Ch.45Ch.5 – Intro (Video Replay)

# Chapter 5

‘The Dead City Dreams and Waits’

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1929. 5. 5. PM 4:34

Mostin Street Alley, Pollard City

The afternoon city tastes of salt.

The wind from the sea seeps into even the most secluded alleys of Pollard City. And then it exhales its final breath.

On the verge of death, it drops salt-laden droplets onto the parched streets, but the city remains indifferent to these tears.

Whether they are the tears of people or the tears of the wind, all sorrows are equal and indiscriminate in their shared indifference.

That’s not to say people are emotionless.

People don’t ignore the wind. The wind matters to radio weather forecasters, fishermen, sailors who aren’t fishermen, farmers, and hunters.

They’ve even given it names. The one from the north is the north wind, the one from the east is the east wind, and the one that swirls fiercely is a typhoon.

Even artists who have nothing to do with the wind sing about it and praise it.

Just as they leave behind kaleidoscopic emotions about poverty, death, and despair.

But in any case, they never speak about the wind itself.

It’s not about what the wind does to me, but what the wind does for me that matters more.

It’s not about where the wind came from, but where I perceive it to be blowing from that matters more.

Humans talk endlessly about the wind, but what they really want to talk about is themselves.

Just as natives do to immigrants who crossed the sea riding the wind.

It had been over thirty years since Karl Böhm left Germany for America. Back then, immigration screening wasn’t so strict.

America was growing and needed many people, so it was generous to foreigners. The real problem came after crossing over.

Böhm and other immigrants realized too late that what Americans really needed wasn’t good neighbors, but subordinates they could employ for pennies.

Still, Böhm was a bull of a man. Though short and flat-chested, he married an Italian woman with ample hips, and they had a beautiful daughter.

Böhm still remembers the day he opened his brewery named after himself in a Boston alley.

Those who knew Böhm ordered plenty of beer, drank all night, and then filled their glasses with coins and bills.

Counting the money that smelled of the monastery beer from his homeland, Böhm wept with boundless joy.

That day, even his wife cried with ease.

She was a woman who hadn’t cried even before the doctor who said they could no longer delay the cancer, that he was sorry.

Just like now. Just like this moment.

Böhm embraced his wife, who was braver than himself, repeating those words.

Hoping it wouldn’t get worse.

And then Prohibition was passed.

His daughter dropped out of college. Instead, she became a door-to-door catalog saleswoman, traveling everywhere.

Neighbors who knew Böhm’s skills and those who thought well of him made proposals, sometimes secretly, sometimes openly.

“You stubborn German. I’ll buy whatever equipment you need, just keep doing what you were doing.

Even a Puritan pastor would become a drinker after tasting your beer.

You’ll never get caught. I’ll guarantee your safety.

Keep the brewery going. We’ll just handle the sales. Think of your wife and daughter.”

Böhm didn’t do it.

“Thank you for your concern.”

The Italian pimp who bought Böhm’s brewery outright sighed and added more money.

“Hey. Live with integrity. Someone like you should have prospered.”

With that money, Böhm was able to pay his wife’s overdue hospital bills, buy a clean and pretty burial shroud, and secure a fairly good spot in the Boston Cathedral cemetery.

“I’m proud of you.”

That’s what his wife told him in her final moments. She knew that Böhm’s stubbornness wouldn’t bend to skin, whispers, or affection.

That doesn’t mean she understood. She merely accepted it.

Yes. That’s the kind of person you are. A calm realization.

Words about living righteously. Words about being a father without shame.

Böhm considered it a mission bestowed upon him by God. He knew that was the meaning of his wife’s last words.

But the emptiness and self-loathing that remained were beyond even God’s power to remedy.

Böhm started working again. He sought jobs that made him sweat more and sleep soundly at night.

There weren’t many places willing to employ an aging bull, but he remained steadfast. But now even job opportunities were diminishing.

Irish, Italian, German, even Chinese—these unfamiliar races confused even Böhm.

These youngsters were young, illegal immigrants, and therefore couldn’t resist when they were paid poorly.

Böhm’s mere existence was a burden to employers.

But Böhm didn’t want to stray far from Boston, where his wife lay sleeping.

Thus, he was pushed from the center to the periphery. From Boston to Providence, to Fall River, from New Bedford to Arkham, until finally he came to Pollard Island.

“You’re looking for work in Innsmouth? Mister, that place is completely ruined.

Pollard Island is somewhat better. It’s a city.

The mayor is ambitious and has many business ventures going.”

That’s what the salesman at the Arkham bus terminal said.

Though the salesman was still relatively young, he understood what it meant when someone from Boston said they were “looking for work.”

Böhm wasn’t the only immigrant man who couldn’t find work even in the big city.

Böhm didn’t know much about Pollard, but he bought a ticket when told he could get there by boat from Kingsport.

And he saw the sea again.

The North Atlantic sea that he had crossed holding his father’s hand. The sea was still blue, gentle, and calmly undulating.

The squawking seagulls were the same, and the salty wind was the same.

Yet Böhm felt something had changed. What? What had changed?

There were more steamships, people’s clothing had changed, he had had a wife, and his daughter was still going around ringing doorbells with a catalog of goods. Besides all that.

As it happened, the Pollard City Hall was recruiting vigilantes. You just needed to be an American citizen, physically healthy, have a clear background, and no criminal record.

Böhm met all those conditions precisely. However, he was somewhat surprised when Mayor Arthur Black himself entered the final interview room and asked something one-on-one.

Thanks to that, he became a vigilante along with six colleagues. Though they were American citizens, all his other colleagues were kids. Younger than his daughter.

