The City, Not Long After Read online

  In a large open space at the end of the tent, a platform had been set up. Red, white, and blue canopies billowed overhead. At either end of the platform, a teen-aged soldier stood at attention. The young woman stopped at the edge of the crowd that milled around the platform. So many people—almost a hundred, she guessed.

  “What’s going on?” she asked the man in the stall behind her. He sat on a tall stool, beside makeshift shelves holding herbs and amulets along with bottles of vitamins, aspirin, cold remedies, and the like.

  “General Miles is going to speak,” he said.

  The music stopped abruptly. She waited by the stall, watching a tall, unhealthy-looking man climb onto the platform and speak into a microphone. A hash of static distorted his amplified voice.

  “I’m honored to introduce—” A series of pops like gunfire drowned him out. “—reunify this great country, preserve our way of life, protect our—” A squeal like a dying pig cut through his words. “I give you General Alexander Miles, the man who—” He raised his hands over his head and gestured to the side of the platform. His voice was buried beneath the cheers of the crowd.

  A stockily built man climbed to the platform and looked out over the cheering crowd. He had a square face and crew-cut salt-and-pepper hair. Despite the heat of the day, he wore a khakicolored uniform. There were gold-colored stars on his sleeves and gold-colored braid on the stiff brim of his hat. The sunlight shining through the red canopy overhead gave his face a ruddy tint, making his eyes look impossibly blue. He disdained the microphone, waving it aside along with the man who offered it.

  “My friends,” he said. His voice was deep and low and the people stopped their murmuring to listen. “I’m glad to see you all here, neighbors gathered together for a day of celebration. I’m glad I’m able to join you on such a fine day.” The tent rustled overhead, but the crowd was silent, intent upon the General’s words. “It’s a wonderful thing for people to come together. In these hard and lonely times, a gathering like this is wonderful and rare, something to be treasured.” His voice was compelling. “Alone each of us is weak. But together we are strong. Alone each of us is poor. Together we are rich. Alone each of us is vulnerable and unprotected. Together, we are a nation. Together, we are Americans.” His voice lifted, cutting through the rustling of the tent, the distant barking of dogs and bleating of goats. “I dream of true Americans, once again united. I dream of one nation under God, indivisible. A proud nation, a strong nation, with many hands and many voices, joined as one. I dream of a land that is safe for our children and our children’s children.”

  The young woman rubbed at the sweat trickling down her neck. She had heard of America before—her mother had mentioned the name—but she didn’t see why the man was so excited about it. His expression reminded her of the preacher at the entrance to the market. He spoke of America in the same reverent tone that the preacher had used in speaking of Jesus. General Miles had the same intensity in his eyes; he scanned the crowd as if he were looking into each person’s soul. When he looked in her direction, she shivered.

  “We must not forget we are Americans. Each of us is a small part of the glory that makes up the whole. A great gathering is under way, a union forged of many people. Fresno has joined us. Modesto and Stockton are with us. As far north as Chico, they are with us.” His voice rose a little and he clenched the hand at his side to form a fist. “But there are also those who would forget our heritage, cast aside our traditions. Those who work against us and seek to undermine our unity, who thrive on division and dissension. A selfish few hoard the resources of the city of San Francisco, scorning our offers of friendship and alliance.” His expression was that of an angry father who has been pushed beyond what his patience will bear. “They revel in anarchy, squandering the treasures of the past, delighting in unnatural acts that are an abomination in the eyes of man and God.”

  He went on listing the crimes of San Francisco’s inhabitants, implying that these anarchists were responsible for the chronic shortage of kerosene and good tools, hinting that their godless ways might have triggered the Plague, warning that they might choose to descend on the valley. “We must act for our own protection. We must protect our land and preserve our proud heritage. We do not seek war, but if it comes, we will not turn aside.” The soldiers at either end of the platform stood straighter, their eyes fixed on some distant horizon. The crowd cheered.

