James Frey - The Buried Cities

“We are not like those people,” I assure her, but she only shrugs and resumes eating.

When we are done, Brecht goes outside again. This time it’s to smoke a cigarette. I find him sitting atop a tall rock, the flat surface of which is reached by a set of steps carved into the back. I climb up and join him. Above us, the cloudy afternoon sky has cleared, and the stars are visible against the cold blackness of space.

“One of the things I missed most while in Taganka was being able to see the night sky,” Brecht says. “The daytime sky is more or less always the same, except for clouds. And they are random. But the night sky, it changes in an orderly fashion as the stars move across it. When I was a boy, my grandfather taught me the names of the constellations. Often he would wake me in the middle of the night and take me out into the yard to look up at the sky, so that I would learn what it looked like at different hours and in different seasons. My mother always knew when he did it because the next day I would be late getting up for school.”

He takes a puff on his cigarette and blows the smoke out. “I hope to do the same with Bernard.” Then he turns his head to look at me. “And what do you hope for?”

I think about it. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “For now, finding the second set of plans.”

“Yes,” he says. “But what then?”

This is, of course, the question hanging over all of us. We have each come here for our own reasons, reasons that may ultimately be at odds with one another. Brecht, I think, is mostly driven by scientific curiosity, a wish to finish what was started when he and Evrard Sauer realized what they had found. Also, I think, he hopes that the weapon might be used to buy the safety of his daughter and grandson, if that becomes necessary. Ott, too, I think, believes that the weapon can be used as a bargaining chip. He hides this behind talk of using it to prevent another war, but I believe he would be just as happy to use it to start another one.

When I don’t answer Brecht’s question, he tries another tack. “The world is filled with legends about items with unbelievable power. Items that have been hidden to prevent greedy men from finding them and using them for their own ends. Always someone finds them, and always the outcome is ruin.”

“You think we should leave whatever is hidden here alone?”

“Everyone who goes in search of power believes that they will be the exception,” he says. “That they will be the one with the wisdom to use the power for the right purpose.” He stands up. “But what do I know? I am a scientist, not a philosopher.”

He leaves me alone on the rock, looking up at the stars. But I am not alone for long. A few minutes later, Boone joins me. He sits down beside me and takes my hand. Alone in the dark, we can do this without worry, and I lean against him.

“What were you and Brecht talking about?”

“Opening Pandora’s box,” I say. “Finding the lost Ark of the Covenant. Wearing the Ring of Gyges.”

Boone whistles. “That sounds like some conversation.”

“He asked me what we plan on doing with the weapon.”

“Ah,” Boone says. “And what did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” I say. “What would you have told him?”

“No fair,” he says. “You’re trying to get me to answer the question for you.”

He’s right. And I do want him to answer it. He doesn’t.

“Are we still Playing Endgame?” I ask.

“I’m still the Cahokian Player,” he replies.

“And I am still not Cahokian,” I remind him.

He pulls me closer. “One thing at a time,” he says. “Let’s see if this key of Brecht’s really is a key, and if the door is even a door. And what the hell is the Ring of Gyges, anyway?”

“It’s from Plato,” I tell him. “Don’t they teach you anything in your American schools?”

“Just readin’, ritin’, and ’rithmetic,” he says. “So, what does it do?”

“Makes the wearer invisible, so that he can do anything he likes without being caught. The story asks us whether or not people will behave morally if they don’t fear being caught or found out.”

“And what’s the answer?”

“Plato says it depends on the nature of the man.”

“The weapon could change everything,” Boone says after a moment. “For us. For the lines. For everyone.”

Before I can reply to this, Brecht appears behind us. Instinctively, we pull apart.

“You need to come down,” Brecht says. “There is a problem.”

“What’s happened?” I ask as Boone and I get to our feet.

“It’s Ott,” he says. “He’s disappeared. And so has the girl.”

When we get back inside, Yildiz runs up to us, speaking wildly in Turkish. She’s talking so fast that I can’t understand a word she’s saying, but Ari does.

“She says Kelebek went to get water. A few minutes later, she realized that Ott was gone as well.”

“Maybe he just went out to smoke,” I suggest. “Or walk around.”

“The key is gone too,” Brecht tells me. He holds up the box containing the weapon pieces. It was tucked into my pack, but someone has obviously removed it.

I look at Ari. We should never have left the box unattended. It was a stupid thing to do.

“We have to find him,” I say. I turn to Yildiz. “Do you know where the well is?”

She nods enthusiastically, and beckons with her hand. “Come,” she says.

The three of us follow the old woman as she leaves the room and goes outside. She hobbles quickly in the opposite direction of the stargazing rock, heading for the doorway of another fairy tower. Once inside, she begins to descend a set of stairs that spiral down into the earth. It’s dark, so Ari, Brecht, and I turn on our flashlights. The beams cross one another as we hurry behind Yildiz, casting looming shadows on the stone walls.