Birth of a Bridge (18 page)
TOO LATE. SOREN SEES ALEX WAITING FOR HIM IN front of the doors, recognizes him in the shadows, tries to back away towards the work site, casting quick lateral glances to find somewhere he can fold himself away into the dark, but it’s too late – Alex has seen him and comes forward, thrusts the bag into his arms whispering don’t tell me you forgot about our little deal, it’s on for tomorrow, the instructions are inside. Soren staggers under the weight of the bag and lets out a cry, makes a half-turn towards the locker rooms but in the same moment a hand grabs him by the neck: a word of advice – no funny business. Soren shrugs him off with a movement of his shoulder and hurries towards the workers’ facilities, those he passes headed in the opposite direction barely nod, no one questions him. Once he’s inside, he rushes to his locker, unlocks it, puts the bag in, at the last moment unzips it, plunges a hand in, feels a piece of paper folded into quarters, stuffs it in his pocket, closes everything up again, and rushes to the bus that’s waiting outside. Later, sitting alone at the back, head against the window, he catches his breath – how could he have believed they had decided against the sabotage – he uses the small overhead light to read the paper, typed, and turns pale – the bag contains four dynamite cartridges equipped with suction cups – no seepage of nitroglycerine, the explosives are stabilized, reliable – the cartridges are to be stuck to the four sides of the upstream pier of the Edgefront tower, at the point where the base narrows, so that the whole tower, suddenly one legged, will topple; and their explosion will be set off by activating a programmed detonator from the opposite shore – not a sequential ignition system, and not a delay system – through a remote, which will allow him to act at the last minute.
Of course, he thinks of running – nothing could be more simple, he could go back to his digs, pack his bag, pick up his cheque, and disappear on a night bus headed south, any old bus and no one would be the wiser – but he abandons this idea, sure they would find him, these guys always find their man and when they find him they kill him, he’s been warned. This is why, tonight – a beautiful night too, odours of mud and detritic ground are a reminder that Coca was built on an alluvial plain, a breeding tank teeming with worms and coypu – he doesn’t stray from his routine, stops in for a game of pool at a bar in Edgefront, and then goes home.
HARD TO
describe the day that follows when each movement, each word, each intention is obliterated by the sabotage to come, by the conviction of such precariousness that nothing else really matters, as though the future was only a hazy aureole, the cigarette hole in the film, disintegrating time. Soren floats, cottony. He gets to the Pontoverde platform half an hour before the first siren sounds so he can be alone in the locker room. When he opens his locker, the bag jumps in his face like a fierce animal: it’s a small black knapsack that weighs as much as an eight-year-old child. He stuffs in a sandwich and a sweater, and goes to the river-shuttle dock, forcing his form not to fold under the weight, making sure that this bumpy mass on his back doesn’t alter his walk, and keeps his expression steady.
IT’S NEARLY
midnight on the Edgefront site and Soren is waiting for the lights of the last shuttle headed back to the esplanade to disappear. He didn’t have to pretend he had forgotten something inside a crate, didn’t have to tell the others not to wait for him, he’d go back and then take the next boat, no, he didn’t have to say a word, because no one here asks him anything – and you could even bet that Diderot himself, who professes to know every person on the bridge, wouldn’t be able to hail him by name or even recognize him if he passed him off-site – similarly, no one noticed the bag from which he ostensibly pulled a sandwich and a bottle of water at break, exposing a pile of dark clothing inside. At the moment, Soren is cold. He shivers under the pier, a few steps back from the water’s edge, and nature rumbles, the torrent is large, each sound amplified by the presence of the steel column standing behind him. Once he’s alone, while the site foremen go back to their portables (Algecos with kettles) giving themselves a break before the next batch of workers, Soren, dressed all in black now, quickly places the dynamite cartridges all around the upstream pier that’s sheathed in concrete at this height, making sure to stay hugging the sides, in the shadow of the tower – the rest of the site is lit up like a fairground, a village dance, garlands of tiny lights, he has never performed these movements but he’s studied the diagrams on the folded paper, and as it turns out, it’s dead simple. In less than three minutes the cartridges are suctioned onto the pier, Soren breathes hard under his hood, picks up the bag, throws it over his shoulder and, camouflaged silhouette already fleeing, he veers towards the brownish, lumpy-looking bank: he has a hundred and fifty feet to cross in the river. A break in the levelling of the pier, a gash three feet wide, Soren squats and slips into the water silently, terrified at the thought that the noise of his specific splashes – the body of a man penetrating a liquid – multiplied here, could alert the site foremen who, in a few minutes, will put their hard hats with headlamps back on and go out to meet the new contingent of workers, while on the other side of the river, on the twenty-seventh floor of a waterfront building, the Frenchman and his posse are opening bottles of champagne, filling crystal glasses, and moving to the picture window, ready for the fireworks.
