The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [69]
“Its exact composition is open to debate, but it’s probably algae that live off the decaying materials commonly found here. Harmless, though. Let’s check for fumes.” He flicked a gas lighter and peered at the flame. Then he returned it to one of the cavernous pockets in his greatcoat. “Had there been a tinge of orange in the flame, it would mean trace levels of natural gas. But we’re all right.”
“All right?” Laurel looked around. “I mean, is there no end to the shit?”
Henry’s voice took on a patronizing tone. “This is the lower world. It’s a paradox that we know more about space, stars, and galaxies light-years away than about the sewers beneath our city streets. No government has ever thought of exploring, much less cleaning, these regions.”
“People need to know about this and do something about it. I mean, these should be cleaned, or sealed—” Laurel bit her lip. Her thoughtless comment reeked of high school idealism.
Barandus neared and breathed deep. He panned his flashlight up and down the tunnel, painting a swath across the crumbling brick. Charlie and Jim drew near, their eyes never leaving Barandus, and Laurel could have sworn they were holding their breath. “People don’t want to know what happens to their shit.” Barandus spoke with a strangely measured voice, pronouncing every word with care, as if addressing a congregation. “Excrement, like everything else, has become a heritage industry. Out of sight, out of mind. For most people, shit, like death, is a private matter. Once it leaves the body, its afterlife is up to whoever collects the taxes.”
He paused and his voice lowered. “Civilization has its mirror in the sewers. The filth of men falls into this pit of reality, where social class ends. Engulfed by their latrines, the rich and the powerful mingle again with their humbler brethren here.” He raised a leg and brought the toe of his rubber boot to the surface of the effluent, where it created a miniature eddy. “This brew is a confession. There’s no more hypocrisy, no cosmetics to disguise upbringing. Here there’s nothing left but the terrible shape of our shared miseries. There, a syringe speaks of oblivion, a mop head of domesticity; there, an effigy of the Virgin Mary reverts to cheap plastic, hobo spittle meets noble puking, and, farther on, the lost engagement ring jostles the razor blade that severed a dreamer’s veins. And you wonder why people deny sewers? A sewer doesn’t keep secrets or keep appearances. Here we’re surrounded by truth.” Again he breathed deep before shifting in his rubber boot, as if testing the ground under the filth. Then he hunched his shoulders and started to plod ahead.
Laurel’s head spun. She had no idea how the Paris sewers must have felt to Victor Hugo, but his source of inspiration for Les Misérables now seemed obvious. And Barandus had shamelessly borrowed from the French master for his impromptu speech.
Raul shook his head. “He doesn’t speak much, but when he does …”
“What?”
“I wish he’d kept his mouth shut.”
“Depressing, huh?” Laurel asked.
Henry looked around as if taking a bearing and followed Barandus. “Reality always is.”
Raul rubbed his hands. “How much longer?”
“Half an hour,” Henry said. “We’re almost there.”
As he severed the communication with Shepherd, Senator Palmer knew the meaning of fear as never before. Shepherd had sent the storm warning to Laurel but didn’t get confirmation or an answer, so he’d called Palmer. It was raining hard. Through the patio doors came sounds like the percussion section of a high school band. He watched, mesmerized, as sheets of water slid down the glass expanses to the accompaniment of thunder and lightning: a classic of late-summer Washington, D.C. Then the storm ended abruptly, as though bored. Outside, the lawn steamed. Palmer slid open the patio doors to the smell of electricity in the air, his mind thick with foreboding.
They continued single file along a passage without sidewalks, trampling slimy water in their