Burning City

by Ariel Dorfman

  He wandered, moonlight carpeting his movements.

  Bodies everywhere.

  Heller stopped in front of an old man attached to a respirator. His face was worn with age, lines in his skin tracing freeways and side streets.

  Hospital-issued pajamas.

  In his hand was an ambiguously light green card.

  4 x 8.

  Heller stood in front of him, seeing his breath count down minutes. . . .

  Transfixed.

  He slowly reached out his hand, reached for the card in the old man’s hand.

  The old man woke up, no movement other than his eyes snapping open, and saw Heller standing over him. His grasp tightened around the card, almost crumpling it as he pressed it closer to his body, eyes alight, defiant.

  Heller withdrew his hand.

  The two looked at each other.

  Time passed.

  A loud moan from another bed broke the connection.

  Heller backed away.

  He returned to Salim’s side, sat down by him.

  “Heller . . .” Salim was awake. His eyes were filled with warmth and he motioned for Heller to come closer. “I feel like shit.”

  Salim smiled, chuckled, coughed lightly.

  Heller smiled, gave it his best attempt, at least.

  “You’re going to get better,” Heller said, trying to sound reassuring. “We’ll get you out of here.”

  “I’m good at getting out,” Salim said, neck taut with the effort of speaking. “I’m good at escaping. . . .”

  “I don’t mean escape,” Heller said. “I mean—”

  “I escaped from prison,” Salim said, eyes large with a sense of self-wonder. “You don’t know what those places are like, but I made it out. . . . And I escaped from Nizima’s valley before they could take me back there. . . . Always moving . . . Nobody catches me.”

  He nodded off, fell asleep for a few seconds, then woke up, kept talking.

  “My father was from Troy. . . . First, I escaped the burning city. . . . I crossed the sea. My father had told me to build another city. . . . The queen of Carthage tried to stop me, she wanted . . . me. Dido wanted to keep me, they all wanted to stop me, but the gods said . . . no. You were waiting for me. . . .”

  Salim’s eyes asked for something beyond Heller’s grasp. “Do you understand?”

  Heller felt his throat contract. “I’m trying.”

  “Now the city is burning again. The city is always burning. . . .” Salim brought Heller close. “If I cannot escape . . . If I cannot escape the burning city this time . . . it will be your turn. . . . This time, you must stay. One of us must stay. . . .”

  Salim took hold of Heller’s hand. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Heller said, suddenly tired, laying his head down next to Salim.

  It was surprisingly easy to sleep that night.

  chapter thirty-eight

  Heller was dreaming of a city slowly sinking into the sea when the gentle voice of the nurse seeped into the roar of the ocean:

  “You have a visitor. . . . Hey. You have—”

  A hand jerked at his shoulder, and in one jarring motion the collapse of a city was replaced by white walls, early sunlight. Heller was pulled to his feet, spun around, face to face with Dimitri Platonov.

  An angry Dimitri Platonov, who gave him a gruff hug, pressing him close.

  Apparently, vodka had a scent as well as a taste.

  Dimitri broke away, grabbed Heller by the shoulders.

  “You little bastard! I call the police stations looking for you and Officer McCullough tells me you’re in the goddamn hospital!”

  Heller was still adjusting, one foot stuck in his dream. “Dimitri, where did—?”

  “I thought you had finally gotten it on that bike. Your father would have killed me! And I would have let him!”

  “Sir.” The nurse stood by, unsure. “You’re going to have to lower your voice.”

  “I’m fine, Dimitri,” Heller assured him, voice hoarse. “And I know what you owe my father, so I’ll say it again. I’m fine.”

  “I know you’re fine,” Dimitri whispered harshly. “I can see that now, I’m not blind. But you may not be next time. I’ve told you I want you off that bike. If we weren’t still short staffed, I would suspend you until you got yourself a pair of Rollerblades. . . . But I can’t.”

  Dimitri straightened up, motioned toward Salim. “This your friend?”

  Softly: “Yes.”

  “Can I count on you today?”

  Heller looked at the nurse.

  “There’s not much you can do here,” she said.

  Long silence.

  Heller raised his eyes, met Dimitri’s. “What have you got for me?”

  Dimitri held up an ambiguously light green card.

  4 x 8.

  “Elsa Martinez,” Dimitri began. “Her husband died of a heart attack. He was young, and it was abrupt, so I’m not entirely sure she’ll be expecting it. Be sure and come back right afterward so we can clear up the rest of your assignments at the office. . . . And where the hell is your Soft Tidings shirt?”

  Heller looked down, realized he was still wearing the white shirt Magaly had given him. He looked up at Dimitri.

  “On second thought,” Dimitri said, “I really don’t want to know. Just take care of Elsa Martinez. . . . That flower thing you do? I would pick out something extra for this one—something special . . . on me.”

  He held up some money, folded and green.

  Heller took it out of his hands without a word.

  chapter thirty-nine

  It was a beautiful day. Perfect balance of sunshine, cool breeze from the water making things right, and even the trees seemed to smile for once, leaning down with approval as Heller chained his bike to one of them.

  Hair a mess, clothes in need of a good wash.

