by Nina Allan
Still, we tried. Or I should say, my husband tried. Perhaps that was the reason for my body’s reluctance. Whenever his breath fell against my neck, or his mouth on my breasts, I would look out the window and see Eliza’s fires scouring the sky across the mountaintops, and what children we may have made, the idea of them, would burn to cinders.
“You do not love me anymore,” my husband said one night, in my second month in the city; and though I wanted to, badly, I could not deny this.
I tried to explain. “It is not you, it is not me, it is this place,” I told him. “Why don’t you come with me, why don’t we leave here together?”
“You forget so easily,” my husband said, looking down into his mug of cold coffee.
“What?” I said. “What do I forget?”
“You have people there, in the place you would take me.”
I looked down into my own mug and did not nod.
“It is what allows you to forget me, to forget our children, our life,” said my husband.
“What is?” I asked, looking up again. Rarely did my husband tell me things about myself.
“Your bad memory,” said my husband. “It is your blessing.”
If my memory were truly as bad as my husband thought, I would not have been returned to the city of my birth. He was incorrect in his judgment. What he should have said was, Your memory is too strong to accomplish what you desire, for I would not have been able to dismiss that. It is true, I wanted nothing more than to eradicate, to be born into a new world without the shackles of longing, and the guilt that embitters longing fulfilled.
But he had said his truth, flawed as it was, and because he had spoken this truth we could no longer look at each other without it hovering between us, a ghost of every child we had ever had together, every child I had taken, as a proper wife and mother, to the gates. They stared at me for him, and I would turn away to cook, clean, mend, to keep the walls of the house together.
Another month passed in this way, and then another. I washed my husband’s clothes each day in a tub of scalding water. The skin on my hands began to redden, then to peel away. I began to avoid mirrors. My hair had gone lank and hung about my face like coils of old rope, no matter how I tried to arrange it. I could no longer see my own pupils, for there was no white left in the corners. My eyes had turned dark with coal dust and smoke.
One day a knock at the front door pulled me away from the dinner I was making for my husband’s return from another sixteen-hour shift. When I opened the door, a man from the mill, a manager I vaguely recognized, was standing on my stoop. He held a hat against his protruding stomach, as if he had taken it off to recite a pledge or a piece of poetry. “Excuse me,” he said, “for interrupting your day. But I come with sad news.”
Before he could finish, I knew what he would say. Few reasons exist for a mill manager to visit a worker’s wife.
“Your husband,” he said, and I could not hear the rest of his words, only saw the images they carried within them: my husband, a slab of meat on the floor of the mill, burned by Eliza. My husband, a slab of meat on the floor of the mill, dragged away to be replaced by another body, another man, so that Eliza could continue her labors.
“You will need time to rest, of course,” the manager said. “I’m sure it is quite a shock, but these things happen.”
I nodded, dumbly, and stood there, waiting for something.
“We will be in touch, of course,” said the manager as he stepped off my stoop back onto the cobbled street.
If I would have had any sense left in me, I would have done what Ayu had done, I would have run away as fast as possible, I would have done what I had done before, a long time ago, when I’d left the first time, with my mother’s hand raised in the air above her cloud of white hair, waving behind me.
Instead, I sank down into my husband’s chair in the front room and wept. For him, for our children, wept selfishly for myself. What would I do without him? I could feel him all around me, his big body having pressed its shape into the armchair, holding me in its embrace.
Within a week, a mass of suitors arranged themselves in a queue outside my door. They knocked. I answered. One was always waiting to speak to me, big and hulking like my husband had been, a little younger in some cases, a little older in others. Used up men and men in the process of being used. They wanted me to cook, clean, and make love to them. I turned them away, all of them. “No thank you,” I said to each knock, glancing over their shoulders to see if the line of suitors had shortened. It stretched down the street and around the corner, no matter how many men I turned away.
There was a shortage of women, one of the suitors finally informed me, trying to make his case as a rational man, to explain himself as suitable for someone like me. There were many men in need of a good wife.
“I am not a good wife,” I told him. “You must go to another house of mourning,” I told him. “You must find a different wife.”
The suitors disappeared then. One by one they began to walk away from the queue they had formed, and for a while my front stoop was empty. I went back to sitting in my husband’s chair, grieving.
My memory was bad, he had told me, but he was wrong. My memory kept him walking the halls and the staircase, my memory refused to let go of him completely, as it had refused to let go each time I left. I die a little more each time you are away, he had said the first night of my return to the city. Now he was dead, I thought, there would be no more dying. Upon realizing this, I stood up from his chair.
Before I could take a step in any direction of my own choosing, though, a knock arrived at the front door, pulling me toward it. How quickly we resume routine, how quickly we do what is expected: A child cries out, we run to it; something falls in another room, we turn corners to see what has fallen; a knock lands upon a door, we answer.
Outside stood three men, all in dark suits with the gold chains of pocket watches drooping from their pockets. They wore top hats, and long waxed mustaches. They wore round spectacles in thin wire frames. I recognized them for what they were immediately: captains of industry. But what could they be doing here, I wondered, on the front stoop of a widow at a forgettable address in the Lost Neighborhood, down in Junction Hollow.
