Science Fiction 


The City on 
the Sand 

By George Alec Effinger 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

Fictionwise 

www.Fictionwise.com 

Copyright 1973 by George Alec Effinger 

First published in The Magazine of Fantasy and 
Science Fiction, April 1973 


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2 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

In Europe, there were only memories of great cultures. 
Spain, Portugal, Italy, France, England, Carbba, and Germany 
had all seized control of the world's course and the 
imagination of the human race at one time or another. But 
now these great powers of the past were drifting into a 
cynical old age, where decadence and momentary pleasures 
replaced the drive for dominance and national superiority. In 
Asia, the situation was even worse. The Russias struggled 
pettily among themselves, expending the last energies of a 
once-proud nation in puerile bickerings. China showed signs 
of total degeneration, having lost its immensely rich heritage 
of art and philosophy while clinging to a ruthless creed that 
crushed its hopeless people beneath a burden of mock-
patriotism. Breulandy was the only vibrant force east of the 
Caucasus Mountains; still, no observer could tell what that 
guarded land might do. Perhaps a Breulen storm would spill 
out across the continent, at least instilling a new life force in 
the decaying states. But from Breulandy itself came no word, 
no hint, as though the country had bypassed its time of 
ascendancy to settle for a weary and bitter mediocrity. 

Of the rest of the world there was nothing to be said. The 
Americas still rested as they had in the few centuries since 
their discovery: huge parklike land masses, populated by 
savages, too distant, too worthless, too impractical to bother 
about. None of the crumbling European governments could 
summon either the leadership or the financial support to 
exploit the New World. The Scandinavian lands were inhabited 
by skin-clad brutes scarcely more civilized than the American 

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by George Alec Effinger 

cannibals. Farther east, beyond the teeming Chinese shores, 
between Asia and the unexplored western reaches of the 
Americas, no one was quite certain just what existed and 
what was only myth. Perhaps the island continent of Lemarry 
waited with its untold riches and beautiful copper spires. 

And then, lastly, there was Africa. One city sat alone on its 
fiery sands. One city, filled with refugees and a strange 
mongrel population, guarded that massive continent. Beyond 
that single city, built in some forgotten age by an unknown 
people for unimaginable purposes, beyond the high wooden 
gates that shut in the crazy heat and locked in the citizens, 
there was only death. Without water, the continent was 
death. Without shade, the parching sharaq winds were death. 
Without human habitation, the vast three thousand miles of 
whispering sands were death for anyone mad enough to 
venture across them. Only in the city was there a hollow 
travesty of life. 

* * * * 

Ernst Weinraub sat at a table on the patio of the Caf de la 
Fe Blanche. A light rain fell on him, but he did not seem to 
notice. He sipped his anisette, regretting that the proprietor 
had served it to him in such an ugly tumbler. The liqueur 
suffered. M. Gargotier often made such disconcerting lapses, 
but today especially Ernst needed all the delicacy, all the 
refinement that he could buy to hold off his growing 
melancholy. Perhaps the Fe Blanche had been a mistake. It 
was early, lacking some thirty minutes of noon, and if it 
seemed to him that the flood of tears was rising too quickly, 

4 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

he could move on to the Caf Solace or Chiriga's. But as yet 
there was no need to hurry. 

The raindrops fell heavily, spatting on the small metal 
table. Ernst turned in his chair, looking for M. Gargotier. Was 
the man going to let his customer get drenched? The 
proprietor had disappeared into the black interior of his 
establishment. Ernst thought of lowering the striped canopy 
himself, but the shopkeeper-image of himself that the idea 
brought to mind was too absurd. Instead, he closed his eyes 
and listened to the water. There was music when the drops 
hit the furnishings on the patio, a duller sound when the rain 
struck the pavement. Then, more frequently, there was the 
irritating noise of the drops hitting his forehead. Ernst opened 
his eyes. His newspaper was a sodden mess and the puddle 
on his table was about to overflow onto his lap. 

Ernst considered the best way to deal with the 
accumulating water. He could merely cup his hand and swipe 
the puddle sideways. He dismissed that plan, knowing that his 
hand would be soaked; then he would sit, frustrated, without 
anything on which to dry it. He would end up having to seek 
out M. Gargotier. The confrontation then, with the proprietor 
standing bored, perhaps annoyed, would be too unpleasant. 
Anyway, the round metal top of the table was easily removed. 
Ernst tipped it, revealing the edges of the white metal legs, 
which were sharp with crystal rust. The water splashed to the 
paved floor of the patio, loudly, inelegantly. Ernst sighed; he 
had made another compromise with his manner. He had 
sacrificed style for comfort. In the city, it was an easy 
bargain. 

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The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

It is a matter of bodies, he said to himself, as though 
rehearsing bons mots for a cocktail party. We have grown 
too aware of bodies. Because we must carry them always 
from place to place, is that any reason to accord our bodies a 
special honor or affection? No, they are sacks only. Rather 
large, unpleasant, undisciplined containers for meager 
charges of emotion. We should all stop paying attention to 
our bodies demands. I don't know how.... He paused. The 
idea was stupid. He sipped the anisette. 

There were not more than twenty small tables on the Fe 
Blanche's patio. Ernst was the only patron, as he was every 
day until lunchtime. He and M. Gargotier had become close 
friends. At least, so Ernst believed. It was so comforting to 
have a place where one could sit and watch, where the 
management didn't eternally trouble about another drink or 
more coffee. Bien sr, the old man never sat with Ernst to 
observe the city's idlers or offer to test Ernst's skill at chess. 
In fact, to be truthful, M. Gargotier had rarely addressed a full 
sentence to him. But Ernst was an habitu, M. Gargotier's 
only regular customer, and for quite different reasons they 
both hoped the Fe Blanche might become a favorite meeting 
place for the city's literate and wealthy few. Ernst had 
invested too many months of sitting at that same table to 
move elsewhere now. 

A good way to remove a measure of the body's influence 
is to concentrate on the mind, he said. He gazed at the table 
top, which already was refilling with rainwater. When I 
review my own psychological history, I must admit to a 
distressing lack of moral sense. I have standards gleaned 

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from romantic novels and magistral decrees, standards which 
stick out awkwardly among my intellectual baggage like the 
frantic wings of a tethered pigeon. I can examine those 
flashes of morality whenever I choose, though I rarely bother. 
They are all so familiar. But all around them in my mind are 
the heavy, dense shadows of events and petty crimes. 

With a quick motion, Ernst emptied the table top once 
more. He sighed. There was Eugenie. I loved her for a time, 
I believe. A perfect name, a lesser woman. When the 
romance began, I was well aware of my moral sense. Indeed, 
I cherished it, worshiped it with an adolescent lover's fervor. I 
needed the constraints of society, of law and honor. I could 
only prove my worth and value within their severe limits. Our 
love would grow, I believed, fed by the bitter springs of 
righteousness. Ah, Eugenie! You taught me so much. I loved 
you for it then, even as my notion of purity changed, bit by 
bit, hour by hour. Then, when I fell at long last to my ardent 
ruin, I hated you. For so many years I hated you for your joy 
in my dismay, for the ease of your robbery and betrayal, for 
the entertainment I provided in my youthful terror. Now, 
Eugenie, I am at peace with your memory. I would not have 
understood in those days, but I am at last revenged upon 
you: I have achieved indifference. 

How sad, I think, for poor Marie, who came after. I loved 
her from a distance, not wishing ever again to be wounded on 
the treacherous point of my own affection. I was still foolish. 
Ernst leaned back in his chair, turning his head to stare 
across the small expanse of vacant tables. He glanced 
around; no one else had entered the caf. What could I have 

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The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

learned from Eugenie? Pain? No. Discomfort, then? Yes, but 
so? These evaluations, I hasten to add, I make from the 
safety of my greater experience and sophistication. 
Nevertheless, even in my yearling days I recognized that la 
belle E. had prepared me well to deal not only with her 
successors but with all people in general. I had learned to 
pray for another's ill fortune. This was the first great stain on 
the bright emblem of virtue that, at the time, still resided in 
my imagination. 

Marie, I loved you from whatever distance seemed 
appropriate. I was still not skillful in these matters, and it 
appears now that I judged those distances poorly. Finally, you 
gave your heart to another, one whose management of 
proximity was far cleverer than mine. I could not rejoice in 
your good fortune. I prayed fervently for the destruction of 
your happiness. I wished you and him the most total of all 
disasters, but I was denied. You left my life as you entered 
ita cold, distant dream. Yet before you left, you rehearsed 
me in the exercise of spite. 

He took a sip of the liqueur and swirled it against his 
palate. I've grown since then, of course, he said. I've 
grown and changed, but you're still there, an ugly spatter 
against the cleanness of what I wanted to be. With a sad 
expression he set the tumbler on the small table. Rain fell 
into the anisette, but Ernst was not concerned. 

This morning he was playing the bored expatriate. He 
smoked only imported cigarettes, his boxed filters 
conspicuous among the packs of Impers and Les Bourdes. He 
studied the strollers closely, staring with affected weariness 

8 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

into the eyes of the younger women, refusing to look away. 
He scribbled on the backs of envelopes that he found in his 
coat pockets or on scraps of paper from the ground. He 
waited for someone to show some interest and ask him what 
he did. I am just jotting notes for the novel, he would say, 
or Merely a sketch, a small poem. Nothing important. A 
transient joy mingled with regret. He watched the hotel 
across the square with a carefully sensitive expression, as if 
the view were really from the wind-swept cliffs of the English 
coast or the history-burdened martial plains of France. 
Anyone could see that he was an artist. Ernst promised 
fascinating stories and secret romantic insights, but somehow 
the passersby missed it all. 

Only thoughts of the rewards for success kept him at M. 
Gargotier's table. Several months previously, a poet named 
Courane had been discovered while sitting at the wicker bar 
of the Blue Parrot. Since then, Courane had become the 
favorite of the city's idle elite. Already he had purchased his 
own caf and held court in its several dank rooms. Stories 
circulated about Courane and his admirers. Exciting, 
licentious rumors grew up around the young man, and Ernst 
was envious. Ernst had lived in the city much longer than 
Courane. He had even read some of Courane's alleged poetry, 
and he thought it was terrible. But Courane's excesses were 
notorious. It was this that no doubt had recommended him to 
the city's weary nobility. 

Something about the city attracted the failed poets of the 
world. Like the excavation of Troy, which discovered layer 
upon layer, settlement built upon ancient settlement, the 

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The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

recent history of the civilized world might be read in the bitter 
eyes of the lonely men waiting in the city's countless cafs. 
Only rarely could Ernst spare the time to visit with his fellows, 
and then the men just stared silently past each other. They 
all understood; it was a horrible thing for Ernst to know that 
they all knew everything about him. So he sat in the Fe 
Blanche, hiding from them, hoping for luck. 