  Heller held a bouquet of flowers in one hand, his note in the other.

  He looked up at the Lower East Side building.

  Narrow stairs.

  The doors were numbered randomly, skipping from three to fifteen to nine to eleven.

  Heller plodded up and down, trying to organize it all, finally coming to number sixteen. “Elsa Martinez,” he mumbled, checking his card. “Apartment sixteen.”

  That was the one.

  Heller readied his flowers, assumed a professional poise, knocked.

  Footsteps, the sound of locks being undone.

  The door opening.

  Silvia was there.

  Gray shirt and cutoff shorts, not her work clothes.

  Then again, she wasn’t at work. . . .

  She was there. . . .

  Heller’s surprise mirrored hers.

  Silvia cocked her head, trying to understand.

  Heller understood all too well—it all came together far too obviously and he kept his mouth closed, jaw locked.

  Someone had died and Silvia had no idea.

  It was a Tuesday.

  Silvia saw the flowers, smiled.

  “Flowers . . . ,” she observed. “Better than cake. And certainly better than a bike.”

  Heller gave her a freakish smile.

  “So did you ask around about me?” Silvia asked, mock accusation. “Someone tell you that I love flowers? More than just about anything. Is that what you were told?”

  Heller kept smiling, face hurting.

  “Hey,” Silvia said. “I thought I knew you! You helped me out with the stamps that one day at the post office. . . . Hey, that’s right! Guess what?”

  Meekly: “What?”

  “I got a letter yesterday—someone who knows my father told me that he may be coming to the city! I’m going to get to see my father again!”

  Heller snapped out of his trance, suddenly returning to the wrong side of reality.

  He couldn’t be there as a messenger.

  There was nothing to tell.

  Nothing wrong with the world other than an ambiguously light green card in h
is hand.

  He stuffed it into his back pocket, extended the flowers, said:

  “Congratulations.”

  Silvia took the flowers. “Thank you.”

  “It’s your day off.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re alone? Your mother . . . isn’t in?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to go out?” Heller blurted. “With me? To celebrate? The two of us?”

  Silvia looked a bit taken aback.

  “Yes,” she said, surprised at her own response.

  Silvia closed the door in Heller’s face.

  Heller waited, out of sorts.

  The door reopened, and Silvia was standing there with a strange look on her face, not entirely sure why she was doing what she was doing. She gave a small, airy laugh and held up a set of keys:

  “I had to get my keys.”

  “All right.”

  They walked out into the daylight, out onto the sidewalk. The two of them side by side, past Heller’s bike. He watched it as they went on by. Glanced back a second time. Heller and Silvia kept walking, returning to their defensive states, conversation taking on the form of early seconds in a boxing match: a slow circling, cautious moving, exploratory jabs.

  “. . . Do you like food?” Silvia asked.

  “I guess . . . ,” Heller said, corrected himself. “I mean, I know I like food, yeah.”

  “Lunch, I meant lunch. Do you like lunch?”

  “Yes . . .” Heller glanced back at his bike again. “Maybe we could get some. Get some lunch.”

  “I forgot to eat breakfast.”

  Heller nodded, didn’t further the conversation. He looked back at his bike one last time, its silver frame helplessly tied to the tree, a sad look on its front headlight.

  “Hey,” Silvia said.

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s go this way,” she said, motioning with her head.

  They hung left, finally rounding a corner and into the unknown.

  chapter forty

  It was a strange day.

  Something about it. Walking down the street and noticing that everyone is dressed in blue; rare moments when rain falls without the aid of a single cloud; something right on the tip of the tongue that seems to make faces at the usual without being noticed. It was something like that, and Heller felt it, knew Silvia did too.

  They were sitting on MacDougal Street, outside of Yatagan—a hole-in-the-wall joint that served rapidly prepared Middle Eastern food. Not knowing what else to do, Heller had taken her there, thinking of Salim, hoping it might help break the ice. He bought them both falafels. Their only conversation since leaving her apartment had been Heller warning her not to put too much hot sauce on her falafel, which she ignored, dousing the pita pocket in red.

  And now the two sat on the curb, a stone’s throw from Creole Nights, the bar Salim had taken Heller to three days before. Its lights off, relaxing for the day.

  The two ate quietly, each one trying to chew more softly than the other.

  Silvia was shy but seemed to be imbued with a certain life confidence that Heller kept trying to tap into silently. They were almost done eating when Silvia finally spoke.

  “What are these called?”

  “Falafels.”

  “I’ve never had one. They’re good.” She took a sip of water. “Spicy.”

  “You shouldn’t have put so much hot sauce on it.”

  “Oh, I like spicy. I like spice, makes things better.”

  Heller felt as though he had just lost a contest. He went back to saying nothing, hoped that he might accomplish more that way. He took a bite of his falafel, and some white sauce ran down his hand. Still chewing, he tried to wipe it off before Silvia could notice.

  “Do you go to the movies at all?” Silvia asked.

  “I don’t like movies,” Heller said, mouth full. He swallowed. “There’s a few, I guess, but nothing worth ten dollars.”

  “I know. I wish they weren’t so expensive, then I could go.”

