one city, drawn twice — as it is, and as it is moved through
THE CITY
both banks · only one administered from here
ONE CITY, DRAWN
Both banks exist; only one is administered from here. The far bank is not described in the city’s own companion for new arrivals, and no distance to it is given.
Distances are given from the pontoon. Every measurement in the book is therefore taken from the place the dead leave from, and the leaflet remarks on it: visitors find it morbid, and residents do not notice.
The near hill carries the funicular, the middle station, the dome and the last stop. Above the last stop the steps begin, and the city stops measuring.
The far hill carries the works: nineteen floors on the drawings and twenty-three in the driver’s hands, no windows ordered above the twelfth, lifts specified with no buttons inside, a drain in every floor, and above the fourteenth provision for water coming out and none for water going in.
The datum for every height in the city is tied to a plug in a wall three streets from the water, which has never been wet.
THE MOVEMENTS
sixteen departures · one exit
THE SAME CITY, MOVED THROUGH
Sixteen departures are attempted across the sixty stories. Four are dead. Four are blocked. Three leave and come back. Four never test it.
One person leaves. She is the daughter in Export, and she goes at dawn having paid a month forward for a month she will not be in the country for, carrying the receipt in the pocket where a passport would go and a spectacle case that travels free.
The book’s claim to being a world rests on that single flight. A city nobody can leave is a prison and reads as allegory; a city one person leaves is a place.
AND THE CLIMB
The other movement that matters runs uphill and off the map: the last stop, the gravel, the rope rail on the seaward side, and the gate. It is walked at least twice in the book — once with a counter and once without — and the book never says whether it is the same woman.
THE CIVIC YEAR
renewals on Thursdays · the week is short by a day
THE YEAR AS THE CITY KEEPS IT
Renewals on Thursdays; extended vows on Saturdays at the posted fee; the board reset at the turn of the year.
Rain is contracted by the quarter and shortfalls are carried forward. Seventy-one days delivered of ninety-one in one quarter of the book, and the shortfall was carried.
Arrivals who find the week short by a day are advised this is a matter of long custom.
THE FARE
two coins, then a number that can move
WHAT IT HAS COST TO CROSS
Two coins for a thousand years — one for the crossing, one for the ferryman’s silence — and any family could raise two coins even in a plague year.
Then the fare was set against retention. A hundred and fifty four years ago and two hundred last year, both from the city’s own record; two hundred and forty this year; three hundred at the turn.
The board attributes the rise to nothing. An attribution was asked for once, at a board meeting, and struck.