John Brunner - The Squares of the City

“No, to accept such a plan would be tacitly to acknowledge these people’s inferiority, and he refuses always to face that. He’s of the same stock, and to him it’s like denying his own family, if you follow me. I don’t doubt that he feels inferior himself, compared to Vados, for instance. Vados is a well-educated, widely traveled man with a cultured background, whereas Diaz is an earthy man, a real son of the soil. With him it’s practically an article of religious faith that his people are as good as we are—I mean, the foreign-born citizens and the native-born members of the higher cultural strata. Let’s face it, Hakluyt: you know as well as I do that there’s a great gulf fixed, as the saying goes. I agree completely that what these people most need is educating up to modern standards —but to a man like Diaz, admitting the need for education of this kind is equivalent to admitting inferiority.”

“I don’t agree. I’ve never met Diaz—I’ve only seen him once, at Vados’s garden party—but I can’t believe that a man who’s got as far ahead from lowly beginnings as he has can’t recognize a hard fact when it’s presented to him.”

Angers sighed. “Very well—go ahead. I’ll make sure he doesn’t actually dismiss it out of hand, but more I can’t promise.”

“I’ll let you have the memo this afternoon. While it’s fermenting, I’m going to take a day off. I’m going to go and take a look at these traffic nightmares you told me about in the rest of the country. This bloody town has about driven me insane, with its hypermodern facade and its seething primitive instincts. I want to go somewhere dirty for a change.”

“You’ll find things very different outside Vados,” said Angers neutrally. “I’ll tell the police you’re going, so no one will worry. When do you expect to get back?”

“Tomorrow some time. Depends how bored I am.”

“Enjoy yourself.” The thin smile came and went. “They say a change is as good as a rest, you know.”

Since my arrival, I hadn’t been farther than to the outskirts of Vados. Now I took the coast road and went to take a look at what I’d been missing.

Puerto Joaquin: a bustling sprawl of a town, at the mouth of the Rio Rojo, with vast modern dock facilities only a few years old because of the great fire that had destroyed part of the city. And nonetheless, after the clean graciousness of Vados, seeming to belong to the dead past.

Cuatrovientos: the former capital, the city of riches, the oil town. With the lower labor costs obtaining here and the highly favorable level of taxation, it was a better proposition to work fields down here rather than open up known but so far untapped North American resources.

And Astoria Negra: farther south than Puerto Joaquin, also on the coast. That was as far as the likeness went. Astoria Negra was farther south, not so favorably located, lacked the facilities to handle such large vessels and had no pipeline from the oilfields. Its life was dominated by the harbor; the harbor was dominated by coastal trading, mostly in guano, and by fishing. There was a small naval station.

For me, it was like taking three steps out of modern times into the nineteenth century to come to Astoria Negra. It was almost impossible to accept how bad things were here. The average standard of living might have compared with that in the shantytowns around Vados; it was the kind of town where you scratch a house and find a slum. Not all of it was like that, of course—there were fine recent apartment blocks and a few magnificent old houses in time-blessed gardens— but most of it was like an Italian neo-realist film made soon after World War II: crumbling walls, irregular streets, puddles of water splashing underfoot.

The echoes of the conflict in the capital had hardly spread this far. It seemed that the main highway ran directly from Vados to the outer world, and its line was never touched by the local citizens. I talked with people—an old Indian, a young man with a chip on his shoulder, a peasant who carved traditional wooden figurines for the occasional tourists who came by sea and stopped over to exclaim at the quaintness of Astoria Negra before going on—in most cases thankfully—to the air-conditioning of Vados. Everyone I spoke to had just two subjects of conversation: lack of money and the local chess championships currently in progress. The woodcarver was a chess fanatic; he had in his store a dozen sets he had carved himself, all different, yet all strangely alike, the pieces having the squat, blocky appearance of Aztec idols.

No one seemed to be concerned about the future of the city, yet if there was a place crying out for some of those four million dolaros, this was it. The wrangling in Vados, to those people, was something that concerned the government, an amorphous body of ill-defined individuals who usually did the wrong thing and couldn’t be got at to put matters right again—hence had been given up as of no concern to the man in the street of Astoria Negra.

Wherever I looked, I found new ways of spending money. I had hardly to give a glance along a street before my mind was crowded with plans for redevelopment and improvement. Suppose Vados had rebuilt this town instead of founding his new one—what then? Would it have repaid the effort? Of course not. This town was past help; ideally, it should now be left to die a natural death, stripped to its harbor facilities and to a widely spread out, clean new city a quarter the size extending much farther inland.

Only that would cost around a hundred million dolaros before you began to worry about demolition costs, and it would have to wait till next century, or the century after.

I went back to the woodcarver’s store and bought one of his chess sets.

I drove back to Vados in the evening, after about twenty-eight hours’ absence. And in that time things had been happening.

Of course, the city hadn’t been truly quiet for weeks, but it had at least displayed the sullen tranquillity of a dormant volcano; it did no more than burst a bubble of searing hot gas on the surface of its lava pool occasionally. Now, though…

There were police beacons on the highway two miles out of the city; at the third of them the traffic was cut to single line and armed police officers stood guard. Each car in turn was halted, and some were turned back.

When it came to my turn, I demanded to know what was going on. The officer inspecting my papers didn’t answer directly; he merely said in a neutral tone, “It might be dangerous for you to go about the city unescorted, Senor Hakluyt. You must go directly to your hotel and telephone to police headquarters that you have arrived safely. We will send to search for you if you are not there within”—he glanced at his watch—”a half hour.”

“What’s the reason for all this?” I pressed again. “When the senor enters the city, he will see for himself,” was the reply. He stepped back and waved me on. I did see.

No word of rioting had reached Astoria Negra as far as I knew, and the outside news services might well have been censored also. But rioting there must have been. I passed one of Arrio’s department stores which had had a home-made bomb thrown through a display window—firemen were still damping down the wreckage, and there was a strong smell of stale kerosene. There were several burnt-out cars along the streets; one street was closed because a monorail car had been sabotaged and had fallen to the ground there. The whole city now was ominously quiet.

The armed police on every street corner had now been reinforced by the National Guard. Militiamen looking uncomfortable but determined in ill-fitting fatigues, with carbines slung on their shoulders, were patrolling sidewalks, and I was stopped a couple more times to show my papers before I reached the Hotel del Principe and safety.