I had never been beyond the river. Across its furthest western shore, I imagined another neighborhood where the poor that serviced the rich of Old Town lived. A deep groove that cut into the rocky soil that made up the hills surrounding the city, with only a few bridges that crossed it, the river made a much more effective periphérique than the tram stations with the police ever could.
Near the Factory, the eastern edge of town ended abruptly at a steep slope that ran down to the river’s edge, several stories of stone protecting the city center from seasonal floods. The past evening’s rains hadn’t been much, but what had come dribbled out of the storm drains that dotted the embankment. A sidewalk was built running along its top, providing a continuation of the Promenade, but this one giving a view of the river below. You could follow it all the way out to the ocean if you were so inclined.
To my surprise, Sartre didn’t start along the sidewalk, but straddled the big chain strung through the heavy metal posts that dotted the outside of the path. He gestured for me to follow, then lifted his other foot to the opposite side and began inching his way down the levee. The rocks were fitted together squarely, providing few handholds and the last rain made the surface slick with reflections of the iron lampposts that lit the path. But with Sartre’s men standing unmoving behind me I didn’t see another direction. I handed one of them the umbrella and followed.
It was slow going, but I could see Sartre shuffling down in front me of, so I kept at it until I saw him stop at one of the storm drains. The big cement tunnels projected out of the stone embankment like short cannons off a ship, the rocky base of the city rising out of the water below. I found a good grip on the concrete of the shaft and swung myself to get a foothold in its inner darkness. A smell of stagnant water, human waste, and death came out of it, stronger than any cordite.
Sartre clicked on a light and I nearly lost my handhold. A few feet down the tunnel, on the other side of an inner grate, was a man bloated with strips of his flesh melting away. I caught myself before my recoil nearly dropped me down the embankment.
“What the hell Sartre?” I decided the situation allowed for the dropping of any formalities.
“What? You have never seen a cadaver before?” Behind the light he held Sartre was just a cutout in the darkness beyond. But I could tell he was smiling.
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