"Here it is," he said, drawing closer. "You can add this to what you've got." Alexander wondered if this man was attempting to double cross him, or if he had finally realized he could not do it alone. It was dark, but up close Alexander could see the bottom half of his nose and his lips, which were chapped and pale. For moment Alexander felt almost sorry. He snatched his wire from the man's arms dropped it on the pyre.
"We'll split it 80-20," he said. The man began to protest, but Alexander cut him off. He retrieved a can of lighter fluid from a stash hidden in the corner. He drizzled it around the edges and splashed onto the wire, adding extra for good measure. He would show him how to do it. He lit a match and held it, his arm fully extended, allowing the small flame to burn to his fingers before dropping it. The fire raced crisply along the line of the fluid, licking the tires and working its way over the cardboard and the wire. Alexander inhaled, eyes tearing against the smoke.
It was already tomorrow in Lublin. The sky would be lightening from black to blue to grey. Alexander tried to imagine Hanna waking up, kicking the sheets and thrashing at the sound of the alarm clock. He reviewed her bony feet, her nightgown and her hair, and searched for her face.
The orange flames climbed methodically over the wire, to the top of the pile, stretching taller and taller. Alexander shut his eyes, squeezing them tightly and then relaxing. He searched for Hanna's face again, and then Misha's. He tried to summon each feature individually – eyes, nose, mouth, cheeks—but they were soft and uncertain, just beyond the brink of recall.
The flames beat towards the roof, and from the bottom they burst and popped against the cardboard. Soon the wire pyramid imploded, sending sparks leaping and igniting debris scattered throughout the warehouse. There was no longer any structure; it was a mass of beasts dancing insanely and without rhythm. Billowing black smoke filled the room and stung his eyes. Tears rolled down Alexander's face and his breath grew sharp.
"Hey!" the man yelled, backing out the door, "look out!" Alexander watched him leave. He wouldn't be getting his share now. Alexander inched closer to the center. The flames swallowed the ceiling, and a cord of wood snapped and crashed to the ground, making the fire jump. Alexander staggered back with surprise and felt his face grow hot and tight. He watched the smoke gush through the widening hole. There was a crash nearby and a spark bit his cheek. He brushed another from his pants. It had burned a little black hole in the fabric and kissed his skin.
Alexander cursed. The man was right, the fire was too big. A smaller one would have accomplished his purpose and now it was too late. Alexander was good at this, usually. He knew just how to stack the wire bundles for efficiency and control. But this one time -- and he had been doing this for months, years, almost longer than he could remember -- this one time, there was too much lighter fluid and too many tires. They were tiny mistakes, really, committed in moments that grew in significance only after they had passed.
He had been distracted. The man was bothering him and Waldemar had been haunting his thoughts. Now the man was gone and Waldemar was snug on the train headed to his night job, dreaming of his family and his new apartment. He thought again of Hanna, washing the dishes from last night's dinner. She would be in her pajamas and her hair would hang uncombed down her back. Briefly he caught her face, a long nose with strong nostrils, but then he saw Natasha's eyes and lips, obliterating those of his wife. Something inside him had been taken.
He had done nearly everything right, yet one by one the tables had turned. He imagined Waldemar's regret and Natasha's sadness at the news of his passing. He wondered if the men in the tunnel would notice, if someone would occupy his spot by the entrance and admire the church steeple against the sky. He pressed his palm to his cheek. His skin was turgid and his clothes stuck to his body. An enormous pain overwhelmed him, pressing from inside and outside at the same time, snuffing his thoughts till his mind was swollen and blank.
He hobbled into the open air, avoiding the small crowd forming at the corner. As he crossed Noble Street, he stopped and turned, realizing too late that he had left his cart inside. He hugged a lamppost for support. Enormous billows of smoke rolled off the complex, obscuring the city skyline and the stars. Sirens wailed in the distance. He took in the warehouse for a final time. Now even the generator room was unrecognizable, only one of many engulfed by smoke and flame, and the fire was racing onward, following the river north into the night.
Alexander awoke to a colorless dawn. He was slumped on the doorstep of an abandoned hat factory on Manhattan Avenue. Two police officers were questioning another man -- Ra, a cantankerous nitwit who had once accused him of stealing his fish -- in the adjacent doorway. Alexander was next.
"What were you doing last night?" the young officer asked him.
The officer's fluency surprised him -- he had never heard a policeman speak a language other than English -- and Alexander answered swiftly and without thinking. "I was here, in the doorway. I was fishing and then I was here."
"Did you see anyone come out of the warehouses last night after the fire started?"
"I saw a tall man. He was running, and then I saw the fire, so I ran too." Alexander had not planned to say this. Words were leaping from his mouth before the thoughts formed in his head, and yesterday's events were just beginning to sharpen into focus. The fire had not been his fault, not completely -- someone else was there, he remembered, someone who helped him -- and in any case it was an accident. Surely if he confessed they would understand. He shut his eyes. Thirst overwhelmed him. If he had a drink of water, then he could explain.
