the coach looked up, worried.

  Next to him, Maggie on all fours puked bile onto the concrete. Max couldn't help her. He turned to the approaching Frank in the water, "Where are you!"

  Max grabbed the attaché case before Frank could get out and opened it, producing a gun. He snapped the safety catch, pulled the bolt back in the breech and peered into the barrel where a cartridge glistened in the sun. He shoved the gun under his belt and pulled his shirt out of his trousers to cover the hand grip.

  "Grab my hand," he reached for Frank. "Maggie? You think you can walk?"

  "Sure," she wheezed, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

  "Come on, then," Max dragged Frank up onto the concrete. "We've got to get to the fence. The sooner we get inside the perimeter, the better it'll be for all of us."

  They helped Maggie back on her feet and supported her up the hill. The concrete wall overhead, about three body lengths tall, was covered with old cracks, wide and deep enough to scramble up. Numerous deep crevices made the potential climb a child's game.

  The coach glanced around and turned his pale sunken face to Frank. "You go first."

  Frank looked up and noticed, only a few feet over the wall, a security camera pointing at the Bronx.

  "What if they see us," he said.

  "Don't waste our time," the coach snapped. "Just climb the fucking wall. I'll help Maggie from my side, and you drag her up. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir," Frank paused, racking his brains for the best way to negotiate the barbed wire on top of the wall.

  Once again he fixed the attaché case with his trouser belt, wiped the palms of his hands and started the climb, his fingers grasping at the cracks, his toes pressing into the crevices. Soon he approached the tight coils of barbed wire. Disregarding their sharp ends, he lifted the coils with his elbow, grabbed the wall's edge and pushed himself up. A few seconds later, he managed to force his leg over the other side and straddled the wall, the barbed wire on one side digging into his ribs.

  First thing, he reached for the attaché case, opened it and rummaged through the tool box for some wire cutters. He cut the wire in two places making enough space for Maggie, and called out to the coach. Max was already waiting with the girl standing on his shoulders. Frank grabbed Maggie's outstretched arms and pulled her up onto the ledge. He wanted to help her hook her leg over the wall when a sharp pain in his side blurred his vision. For a few seconds, Frank sat on the top open-mouthed, unable to move, and when the pain subsided, the girl wasn't on the wall any more.

  "Follow her!" the coach shouted from below.

  Frank blinked, unable to see where she was gone, and finally noticed her body lying in the mud at the base of the wall. She lay face down, her arms spread wide, as if worshipping the camp ground. Frank turned, preparing to jump, when he heard an approaching motor.

  "Hurry!" the coach shouted.

  On the road outside, two police SUVs sped toward them, a machine gun mounted on the roof of the closest one. Frank pushed himself away from the wall, expecting to fall. Instead, he stayed put. He heard the ripping of fabric, followed by what felt like a knife cutting into his ribs. His back writhed in agony, Frank tumbled down from a height of several meters.

  He fell and cried out from the agonizing pain in his side. Turning face up, he saw the coach straddle the wall next to a dislodged coil of barbed wire.

  Now everything fell into place. When he'd helped Maggie, tossing his body this way and that, his belt had caught on the wire which ripped through his side as he jumped.

  "Quit lazing about and help her!" the coach shouted.

  By the time Frank scrambled back on his feet, Max was already standing next to him. Together, they picked up the girl, and, with her arms over their shoulders, carried her across the overgrown railway tracks.

  Behind the wall, tires screeched, motors idled and voices came from the patrol cars.

  "Upstairs," barked the coach when they'd dragged Maggie into the building.

  "Wait up," Frank turned his head this way and that in the dark stairwell, blinded by the lack of the bright midday sun they'd left outside. He didn't see the stairs and lagged behind.

  "What's up," the coach stopped.

  "It's all right now," Frank blinked the darkness from his eyes and took the first step. "Come on, then."

  "Mind your step. Make sure you don't drop her."

  "I can carry her on my own, if you want."

  "No, I don't. This way she's secure."

  They lugged her all the way up to the third floor and lay the girl down by the wall.

  "Stick your head out the window and get our bearings," Max commanded and bent over the girl, his hands gingerly feeling her neck and arms for fractures.

  Frank unbuckled the attaché case and walked to the window opening on the south side of the building. There, he could get a glimpse of the concrete wall with the cops behind it, the overgrown tracks and, far off, the squat remains of what used to be either the rail yard or some derelict warehouses.

  "What can you see?" the coach asked.

  "Not much," Frank winced and felt his ribs. Moving clockwise, he headed for another window. What he saw made his heart jump. The street to this side, too, was overgrown to the point where the trees and shrubbery ripped the tarmac open concealing the remains of what used to be blocks of flats. In the desolation bursting with green and wild flowers, a few old jalopies rusted in front of the house like large spots of sunlight. Instead of the missing wheels, their frames rested on neatly stacked bricks. The cars had been taken to bits neatly and meticulously — no missing parts lying around and no junk — as if the men who'd left them there planned on coming back to restore everything to its working order.