Ernst's city sat like a blister on the fringe of a great 
equatorial desert. The metropolitan centers of the more 
sophisticated nations were much too far away to allow Ernst 
to feel completely at ease. He built for himself a life in exile, 
pretending that it made no difference. But the provinciality of 
these people! The mountains and the narrow fertile plain that 
separated the city from the northern sea effectively divided 
him from every familiar landmark of his past. He could only 
think and remember. And who was there to decide if his 
recollections might have blurred and altered with repetition? 

Now, Eugenie. You had red hair. You had hair like the 
embers of a dying fire. How easy it was to kindle the blaze 
afresh. In the morning, how easy. The fuel was there, the 
embers burned hotly within; all that was needed was a little 
wind, a little stirring. Eugenie, you had red hair. I've always 
been weakened by red hair. 

Marie, poor Marie, your hair was black, and I loved it, too, 
for a time. And I'll never know what deftnesses and craft 
were necessary to fire your blood. Eugenie, the creature of 
flame, and Marie, the gem of ice. I confuse your faces. I can't 
recall your voices. Good luck to you, my lost loves, and may 
God bless. 

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The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

The city was an oven, a prison, an asylum, a veritable zoo 
of human aberration. Perhaps this worked in Ernst's favor; 
those people who did not have to hire themselves and their 
children for food spent their empty hours searching for 
diversion. The laws of probability suggested that it was likely 
that someday one of the patricians would offer a word to 
Ernst. That was all that he would need. He had the scene 
carefully rehearsed; he, too, had nothing else to do. 

The rain was falling harder. Through the drops, which 
made a dense curtain that obscured the buildings across the 
square, Ernst saw outlines of people hurrying. Sometimes he 
pretended that the men and, especially, the women were 
familiar, remnants of his abandoned life come by chance to 
call on him in his exile. Today, though, his head hurt and he 
had no patience with the game, particularly the 
disappointment at its inevitable conclusion. 

He finished the last of the anisette. Ernst rapped on the 
table and held the tumbler above his head. He did not look 
around; he supported his aching head with his other hand and 
waited. M. Gargotier came and took the tumbler from him. 
The rain fell harder. Ernst's hair was soaked and tiny rivulets 
ran down his forehead and into his eyes. The proprietor 
returned with the tumbler filled. Ernst wanted to think 
seriously, but his head hurt too much. The day before, he had 
devised a neat argument against the traditional contrast of 
city and Arcadian life in literature. Shakespeare had used it to 
great effect: the regulated behavior of his characters in town 
opposed to their irrational, comedic entanglements outside 
the city's gates. Somehow the present circumstance 

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The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

destroyed those myths. Somehow Ernst knew that he didn't 
want them destroyed, and he had his headache and the 
everlasting morning rain to preserve them another day. 

* * * * 

As the clock moved on toward midday, the rain stopped. 
Ernst leaned back in his chair and waited for the sun to draw 
pedestrians from their shelters. He signaled to M. Gargotier, 
and the proprietor brought a rag from the bar to mop the 
table. Ernst left his seat to check his appearance in the Fe 
Blanche's huge, cracked mirror. His clothes were still soaked, 
of course, and in the sudden afternoon heat they clung to him 
unpleasantly. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to give 
it a more raffish, rumpled look, but it was far too wet. M. 
Gargotier returned to his place behind the bar, ignoring Ernst. 
There were voices from the patio. Ernst sighed and gave up 
the bar's muggy darkness. 

Outside, the sun made Ernst squint. His headache began 
to throb angrily. He went back to his usual table, noticing the 
crowd that had collected beyond the caf's rusty iron railing. 
A few people had come into the Fe Blanche, preferring no 
doubt to witness the unknown spectacle from a more 
comfortable vantage. It was nearly time for Ernst to change 
from anisette to bingara, his afternoon refreshment, but M. 
Gargotier was busily serving the newcomers. Ernst waited 
impatiently, his tumbler of anisette once again empty. He 
stared at the backs of the people lining the sidewalk, unable 
for the moment to guess what had attracted them. 

Now, thought Ernst, if I look closely enough, I will be 
able to recognize the backsides of every person I've ever 

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The City on the Sand 

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known. How tedious the world becomes, once one realizes 
that everyone in it can be divided into a dozen or so groups. 
That young woman there, ah, a fairly interesting knot of black 
hair, attractive legs, a thick waist. If she were to turn around, 
her face would be no surprise. Heavy eyebrows, no doubt, full 
lips, her upper front teeth protruding just a little. Large 
breasts hanging, her shirt cut to expose them, but it is ten 
years too late for that. It is too boring. I have no interest 
even in seeing if I'm correct. 

Ernst smiled, realizing that he was deliberately avoiding 
any real observation. It was nonsense, of course, to think 
that twelve physical types might be enough to catalogue the 
shabby mass of people that filled the city. He had exhausted 
that particular entertainment, and rather quickly; what 
remained was the more tiresome prospect of actually 
describing the crowd. Perhaps M. Gargotier would arrive soon, 
interrupting the intellectual effort, scattering the energy, 
mercifully introducing a tiny but vital novelty. 

An interesting point, Ernst said aloud, imagining himself 
a lecturer before dozing students in some stifling European 
hall, a genuine philosophical point that we can all grasp and 
taste for truth, is that there is nothing in the world quite like 
the opportunity of seeing someone make an ass of himself. 
Free entertainment is, after all, the Great Leveler, not death, 
as we have often been told. In the case of death, the rich are 
often able to regulate its moment of victory, staving off the 
final instant for months, even years, with purchased miracles 
of medicine. The poor take what they are given. But free 
entertainment is democratic! No one may say when a 

13 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

spectacle may arise, may explode, may stumble. And then, 
when that moment comes, every man, rich or poor, must 
take advantage as best he can, elbowing aside the crowds all 
together at the same time. So, by sitting here, I have 
conquered them all, diversion and audience alike. And I can 
delude myself with my own analogies, considering death a 
lesser antagonist, and applaud my own immortality. 

In a while, Ernst heard a ragged ruffle of drums, and a 
high-pitched voice shouting orders. Only the Jaish, thought 
Ernst with disappointment. It was only the new Citizens 
Army; there would be little chance here to advance his 
position. He did not care for the local folk and their sudden 
and silly politics, and his own sort of people would not be long 
entertained by the fools parade. He called M. Gargotier in a 
loud, rude voice. Bring me some of that ugly Arab drink, he 
said. It's noon, isn't it? There was not a word from the 
proprietor, not a smile or a nod. 

The people on the sidewalk, however, were having a 
wonderful time. Ernst could hear the rattling of the snare 
drums playing a syncopated, unmilitary cadence. The several 
drummers had evidently not had much practice together; the 
strokes rarely fell in unison, and with a little attention one 
could identify the different styles of each man. The slapping 
of the marching feet against the rough stones of the 
pavement was likewise without precision. Ernst frowned, 
looking at his own frayed, stained suit. If things could be 
arranged according to merit, then certainly he would be 
granted a better situation than this. He remembered the 
white linen suit he had owned when he first came to the city. 

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The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

He had worn it proudly, contemptuous of the city's natives 
and their hanging, shapeless garments, all darkly sweat-
marked, torn, and foul. That suit had not lasted long. It, 
along with the white, wide-brimmed hat and his new boots, 
had been stolen within a week, while he indulged himself at 
the Sourour baths. He had never returned to that 
establishment, nor any other in the Arab quarter. Now he 
looked much like those he had disdained on his arrival, and, 
strangely, that brought him a certain pleasure as well. At 
least he didn't seem to be a mere newcomer. He had been 
initiated. He belonged, as all the cityful of mongrels belonged. 

So the time passed with Ernst trying mightily to ignore the 
exhibition in the street. Often the movements of the crowd 
opened spaces and he could see the garishly outfitted militia. 
The workmen and slaves of the city cheered them, and this 
made Ernst even more cheerless. He swallowed some of the 
local liquor in a gulp, holding the small wooden bowl on the 
flat of one palm. What good is that army? he wondered. The 
Jaish had no weapons. An army of no threats. And, beyond 
that, thought Ernst as he waved once more to M. Gargotier, 
they have no enemies. There is nothing on all of this damned 
sand but this single city. Just bread and circuses, he thought, 
observing the crowd's excitement. Just an entertainment for 
the groundlings. He had other, more important things to 
consider. 

Eugenie, he thought, magnificent horror of my youth, I 
would trade my eternal portion to have you with me now. 
How old you must be! How like these cheap dorsal identities I 
see before me, without personality, without more than the 

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The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

instantaneous appetites, without the barest knowledge of me. 
They, who have drifted here from the living world, have been 
charred slowly to that condition. They have greedily accepted 
their lot, their badge of grime, their aristo suppuration, their 
plebeian filth. They left Europe as I did, to change slowly and 
by degrees of privation, like a slow sunset of amnesia, into 
this life of utter exhaustion. Never again will my eyes, my 
nose and mouth, the wet hairs of my body be free of grit and 
sand. The wealthy and I have had to labor to attain such an 
existence. But you, Eugenie, you had it with you all the time. 
You would be queen here, Eugenie, but you would be as ugly 
as the rest. 

Ernst sipped more of the liqueur. He dipped three 
fingertips into it, and flicked the dark fluid at the backs of the 
people crowding against the railing. Spots formed on the 
clothing of a man and a girl. Ernst laughed; the too-loud 
noise sobered him for a moment. You'd be ugly, Eugenie, he 
said, and I'd be drunk. The heat of the African noon 
enveloped him, and the stillness made it difficult to breathe. 
Ernst struggled out of his old worn jacket, throwing it onto 
the chair across the small metal table from him. 

Marie, you don't matter. Not now. Not here. Africa would 
be perfect for Eugenie, but you, Marie, I picture your 
destruction among the million mirror shards of Paris or 
Vienna. So forget it, I'm talking to Eugenie. She would come 
right across that square, scattering the pigeons, the 
pedestrians, the damned army just the same, marching right 
across the square, right up to this caf, to my table, and stare 
down at me as if she had walked the Mediterranean knowing 

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where I was all the time. But it won't work again. She 

wouldn't have thought that I could catch up to her laughing 
crime, that I'd still be the same rhyming idiot I always was. 
And she'd be old, older than I, lined and wrinkled, leaning, 
tucked in, shaking just a bit in the limbs, aching just a bit in 
the joints, showing patches and patterns of incorrect color, 
purples on the legs, brown maculae on the arms, swirls and 
masses on the face beneath the surgery and appliances. Then 
what would I do? I would buy her a drink and introduce her to 
everyone I know. That would destroy her surely enough, 
speedily enough, satisfyingly enough, permanently enough. 
Oh, the hell with indifference. I really can't maintain it. Ernst 
laughed again and hoped some patrician in the Jaish's 
audience would turn around, bored by the mock military 
show, and ask Ernst what amused him. No one did. Ernst sat 
in glum silence and drank. 

