The Radiant City by Lauren B. Davis Read Free Book Online

Matthew is afraid he may begin weeping and makes a sound. Jack gently squeezes his arm. It gives Matthew strength and the tears recede.
     
    As they near the Square Tino Rossi, Matthew hears music. Singing. A man’s voice.
     
    “Hmm,” says Jack. “That’s Gardel.”
     
    “Gardel?”
     
    “Carlos Gardel. The Argentinian saint of tango. They don’t dance to him in Argentina. Out of respect.”
     
    “How do you know that?” Matthew says.
     
    “Picked it up in Argentina,” says Jack. Then he smiles, “Along with a very pretty girl named Clara.”
     
    There is a blue-and-white striped awning set up for shade, and the dancers move about under it in that passionate, rhythmic foreplay that is tango. There are not many dancers at this time of day. Things do not really heat up until evening. Since they are not there to dance, Jack and Matthew do not pay the admission that would grant them entrance to the actual dance floor. They take seats on the green chairs along one side of a railing that separates the dancers from the curious. Jack produces a slim flask from his back pocket.
     
    “Drink.”
     
    Matthew does. Some time passes. Perhaps thirty minutes. Maybe more. They sit side by side watching the dancers prowl. Music changes, the sound like waves.
     
    “So, nobody had a gun, I’m guessing,” Matthew says at last.
     
    “Not that I could see, anyway.”
     
    “I heard shots.”
     
    Jack reaches over and pats Matthew on the knee, as if he were a father and Matthew his son, although there is no more than ten years between them. “Listen, I’ve heard those very same shots before. Lots of times. And mortar fire. And don’t get me started on low-flying airplanes.” Jack laughs softly. “I’m better than I used to be though. This the first time?”
     
    “Third.”
     
    “Ah. Well, let me tell you. The trick is, as far as I can tell, and fuck what the doctors tell you—wait, you seeing a shrink?”
     
    “Nope.” Matthew’s leg trembles only in fits and starts now. The shaking in his hands is practically unnoticeable.
     
    A girl in a red dress, her hair short and slicked back, gleaming with pomade, dances backward past them in the arms of a wire-thin man who looks like a pimp. Their eyes remain locked onto each other and their bodies move in perfect harmony, as if they are preprogrammed. Jack raises the camera to his eye. At the last second, before she turns, the dancer snaps her head around and stares upward. Jack clicks the button. “Good,” he says, and it is unclear if he means the shot, or the fact Matthew is not seeing a therapist. “I guess they help some guys, but I gave up on ’em too. Anyway. The trick is not to let it define you. You get an episode, you get up, you dust yourself off, and you keep going on with your day. You don’t let the fuckers live in your head. You don’t let that present-tense thing get to you. You know what I mean?”
     
    Matthew does not, and listens hard, for he suspects this is a secret he must learn.
     
    “One good thing a shrink told me was this: there’s a part of the brain that always lives in the present tense of the trauma, whatever it is. Like some little lizard part of your brain doesn’t realize that whatever shit happened to you isn’t still happening. So, if you have an episode, and you spend the rest of the day, or the week, or the fucking month dwelling on it, I figure you’re reinforcing that shit. Key is to kick the little fucker out as soon as you can. See what I mean?”
     
    “Yes, possibly.”
     
    Jack looks over at Matthew and then takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and polishes his lens. “It may do no good to talk about the fucking episodes, but sometimes it does help to talk about whatever’s causing them. Say what happened, and then what happened next, you know? And then what happened after that. Train your brain to realize it isn’t still going on, that you got past it. Like, I got shot, then I woke up in hospital,