A Place Called Zamora

by LB Gschwandtner

  No matter what happened to Niko after The Race, Miriam hoped he would continue their conversations. Before The Race, although she’d never expected him to read all of them, she’d given Niko a number of books about authoritarian political systems. She chose both Orwell’s 1984 and Animal Farm because she thought he would be more engaged by fiction. She also included, however, the complete set of Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.

  Along with the rest of Infinius, she saw the wild enthusiasm as Niko was led off his motorcycle at the edge of the roof to the viewing stand, where all the Overseers stood clapping and cheering as loudly as any lowly Hovel dweller down on the street or any Ring dwellers on the other twelve roofs.

  He looked dazed, Miriam thought. And did she catch him glancing around for something or someone?

  Miriam couldn’t look away from the screens as Protectors in full uniform with swords at their belts draped him with the first spoils of his win. A huge gold medal was hung around his neck, from what looked like a purple velvet cord. Bags of gold coins were laid at his feet. Two Protectors opened the bags for the cameras to get a good shot of the loot. A large ceremonial key with a scroll announced his new mansion. It went on and on, with gifts and investiture into the Overseers Club. Each item was proclaimed by the announcer over all channels. He was deluged with promises of a perfect life of which others only dreamed. It was the lottery to end all lotteries. People screamed with excitement, and almost immediately, the revelries began. Loud music enveloped the city as people began drinking and dancing.

  Clouds of meskitta wafted through the air as the sun descended below the horizon. Huge spotlights suddenly lit up The Ring. The final gift bestowed on him was the bike he had ridden to victory. It was rolled by two Protectors up to the viewing stand and lifted onto the platform in front of him. There was bugling and drumming as he was handed its key.

  But still Niko stood on the platform, draped in his new riches, the key resting in his palm like a fragile egg and his mind racing.

  What now? Do I belong to them? Have I completely given in? My future controlled and monitored like a robot? I’m better than that. There must be more for me—more than this life in a cell, more than scrounging and fighting and dying like bugs.

  Then cymbals clashed and drums rolled as Villinkash himself arose, sitting atop an ersatz throne. It lifted up from below the viewing stand. For this, his one yearly public appearance, his beautiful wife sat stately and stiff by his side. He wore white silken robes and held a golden staff encrusted with jewels. As if from some cartoon version of an all-powerful ruler, a pair of German shepherds flanked him, standing at attention, their noses pointed up as if to sniff the air for prey. He raised his staff, and the whole city fell into an eerie silence.

  His voice boomed over the loudspeakers.

  “Niko, you are anointed, and the time for you to choose has arrived. Which of these young women will you take for your own? Let the city of Infinius celebrate your chosen one.”

  A parade of young girls, who were no more than seventeen, was ushered before the viewing stand. They were all dressed to maximize their beauty and youth. Their hair had been arranged by experts, makeup applied liberally, and their clothing revealed their most sensuous curves. As they walked past the Overseers and Villinkash, shouts erupted from the crowds.

  “Choose number twelve.”

  “Get the redhead.”

  “Take number twenty.”

  The yelling went on as people tried to influence Niko. The drunker they got, the louder they yelled. The girls paraded around the roof, smiling for the cameras. All of them wore finer clothes than they had ever touched, trussed up for the auction of their lives.

  And this was another horrifying part of The Race: Boys who lived in The Ring weren’t the only ones at risk. Girls who were sixteen or seventeen living in The Ring were also called up as if for a stint in an army reserve. But this wasn’t community service in the sense that it would offer any beneficial effect for the country as a whole, nor would it enhance the lives of either the girls or the people. No, this was pure depravity.

  Miriam watched as the girls paraded around that roof. She searched for El’s face, hoping it wasn’t there. But knowing how Niko felt about her, she hoped at the same time to see her, and that Niko would pluck her out of obscurity and save her from the fate of those other girls. For the ones who were not chosen were destined for the brothels or the private bedrooms of the Overseers. Even worse, they could be cast into The Hovels to be groped and pawed and fought over by Scroungers, who would use and then sell them—or their services—to other Scroungers or to the Scavengers. Even worse than that was a lifetime of what was called “comfort service” for the Protectors. This was rumored to be more horrific than any other servitude. Most of those girls would never live to see adulthood.