He had been in the Fe Blanche all morning and no one, 
not even the most casual early strollers, had paused to wish 
him a good day. Should he move on? Gather material in 
another caf? Have a sordid experience in a disorderly house, 
get beaten up by a jealous gavroche? 

So, Sidi Weinraub! You sit out under all skies, eh? 

Ernst started, blinking and rapidly trying to recover his 
tattered image. Yes, Ieneth, you must if you want to be a 
poet. What is climate, to interfere with the creative process? 

The girl was young, perhaps not as old as seventeen. She 
was one of the city's very poor, gaunt with years of hunger 
and dressed in foul old clothes. But she was not a slaveshe 
would have looked better if she had been. She earned a trivial 

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living as a knife sharpener. Behind her she pulled a two-
wheeled cart, dilapidated and peeling, filled with tools and 
pieces of equipment. How does it go? she asked. 

Badly, admitted Ernst, smiling sadly and pulling a soggy 
bit of scrap paper from his pocket. My poem of yesterday lies 
still unfinished. 

The girl laughed. "Chi ama assai parla poco," she said. He 
who loves much says little. You spend too much time chasing 
the pretty ones, no? You do not fool me, yaa Sidi, sitting 
there with your solemn long face. Your poem will have to be 
finished while you catch your breath, and then off after 
another of my city's sweet daughters. 

You've seen right through me, Ieneth, said Ernst with a 
tired shrug. You're right, of course. One can't spend one's 
entire life chasing the Muse. Wooing the Muse, I mean. If you 
chase the Muse, you gain nothing. Wooing becomes a chief 
business. It's like anything elseyou get better with 
practice. He smiled, though he was dreadfully weary of the 
conversation already. The necessity of keeping up the 
pretense of sexual metaphor annoyed him. 

You are lucky, in a way, said the girl. Pity the poor 
butcher. What has he in his daily employment to aid him in 
the wooing? You must understand your advantage. 

Is there a Muse of Butchery? asked Ernst with a solemn 
expression. 

You are very clever, yaa Sidi. I meant, of course, in the 
wooing of a pretty girl. Were a butcher to approach me, a 
blood sausage in his hands, I would only laugh. That is not 
technique, yaa Sidi. That is uninspired. But these poems of 

18 


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yours are the product, as you say, of one kind of wooing, and 
moreover the weaponry of another sort. 

So poems still work their magic? asked Ernst, wondering 
if this meeting were, after all, better than simple boredom. 

For some young girls, I suppose. Do you favor many 
young girls with them? 

A sudden cry from the crowd on the sidewalk prevented 
Ernst's reply. He shook his head in disgust. Ieneth interpreted 
his expression correctly, looking over her shoulder for a few 
seconds. She turned back to him, leaning on the railing near 
his table. He, of course, could not invite her to join him. 
There were only two classes of people in the city, besides the 
slaves: the wealthy and those like Ieneth. She was forbidden 
by custom to intrude on her betters, and Ernst was certainly 
not the crusading sort to sweep aside the laws of delicacy. 
Anyway, he thought, her people had their own dives, and he 
surely wouldn't be made welcome in them. 

Ah, I see you disapprove of the Jaish, said Ieneth. At 
least your expression shows contempt, and its object must be 
either our army or myself. 

No, no, don't worry, I have nothing but affection for you, 
said Ernst. He was amazed by his facile speech; generally he 
would have been reduced to unpleasant sarcasm long before 
this. In point of fact, he felt even less than mere affection for 
the girl. He felt only recognition; he knew her as another 
resident of the city, with little to recommend her in any way. 
He didn't even feel lust for her. He rather wished that she'd 
go away. 

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Then it's the Jaish. That's a shame, really. There are 
several very nice gentlemen involved with it. She smiled 
broadly. Ernst felt certain that she would wink, slowly. She 
did. 

Ernst smiled briefly in return. I'm sure there are, he said. 
It's just that I'm not one of them, and I have no interest at 
all in making the acquaintance of any, and I wish they'd stop 
spoiling my afternoons with their juvenile tin-soldiery. 

You should see the larger story, said Ieneth. As long as 
they spend their time marching and carrying broom rifles, you 
will have no competition for the company of their mothers 
and daughters. 

You mistake me, said Ernst, though you flatter me 
unduly. Surely it is hopeless for such a one as I, with such, 
ah, cosmopolitan tastes. 

I would not agree, she whispered. Ernst became aware 
that he had been staring at her. She reached across the 
railing and touched him confidentially on the shoulder. The 
motion exposed her wonderful breasts completely. 

Ernst took a deep breath, forcing himself to look into her 
eyes. Do you know what I mean then? 

Certainly, she said, with an amused smile. She indicated 
her little wagon. I know that sometimes men want their 
scissors sharpened, and sometimes their appetites. And 
anyone may have a lucrative avocation, no? 

When I was young, there was an old man who ground 
scissors and sharpened knives. He had a cart very much like 
your own. 

20 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

There, you see? I am of the acquaintance of awhat shall 
I say?an organ grinder. 

I don't understand. 

Ieneth shook her head, laughing at his obtuseness. She 
motioned for him to come closer. He slid his chair nearer to 
the railing. She touched his arm at the elbow, trailing her 
fingers down his sleeve, across his hip, and, most lightly of 
all, over the bunched material at his crotch. I will meet you 
here in an hour? she asked softly. 

Ernst's throat was suddenly dry. I will be here, he said. 

* * * * 

A poem, thought Ernst. I need a poem. Nothing 
impresses the uneducated mind quite like rhymes. But it must 
be the right sort, or it will bring nothing but ruin and 
humiliation. How the women used to laugh at my romantic 
verses! How dismayed I was, left alone on the darkened 
balcony, holding the flimsy product of my innocent wit. The 
sonnet on the arch of her brow. Good God, how could I have 
done it? I wish I could return, go back to those iron moments, 
stand behind a curtain and listen to myself. I wonder if I 
would be amused. I cannot understand why those brainless 
princesses so easily dismissed me; they couldn't have been so 
plagued with clowns. I ought to have been kept as a 
refreshing antidote to dawning maturity. 

He took out a pen and began to compose on the back of a 
soiled napkin. The atmosphere of the Fe Blanche was not the 
best for the generation of poetry, he realized. But he also 
understood that the unknown recipient of his craft would be 
more awed by the simple fact of the poem than by any 

21 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

singular verbal charm. Surely no friend of Ieneth's could be 
sophisticated enough to appreciate anything but the grossest 
of street chants. In that case, all that was required was a 
quick collection of lines, without attention to musical values, 
arranged visually in a recognizably poetic way. The ink from 
the fountain pen blotted on the napkin, spreading rapidly and 
obscuring each letter, obliterating all sense and intention. 
Ernst cursed and crushed the paper into a ball, tossing it to 
the floor. 

My life would have been greatly different, Eugenie, if this 
had happened while I loved you. If I had only known enough 
to keep my mouth closed, to express myself only in abstract 
looks and gestures, so that it all might be disowned quickly as 
worldly nonsense. Wisdom does not necessarily come with 
age, only silence. And that is the greatest treasure of all. He 
returned his pen to his pocket and called for M. Gargotier. 

In the time it took for Ernst to drink two more bowls of 
bingara, the parade had ended. The crowd broke up, shouting 
new slogans which Ernst could not understand. The other 
patrons finished their drinks and departed, and the caf was 
again empty except for its single poet. The sun had marked 
noon and now, hotter still, moved down the sky just enough 
to hurt his eyes as he looked westward, across the street. 

West, thought Ernst, rocking restlessly in his chair. 
What absurd, empty thoughts does that bring to mind, to 
help pass this hour? One day after another. It gets to be so 
tedious. I should begin walking through this blighted city, 
through the wealthy sections clustered near this quarter, 
through the more populated tradesmen's quarter, through the 

22 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

filthy paupers streets, past the noisy, dangerous rim of utter 
human refuse just within the walls, beyond the city's gates 
and across the dunes. Then what? Then I would die in about 
twelve hours, burned by the noonday sun, chiseled by the 
windborne sand, frozen by Barid, the cold wind of night. 
Westward, toward the Atlantic, toward England and her 
debauched civilities. West, the direction of death, decay, 
finality, and poetic conclusions. Into Avalon. Perhaps if it 
weren't for Ieneth and her sly, snickering hints, I would 
wander off that way. Pack a picnic lunch, perhaps, and bake 
myself dead upon a hill of sand. I always dreamed of a heroic 
death, defending Eugenie's intermittent honor, or fighting for 
Marie's bemused favor. Gasping, I would lie upon the 
specified lap and the lady would weep. Her tears would 
restore my fleeing mortality. Then I would smile, as would 
Eugenie or Marie in her proper turn, amazed and joyful. A 
signal that would be for me to begin the dream anew. 
Another way of getting through the hours, though much too 
unfulfilling for my present needs. 

Ernst watched the clock on the hotel impatiently. The 
pedestrians moved by in their aimless courses, and each 
ticked off a few seconds on the yellow clock face. Yet the 
traffic was too sluggish to move the clock's iron hands quickly 
enough to suit Ernst, and thus could not beguile his furious 
anticipation. 

It was while Ernst was silent in thought, staring at the 
damned clock, lost in his own strange expectant horror, that 
someone moved a chair to his table and joined him. He 
looked up, startled. The intruder was a tall, thin Polish man 

23 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

named Czerny, a wealthy man who had come to the city a 
political refugee and who had made his fortune by teaching 
the city's hungry inhabitants to require the luxuries of Europe. 
Ernst had been introduced to Czerny a few times, but neither 
had been overly taken with the other's company. 

Good afternoon, M. Weintraub, said Czerny. Although 
there are a number of tables free, I have preferred to join 
you. I hope you will forgive my rather forward behavior. 

Ernst waved away the apology, more curious about 
Czerny's motives. He did realize that the blond man was the 
founder of the Jaish, the Citizens Army, and its principal 
financial support. His appearance after its show was not mere 
happenstance. 

I'd like to speak with you for a moment, if I may, M. 
Weintraub, said Czerny. 

That's Weinraub, without the t. Certainly. Would you care 
for a drink? 

Czerny smiled his commercial smile. No, thank you. This 
new religion of mine doesn't allow it. But look, M. Weinraub, I 
wonder if you realize the service you could render, in the time 
you spend idly here? 

Ernst was slightly annoyed. Surely Czerny wanted 
something, and his patronizing attitude wasn't going to help 
him get it. What service do you mean, Monsieur Czerny? I 
doubt if I have anything that you might envy. 