  The young woman was no longer listening. She imagined General Miles and his soldiers tramping through the tiny city she saw in her glass globe, and she frowned. Her mother found her at the edge of the crowd, silent though the people around her were cheering.

  On their way out of town, they passed the checkpoint. The soldiers were still there, tending a small bonfire. The cyclist from Seattle stood beside the sergeant, watching the flames. His face was smeared with dirt; the skin around one of his eyes was darkening to black. As the young woman passed, a soldier added another book to the fire.

  CHAPTER 5

  DANNY-BOY WARDED OFF THE PAST with projects of his own creation. He wanted to change the city so that the gray people from the time before the Plague would not recognize the place. In the beginning, his projects were small. In a sheltered place beside the steps to the library, he built a tiny village of scrap wood. The houses were windowless, thatched with grasses like the African huts he had seen pictured in a National Geographic magazine. Paths bordered with seashells and polished stones from the beach led to each miniature doorway. He built several other such villages, tucking them into forgotten corners of the city. Each one had its own style of architecture.

  He gathered empty picture frames and hung them in spots where they would capture significant views. On the pavement nearby he painted footprints indicating where the viewer should stand. At the top of the Divisadero Street hill an ornate oak frame, bolted to the supporting pole of a NO PARKING sign, displayed a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. In the financial district a small steel frame, wedged between the iron bars of a fence, set off a view of the TransAmerica Pyramid. In the Marina district a simple black wood frame hung from a tree, presenting a view of Alcatraz Island.

  As Danny-boy grew older, he realized that he was not the only one striving to change the city. Many others were quietly adding their own embellishments. Now and then, he helped them with their work.

  He sat in the sunshine by Saint Monica’s Church and listened to Rose Maloney discuss how she would transform the structure through her gardening. “I think the ivy will do well here on the north wall. It doesn’t need much sun. In ten years or so it should have covered the wall, I think.”

  He sat by the fire and listened to Gambit talk about the music that he heard in the city streets. “You know the way the telephone wires sing in the wind, Danny-boy? I’m going to build a harp that the wind can play. If I string wires across the Civic Center Plaza where the wind blows strong ….”

  Danny-boy’s own projects grew more ambitious. He took miles of ribbons and laces from the Macy’s notions department. Across a narrow street downtown, he wove rope ladders and braids, tangles that mimicked the intertwinings of vines, strict geometric patterns with rigorous repetitions. At noon, when the sun shone down through the ribbons, the light made intricate patterns on the asphalt.

  He arranged three hundred pairs of women’s shoes on the stairway that climbed from Taylor Street to Broadway. High heels and flats, running shoes and loafers, all of them heading uphill, as if an army of invisible women had paused to rest while climbing.

  Danny-boy’s inspiration for his biggest project came from a conversation with Duff, an industrious, egg-shaped man with three wives and countless children. In a city filled with artists, Duff was a businessman. On the shore of Mountain Lake, the city’s largest spring-fed pond, Duff had established a trading post and a business empire.

  His choice of a site proved wise and he did a booming business in barter. Over the years, Duff’s trading post had established a reputation. If you couldn’
t buy it at Duff’s, you couldn’t find it in the city. Home-brewed moonshine, whiskey from the old times, fresh milk and eggs, cheese from Marin, apples from Sebastopol, caviar scavenged from gourmet shops, dried fish, canned goods, rare gems, welding equipment, methane gas, laundry service, and hot showers—Duff sold it all.

  Danny-boy was visiting the trading post one fine spring evening. It was twilight and the luminescent gray-purple of the sky reflected in the still lake. The drooping branches of eucalyptus trees hung low over the water. Now and then, the smooth surface was broken by fish jumping for insects. At the far end of the lake, where the water was shallow, five of Duff’s children were netting crayfish. Their shrill voices carried in the evening air, echoing across the water. Overhead, the wind generator that supplied Duff’s electricity rattled rhythmically.

  Danny-boy was strolling around the lake when Duff hailed him from a marble bench, inviting him to come and sit and smoke a joint. “How’s it going?” Duff asked. He rolled a joint from the marijuana in his pouch. “You haven’t brought me any trade goods for a while.”

