all. Sure, their labs are good, they have replacement parts and immune system buffering devices, but between us, they’re not Catherine’s lover: There is a limit to their skills, and the proof is speaking to you. When Catherine riddled me with bullets, she did irrevocable damage to my spine. The surgeons were barely able to repair half of it. Hence, the chair. Ben, it’s important you learn not to believe everything you’re told. After all, we’re talking about aliases.”
Ben stopped walking and looked at him, bewildered.
“Forget it. I don’t feel like going into it,” the Belgian sighed, spinning his wheels with surprising speed.
Ben bounded after him. “It’s unbelievable. You were disabled after death.”
Robert nodded. Ben, sunk in thought, chin on his chest, feet marching mechanically beside Robert, thought about arriving at Marian’s apartment and tried to shake the disturbing spell of the cripple’s story.
“We’re here!” Robert called, rousing Ben from his reverie.
Looking up, he saw a long line of people waiting in front of a giant cigarette stand. To the left of the stand, at the end of a long avenue of people engaged in animated conversation, he saw a neon sign: 06/21/2001—C ENTRAL B US S TATION .
He spun around excitedly. “I think we part here.”
Robert shook his hand. “Thanks for listening, Ben. It’s always a pleasure to make new friends.”
Ben smiled. “Good luck with Catherine.”
Robert crossed himself and rolled toward the front of the line. The smokers made room for him and he disappeared behind the counter.
* * *
Ben’s heart quickened as he approached the flashing sign. Coming to the end of the avenue, he heard someone call out behind him. He turned around and saw a group of twenty kids, all around ten years old, laughing and arguing. He wondered what kind of calamity had snatched them from life at such a young age. The only reasonable thought that came to mind was a bus accident on a class trip, the kind of thing that had weaned him off newspapers back in the old world.
An hour later he got off the multi-wheel. In the middle of a giant circle he saw a sign made of thousands of red leaves. M ARCH 2000, it read. The circle, laid with a dozen different shades of marble, was teeming with people, and Ben squinted as though he were peering through binoculars and watched them tend to their business as he searched for Marian. Lightheaded, inhaling the scent of the thirty-one flowered paths that radiated from the heart of the circle, he noted the numbered sign at the beginning of each path. Steeling himself, he strode down the seventeenth lane. When he passed under the chosen number, he felt as though he were entering another world, where his senses were stimulated by each and every feature, small and large alike, from the rainbow-colored carpet of flowers that lined the walkways to the cloud of dizzying scents they emitted; from the whirlpool of familiar and previously unknown colors to the dazzling cross-pollination of indigo anemones sprouting out of the sky-blue bottleneck of the orchids; from the absolute chaos ruling the flower arrangement to the fatigue of the astounded eye and its soft, fluttering closure. Ben, forced to deal with the frontal sensory assault, walked as fast as possible, hoping to leave the narcotic effect trailing behind him. At the end of the path he found himself at the foot of a long road, lined with hulking skyscrapers on either side, a ribbon of uniformly tall silver buildings, rectangle after rectangle that, despite their identical hue, were not unpleasant, perhaps due to the queer domes that lent the arched roofs a futuristic feel.
Ben looked at the domes and realized that each of them was adorned with a letter of the alphabet, stretching from A to Z into the distant horizon. After asking a woman with tears in her eyes how to find his wife’s apartment, he learned that the letters atop the buildings stood for the tenants’ last
Ben stopped walking and looked at him, bewildered.
“Forget it. I don’t feel like going into it,” the Belgian sighed, spinning his wheels with surprising speed.
Ben bounded after him. “It’s unbelievable. You were disabled after death.”
Robert nodded. Ben, sunk in thought, chin on his chest, feet marching mechanically beside Robert, thought about arriving at Marian’s apartment and tried to shake the disturbing spell of the cripple’s story.
“We’re here!” Robert called, rousing Ben from his reverie.
Looking up, he saw a long line of people waiting in front of a giant cigarette stand. To the left of the stand, at the end of a long avenue of people engaged in animated conversation, he saw a neon sign: 06/21/2001—C ENTRAL B US S TATION .
He spun around excitedly. “I think we part here.”
Robert shook his hand. “Thanks for listening, Ben. It’s always a pleasure to make new friends.”
Ben smiled. “Good luck with Catherine.”
Robert crossed himself and rolled toward the front of the line. The smokers made room for him and he disappeared behind the counter.
* * *
Ben’s heart quickened as he approached the flashing sign. Coming to the end of the avenue, he heard someone call out behind him. He turned around and saw a group of twenty kids, all around ten years old, laughing and arguing. He wondered what kind of calamity had snatched them from life at such a young age. The only reasonable thought that came to mind was a bus accident on a class trip, the kind of thing that had weaned him off newspapers back in the old world.
An hour later he got off the multi-wheel. In the middle of a giant circle he saw a sign made of thousands of red leaves. M ARCH 2000, it read. The circle, laid with a dozen different shades of marble, was teeming with people, and Ben squinted as though he were peering through binoculars and watched them tend to their business as he searched for Marian. Lightheaded, inhaling the scent of the thirty-one flowered paths that radiated from the heart of the circle, he noted the numbered sign at the beginning of each path. Steeling himself, he strode down the seventeenth lane. When he passed under the chosen number, he felt as though he were entering another world, where his senses were stimulated by each and every feature, small and large alike, from the rainbow-colored carpet of flowers that lined the walkways to the cloud of dizzying scents they emitted; from the whirlpool of familiar and previously unknown colors to the dazzling cross-pollination of indigo anemones sprouting out of the sky-blue bottleneck of the orchids; from the absolute chaos ruling the flower arrangement to the fatigue of the astounded eye and its soft, fluttering closure. Ben, forced to deal with the frontal sensory assault, walked as fast as possible, hoping to leave the narcotic effect trailing behind him. At the end of the path he found himself at the foot of a long road, lined with hulking skyscrapers on either side, a ribbon of uniformly tall silver buildings, rectangle after rectangle that, despite their identical hue, were not unpleasant, perhaps due to the queer domes that lent the arched roofs a futuristic feel.
Ben looked at the domes and realized that each of them was adorned with a letter of the alphabet, stretching from A to Z into the distant horizon. After asking a woman with tears in her eyes how to find his wife’s apartment, he learned that the letters atop the buildings stood for the tenants’ last
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