Smoketown

by Tenea D. Johnson

  “Smoketown, the best food in the city.”

  They rode the train as far as The Dire and came topside so that Seife could give Anna a walking tour. Night had started to fall. As the last indigo of sunset settled into the shadows, they turned off the smooth sidewalk and ventured onto a path created by footsteps and not much else. Within a few meters, just outside The Dire, the trees began. Insects chirped and swooped around them, a soft blanket of sound that surrounded them. Small glow globes illuminated the increasing darkness. Tree trunks and foliage sprouted as far back as Anna could see, clearly demarcating their departure from the most urban areas of Leiodare. It felt ten degrees cooler in the trees. One hundred and fifty meters in, a line of earthen mounds stood three meters high; smoke rose steadily from them.

  “What are they?” Anna asked.

  “The kilns.”

  “The bones,” Anna said.

  “Yes, bone black. We burn the bones in these kilns, some ceramics in a larger one further in. Most people don’t know that name, bone black,” Seife said, sounding impressed.

  “That’s probably because drawing charcoal is rarely made from bones these days.” A soft breeze blew across Anna’s forehead and oddly she wondered if she could draw a breeze into existence.

  “Are you an artist?” Seife asked, turning to Anna.

  “Of sorts,” Anna answered.

  “Smoketown has a lot of bones available. We abut the fence. Most of the charcoal, we ship out as biochar. The other city-states bury it to offset global warming. And we keep a bit for local artists. But I haven’t seen you at any of the art markets.”

  “No, I’ve never been. Just came across some at work.” Discussing the subject of her art made Anna slightly uncomfortable. To change the subject, she said the first thing that came to mind. “Why did you talk to me at the club?”

  Perhaps she should have said the second thing, she thought.

  “You seemed different than the people who usually follow me.”

  Anna started to chuckle, but Seife’s expression stopped her. “People follow you?”

  “I’ve been identified before, so yes. All the callers have. I used to live outside Smoketown, but it was too dangerous. I had a flat near the Gardens—small, but quite lovely. Big windows and all these antique details that gave it character—tray ceilings and solar thermal collectors, all that. But I couldn’t stay because some guy had found out who I was and where I lived, and then another. My first two years calling I had to move three times, get rid of seven handhelds and stab a man.”

  “And yet you talked to me?”

  Seife made a noncommittal noise and shrugged her shoulders.

  “No, you talked to me. You talked to me like I was a person, no awe or lust. Not even weird curiosity. That’s beyond rare. Even when I leave the city, if people find out it’s the same. You don’t act like that. You even left in the middle of one of my shows,” she finished, a mock expression of offense on her face.

  “I apologize for that,” Anna said, feeling sheepish.

  “Apology accepted. You can make it up to me by taking me to dinner,” Seife said playfully.

  Shortly, Anna and Seife rounded a hill on their path. Smoketown’s homes came into view. They were built far above the ground, some halfway to the treetops, others further still. Most had been constructed of wood. They looked like large redwood-colored cubes that stood in the treetops, upwind from the kilns. Each house was stained a warm reddish brown and had long, narrow windows, the height of three planks that ran around the perimeter, more bands of glass than traditional windows. The number of windows and their placement in the houses differed. Many homes had a window that crossed the corner of the house so that it took up half of two walls. A few had the windows across every corner and wall, so that the band of glass encircled the entire home. Two long tree trunks connected to a metal platform supported the houses. Staircases—spiral, straight or staggered—led up to them.

  “Is this the way people used to live here?” Anna asked.

  “No, people used to live on the ground here. It was once the largest Black neighborhood in the old city, and they made bricks here so they lived in squat, solid houses a tornado couldn’t touch. My great-uncle used to have printouts from photos—actual photos—in black and white. It looked like another planet, but the faces were the same.” She joined Anna’s laughter.

  “Now we build in the trees because of the beetles. If they ever came this far east, they’d roll out into the jungle without disrupting anything. We find that the bugs are only unavoidable if you don’t adapt.”