  Danny-boy nodded. “Yeah. Been busy helping Rose Maloney transplant some of her trees. She had this one rubber tree that must be about fifteen feet tall. We transplanted it into the baptismal font at Saint Monica’s.”

  “Why do you bother with all that?” Duff lit the joint, took a drag, and passed it to Danny-boy.

  Danny-boy shrugged. “She likes it.”

  “It’s not going to get you anywhere.”

  “So? Where would I want to go?” Danny-boy took a long drag on the joint.

  The sun was leaving the sky. Down on the beach below them, a campfire burned. A group of artists and scavengers had gathered to sit by the fire and drink whiskey. Danny-boy could hear voices raised in discussion.

  Duff gestured at the fire with his joint. “They’re always talking. But they never seem to do much.”

  Danny-boy frowned at the bitterness in Duff’s voice. “What do you mean? They do lots of things.”

  “They live off the remnants of the past,” Duff said. “You know, I think you care about all the wrong things.”

  Danny-boy blew out a cloud of smoke and did not reply.

  “Not just you,” Duff said. “All of the scavengers in the city. If you only got organized, you could accomplish something. You could get somewhere.”

  “What would we want to accomplish?” Danny-boy asked idly. He offered the joint to Duff but the older man waved it away, eager to make his next point. Danny-boy smiled slowly and took another hit. The more Duff talked, the less he would smoke.

  “Suppose you wanted some marijuana,” Duff said. “What would you do?”

  “I’d see if I could find some wild plants to harvest,” Danny-boy said. “I know a backyard in the Mission with plants that are as tall as I am.”

  “Living off the land like a savage,” Duff scoffed. “Suppose someone had already harvested the plants in the Mission. What would you do then?”

  “Maybe I’d see if Snake had any to lend me.” Danny-boy was willing to go on proposing solutions as long as Duff kept asking for them.

  “And if he didn’t have any, you’d come to me.”

  “Sure. And I’d trade you for some.”

  “You’d trade me something you found in the ruins, right? And why would you come to me? What have I got that you haven’t?”

  “Marijuana,” Danny-boy said.

  “A greenhouse full of it,” Duff agreed. “And you could have a greenhouse too. The materials are there.” He waved a hand toward the city. “A little work, and you could be self-sufficient.”

  Danny-boy leaned back on the bench, surveying the lake dreamily.

  “If everyone worked with me,” Duff went on, “we could rebuild this city.”

  “Why would we want to?” Danny-boy asked. “I like it the way it is.”

  “You never saw it before.”

  Danny-boy shrugged. “I dream of it sometimes. I like it better now.”

  Duff was not paying attention; he seemed to be caught up in his own vision. “All we need to do is work together. Think about it—one man couldn’t have built the Golden Gate Bridge on his own. One family couldn’t have done it. Hundreds of men, working together, built that bridge. To accomplish things, you need teamwork. Now if you wanted a greenhouse …”

  “I don’t,” Danny-boy interrupted.

  Duff shook his head furiously. “OK then, if you wanted to build a wind generator …”

  “I don’t need one.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Duff growled. “It could be anything. Suppose you wanted to paint the Golden Gate Bridge blue. Alone, you couldn’t do it. But if you had enough people who would cooperate, you could do it in a week. Cooperation means civilization. Without it, you’re alone.”

  Danny-boy frowned, listening intently for the first time. “I see what you mean,” he said. “I never thought much about it before.” Duff eyed him uneasily. “About what?” He seemed startled that Danny-boy was finally listening.

  “I’ve been working on my own. It might be interesting to try a bigger project.”

  “Like a greenhouse?” Duff suggested.

  “I was thinking more of the bridge,” Danny-boy said. “Blue’s a nice color. Well, I guess I’d best be going.” He gave Duff the end of the joint, smiled pleasantly, and sauntered away into the night.

  The following week, Danny-boy started accumulating blue paint.

