“Downloads and installs whatever political shift we want,” Rabbit Ears said. “Designer beliefs, done dirt cheap. ‘Jobs are scarce because of immigrants, so I’ve gotta accept this $9/hr job. We’re being replaced by computers, and robots, and clean energy. I’ve got to work all the jobs I can. Hard work is what defines our nation. I don’t have time left over for exercise. Fast food is faster and cheaper. I need diet pills. I need surgery. Nobody comes between me and my family. Everyone else is after me and my freedom. I need a gun.’ Kaching!”
“Money, money, money,” murmured the DeadMaus fan. “Evil’s the root of all money.”
“I prefer the political strain,” the cowboy drawled. “Such as, ‘Education is stupid. War is good, but veterans are lazy beggars mooching off the system. All liberals are sexual deviants. All conservatives are racists. Moderates are sheep, and they’re gonna get what’s coming to them. Immigrants are just terrorists waiting for their orders. Caring is for commies. Death to degenerates! Death to anyone who disagrees!’” The cowboy laughed bitterly. “You can even be infected with multiple, conflicting, self-destructive ideals. The more of these thoughts you have, the more likely you are to congregate in large groups, thus spreading and receiving cross-infection.”
“And you, my dear,” said Rabbit Ears, “you seem to be carrying every strain at once! How economical!”
“But…why?” Mary asked. “Why the hell would you make me do this?”
Rabbit Ears handed a copy of the Washington Post to the cowboy, who gave it to Mary. On one side of the headlining picture was an orange-faced bombastic man, facing a sprawling audience. He posed, frowning mightily with his chin up, glaring down his potato-shaped nose at his worshippers. The motley crowd was blurry with low-lit action. Some had thrust forward their right hand toward the speaker. The rest had turned inward with fists flying, and bloody boots stomping someone on the floor.
“Why waste our own precious resources destroying the West,” said the cowboy, dropping the Texan drawl, “when we can get you to make it destroy itself?”
“And I can’t argue with the profit margin,” said Rabbit Ears.
“Seatbelts, everyone,” the attendant said. “Y’all might as well settle in and get cozy. Washington’s a long way off.”
YELLOW BOY
James Wood
“Would you walk a little faster?” said a voice behind Snail.
Snail glanced back to see a miner’s sallow face, his eyes gleaming white against the burnt umber of his stained skin. There was no malice in the man, just a weary impatience borne from long hours underground.
“Sorry,” Snail said, ducking his head and matching the stride of the rest of the procession. He allowed himself to get lost in the rhythm of their iron-shod boots as they trudged along. Apologetic and invisible, that was the trick. He had no intention of making a scene. No one knew his face and he meant to keep it that way.
The men passed through the favela in a long trail of mottled red and brown, like a snake prowling the jungle floor. Snail didn’t know any of the miners by name, but a few of their faces looked vaguely familiar. Most of them were old, though it was difficult to tell under the grime and silent despair. Any amount of time in the mines eroded a man’s youth like summer rains. Even the boys, some younger than Snail, were cut from mountain stone. Snail made a point of scrunching his face to accentuate whatever faint lines his eighteen years above ground had given him and walked on, just another broken soul in the crowd.
It was a long trudge through Lagoa to the hill gate and all the while, high atop Corcovado, the golden spires of the great palace loomed. That was the destination of the metal these men had pried from the earth. It came from the bowels of hell and would soon pass through the gates of heaven.
Above the palace, the statue of Cristo Redentor watched impassively as the procession made its way toward the hill. The men moved silently among the husks of bone-white apartments, spun with clothesline like cobwebs. Snail had once seen a book with pictures of Lagoa long before the ocean had swallowed the rest of Rio. The pages were full of smiling mauricinhos and patricinhas, Rio’s rich, most of them gringos. Now, anyone with money lived up on Corcovado, as far from the sea and as close to Cristo Redentor as they could get. There they held great dances while the rest of Rio’s population, those who had fled the flooding of the favelas, starved in crumbling Lagoa, below.
