Catie Disabato - The Ghost Network

“How do you pay for it?”

“Every inhabitant contributed their wealth when they arrived. We have several incredibly wealthy inhabitants — you might’ve heard of a family called the Pullmans? I have become close with Liz Pullman. They still receive income through various covert means, as do I.”

“Why do you use the train? It seems unnecessarily complicated. And why the special map that you changed at the last minute to lead Berliner to the train? All of this drama? Some kind of fucking war with the New Society?” I asked.

“The train is a thing to find, and you have to really commit, really care about figuring out what the New Situationists were up to, in order to find it. Finding the train helps people get ready to fully commit to New Babylon.

“ ‘Why the train?’ Of course the train! The point of New Babylon is to live in your fantasies. The train is a huge magnificent toy. The reason the New Situationists failed was because they decided to do the bombing — not because one of them got caught. Their passion for the group soured because they forgot that they were supposed to be playful and fun. New Babylon is an ever-changing city built on the idea that playfulness is just as important as efficiency. Becoming a pop star was the best fun I could’ve had, before New Babylon. The point is to live your fantasy!”

Without thinking about it, I reached across the table and grabbed her hand.

“Will you stand up so I can hug you?” she asked.

I stood up and we hugged. I think I shook a little bit, in her arms.

“Can fun be fun if people are getting hurt?” I whispered into her hair. “Even emotionally hurt? Especially emotionally hurt?”

“Most people are ready to suffer, as long as it’s for the right reasons.”

What is my role in the narrative supposed to be? I wondered this as our hug ended and the train began to break for Plaques Tournantes Deux . I remembered something an old boyfriend had said, during a seven-hour stretch of time when we were trapped at an airport waiting for our delayed plane to take off. “You don’t need the same things as everyone else,” he said. “You can have fun anywhere.” We still talked every month even though we’d broken up years ago, because neither of us liked the idea that we would never hear each other’s voice again.

I said, “What does having fun even mean?”

Molly responded, “How can I answer that for you? You have to figure it out for yourself. You can find your own path or you can try following other people’s maps. Repeating someone’s actions, taking their choices as your own can be a creative act. Or, if you want, you can deviate.”

The train slowed under my feet and I held Molly’s shoulder to stabilize myself as we rocked to a stop.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“We’ve looped around a few times so we could talk, but now we’ve pulled into the second stop. Do you want to get off?”

“Can we loop around a bit more, I have a few more questions, some important ones.”

Molly signed heavily, over-emphasizing her distress. “I’m afraid this is it. You can get off, or travel with us to the third station and get off there.”

“But if I do that, that basically means, I’m committing to going to New Babylon.”

“Yes.”

“So if I don’t want to go to New Babylon, I have to get off now?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not fair. I need to know who the New Situationists are, and, like, what Cait’s job is in New Babylon. And where it is, for fuck’s sake.”

“Off,” Molly said. “Or on?”

I couldn’t stay.

I grabbed my voice recorder and Molly hustled me out of the train car.

“Please,” I said, from the platform of Plaques Tournantes Deux . “Please tell me where it is.”

“What does it matter if you’re not going?” Molly said. This was the last thing she said to me, the door of the train closed and she was gone again. I’ve listened to the recording dozens of times and I think I can hear disappointment in her voice. I think she was angry at me for staying behind.

I walked up the wide and well-lit staircase, which terminated in a heavy door set into a brick wall. I pulled open the door and felt a gust of warm air; leaning against the wall opposite the door was Nix, smoking and waiting for me.

“Did she tell you where it is?” Nix said.

“No,” I said. “She refused.”

“Fuck, I thought maybe she would. I guess that was stupid.”

“So, you don’t know?”

“Nick doesn’t know yet and no one would tell me, not even Cait,” Nix said. “I don’t even know why I’m here, I mean like, she’s never coming back even if I find her.”

“Did she leave without telling you?” I asked.

Nix laughed. “No, I’m the fucking idiot that helped her fake her own death so she could run away and never see me again.”

Nix noticed I was holding a voice recorder.

“Could you please turn that fucking thing off?” She asked. “I’m so sick of everyone taping everything I say.”

I obliged.

Plaques Tournantes Deux is under a neighborhood called Edgewater in a northern part of the city proper, close to the lake (as you can probably tell by the name). The door to the train station is in the alley behind an Ethiopian restaurant on North Broadway. Once I let it close, it nearly disappeared into the wall. I could only see the lines of the door because I knew they were there. There was no knob, and as far as I can tell, no way into Plaques Tournantes Deux besides the train from one of the other stations.

After I turned off my iPhone voice recorder, Nix and I walked to a Red Line stop (Granville) and rode to North Ave & Clybourn/Halsted. We walked to a bar Berliner likes called The Violet Hour. The bar is like a bunker, no windows and dimly lit, but with beautiful baroque decorations and booths isolated from one another by huge chairs with tall backs. Berliner met us and bought us all old-fashioneds. He and Nix explained that the work they’ve been doing is to try to find the location of New Babylon. Nix doesn’t know what she’ll do when she finds it, she doesn’t want to live in the city, but she can’t leave it behind. Kraus wants to know, too, so Berliner is looking.

About a month after old-fashioneds, while I was working through this book, I had a little epiphany and called Nix to explain. I told her I thought that New Babylon was on Sable Island, the narrow sliver of land once called Fagunda, the map of which had decorated Molly’s hotel room wall. Sable is called “The Graveyard of the Atlantic,” and everyone who went to New Babylon had to fake their own death — this was the kind of symmetry all those tricky bastards had liked. Nix and Berliner seemed very excited about my idea. A few days later, I got a text from Berliner:

We got a boat and we’re gonna go check out Sable. We’ll let you know what we find .

April 9, 2014, 8:28 p.m.

I texted back:

I want to go .

April 9, 2014, 8:28 p.m.

Berliner didn’t respond.

Nix and Berliner returned a week later with nothing; they had hired a large, commercial fishing boat to take them out to Sable, but rough seas had crippled the boat’s radar navigation and they couldn’t find it. Sable is a small slip of an island, hard to find in the best of circumstances, easy to crash on in low visibility. They turned back, but aren’t finished. The last time I saw Nix, she looked awake. They are going to try again a few months from now, in the summer, when the weather is clear. I’m going to try to convince them to let me come along.

* The Situationist City , 97.