SOREN IS
in the river up to his waist, water so cold that a painful cramp crushes his shins, penetrates his bones, he’s sure it reaches all the way to the marrow, corroding his strength, he’s suffocating, can’t move anymore – stands for a long minute without being able to let go, without being able to launch himself. It’s the sputtering of voices behind him that pushes him forward into the fuliginous waves, he falls in, stifling a yell with a tremendous effort, keeps his head above water without really having any coordination, like a panicked dog fallen overboard, then manages to calm down, getting used to the temperature, regaining control, and, synchronizing his breathing with the movements of his body, he begins to swim silently towards the bank, immersing himself completely at regular intervals in the current that carries him downstream. This is when excitement and fear, the fact of being swallowed but conscious, make him believe that a bulky animal is swimming along beside him – he can make out its mass and its phenomenal strength, there are new underwater currents that accompany him, he lifts his head out of the water without seeing anything but the licorice river that grips him and far off the lights of the river shuttle coming back with the night teams – inside they’re probably joking around, having a last smoke, daydreaming – he dives under once more but again the animal is there, escorting him, brushing against him with its thick, dense fur, a colossal beast that could well be a bear, the bear from Anchorage, it’s wild, it’s hungry, hunting whatever it can to feed itself, he’s delirious, he speeds up without being able to turn around or cast a glance to his side – terror has so paralyzed him – he hears a growl at his neck and nearly sinks like a stone – there’s no fear more terrible than an open jaw behind your back – the bank comes nearer now and the lights of Edgefront press large gold squares of light onto the water while the reflection of the vegetal gangue on the bank lengthens: tall tough plants, bristling black and sharpened lances, they form a barricade, holding Soren back inexorably from all human life. He speeds up till he touches ground, grabs a root, pulls himself out of the river and collapses in a crevice of mud. The bear has disappeared. He breathes, spits, half-dead, and now he still has to take the remote out of its watertight case and press the button that will make everything blow up, he’s out of breath, rummages in his bag, drooling bile, can’t see anything, droplets form stalactites from the arch of his brow, obstruct his nostrils, block his ears, he hurries, body shaken by opposing pieces of information – he’s alive, he’s dead – numb fingers suddenly touching the little hard-plastic case, shivering violently – shakes that tear him apart – he adjusts his gaze to the pier where there is no movement yet. The boatload of workers has passed the river bend, it’s heading for shore now, begins to slow. On the Edgefront tower site, still very brightly lit, almost festive, three men stroll out nonchalantly, walk to the edge of the quay, cross their arms over their chests, and stand there, posed, waiting, like actors caught up in the pursuit of theatre. Soren has never heard the sound of their voices but he can see the pink of their cheeks, the steam that clouds as it leaves their mouths, three little fellas just doing their job who stand at the edge of the river, the boat is still two hundred feet away, he has to press the button, he has to press it now.
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WATER
IT’S A CHILD, BARELY THREE YEARS OLD – LITTLE Billie – who finds Soren’s body five days later in a vacant lot behind the soccer field in Edgefront, where she’s wandering, teddy bear in hand, left to her own devices.