  “Where’s your place?” Anna asked.

  “Back beyond that band of trees, closer to the perimeter.” She then pointed farther east. “Right now we’re going there.”

  “There” resembled one of the old water towers that Anna had grown up seeing, a short, fat cylinder with a pointed roof. But where those water towers had been rusted-out remnants of another age, this one had smooth white walls and glittering firefly lights that surrounded the windows. Like Smoketown’s other buildings, it stood high in the trees atop a platform. Anna followed Seife up the stairs, led there by the delicious aroma as much as the woman in front of her.

  According to the menu, the restaurant Desta served African fusion food with a “Smoketown flair.”

  Inside, an intoxicating mixture of spice and sweetness filled the air in the small space, fueled by the bouquet of foreign spices and heaping portions of delicious, slow-cooked food. Seife and Anna sat on a pair of low stools near the picture window. A waitress came, and after taking their orders, placed a huge circle of injera bread between them. Mounds of doro wat, ackee, and spiced cabbage, among others lined the edges of the bread. The restaurant offered both resin and honey wines. A glass of each sparkled on small tables next to the larger table; additional fluffy triangles of folded injera also shared that space. Seife returned from washing her hands. She watched as Anna toweled her hands dry, preparing to delve into their meal. Anna ripped a large triangle in half, grabbed some of the spicy chicken with it and placed it in her mouth. Pleasure flooded through her.

  “You like the doro wat?” Seife asked.

  “Mmmm,” Anna responded.

  Seife laughed and sipped her wine. “You know Ethiopian food then?”

  “Yes, I enjoy it very much.” Anna smelled the rich scent of teff on her breath as she spoke.

  “This is the only restaurant that serves Ethiopian in Leiodare. Yet I have never seen you here.”

  “That’s because I’ve never been. I had it before,” Anna said.

  “So you are not from the city?” Seife asked.

  “You know that.” Anna knew as well as Seife that she was an obvious outsider.

  “I do.” She returned Anna’s gaze. “How do you know I know?”

  “Because you are from here.”

  “How—” Seife began.

  “Aren’t all callers from Leiodare?” Anna asked.

  “Most are from Smoketown. A few from Leiodare.” Seife brought a bite of food up to her mouth.

  “Smoketown is in Leiodare. What’s the distinction?”

  “Smoketown is of Leiodare.”

  Anna waited for Seife to explain, filling the silence and her mouth with another helping of chicken and this time with a bit of cabbage to couple with the spice.

  “There’s more than a few kilometers between the two,” Seife said. “But I suppose you are right. Smoketown is part of Leiodare, but it is very different.”

  “Like The Dire from The Spires?” Anna teased.

  Seife looked at Anna slowly so that her own lack of amusement spread across her entire expression. “Yes, I suppose you could say that. If you must.”

  Anna almost choked on her food. “A good deadpan—that’s difficult to come by in these parts.”

  “Nearly as difficult as a witty dinner companion, I expect,” Seife said.

  Anna laughed openly. The sound plainly startled Seife. Seife could not know, but the soun
d of Anna’s own high, mischievous laughter surprised Anna as well.

  “So when did you start singing? Did you take lessons?” Anna asked.

  “Oh, you wanna hear the recitation?” Seife said sarcastically.

  “Excuse me?” Anna said.

  Seife took a sip of wine and cleared her throat. Anna, confused, watched as Seife sat up straight in her seat and began.

  “I learned to sing by listening to my grandfather as he tended the kilns. While he loaded the sun-bleached bones into the oven, he sang a mournful song of thankfulness. Some days he would interlace his dirge with bawdy ballads. He had learned them while worked in the canopy, climbing to the treetops where he harvested trumpet blossoms for Dex Pharma.”

  Anna wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Seife laughed. “That’s what I what I tell the visiting dignitaries when I’m being ‘colorful’.”

  Anna relaxed and smiled. “You do?”

  “Yes. I play the part of a quaint and intriguing exotic. I do it at all the official dinners. They’re mandatory for callers.”