“Forgive us for intruding,” they said. “We do not mean to startle you.”
They introduced themselves, each one tipping his hat as he delivered his name: A.W., H.C., R.B. All captains’ names are initials. It is their badge of honor.
“We understand,” they said, “that you have recently lost your husband.”
I nodded, slow and stupid.
“And we understand that you have turned away all of the many suitors who have come requesting your hand in marriage,” they continued.
I nodded again.
“We are here to inquire as to your plans, madame, for the future,” they said, and took their pocket watches out to check the time, to see if the future had arrived yet. “Do you mean to marry again?” they asked. “Do you plan to provide us with more children?”
I shook my head this time, and opened my mouth to ask the purpose of their visit. But before I could form one word, they tapped at my chest with their white-gloved hands.
“Now, now,” they said, slipping their watches back into their pockets. “No need for any of that.”
Then they took hold of my arms and pushed me back into my house, closing the door behind them.
Within the passing of a night I became sick with their children; within a week, the front of my housedress began to tighten; and within a month, I gave birth: three in all. One by one, their children ripped away from me and grew to the size of the children I had walked to the gates of Eliza.
I did not need to feed them. They grew from the nourishment of my tears and rages. They knew how to walk and talk instinctively, and began to make bargains with one another, trading clothes and toys and whole tracts of land.
Soon their fathers returned to claim them. “Thank you very much,” s
aid the captains, as they presented each child with a pocket watch, a pair of white gloves, a top hat. Then they looked at me. “In return for your troubles, we have built you a library.”
They swept their arms in wide arcs to the opposite side of the street. Where once a row of houses stood shoulder to shoulder, now a three-story library parked its bulk along the sidewalk. “Where are my neighbors?” I asked. “Where are my friends?”
“We have moved them to another part of the city,” said the captains. “Do not worry. We are in the midst of building them their own library at this very moment. We do not take, you see, without giving back.”
Then they clapped their hands and curled their index fingers over and over, motioning for their top-hatted, white-gloved children to follow, checking the time on their new pocket watches as they walked toward the financial district.
A dark rumor soon began to circulate throughout the back rooms in pubs and in the common rooms of the libraries of Smoke City. The captains’ children were growing faster than their fathers could manage, it was said. The captains themselves, it was said, were having difficulties with their wives, who remained in their stone mansions on top of the mountains ringing the city, above the strata of smoke. One wife had committed suicide and another had snuck out of her mansion in the middle of the night, grew wings, and flew across the ocean to her home country, where her captain had found her many years ago sitting by a river, strumming a stringed instrument and singing a ballad of lost love. Those of us who lived below their homes above the point where the wind blew smoke away from the captains’ houses had never seen these women, but we knew they were aching with beauty.
I could see it all now, what lay behind that terrible evening, and the plans the captains’ children had been making as they’d left with their fathers, opening the backs of their pocket watches to examine the gears clicking inside, taking them out to hold up to the non-existent light.
Indeed, the future spread out before me, a horizon appearing where the captains’ sons were building machines out of the gears of their pocket watches, and more men lumbered away from the mills every day to sit on porches and frustrate their wives who did not know how to take care of them while they were in their presence.
A future will always reveal itself, even in places like Smoke City.
But smoke nor soot nor the teeth of gears as they turned what arms once turned, as they ground time to chafe and splinters, could not provide the future I desired. I had seen something else—a long time ago, it seemed now, or a long time to come—and though it came with the price of unshakable memory, I began the journey that would return me to it.
Through the streets I trudged to the Incline platform, where I waited for my car wearing nothing but my worn-out housedress, my old shoes covered in mud and the stinking feces of horses. No one looked at me. I was not unnatural.
When the car arrived, I climbed in. And when the car began to lift, rickety-click, I breathed a small sigh. This time, though, as I turned to peer out the back window, my mother was not there, waving her hand in the air. Only the city. Only the city and its rooftops spread out behind me. This time, I was leaving without the cobwebs of the past clinging to me.
On the way up, a car went by in the opposite direction, carrying a woman with her man inside it. I stared at her for a moment, staring at me through her window, a frightened look on her face, before I broke our gaze to look up at the mouth of the Fourth River’s cavern, and the water spilling from it.
When the car reached the top, I exited to wander through the lantern-lit cavern, the river beside me, until the walls were bare and no lanterns lit the way any longer, and the roar of the river was in my ears and the dark of the cave filled my eyes.
At some point, I felt the chill of rising water surround me. It trickled over my toes at first, then lifted me off my feet. I began to swim upward, pulling my arms through the current, kicking my legs furiously. Up and up and up I swam, until I opened my eyes to sunlight, blue skies that hurt to look at, yellow bridges, vast hills of green, and somewhere on the other side of this city my husband in this place would be waking up to find I had left him in the middle of the night again. He would wake the children next, the children I would never give over, and together they would walk to the place where I found myself surfacing. They have come across me here before. My husband will take my hand, say, “Early riser,” and I would bring his hand to my lips to kiss it.