  So this is what the Bronx was like? Frank could hardly take it all in. He was so used to living in his noisy, glass-and-concrete metropolis that at first, he couldn't work out what had moved him so much.

  Silence. A deafening, strange silence pressing against his ears.

  "Frank? Are you all right?"

  "Yeah," he shook it off and walked to the east window. "You can't see jack shit there. Everything's overgrown. I had no idea the Bronx was so green."

  The coach patted Maggie's cheeks. Her eyelids twitched, and she opened her eyes.

  "Did we... make it?"

  Frank paused by the window. He could barely hear her voice.

  "We did," the coach said. "You all right? Nothing hurts? Try to move your arms and legs, but easy."

  Slowly, Maggie raised her arms and bent her elbows. She then attempted to scramble back onto her feet, and almost succeeded, but immediately slid down the wall onto the floor strewn with shattered bricks.

  "Take it easy," Max told her.

  Frank turned back to the window and froze. The stadium rose up behind the trees, not even a mile away.

  "Sir," he said without looking at his coach. "Climbing that wall saved our guts. That was really good timing. We couldn't have escaped them faster even if we'd tried." Hearing Max's steps behind his back, he moved aside.

 
Max took his place, his powerful fists resting on the chipped window sill.

  "You can say that again," he finally said. "We've been lucky indeed."

  "What happened?" Maggie asked. They turned to her.

  "You fell off the wall," Frank lowered his guilty eyes. "I failed to hang on to you properly."

  "You know you have blood on your shirt?"

  Ah, so that's what she was going on about. The girl was worried about him.

  "Just a scratch from that wire."

  Max grabbed Frank's shoulders and inspected his back. "Does it hurt a lot?"

  Frank waved it off.

  "Now," the coach stepped to the middle of the room, arms akimbo. "What we now need is a good wash, something to lick our wounds with and each a set of decent clothes. Then we can go and look for that Council of theirs. Frank? You're the migrant expert."

  "I don't know that much," Frank shrugged and winced with the sharp pain in his side. "I was present at the talks, true, but I've never been to the Bronx."

  "But you must remember something, surely? What do they do here? Anything at all."

  "Ah! Water. They supply New York with purified water. So they must have hydrants on the streets," he paused, remembering, "if I'm not mistaken."

  "Good," Max concluded. "If we don't find a functional hydrant, we'll knock at a door and ask for some water. Come on, then."

  "But how about the police?" Maggie looked at them. "Won't they hand us over to the cops?"

  "Let's hope not," the coach hesitated and checked the gun in his belt.

  They went back downstairs. Max walked first, followed by Frank who grasped the attaché case in one hand and supported Maggie with the other. A breeze rustled in the tree tops and sent fallen leaves back into the air. Warm sunrays touched their faces.

  "So quiet here," Maggie whispered.

  "It is, isn't it?" Frank said. "Very unusual."

  Max stopped. "We can discuss the unusual later," he gave both a meaningful stare and stole through the waist-high grass, leaving in his wake a trail of disturbed green. Instinctively the other two ducked and followed. They soon passed the rusty car skeletons, skirted a thicket and found themselves on a deserted tree-shaded street.

  Frank had missed the moment when the coach pulled out his gun. Something had alerted him, a distant sound had made him stop. In front, in the opening between decaying houses overgrown with wild ivy, another street lay. It looked totally different.

  A clean pavement, the curb painted white, fronted a neat little house with cheerful curtains in its windows. It had an almost antique feel.

  "Let's go," the coach said.

  Without saying a word, Frank and Maggie followed him. A few minutes later, they stood at a small intersection looking at a white signpost with blue pointed street signs.

  "Where to now?" the coach said, rather to himself.

  To their north stretched Nelson Avenue. To their east and west, 167th Street. The house they'd just seen stood on its corner, its front door ajar.

  Max looked around them and opened his mouth to speak when a little black boy ran out from behind the building. He was laughing, trying to escape a tall girl who was chasing him. He wore light-colored shorts, a tank top and a pair of dusty, worn-out shoes; the girl had a summer dress on. She nearly caught up with him and raised her hand to give his backside a hearty slap, but the boy escaped, darted for the front door and froze, his large eyes staring at the strange adults.

  The girl didn't notice them. She raised her hand again and rushed at the boy, but he screamed out, pointing at the filthy Maggie, Max and Frank. Her hand slowed in mid-air and although the boy did get his comeuppance, the slap was too weak and unenthusiastic.

  For a moment she didn't move, studying them. Her intelligent eyes glistened. She hugged the little urchin, trying to cover him, and stole a worried glance at the front door.

  Maggie was the first to come to her senses.

  "You don't need to be afraid of us," she said. "We won't hurt you. All we need is a wash and a place to clean ourselves up a bit."

  She stepped forward. Frank squinted at the coach. The gun in his hands was gone. He definitely knew how to handle firearms.

  "My name is Maggie, Maggie Douggan. I'm from Brooklyn. We are looking for the camp- eh, the Bronx leaders. Your administration. You think you can take us there?"

  The boy still stared at them, fear in his eyes. The girl gave them an analyzing adult look.

