The Morningside

by Téa Obreht

There were exactly three reliable things at the Morningside. The first was Sanitation. No matter how bad things got, Sanitation was right on schedule. They did get stalled in disputes with the city, though, so if more than a week went by between pickups, it was necessary to start up the rusted little car Ena kept in the sub-basement garage and drive the trash over to the landfill, six bags at a time, until the sidewalk in front of the building was clear. The second was Bezi Duras. She was from Back Home, too, but had come to Island City years ago, well before the war, and so could scarcely line up five words of Ours, and then only in a disgraceful accent. She lived in the penthouse, with its private elevator. You could rely on her to be on time and polite, and to never, ever summon you for help. “In ten years I haven’t been up there,” Ena said. “If she needs something done, she gets her own people to do it.” The third were the gawkers. Only a few varieties of thistle persisted in the courtyard flower beds now, but the Morningside had once been renowned for its gardens. They had been impressive enough to attract the admiration of passersby, who would stick their heads through the main gate whenever it opened to admit a car. People still wanted this kind of access. Students from the old university down the street were always asking to be let in to photograph the gargoyles or to peruse the library collection, or to sketch the lobby. Ena no longer had patience for any of these...