Temporary People

by Steven Gillis

  “That may be true, but this alone doesn’t make it a good one.” I thought once more of Don Pendar, and worried again about all the worst that could happen, I asked, “If you do manage to fill your boat and navigate the waters, will you and Feona stay overseas with the children?”

  “No,” Ali shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his arms thin and long. “I’ll go and come back.” His lips and cheeks became drawn again as he changed the subject. “About the money. We don’t have enough.”

  I hesitated before asking, “How much does your captain want?”

  “Five thousand.”

  “Bulecra?”

  “Dollars.”

  “Ali!” The amount was obscene. I expected this to be the end of things, but instead Ali said, “We’ve half of it.”

  “You’ve half? How?”

  “Nickels and dimes. Friends and Anita,” he told me of the money his sister raised in the States. I shook my head. “This plan of yours.”

  “Is all we have,” his eyes held mine.

  “Even if I could,” I reminded him of the difficulty in exchanging bulecra to dollars, how just yesterday Teddy extended his freeze on foreign currency sales, the value of our national tender down 40% since the start of our strike. I reached for my hat, put it back on my head, then took it off again and returned it to the desk. “The children are safe now,” I tried this, but Ali could tell even I didn’t believe. “There must be something else you can do.”

  “We’ll pay you back.”

  “That isn’t what I’m saying. I don’t care about that,” I picked up my hat again, turned it over in my hand, set it on my head once more and felt in my pocket for my sunglasses. Ali in worn jeans, faded t-shirt and ancient sandals, his wheat-brown hair hanging across his forehead and brushed back from his eyes, waited for my final word. A new group of boys ran by in the hall, their laughter rising, their footsteps swift as they raced together along the yellowed tiles, moving as a single band of loose limbs and beautiful heads. As they passed the open door, each boy stole a quick peek inside, their faces brown and bright and innocent. I listened to the echo of their footsteps, and as they faded, placed my hands on each side of Ali’s shoulders. “Give me a day to see what I can do.” I looked out the window, at the darkening sky, pictured a boat in the waters off Kaprischo Point, navigating through the flat black surface of unlit channels, the night sea parted by the fullness of the moon.

  I found my bike where I left it and rode back across Unamuno Boulevard. My father was reading on his front porch when I arrived, seated beneath a white light, the arms and back of his wicker chair curved around him, his large frame aglow. I bent to roll down the rubberbands from my pant cuffs, then stretched the knots in my back. “All that peddling will keep you fit and trim like me,” my father closed his book as I came up the steps. I rubbed at my neck, apologized for being late. “I went to see Ali.”

  “How’s the boy?”

  “He’s alright. A bit thin. And tired.”

  “It’s a lot he’s taken on.”

  “Too much, I think.”

  “He’s stubborn like his mother.” The reference to Tamina, while not unusual, seemed more deliberate then and caused me to ask, “When was the last time you spoke with Ali?”

  “Yesterday. He wanted some advice.”

  “About Kaprischo Point?”

  “He was concerned about your reaction.”

  I sat down on the top step, my back still tight

  and my legs extended. “What did you tell him?”

  “ I said I ’ d make a few calls. It can’t hurt to have more information. Still the boy is right, stay or go, these kids are in the soup.” My father moved his hands from the center of his stomach, and setting his book - a dogeared copy of One Hundred Years Of Solitude - beneath his chair, held out his arm for me to help him up.

  His car was an old Fiat sedan, the roof high and rounded. As he had trouble driving now, I took him where he needed to go, his key kept on the ring with my own. We headed out, watching for soldiers assigned to follow us, circled the first few blocks, drove east then west with the headlights dimmed before resuming a normal course. Our meeting was in the sub-basement of the hospital on the south end of the capital, and cutting back across the numbered streets I spoke with my father about Don Pendar and what I should do tonight.

  “They’ve given the strike a good amount of time, André.”

  “It isn’t enough.”

  “And yet what more is there to expect?”

  “Their idea’s apocalyptic.”

  “Possibly so,” my father cracked his window for fresh air. “Still, they won’t listen now if you object. The situation is this. If you try tonight for something different they’ll shout you down,” he tapped the dashboard. “Harsh truths, André. We can’t afford to be divided. If there are flaws in their plan, we must fix them,” he reached across the front seat of the car and squeezed my arm. “Do you understand?”

  Halfway to the hospital, all the traffic lights went black, forcing me to slow at each intersection and look from side to side. We avoided the checkpoints, arrived at the hospital sometime after 9:00 p.m. and drove down the ramp at the east end of the parking lot. I shut off the car, shifted on the front seat in order to face my father. I was about to argue that seizing the Port was irresponsible and starting a war worse, was eager to tell the others exactly this, to speak of our children, of history and all those we buried and would bury in the weeks to come if we did as Don Pendar planned, but then I noticed a man in a tan coat and dark slacks coming from the hospital and approaching his car.

