31 Hours (2 page)

Jonas turned on the water so he could rinse the razor as he went. The tub’s enamel was chipped, and a streak of rust reached out from the drain like an orange cobweb. In another time and another part of Manhattan, he used to put dirty dishes in his apartment’s bathtub if he knew his mother was dropping by. He would pile them up and close the shower curtain. Later he would have to move the dishes back to the kitchen and, eventually, wash them. So if you thought about it, it was
really more work in the end, but still he enjoyed it, fooling his mom. Or so he thought until the day she called to say she’d be stopping by that afternoon and added, a lilt in her voice, “and I’ll be wanting to take a bath.”

He put the blade to his calf and let the sharp metal graze the surface, felling coarse hair as it went, leaving behind naked flesh. Despite his intense concentration, he noticed the subway passing nearby, causing the bathroom wall to vibrate. It was the J, or maybe the M. He wasn’t that familiar with the City Hall district. Jonas had grown up on the Upper West Side and had attended an artsy high school in Midtown and then NYU. He felt surprisingly like a foreigner over here, where the bridges stretched longingly toward Brooklyn and he could buy a pack of disposable razors in a store called Confucius Pharmacy. “Say it again?” he’d asked when Masoud had told him that the studio apartment where he would stay was right off the Avenue of the Finest. A street praising the diligence of New York City cops. He’d never heard of it. He felt sure Masoud was joking. And although the street did exist, it
was
a joke of sorts. A creepy, haunting joke the media might pick up on, afterward. But they’d be busy with other distractions, so maybe they wouldn’t, and that didn’t matter because by then it would have taken on all the intimacy of a private joke for the benefit of Masoud.

And Jonas felt fine with that. He did.

After a few swipes, he angled the razor under the running water and shaved more and then more, dulling two razors before the right calf felt smooth to his touch, a girl’s leg. Next he spread shaving cream on his shin, where the bone strained against the skin. This part, he knew, was a bit trickier; this was where women often nicked themselves. He knew this because Vic had told him. About a month ago, he’d asked her what
was the worst thing about shaving and she’d laughed one of her short, husky laughs that made him ache with longing and said, “You ask the damnedest questions, Jonas.”

“But just tell me,” he insisted. “Like, the first time you ever shaved. What was the worst part?” He was already thinking about today.

So she’d told him. She’d sprawled on her couch, flung a leg on his lap. “My shinbone,” she’d said; “this part here,” and she’d taken his fingers and placed them at her ankle and then drawn them slowly up her dancer’s leg, over that bone so intimate with her cool, smooth flesh, and then beyond her knee, directly toward her heart, and she’d stopped midthigh, her smile wicked, her tone challenging, and teased: “Is your curiosity satisfied, boy?”

God, he would miss her. If missing is possible, afterward. What he felt was so intense, even more intense than with Deirdre. He thought now of changing his mind, running away somewhere to hide until he could figure out how to tell them it was off. That would be the way of a coward, though. That would be throwing everything out: the training, the commitment. He’d already made
baty al-ridwan
, a pledge not to waver. Besides, though Vic had heightened his joy, she’d also increased his suffering. She’d stopped calling, and it wasn’t a surprise. He was a loner; he’d always been a loner; that was the way life had gone for him. He’d known from the start that someone as solid and wonderful as Vic would eventually weary of his intensity and mood swings and move on, forgetting him.

This way, he would never be forgotten.

The bathroom suddenly felt airless. What would Masoud advise? Don’t think of her would be his counsel. “This kind of personal attachment is not indicated for us,” Jonas imagined him saying. Remember the lessons that must be taught, the sins that must be atoned for. Seek
refuge from hypocrisy, and from the love of this world. Remember your good fortune in having been chosen. That was always his mantra, one Jonas did still believe. He knew what had to be reversed, and why and how. He recognized a will and wisdom greater than his own. The personal wasn’t paramount. He was acting out of an obligation larger than himself.

Jonas thought of a line from the Qur’an.
O Prophet! Strive hard against the Unbelievers and the Hypocrites, and be firm against them, their abode is Hell—an evil refuge indeed.
Sura 9:73. He chanted the line a few times, then added a little extra shaving gel to his leg and, holding his breath, carefully began to draw the razor up against the delicate shinbone. After the first sweep, he exhaled. So far, so good. No blood. No blood yet. No blood and—he tested with a pointed finger—slick as a whale. Why had he thought of a whale? He didn’t know, except that he remembered being told that story countless times in childhood, about Jonas in the belly of the whale. Besides, a whale was strong and vigorous, and that was what he wanted to be: slick, and strong, and headed for purity.

