Burning City

by Ariel Dorfman

  Fresh clothes: socks, underwear, pants, and his SOFT TIDINGS shirt.

  Glanced back into the mirror, still only a vague resemblance.

  Heller raised his eyebrow, gave a psychotically wide smile.

  “Who’s the new kid?” he asked himself coquettishly.

  Heller decided he had no problems with what he saw.

  He winked.

  A wave of embarrassment washed over him, and he checked to see if any of his posters had noticed. They stayed put, emotionless and impartial.

  Heller went to have breakfast.

  Cold cereal and milk.

  Heller hadn’t seen his grandparents since storming out the night before. They sat at the table, not saying anything. Waiting for Heller to cast the first stone.

  Heller ate his cereal, looking into his bowl for something to say.

  He finished his food as quickly as he could, put the dishes in the sink.

  “Your parents are worried about you . . . ,” Eric said.

  Heller kept his back to them, ran some water. “Why?”

  “Because,” Florence said, “we’re worried about you.”

  “Mr. Adasi seems very nice,” Eric began. “He just seems to be . . . influencing you.”

  Heller turned off the water, turned to face them:

  “Salim is my friend. . . . He’s my best friend.”

  “How long have you known him?” Eric asked with disbelief. “Two days?”

  “Has it really been that long?” Heller asked rhetorically, aware that a part of Salim was answering their questions.

  “What about your other friends?” Florence asked.

  “I don’t have any other friends,” Heller told them, picking his keys off the table. “No other friends. None. I don’t have any friends. I am as unpopular as dysentery.”

  It felt good to say it.

  It felt good to see the expression on their faces.

  “I’m going to work, kids,” Heller said. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

  He walked out, tossing his keys to himself, whistling lightly.

  That morning’s mist was still shielding the city from the rays of the sun. It was warm, a perfect day at the beach. The serene temperature of a postcard. Slow and meandering winds; even the passing cars only managed to whisper their presence.

  Heller unchained his bike.

  He was about to get on when he stopped. Took his time glancing at his watch.

  He looked back at his apartment building and then wandered down the street, wheeling the bike beside him.

  The city strolled by, pleasant company for a Monday morning.

  Heller walked over the cobblestones and broken concrete of Kenmare.

  “Ondort binyil gezdim pervanelikde,” he sang to himself, thinking of Salim’s story, trying to see if he could remember someone else’s past, imagine love in a distant country.

  Heller walked through the door to 1251 and up the steps to work.

  chapter twenty-Seven

  Absolute chaos.

  The placid pace of Heller’s walk was shattered in a single moment.

  Pandemonium had engulfed Soft Tidings. A mad rush of activity. Phones were ringing off the hook, office staff running left and right, couriers running right and left, Iggy running the computers, and Dimitri running his mouth. It was overwhelming, a circus whose clowns had all committed suicide in midperformance.

  Heller took small steps into the room, dazed.

  Garland Green hobbled past him rapidly. His right ankle was wrapped in gauze.

  “What’s going on?” Heller asked.

  “Statistical improbabilities,” Garland answered.

  “What’s with your leg?”

  “I hurt my wrist,” Garland snapped sarcastically. “What do you think, stupid? I sprained my ankle. They got me working the phones.”

  “HELLER!” Dimitri yelled from somewhere in the mass of confusion.

  “Can I get someone to tag line fourteen!?” Garland called out.

  “I’ll take it,” Iggy told Garland, suddenly out of thin air and at their side. “Get ahold of Rich Phillips’s cell phone, tell him his day off is taking the day off.”

  “Rich isn’t going to be happy.”

  “Well, Richard can send himself a telegram with his condolences.” Iggy grabbed Heller’s arm and drew him into the battlefield. “Babies, everywhere.”

  Heller was bounced around, dragged by Iggy, wildly trying to keep his balance. “Iggy, what’s going on?”