  The man went to his driver’s side door and inserted the key he held in his hand. For whatever reason the key didn’t work. The lock stuck and refused to turn as the man twisted his wrist first left then right then left again. He pulled the key out, stared at it a moment, felt the lock with his fingers, reinserted the key, twisted this time more vigorously, jiggling his whole arm up and down. Frustrated, he snatched out the key, yanked on the handle, slapped the window, struck the roof with his fist, tossed up his arms, cursed and smacked the door again. Only after all of this did it occur to him to try the lock on the passenger side of the car. He went around, reinserted the key, clicked open the lock, slid inside behind the wheel and drove off.

  I got out and went to help my father from the car. We walked slowly through the parking lot and down the stairs into the basement where the men already gathered called our names and let us pass up to the front of the room. I stopped and turned back to face them, waited an extra moment until the room was completely quiet then said, “Alright. Alright,” and told everyone what they wanted to hear.

  CHAPTER 7

  His first night in the capital, Colonel Pashfeld was invited to dinner by Teddy Lamb. Eager to curry favor with the American, Teddy served southern fried chicken and beer brewed fresh in cold mountain streams. “A General’s uniform?” Doug Pashfeld touched his own row of red and blue medals, said to Erik Dukette the next morning. “What is it with these guys?”

  The American Consul went to his window while the Colonel settled back in his chair. Each day now Colonel Pashfeld came and spoke with the American Consul, hoping to get a better fix on the situation. He sat and listened, rubbed his chin, crossed and uncrossed his legs, posed many questions. He chafed at what had became of his career, his days as a military man winding down like this. “I’m no diplomat. I’m no statesman. What the hell am I doing here?” he asked the American Consul who wondered the same, stood and stared out the window at the American soldiers passing below.

  The meeting at the hospital ran late and I didn’t get home until after 2:00 a.m. Katima had fallen asleep with the lamp still on and a book by Wole Soyinka in her lap. I stroked her hair, studied in great detail the shape of her face, the curve of her cheek and how her mouth parted ever so slightly as if about to whisper some secret from her dreams. She woke and asked, “How did it go?”

  I told her then what had happened, all of it f
rom the beginning, leaving nothing out. Katima sat up, pushed the sheet away. I stood and slipped off my shoes, sat back on the bed, leaned in and brought her toward me.

  After a few hours sleep I left the house and pedalled across town to Daniel Osbera’s apartment. As a child, Daniel was friends with Anita, had spent time at our house and played games of tag and hide-and-seek around my tower. As a young man now, his treatment of my tower was more reflective, his studies at the University having shifted his interests, his curiosity for my industry and unconventional views. He came by my office, spent time in my yard, asked questions, explored history both personal and otherwise. Intrigued enough to listen when I spoke of Gandhi, he wondered where such sensibilities fit into the otherwise volatile vacuum that was Bamerita. A tall boy with loose arms and lanky rhythms, black hair worn as a shaggy dog, Daniel worked hard during our strike, he and his friends indispensable to our effort, and for this then I came early in the morning to disturb them.

  The buildings near the University were half empty, the strike sending most students home to their families. I took the stairs to the third floor and knocked. Daniel’s apartment was small, the front room cramped, a table and lamp for studying, stacks of books and clothing scattered over three chairs. The window to the left was raised several inches, though the air in the apartment was sour. Daniel let me in, half-asleep as he asked, “Has something happened?”

  Riding over, I’d rehearsed what I was going to say. The plan I had in mind was not yet fully formed, and yet, as I could think of nothing else, my choices limited and no time to delay, I went and stood by the window, my hat in my left hand, the rubberbands around my pant legs rolled down. Daniel’s roommates, Cris and Bo, came out and also asked, “What’s up, Mr. Mafante?” Cris was fair-skinned and small, like an image in a Giovanni Segantini painting, while Bo was a large egg with deep cut muscles. I looked between the three, realized how young they were still, just boys, and how much I was counting on their support. I described the plot to seize the main warehouse, explained why I told the others that I would help and how, “If we’re to stop them, it’s important everyone trusts me first.”

  Daniel by the table, considered my claim then asked, “Stop them how?”

  A pot of yesterday’s coffee was reheated, the coils in the electric stove warmed by a battery Bo had rigged with copper wires. Cris handed me a mug which tasted bitter and settled poorly in my stomach. I answered Daniel’s question, told them what I was thinking. “If we can fill the streets before the others make their move, they won’t be able to attack the Port.” I presented my idea for organizing a demonstration. “We’ll put a march together, a rally to show solidarity for the strike.” “You want to block the Port so the others won’t storm the warehouse?”