  CHAPTER 6

  NOT LONG AFTER THE YOUNG woman saw General Miles speak, Leon arrived. He came on a day in early autumn. The green leaves of the walnut tree that grew near the house hung limp in the heat; the bees droned in the garden, searching for late-blooming flowers. The young woman had been picking cutworms from the last of the tomato plants.

  She heard the sound of horses in the distance: the clip-clop of hooves on asphalt and the jingle of harnesses. Dog left the shade of the porch and stared in the direction of the sounds. After a moment, he started barking. The young woman heard another dog, much smaller by the sound of it, yapping in reply. Happy to abandon her task, she ran to get her mother. “Someone’s coming!”

  She climbed an almond tree so she could watch the stranger approach. The bright mural painted on the side of his wagon looked out of place in the dull dusty landscape. The mural showed the city of San Francisco; she recognized it by the tall triangular tower. She craned her neck, eager to see the driver, and was vaguely disappointed when she caught a glimpse of him through the leaves: he was a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair. His scalp was reddening in the afternoon sun. She had expected something more.

  Her mother greeted the trader from the porch. She wore jeans and a faded blue shirt; her dark hair was wild in the summer heat. She held their old rifle.

  “Hello, good woman,” the man called from his wagon seat, reining his horses to a halt in the yard. “Can I interest you in trade goods from San Francisco?” Dog sniffed around the wagon’s wheels, growling at the terrier that rode on the seat beside the man. The smaller dog wagged its tail. “I have nails, screws, tools,” the man said, “fancy cloth, seeds, kerosene…”

  Her mother stared at the man, squinting into the sun and frowning. “You’re from San Francisco?” she interrupted.

  “That’s right,” the trader said.

  “From the Haight,” she said slowly.

  The man looked startled. He scratched his head. “That’s right. How did you—”

  “I know you,” she cried, letting the rifle fall to her side. “You used to run a magazine shop. I bought magazines there.” She stepped down from the porch. “I don’t remember your name, but I remember your face. Do you remember?”

  Through the leaves, the young woman watched the trader climb down from his wagon. Her mother cried as she hugged him. The young woman watched from the tree in amazement. Dog sniffed the man’s legs suspiciously.

  The trader—his name was Leon—stayed for dinner. After dinner the young woman lay in the ham
mock on the porch, drowsing in the heat. Through the screen door, she could hear her mother and Leon talking in low voices.

  “I feel silly, crying that way,” her mother said. “It’s just that it all seems so long ago. Like an imaginary world. So far away now.”

  “How did you end up out here?” he asked her.

  “After my husband died, I guess I panicked. I went a little crazy. Got in our old Volvo and started driving, without any idea of where I was headed. Hit a roadblock on my way into Sacramento, turned off the main road and headed toward Woodland. The only reason I stopped here was because I was almost out of gas.”

  “Alone and pregnant,” Leon murmured. “Must have been rough.”

  “I was acting on automatic. I don’t remember much about that time.”

  “Seems like a lonely spot. Do you have any neighbors?”

  “A few. None that are particularly friendly. Most of the people around here blame San Francisco for the Plague. Since I’m from the city, they don’t trust us, don’t like us much. We keep to ourselves. And what about you? What’s happening in San Francisco these days?”

  “The city’s still there,” he said. “A man named Duff runs a trading post on the edge of the Presidio. A handful of people survived in Chinatown. A few families down by Fisherman’s Wharf make a pretty good living fishing. And downtown … downtown’s kind of strange.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s been taken over by artists. I guess that’s what you’d call them. Painters, poets, sculptors, writers, musicians, and a few that don’t fit into any traditional category. They build things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Hard to describe, really. They have all the resources of the city at their disposal. Of course, they’re all a little crazy. I don’t pretend to understand a lot of the stuff they do. I don’t know—you really have to see it.”

  “I’d like to.” Her mother’s voice was wistful.

  “Well, you know, I’ll be going back there soon enough. I have room for a couple of passengers. If you’d like to come—”