NEW YORK: 4:13 A.M.
MECCA: 12:13 P.M.

“Hey, Hirt. Wake up, Sonny, c’mon.” The cop rapped his nightstick on the base of the subway seat, and Sonny Hirt, slouched on his right side with the graffiti-etched window for a pillow, squinted open one reluctant brown eye.

“Officer,” he said in a phlegmy voice, then cleared his throat. “How you be?”

“You know the drill, Hirt. No vagrants sleeping on the subway. Move it.”

“Vagrant? What you mean, officer?” Sonny Hirt allowed for an indignant tone as he sat up, stifling a yawn. “And I ain’t sleeping. Wouldn’t be safe, sleep here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s right. I just takin’ a little commercial break before game time.”

“Sure.”

“Or a chat at the water cooler, you could be calling it. Man who works on Sundays be entitled to a little breather. By the way,” Sonny rubbed one stubbly cheek, “can you spare any?” Even half-conscious, he slipped into his shtick so easily; he was a master, a preacher with purpose, if he did say so himself. “If you ain’t got it, I understand, ’cause I ain’t got it. But if you have a dime, a quarter, a piece of fruit—”

“C’mon, c’mon. On your feet,” the cop interrupted.

Sonny sat up and groaned, though he wasn’t unhappy to be cut short. He wasn’t quite ready to start spinning yet, anyway. He pulled his fingers through his mustache and beard. “Bones gettin’ too old for this job,” he said. “Gonna have to retire soon, move myself to Puerto Rico. Then you gonna be missing me.”

“Hmmm,” said the cop, though he smiled a little. Sonny didn’t know him well enough to remember his name, but all the cops knew Sonny Hirt; lots of the regular commuters did, too. He’d been panhandling on these subway lines for nearly a decade now. Some of the teenagers who got on at Jay Street or Canal he remembered from when they were tots. These days they rode without their mommas, and they called him Mr. Hirt, and they laughed, but it wasn’t mean laughter. How could anyone take offense at Sonny, who shuffled up and down the subway cars, politely doing his job, delivering his familiar spiel? The riders sure didn’t mind, and the cops cut him slack, mostly speaking, if they caught him taking a little nap during downtime.

Every now and then, some newcomer in blue with a shiny nose and water sitting back of the ears would come down on him a bit. Shoo him away. Tell him he couldn’t, wasn’t allowed, a public nuisance. Even threaten to ticket him, usually in a loud, attention-getting voice. And what trouble was Sonny causing, after all? He was doing a job. A public service, if you thought of it, because it allowed folks to feel a little better about themselves as they headed toward whatever sins awaited them. Used to be, when the cops toyed with him, heat would shoot through Sonny’s body from head to heels, like the Long Island expressway running right through him, and he’d have to work to keep his hands still and the fire clean from his eyes. Their smug looks, the conviction that
they were better than ol’ Sonny—when after all, real criminals were right aboveground slitting throats and selling drugs to kids. Besides, this was
his
place, the subway;
they
were the visitors.

But less and less was bothering Sonny as the years went on.

“Knew me a little Puerto Rican girl once,” he told the cop now. “Mmm-mmm. She were quiet, but she could move.” He rubbed his scalp underneath his yellow ski cap. “Them days,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” the cop said.

“Should’a stayed with that girl, but you know how it is. Tough for a man like me to be giving up the freelance and be committing to a steady life, that’s what she always said, and I guess she were right some.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Coraly. Sweet Coraly.” He shook his head, feeling a pit in his stomach that came either from remembering Coraly or from hunger. “Sounds like I made her up, but she were real, all right,” he said, tugging the ski cap down to cover more of his ears.

“Here’s real for you,” the cop said. “Don’t let me catch you sleeping on the subway again. Not any day, but especially not today. Not today, Hirt. Ain’t no halfway house for the homeless, and we’re on alert, so follow the rules.”

“Tell me, officer,” Sonny said, “you ever have your own Coraly? The one so good it hurts to remember? Who might’a changed everything if you’da realized in time?” The cop didn’t speak, but his expression changed from a man sucking a lemon slice to one with honey on his tongue. “Maybe that’s something we all had,” Sonny said as the train pulled into the Broadway-Lafayette station. “We all just human, after all.”

As he headed out of the car, the cop held the subway door and turned
back to Sonny, his voice slightly gentler. “Hope you were listening. Don’t get your ass in trouble, not today.” Then he stepped off, one hand slapping his holster, the thumb of the other stuck into his belt.

