The City We Became (Great Cities #1) - N. K. Jemisin Page 0,96
little while, mostly trying to recoup her energy. And when Veneza stands in the doorway for a little while, watching her, then comes over to give her a hug, Bronca needs it more than usual.
“I’m gonna stay here with you tonight,” Veneza declares. “Us and the keyholders can gather round the glassblowing furnace and sing campfire songs. I think I stuck some marshmallows in the file cabinet at the front desk.”
“A glassblowing furnace would blast marshmallows to powder in about half a second. Do I want to know why you have marshmallows in the file cabinet?”
“For my hot chocolate.” Veneza gives her a duh look. “They’re the fancy Whole Paycheck kind, too, square, with Madagascar vanilla. Or Indonesian vanilla. I can’t remember, but they’re fair trade.”
Bronca laughs again, shaking her head. And for a little while, in the wake of all this, it feels like everything’s going to be okay.
Bronca’s asleep, dreaming of being other people and in other places, when suddenly her city nudges her. Hey. Trouble.
She grunts awake and sits up, with an effort. Her left ass cheek is numb because she’s too fat to sleep on an air mattress without her hips actually resting on the industrial concrete floor. She’s gone stiff, too, just because she’s old. Still, she wrestles out from under the weird foil emergency blanket—which was surprisingly warm—that was in her go-bag, and struggles to her feet. Because. Trouble.
They’re on the third floor of the Center, where the workshops are located. Access to this level from the Center is locked during the evenings, but keyholders can get in using the freight elevator, which isn’t moving at the moment. All around Bronca are the sleeping forms of six people—several of the keyholders, draped over beanbags or curled up on couches. One woman is sleeping in the palm of her own sculpture, which is a giant chiseled-marble hand. Veneza is scrunched up on her side in a bright green plush chair, muttering in her sleep.
Moving quietly so as not to wake them, Bronca prowls through the level, angling around half-finished found-art constructions and shelves of unfired pottery. Nothing up here. Downstairs? she asks the city.
It answers her with sound, echoing faintly in her ears as if from far away: the slow, furtive scrape of something dry on concrete. A soft male giggle, followed by another voice’s whispered shush. Some kind of liquid glug, splattering on a hard surface. And a sound that any painter would know: the rattle of canvas against wood.
Bronca doesn’t even think before she hurries to the stairs. On the inside, the stairwell is bright with colorful murals that the various kids’ and teens’ classes have drawn all over the walls: dancing subways, racing street signs, cheerful pizza guys holding out a slice and a soda, smiling laundry ladies. Bronca immediately knows something’s wrong because the murals are damaged; somehow, someone’s gotten into the stairs and partially damaged the artwork in broad strokes. It’s as if they dragged an eraser over the spirals and swirls. Erased paint, leaving raw gray cinder blocks underneath. How…?
As she stands there, fists clenched, she becomes abruptly aware of a new sound. Sobbing. Babbling. From downstairs? She tilts her head, but can’t tell. She can just make out the words.
“I’m trying,” babbles the sobber. “Don’t you think I… that? Yes. Yes, I know that.” A woman’s voice, familiar although Bronca can’t place it. It’s one half of a conversation, distorted oddly, wavering in and out of audibility. Someone on the phone? But the voice echoes as if they’re shouting. “Stop it! Haven’t I…” Waver out. Waver in again. “… everything you asked of me? Aah!”
That’s a cry of pain. Bronca starts down the steps again, compelled by that voice. It’s not from downstairs. It’s all around her, and yet… not. Distant in a way that makes it sound like it’s not in the building. Not anywhere nearby.
“I know it I know it I know… made me for this, but am I not a good creation?” Gasp. Sob. Now the voice hitches. “I… I know. I see h-h-how hideous I am. But it isn’t my fault. The particles of this universe are perverse—” There’s a long pause this time. Bronca has almost reached the ground level when the voice chokes out, now thick with bitterness, “I am only what you made me.”
Then silence. Bronca pauses for a moment with her hand on the ground-floor door’s latch, listening, but there’s nothing more. She sets her jaw and turns the latch.