It is your talent. As you know, the Jaish is still small in 
numbers, even smaller in resources. I have been doing my 
limited best to help, but for our purposes even all my savings 
would be too little. 

24 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

Ernst finished half a bowl of the liquor in one swallow. He 
raised his hand for M. Gargotier. What are these purposes? 
he asked. 

Why, liberty for all, of course, said Czerny, disappointed 
that Ernst had need to ask. We distribute leaflets at all 
parades. Surely you've seen them. 

Yes, said Ernst, but not read them. 

Ah, well. Perhaps if they were composed in a better 
style.... 

Might I ask who has the task now? 

A young man of great promise, said Czerny proudly. 
Sandor Courane. 

Ernst leaned back, lifting the front two legs of his chair off 
the pavement. M. Czerny, he said slowly, that is very 
interesting, but I must embarrassedly admit that you have 
chosen an inopportune time for this interview. This afternoon 
I have something of an assignation, and so.... Ernst settled 
his chair, smiled drunkenly, and shrugged. 

Czerny looked angry. He rose from his seat. M. 
Weintraub, I will return later. I believe it is time that you 
considered such matters as duty and honor. Perhaps this 
evening you will be more of a mind to discuss this. Good day, 
and have a gratifying ... assignation. 

Weinraub, whispered Ernst, as Czerny strode away. 
Without the t." 

Czerny walked swiftly along the eastern edge of the square 
until he came to a parked limousine. It was one of the very 
few automobiles in the city; Ernst did not doubt that it was 
Czerny's private car. The driver got out and handed Czerny a 

25 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

gray uniform coat, taking the wealthy man's more 
expensively cut jacket in return. Ah, thought Ernst, at least 
I rated a change of clothing. We shall see whether or not the 
same thing happens this evening. It is sad that so frequently 
the scheme of great men may be deciphered by such paltry 
tokens. Czerny put on his uniform coat and waited until the 
driver opened the rear door of the limousine for him. Then he 
entered; the driver walked around the car and disappeared 
inside. In a moment the vehicle moved slowly away from the 
curb, its siren crying shrilly and the pennants of the Jaish 
whipping in the breeze. The car drove down the length of the 
square, turned along the north side, and went on for a short 
distance. Then it stopped again, and Czerny spoke with two 
figures on the sidewalk. From that distance Ernst could not 
recognize them. 

If I were you, Czerny, he thought, I would not involve 
myself too deeply with the people of this city. There is always 
the danger that you may find people to like or, most deadly of 
all, to love. What should you do, having fallen in love with 
some rare woman, and then find yourself betrayed? Ah, I 
anticipate your outraged reply. We are both too far along to 
have that happen to us again. Perhaps you are right, though 
one can never be too careful. But what if you are not 
betrayed, eh, Czerny? What then? No final demarcations, 
however painful. You have forgotten that. Nothing to chop it 
off before weariness sets in. Lifetimes go by that way, 
Czerny. Boredom and angry frustration are only the first 
symptoms. No mistresses for you, no other men's wives, no 
playful daughters of police commissioners. We find that we 

26 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

need them, sooner or later. And that is the first of the body's 
spasms of death. Years, years, years in this city, with the 
same faces, yours and hers. Years, years, years. Do not stop 
for them, Czerny. Tend to your army. 

Czerny's car drove away, and after a few moments Ernst 
saw that one of the two people walking toward him was the 
girl, Ieneth, without her knife-sharpening equipment. With 
her was another girl, taller and darker. Ernst rose from his 
chair by the railing, and the two girls joined him at his table. 

M. Gargotier, evidently expecting that Ernst would soon 
depart, did not come to take an order. He stood glaring in the 
bar's doorway, obviously resenting the presence of the two 
lower-class women. Ernst made a flamboyant gesture to 
summon the proprietor. He switched his drinking to absinthe, 
and the girls ordered wine. 
What is her name, Ieneth? he asked, staring at the new 
girl. She looked shyly at the table. 

She is called Ua. In her language it means flower. She 
does not understand our speech. 

How charming she is, and how lovely her name. Truly a 
flower. Convey to her my sincerest compliments. Ieneth did 
so. What language is that? asked Ernst. 

It is a strange dialect, spoken by the black people beyond 
the desert and the mountains. It is called Swahili. 

Black people? How interesting. I have only heard stories. 
They actually exist? 

Yes, yaa Sidi, said Ieneth. 

And how did she learn the tongue? And you, also, for that 

matter? 

27 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

Ieneth closed her eyes, fluttering her painted lashes, and 
smiled. 
Ernst turned to Ua. What is this called? he said, pointing 

to her foot. Ieneth translated, and Ua replied. 
"Mguu," she said. 
And this? said Ernst, pointing now to her ankle. 

"Kifundo cha mguu." 

What is this? 
"Jicho." Eye. 
How do you say mouth'? 


"Kinywa." 

Ernst sipped his drink nervously, although he labored to 

seem casual and urbane. This? he asked. 
"Mkono." Arm. 
This? Ernst's fingers lingered on her breast, feeling the 

rough material of the brassiere beneath the cotton blouse. 
Ua blushed. "Ziwa," she whispered. 
She is indeed very lovely, Ernst said. 
And worthy of reward for her, ah, agent? asked Ieneth. 
Certainly, said Ernst absently, as he moved his hand 

down past Ua's stomach, stopping at the juncture of her 
thighs. Now, my love, what could this be? 
Ua said nothing, staring at the table. She blushed fiercely 

while she played with the base of her wineglass. 
Ask her what the word for this is, he said. Ieneth did so. 
"Mkunga," Ua said at last, removing Ernst's hand. 
Ieneth laughed shrilly, clapping her hands. Tears ran down 

her cheeks as she rose from her seat. Ah, your cosmopolitan 
tastes! she said. 

28 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

What is so amusing? asked Ernst. 

"Mkunga!" said Ieneth. "Mkunga is the word for eel. Oh, 
enjoy your hour together, yaa Sidi. You and she will have 
much to discuss! And she went out of the caf, laughing as 
she walked away from Ernst's disconcerted and savage glare. 

* * * * 

It was late afternoon, and already the sun was melting 
behind the hotel across the street. Ernst sipped wine now, for 
he appreciated the effect of the slanting sun's rays on the 
rich, dark liquid. He had discovered this by accident when he 
had first come to the city, strolling along the walled quarter's 
single, huge avenue. He had seen the red shimmers reflecting 
on the impassive face of a shopworn working girl. How much 
better, he had thought then, how much better it would be to 
have that singularly fortunate play of light grace a true poet. 

It may be a bit naive of me, nonetheless, he thought. 
After all, if these loiterers of the city lack the verbal 
sophistication to appreciate the verses themselves, how can I 
expect them to have any greater regard for the wielder of the 
pen? But I must defeat that argument by ignoring it if by no 
more rigorous means. I cannot allow myself to be pulled 
down into the intellectual miasma of these Afric prisoners. 
The sun must burn out all wonder and delight at an early age; 
it is only we unlucky travelers who can deplore their sand-
worn ignorance. He took some more of the wine and held it 
in his mouth until he began to feel foolish. He swallowed it 
and pushed the glass away. 

While Ernst sat there, sucking the taste of the wine from 
his teeth, a young boy walked by on the sidewalk. He was 

29 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

small, nearly hairless, and quite obviously had strayed from 
the neighborhood of his parents. He stopped when he saw 
Ernst. Are you not Weinraub the wanderer, from Europe? 

I am, said Ernst. I have been, for some time. Has my 
fame then spread as far as your unwashed ears? 

I have heard much about you, yaa Sidi, said the boy. I 
never believed that I'd really see you. 

And are your dreams confirmed? 

Not yet, said the boy, shaking his head. Do you really 
kiss other men? 

Ernst spat at the boy, and the dark boy laughed, dancing 
into the street, hopping back on the sidewalk. Come here, 
said Ernst, and I'll wrap this chair around your skinny neck. 

It was only a joke, yaa Sidi, said the boy, not the least 
afraid. 

A joke. How old are you? 

I am nine, yaa Sidi. 

Then you should know the danger of mocking your 
betters. I have the power to do you great harm: I may draw a 
picture of you. I may touch you with my left hand. Your 
mother will beat you dead when she hears. 

You are wrong, said the boy, laughing again. You are a 
Nazarene, yes, or a Jew. But I am no rug-squatter. Touch me 
with your left hand, yaa Sidi, and I will gnaw it off. Do you 
wish me to fetch your supper? I will not charge you this 
time. 

I tend to doubt your offer. In any event, I have a regular 
boy who brings my food. What is your name, you young 
criminal? 

30 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

I am Kebap, said the boy. It means roast beef in the 
language of Turkey. 

I can see why, said Ernst dryly. You will have to work 
hard to take the place of my regular boy, if you want this 
job. 

I am sorry, said Kebap. I have no wish to perform that 
kind of service. Then he ran away, shouting insults over his 
shoulder. 

Ernst stared after him, his fists clenching. Ieneth will pay 
for her joke, he thought. If only I could find a vulnerable 
spot in these people. Without possessions, inured against 
discomfort, hoping for nothing, they are difficult indeed to 
punish. Perhaps that is the reason I have stayed in this 
capital of lice so long. No other reason comes quickly to 
mind. 

He sipped his wine and stared at the smudged handwriting 
on a scrap of paper: an ebauche of his trilogy of novels. He 
had done the rough outline so long ago that he had forgotten 
its point. But he was certain that the reflected light from the 
wineglass shifted to good effect on the yellowed paper, too. 

This was the trilogy that was going to make my 
reputation, thought Ernst sadly. I remember how I had 
planned to dedicate the first volume to Eugenie, the second to 
Marie, and the third... ? I can't remember, after all. It has 
been a long time. I cannot even recall the characters. Ah, 
yes, here. I had stolen that outstanding, virtuous fool, 
d'Aubont, put a chevalier's outfit on him, taken off his 
mustache, and renamed him Gerhardt Friedlos. How the 
fluttering feminine hearts of Germany, Carbba, France, and 

31 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

England were to embrace him, if hearts are capable of such a 
dexterous feat. Friedlos. Now I remember. And there is no 
further mystery as to why I can't recall the plot. It was 
nothing. Mere slashings of rapier, mere wooings of maid, 
mere tauntings of coward. One thousand pages of adolescent 
dreams, just to restore my manly figure. Beyond the 
dedications, did I not also represent Eugenie and Marie with 
fictional characters? I cannot read this scrawl. Ah, yes. 
Eugenie is disguised in volume one as the red-haired 
Marchioness Fajra. She is consumed in a horrible holocaust as 
her outraged tenants wreak their just revenge. Friedlos 
observes the distressing scene with mixed emotions. In 
volume two, he consoles himself with the contrasting charms 
of Marie, known in my novel as the maid Malvarma, who 
pitiably froze to death on the great plain of Breulandy rather 
than acknowledge her secret love. Friedlos comes upon her 
blue and twisted corpse and grieves. I am happy, I am very, 
very happy that I never wrote that trash. 

