John Brunner - The Squares of the City

I told him, of course,, that I had no real idea whether or not it would serve the purpose and that it usually took me at least six tries to find a scheme that even approximately suited the realities; he brushed aside the perfectly true statement as praiseworthy modesty and took me to lunch in the Plaza del Norte.

I didn’t really like the smooth-spoken Englishman; he was too—too dustproof. But he certainly knew highway engineering. He had, so he told me, left Britain in despair because although that country’s roads were notoriously the worst of any major nation in the world, there was no coherent traffic policy. He had worked for a time in Commonwealth countries and had had a hand in the West African Coastway; then he had helped to design two freeways in the States and the Manhattan Southern Overflow, and after that, as in his view the British still didn’t have a proper traffic policy, he had given up all intention of returning home and come to Vados instead. When he talked about the Manhattan Southern Overflow, my opinion of him went up a notch—he had been supervisory engineer on Section K, which I had often traveled while I lived in New York.

We were having a minor technical dispute when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder, and I found Fats Brown’s ample bulk eclipsing the sun.

“‘Lo, Hakluyt,” he said in a cloud of cigar smoke. “Got news you might like to hear.”

He ignored Angers completely. Nettled, the Englishman addressed him.

“Hello, Brown! We don’t often see you here—have you actually secured a client who can pay his fee, for a change?”

“Your pal Andres Lucas is the one who worries about lining his pockets,” said Brown unconcernedly. “I’m the guy who worries about seeing justice done, remember? I’m easy to recognize, ‘cause I’m damn near unique in Vados. Like I was saying, Hakluyt,” he continued, while Angers scowled, “it looks like I’ve managed to fix Judge Romero, thanks to Mig’s pull with Diaz. Gonzales has ordered a new trial. So I came out here to celebrate. If you want to congratulate Mig, he’s over there lunchin’ with me. See you around, Hakluyt. So long.”

He lumbered back to his own table. Angers glared after him. “Interfering blighter!” he said under his breath. “No business of his, our legal system, but he never stops trying to knock holes in it. Hah!” He ground his cigarette into an ashtray and stood up.

“Coming back to the office now?”

“In a little while,” I said. “I have to pick up some books at the hotel. I’ll see you later.”

The books were a pretext; I was more interested to see how the lunchtime meeting in the Plaza del Sur was going. I’d missed the morning papers, and I wanted to know if the National Party had plucked up sufficient courage to put in another appearance yet.

But when I reached the plaza, there was no meeting going on at all. Instead, perhaps a hundred policemen were lounging under the trees, most of them smoking and throwing dice. A few of them were clustered around a chessboard on which two of their number were playing.

Puzzled, I entered the hotel. The commissionaire saluted me, and I wondered whether to ask him what had happened. Then I reflected that he probably wouldn’t know, just as he had “not known” on the day of my arrival, and changed my mind altogether as I caught sight of Maria Posador in the lounge, idly moving pieces on one of the chessboard-topped tables, an unlit Russian cigarette between her fingers. She looked worried. She greeted me with a faint smile as I came up, and gestured at the chair opposite her. “Would you care for that game of chess now, senor?” she invited. “I feel in need of a small distraction.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “I have to get back to the traffic department. But perhaps you can tell me—why no meeting in the square today?”

She shrugged. “There was considerable disturbance there yesterday. Diaz has decreed that there shall be no more meetings until the furore over Guerrero’s death has died down.”

“Is the trouble very bad?”

“It is something that may divide the city into warring camps,” she answered absently. She slid pieces into position with expert fingers as she spoke, leaving them set up as though to start a new game. “Thus!”

“I don’t think I’ve come to Vados at a very healthy time.” I tried to speak lightly; that was a failure. She raised her violet eyes to my face.

“Had it not been you, senor, it might have been anyone else. It was what the situation dictated, that is all. No, the death of Mario Guerrero is all part of a pattern—it is, you might say, one symptom of a disease that is poisoning our lives. There is a corruption, a fundamental rottenness—and each part of it renews the corruptness of the rest. You are doubtless aware that Senor Seixas in the treasury department has a strong interest in seeing new highways built, at whatever cost in money or human happiness, for it will be into his pocket that goes the—the financial oil that lubricates such deals in our country. Oh, this is widely known! Yet what happens when our good friend Felipe Mendoza tries to expose this bribery—he, a man whom success has not spoiled, who knows his duty to his fellow citizens? Seixas takes the telephone in his hand and speaks to his friend the judge, Senor Romero. And today he is armed with an injunction against Senor Mendoza, and in its shelter he can proceed with his shady negotiations, while the truth is hidden from the people. I become revolted, senor.” She grimaced.

“But enough, Senor Hakluyt, enough of that. Have you reflected on the things I showed to you the other day?” I chose my words carefully. “I have,” I said. “In fact, I spoke to Senora Cortes of the television service, and her husband, the professor, admitted at once without my asking that they use this technique. I don’t like it myself, but according to what Cortes says, they seem to have some justification, at any rate—”

She seemed to wilt like a flower in an oven. “Yes, Senor Hakluyt. I have no doubt there was also some justification at any rate for Belsen. Good day to you.”

And she lapsed into a silent reflection so complete that I do not think her eyes registered me as I passed through her field of vision on leaving.

All that weekend I felt as though I were walking down a tunnel on the verge of collapse. The threat of violence, which had bared its teeth for twenty-four hours after Guerrero died, still snarled across the city; one saw it in the way certain people walked circumspectly on the street, in the way others— who they were, of course, I didn’t know, but there were many of them—stayed out of sight. This was a conflict that engaged the Vadeanos from the cabinet minister to the factory worker. I thought of what Senora Posador had said about splitting the city into warring camps.

And yet… well, perhaps it was Vados’s firm hand on the controls. At least the threat of violence remained snarling rather than biting.

On Saturday Tiempo’s headlines concerned Dominguez’s victory over Romero—they claimed it as a victory, at least. Not quite overshadowed by this was a spirited defense of Felipe Mendoza, over the signature of his brother Cristoforo, editor of the paper. Though there was no direct mention of the fact, I presumed this was a reaction to the event Senora Posador had told me about—Seixas’s injunction against Mendoza. The article found space to praise Senora Posador as well, referred to Dominguez in the next breath, and topped off by calling Juan Tezol “loyal defender of the people’s freedom.” The whole tone of the article was sickly-patriotic and bombastic.

The more I sought to get ahead with my work, the more circumstances seemed to conspire to make speed impossible. And—what was worse—the more complex became the situation in which I was involuntarily caught up.