  Holding her breath, she hardly hoped to find El somewhere up there in that throng of pulchritude, Miriam searched the screens as the yelling continued, fueled by the cameras panning the line of girls.

  Finally, Villinkash raised his staff to silence the clamor. Without actually looking at Niko, he nodded his head and said, “Which one do you choose?”

  Niko stared straight ahead. But when the girls stopped and turned to face him, Niko looked to the left and a bit behind the viewing stand. The crowds gasped. It turned into a murmur and then, as Niko did not single out a girl from the parade, there were shouts of “Niko, Niko, Niko,” until it became a chant. People waved their arms back and forth and then began to sway from side to side. The cameras panned from the crowds to Niko and back. As the chanting grew in volume, Niko stared straight ahead. He seemed oblivious to it all.

  At some point, as the chanting and calls of his name reached feverish levels, without any warning sign, he tossed off all the rewards draped over him and leaped off the stand.

  Seen on the jumbo screens, it was like watching an escape movie come to life. The chants turned to cheers. People tossed empty beer bottles into the air and set trash on fire. The whole city seemed to come alive in a new way as Niko pushed through the crowd on the Tower’s roof. With the camera following, he made his way to where El stood beside Old Merrie at the banquet table piled with food and drink.

  He took El’s hand in his. She was dressed for work, wearing an apron over her shirt and skirt, her hair tied back with the same simple piece of cloth Miriam had seen at the convent. On the screen, her skin glowed and her eyes sparkled as she gazed at Niko in wonder at what he was doing. Amid all the screaming and clamor, was it only Miriam who noticed Old Merrie’s face up there on the jumbo screen? As the cameras panned, for less than the intake of a breath, she saw Old Merrie grimace as if someone had stabbed her. And Miriam suspected then what lay ahead for El.

  He pulled her away from the table and held her hand high before he spoke.

  “I choose El,” he said simply. “I choose El as the one I want.”

  The city went wild. “Niko, Niko, Niko” drowned out the announcer, the drums, the music—even the rumble of the Collectors’ huge trash trucks that had been summoned to prevent rioting. The cameras had followed Niko closely and now they locked on the beautiful young couple, and because the cameras and the people couldn’t get enough of this image, no one witnessed what effect this was having on the Overseers and Villinkash back at the viewing stand.

  Even in those years, news organizations had sources behind the scenes. As powerful as Villinkash was, even he couldn’t plug every leak. So it became known that Villinkash was livid. He was not the type of man, however, to explode in the moment. He was too smart a political operator to show his hand or his outrage in public. There would be no sign of weakness or displeasure for the people to witness. And there was a simple reason for that. Villinkash did not fear obstruction or implosion from within his ranks, or even from a few disgruntled or overly ambitious lieutenants. He could always get rid of any number of Overseers or Protectors. To Villinkash, th
ey were replaceable pieces of furniture.

  He feared a massive uprising of common people. And the reason for that was simple. Without control over the hordes, he had no one to control. Once he lost control of them, there was no longer any need for him. A dictator who kills off all those he dictates to has no one left to prop up his power. Whatever system he had created would inevitably crumble under its own weight. But this lesson never seems to take hold for long. So Villinkash forgot it, and even as a new reality was beginning to creep over his own threshold, at that moment he was only reacting to the one event he could see.

  Miriam heard, through the leaky grapevine up in The Compound, that Villinkash was in a fury like no one had ever seen.

  “Who let that little snake win?” Villinkash sneered.

  “We don’t know, sir.”

  The same answer came back over and over. And no one seemed able to find out who had fixed The Race. Oh, it was common knowledge among the Overseers and Protectors that The Race was always fixed. The difficulty lay not in the dishonesty that everyone had a fix in but that everyone lied about who they’d backed. There were too many fingerprints scattered everywhere to trust any of them.