The miners followed the curve of the lagoon from which Lagoa got its name, though Snail knew from the pictures that the water hadn’t always looked like piss. The miners called the runoff that poisoned the lagoon “yellow boy,” said it had something to do with the acidity in the mine. Whatever it was, it had turned the whole thing a soupy yellow. When Snail was little, his mother and the rest of the women of Lagoa would wash clothes at the lagoon’s shore. Now, they had to go to the retaining wall that held back the sea, and risk their lives by the swells.
Snail glanced furtively at the water as he passed and caught his own stained face. The yellow boy affected skin differently, especially the dark skin of the miners. Instead of bright yellow, it dyed the men rust red and it had taken Snail several days to get the tint just right. He worried whether it would hold up when he sweat but he hadn’t had time to test it thoroughly. There was a dance at the palace tonight and that meant there would be trading at the gate.
A crowd had already formed when the miners arrived. Old women with blankets, young girls and boys with colourful crafts, men too old to work the mine holding carvings, all of them were hoping to make a sale. Snail had stood with them once, but he’d quickly learned that the gringos only wanted one thing: gold. A single ounce could get you enough rice to last a week, strike a rich vein and your whole family was set for months. The gringos loved gold, though Snail could hardly understand why. It was pretty enough after it had been buffed and polished, but there were other pretty things in the world and none of them filled a hungry belly. Snail absently patted the satchel at his side and lined up with the rest of the men.
The hill gate, a massive iron latticework of spikes and barbs, stretched across the road leading up the mountain. It was the only entrance to Corcovado, so that meant thick-necked soldiers with eyes dark as the polished metal of their submachine guns patrolled it day and night. They kept watch, vigilant for anyone looking to sneak through. Every once and awhile in the dead of night, the maraca rattle of an MP5 sounded as some fool tried his luck on the mountain, then the inevitable barking of dogs, then the heavy stillness of nothing.
The guards were also responsible for the safety of the gringos who came to trade at the hill gate. Goods could be exchanged through the gate’s portholes. When the miners arrived, the guards parted the crowds and led them to the bars.
There were enough men in line that Snail couldn’t see the gringos at the gate, even as the line forked to the various portholes. Snail ran through his lie while he waited his turn but soon found himself eavesdropping on the conversation behind him.
“Is it true that they sometimes bring lobsters up to the palace?” a thin voice asked.
“Don’t use that word,” came the stern reply. “That’s what they call us.”
“Sorry.”
Snail glanced back to see a craggy-faced miner and what could only be his son. The boy didn’t have his father’s creases, and the yellow boy had only just started to redden his skin, but they shared a nose.
The old man put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It is true. But don’t get your hopes up. I’ve worked the mine for thirty years and I’ve never been asked.”
“Why do they only ask the lob…us?” the boy said.
The old man shrugged. “I suppose to reward us for bringing them gold. They bring us to serve the nobles.”
The boy nodded and opened his mouth to say something else but Snail would never know what it was.
“You,” a guard barked, waving his submachine gun at Snail, “come.” He nodded toward one of the portholes and kept his gun trained on Snail, his finger o
n the trigger.
Snail hurried forward, his eyes downcast, playing the part of the broken miner. That was ninety percent of it after all, being broken. Yes, these men came down from the hill for gold but capitulation made the gringos’ eyes dance more than any metal. He only glanced up once when he reached the porthole, to get a look at the man he was dealing with.
Snail had studied the gate for weeks before attempting his miner act. In that time, he’d learned that the gringos came in two types. The nobles flaunted their wealth like a child who has discovered a bird’s nest. They bought gold in great swathes, their only concern the number on the scales and that it was higher than that of their neighbours. Then there were the merchants, pinch-faced men with spectacles who cared more for quality than quantity. They came with more than scales, bringing loupes and acids to test the product. Snail had traded most of his meager possessions for a small pinch of genuine gold dust just in case he came before a merchant. If that happened he would simply trade the dust for a small portion of food and keep his painted iron for another day.
