Procession of the Dead (19 page)

“No.”

“They’re incredibly detailed. Obsessively so. Lists of your clients, your friends and associates. A full itinerary of your time in the city, going back to when you were working for your uncle. Clubs you went to, women you’ve fucked, deals you were in on. Your favorite drinks and hobbies, notes on the way you walk and talk. Pictures of you, from pissing in urinals to making love to sleeping. Where you shop, what you buy, what you eat. Samples of your handwriting, with specialist assessments. They note the shaving foam you use, how often you wash, how often you change clothes. Details of your finances. The most complete files I’ve ever seen. But there’s one thing missing. One minor discrepancy.”

“Go on,” I told her grimly. “What’s the punch line?”

“There’s nothing about your past.” She got a stone to skim eight times. I counted each jump automatically. “Nothing about when you were born, where you grew up, who your parents were, where you went to school.”

“That’s not so odd,” I said. “Like I told you, my past isn’t important. My life before I came here doesn’t mean shit. I was just an ordinary hick.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” she snapped. “Everybody in those files has a past, from the cleaners up to Ford Tasso. You think The Cardinal wouldn’t have copies of your birth certificate, your school grades, letters from previous employers? You don’t take someone on without knowing
anything
about him. Where are your medical records, your Social Security number, your driver’s license, your passport details? There’s nothing. It’s like you never existed. Every name in that building has a past. Except yours.” She paused. “And mine.”

A filthy trawler passed. One of the crew was standing at the rail nearest us and waved. Ama waved back but I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm. I kept examining her, saying nothing, waiting for her to go on. She watched the boat sail out of sight around a bend in the river before proceeding.

“I was happy when I came to this city,” she said. “I was with my father, delighted to be reunited after so many years apart. I made new friends, played around with a few men, worked in the restaurant and took to it with ease. Life was simple and enjoyable. I felt I was where I belonged. Thought I was going to live happily ever after, like in the fairy tales, take over the restaurant when Cafran passed on, have kids, raise a family of my own.

“Then, one day, my friends were discussing their youth, schools, teachers and boys. I usually kept quiet in those kinds of conversations, always feeling awkward. One of the girls tried to draw me into the debate. She asked what my hometown was like, my family, my friends. I brushed her inquiries away as I normally did, with a few halfhearted mutters, but she persisted. The others saw my reluctance and joined in, thinking I had something deep and mysterious in my past.

“I scoured my memories for some small tidbit to toss them. I didn’t ask much of myself. All I wanted was a simple anecdote they could laugh at, my first kiss or a spat I’d had with my mother. Something like that.

“I couldn’t think of anything.” She turned and I saw she was forcing back tears. “There was nothing. No images of my mother, home or friends. I knew the story of how Cafran and his wife had split, how she’d whisked me away and reared me, but it was a tale I’d heard rather than experienced. I couldn’t remember growing up. Everything before coming here was a blank.

“I went to Cafran. I thought he’d be able to jog my memory with reminiscences of his own.” She shook her head. “He knew nothing either. He spun me the same old story but couldn’t embellish it. He didn’t know where I’d lived, when I’d been born, or which relatives I’d lived with after my mother’s death.

“I thought he was lying—maybe there was something terrible in my past, like I’d killed somebody and could never be told. Something crazy like that. But the more I pushed and the more he had to defend himself, the more confused he became, and I saw he really didn’t know anything about my years abroad.

“After that I went looking through city files. I figured there had to be something somewhere. I bounced between libraries, newspapers and bureaucratic departments. Not an iota. No Ama Situwa or Ama Reed. Cafran was there, and his wife, Elizabeth Trevor.
Trevor
, not Situwa. I found copies of their divorce papers but no mention of a child. I tried tracing Elizabeth Trevor’s life after she left the city but I got nowhere.

“Do you realize how unsettling it is to find out you don’t exist? That as far as official records are concerned, you’re a nonentity?” Her lips twisted into a snarled smile. “Actually, I think you might. And if you don’t yet, you soon will.”