  “Babies,” Iggy said with venom in his usually calm voice. “Massive and massive amounts of babies. Marriages. Divorces. Anniversaries. Deaths. Birthdays. Heller, Soft Tidings has become the center of the universe.”

  Iggy squeezed into his desk, picked up the phone, striking a dangerously unbalanced tone of friendliness. “Yes, we’re putting you through to the Missing You department, sorry for the delay, it’ll just be a moment.” He slammed down the receiver, attacked his keyboard, talking to Heller out of the side of his mouth. “And half of the bad news we’ve gotten is that half of our messengers can’t make it today.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ve got mononucleosis,” Iggy said, getting an error message on his monitor. He slammed his fist into the desk. “THE KISSING DISEASE! There’s not a single woman on the entire courier staff! Have we just got a bunch of sissies on Rollerblades who’ve got nothing better to do than give each other MOUTH-TO-MOUTH INFECTIONS!?”

  Dimitri strode over, his bulk causing riptides in the sea of panic.

  “Heller, what the hell is that in your hair?”

  Heller realized he was still wearing the mohawk he had given himself that morning. His quiet apology was lost in the noise as he straightened his hair.

  “Have you got the computers back at the third terminal?” Dimitri asked Iggy.

  “I’ve got Simon working on that.”

  “You call Rich Phillips?”

  “We’re working on it, DAD!”

  Dimitri turned to Heller. “And you’re still here because . . . ?”

  “Heller, I got two messages.” Iggy threw the cards and paperwork at Heller, who promptly dropped them on the floor. As he scrambled to pick them up, Iggy kept right on: “There’s a death and an abortion. After those, I need you to get back here double time once I’ve managed to prioritize these messages.”

  “WE GOT RICH PHILLIPS ON TWO!” Garland screamed from across the room.

  “Feed him the assignments over the phone—he can sign in here after he’s taken care of those!” Dimitri screamed right back.

  Iggy grabbed Heller’s arm again, all tension concentrated in his clutch. “Heller, we don’t have time for long visits today. I need you in and out of those apartments fast.”

  “Don’t stop for flowers,” Dimitri added.

  Heller shook Iggy’s hand off his arm, horrified. “You can’t ask me to do that.”

  “We’re telling you,” Dimitri countered.

  “I can’t do that!”

  “Heller!” Dimitri leaned close, nose to nose. “There are one hundred and forty-nine children born on this planet every minute and we are being told about EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THEM WITH EACH AND EVERY PASSING SECOND AND THERE JUST ISN’T TIME!”

  “GO PUT THESE DEAD PEOPLE TO REST!” Iggy commanded.

  “Go!”

  “GO!”

  Heller turned on his heels and, adrenaline rushing, ran like hell.

  chapter twenty-eight

  This wasn’t how things were done.

  Standing in a spacious hallway, face to face with a wiry Puerto Rican man named Hector Quiroga.

  Handing him the card, no flower or extra condolences.

  “Mr. Quiroga, your daughter decided to abort the baby.”

  Rage mixed with complete loss in Hector’s eyes.

  “Why would she have done that to us?” he asked.

  Heller could feel the seconds disappear with each beat of his pulse.

  Didn’t answer him.
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  Heller ripped through the city like paper, face grim, crossroads and traffic lights mocking him.

  In a cramped kitchen.

  A Kenyan woman with closed eyes and shuddering breath, asking Heller if her father had suffered before his death.

  “We . . . don’t really know that.”

  Checking his watch, sick with the dishonor he was bringing on himself.

  Back at Soft Tidings, Iggy handing him more slips of paper, further news of overseas woes.

  “. . . and at the bottom of the list comes this one: a missed birthday.”

  Rich Phillips walking past, calm stride untroubled. “Have you got the printout yet?”

  “If we can just make it to one thirty, we should be fine!”

  “Iggy, the printout?”

  “HANG IN THERE, EVERYONE, AND NOBODY LOSES THEIR JOB!”

  The city remembering it was summer, heat blasting through the air, up from the subways and sewers.