Ernst took his short, fat pencil and wrote in the narrow 
spaces left to him on the scrap. My scalp itches, he wrote. 
When I scratch it, I break open half-healed sores. I have a 
headache; behind my right eye my brain throbs. My ears are 
blocked, and the canals are swollen deep inside, as though 
large pegs had been hammered into them. My nostrils drip 
constantly, and the front of my face feels as if it has been 
filled with sand. My gums bleed, and my teeth communicate 
with stabbing pains. My tongue is still scalded from the 
morning tea. My throat is dry and sore. This catalogue 
continued down the margins of the paper, and down his body, 

32 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

to end with, My arches cramp up at regular intervals, 

whenever I think about them. My toes are cut and painful on 
the bottom and fungused and itching between. And now I 
believe that it pains me to piss. But this last symptom bears 
watching; it is not confirmed. 

On a napkin ringed with stains of chocolate and coffee, 
Ernst began another list, parallel to the first. The very 
continents shudder with the fever chills of war. Europe, my 
first home so far away, cringes in the dark sickroom between 
the ocean and the Urals. Asia teeters into the false 
adolescence of senility, and is the more dangerous for it. 
Breulandy rises in the north and east, and who can tell of her 
goals and motives? South of the city, Africa slumbers, hungry 
and sterile, under the cauterizing sun. The Americas? Far too 
large to control, too broken to aid us now. 

Oh, and whom do I mean by us"? The world is fractured 
so that we no longer know anything but self. My self finds 
symptoms everywhere, a political hypochondriac in exile. 
Perhaps if I were still in the numbing academic life of old, I 
would see none of this; l'ozio  la sepoltura dell'uomo vivo  
"inactivity is the tomb of the vital man. I have time to make 
lists now. 

Of course he found sad significance in the two inventories 
when he completed them. He shook his head sorrowfully and 
stared meditatively at his wineglass, but no one noticed. 

Ernst folded the paper with his trilogy synopsis and the 
first list, and returned it to his pocket. He skimmed through 
the second list again, though. I have time to make lists 
now,' he read. What does that mean? Who am I trying to 

33 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

distress? Just beyond the railing, on the sidewalk bordering 
the Fe Blanche, sat Kebap, the little boy named roast beef. 
The boy was grinning. 

Allo, Sidi Weinraub. I'm back. I've come to haunt you, 
you know. 

You're doing a fine job, said Ernst. Do you know 
anything of poetry? 

I know poetry, said the boy. I know what Sidi Courane 
writes. That's poetry. That's what everyone says. Do you 
write poetry, too? 

I did, said Ernst, in my youth. 

It is lucky, then, that I cannot read, said Kebap. He 
grinned again at Ernst, evilly. I see that your usual boy 
hasn't yet brought your supper. 

Why are you called roast beef'? I doubt if you've ever 
seen any in your whole life. 

One of my uncles called me that, said the boy. He said 
that's what I looked like when I was born. 

Do you have a lot of uncles? asked Ernst maliciously. 

Kebap's eyes opened very wide. Oh, certainly, he said 
solemnly. Sometimes a new one every day. My mother is 
very beautiful, very wise, and often very silent. Would you 
like to meet her, yaa Sidi? 

Not today, you little thief. Ernst held up the annotated 
napkin. I'm very busy. 

Kebap snorted. Certainly, yaa Sidi. Of course. Then he 
ran away. 

Good evening, M. Weinraub. It was Czerny, still dressed 
in his gray uniform of the Citizens Army. Ernst saw that the 

34 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

tunic was without decoration or indication of rank. Perhaps 
the Jaish was still so small that the men had only a handful of 
officers in the whole organization. And here was the man 
again, to persuade him that the whole situation was not 
foolish, after all. 

You are a man of your word, M. Czerny, said Ernst. Will 
you join me again? Have a drink? 

No, I'll pass that up, said Czerny as he seated himself at 
Ernst's table. I trust your appointment concluded 
satisfactorily? 

Ernst grunted. It became evident that he would say 
nothing more. Czerny cursed softly. Look, he said, I don't 
want to have to go through all these stupid contests of yours. 
This isn't amusing any longer. You're going to have to choose 
sides. If you're not with us, you're against us. 

Perhaps it was the heat of the afternoon, or the amount of 
liquor he had already consumed, or the annoying events of 
the day, but Ernst refused to allow Czerny the chance to 
make a single argumentative point. It was not often that 
someone came to Ernst with a request, and he was certainly 
going to enjoy it fully. That in doing so he would have to 
disappoint and even antagonize Czerny made little difference. 
If Czerny wanted Ernst's help badly enough, Czerny would 
return. And if Czerny didn't mean what he said, then, well, he 
deserved everything Ernst could devise. 

Ernst was amused by the man's grave talk. He couldn't 
understand the urgency at all. Who are you going to fight? I 
don't see it. Maybe if you paid them enough, you could hire 
some nomad tribe. But it's still a good distance to ask them to 

35 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

ride just for a battle. Or maybe if you split your tiny bunch in 
half, one part could start a civil uprising and the other part 
could put it down. But I really just want to watch. 

We will get nowhere, Monsieur, said Czerny in a tight, 
controlled voice, until you cease treating my army as a toy 
and our cause as a tilting at windmills. 

My good Czerny, said Ernst slowly, you reveal quite a 
lot when you say my army. You reveal yourself, if you 
understand me. You divulge yourself. You display yourself, do 
you see? You expose yourself. There, I see that I must say it 
plainly. You expose yourself, but in this locality, at this time, 
that seems to be a most commendable form of expression. 

Damn it, you are an idiot! I'm not asking you to be a dirty 
goundi. We can get plenty of infantry just by putting up 
notices. If we could afford to pay them. If we could afford the 
notices. But intelligence is at a premium in this city. We need 
you and the others like you. I promise you, you'll never have 
to carry a rifle or face one. But you have to be man enough to 
cast your lot with us, or we'll sweep you aside with the rest of 
the old ways. 

Rhetoric, Czerny, rhetoric! said Ernst, giggling. I came 
here to get away from all that. Leave me alone, will you? I sit 
here and get drunk. I don't mess with you while you play 
soldiers. I'm not any more useful than you, but at least I 
don't bother anybody. He looked around, hoping that some 
diversion might arise to rescue him. There was nothing. 
Perhaps he might cause enough of a row with Czerny that M. 
Gargotier would ask that they both leave; the danger with 
that plan was that Czerny would be sure to invite Ernst 

36 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

somewhere, some place where Czerny and his Jaish held an 
edge. Well, then, something simpler was necessary. Perhaps 
the young nuisance would return. With any luck, the boy 
would change his target; Czerny would be in no mood to 
ignore Kebap. Still, that didn't seem likely either. 

Czerny banged the little table with his fist. The table's 
metal top flipped off its three legs, dumping Ernst's wineglass 
to the ground. Czerny didn't appear to notice. He talked on 
through the crashing of the table and the breaking of the 
glass. Useful? You want to talk about useful? Have you ever 
read anything about politics? Economics? You know what 
keeps a culture alive? 

Yes, said Ernst sullenly, while M. Gargotier cleaned up 
the mess. People not bothering other people. 

A good war every generation or so, said Czerny, ignoring 
Ernst, seeing him now as an enemy. We've got authorities. 
Machiavellihe said that the first cause of unrest in a nation 
is idleness and peace. That's all this city has ever known, and 
you can see the results out there. Czerny waved in the 
direction of the street. All that Ernst could see was a young 
woman in a short leather skirt, naked from the waist up. She 
met his glance and waved. 

Ah, thought Ernst, it has been a long time since I've 
been able just to sit and watch those lovely girls. It seems 
that one should have thought to do that, without fear of 
interruption. But there is always war, disease, jealousies, 
business, and hunger. I have asked for little in my life. 
Indeed, all that I would have now is a quiet place in the 
Faubourg St. Honor to watch the Parisian girls. Instead, here 

37 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

I am. Observing that single distant brown woman is infinitely 
preferable to listening to Czerny's ranting. Ernst smiled at 
the half-naked woman; she turned away for a moment. A 
small boy was standing behind her. The woman whispered in 
the boy's ear. Ernst recognized the boy, of course; the boy 
laughed. It would not be long before Kebap learned that even 
industry and enterprise would avail him nothing in that 
damned city. 

You cannot afford silence, Czerny was saying loudly. 

I hadn't realized your concerns had gotten this involved, 
said Ernst. I really thought you fellows were just showing off, 
but it's a great deal worse than that. Well, I won't disturb 
you, if that's what you're worried about. I still don't see why 
you're so anxious to have me. I haven't held a rifle since my 
partridge-shooting days in Madrid. 

You aren't even listening, said Czerny, his voice shrill 
with outrage. 

No, I guess I'm not. What is it again that you want? 

We want you to join us. 

Ernst smiled sadly, looking down at his new glass of wine. 
I'm sorry, he said, I don't make decisions anymore. 

Czerny stood up. He kicked a shard of the broken 
wineglass into the street. You're wrong, he said. You've 
just made a very bad one. 

* * * * 

Dusk settled in on the shoulders of the city. The poor of 
the city happily gave up their occupations and hurried to their 
homes to join their families for the evening meal. Along the 
city's avenues, merchants closed their shops and locked gated 

38 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

shutters over display windows. The wealthy few considered 
the entertainments and casually made their choices. The 
noises of the busy day stilled, until Ernst could hear the bugle 
calls and shouted orders of the Jaish as it drilled beyond the 
city's walled quarter. The day's liquor had had its desired 
effect on him, and so the sounds failed to remind him of 
Czerny's anger. 

There seem to be no birds in this city, thought Ernst. 
That is reasonable. For them to abide in this vat of cultural 
horrors, they must first fly over that great, empty, dead world 
beyond the gates. Sand. What a perfect device to excise us 
from all hope of reentering the world. We are shut up like 
lepers, in a colony across the sand, and easily, gratefully 
forgotten. The process of forgetting is readily learned. First 
we are forgotten by our families, our nations. Then we are 
forgotten by those we've hated, our enemies in contiguous 
countries. At last, when we have alighted here in our final 
condition, we forget ourselves. Children must be hired to walk 
the streets of this city, reminding us of our names and our 
natures, otherwise we should disappear entirely, as we have 
dreamed and prayed for so many years. But that, after all, is 
not the reason we have been sent here. We have come not to 
die, but to exist painfully apart. Death would be a cleansing 
for us, a discourtesy to our former friends. 

