‘As I am Edison, I give you light. I amaze your sight! Ta-DAAA!’ Fluorescent light flickered, then flooded a cavernous basement, confirming the place as a sinister depository for auto wrecks. The carnage consisted for the most part of expensive German or Italian sports cars driven too fast along dangerous roads in a city notorious for its choques or collisions, but among them were family cars, many of humbler origin. Shattered glass and torn metal littered the oily floor. Francis’ anthropomorphism, common among imaginative children, extended to cars, and he felt overwhelming compassion for this tragic waste. He felt his lower lip quiver.
‘Hey, gringo boy! Frisco Kid! Come here. This is the best one. A whole family died in this one. Come see the blood on the seats!’
Francis’ reaction turned swiftly from pity to outrage and anger. With an effort, he controlled himself.
‘No, I don’t want to see that. This is a terrible place. Can we go?’
‘Whassa matter? You don’t like this? Hey, you cryin’ or sump’in?’
’No, I’m not, but I don’t like it here. Why–’ He desperately sought to change the subject and divert attention from himself. ‘Why are all these wrecks here?’
‘The police check them here, that’s why. It’s the law. All cars that have people die in them have to be examined. By the cops, by the insurance people, by… other people. They can’t leave them outside. People will strip them for parts if they do.’
‘Death cars, too? They ransack death cars?’
‘Yeah. Why not? A part’s a part, and fancy cars have fancy prices. That Ferrari got totalled head-on by a truck, but its rear end is fine. The parts there are re-usable. We sell ‘em as new. No-one knows.” He smiled.
Francis shuddered. Edison appraised him critically. ‘You don’t know much about life, do you? There’s stuff here you can’t find in books.’ There was venom in that last word.
A shutter closed in Francis’ mind. Something infinitely precious was imperilled. He could not articulate it, but it seemed at the time as if a butterfly world of beauty, fair dealing and craftsmanship, of heroic combat in noble causes, a universe of selflessness and idealism, reflecting both his reading and the liberal values he had grown up with, was to be broken on the wheel of cynicism and crass materialism, of ugliness, deception and despair, in a shadowy subterranean world of sinister intent. Might stories be only for dreamers?
‘Time to go, Frankie baby.’ There was contempt in the old gibe; Francis was sure of it.
They were not going to visit the showroom, after all.
They walked back to the house by way of the side street in silence, two islands of anger and resentment, each aware of his own indiscretion, the divide between them a yawning chasm. It was garbage day. The basureros, rough, sweating men in filthy overalls, manhandled the rubbish. Clouds of flies arose from each bin the boys passed. The world was a cesspit, thought Francis, an Augean stable of putrefaction. It could never be clean.
