Poetry's Price

In the end, ten boxes of cheroots clinch the deal, along with a virtual stack of pirated GovCorp credits. The price is high, but not beyond what Nib can pay or expects.

The terms are hard, but normal. Two-thirds payment upfront with no guarantee of fulfillment. In the event of non-fulfillment, all payments to be returned to the buyer minus expenses and ten percent.

Scriber warns Nib that the chances of success are less than fifty-fifty. Any refund is sure to be eaten by expenses. It’s just business, clear and upfront from the start. No need for hard feelings or revenge. Nib agrees, citing his reputation as an oldtimer. A solid rep is precious amongst the denizens of UnderBridge.

Three weeks pass. Nib does his best not to dwell on the waiting. He goes about his business. Hackers come to him with phishing templates. Nib edits the text, translating common speech into official GovCorp jargon. He is completely fluent in a language he loathes, and this is a valuable talent.

Nib occupies a secure squat east of the Willamette River. There is no shortage of space.

Fifty years ago, as Nib came into the world, the Near Eastside was a gritty industrial area. Then the grasping fingers of development reached across the river. New condominiums sprang up like mushrooms after a Northwest rain.

The tide of gentrification pushed workers and the poor further east, or south into Felony Flats. Then came the collapse, the backlash against too many alternative lifestyles and blue-tarp homeless camps, and the rise of GovCorp.

The rich won the battle and ultimately the war, but then retreated to secure fortresses in and behind the West Hills. Luxury condos beyond the Willamette were abandoned to decay.

While UnderBridge is not a specific location, there are nexus scattered across the city, most of them on the east side of the river. The Willamette River provides a natural barrier. Nib lives in one such hub. PlebeLows live here as well. A profitable trade exists between the two groups.

Rather than occupying a designated neighborhood, UnderBridge exists as a loose network of techno-punks, criminals, and misfits sidelined from the legit tech world by GovCorp goons. The Inclusion Act crushed free-lance and contract work. Failure to join the Insiders meant there was nowhere to go but down. Those unwilling or unable to serve must descend.

The messenger arrives on day twenty-three, a young man with a bicycle slung over his bare shoulder. He hands Nib an unlabeled thumb drive. Nib reciprocates with a blank thumb drive and a gratuity of ganga. The messenger departs with a smile.

Nib plugs the stick into a laptop. The body of the message is a jumble of alphanumeric symbols. Below the coded message, plain text instructs Nib that the cipher is valid for twelve hours. He must take the drive to a sanctioned decoder before the codes change. There is no mention of whether the news is good or bad.

Ten minutes later, Nib is on the street with his barter bag slung over his shoulder. A simple decode is normally a set price, but better to be prepared.

He steps from the sidewalk and into a stream of bicycles, his pace steady and predictable. The cyclists flow past him as if they were salmon and he a rock. No autos to worry about. Except for the Insiders, private cars are a relic of the past.

The nearest decoding station is not far. Nib pays the barter and soon has his answer. The deal is done. The handoff is set for the next day with Mos Raj acting as agent.

Nib reads the message a second time, smiles, and reaches into his bag. He hands the decoder a corked half-pint bottle. The man nods his thanks. Good news is always rewarded. They both understand why.

The waiting is hard, but left to themselves, the hours tick past. Nib leaves the squat early to give himself time to case the meeting point. The name Mos Raj is synonymous with good business, but not an absolute guarantee. Nib does not go unarmed.

Eleven AM and the skate park is busy. Nib circles the perimeter. He spots Mos Raj alone on a bench, a skateboard propped against his knee. Just another dread-locked skate veteran resting his weary bones.

Nib continues his reconnoiter. He picks out two guys who are trying to blend in but not pulling it off. Not goons or Mos Raj would be long gone. So, two on backup. That’s not unreasonable. Nib enters the skatepark, makes his way to the bench, and takes a seat at Mos Raj’s right

“Nib, mon, how you keeping?”

“Keeping fine, Mos Raj. And yourself?”

“Ah, another day of blessings, mon.”

Mos Raj slips a messenger bag from beneath his left arm, slides it across his lap, and pushes it against Nib’s thigh. Nib slips an almost identical bag from his shoulder and places it beside the first.

“So now I’m gone Brother Nib. Give me a good five, ya?”

Nib nods and Mos Raj vanishes. Nib keeps his eyes on the skate punks. Minutes tick past. One of the backup guys sidles out of the park. Nib shifts his eyes without turning his head, sees number two walking away in another direction.

Time to go. Nib shoulders the messenger bag without lifting the flap. This is not the time or place. Then he is on his feet and moving, threading a circuitous path back to the squat.

Nib holds his desire in check until he is inside the squat and bolting the door. He falls into a chair. His hands are shaking as he pulls the flap free of its Velcro closure.

The book is wrapped in brown paper, real honest-to-god paper. A small treasure concealing a much larger treasure. He feels like his head will explode, but he fights the urge to rip the paper aside. Instead, he clicks open a knife. With a surgeon’s care, he slices the tape that holds the wrapping. The paper falls to the floor intact.

Scriber and his minions have outdone themselves, whether knowingly or not. The book is beautiful, hardcover, used of course, but in good condition. Rimbaud’s truncated face adorns the cover, forehead to nose, the image repeating three times.

Nib opens the book to the frontispiece. A bilingual edition, a new translation from 2011. Seeing the year printed on paper jars Nib’s brain. This book is over sixty years old.

He pages past the introduction and translator’s notes. These are for later. Some of the pages are foxed, but that’s to be expected. The patina of loving use.

Then the words of the first poem, French on the left page, English on the right. The room fills with the sound of his voice, first reading the translation, then, thick-tongued and halting, the French he has almost forgotten.

Time blurs. Nib feels himself transported to another era and a younger self, when people sat in coffeehouses with books in their hands, reading openly, and without fear.

Outside the windows, the sun is slanting low over the West Hills before Nib comes out of his trance. He reaches to the floor, retrieves the brown paper, and wraps it around the precious book.

He goes to the kitchen, kneels before a cabinet, and presses a fingertip against a certain kickboard. A spring clicks. The kickboard pops open, revealing a hidden compartment beneath the cabinet. Nib places the book in its new hiding place and shuts it out of sight. Then he begins preparing his solitary dinner.