  “The exotic?” Anna made a sound of disapproval.

  “True, but with most everyone some shade of brown or beige, someone has to play the part,” Seife said sardonically.

  “Do they?” Anna searched out Seife’s gaze with her own and held it.

  “Perhaps not,” Seife said quietly. She touched Anna’s hand briefly before she continued. “Honestly. . . well, honestly, I never learned to sing; I had to learn not to sing. Not to sing during class, at meals, while waiting for the train. That restraint was my initiation into propriety.”

  Anna regarded her warmly. “And look what you’ve done with it.”

  Seife laughed, spitting a morsel of food out in the process. It struck Anna’s shoulder.

  “Look what you’ve done with it,” Anna repeated grimly.

  When they parted, Seife had just enough time to get home and prepare for the morning’s call. They stepped into the train station, the smell of oncoming rain following them underground.

  “It will be a quiet call this morning. It would be nice just to laze in bed.”

  “I guess you can’t just tell them you can’t make it?” Anna said.

  “Not without proper notice or a damn good reason and city transport will soon be there waiting for me, as well as security.”

  “You have security?” Anna asked.

  “You must have seen them following us when we do the morning calls.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You must be more observant, Anna. The things that you must miss.”

  “There are things I would miss were I to look away,” Anna said.

  Seife’s gaze softened and fell.

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather I call a service? You’d be home in half the time,” Seife said.

  “I enjoy riding the train,” Anna replied.

  “I think I can understand why—” Seife began. Wind from the arriving train pushed into the station, and muffled her words.

  “What’s that?” Anna asked.

  Seife stepped closer to Anna, so that her body was a breath away. Gently, she cupped Anna’s jaw in her hand. She brought her lips to Anna’s ear and said, surely it must have been softly, but for that moment Anna could hear nothing else: “More time to savor.”

  Seife backed away, turned and walked to the stairs.

  At home, Anna bounded up the stairs two at a time. She reached her landing, feeling even more energetic than when she’d hit the building entrance. Tomorrow, she’d—

  A shipping box with green stars sat outside Anna’s front door. Even from this distance she knew the gray spot near the corner spelled out her initials.

  Staring, she tried to collect herself, but she’d been scattered at first sight of it, all the excitement she’d felt seconds ago was swept away into a place now locked to her. Her footsteps echoed in the hallway as she walked to her door, bent, and lifted the box. Anna closed the door behind her and stood inside, staring down at the package. Slowly, she placed it on the kitchen counter. It had not been returned to sender or shipped back because of insufficient postage. There were no such stamps visible. There sat the same box with one significant change: a small digicom code had been imprinted on the top, the same kind used for the city’s official business.

  Anna picked the box up and took it over to her console. For a few anxious seconds she couldn’t decide whether to sit or stand as she tilted the box’s code for her scanner to read. She stood and waited while the welcome booted up.

  It is with regret that we inform you of the expiration of Peru Alton on March 23 of this year. Peru Alton passed in an recreational accident.

  The posted mark on the code was 476924—the city of Leiodare.

  The room started to crowd in on Anna. She’d thought about Peru having died before, had certainly considered the possibility, but to have done so in Leiodare, while she was here, was just . . . Anna ran to the giene spa and threw up her dinner. The cygnets watched her curiously from the tub.

  Now Anna was here, in this city, no longer waiting, and Peru was gone beyo—. The thought stuck. There it was: Peru’s belief. Anna had heard it before: For the Mendejano, a soul without a bird to carry it beyond was doomed to walk the streets of its regrets. Anna remembered vividly Peru’s connection to—her reverence for her faith. It was nothing that Anna believed, that Bly had ever believed, something completely Peru’s own. Completely of herself. But Peru was not beyond. She had been here in Leiodare when she died. Anna cringed at the implication: And so Peru still was here, walking the streets of her regrets.