  “Who let him pick that milkmaid? She’s not one of our handpicked girls. Where did she come from? How did he get off the viewing stand without being stopped? Why didn’t anyone stop the cameras from covering all of it?”

  “We don’t know, sir,” came the answer time and again to every question he fired off.

  He continued fuming until one aide called in Huston to manage the “Supreme Leader’s” rage. They also called for his personal doctor to administer a calming agent, but he brushed that off and turned to Huston with a sneer.

  “Who is that little vermin? I want you to get to the bottom of this. We can’t let The Race get out of hand like that. Where’s the control? Who let go of the reins?”

  Huston was, as always, impeccably dressed. And in control. Whereas the atmosphere was electric, he was neither rattled nor intimidated by the ravings and questions randomly flung about at no one in particular and everyone in the meeting room. As Villinkash strode around waving his arms and periodically pounding his fist on the heavy oak table, Huston watched with a bemused expression, as if a small child were having a temper tantrum on the way to school.

  He walked calmly to one of the large windows overlooking a shimmering lake where swans glided in absolute calm. On his way, he patted a couple of the aides on the shoulder as if to say, “Not to worry. Nothing bad here.”

  Gazing out the window, he said to Villinkash, “Look, sir, I think your swans have paired off into mated couples. Soon you’ll have little baby cygnets out here.”

  “What?” Villinkash almost yelled out at the top of his voice.

  “I said . . .”

  “I heard what you said. Baby swans.” He was silent for a few seconds. “Baby swans, you say? Well, now, that is something to blast to Infinius. Good news for everyone. Happy news. Happy times. Yes. I like that.”

  He pointed to an aide. “Get that out over the InCom right away. Tell them we’ll have eggs to watch soon. And then a hatching.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it right now, sir,” he said, and scurried off, relieved to be out of the room and off to do something else.

  “Now then.” Villinkash turned to Huston. “What about this other business? I’m not happy about it. No, not at all. We have to spin this some way.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing, sir.”

  “The question is how. If we let this squirt get away with not following protocol, we invite eventual insurrection.”

  “Of course.” Huston quietly motioned the others out of the room. They backed away like the obsequious servants they were. “And I agree with you, as I always have. We’ll manage him just like we have all the others from past years. He’s no different.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You’ve handled all of them.” Villinkash waved as if to a crowd standing in the room. “You’ve been there through everything we’ve accomplished. I want you to take on the dual title of Overseer. No reason for you to remain a Protector. You deserve the promotion. Take care of that. Which reminds me: What about the Tower and all those squatters? They’re stealing electricity from the street poles. We should charge them.”

  “All in good time,” Huston said. He pulled a chair away from the conference table and moved it to the window where he’d been standing to watch the swans.

  “Come, sit down. You’ll be able to think better once you feel more detached from the problem.”

  Villinkash followed his suggestion. Now he was as docile as a bovine coming back to the barn for milking.

  “Ahhh,” he sighed as he sat to take in the scene below.

  It was a lovely scene. From above one had an especially captivating view of the entire manicured landscape. It was like entering a painting. The lake, fed by springs, was an amorphous, undulating shape with an arched intricately carved footbridge at one narrow point. This was exquisitely reflected in the water below it. At parts of the lake’s perimeter, weeping cherry trees waved softly. In the hot wind they skimmed the edge of the water, creating a ripple pattern that spread outward. Besides the swans, peacocks wandered the lawns, and under the tree canopy, llamas and small deer rested for the night. During the day, birds sang; although they could not be heard behind the glass, one could see them flitting here and there. Butterflies plied the many flowering shrubs, and hummingbirds darted from flower to flower. Scattered throughout the landscape were patches of roses planted in full sunlight. Some were bright yellow, others dusky pink, and some with orange fringe at the far edges of the petals of their white-throated interior. From this viewpoint, the armed guards, barbed wire, watchtowers, and security barriers surrounding the building and the lake were invisible. Of course, the glass through which they gazed was bulletproof as it was everywhere in The Compound.