When he glanced through the porthole he found neither a merchant nor a noble. Snail didn’t know what this gringo was. The buyers, whether noble or merchant, stood at the gate to inspect the gold. Instead, this one lounged a few yards back on a worn-out wicker chair. His bizarre clothes, while ragged, possessed an unmistakable despotic pomp. A leather coat bleached white from the sun hung like a cloak from his narrow shoulders, the hide cured so dry that a million tiny cracks webbed its surface like polished chain mail. A threadbare topper teetered on his smudged brow and he’d tucked a playing card into the band which, as far as Snail knew, was a fashion that had long gone out of favour with the gringos. He didn’t look wealthy but he had the air of an old, bored emperor. Sunlight basked his face, and his limbs draped across the back of the chair as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He was a spindly man despite his belly, and his posture made him look like a spider, apathetic in its confidence that the flies would find their way to its web.
When Snail approached he leaned forward, a gleam in his cold, blue eyes.
“My name is Whiting and I have a proposition for you,” he said before Snail could open his mouth. His voice was like stale wine, sickly sweet, but it left a sour note hanging in the air.
“What?” Snail said, looking up in confusion, any pretense of meekness gone. “But you don’t even know what I have to sell. I’ve brought gold.”
“I have no interest in gold,” Whiting said, leaning back.
Snail’s cheeks grew hot and he opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. No interest in gold? Why else would a gringo come to the gate? He’d spent months preparing. He’d given up nearly all he had for the dust, the paints and the iron. He had to trade today or he would starve.
“If you don’t want gold, why are you here?” Snail said hotly.
“I deal in lobsters,” he said. “That’s why I’ve come.”
Snail hesitated. “Then you mean to make me a servant?” he said slowly.
“I said I deal in lobsters and you’re no lobster.”
“Yes, I am,” Snail said defensively.
“If you’re a miner then I’m the king of Corcovado.” Whiting sighed. “Let me see some of your gold.”
Snail didn’t like the way Whiting said gold, so when he reached into his satchel he pulled out the tiny bag of gold dust. Whiting didn’t get up, so after an awkward moment Snail tossed the bag through the porthole. Whiting caught it with a surprisingly quick hand and peeked inside.
“I’m glad to see you’re not a complete fool. How about another.”
Snail stared at Whiting warily.
“Well?” Whiting said. “Let’s have it.”
Snail pulled a small chunk of iron from his satchel and did his best not to check it before tossing it through the gate. Whiting rolled it around in his palm and said something to himself. After a moment, he looked back up at Snail. “You know, this isn’t half bad. You did a better job here than with your skin.”
Snail couldn’t help but look at his painted hands.
“What’s your name?” Whiting said.
Snail looked over his shoulder but the guard still had his gun trained on him.
“Relax, boy, I’m not going to give you up. Tell me your name?”
Snail thought about lying, but that hadn’t worked so far. “Snail.”
“There’s a good boy,” Whiting said with a wolfish grin. “Now, Snail, as I said before, I have a proposition for you. Here’s how I see it. You have two choices. You can leave now and I won’t tell the guards about your little scheme. I’ll even let you keep your iron and you can try again next time. Or, you can take this.” Whiting tossed something through the gate.
Snail caught it and when he opened his hand a golden ring glinted in his palm.
“A ring?”
“Look closely,” Whiting said.
Snail brought the ring close to his nose and saw that there was a strange beast carved into the band, like nothing Snail had ever seen before. It had the shell of a turtle but the head of a hare.
“What is it?”
“Meet me tonight at sunset on the wall and I will tell you.”
Before Snail could ask another question, Whiting motioned to the guard who pressed his gun against Snail’s back and drove him away from the gate.