  "You got to go to Fordham," she waived her hand pointing in the direction of the north east. "Over there, see? The Council House." She hugged the boy's shoulders.

  "What's your name?" Maggie stepped closer.

  "I'm Lynda. Lynda Nelson."

  "Oh! You have the same name as the street!" Maggie nodded at the signpost.

  "I do," the girl said, pride in her voice. "This is our custom. We're all Nelsons here on this street. We're one big family."

  Frank and Max looked at each other. The coach murmured, "I wonder what kind of names they have on the numbered streets!"

  "And your friend? What's his name?" A step closer, and Maggie was crouching in front of the kids.

  "He's my little brother," Lynda smiled and ruffled the boy's curly hair. "Tom Nelson."

  "Nice to meet you two," Maggie stood up. "And these are my friends. This is Frank and that's Uncle Max."

  "He's not an uncle," Tom babbled bravely. "He's too old."

  Everybody smiled at the boy's artless insight.

  "You're a good judge of character, man," the coach said.

  "Why are you so dirty?" the boy said. "You stink like... like..." he looked up searching for a word. Lynda shook his shoulder reproachfully and whispered in his ear.

  "We," Maggie looked back at the men, "we managed to fall into the cesspit by the wall. Maybe you could tell us where we could clean ourselves up? Or if you call an adult, they could probably direct us, too."

  A middle-aged, broad-faced black woman looked out of a window over the front door. Her large head was tied with a scarf above a thick neck. Under a white apron she wore a dress with a faded pink print.

  "Lynda, Tom! Lunch time!" she yelled. Then she noticed the strangers and hung out of the window, clutching a flour-covered rolling pin in her plump hand. "Now who would you be?" She glanced over the street and looked back at them.

  "Gran, they fell in the shit hole!" Tom shouted, beating everyone to it. "They're going to Fordham!"

  Later they found out the woman's name was Oprah. She sent the kids back in the house for their lunch and allowed Maggie to follow them inside, leaving Frank and Max waiting by the door. Shortly, she reappeared, carrying an empty washbasin, a couple of towels and some soap and told them to use the garden hose in the back yard.

  They promptly found it lying on a garden patch next to a scarecrow. Frank hung the towels around the scarecrow's neck, pulled off his clothes, turned the water on and splashed some on his head and chest, snorting happily. He then directed a jet of water onto the disrobed coach and, as he lathered himself, stood under the cold shower enjoying its clean freshness. After a few minutes, he washed the lather off Max, handed him the hose and reached for the soap.

  "I had no idea I'd enjoy a cold shower so much," the coach said as he hosed Frank up and down. "Life's little pleasures."

  "Pardon?"

  "Nothing," Max gave an indifferent wave with his free hand. "Just remembering the war. The missions we went on. The trenches. Never mind."

  To get the coach's mind off it, Frank said,

  "Did you know that, apart from water supplies, the Bronx is also known for its cell networks?"

  Max raised a surprised eyebrow.

  "Yes, it's — ouch!" Frank had disturbed the deep scratch on his side. He'd completely forgotten about it.

  "Wait, let me clean it," Max took the remaining soap and started washing the wound. "In the meantime, tell me what else is interesting here."

  Wincing from the stinging in his side, Frank drew in some air through
his teeth and continued,

  "Where the Zoo used to be," he turned his head to get his bearings, then waved his hand to the North, "they have a farm where they raise cattle. A bit further on, by Van Cortlandt Lake, they work the land and saw oats, corn and wheat."

  "You said you didn't know much," the coach pointed out.

  "Thanks. But this is only general knowledge," Frank pulled the towels off the scarecrow's neck, handed one to the coach and started rubbing himself with the other. "You know as well as I do that the migrants provide New York with its running water and much of its food supply, too. Remember you spoke about it when we were in your apartment? You mentioned the electricity, too. They have wind turbines working all along the East Coast, and a tidal power station on the East River Split."

  Frank threw the towel round his neck, smoothed his wet hair and added, "Nothing prevents them from selling the excess energy as far as New Jersey."

  "Do they have enough?"

  "They do, and Gautier suggested that the Mayor spoke to their administration. It didn't go through for some reason. Most likely, the Mayor backpedalled thinking New York could use all the energy it could get."

  "Someone could suggest he did," Max mumbled.

  "Do you suspect our Mayor of corruption?"

  "Not at all. Just thinking aloud."

  They wrapped the towels around their waists, washed their shoes, then filled the washbasin with water and started washing their clothes. Frank's shirt fell apart in his hands, and he discarded it, but at least his trousers were still serviceable.

  A few minutes later, Oprah came out. She gave Max a funny look, took their wet clothes and went back in with a promise to iron them.

  Max and Frank watched her go. They sat down on the ground by the scarecrow sensing a slight change in the woman. Frank opened his mouth to speak but Max motioned him to stop and pointed at an open window. Its curtain moved out of synch with the rest. It could be Tom or Lynda, but it could also be an adult who had a reason not to let the strangers know he was there. After all, they hadn't asked Oprah if there was somebody else in the house.