As I listened, I tested my own memories, forcing my mind down the cavern it normally shied away from. I started with the day I’d arrived here and worked back. Only there was no place to work back to. Like she’d said, there simply wasn’t anything there.

“I hired a detective to search further,” she continued, “but he couldn’t do any more than I’d already done. He said either the records had been tampered with or else I was an illegal, adopted orphan. He’d come across it before—a couple who could neither have children naturally, nor adopt, sometimes bought a child on the black market. That would explain why I didn’t exist in the files.”

“Sounds reasonable,” I agreed.

“Very. It made perfect sense, and might even be the truth, except it still doesn’t explain the gaps in my memory.”

“Maybe you come from a forgetful family.” I smiled but she didn’t smile back. “Sorry. Go on. What did you do next?”

Next she went to her doctor, who couldn’t find anything amiss. At her insistence he’d recommended a specialist who dealt with amnesiacs, but that led nowhere either. Several pricey sessions later, no further informed than she’d been at the beginning, Ama decided to let the matter drop. After all, she had a life in the present to get on with. If the past clicked into place one day, great. If it didn’t, she’d just have to live with that.

“And then I met The Cardinal.” Her words caught in her throat. She knelt to skim a few more pebbles. I moved up behind her and ran my fingers through her hair. Cupped her face in my hands, bent and kissed her.

“Go on,” I said softly. “You’ve taken it this far. Don’t stop now.”

“He dropped by the restaurant one evening,” she said. “His visits are rare. This was his first since I’d come to the city. He was courteous and charming, the exact opposite of what I thought he’d be. I found myself drawn to him. He flirted a little with me. I began to think he’d look great with a woman like me by his side. I was starting to pick colors for our wedding. You know the way foolish dreams go.

“Then, as he was leaving, he pulled me aside. My heart skipped. I thought he was going to invite me around to his place for a private drink. But he only said one thing to me. ‘How’s life with your…
father
? ’ In exactly that tone, with the pause and stress on the
father
. He grinned as he said it. I knew immediately that Cafran and the city officials might know nothing about my past, but The Cardinal did.

“So I went after him.”

She’d gone to Party Central to look it over. She wasn’t sure what she planned to do or what she was hoping to find. She just knew she had to do
something
, take control of the situation and not sit at home feeling sorry for herself. The front of Party Central was a dead end. Nobody could get near the place without attracting attention. So she went around to the back. Found a large fence, regularly patrolled but not as carefully guarded as the front. The Troops back here were spread thinly. And although the fence was electrified, there was a small gate toward the end of the building which wasn’t, which the Troops used to get in and out.

She waited until things were quiet, crept up and tried the lock. It was firm, but she discovered a gap between the top of the gate and the fence, one she could just about squeeze through if she sucked in tight. She didn’t go in that first night, but came back a few times to observe the Troops. When she’d determined their routines, she walked up to the gate one dark night, brazen as anything, and slipped in.

The area between the fence and the building was used for parking and it was easy to pass undetected. She came to the rear wall of Party Central and walked along, examining the fortifications for weak spots. She found none. Though she searched for hours and checked every possible point of access, there was no way in. On her way out, as dawn approached, she was discovered. She was squeezing through the gap at the top of the gate when a voice from the darkness called to her. “Miss Situwa. We have been observing you.”

Her stomach turned to slush. She wanted to run but she couldn’t move. A figure appeared out of the darkness and a hand was extended toward her. Not having any other option, she took hold and slipped back into the compound.

The man was dressed in the uniform of the Troops, but was smiling pleasantly and his gun remained hidden. “Would you follow me, please, Miss Situwa?” he asked, and led her back to the building, to a spot near the middle, where he stopped and stepped back. He pointed upward. Ama saw another person above them, opening a window. The Troop—if that’s what he was—said, “This window will be left open every night from now on. Use it as you wish. We are no friends of The Cardinal but we have his trust. We cannot protect you if you are caught, but we have taken steps which should make evasion easier. Come and go as you please. Good night, Miss Situwa.”

