Thrust: A Novel

On the streets, in this city and inside this time, garbage blew around on the ground. The closer she got to the buildings, to the city blocks in which they were arranged, the more the colors around her faded and a kind of monochrome took over; she felt surrounded by the smell of concrete and steel and hot dog stands and car exhaust. The more she walked, the more the cars multiplied. Streetlights and the clack of heels on pavement. Oddly curated lines of trees and shrubbery and lawns. A tidiness that made her tummy hurt. This time looked familiar — a history not so distant from her own, except that the buildings were intact and the electrical grid seemed functional and people looked to be engaged in things like jobs and driving to and from places and eating and business transactions — their labor hidden behind suits and high-rises and blocklike institutional buildings. The wind moved differently here, diverted by man-made things. By city being. The sound of the airspeak drowned out by engines, tires on pavement, horns, whistles, the occasional whine of a siren.

Laisvė heard the voices of people moving around her.

Then water.

Then she saw it: a fountain, as she had already seen inside her mind. Perched on the surrounding marble bench, a woman in a suit, her legs tucked under her like a doe’s. The fountain, more than the woman, drew Laisvė’s attention — the glory of it. Three Nereids, sea nymphs, served as corporeal support for basins above and below them. Atop the fountain was a crown, from which water spilled gracefully, falling from basin to basin below. The figures stood on a pedestal decorated with seashells. At the base, jets of water sprayed from the mouths of — yes, it was true, just as Bertrand said: “Look for a fountain with water-spitting turtles.”

A plaque on the fountain read the fountain of light and water, but in the sculpture, Laisvė saw only her mother. Not really her mother, but a kind of symbol, a reimagined archetype that set her mind and heart at ease. This was the place. She felt sure.

The woman seated there, eating a sandwich, looked rumpled — not her clothes, but her face. Something less than wrinkles but more than concern.

Laisvė walked up to the woman. She had a lanyard dangling from her neck, with a tiny image of her on a name tag — she looked crumpled there too — and a name: lilly juknevicius. Laisvė stared at her.

“Can I help you?” Agitation pricked the edges of the woman’s voice.

“No, but I have something important to trade,” Laisvė said.

“Oh,” she said, distracted, opening her bag as if looking for a scrap of food. “Listen, I—”

Laisvė persisted. “Do you have something for me?” She was certain what she needed was near. “Lilly, right?” Laisvė pointed to the name tag.

Laisvė watched as the woman rummaged around in her purse. At last, she sighed heavily, a nope, nothing here sigh, part performance, part relief.

Laisvė sat down next to Lilly. Lilly scooted over a bit, alarmed by the proximity.

“Try your sack,” Laisvė offered.

Lilly stared at Laisvė, who could read what she was trying to hide in her expression: Can’t a woman eat a fucking sandwich in peace? But something was happening within the stare this girl held her inside. Without looking away from the girl’s eyes, Lilly reached for an apple she knew was in her brown sack. She handed the apple over to the girl, who slowly, without speaking, reached into her clothing and pulled out a strange-looking purplish twist of unknown nature, as if some kind of trade was actually going down. Jesus. What is that, rotting meat? Some kind of dead snake? Just accept it and walk away, Lilly. At least you’ve given her something to eat.

Laisvė took the apple and released the twirl of purpled rope to Lilly. “This will help you help him,” she said.

Before Lilly could say a word, a speeding black van swerved up over the curb, skidding to a halt nearly right on top of them. A side door slid open and two men piled out, both dressed in dark clothes and glasses, both armed. Vests and helmets. No identifying details. Lilly gasped and curled backward, clutching the purplish object toward her breast as if it had great value.

“Your name!” she yelled.

Lilly’s chest constricted; her breathing locked in her throat. She could see the apple in the girl’s hand and hear her voice — then the two men snatched the girl’s small body up, all in one motion, and swallowed her into the belly of the van. Before the doors slammed shut, the girl said, “Liza! My name is Liza! It’s okay, it’s okay, I know where the story is going.” Then the van screeched back into gear and disappeared into the river of traffic alongside them.

Lilly felt a full-body oh my god overcome her. She began to shake.

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