  A Polish man in an East Ninety-fifth Street apartment, holding a little girl in his arms. “You really can’t tell me anything else?” A hardened, desperate expression, hands patting the little girl’s head. “There was nothing else? No sign of her return, no message from her or her mother?”

  Heller stood stoically, trying to maintain the business end of things.

  The muscles in his jaw clenched, teeth grinding.

  Down Third, over to Second, in and out of traffic, in and out of apartments, wristband of his watch irritating the skin, buildings losing definition in the mad rush, tall concrete structures becoming rows and rows of tombstones.

  An Indian couple seated on their couch.

  Death of a relative in a riot.

  Her head in his lap, crying, sobs coming out in muffled, choked installments.

  Her husband’s face blank, trying to comprehend, waiting for the news to plant itself in his chest, to grow into full realization.

  Heller clearing his throat, voice reserved. “If you wouldn’t mind signing this, sir.”

  So much compressed into one afternoon.

  Message after message, sickness followed by death, followed by who knew what else?

  An entire world caught in the deadly embrace of events.

  Event building on further events, aided by the passing of seconds, between which there seemed to be no time for compassion.

  Just business, as usual.

  Heller cut a corner, grabbed on to a bus for further speed. He wasn’t even thinking anymore, wasn’t paying attention, lost in the mire, trying to keep track of the death toll as it climbed up the thermometer along with the rest of them.

  He let go, let himself pedal to his next destination.

  Heller passed Salim, stationed a few blocks south of Washington Square Park.

  Salim waved, called to him.

  Heller checked his watch, didn’t even catch a glimpse of his best friend.

  Made it to Soft Tidings, ready for more.

  chapter twenty-nine

  Things had calmed down.

  Simmered into a steady boil, the regular demeanor of the Soft Tidings office.

  “How’d you do, Heller?” Iggy asked, filling out a form for a couple of repairmen standing by the coffeepot.

  “I got it done,” Heller said, handing him his receipts.

  “Good job.”

  “It wasn’t right, Iggy, doing that to those people.”

  “It’s how things are done, Heller.”

  “Wasn’t right.”

  “Some days, that’s how things are done . . . ,” Iggy said.

  He thumbed through the paperwork while Heller stood by, not saying a word.

  Heller went to the bathroom, ran water over his face. The mirror was cracked down the middle and he couldn’t get a good look at himself. Water drained through the pipes, a hollow washing sound.

  Garland limped in, carrying a copy of Modern Bride. “Maybe I can finally get some reading done,” he muttered, closing the stall door behind him.

  Back in the office, Iggy was holding a slip of paper, his face in the shape of a question mark. “What about the missed birthday?”

  “Missed birthday?”

  “Greta Anderson—her ‘little boy,’ Ralph, won’t be coming home for his fortieth birthday as promised.”

  Confused, Heller dug into his back pocket and pulled out an unfilled receipt. He groaned. “I don’t do birthdays, Iggy.”

  “It’s a missed birthday; not the wreck of the Titanic, I understand, but there should be something there for you to get out of it—you can take your time, you’ve done enough for one morning. Tell Mama Greta about Ralph and go grab a bite to eat.”

  Crackle of the speaker, Dimitri’s voice: “Iggy! Where’s Rich Phillips?”

  Iggy pressed the button on the intercom. “Said he went to get himself some coffee.”

  Heller felt his stomach turn.

  chapter thirty

  It seemed to fit in rather well with the rest of his day.

  Greta Anderson was a sixty-five-year-old British woman with a muddled accent and hair as white as her powdered face. She lived in Tribeca, a quiet section downtown that rarely caught wind of the rest of the city. Her apartment was extravagantly furnished, neat and spotless. Nothing looked worn or used. White couch in front of a glass table on a white rug.

  She didn’t seem very upset with the news of her boy.

  Heller sat across from her in a large armchair, moody and reserved.

  A gigantic strawberry cake rested between them, complacent and untouched on the glass table.

