The Sacrificial Circumcision of the Bronx by Arthur Nersesian Page A

the little flashlight, he saw that blood was running from fellow’s neck into a puddle of phosphorescent paint that had spilled from a bucket. The man had apparently been attacked while painting the lines that Uli noticed earlier. A small incision ran across the guy’s neck—he was still breathing.
    “What were you painting?”
    “Lines for Plato.”
    “Why? Where to?”
    The man winced in pain.
    When Uli confirmed that there was nothing he could do, he asked, “Who did this?”
    “Fucking miner,” the man sputtered. “Stole the vest Plato gave me. Had a stripe on it …”
    Uli remembered hearing about the miners in the Sticks. “Where’d he go?”
    The man pointed with his eyes toward his feet. A moment later he stopped breathing. Uli delicately undressed him—his ragged yellow tennis shoes, torn pants, and blood-soaked shirt, all probably recycled from earlier victims. He left the unfortunate man in his underwear. None of the clothes fit Uli but at least they stayed on.
    He headed in the indicated direction for about twenty minutes until, much to his surprise, he saw it: a small stripe bobbing in the darkness. It was the murderous miner wearing the stolen vest, walking about five hundred feet ahead of him. For the next hour or so, Uli followed at a generous distance—down holes, across vast spaces, and through other ruptures in the ceilings and wood floors—until he finally lost the killer.

18
    T he notion of dying in this place, with all the rotting corpses around him, terrified Uli. Even Paul had friends. Yet other than Teresa and her kids, the only people who consoled him at his mother’s funeral were Maria and her daughter Lucretia. Apparently, everyone believed he had neglected his mother during her final days. Mr. Robert and Edna stood near her coffin.
    As the oldest, Paul spoke first. He eulogized his mother respectfully, explaining that depite the endless spats between them, their love had only increased over the years. Robert then spoke eloquently about her zealous philanthropy and eternal wisdom. Edna said that Bella had been both her mother and her best friend. They made their moody parent sound like a regular Florence Nightingale. Afterwards, none of Paul’s aunts, cousins, or close family friends seemed to even notice him unless he approached them directly.
    Two weeks later, the family lawyer verified that Paul had been left with whatever interest could be generated from a hundred-thousand-dollar trust. Furthermore, that trust was to be administered by Mr. Robert and Wilfred Openhym, a cousin. The final humiliation was a clause stating that if Paul ever contested the will, he’d forfeit every cent. This had all the fingerprints of his dear brother.
    Around this time, Paul started noticing Robert’s name in the paper again. He had just been appointed as the first citywide Parks Commissioner of New York. Small articles began appearing, announcing ribbon-cutting ceremonies at small parks throughout the five boroughs. Soon the son of bitch seemed to be pulling playgrounds and swimming pools out of thin air. “Vest-pocket parks,” they were called, unused city property that Robert snatched up and converted into recreation space. Then it was announced that after years of neglect, Central Park was being extensively renovated. A new restaurant, Tavern on the Green, was being built in a former sheepfold near the Great Lawn, which was being re-sod and seeded.
    Paul called Robert at his office one day, and when the secretary asked his name, Paul facetiously explained that he was a reporter intending to write a puff piece on how Robert Moses tamed Central Park. He was surprised when the call actually went through. As soon as Robert picked up, Paul said that he was sorry about the way things had turned out between them and that he had made peace with their mother’s will.
    “All I hope,” Paul said, “is that maybe we can bury the hatchet and be brothers again.”
    Robert listened patiently. When