Ernst looked around him. The twilight made pleasant 
shadows on the stone-paved street surrounding the square. 
Some of the shadows moved. Hey! shouted Ernst 
experimentally. The shadows burst, flew up, flapped away in 
many directions. Pigeons, thought Ernst. I forgot pigeons. 

39 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

But that hardly ruins my thesis. Pigeons are a necessity in a 
city. They were sitting here, asleep on the sand, when the 
first parched exiles arrived on the spot. The abundantly 
foolish idea of building a town must have occurred to those 
unwanted knaves only after seeing the pigeons. 

The city was certainly one of immigrants, Ernst thought. As 
he had escaped from a crazy Europe, so had Czerny. So had 
Sandor Courane. Ieneth and her false flower, Ua, had fled 
from some mysterious wild empire. Could it be that every 
person sheltered within the city's granite walls had been born 
elsewhere? No, of course not; there must be a large native 
population. These must be the ones most stirred by the 
absurd wrath of the Jaish, for who else had enough interest? 
Ernst lived in the city only because he had nowhere else to 
go. He had stopped briefly in Gelnhausen and the nearby 
village of Frachtdorf. From Bremen he had sailed to the 
Scandinavian settlements that bordered the northern sea. He 
had resided for short times in England and France, but those 
nations murderous nationalism made him run once more. 
Each time he settled down, it was in a less comfortable 
situation. Here on the very lip of Africa, the city was the final 
hope of those who truly needed to hide. 

Ernst had often tried to write poems or short, terse essays 
about the city, but each time he had given up in failure. He 
couldn't seem to capture the true emotions he experienced, 
feelings different in subtle, unpoetic ways from the vaguely 
similar emotions he had known while living in Europe. The 
poems could not reflect the pervasive sense of isolation, of 
eternal uncleanness, of a soul-deep loss of personality; these 

40 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

things descended upon a European, only hours after arriving 
at the dune-guarded gates of the city. 

He had early on made the mistake of showing some of 
these frustrated scribblings to M. Gargotier. The proprietor 
had read them politely, muttering the words under his breath 
as he traced his progress down the page with a grimy finger. 
When he finished, he had handed the paper back to Ernst 
without a word, and stood silently, evidently uncomfortable 
but unwilling to make a final judgment. Soon Ernst stopped 
asking M. Gargotier to read them, and both men seemed 
happier for it. 

A small voice whispered behind Ernst. It was Kebap, the 
young fraud. I know of another city like this one, said the 
boy. It was in Armenia. Of course, there wasn't sand all 
around to keep us in. This town was imprisoned by its own 
lack of identity. There were perhaps five thousand Turks living 
there, of which several may have been my true father. 
Indeed, several hardly does justice to the whiteness of my 
mother's eyes, or the perfection of her skin, at least in those 
days of a decade past. But I must be modest in all accounts, 
so that later claims may be made with greater hope of 
acceptance. 

You are wise beyond your years, Kebap, said Ernst sadly. 

That is not difficult at the age of nine, said the boy. 
Nevertheless, I continue. There were perhaps half again as 
many Armenians, and some Greeks. Persians passed through 
often, bearing objects which they could not sell. These men 
rode on the backs of bad-smelling horses and camels of a 

41 


The City on the Sand 

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worse reputation, and we always deviled them continuously 
until they departed again. 

The houses in this Armenian wonder had flat roofs above 
stone walls, and it was the custom to grow grass upon the 
roofs. Naturally, with the best fodder in the neighborhood up 
there, our sheep and calves grazed above our heads. When 
we stood on the hillsides not far from this town, the houses 
were invisible against the surrounding plain. I forget what the 
name of this city was. One day my mother and several of my 
uncles took me on a long walk; we packed a lunch of cold 
meat and water, for the Persians had arrived early that 
morning and we wanted to escape their presence. We climbed 
far into the hills so that it was almost time for evening wagib 
when we stopped. I was asleep, carried by an uncle, on the 
return journey. I was told the next day that our city could not 
be found. Every time a herd of sheep was investigated, it was 
discovered to be firmly on the ground, not upon our familiar 
rooftops. We wandered the hills and the nearby country for 
weeks, searching for that disguised city. At last, we arrived 
here. 

Your strategy was shrewd, Kebap, said Ernst. That is 
very difficult to believe. 

It is fully documented. 

I shall have to examine your records someday. Ernst 
turned to see the boy, but there was no one there. He is a 
quick monster indeed, thought Ernst. 

Night crept westward, sweeping more of Africa under her 
concealing shroud. Ernst sat at his table with his bits of paper 
and his little supper of cheese and apples. Around him the 

42 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

city prepared for night but he didn't care. Customarily each 
evening after dinner he declared the day productive; arriving 
at this point, he ordered Scotch whisky and water. 

It is time to relax now, thought Ernst. It is time to pack 
away for the day the tedious, essential hatreds and hopes. It 
is time to sit back and bring out my informal thoughts. How I 
am growing to despise these memories even more than I 
despise their subjects. The very issue of my thoughts is soiled 
by this city, so that had I known the dearest saint of Rome in 
my youth, I could not think on her now with anything but 
scorn and malice. I am not interested by my musings, and 
their temper is becoming too acid for my dispassionate self. 

Eugenie, you seem to be suffering the most, though even 
now, at this unofficial time of day, I can still summon up 
nothing but a tepid dislike. You must hold a special position of 
disfavor in my heart; that is your fate, grow used to it. Marie, 
you look lovely tonight. A constellation of false memories 
enriches you. If I do not look at them too closely, I can 
successfully pretend a few moments of joy. Permit me this 
indulgence, Marie. I will do the same for you, if ever I'm given 
the opportunity. 

The people on the sidewalk were rushing by now, their 
faces marked by an intensity of purpose that was never 
apparent during the day's business hours. Despite Ernst's 
glum appraisal, the city held many sorts of wonderful things, 
nonetheless, things rare in Europe and prized by the slaves 
and the poor. For instance, there was a large colony of 
artists, and their pottery and sculpture had a certain 
reputation beyond the walls of the city, though not so great 

43 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

that it attracted either merchants or collectors. Ernst was 
bored by clay pots, and he had little enough of his own art to 
offer in trade. At this time of day, the craftsmen of the city 
would be heading for the bars with their day's earnings, eager 
for the less tangible beauties of wine and poetry. 

The citizens of this place of oblivion chased amusement 
relentlessly, as a plague victim might follow a hapless doctor 
in hope of miracles. At night, with only the cold cosmetic of 
moonlight, the city slipped on a shabby mask of gaiety, but 
no one criticized. Ernst smiled to himself, nodded to the grim-
faced celebrants, observed in a clinical fashion the desperate 
pursuit of diversion. 

It was a dangerous thing to pray that a lasting release 
might be had from the day's troubles. Each day was so like 
the previous day that the pleasures pilfered during the night 
cheapened with the sun's rising. It was as hopeless a thing as 
the Bridge of the Mad Berber, who cried for many years to the 
people of the city that a bridge be builta gigantic bridge, the 
world's largest suspension bridge, an engineering marvel to 
catch the imagination of all civilized peoples. It would rise 
from the north gate of the city, span the immense waste of 
sand, cross the distant range of mountains, the narrow strip 
of coastal plain, the rolling leagues of the sea, to end at last, 
abruptly, curiously, on the island of Malta. It would be a 
hardship, indeed, for anyone traveling along that bridge. The 
Mad Berber chose Malta as the terminus evidently only 
because that island had been the birthplace of his mother. 

Many of the people hurried along the street to the south, 
toward the Chinese quarter, where another eccentric resident 

44 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

of the city, a weary, stranded Breulen duke, had long ago 
built a fantastic parody of various memorable sections of 
Singapore. Like many things in the city, this dollop of Asia 
seemed romantic at first, but soon distressed the observer 
with a richness of unwholesome detail. The Breulen nobleman 
had loved Singapore, the story went, or, at least according to 
other accounts, had been fascinated by written descriptions 
and never actually visited the island at all. In any event, he, 
like so many others of his class, at last took up residence in 
the lonely African city. His project to reproduce the more 
spectacular attributes of Singapore was no less insane than 
the Mad Berber's bridge, but in this case the duke had the 
wealth to accomplish his goal. 

That had been many years ago, and now the false 
Singapore wore the decaying garments that clothed all the 
rest of the city. The imitation Tiger Balm Gardens were 
uncared fora tangle of brittle growths perverted from their 
natural forms by the arid climate, the heat, and the genius of 
the city itself. There was a tumbling-down replica of the 
Raffles Hotel, but there was no mystery there, merely the 
scorpions scuttling across the littered parquet. Street dining 
stalls after the Singapore fashion once dominated a narrow 
alley, which was now used as a public open-air toilet. The 
Breulen duke died during the construction of a likeness of 
Singapore's Happy World; he was to have been buried 
beneath the joget platform, but his corpse was lost and never 
found again. 

Following the street to the north, the strollers would reach 
the city's quarter, where replicas of more familiar scenes from 

45 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

other lands dug at their buried homesickness. Ernst could see 
the brightly colored strings of lights go on, shining through 
the gaps between trees and buildings, diffused by mist and 
distance. 

A canal ran parallel to the avenue toward the northern 
gates of the city. On its west bank were restaurants, bars, 
and casinos. Women danced naked in all of them. Diamonds 
were sold by old men in tents, and every building had a few 
young whores in the front window. There were areas set aside 
for dozens of different sports: bocci, tennis, and miniature 
golf facilities were the most popular. The large marketplace 
was lit by torches. All goods available within the city were 
also on sale here, at higher prices: fine leather goods; lace; 
gold and silverware; expensive woods made into furniture, 
alone or in combination with steel or plastic; perfumes; silks; 
rugs; every sort of luxury. 

Floodlights went on, illuminating models of the ruins of 
Rome Staeca and Athens. The replica of the Schloss Brhl 
opened its gates, complete with exact representations of the 
ceiling paintings of Nicholas Stber, and the furnishings in 
white and gold of the dining room, music room, and state 
bedroom upstairs. Other European landmarks were 
reproduced in bewildering combinations, but Ernst had only 
heard stories. He had never seen any of this. He preferred 
rather to spend his evenings dedicated to serious drinking. 

* * * * 
Allo again, Sidi Weinraub, man of mysterious desires, 
whispered a thin voice. 

46 


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Allo to you, Kebap, youngest scoundrel, apprentice felon. 
My desires are not so hidden after all. It is only that you will 
not open your eyes to them. My most supreme desire, at this 
particular unpleasant moment, is to have you sunken to your 
lice-ridden ears in that vast ocean of sand. 