  Wishing he knew more about media, Heller decided to see if he could keep up appearances. “Do you listen to music?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard of the music I listen to. . . .” She licked some white sauce off her hand. “Have you heard of Inti-Illimani?”

  “Of course,” Heller said, puzzled.

  “I can’t believe it.” Silvia sounded relieved at some common ground discovered. “I love them.”

  “Them?”

  “Their music.”

  Heller saw there was something very wrong. “Inti-Illimani is a volcano in Bolivia.”

  “I was talking about the Chilean music group.”

  “Oh . . . I guess I haven’t heard of them. . . . I don’t listen to music very much. . . . I’ve heard of the volcano.”

  Silvia looked as though she was about to ask if he was joking.

  Heller searched the streets, looking for something to distract her.

  His eyes, narrowed, saw a familiar face walking up the steps from Creole Nights.

  “Lucky!” Heller called out.

  Lucky glanced around, swaying slightly, saw Heller, cut across the street, almost into the path of a speeding car. He approached them, unshaven, eyes half shut to filter out the sun. A cigarette hung from his lips. The smell of whiskey wafted into the air with the smoke. “Hey, man,” he said, “you should have come down to see us—we missed you.”

  “I didn’t know you were open . . . ,” Heller said, relieved to be talking to someone too drunk to find fault in everything he said.

  “Actually, they’re just closing up. Zephyr keeps the bar alive after hours sometimes. Well, most nights anyway. Who’s your friend?”

  “Silvia,” Heller said. “Silvia, this is Lucky.”

  “Hey, Silvia.”

  “Hi, Lucky.”

  “Lucky’s also Chilean,” Heller said, hoping to impress Silvia.

  “I’m not Chilean,” Lucky mumbled. “Today I’m a French flight attendant.”

  Heller and Silvia were speechless.

  “You look tired,” Heller managed. “Maybe you should get some sleep.”

  “Sleep is for pussies,” Lucky announced. “I’m off to happy hour, then maybe sleep . . . dream myself a woman I can look forward to lying next to every night.”

  He gave a half-wave salute and trudged away.

  Silvia watched him go, the opposite of enchanted. A moody sadness seeped into her features.

  “That’s some mouth Lucky’s got,” she said, disapproving.

  Heller prepared himself for an explanation, ready for her to wonder at how Heller had come to know such a . . . loser.

  Instead, she found it in herself to backtrack.

  “So you don’t like movies. You don’t listen to music. . . . What do you do?”

  “I work for Soft Tidings.”

  “The message company?”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Do you know Rich Phillips?”

  Heller struggled with a mouthful of pita, suddenly dry and heavy. He swallowed with difficulty. Pretended to be indifferent.

  “You don’t like him, do you?” Silvia asked.

  When Heller didn’t answer, she took the slack. “Well, I don’t think many people do. . . . He’s like that, I suppose. He has a way that’s difficult to understand. . . . But I think he’s nice.” Silvia noticed Heller’s intense stoicism. “My only problem with him is that I don’t find him very attractive. . . .”

  She darted her eyes askance to see Heller’s reaction. Heller did the same—but not in time to catch Silvia in the act. It went back and forth a few more times. . . .

  Heller let the faintest smile spread across his face as he took another bite of falafel.

  chapter forty-one

  Heller and Silvia strolled through Central Park between patches of shade and sunlight. Silvia looked at everything with interest, eyes observant and careful. Heller looked at her as often as he could, still amazed he was walking
with this girl through the park, amazed that a light wind from the reservoir found time to blow small flower petals into their path.

  Silvia had a bit of white sauce on her lip. Heller still hadn’t found a reasonable way to tell her.

  “I thought you messengers wore Rollerblades, bike boy.”

  “I’m saving my money,” Heller said dismissively.

  “Saving for what?”

  “Well . . .” Heller saw a group of ducks staring at him from a nearby pond. They made him nervous, and he tried to steer the walk in a different direction. “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t as complicated as you think. . . .”

  “It’s strange, though. . . .”

  “You can tell me. . . .” She stopped her stride, looked up at him through a few strands of hair. “You gave me flowers, remember?”

  Heller looked down at her, noticed she had long eyelashes. Her face beamed up at him, and he knew that if he didn’t start talking, he might be forced to try something else, and with the lesser of two risks very clear, Heller told her.

  “In 1904 a young man by the name of Henri Cornet won the Tour de France. Now, most of the competitors in the Tour de France are young men. The oldest to ever win was thirty-six-year-old Firmin Lambot in 1922. I say Henri Cornet was a young man in particular because he was the youngest cyclist to ever win the Tour. . . .”

  Silvia stared at Heller, whose body seemed to be growing with the release of his story, his words coming quicker, effortless and unrehearsed.

  “And back in 1904, the Tour de France was about as dirty as sports could get. Two thousand five hundred kilometers over nineteen days, and no chance for sleep. Spectators would throw rusty nails in front of the tires of the competitors they didn’t like, men would run each other off the road, and low regulation standards gave contestants the opportunity to sneak off the track and take a bus or a train. . . . Henri Cornet had to endure all of this, and he won in 1904. Now, ask me what the interesting part is. . . .”