Billie likes this grassy wasteland a lot, lumpy, with dirty edges, begs to go there more and more often, and this morning while Katherine was getting her dressed, standing her up on the kitchen table before leaving for the site, while she was adjusting the elastic of her little canary-yellow skirt, the child took her face between her two soft hands and said, I want to go to the garden, so determined that Katherine suspended her gestures, admiring, looked at her and then hugged her close, whispering into her neck, I promise, my little chicken, you can go there today. Lifting the little one to the ground then, she rushed to the boys’ room, Liam had already left for junior high but Matt was still asleep – he had come home late again last night. The room stinks, an odour of livestock. Katherine sits on the edge of the bed and shakes Matt by the shoulder, wake up! He lets out a long groan and, since she’s still shaking him, pushes her away, eyes closed – she can feel that he’s almost as strong as she is now – then turns onto his side facing the wall, but Katherine persists, walks to the window and pulls open the curtain; streams of sun sweep through the room revealing heaps of crumpled, indistinct clothes, worn-out sneakers, dirty underwear, mistreated school books and binders, cookie wrappers, empty soda bottles, and crumbs over everything, and Katherine, discovering this mess, this filth, gags and asks herself how long it’s been since she came into this room; it comes back to her like a boomerang that Liam has been doing his homework at the kitchen table for a while now and only comes in here to sleep. Her own feeling of guilt, even more than the state of the room, is what throws her into a rage. She comes back to the bed, shakes Matt again, hard this time, channelling all her anger into this action, wake up, you little shit! Gets nothing but a loud snore. Unhinged, she charges to the kitchen and fills a pitcher with cold water and back in the room throws it in Matt’s face – he bolts upright yelling, Augh! Are you fucking out of your mind? Leaning back on his elbows, he drips, waxy circles under his eyes, mouth grey, skin bleary, stunned to see his mother standing straight and immense at the foot of his bed, pitcher in hand, and to hear her gunning him with these words: you have ten minutes to get up. Then you’re gonna clean up this room – your brother can’t even set foot in here anymore! When I get home tonight I want it to be spic and span, and this afternoon, instead of just skipping class, you’re gonna make yourself useful, take Billie to the garden after her nap, I want you to take care of her and talk to her, I want you to play with her, is that clear? The boy sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, and grumbles half-heartedly yeah, and if I don’t? Katherine hesitates, then, casting maternal reason and good role modelling to the wind, responds from between clenched teeth: Matt, if you don’t do it, I’ll break your face. She slams the door, looks at her watch, and goes to find Billie, who’s already watching TV on the pullout couch beside her sleeping father, passes a hand through her curly hair, I’m off, my little warbler, Matt will take you out later to play in the garden. The little girl, absorbed by the screen, doesn’t answer and mechanically holds out a cheek for her mother to kiss. As she passes through the front door, Katherine feels herself wobble, her eyes burning, her legs weak. She does a U-turn and swallows a big glass of water in the kitchen, breathes a long sigh with her arms stretched out on either side of the sink, then comes back to Matt’s room, pushes the door open gently, the boy is standing bare chested, getting dressed. His body’s changing, his shoulders are broadening and he has the torso of a young man now, he’s not a kid anymore. Matt, she begins, Matt, I’m sorry. The boy pulls a T-shirt on without looking at her. I got worked up. He turns his back to her, goes to open the window. I’m leaving you ten dollars for lunch, okay? She takes a step towards him, places a hand on his shoulder. His smell has changed too. He pulls away, Katherine’s hand falls. She begins again in a stronger voice, okay, take care of your sister. And in the doorway she hears the boy murmur I will, don’t worry. Later, in the bus full of tremors, Katherine bursts into tears without thinking of anything in particular, and to the woman beside her who looks at her questioningly – a very young woman full of solicitude – answers simply, I’m so tired.
