“Yeah. Did you hear about the bomb they set off?” Dalcia says as she points to the protesters.”
“What? No. They didn’t do that.”
“Oh? That’s not what the TV says.”
“You know better than to trust them...” I say, needles piercing my chest.
“Oh come now, you sound like a conspiracy guy,” Kurt says, as Dalcia nods her head along.
“Well, it’s true,” I say impotently. “Well, they know it is. They are willing to negotiate with us, did you know that?”
“You?” Dalcia says, a little impressed.
“Turing.”
Dead silence from the two of them.
“Oh?”
“What’s wrong? He knows a lot. He’ll get us some peace. Don’t you want that?”
They exchange look like this is what they expected. The artists make some noises and the TV conference comes up. There is the leader, and behind him are a few suits and uniforms. Behemoth is grinning a few people behind. And a few people behind him I’m sure I can see someone I recognize from before. I didn’t expect him to be there.
“Shhh.”
And the announcement comes:
First a few platitudes about the great nation. About its citizens. Nothing about protesters. Then, the talk of having no more boots on the ground; that the time had come for all the other nations in the area to bear the weight that America’s sons and daughters had. The No Soldiers Act had been passed. It would soon be an amendment. A murmur of approval arose from everyone around me. Even Dalcia smiled, covering her nose with both her hands.
“You’re not crying on me, are you?” I ask, smiling at the glint in her eye.
Then the man mentions that there are but a handful of ways to go forward, but from now on, to deploy more than a handful of troops, anywhere in the world, will require approval from Congress, that even then, no one could ever just say go ahead and that an oversight committee would be there for all acts needed for immediate action in terms of national security.
“What do you think?” I whisper in her ear? “Isn’t that good?”
“It is.”
Again, we break from the group after a round of approval and some cliches (is this the best those on, it would appear, our side can muster?) are spouted about how peace is the only answer to the world’s ills. Dalcia stays close to me, though I sense she’s glancing at Kurt. I’m not sure why it is, but she appears to either want me as a buffer, or as some sort of arbitrator when it comes to Kurt. The silence grows deafening.
“What do you think?” I ask Kurt. “Is this good, or what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t like it?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t either,” Dalcia says, murmuring. “We’ll see what comes from it.”
“They’re pulling the troops as we speak. How is that bad?”
“We’ll see.”
Annoyed with their cynicism, I leave them at the door of Dalcia’s apartment, hoping that perhaps they’ll deal with the tension themselves, and that I will have some peace of mind for once.
Indeed, as I leave the house and walk through the streets, I notice that people seem happier, smiling more than I’ve ever seen in this city. The good news has filtered and though I don’t hear anyone specifically discussing the news conference, it’s obvious to me that everyone has had a weight lifted off them.
There is always, in a human’s life, the chance to turn from the path that they have walked. But are they truly allowed to do that? No one wants to invest too much time in something that doesn’t work out. But that’s essentially the argument I passed on to Turing. In the weeks after the detente, the protesters are rolled back. The troops come home without much fanfare, and the wars overseas seem to have a lull. I watch the news, wondering if, perhaps, we expected those in power to change too easily. When have such exchanges happened without at least a modicum of blood?
And the news seems to be playing along: those who are in charge of overseas news seem to be blocking out all that’s happening out there. Yet all sources seem to speak of us doing little out there. I know now to believe that as proxies are always the ways of power.
The streets are quiet again, and Dalcia is at the art gallery. It has been changed so that there are more than a handful of people can still put up their works. Turing’s art has died down, but that’s only because as an artist he, or his name, is now known all around the world. He doesn’t need this anymore. Nevertheless, though I expect to find Dalcia in high spirits, she seems to be down. No amount of prying can loosen her dark secret, whatever it is. Kurt hovers in the background, sneering at me. I have a good mind to confront him, but I don’t think that it will do anything, or rather I don’t feel like it, like making the effort even if it can only help the situation—he;s chosen to judge me, so let him wallow in that hate.
I leave the art gallery, annoyed that I even try to engage with these people, thinking about what else could be out there for me to do. Is this it for now? I have an unease in my heart. I have an ache that tells me that there might be a path which I’m trying not to think of because it would be too scary. The streets are calm and about as normal as I ever remember them. The protests have dissipated. People don’t walk around slinking, wondering what else can hit us. A fog settles in, and as I wander, aimlessly, making my way to the non-grid streets of the West Village, I hear footsteps echoing directly behind me. Several erratic turns later and I’m sure that I’m being followed.
I turn down a blind alley and stand behind a wall. The footsteps come closer then stop. I wait, my heart beating faster and faster, my breath only quickening, though I try to control it.
“Hi there.”
I jump, turn. Behemoth, still astute in a suit, stands there, smiling. He looks like I first remember him. He has scars that look new all over his face.
I glance about, expecting that this will be a snatch.
Behemoth laughs. “Don’t you worry about me....” He cocks his head at me. “God, you are a frightened man.” He laughs again. It’s the good natured laugh of a man who’s just trying to be friends and it disarms my anger more than I would like. “If I had known you were so fragile, I wouldn’t have been so rough.”