And he’d returned to his business. When she looked up again, the window had been closed and no one was visible. Dazed and feeling sick, she went home.

“Have you seen him since?” I asked.

“No.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Not really. All I noticed was the uniform. Every Troop looks the same in one of those.”

“What about the one above?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Ama said. “I didn’t get a close look. But…” She frowned. “It might have been the glare of the sun on the glass, but it looked to me like he was blind.” She laughed shortly. “Crazy, huh?”

I didn’t think it was crazy at all. I considered telling her about the other blank-eyed men I’d seen, but decided against it. I wanted to think about this a bit more before I shared my thoughts with her.

Ama continued with her story. She hadn’t taken the stranger at his word, but had come back and studied the site over the next few nights, trying to spot what she was sure must be a trap. Eventually, left with no other option, she scaled the wall—a simple rope with a hook on the end did the trick—and was in.

She’d expected sirens to blare, lights to blaze, Troops to crash down and haul her off. It didn’t happen. Five minutes passed. Ten. Nobody came, no alarms sounded, there was no sign that she had been detected. Eventually she plucked up the nerve to try the stairs. She went slowly, sure she’d spring a trap every time she took a step. But one flight passed without incident. Another. And soon she was past the fifteenth floor, with all the secret files of Party Central at her disposal.

The upper floors of the building were deserted. The occasional secretary would wander through to take out a file or put one back. And Troops patrolled the floors several times a night on their regular rounds. But they always used the elevators and, if you were careful, you could hear them coming and hide before they were close enough to pose any danger. There was ample hiding space. The files were arranged in huge stacks of paper, towers reaching up to the ceiling in some places. All she had to do was squeeze between two of the piles to become invisible.

She spent hours every night rummaging through the monstrous towers. They seemed to be arranged in no apparent order. Ancient newspapers were bunched together with birth certificates, census copies, industrial figures going back to the 1700s, gang lists, property records and more. She took photos of anything that looked important, figuring it would be useful to have proof of The Cardinal’s secret dealings. If he ever discovered her and tried to take action, she could blackmail him, trade the photos for her life.

Although she’d unearthed enough after a week to send the king of the city down or make a fortune by selling him out, she hadn’t found anything pertaining to her own situation. She found plenty about Cafran and his restaurant, but not a word about his daughter or an orphan he might have bought.

Finally, among a pile of yellowing magazines, she found a file with her name on it.

“It was just a few scraps of paper,” she told me, “bound by a cheap cardboard folder. The name was handwritten in capitals on the cover—a
yuamarca
. Inside was a list of names. I almost passed over it without looking. The only reason I didn’t was the strange header. Iopened it and skimmed through. There was nothing apart from the names. Leonora Shankar came first. Mine was one of the last. A hundred or so in all, each neatly typed. The first couple of sheets were old, brown, crinkled around the edges.

“Most names were crossed out, a neat line through the middle. Only nine were untouched. I didn’t recognize any of the lined names, so I looked up a few—there was nothing on any of them. No files, no records, no mention anywhere. I think they’re people who’ve been killed.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

“The first time I looked, Adrian Arne was one of the unlined names. When I checked last night—after you mentioned him—it was crossed out.”

“Was Y Tse Lapotaire on the list?” I asked.

“I don’t recognize that one,” she said.

“Inti Maimi?”

“Oh sure. His name crops up twice—early on, crossed out, and on a later, second sheet. That one’s untouched.”

“Not anymore, I bet.” I looked down into the murky water of the river. I could see an old shopping cart in the mud at the bottom, tiny fish swimming in and out between the bars. I wondered if Adrian and Y Tse were down there somewhere. “What about the unlined names?” I asked. “You checked them?” She nodded. “Any connection?”

“None that I could find. Except, like us, they’ve got short histories and don’t seem to have a past. Plenty of information about their recent lives but nothing about their childhoods or families. The older ones—like Shankar and some guy called Paucar Wami—have long histories, going back decades, but not a word on where they came from or how they—”