  “Well, I can’t be too upset, can I?” Greta said. She spoke in a sweeping manner that roamed the pastures of conversation the way a cow with no will to live might. “It’s not like it’s a tragedy, is it?”

  “No . . .” Heller kept his sentences tight. “It really isn’t.”

  “The boy’s successful, and successful people are busy.”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose that’s the life of a senior VP. And now he’s got that new account with Ultra-Tech Rollerblades.”

  Heller could have strangled her for that last piece of information but instead offered an insincere “Congratulations.”

  “Time is like the passing of—”

  “Well, Mrs. Anderson,” Heller cut her off impatiently. “I’m sure you want some time to think about this, perhaps send a prayer to Ralph.”

  “Oh, you’ve been so kind,” Greta sighed, oblivious to Heller’s attitude. “Would you like some cake?”

  “I really can’t stay. Really.”

  “No, I meant take the whole thing. I only bought it out of tradition. Ralph loves strawberry. Go on. Take it and share it with someone you love.”

  Someone you love, Heller thought, a sudden relief coating his insides along with images of Silvia.

  Finally, some kind of sign.

  Greta picked up the entire cake and giggled.

  chapter thirty-One

  Heller was standing outside of Buns ’n’ Things, leaning against his bike. Poised and ready, the strawberry cake balanced on his handlebars.

  When Silvia walked out, Heller was filled with resolve. Even the sight of her sandals, those elegant ankles, couldn’t put him on tilt. He let her check the contents of her purse, took his time, waited for her to begin walking before drawing her attention with a well-placed:

  “Hey . . .”

  Silvia turned, hair whipping into her face before falling back to the top of her shoulders. She looked at him, expression blank.

  “Hi.”

  Heller’s nerves woke up, came back to life, and his composure weakened.

  “Hey . . . ,” he repeated, hoping for another shot at being suave.

  Silvia’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t I know you?”

  “Well . . . a bit, perhaps.”

  Silvia didn’t exactly smile. There was something ambiguous in her eyes, though—a spark mixed in with the faint hint of recognition. Something warm. Something new.

  “I
got you a cake,” Heller blurted out.

  Silvia looked mildly amused. “I work in a bakery.”

  Heller looked at the awning of Buns ’n’ Things.

  She was right.

  “I . . .” He tried to think fast. “I got this especially for you.”

  Silvia raised her eyebrows, tilted her head. She walked over, now with an actual smile on her face. Heller could hardly believe it. She walked right up to him, closer than he ever thought he would get to her. Right next to him, her arm brushing against his.

  Gooseflesh in the middle of July, and Heller had to bite his lip to keep pleasant shudders from going down his spine.

  Silvia looked down at the cake. She made some sort of sound, and Heller looked down as well, focusing on the frosting, noticing for the first time that it spelled out an actual phrase:

  Happy birthday, Ralph! Mamma loves you!

  Heller and Silvia looked up, stared at each other.

  Heller’s brain kicked him in the ass as he looked for something to say.

  Silvia beat him to it.

  “What’s my name?” she asked him playfully.

  A simple enough question, and Heller still couldn’t find the voice needed to say it out loud in front of her.

  “My name isn’t Ralph,” she said.

  Heller looked back down at the cake, just in case he had misjudged, misheard Silvia, misunderstood just how misguided his decision had been.

  Happy birthday, Ralph! Mamma loves you!

  It was still there.

  Heller looked up, right into Silvia’s face, his own glowing bright red, a heat that gave the sun a run for its money. Grabbing for straws, the moisture of humiliation clinging to the back of his neck, Heller said the first thing that came to his mind:

  “Would you like to go for a ride? On my bike, with me?”

  The instant the invitation was out there, Heller knew he had made another mistake.

  Silvia’s face darkened, the same cloud that had been following her since the first day Heller saw her in the window of the coffee shop. It was raining somewhere far away.

  “I hate bikes,” Silvia told him, her tone serious.

  Heller was devastated.