“Oh, is he hurt?”
I spin, my fists clenched and there is the woman in red, looking ravishing again, looking like she had never been through a single moment of torture in her life.
She giggles when she sees my fists. “Were you going to hurt me? Little ol’ me? Is there anything you won’t do, you?” She shakes her head, purses her lips. “Or are you tired of playing the hero?”
“He’s scared,” Behemoth says, tsking. “Let him be.”
“Ohhhh,” she says in a high-pitched voice. “Are you? I thought you were the big brave shining prince. You’re not?”
I step back and am comforted with the push back of the wall behind me. “Fuck the both of you.”
“We broke him,” Behemoth says, a paternal look coming over his eyes. He cares. Or at least he gives that impression.
“We? I thought he was already broke. Couldn’t handle life. Couldn’t handle the world.” She grins, but hers is evil. More so than Behemoth’s.
“You want to arrest me? Do it. Don’t play games.
They both laugh.
“Oh, Georgie boy. You really think you can tell us what to do? After all this? We will toy with you as we please. And if we need to arrest. Well, we’ll arrest.”
The woman claps her hands in glee. “Can we? Can we ... toy?”
“No Dear,” says Behemoth. “We need him.”
“Need me? We have you running,” I say, feeling brave, or at least feeling that I need to go out with a swing and not whimpering. “No more troops for your bloody wars.”
“You think you made that happen. With those hippies on the streets? Come now, there isn’t anything we do without wanting to.”
“The hell. You always wanted those troops, and now
you’re trying to get them back. I’ve heard the talk of another crisis.”
Behemoth shakes his head. “Talk to Turing. He’ll be able to help you out with your delusions.”
“Oh, Turing,” The woman says. “I liked him. Is he working on you now?”
I search her face for a sign of irony. “You two are full of shit. Turing doesn’t work for you.”
“He doesn’t? Well, you’ll see.”
The woman smiles, and they both turn on their heels and walk off, the echo of their footsteps slowly diffusing into white noise. Thinking too hard on what they said, I don’t lurch after them for the final confrontation that I’ve always wanted, if only to end the tension that churns up my insides from not having any closure about one’s fate. I head back to the office, but find no Turing and not even Yusef. The buzz that used to be there is gone. I head down and sit in the beach. It’s too cold, though, for sleeping, so I head back up to the office and sleep on the floor.
I wake up to the sound of a distant bomb. Or so I think. The ground shakes and so do the windows as something big punches the ground from afar. My back aching, I hold my breath and try to turn ever so slowly. My joints cry out in pain. Goddamn, I’m deteriorating at a fast speed. Old age, with me a pariah; a mental and physical end. Or old age with only the physical ailments. Christ, what’s happened to me? I haven’t even started the day. After a few twists on my back, I roll over and sit up. The window reflects my blurred face back at me, the lights of the city shine directly behind it.
I stand up and walk towards the window, pressing my face against the glass. Though I hear sirens in the distance, there is nothing to indicate that a bomb went off. Probably a dream. I think again about heading down, but remember the cold. Now that there’s peace, what else is there to do? The office is empty and when I tire of looking for Turing, I leave, realizing that I’m alone and unconnected to the real world, that I could be picked off at any moment. And there was the matter of the Behemoth. What did he mean? Was he trying to use me?
Later on in the morning I go out, strolling and finding the city, its people, especially oppressive, not that anyone is being hostile, rather everyone seems scared. There isn’t the usual trust on the sidewalks, if New York can be said to have a level of trust between its citizens normally, and people glance at each other as if they’re expecting to be attacked. Deciding to avoid the weight of the air around everyone, the weight on my thoughts in the form of the lack of a cohesive citizenry, I leave the streets and find Dalcia at the art gallery. She invites me over for dinner. I grunt out a yes—some human interaction will be better than none, and besides we needn’t talk about politics—and brush by Kurt as I feel his eyes boring into me. I walk about town, up to the Museum Mile, and think through the past few months and what it is that I’ve done. I’ve completed something, haven’t I? I can be proud that, never mind that not a single newspaper has mentioned me or many of the people in this movement, I was a part or instrumental in what should be a watershed moment in our country. But there’s still something grating against my heart. Something that I cannot put into words, or even coherent thoughts. But this something might not only be the end of me, it might be something that will drive me from here on out. It is a belief that I’m still in evil and must cleanse myself and others. But isn’t that the ideal thinking of only a madman?
I walk until I’m dizzy from hunger. I drink water from a fountain in a public library, it only holds off the hunger for a little bit longer (and now the thoughts are going even further, now I’m thinking that perhaps there is something about hunger that clears one’s thoughts. Or perhaps this was a younger me, full of idealism and empty on reality, who thought that with a few mindful tactics in the form of discipline thoughts, he could take on the world. And still there’s nothing more than thoughts that I have to hold on to—or do I? Without writing my thoughts are leading me down the path to madness—yet hunger is doing nothing of the sort, it is merely confusing my thoughts even further or merely placing them on mute) But my mind spins, now with the thoughts on the odd rock in my chest, grating against my heart, as well as what Behemoth said. Why was it so easy? Nothing good is ever easy. And that woman. Whatever her reasons are, and perhaps they are legitimate, having her around is a stab in the soul for me.