That will happen to me, no doubt, said the boy. That is 
the sort of thing that occurs to people like me, who have 
chosen the life of the shadow, the way of the murmured 
delights. I shall probably pass a good portion of my life bound 
to creaking wooden racks; or with right wrist chained to left 
ankle I shall languish forgotten in damp cells beneath this 
municipal fantasy; or perhaps someone such as yourself will 
capture me on an aristocratic whim and compel me to violate 
my principles. 

Ernst laughed. You are doubtless in error, he said loudly, 
drunkenly. You shall not be the violator of those principles. 
You will be the violatee. 

Ah, yaa Sidi, I must take exception. One cannot make 
such forthright statements as that. One cannot anticipate the 
odd pleasures of the leisured class. You, yourself, are an 
example of that. 

I was merely deceived, said Ernst angrily. 

Of course, yaa Sidi. 

And if you do not cease exaggerating the incident, I shall 
grab you by your scruffy neck and imprison you on a rooftop 
of grass, where you can munch your life away like the 
mythical sheep of your babyhood. 

Kebap sighed. Were you then so impressed by my tale? 

47 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

No, but it gave me some interesting glimpses of the shiny 
new cogwheels of your intellect. 

Then I will tell you of another town, said the young boy. 
This place will wipe all memory of the Armenian village from 
your thoughts. 

A not overly difficult feat. 

There is a town in Nearer Hindoostan, said Kebap in a 
low, monotonous voice, which has only one remarkable 
feature. The area around the city is infested with wild beasts 
of all kinds. Tigers roam the plains, fearing neither animal 
rivals nor human guile. Huge beasts somewhat like elephants 
browse the lower branches of the slender dey trees. There are 
other curious things about that plain, but my story does not 
concern them other than to say they caused the citizens of 
the village to erect a large gray wall. This mud-brick barrier is 
supposed to be for protection. It does serve to keep out the 
beasts at night, of course. It also reminds the townspeople of 
the dangers beyond, and jails them in their city as surely as if 
the gates were permanently locked. 

How curious, said Ernst scornfully. Do you know, I don't 
care at all. 

The principal occupation of the people of this city, in light 
of their self-imposed imprisonment, is to build and change 
their town, to provide entertainment both in the labor and in 
the enjoyment thereafter. And the model they have chosen to 
follow is our city, here. It was the wall that inspired them. 
You must know that the mayor's office here receives a letter 
from this village perhaps eight times yearly, asking for 
instructions on how they may reproduce the newest 

48 


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alterations in our city. I have seen their version, and it is so 
exact a rendering that it would give you the nervous ailment 
peculiar to white Europeans. You would lose all sense of 
reality and orientation. This caf has been built, table by 
table, tile by tile, bottle by bottle. The very crack in the mirror 
inside has been reconstructed perfectly, attention having 
been paid to angularity, width, depth, and character. A man 
owns the caf, from whom Monsieur Gargotier could not be 
differentiated, even by M. Gargotier himself. And, do you 
think, there is a dejected drunkard sitting at this table, many 
thousands of miles away, whose eyes have the same 
expression as yours, whose hands flutter just as yours, whose 
parts smell as foul as yours. What do you think he is doing? 

He is wishing that you would go away. 

That is mildly put, said Kebap. I wish I could know what 
you really thought to say. 

You may find out easily enough. Ask that solitary winesop 
in Nearer Hindoostan. Ernst had been observing a dimly 
lighted tower across the square. He turned to look at Kebap, 
to fix the teasing boy with a venomous stare, perhaps to 
frighten him away at last, but Kebap was not there. Ernst 
sighed; he would ask the proprietor to do something about 
the annoyance. 

Every quarter hour a clock tower chimed more of the night 
away. Sitting alone in the Caf de la Fe Blanche, he could 
hear the distant carnival noises: sirens, the flat clanging of 
cheap metal chimes, the music of small silver bells, shrill 
organ melodies, gunshots, voices singing, voices laughing. In 
the immediate area of the caf, however, there were few 

49 


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by George Alec Effinger 

people aboutonly those who had exhausted their money or 
their curiosity and were returning home. Occasionally, the 
wind brought tenuous hints of strange smells and noises. Still, 
Ernst had no desire to discover what they might be. Over the 
years, his route to the city had been long, and these days he 
was tired. 

I have returned, said Kebap. He leaned casually over the 
iron rail of the caf. Ernst regarded him with some boredom, 
realizing that this was the first time in quite a while that he 
had actually seen the boy, though their conversation had 
been growing increasingly bizarre for several hours. 

There is no such town in Nearer Hindoostan, said Ernst. 
There is no such perfect imitation of this corrupted city. The 
Lord of Heaven would not allow two pits of damnation in one 
world. 

Of course not, said Kebap with a wink. Wherever did 
you get the idea that there might be another? 

From the pigeons, of course, said Ernst, greatly irritated. 
The pigeons have to come from somewhere. 

Why? 

Have you ever seen a baby pigeon? asked Ernst. I don't 
believe I ever have. I always wondered where the fledgling 
pigeons were. We see numbers of adult birds around every 
day; there must be a proportionate mass of immature young. 
It is a great mystery. And one never sees a dead or dying 
bird, unless it has been the victim of some accident, generally 
caused by cruel or careless human agency. I theorize that 
pigeons are immortal, and the actual carriers and 

50 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

disseminators of all human knowledge. This town of yours in 
Hindoostan is the product of unimaginative pigeons. 

You ask dangerous questions, yaa Sidi, said Kebap, his 
expression fearful. We had wrens in Armenia, I recall. There 
were many newly hatched chicks, chirping pleasantly before 
dusk. But here, concerning the pigeons, you must learn to 
keep silent. 

I believe I know who your mother might be. At least, if 
she is not, Eugenie would be proud to call you her son. 

My mother stands over there, said Kebap. She has not 
clothed her breasts, as she should in the evening, only 
because she hopes to beguile you. She is a very energetic 
person, yaa Sidi, and even though the hour grows late, she 
still reserves a place in her heart for you. 

Ernst shook his head. The liquor had made him sick. No, I 
am sorry. I have ceased hunting after hearts. Indeed, I 
thought no one followed that fruitless sport any longer. 

Then there is my older sister. That is her, on the far side 
of the square, pretending that she is an armless beggar. 

No, you tactless procurer. You still have much to learn. 

I am sorry again, said Kebap with a cruel grin. My own 
body will not be available for perhaps another three years. 
These are the days of my carefree childhood. 

Ernst stood up and screamed at the boy. Kebap laughed 
and ran toward his mother. 

There were few customers in the Fe Blanche after dark. 
Ernst did not mind. His nights were entrusted to solitude; he 
actually looked forward to night, when he ceased performing 
for the benefit of the passersby. Now his only audience was 

51 


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by George Alec Effinger 

himself. His thoughts grew confused, and he mistook that 
quality for complexity. By this time, he was taking his 
whiskey straight. 

There had been a woman, Ernst thought, later in his life 
than either of his juvenescent calamities. This woman had 
brought a great settling of his rampant doubts, a satisfaction 
of his many needs. There had been a time of happiness, he 
thought. The idea seemed to fit, though the entire memory 
was clouded in the haze of years and of deliberate 
forgetfulness. There was a large open space, an asphalt field 
with painted lines running in all directions. Ernst was dressed 
differently, was speaking another language, was frantically 
trying to hide somewhere. He couldn't see the picture any 
more clearly. He couldn't decide whether or not he was alone. 

Somehow it now seemed as if it hadn't even been his own 
experience, as though he were recalling the past of another 
person. He had forgotten very well indeed. 

Your passport, sir? he whispered, remembering more. 

Yes, here it is, he answered himself. I'm sure you'll find 
it all in order. He spoke aloud in German, and the words 
sounded odd in the hot desert night. 

You are Ernst Weinraub? 

With a t. My name is Weintraub. A rather commonplace 
German name. 

Yes. So. Herr Weintraub. Please step over here. Have a 
seat. 

Is something wrong? 

No, this is purely formality. It won't take but a moment to 
clear it up. 

52 


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Ernst recalled how he had taken a chair against the gray 
and green wall. The official had disappeared for a short time. 
When he returned, he was accompanied by another man. The 
two spoke quietly in their own language, and quickly enough 
so that Ernst understood little. He heard his name mentioned 
several times, each time mispronounced as Weinraub. 

Ernst shook his head sadly. He had never gone through 
such a scene with any border officials, and he had never 
spelled his name with a t. He stared at the hotel across the 
avenue and took a long swallow of whiskey. Now the Fe 
Blanche was empty again except for himself and M. Gargotier, 
who sat listening to a large radio inside the dark cave of the 
bar. 

Monsieur Weinraub? It was Czerny, his gray uniform 
soiled, his tunic hanging unbuttoned on his thin frame. 
You're certainly dependable. Always here, eh? What an 
outpost you'd make. Czerny staggered drunkenly. He 
supported a drunken woman with the aid of another 
uniformed man. Ernst's own eyes were not clear, but he 
recognized Ieneth. He did not answer. 

Don't be so moody, said the woman. You don't have any 
more secrets, do you, Sidi Weinraub? Czerny and the other 
man laughed. 

Ernst looked at her as she swayed on the sidewalk. No, 
he said. He took some more of his liquor and waved her 
away. She paid no attention. 

Here, said Czerny, try some of this. From the 
amusement quarter. A little stand by the Pantheon. The man 
makes the best stuffed crab I've ever had. Do you know 

53 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

Lisbon? The Tavares has a name for stuffed crab. Our local 

man should steal that honor. 

Alfama, said Ernst. 

What is that? asked Ieneth. 

Alfama, said Ernst. Lisbon. The old quarter. 

Yes, said Czerny. They were all silent for a few seconds. 
Oh, forgive me, M. Weinraub. You are acquainted with my 
companion, are you not? 

Ernst shook his head and raised his hand for M. Gargotier, 
forgetting that the proprietor had retired inside his bar and 
could not see. 

We have met before, said the stranger in the uniform of 
the Jaish. Perhaps M. Weinraub does not recall the occasion. 
It was at a party at the home of Safety Director Chanzir. 
Ernst smiled politely but said nothing. 

Then may I present my friend? said Czerny. M. 
Weinraub, I am honored to introduce Colonel Sandor 
Courane. 

Czerny grinned, waiting to see how Ernst would react. 
Courane reached over the railing to shake hands, but Ernst 
pretended not to see. Ah, yes, he said. Forgive me for not 
recognizing you. You write verses, do you not? 

Czerny's grin vanished. Do not be more of a fool, M. 
Weinraub. You see very little from your seat here, you know. 
You cannot understand what we have done. Tonight the city 
is ours! 