WHEN MATT
reaches the vacant lot there’s a girl there, sprawled in the grass, waiting for him with beers. What’s this? she asks, pointing to Billie in the stroller, little canary with pink heart-shaped sunglasses. This – this is my little sister! Matt releases Billie and she jumps from the stroller. The girl pouts, disappointed, I thought we were gonna be chill, I’m not crazy about kids, and Matt hastens to answer, don’t worry, she’s not a drag, you’ll see; already he’s kissing her with eyes closed squeezing her breasts, and Billie walks off quietly.
In the beginning, the little girl meanders along, picks up cigarette butts, drinks the last drops from discarded cans of beer, squats to pick dandelions. Hard to say what stories she’s telling herself, it looks like she’s talking, wandering in the sun, stepping over the carcasses of rusted bikes, gas cans busted by rifle shots. Soon she’s fondling a sole, unlacing a shoe, pulling at a sock, scratching the skin that’s revealed with a little wooden stick – she concentrates, her little pink tongue poking out between pursed lips – all the while shooing the flies hovering around, lots of them here, and noisy, then behind the leg she sees another leg, the same shoe and the same sock, and lifting her eyes discovers the rest of the body. She stands still for a long moment, above the head where half the face has disappeared beneath a black crust. Billie, surprised, leans over to ask, hey, are you sleeping? You asleep? When there’s no response, she begins to play with the hair, wiggling the head back and forth to unstick it from the ground and holding handfuls of hair at the back of the skull, but as soon as it comes unstuck, a swarm of flies, very dense, swells and surrounds her like the mesh of a net; the little girl hides her face, looks at her fingers covered in brown paste, doesn’t understand any of it, and at that exact moment a dishevelled Matt grabs her by the wrist exclaiming, oh shit! They back up. The horrified boy looks at the body, then looks at his sister, she’s disgusting, hands bloody, he calls out get over here to the girl who has stayed at the other end of the lot, and when she too is standing in front of the corpse, Matt yells at her, take the little one, take her, but the girl, seeing Billie’s hands, lets out a shriek and steps back, are you crazy, she’s covered in blood! So Matt sits Billie down roughly: hold up your hands, don’t move, stay like that, you understand? And Billie bursts into tears, then her face slowly deforms and she begins to scream as Matt leans over the body again, he too shooing the flies, it’s carnage, only the legs are intact – the head, the abdomen, and the entire back are lacerated, torn, ravaged.
THE BOMB
hadn’t gone off. Unless, in the end, no one had pushed the button to detonate it. Short-circuit in the remote, bad electrical assembly, or a last-minute defection. The packs of dynamite remained stuck to the pier until they were discovered shortly after the men had arrived for the third shift. From the top of their building, standing neatly in a row before the picture window and looking at their watches, seeing nothing happen, the silent partners grew impatient, and finally the Frenchman yelled dammit, he fucked me over, and while Alex was admitting his failure, his fault for having chosen such a sucker, the Frenchman set the hunt in motion.
AFTER A
brief moment of panic at the foot of the Edgefront tower, and once the explosives were neutralized, the guys called Diderot, who immediately whipped over to the site and then spent the rest of the night examining the apparatus, what is this mess? The quantity of dynamite was shocking but the ignition system was rudimentary. The work of an amateur, he concluded.
Soren, for his part, had bolted long ago, shivering in his heavy clothes, soaked with miry water and mud, terrified, not knowing if he had pressed the button on the remote or not, only that he’d thrown the case into the river and had run, looking for some shelter for the night, sure that if he went back to his place the Frenchman’s gang would find him there – he had run breathlessly towards the forest, the ultimate refuge for him, he would know how to survive there, a revelation, hit by the smell of the woods, racing along a dark road, faster and faster as the forest approached, with more and more joy to be coming back to the place where he belongs, but suddenly at the edge of the mountain range, headlights that flash on, beams that capture him, men who block his way. A wild growl. There’s a bear missing from the city zoo.
