Pledges to Extend Line to Central Park
A marvel of modern transport was unveiled this morning deep below the hustle and bustle of New York’s crowded city streets. The Beach Pneumatic Transit Company, constructed by teams of men working day and night and with great secrecy until recently, was introduced to a curious public by its inventor and architect, Mr. Alfred Ely Beach, editor of Scientific American.
For a year, the corner of Warren Street and Broadway, occupied by Devlin’s Clothing Store at Number 260 Broadway, has been the subject of much speculation. Passersby have remarked on the shaking ground, the tunneling equipment, and the piles of dirt left behind the store each night. As of today, the entire thrilling enterprise is speculation no more.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Today we unveil the future of travel beneath these very streets—the Beach Pneumatic Transit Company. See this wonder for yourselves and be amazed,” Mr. Beach crowed to a handsomely furnished waiting room filled with reporters, dignitaries, and city politicians eager for a ride on his underground marvel, which runs the length of Broadway, originating at Warren Street beneath Devlin’s Clothing Store and terminating at Murray Street, traveling a distance of three hundred feet by means of forced air generated by a large fan, though Mr. Beach proposes to build longer tunnels.
Ling read the newspaper again: Beach Pneumatic Transit Company; Devlin’s Clothing Store; 260 Broadway; corner of Broadway and Warren. Accompanying the article was an artist’s illustration of the station as it had looked on opening day: the elevated waiting area, the chandeliers and fountain, and even the piano. It was clearly the same station from their dream walks. Furiously, she read through the other clippings until she came upon a second article:
BEACH’S PNEUMATIC DREAM
RUNS OUT OF AIR
City to Close First Underground Station Today
Ling quickly read the article through. Mr. Beach had a hard go of making his experimental dream come true. And just as it looked hopeful, an economic panic gripped New York and the rest of the country in 1873. There was no money to advance an idea of an underground train system. Mr. Beach’s subway prototype was closed for good in 1873, becoming a shooting gallery for a while. In 1875, its beautiful fixtures were sealed behind rock.
Future articles only briefly mentioned the Beach Pneumatic Transit Company. The city moved on. Devlin’s Clothing Store became Rogers, Peet & Co., which burned to the ground. Another building went up in its place. In 1904, the first subway station, City Hall, opened near the site of the old pneumatic train. Tunnels were dug. New subways were built, though Mr. Beach would never live to see them. His pneumatic transit dream was long gone, nothing but an obscure footnote in New York City history.
So why was it showing up in Ling’s and Henry’s dreams now?
A commotion up front drew Ling’s attention. Police officers had arrived and were asking patrons to pack up and leave. Mrs. Belpre argued in hushed tones with the health inspector, who pestered her for the names of everyone she knew who had visited the library in the past two weeks. “To investigate further,” he said. “After all, it’s a matter of public health.”
Mrs. Belpre remained firm. “No. It’s a matter of privacy.”
“What’s the matter?” Ling whispered to a mother gathering her children.
“They’re closing the library because of the sleeping sickness,” the mother answered in Cantonese. “They’re afraid the library might be contaminated. They’re calling it a public health emergency. Just this morning, they closed the elementary school and boarded up the temple and the public bath.”
A police officer came to Ling’s table. “Everyone has to leave, Miss,” he said and seemed apologetic. Ling stacked the articles and books neatly on the table and made her way to the door.
On her way out of the library, Ling passed a man poised on the front steps with a bucket of glue and a brush. He pasted a bill to the library’s front doors: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE BY ORDER OF NEW YORK CITY DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH.
As Ling waited for the bus back to Chinatown, her mind raced. The Beach Pneumatic Transit Company had existed. It had been built underneath Devlin’s Clothing Store. And every night, Ling and Henry saw both in their dream walks. The bus arrived but Ling didn’t get on it. Instead, she boarded the Broadway trolley, stepping off at City Hall Park.
In her dream, George had led her to a drinking fountain, so Ling set off in that direction until she found it. She took a sip and watched governesses pushing baby carriages down the tree-lined path. What, precisely, was she hoping to discover here? Beside the fountain was the grate. Ling stood over it, looking down through the old metal bars into the underground, feeling the breeze coming from below.
“Spare a penny, young lady?” a vagrant asked from a park bench.
He reeked of urine. Ling moved just slightly upwind. She stared out at the symphony of movement on Broadway—cars and trolleys and people rushing everywhere without stopping. Last night in the dream, as Ling stood in this very spot, George had been pointing to something behind her. What had he wanted her to see? Ling scrutinized the row of office buildings until she realized that this was the very corner she and Henry saw each night in that strange, repeated dream loop at the beginning of their walk—just from an earlier era. It was as if she and Henry were being visited by a ghost city lost to the pages of history.
“Hard on the streets in the cold, Miss,” the vagrant said, and this time, Ling dropped a penny into his palm.
“Thanks, Miss. Yes, cold, cold, cold. Used to sleep down there, in the tunnels,” he said, nodding at the grate. “But I don’t go down below no more. Bad dreams there. You can hear it calling you. Bad dreams was what got Sal and Moses and Ralph. And I ain’t seen hide nor hair of old Patrick and his wife, Maudie, neither.” His eyes widened and he dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. “Somethin’s down there, Miss. Ghosts,” he said, looking up at the spectral spires of the foggy skyline. Then he leaped up from the bench and toddled off, palm outstretched, toward a passing couple, calling, “’Scuse me, kind sir, dear miss, spare a penny?”
The air smelled of coming rain, so Ling left City Hall Park and took the bus back to Chinatown. On the edge of Mulberry Street, people crowded into Columbus Park, where a man with a bullhorn who was accompanied by a Chinese translator explained that there would be mandatory health screenings starting immediately.
“All residents must report with documentation,” the man barked.
There was outrage in the crowd.
“You can’t treat us this way! We have rights!” Thomas Chung called. He was twenty-eight, a lawyer who’d graduated from Princeton. Watching him there in the park beside his mother and father, Ling thought he looked as much a hero as Jake Marlowe.
“Citizens have rights,” the man with the bullhorn shouted back.
“I was born here. I am a citizen. But we have rights as human beings,” Thomas said. Others joined his protest—not just people from Chinatown, but neighbors she recognized from over on Orchard and Ludlow Streets and Little Italy, too. The man with the bullhorn was shouting, “If you do not comply, we will be forced to put you all in quarantine camps!”
“Ling!”