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” a computerized woman’s voice intoned.

As the doors slid shut, Sonny breathed in the contained subway air. Now that the cop mentioned it, Sonny could see that the place felt off balance, unusually tense. What most folks didn’t know about Sonny was that he had this certain awareness. Sometimes when a man or lady handed Sonny a quarter or two, just as their hands grazed his, the world seemed to grow hushed and then some vision appeared in place of their faces or an odd scent would command the atmosphere. It meant something gone, or about to be.

Every time it happened, Sonny would shudder and shake his head—he didn’t want to know more. He’d have to move on, quick, without his usual “God bless.” Otherwise the image would stop him in his tracks. Trying to voice a warning would be useless, might even get him arrested. But the feeling came on so strong sometimes that he couldn’t work the rest of that day. He’d go to a coffee shop where they knew him and nurse a cuppa, wrapping his fingers around the thick white mug until they stopped shaking.

Yes, his chosen profession had its bad days, even given its relative freedom. One of the worst parts, besides the premonitions, was running up against so many folks busy putting out dissatisfaction, or anger, or fear—all fueled by some surplus or absence of longing. Sonny had developed a theory about longing. In moderate doses, it was healthy, like a bit of salt sprinkled on a good meal. But too little meant a person had given up on life, while too much turned a body mad and desperate. If the passengers Sonny passed on any given day were filled with what he
thought of as a longing imbalance, an anxious buzz began ringing in his ears. Sometimes he developed food-poisoning symptoms, turned dizzy and sick to his stomach. He wished he weren’t so sensitive, but there it sat.

Other drawbacks were more mundane. Train delays, for instance. Some were scheduled, such as track work. Others fell in his way unplanned, like four or five weeks ago, when somebody dropped with a heart attack on the subway train ahead of them, bringing them to a halt for a good half-hour. And there stood Sonny, trapped in a single car, tick-tock-tick-tock, leaning against a closed door, watching the newspaper-reader sigh and refold his pages, the mother rummage in her bag for something to keep the toddler quiet, the tiny Oriental woman close her eyes and lapse into delicate snoring. All the while, Sonny not collecting a dime.

Taken as a whole, though, it wasn’t bad work, with changing scenery and new folks along with the familiar faces. Those who spent most of their time aboveground didn’t realize how two-dimensional their world was. Besides, he didn’t have to serve people, and he didn’t have to answer to a boss. He hadn’t managed too well at any job with either of those requirements.

Sonny glanced out the subway window at the graffiti rushing past: illegible names, indecipherable drawings, puffy superhero writing. Warnings, all, from another world. It was still too early to clock in—practically no customers yet. He could make use of the premature wakeup call to go to his sister’s and take a shower, try to wash off his apprehensions along with the street dirt. It had been a week since his last shower, and staying clean was important in this job. A challenge, for sure, living and sleeping in rat territory, but if you started to smell bad, you got fewer handouts—or your salary dropped, as Sonny preferred
to think of it. He’d seen it time and again, those poor suckers who allowed themselves to become rank on the way to becoming stupid. People shed liberal guilt, lost sympathy, turned away in disgust.

He liked his sister’s place, a third-floor walk-up in the Bowery, on a little side street that was so far resisting the neighborhood’s fix-up mood. Her husband, Leo, said they could afford better now and wanted to move, but Ruby was stuck on the area, and Sonny agreed. The Bowery was the city at its best—excepting, of course, for the subway. High-rise condos were on the way, no denying, but so far the fancy shops hadn’t crowded everything out. Poor people weren’t an extinct species yet. Still room for the occasional flophouse, under thirty bucks for a night, and where else on the island could you find that? ’Round the corner from Ruby’s, the Bowery Mission folks served up inspirational hymns and three meals a day, just like they had since the 1800s. Squeezed between a tattoo parlor and a restaurant-supply store sat Steve’s, a slop joint offering a cuppa for just a buck. If Sonny came in when the pot was near empty, they gave him the dregs for free, sometimes even throwing in a fresh roll. The people who spent four dollars for their coffee and needed choices of flavors and asked for soy milk instead of cream—those folks were farther uptown. In the Bowery, an outsider still felt at home. A bum could find a bed. And a passerby could still inhale the sweet scent of weed, come most nights.
Bhang
, an old Rasta had taught Sonny to call it, and though Sonny didn’t smoke himself, he did enjoy catching a whiff as he passed. The scent of freedom.