I gasped, taking the blue air into my lungs, the light into my eyes. The city, the city of my refuge, spread out before me, the rivers on either side of me spangled with light, a fountain spraying into the air, the towers of downtown gleaming. The smoke of that other city was gone now, the fires in that other sky were nowhere on this horizon. The smoke and the fires were in some other world, and I found that I could only weep now, selfishly grateful that it was no longer mine.
© 2011 Christopher Barzak.
Originally published in Asimov’s Science Fiction.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
Christopher Barzak is the author of the Crawford Fantasy Award winning novel, One for Sorrow. His second book, The Love We Share Without Knowing, was a finalist for the Nebula and Tiptree Awards. His short fiction has appeared in a variety of venues, including Asimov’s Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, Strange Horizons, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, and The Year’s Best Science Fiction and Fantasy. He grew up in rural Ohio, has lived in a southern California beach town, the capital of Michigan, and has taught English in suburban and rural communities outside of Tokyo, Japan, where he lived for two years. His most recent book is Birds and Birthdays, a collection of surrealist fantasy stories. Forthcoming is Before and Afterlives, a collection of supernatural fantasies. Currently he teaches fiction writing in the Northeast Ohio MFA program at Youngstown State University.
The Visited
Anaea Lay
“Manuel Black is dead. Long live Manuel Black.”
—Headline of the New York Times obituary
“Are you crazy? You may as well ask me to write a eulogy for God.”
—Me, when my editor assigned me this article
I was in love with Manuel Black from the moment I first heard “A Fragment, A Scar” at Penny Carson’s summer pool party my freshman year of high school and my devotion never wavered. Now that he’s gone everybody will say that, but they’re lying. By the end of sophomore year he’d disappeared, swallowed by a pit of depression and obscurity. That would have been the last we heard from him if not for the Visitation. Those were my private years with Black, the years of “Fragrant Like Stars” and “Eternity and I, We Miss You.” This is some of his best work, raw and broken, simple but fierce, and genuine. The seeds of what would emerge in the post-Visitation years are all there, but they’re missing the bleak optimism that suffuses his later work.
Black was born during the hour of the wolf on October 31st, 1987, to Maria Marquez and Robert Black. He was their first child after years of trying, a painful pregnancy, and two days of labor. Robert was so overjoyed when he heard about the birth of his son that he kissed the doctor. At 4:08AM, Robert held his son for the first time. He danced around the room, singing so loudly the entire maternity ward heard him. Reports of what he was singing conflict, but everybody agrees that he did. Then, at 4:17AM, baby Manuel still in his arms, Robert collapsed, dead. He’d always suffered from congenital heart problems, and the stress of the extended labor on top of a difficult pregnancy was too much for him.
So it was that Manuel carried a double-legacy from his first hour of life: a scar above his right eyebrow from hitting a table edge when Robert dropped him, and the conviction that by coming into the world, he’d slain his father.
—The Visited, Tanya Limth
The next time you’re wasting time at work, fire up one of the videos of Black from the Scarified tour. He was just twenty, a college drop-out who’d accidentally beco
me famous when his video for “A Fragment, A Scar” went viral. He’s visibly uncomfortable on stage, his signature curls falling into his face, hiding him from the audience. It’s such a cliché of the stage-frightened musical genius, yet on Black it communicates a vulnerability that only grew with his confidence. Scarified Black was lost, overwhelmed, destined to seize our hearts and fade.
When you’re done with that, plug in “Manuel Black,” “The Ingress Lounge,” and “Loneliness of Forever” and start watching videos. They’re from his lost years, the pre-Visitation Black. It’s still him, but now he’s angry. He hasn’t found his Morrisonian black leather pants yet, but he’s not afraid of the audience anymore. Curls fly around his face as he stares them down, challenging them to answer the questions he raises with his lyrics, to justify the world in the face of his seething despair and melancholy. Critics of the time wrote the music off as angst-ridden wankery. Audiences found it unpalatably depressing and turned instead to catchy dance pop. Listen to it now and you’ll realize his melancholy was a foreshadowing of the post-Visitation malaise waiting for all of us, that his anger was founded in an optimistic belief that things could be different if we’d just bother to acknowledge they ought to be.
I took a break from college after my sophomore year. At the time I thought I was dropping out forever. This was just a few months after the first Visitation, and I had decided that I needed to do something different. I wasn’t the only one—people were dropping out, changing jobs and giving up at alarming rates. My parents were fairly understanding, even when I told them that my plan was to tramp across the country following a rock star. Lots of parents were understanding of lots of things in the months following the Visitation. The rest were too busy doing crazy things of their own.
What’s it like to meet somebody you’ve loved from a distance for years? Somebody you’d loved through obscurity only to have them break into popularity in the wake of the biggest communal trauma in the history of man? It’s nerves and sweating and making an ass of yourself in shoes you can’t walk in. It’s deciding to chuck out the shoes and stalk him back stage, then getting tongue-tied when he looks at you, until you blurt out, “I know exactly what you mean, in ‘Eternity and I.’” It’s proudly tweeting “Manuel Black stole my panties,” before remembering that your mother joined Twitter three months ago—her post-Visitation act-of-crazy.