The old officer said something to the young one in English. The young one turned to him and said, "Okay sir. We're going to have to take you in for some questioning." They pulled him up by his arms, and led him to a van. Alexander opened his mouth to speak. It would be better to explain now and get it over with. But already the old officer was opening the back door.
He joined several men, including Ra, who immediately spit in his direction. Alexander sat stick straight, his fingers curled around the edge of the seat. He tried to keep his right knee, the one with the trouble, as still as possible and to avoid touching the others. As they veered into a turn, the centrifugal force pulled him against Ra and an empty flask clattered from his pocket onto the floor. Again the sharpness shot from his heels of his feet to his hips. Alexander winced. He did not recognize the bottle. It must have been old. Ra elbowed him hard in the ribs, enlarging the pain and scattering into little shards.
"Keep offa me, goddamned drunk." Ra growled.
At the station house he was questioned by the young officer and a new plainclothes detective, who asked him again and again what the fleeing man looked like. Alexander stared at the young officer's face. It was wide with light freckles and jutting cheekbones. He spoke Polish with a slight American accent, as if he had been born in this country to Polish parents or emigrated here at a very young age.
"He was tall. He might've had dark hair. But it was dark, I couldn't tell." Alexander repeated. Tiny firecrackers exploded in his head.
"Okay," said the young officer, "we're going to drive you around to see if you recognize this man." They led him into the back seat of a green Taurus with one way windows. The plainclothes officer drove.
"Tell us if you see someone who you think might be him. He won't know it was you who identified him," said the young officer, twisting to look at Alexander. Alexander nodded and let his head fall back against the seat.
The car wove up and down Kent Street, then India Street and circled by the piers. Sometimes the men in front of the bodegas hooted at the car. What easy lives they must lead, Alexander thought. Surely they did worse things than he, and yet there they were, passing their time in idle enjoyment.
The car drove on. It seemed there was a red light or a turn every few feet and the starting and stopping made him dizzy. The officers chatted as if this was something they did as unthinkingly as dressing. Alexander imagined they were discussing their summer vacations or new cars. Maybe the plainclothes officer was planning to retire and take his wife to France. This filled Alexander with bile. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Finally, the young officer cleared his throat.
"Where you fishing last night?" he asked.
"I told you, by Noble Street. On the pier." Alexander's voice cracked in frustration. The car turned several times and pulled to a halt.
"Here?" asked the young officer, turning again to face him. His hands stuck out from his sleeves like little pillows; they did not seem like those of a law enforcer. He would fit in with the university boys on the streets of Lublin, Alexander thought. He should be with his friends, discussing their homework in a coffee shop. Alexander almost smiled. He saw the young officer and his friends laughing about something, maybe a professor's comment or a girl they admired. It was a mistake, and a cruel one, that the young man was here, with him, in this car.
The young officer spoke to his superior in English. It was a question, Alexander thought, judging by the upswing in his tone, followed by a curt answer. The young officer twisted again to face him. They held each other's gaze for a moment so brief that it had passed by the time Alexander recognized the glimmer. It was tiny, but he was sure it was there. It was an acknowledgement of Alexander, an acknowledgement that he had committed no crime, that he was better than life had allowed. There was still a chance! Alexander took such pleasure in this thought that he let his arms fall to his sides and closed his eyes.
"Well?" the plainclothes officer demanded suddenly, "Was it here?" The young officer translated, raising his eyebrows and gesturing with irritation. Their roughness startled Alexander. He jerked to attention. Had he misjudged? The shiny pupils of the plainclothes officer flickered angrily in the rearview mirror. The young one repeated the question, raising his voice and waving his hands. "Well?" he added, "well?"
He thought of Natasha as she handed him the phone. From where else could that smile come but a place of empathy? Or was it something else, something he had missed -- a desire to move things along, to avoid involvement, or worse, pity? Perhaps he thought the best of her while she the worst of him. He bit his lip. The plainclothes officer yelled something harshly in English, leaning forward and unbuckling his seatbelt. The young one translated and gestured impatiently. Alexander did not hear. In either language it was the barking of dogs.
Alexander cursed himself. He had given them more credit than they deserved. Like Waldemar, the young officer was kind only when it suited. Even Natasha, sweet Natasha -- even she needed only the tiniest irritation or twinge of scorn to fill a pint and push it in his direction. They were all the same, living for the current moment. In their smallness they could not grasp anything beyond themselves.
Oh, what difference did it make? What difference, if he had stayed in the warehouse or left; if he explained the truth or not -- what difference did it make in a world full of simpletons who saw only the surface, who would not admit the forces that snatched life from its keeper and threw it to a haphazard fate? The air was acrid. Even now billows of grey smoke rose from the remains of the warehouses. The plainclothes officer got out of the car and directed orders into his phone. The young officer gazed impassively out the window.
Alexander pressed his fist to his forehead. In his mind's eye the fire burned, stretching and quickening, circling the little buildings on Maujer Street, dancing its way to the pub, and snaking along the river, holding all of New York in its pounding breath, and then moving, moving, on to the entire world, so even Lublin alit in its embrace. Alexander's voice ripped from his throat. "Of course I did it, you fools." He ground his knuckles into his eye. "Who else would it have been but me?"