That’s when I over hear the fact that there was a bomb that went off in the morning. Was that the one that woke me up? Odd, I hadn’t seen that many police out and about. They would have been, wouldn’t they? I walk into a cafe, I’m in the East Village now, and sit down next to a table with loud teens and an abandoned newspaper. I glance through it. Nothing. Of course, the bomb must have happened too late for it to be on a newspaper. I walk around and find a public library. After waiting for an hour, my head now almost making me nauseous, I sit in front of an old computer and click away. There was a bomb. It hit twenty people at a financial conference downtown. I stare at the street. Most likely an offshoot from Wall Street. Will Americans cry over this? Will they care about the finance people who have wrecked the country so much as it is?
A slight jolt hits my chest. Of course they will. Even I feel some need for retribution. The soldier deep inside, perhaps? Others must feel this, this need to fight back. Another feeling in my chest: this time it’s trepidation in the form of a heavy rock grinding against my heart.
The bomb was carried out in three parts. A waiter working with the these upper crusts of society blew himself up. As people left, they were herded into a corridor via a series of smoke bombs timed to perfection. In the corridor, steel reinforced to protect, but which would keep everything inside, another bomb, hiding in the ceiling went off. Scared, the survivors walked outside. Smoke bombs everywhere (this was found out later, at the time it seemed to make sense that it came from the bomb that went off) and as first responders came to help everyone, the final biggest bomb came in the form of a number of small drones with bombs. Descending, they blew to bits the remaining victims.
Who did it? That was the question. More people were being blamed, being told that they couldn’t have stopped this when so many protesters were against us defending ourselves. I walk the streets, this time the earlier distrust is replaced with a level of cohesion that is almost comforting. I knock on Dalcia’s door when I find that I’m in front of her apartment building.
I’m surprised to find that there are a handful of people at her place. The humming of an engaging conversation shakes the door. But all my tension dissipates when Dalcia opens the door. Her smile is forced.
“Come in.” A low, dense voice.
I sense that I’m in trouble. And even though I know that I haven’t done a damn thing, I feel both angry, then think about the bomb and how they somewhat blamed me for the previous one with Khalid’s involvement, and for some reason I grow sad that I’m outside another group and its mores, whatever those may be.
“Something wrong?” I ask, but know it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it’s out of my mouth. “Sorry,” I say, wondering if she knew anyone who was killed. But the humanist in me wants to point out that this is what we stopped, on the other side. Or from us doing to the other side. That no one can possibly compare one side to the other, but I know better. And yet, do I? And perhaps never stopping the attacking is the route forward, isn’t it? Oppress all out or not at all.
She forces a smile and moves to hug me, as if it’s an afterthought.
I hug, but this time she doesn’t press up against me. “Come in.”
I walk in to see that Kurt and a few more people are here, people I don’t recognize, yet I can tell they’re artist types: New York artists still have that perfectly manicured eclectic look to them, and I already regret coming here. “Hey,” I say and nod to Kurt. He looks at me for a second and returns a sharp nod. The others don’t know me, but after introducing myself, I notice a glaze coming over their eyes. They all try to avoid me, and I’m not sure why.
After a few stumbling conversations, the eyes of the artists boring a hole through
me and seemingly mistrusting, I remove myself from their circle and notice Kurt and Dalcia in the kitchen.
“Hi there,” I say, as I walk up on them.
They glance at me, then glance at each other. It’s funny how cold Dalcia has grown. How different she is. How much she, for some reason, hates me. The silence grows long. Even the group of artists on the side has fallen silent.
“The business is going well,” I say. The numbers coming in from Ben, even with the crackdown and ensuing detente (or perhaps because of this) are no where near what the old numbers were, but they’re good enough.
Another set of exchanged glances.
“What?” I hiss, annoyed. They should at least come out with it. And Kurt knows better. He’s been in the military. There’s no need for him to act so diffuse.
“Well, why would you need money if everything has been solved?” Dalcia says, her voice filled with acerbity.
“We never said that.” I notice that Kurt is tense, stiff, that he’s holding back from turning violent. His sharp looks at me, then off to the wall above my shoulder, tells me that we are no longer friends. That Kurt and I are somehow opposed, and not in some live and let live way. And for some reason my mind accepts this as truth and moves on to find all pieces of evidence in my past that line up with this very certain truth. We never were friends, or were friends of only the minimal kind.
“We?” Kurt says, chortling, then glancing at me with such verve that my previous thought of merely having lost a friend slides from my mind, as does the idea that he’s merely opposing me. No, I’ve made an enemy. And now I can step forward and try to bring him to understand my view, or strike first. Which one brings the best results? One can never know before they do it, can they?
“Not now,” Dalcia says, placing a gentle hand on Kurt’s hip bone. Intimacy. For some reason that stabs at me. I do like her, don’t I? Should have done something earlier. Perhaps back in that hotel room. I’m here and I know that there’s nothing more between us. Nothing of a spark, or a spark that can lead to a current of positive emotions.
The Labyrinth of Souls Page 40