The retaining wall always teemed with activity. Women did their washing, men fished from its ramparts and young lovers walked under the stars. This was the first time Snail had ever seen it so empty. There wasn’t a soul around save the top-hatted silhouette of Whiting, sitting at the edge, his spindly legs dangling while he stared out to sea. He didn’t turn when Snail approached.
“There he is,” he said, his voice oozing down the wall and into the sea.
“Where is everyone?” Snail asked.
Whiting only shrugged. “Did you bring the ring?”
Snail fished it out from his pocket and let it sparkle under the moonlight.
Whiting’s eyes glistened with a wistful sheen. “You know, it took me eight years to get my hands on that. And another six to find you. But it was worth the wait; you’re perfect,” he said appreciatively.
Snail closed his hand on the ring and eyed Whiting. Snail was wary of gringos; they were dangerous, but this one had come into the favela with no escort, and sat as if he hadn’t a care in the world. That made him deadly. “What do you want from me?”
“You can really have no notion, how delightful it will be,” he said, looking far off into the sea. He turned to Snail, the moonlight shining silver in his eyes. “I can make you rich, you know.”
Snail took cautious a step back. “How?”
“By bringing you to Corcovado, to the palace up on the hill.”
“Are you insane?” Snail said with a look askance.
Whiting barked a coarse, dry laugh. “Maybe,” he said. “But so are you, coming to the gate with painted rocks.”
“Safer than going up the mountain. Look at me.” Snail held his hands out to the moonlight. He’d washed the paint off since their first meeting but his skin was still caramel, even without the fake yellow boy.
Whiting only smiled. “Like I said, you’re perfect. You look just like him.”
“Who?” Snail asked.
“A boy who was lost long ago. Out there.” Whiting pointed to sea.
“Who was he?”
“He was the crown prince. A bastard to the king. The old letch could never keep his hands to himself. Of course, that was before the pox rotted his mind and before he and the late queen conceived an heir. What else could the king do but send the boy away? He was on a ship slated to cross the sea but there was a storm and it was lost. He was assumed dead, that is, until now. It seems I’ve found him.”
“Me?” Snail said. He opened his hand and looked at the ring again. “That’s what this is. You want me to replace him?”
“That’s right,” Whiting said. “I’ve spent years buying
lobsters to serve at the dances, but I’ve kept my eye out, looking for someone who might wear that ring. Now I’ve found you, and not only do you possess the look, but you’re clever. I may have been able to see through your little scam, but us rogues can smell our own. You’ll have those fools in Corcovado wrapped around your finger.”
Snail considered this. “What do you get out of this?”
Whiting snorted. “I get to be the good friend of the heir to the throne. The king isn’t long for this world, Snail.”
“What about his son? He is known even in Lagoa.”
Whiting shrugged. “What about him? Bastard or not, you’d be the eldest; you inherit. It’s not as if he gets nothing. He has no interest in ruling. As long as he gets to have his little dances he’ll be happy. Just placate him and you’ll get on.”
“The dances are his?”
Whiting nodded. “So, what do you say? Will you or won’t you?”
Snail stared across the water, weighing his options when the soft note of a violin drifted from Corcovado. He turned and looked up at the palace. Its massive windows glowed with golden light, while dark shapes slipped back and forth like apparitions.
Whiting put a bony hand on Snail’s shoulder and a chill ran through him. “Come now, Snail, won’t you join the dance?”
The little carriage rumbled up to the hill gate and the guards barked orders at the crowds who’d gathered to listen to the music. Their voices sounded harsh against the gentle strings that fluttered from the palace windows and the people shuffled aside, their necks still craned up at Corcovado. High above, Cristo Redentor looked down on them, his arms outstretched.
Snail watched from inside the carriage, unable to take his eyes off the iron gate as it swung open. How many had dreamed of this moment? How many had longed to pass through that gate. By some divine stroke, luck had chosen him.
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