Scavenging
by Axel Taiari

The blind greyhound’s been pacing around the apartment for hours, clawing at the walls, whining its throat out, desperate to get away from the stink. He ignores it and hammers a final nail into the wood. He walks into the bathroom and takes a long hard look at the shattered reflection. Black bags cling to weary eyes, last night’s work etched upon his face. Splashes of cold water rinse off the dried blood, staining the sink pink. He throws his shirt into a bathtub already crowded with a hacksaw, scissors, clippers and half-empty bottles. He slips into clean clothes and steps out. He picks the box up with a grunt, and leaves the apartment. Soon as he slams the door, the dog’s frenzied cries stop. Down an endless flight of crumbling stairs, where each heavy step conjures up a cloud of dust. The elevator would make the task easier, but it stopped working long before he was born. The city streets hail him with their usual aroma: the sweet summer stench of clogged up sewers pouring out of rusted manholes, the distant sting of smoke from the southern part of the city forever burning, the sweat of nameless passersby. A frail sun slithers through charcoal-dark clouds, weak rays bouncing off the husks of endless airships adrift high above the buildings. He loses himself down the avenues and alleyways, the city waking up around him as he prays for sleep. Something thick drips through the wooden box and onto his shoulder. He picks up the pace despite the box’s weight. Minutes flash by and he finds himself standing in front of the house. Three knocks on the door, with three seconds delay in between. The door barely creaks open, and the toothless grin of a double-barreled shotgun waits for an identification. Delivery, he says. A pause, then the door opens wide, the weapon still pointed at him. Faraway chants and voices escape from deep within the house’s bowels. He places the box on the ground, the weight gone from his shoulder but its ghost lingering somehow, threatening to crush him. The hooded man at the door lowers the shotgun and crouches next to the box, sniffs it.

Smaller than usual, he says, his tone all business and condescension.

All I could find, okay? The man whips out a filterless cigarette and lights it. She was young, he adds.

That’s half price, then.

No.

The hooded man smiles. She smells. This isn’t fresh. Where’d you find that one? She’s human at least?

She is. Now give me my usual money so I can go home and forget.

The buyer lets out a snort, echoes the word forget, then stands up. He rummages through the pockets of his robe and his tattooed hand brings out a fistful of coins.

See you tomorrow, he says, before picking the box up and closing the door, muting the singing voices inside.

The scavenger stumbles away from the house, another cigarette already in his mouth, heading back home. The streets suck him in as he stares at the waves of citizens all on their way to somewhere, their lives filled with goals and steps. Slices of dismembered conversations buzz past his ears: unfaithful wives, rowdy children, the government’s iron fist, fear of more gang wars, thirst for alcohol. He studies their grief-stricken faces, their worries and gut-twisting dread for another mindless day of work in the mines, the factories, the sweatshops, and he thinks, if only you knew what you have.