  Unable to stand, Anna sat down on the floor, resting her head on her knees. Flashes of their mountain mornings, quiet moments after dinner when they listened to the sounds of the jungle, Peru’s birthday, their trip to the clearing. The memories accumulated into resolve. The only thing worse than creating Peru was to lose her, and the only thing worse than that was leaving her lost.

  Anna stood and retrieved the charcoal from her bedroom. If enough of them are made, they’ll survive. She hoped her mother was right, and the Dire peddler as well. Either way Anna would do what she could. As she closed the apartment door behind her, she headed up to the roof.

  The tower of Anna’s building rose three stories into the air. It stood at the corner of the brownstone, homage to the founder’s penchant for twenty-first-century Revival architecture and nostalgia for the old northeastern cities. As soon as Anna stepped out on the roof, the back of the tower stood in front of her, open and big as the feeling inside her. Thunder rolled somewhere off to the east. Anna walked to the tower and began to draw on it.

  The first black bird was ornate, detailed, as she spent the brunt of her grief on its creation. Her intensity focused on small movements of her hand. Thoughts lurked below her concentration—bursting forth in flashes of sentences. Foreign words that she and Peru had learned together, virtus that they had completed, other people’s dreams and nightmares upon which they’d spent their youth and bankrolled their adventures bubbled up from her despair and popped behind her eyes in brilliant flashes of color, as if she had a migraine unrivaled by any in her past. The charcoal ground against the brick, pieces of it falling to the ground as she worked.

  The other birds came quickly, frantically, as she moved around the curve of the tower, one arm nearly independent in its movement while the rest of her stood stock-still. On the last bird her hand cramped. She dropped the charcoal and retreated several steps back from her work.

  “Come on. Come on, goddamnit.”

  Anna felt certain that she saw the first drop of rain fall from the sky. The first drop didn’t touch the drawings, nor did the first few. Coy, they caressed the air in front of them, moistened the asphalt beneath them, ran along the cracks and pooled at Anna’s shoes. The first drop that hit a drawing streaked down one raven wing, momentarily soaked into the charcoal’s black, seemed to be absorbed until—the tip of that wing bubbled out, and pushed into
the night, the rain now falling on feathers with depth and movement that set Anna’s teeth on edge. The wing peeled away from the brick and flapping, flailing, the black bird fell out of the wall and into the world.

  Anna stepped back.

  Even on the darkened rooftop she could see its keen gaze fall upon her as it hopped closer, stretched its wings and flew to the space next to her. It peered up, its glassy eyes drinking in the darkness.

  Together, Anna and the bird watched as the other birds emerged, gracelessly, silently, from the wall, black birds large and small, each as perfectly formed as the last. Anna’s flock glistened in the night, reflecting the moon and the city lights. They hopped around the roof, heads jerking in tiny precise movements.

  She didn’t know why she had expected them to be as quiet as the swans, but they weren’t. Within the first moment of their emergence, they began to caw and whistle. First one and then many. Panic rose up in Anna and was immediately overtaken by resignation. These were no baby birds in need of her mothering. This flock could sound and fly and escape all without her permission or her help.

  But that was why she had brought them into existence here, on this rooftop, wasn’t it? She would stand and watch as they took to the sky and led Peru’s soul away. Anna had the strength to stand that, at least.

  Her neighbors would call the battalions soon, perhaps some would even have the courage to come up to the roof. She would stay here with the birds and wait. No sense running. No sense hiding.

  The black birds appeared to care nothing for her plans. One by one they began to hop up on the edge of the roof, peering in all angles, hopping around the perimeter of the building. Anna was sure they could be seen from the street. Even in this dark night, the moon would soon reappear from behind the clouds and carve the birds’ image into people’s minds. As if on cue, the birds began to depart. They took to the sky and moved as one. They flew as if swimming, each downward stroke powerful enough to push them further and higher. Anna watched intently, as if she had never seen birds fly before, and for the moment it seemed that she hadn’t because she couldn’t recall such efficient wonder, not in her time as a virtuoso, not in her mother’s care nor in Peru’s. It was different than when she’d seen the cygnets even, this time the birds carried a weight away from her.