Uncle, mister, father. Böhm said anything was fine except “father.” Uncle Böhm. Uncle Böhm with thick hands and arms. Gruff but kind Uncle Böhm.

Even as they laughed, chatted, and joked, when night fell and he tried to sleep, Böhm pondered deeply about what had changed.

The thought stuck like tar somewhere between his brain and skull, refusing to dislodge, so he could only manage to fall asleep around the time the morning sunlight streamed through the window.

Fortunately, vigilante work wasn’t that demanding.

Break up fights, help those who ask for simple assistance, and report what they can’t handle.

Avoid people wearing white gloves. They’re mafia. Red-headed O’Mellys were very difficult to distinguish from ordinary Irish troublemakers, but they rarely appeared outside the entertainment district, so it wasn’t a problem.

He became quite friendly with his other colleagues. But the six of them didn’t mix well with the old vigilantes. Somehow, they were unsettling.

Someone knowledgeable said they were people who had lived on Pollard Island for more than a generation, descendants of whaling ship crew members.

“They were drifters too. Children of ship laborers. Kind of like poor whites, you know?”

That’s what the kind-hearted sandwich shop owner said while adding extra toppings. The team leader, who was also a native of Pollard Island, paid for the food and tip.

He was also one of the “whalers,” meaning a vigilante from the island’s native population.

“Böhm. There’s a job. It pays extra. It’s dangerous, but. Want to do it?”

Böhm agreed. Not because he needed money, but because his body was restless.

By then, Böhm’s mind had crossed some line.

I must remember. Böhm. I must remember! Something has changed!

It had now seeped into the crevices of Böhm’s mind. It was as if he had to find it, even if it meant inserting his hand into every wrinkle.

Whenever this happened, Böhm trembled with unbearable pain.

“Uncle Böhm. Let’s go to the hospital. They say there’s a good doctor. If you’re short on money, we can…”

His young colleagues with kind hearts and awkward expressions worried about him. But he didn’t go. The world had not been kind to him.

Böhm knew the bitterness of having something taken away was worse than never receiving anything at all.

This land of opportunity had always been that way for him. When he lay in bed staring into the darkness of his room, the pain intensified.

The days of feeling numb increased. On his days off, he never rested with peace of mind.

It was better to stand in the city at the intersection of scorching sun and shade.

Holding a long pole with a harpoon, an iron club at his waist, a whistle around his neck, and an armband indicating he was a vigilante.

“It’s simple, Böhm. Don’t let anyone cross over. That’s it.”

The team leader even paid him an advance. Böhm was alone blocking this alley. He couldn’t understand the mission, but he just accepted it.

He didn’t have the luxury to worry about such things.

I must remember. Böhm.

And before his eyes, flames rose from a house in the alley.

Men and women wearing white gloves were setting fire to the building and shooting at everyone trying to escape.

The fire brigade arrived, but they sprayed water on the buildings next to and behind the burning one, not on the burning building itself.

When the team leader came to check if everything was alright, Böhm got angry for the first time.

The team leader replied,

“It’s just a common dispute, mister. You said you’re from Boston. It would be worse there, not less.”

Böhm closed his eyes. Boston was much larger than this place. And back then, he wasn’t a vigilante. He didn’t need to know what happened in every corner of the city.

But now it was happening right before his eyes.

“Just keep those O’Melly guys from crossing over. The vigilantes and the white hands will handle the rest.”

“I’m not supposed to stop the fight?”

“Uncle. Please come to your senses. Can you face guns with a harpoon and a club?”

“The mayor? What’s the mayor doing? The police?”

Böhm fumbled like a country bumpkin. With his back to the burning alley, the team leader laughed.

“Uncle. The police aren’t coming. We’re here, aren’t we?”

“We’re not doing anything.”

“What are you saying? Standing here isn’t free. We’re earning money.”

Before Böhm’s eyes, a woman came running. She was a girl who hadn’t quite shed her girlhood, with reddish-blonde hair braided into two plaits.

With fire on her back, she was waving her arms and screaming for help. She looked about the same age as his daughter.

Böhm ran forward. He pushed aside the team leader who tried to stop him. All the stores along the street had closed their doors, and people who had been warned in advance had evacuated.

Breaking a window with his pole, Böhm grabbed the woman. The flames licked at Böhm’s hand, but he didn’t mind at all.

In the bathroom, Böhm doused her with water. You must live, he muttered. You must live somehow.

But it was too late.

The woman’s body kept stiffening.

Böhm stood up.

Staggering toward the exit. The burning alley was quiet.

A scream came from somewhere. Running to the back door, Böhm saw mainland vigilantes putting someone in a sack.

They beat the sack countless times with clubs until the squirming stopped.

Someone spotted Böhm and shouted. Something. No. Something. Hit him on the back of his head.

Uh. Without time to react, Böhm collapsed. There was no pain. The headache that had been tormenting him was gone. The sunlight, the heat, and whatever was stickily flowing along his scalp didn’t seem to matter much.

“I told you to stay put.”

The team leader muttered, looking down at him, but that didn’t matter much either.

It was because of the wind. The salty wind.

The sea wind he had smelled on the ship coming to America, holding onto his father’s pant leg.

What had changed was the wind. Böhm had forgotten for too long that the wind had changed.

Father. Let’s go back. The wind tastes salty.

In our village, the wind smelled of soil and flowers. The wind must have gone bad.

Father, father. Let’s go back. Let’s go back.

But he couldn’t speak. His father was crying, looking toward their homeland. Böhm could do nothing but hug his father’s legs tightly.

A dark shadow flickered before his eyes. Perhaps intending to put him in a sack. A wind collapsed beside him and lay down. And it caressed Böhm’s cheek.

And so Böhm finally remembered.

That he hadn’t wanted to come to this land.

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