Ernst drained the last drop of whiskey from his glass. To 
whom did it belong previously? he said softly. 

54 


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by George Alec Effinger 

M. Weinraub, said Ieneth, we've had some pleasant 
talks. I like you, you know. I don't want you to be hurt. 

How can I be hurt? asked Ernst. I'm carefully not taking 
sides. I'm not going to offend anyone. 

You offend me," said Czerny, beckoning to Ieneth and 
Courane. The woman and the two uniformed men tottered 
away down the sidewalk. Ernst got up and took his glass into 
the bar for more whiskey. 

* * * * 

The lonely night passed. It was very late. Ernst drank, and 
his thoughts became more incoherent and his voice more 
strident; but there was only M. Gargotier to observe him now. 
He sang to himself, and thought sadly about the past, and, 
though he gestured energetically to the proprietor, even that 
patient audience remained silent. Finally, driven further into 
his own solitude, he drew out his most dangerous thoughts. 
He reviewed his life honestly, as he did every night. He took 
each incident in order, or at least in the special order that this 
particular night demanded. The events of the day, he 
thought, considered with my customary objectivity. A trivial 
today, a handful of smoke. 

Only the bright, unwinking lights of the amusement 
quarter still pierced the darkness. The last celebrants had all 
straggled back up the street, past the Caf de la Fe Blanche. 
Now there was only Ernst and the nervous, sleepy barkeep. 

When was the last time Ernst had seen Gretchen? He 
recalled the characteristic thrill he got whenever he saw his 
wife's comfortable shape, recognized her familiar pace. What 
crime had he committed, that he was left to decay alone? Had 

55 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

he grown old? He examined the backs of his hands, the 
rough, yellowed skin where the brown spots merged into a 
fog. He tried to focus on the knife ridges of tendon and vein. 
No, he decided, he wasn't old. It wasn't that. 

Ernst listened. There were no sounds now. It had been a 
while since Kebap had last sauntered past with his vicious 
words and his degenerate notions. It was so like the city, that 
one as young as the boy could already possess the bankrupt 
moral character of a Vandal warlord. The festivals in the other 
quarters of the city had long ago come to an end. The pigeons 
in the square did not stir; there wasn't even the amazed 
flutter of their sluggish wings, lifting the birds away from 
some imagined danger, settling them back asleep before their 
mottled feet touched the ground again. They wouldn't move 
even if he threw his table into their sculpted flock. 

There was no Kebap, no Czerny, no Ieneth. There was only 
Ernst, and the darkness. This is the time for art, he said. 
There can't be such silence anywhere else in the world, 
except perhaps at the frozen ends. And even there, why, you 
have whales and bears splashing into the black water. The 
sun never sinks, does it? There's always some daylight. Or 
else I have it wrong, and it is dark all the time. In any event, 
there will be creatures of one sort or another to disturb the 
stillness. Here I am, the one creature, and I've decided that it 
is a grand misuse of silence just to sit here and drink. The 
night is this city's single resource. Well, that and disease. 

He tried to stand, to gesture broadly and include the entire 
city in a momentary act of drama, but he lost his balance and 
sat heavily again in his chair. This is the time for art, he 

56 


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by George Alec Effinger 

muttered. I shall make of the city either a living statue or a 
very boring play. Whichever, I shall present it before the 
restless audiences of my former home. Then won't I be 
welcomed back! I'll let the others worry about what to do with 
these mean people, these most malodorous buildings, and all 
this sand. I'll drop it all down in the middle of Lausanne, I 
think, and let the proper authorities attempt to deal with it. I 
shall get my praise, and they shall get another city. 

He fretted with his clothing for a few moments, fumbling in 
drunken incompetence with the buttons of his shirt. He gave 
up at last. It is the time for art, as I said. Now I must make 
good on that claim, or else these gentlefolk will be right in 
calling me an idiot. The concept of presenting this city as a 
work of art, a serious offering, had a certain value as 
amusement, but not enough of enchantment to carry the idea 
beyond whimsy. So, instead I shall recite the final chapter of 
my fine trilogy of novels. The third volume, you may recall, is 
entitled The Suprina of the Maze. It concerns the suprine of 
Carbba, Wreylan III, who lived about the time of the 
Protestant Reformation, and his wife, the mysterious Suprina 
Without A Name. The suprina has been variously identified on 
many occasions by students of political history, but each such 
authoritative account differs, and it is unlikely that we shall 
ever know her true background. 

Ernst looked up suddenly, as if he had heard a woman 
calling his name. He closed his eyes tightly and continued. 
This enigmatic suprina, he said, is a very important 
character in the trilogy. At least I shall make her so, even 
though she does not appear until the final book. She has 

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by George Alec Effinger 

certain powers, almost supernatural. And at the same time, 
she is possessed of an evil nature that battles with her 
conscience. Frequently, the reader will stop his progress 
through the book to wonder at the complications of her 
personality. 

She is to be loved and hated. I do not wish the reader to 
form but a single attitude toward her. That is for Friedlos, my 
protagonist. He will come riding across the vast wooded 
miles, leaving behind in the second volume the bleak, gelid 
corpse of Marie, lying stiff upon the frontier marches of 
Breulandy. Friedlos will pass through Poland, I suppose, in 
order to hear from the president there a tale of the Queen 
Without a Name. I must consider how best to get Friedlos 
from Breulandy to Poland. Perhaps a rapid transition: A few 
weeks later, still aggrieved by the death of his second love, 
Friedlos crossed the somber limits of Poland. Bien. Then off 
he starts for Carbba, intrigued by the president's second-hand 
information. Ah, Friedlos, you are so much like your creator 
that I blush to put my name on the book's spine. 

Ernst dug in his pockets, looking again for his outline. He 
could not find it, and shrugged carelessly. Gretchen, will you 
ever learn that it is you he seeks? I have put you on a throne, 
Gretchen. I have made you suprina of all Carbba, but I have 
given you my own life. 

He longed to see Steven, his son. It had been years; that, 
too, wasn't fair. Governments and powers must have their 
way, but certainly it wouldn't upset their dynastic realms to 
allow the fulfilling of one man's sentiments. How old was the 
boy now? Old enough to have children of his own? Perhaps, 

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The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

amazingly, grandchildren for Ernst? Steven might have a son; 
he might be named Ernst, after his funny, old grandfather. 

How unusual it would be, to bounce a grandchild upon 
this palsied knee, he thought. I doubt if ever a grandchild 
has been cuddled in all the history of this city. Surely Kebap 
could not accurately identify his own grandparents. Would 
they be anxious to claim him? He is, after all, somewhat of an 
objectionable child. And he has had only nine years to 
develop so remarkably offensive a manner. It is truly an 
accomplishmentall emotional considerations aside, one 
must give the wretched boy his due. 

There is something about him, though, that obsesses me. 
If there were not, I should without hesitation inflict some kind 
of permanent injury upon him, to induce him to leave my 
peace unspoiled. I detect an affinity. I cannot dispute the 
possibility that I, myself, may be the lad's own father. What a 
droll entertainment that would be. I shall have to explore the 
possibility with him tomorrow. Indeed, the more I consider it, 
the better the idea becomes. I hope I can remember it. 

He heard the rattling of M. Gargotier drawing the steel 
gate across the door and windows of the small caf. The 
sound was loud and harsh, and it made Ernst feel peculiarly 
abandoned, as it did every night. Suddenly, he was aware 
that he sat alone in a neglected city, a colony despised by the 
rest of the world, alone on the insane edge of Africa, and no 
one cared. He heard the click of a switch, and knew that the 
Fe Blanche's own sad strings of lights had been 
extinguished. He heard M. Gargotier's slow, heavy steps. 

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The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

M. Weinraub? said the proprietor softly. I will go now. It 
is nearly dawn. Everything is locked up. Maybe you should go, 
too, eh? Ernst nodded, staring across the avenue. The 
proprietor made some meaningless grunt and hurried home, 
down the street. 

The last of the whiskey went down Ernst's throat. Its 
abrupt end shocked him. So soon? He remembered M. 
Gargotier's last words, and tears formed in the corners of his 
eyes. He struggled to order his thoughts. 

Is that the whiskey? I need some more whiskey, he said 
aloud. There was an unnatural, cracked quality to his voice 
that alarmed him. Perhaps he was contracting some 
disgusting rot of the city. There had better be some more 
whiskey, he thought. It isn't a matter of courtesy any 
longer. I require a certain quantity of the stuff to proceed 
through this. Gretchen would get it for me, but I cannot find 
Gretchen anywhere. Steven would get it for me, but I haven't 
seen Steven in years. One would think that someone in my 
position would command a bit more devotion. 

He wondered about his sanity for a moment. Perhaps the 
day's excitement, perhaps the liquor, had introduced a painful 
madness into his recollections. He realized that, in point of 
fact, he had never been married. Gretchen, again? Where had 
that name come from? Who could she be? Steven, the 
fantasy son? Ernst's father's name had been Stefan, perhaps 
there was some connection. 

He called to M. Gargotier. More whiskey, straight, no 
water. He wanted to believe that there was still some 
darkness left, but he could already make out the lines of the 

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The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

hotel across the street, just beginning to edge clearly into 
view from the mask of nighttime. 

I have never traveled anywhere," he admitted in a 
whisper. I did not come from anywhere. He sat silently for a 
few seconds, his confession hanging in the warm morning air, 
echoing in his sorrowing mind. Will that do? he wondered. He 
looked in vain for M. Gargotier. 

He could almost read the face of the clock across the 
street. He picked up his glass, but it was still empty. Angrily, 
he threw it toward the clock. It crashed into pieces in the 
middle of the street, startling a small flock of pigeons. So it 
was morning. Perhaps now he could go home. He rose from 
his creaking latticed chair. He stood, wavering drunkenly. 
Wherever he turned, it seemed to him that an invisible wall 
held him. His eyes grew misty. He could not move. 

No escape, he said, sobbing. It's Courane that's done 
this. Courane and Czerny. He said they'd get me, the 
bastards, but not now. Please. He could not move. 

He sat again at the table. They're the only ones who know 
what's going on. They're the ones with all the facts, he said, 
searching tiredly for M. Gargotier. He held his head in his 
hands. It's for my own good, I suppose. They know what 
they're doing. 

His head bowed over the table. Soon he would be able to 
hear the morning sounds of the city's earliest risers. Soon the 
day's business would begin. Not so very long from now, M. 
Gargotier would arrive again, greet him cheerfully as he did 
every day, roll back the steel shutters and bring out two 
fingers of anisette. Now, though, tears dropped from Ernst's 

61 


The City on the Sand 

by George Alec Effinger 

eyes onto the table's rusting circular surface. They formed 
little convex puddles, and in the center of each reflected the 
last of the new morning's stars. 

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