In the evening shadows of the favela’s canyons Philip feels he could be in any city, has to remind himself he’s in London’s East End. A construction drone scuttles in front him, and he resists the urge to kick it out of the way. They’re legal, now, here. Favelas once had a resonance, he thinks, but it’s fading, or has faded, and now instead of a symbol of accumulating history or how technology shapes cities they’re just another damn thing in the world.
Favelinos—East Enders?—neither term seems right—hurry by, and he’s uncomfortably aware that his coat cost more than most of them will make in a year. He overhears snatches of conversations in a language he doesn’t recognize, wonders what’s the source of the latest spate of refugees.
He’s come straight from Heathrow, wishes there’d been time to stop at his hotel. He’s aware of the gun in its holster over his ribs—permits are costly, but can be had—a pity the U.K. felt compelled to change its laws, a relief it caught up with reality.
The email had come to his personal address, the one he’s long since stopped giving out (he’s sometimes wondered if the accumulation of years and money means no more particularly close friends). Come meet me where we were when the last snow fell, it said. I’ve gone underground. Sender anonymized but it was signed I.S. In a separate message were a time and date, GPS coordinates, a short sequence of numbers and a snapshot of a red palm-print on a concrete wall.
Converging alleys, low doorways, strata of graffiti on every surface. Steep narrow stairways up and down—he’s read street level here is rising twenty feet a year. He checks his phone—this is the place. Pirated power lines sway and spark overhead; above them, lights, balustrades.
He starting to wonder if it’s all been a practical joke, then notices a red handprint, half-obscured by fresher graffiti, like a secret sign in a boy’s-own story.
Under the red hand is a door with a keypad lock. Sighing, he taps in the numbers from the email, half-hoping nothing will happen, but the door unlocks.
He takes out his halogen flashlight, steps through the doorway, finds stairs going down into darkness, balks. He’s sometimes in the news, and it’s a matter of public record that his company is doing well—has he joined the august ranks of those worth setting up? I’ll teach them to underestimate me, he thinks, by going down this dark staircase in a bad part of London by myself, having been lured here in suspicious circumstances. Back in the States his main bodyguard, actually at this point “chief of security” would be more accurate, a worrisome progression, had told him absolutely, positively not to come. He moves the gun from the underarm holster to an outer pocket, where he can keep it in his hand.
As he descends, the street sounds vanish. A landing, more tunnels branching away, and over each is a stenciled image—a pound sign, a cell phone streaming radiance, a stylized aerial drone and, there, another red hand. As he goes deeper will the symbols get older, until it’s hunters with spears, bison and mastodon, shamans with the heads of animals?
What he takes for a pile of rags moves. The gun is half out of his pocket. Smell of sour clothes, rotgut. Bloodshot eyes regard him from under a sort of mitre of filthy hats, then subside.
Stairs and more stairs. Red hands show him the way. It’s getting warmer. At one point he hears the Dopplered rumbling of a distant passing train.
The rubbish lining the tunnel, which he almost hadn’t noticed, has disappeared.
The halogen beam shows a doorway of carved stone framing a door of bright new steel. The stone looks ancient, water-stained and worn; it’s incised with inscriptions, illegible but probably in Latin. The walls are covered in hexagonal tile, off-white and mildew-stained—it looks like it’s from the twentieth century, perhaps of the era of the Blitz? He blinks in the light reflected from the door, whose newness reads as a warning. There must be a signal booster nearby, because he gets a text from a blocked number: Turn off the light and go through the door.
He sighs—he’s a father, or soon will be, and shouldn’t throw his life away stupidly, but, as instructed, he clicks off the light. He becomes aware of the smells of earth and moisture, of distant water trickling.
He turns the handle and the door swings open. “Hello?” he calls optimistically, stepping through with one hand outstretched, the other in his pocket holding the gun.
His hand finds a wall. He presses his back to it, and, suddenly enervated, slides down to the floor. Red shapes flare and fade on his retinas. If someone wanted to rob or kidnap him surely they could find a way to do it with less fuss. He hears motion, quiet footsteps, supposes he should get the gun out and try to take control, but he feels tired and anyway he knows it’s her.
“Philip,” she says, her voice more melodious than he remembers. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Anytime,” he says. “So. I love what you’ve done with the place.”
“I have to live down here. It minimizes my exposure.”
“To an inflated real-estate market? The aging effects of the sun?”
“You remember what Cromwell wanted? I got it. So I have to manage the little risks, the random violence and the structural failures and the bricks falling out of the sky.” Amazing that she’s right here, alive, that they’re speaking again. “Tiny risks become certain death if you give them enough time.”
“Eternal life—what a hassle.”
“It’s more like eternal youth. I won’t get sick, or old, but I’m not a vampire.” Says the woman who won’t age, living underground in the dark. “I can still get knocked on the head.”
“How about a condo in a fortified building? There are some good ones. I almost bought one in a building that has its own SWAT team.”
“The geology is good here,” she says, ignoring him. “Clay and gravel for miles. No earthquakes, and there are tunnels no one’s seen in centuries.
“Hold on a second,” she says. Rustling, and then a little penlight, shining in his eyes, blinding him. It clicks off, leaving a lingering impression of her shape there beside him.
“I just wanted to see you, before I go. Though I shouldn’t have. Even this much contact isn’t really secure, as Thales keeps reminding me.”
Who?
He says, “Go where?”
“Deeper.”
“To what possible end?”
“I need to maximize my lifespan. There are problems coming down the pike that make today’s world look like the Pax Romana. We’re trying to head them off but it’s going to take a while.”
“Damned decent of you. I suppose someone should. But why not delegate? Hire some bright young things. I’ll help you. You need a foundation, not a dungeon.”
“I can’t delegate this.”
“Okay, but you know what? Fuck it, and fuck the world. Come live with us. I’m serious. We have a spare room, it’s gorgeous, there’s a wall of windows overlooking the Bay. Ann-Elise might want her space but she can suck it. I’ll charge you a very reasonable rent. You can pitch in with the chores, remember grocery lists, what have you. Soon enough you’ll be like family. Have I mentioned our newly remodeled kitchen?”
“You shouldn’t talk about your fiancée like that.”
“Oh, well, she likes a little of that. Women, eh?”
Sound of cloth on cloth, and then she’s holding his hand.
“Don’t do this,” he says. “There must be another way. You can be the world’s genius loci without spending eternity in a tomb. I’m not Cromwell, not yet, but I’m ever less nouveau and more riche. I’ll build you a fortress if you want one.”
“Here, drink this,” she says, pressing something into his hand—it’s smooth, plastic, a water bottle, sloshing musically. “It’s easy to get dehydrated down here.” The water tastes like chemicals but he chugs it down, trying to think of the irrefutable argument that he’s sure must exist.
“Don’t go,” he says.
“It’s a hell of job,” she says, “and the hours are bad, but the health plan is incredible.”
He can’t think of anything to say.
“I have to go now,” she says, and pulls her hand from his. The air stirs around him, then stills. He sits there in the dark, motionless, until he’s quite sure she’s gone.
He puts his hand to where she was sitting, feels her residual warmth, decides to wait until it fades. If only I had your memory, he thinks. As the minutes pass his thoughts turn to the quotidian—his company, their house, Ann-Elise’s new OB/GYN—which shames and frustrates him, but can only be put off for so long, and then her heat is gone and he knows it’s time to go.