  Miriam sat on a bench next to a collapsing park shelter near the water’s edge. A scrawny tree gave partial shade from the searing sun. She’d bought a cold cucumber sandwich from Old Merrie, who’d said she’d gotten a fresh load of cucumbers early that morning from a farm somewhere outside The Perimeter. A real farm. Not one of the Regime’s greenhouses. Everything they grew had the faint reminiscence of cardboard. How anyone got hold of fresh vegetables Old Merrie couldn’t or wouldn’t say when Miriam asked. But just imagine, Miriam thought: a black market even for vegetables.

  “The less you know, the better,” Old Merrie said with a wink as she plopped three of them into Miriam’s canvas bag along with the sandwich. “And here,” she added, shoving into the bag a loaf of freshly baked bread wrapped in a crumbly sheet of paper. The bread was still warm, and its aroma spoke of whole grains and molasses. Then she turned her face sideways and whispered, so low Miriam could barely hear her, “Cucumbers from Zamora.”

  Miriam paid her and squeezed her fat forearm as a thank-you.

  “We got to watch out for one another,” she whispered, which surprised Miriam. On the other hand, though, she’d had the feeling lately that something was brewing. It was only a vague sense. Like watching a fog hanging over a misty lake that might grow denser still or simply evaporate, leaving behind the distinct outline of a far shore.

  Old Merrie slowly wheeled her beat-up cart down the street, where someone else stopped her and bought a bottle of soda. The cart itself was something of an enigma, holding as it did, in different compartments, both cold and hot foods and, on the top, fresh fruits and vegetables under a wide umbrella she’d cobbled together from an old awning and the ribs and posts of two scavenged beach umbrellas. It looked too large for the old woman to maneuver, yet she managed to push and pull it up and down the pitted streets while hawking her wares through songs she made up as she went.

  Miriam crunched into that cold cucumber, and with the first bite, a flood of memory came to her. Of summer salads and all the family crowding around their picnic table under the giant old oak tree in the backyar
d, the grass just cut, its sweet scent speaking of hayfields and munching cows.

  As she ate, Niko appeared seemingly from nowhere.

  “You probably thought you’d never see me again,” he said in a low voice.

  She must have jumped a little with surprise, because he grunted softly. And it also vaguely registered that she’d heard the soft roar of a motorcycle while she’d been eating, but she had taken no particular notice of it because the Detainers sometimes made rounds on bikes. And there was usually some noise in the background whenever you were outside.

  She looked over at him then and noticed a cut on his face, running from his cheekbone to his jaw. It was a clean line, and she thought it was too bad because he would be left with a scar on that handsome, young face. He was dressed as he always had been, and this surprised her as well. She thought he would be enjoying living in luxury by this time, wearing expensive clothes and riding around in a big car. He looked raggedy, like he hadn’t slept or showered.

  She wanted to ask about the cut but instead answered him. “No. I never expected to see you again. Not after The Race.”

  He shrugged and said, “I had nowhere else to go. I mean after what happened.” He stopped talking and stared out at the undulating sea.

  She wanted to ask for details but held back, figuring he’d sat down next to her because he had something on his mind.

  Instead of talking she offered him a piece of her sandwich, but it wasn’t easy to separate just a piece, so she gave him half and watched as he bit into the crisp cucumber. When he opened his mouth, he winced in pain from the fresh gash on his cheek.

  As he munched on it, Miriam finished the other half and waited. When he stuck the last corner into his mouth and wiped the juice away with the back of his hand, he said, “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “Where are you supposed to be?”

  Instead of answering, he said, “I did a terrible thing.”

  Miriam opened her mouth and was about to try to relieve him of this burden by saying she was sure whatever it was hadn’t been his fault. That the system made us all do awful things and that he was a good person and shouldn’t take on the sins of the city. But before she could even utter a word, he pointed to his cheek.