  “That’s right,” I began to ramble, painted our effort as, “The perfect way to prove how united we are. Think about it,” I said. “The reason we’ve failed to attract support from overseas is that the foreign press won’t cover us. There’s nothing sexy about a strike, but a demonstration is visual. A march is seductive, a rally something the media will want to show.” I raised my coffee mug and nodded as if everything now made sense. “If we can get the world to observe us, Teddy will lose all clout. There are stations I know that will run our rally live once we set up a broadcast. I’m told it’s possible to feed images through a computer and circumvent the normal airwaves so Teddy can’t block our transmission.”

  “A webcam,” Cris said.

  “It’s possible,” Bo agreed.

  I had their attention now, confirmed with Bo that we could send a live feed overseas to a station that would take our lead and dispatch it to others. I promised to make all arrangements, tried to sound confident and swore, “Teddy won’t interfere as long as we’re peaceful and the cameras are rolling. We have a few days to get organized. It’s doable if we set ourselves to it.”

  Eventually everyone agreed. Cris grabbed a pad and pen and began plotting ways to contact people without Don Pendar and the others finding out. Bo focused on how best to manage our broadcast, while I worked with Daniel on coordinating the logistics of our march. An hour past before the rush of adrenaline gave way and Cris asked again, “About the soldiers? And Teddy? How long do you think they’ll give us once we start?”

  The concern was reasonable, though in trying to present the best response, I stumbled about for the right words, resorted to quoting Gandhi: “I believe non-violence infinitely superior to violence, forgiveness more manly than punishment.” I defined Sadagraph for them as, “the firmness in a good cause,” and quoted, too, what Theodore Roszak said about, “People try nonviolence for a week, and when it doesn’t work, they go back to violence which hasn’t worked for centuries.” All of this seemed like so much rhetoric until Daniel took up the challenge and told his friends to, “Forget Teddy. Forget the soldiers. I mean think about it,” he flicked his hands in the air. “We’ll be on TV. What can they do to us, really? I mean really, come on.”

  I retrieved my bike from the lobby and headed back uptown. Daniel, Cris, Bo and I were to meet again at the apartment at 6 : 0 0 p.m. and review our progress, while Don Pendar and Mical Delmont were already waiting for me to go over plans from last night. The duality of my conspiracy made me dizzy. Between the strike, the demonstration and my deception regarding the Port, I worried about pulling everything off. On Appress Avenue, I pedalled north, parallel to the sea, when a small brown car appeared suddenly and cut me off. A man in street clothes got out on the passenger’s side and grabbed my handlebars. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Mafante, please.”

  My bike was placed atop the metal rack on the trunk of the car, while I was made to sit in the front seat beside the driver. A handgun lay in the space between us which the driver didn’t try to conceal. The man in back had a black radio which cracked and buzzed at regular intervals. We left the city by side streets, avoiding all checkpoints, the men saying only enough to let me know where we were headed.

  Outside the capital, Bamerita became quickly a stretch of flat farms, followed by forest and hills. Smaller towns, shops and factories sat back from the road. After twenty minutes we turned down a dir t path and stopped in front of an old wheat silo bleached beige by the sun. Two men came from behind the silo and approached the car as we got out. One of the new men slid behind the wheel and drove the car inside the silo while the rest of us hiked into the woods.

  Twice the man with the radio ducked away, returning each time to nod at the others. We stopped finally after some thirty minutes, having reached a clearing where more men were waiting. Each man was well whiskered, wore dust stained clothes, their skin browned by weeks outdoors. Boxes of supplies, old rifles and silver cans were spread among the surrounding trees, the branches overhead bowed and weaved together, a network of ropes and boards laid out in the branches in an elaborate series of catwalks. The man who drove the car touched my shoulder and had me continue between the trees and down a short incline.

  We wound around the hillside until the rocks presented the opening to a cave. A lantern glowed inside. Justin was there with his back to me, the lantern illuminating a small wooden table, a half dozen cardboard boxes and a small machine producing a low whir and a click-click-clicking sound. The machine was an old ink wheel mimeograph, silver-grey with a smooth metal carriage and a round plastic bottle of blue ink loaded into the underside. Several stacks of flyers were placed in boxes beneath the table. I raised my hand to check the height of the cave, my shadow stretching out in front of me as I let Justin know I was there.

  When he turned, I thought at first the glow from the lantern was responsible for making his face look as it did. His coloring was yellow, his cheeks hollow, his whiskers white. Although we were the same age, and had known one another since before we fought in the War of the Winds, Justin now looked ancient, the sounds he made when he spoke raw and rasped. “It’s good to see you, André,” he coughed and bent forward. “I’m glad you’re here. Come,” he waved me toward the tab
le, handed me the most recent flyer, a new essay condemning Teddy and calling for measures well beyond our strike. As I read, Justin tapped his chest and coughed again. Before I finished, he cupped my elbow and steered me back toward the mouth of the cave where we emerged squinting against the sunlight.

  In the heat, Justin’s stride was suspect. He didn’t release my elbow until we’d reached the front of a large silver rock. The hillside provided a view of the trail below. I stood near the bluff overlooking the trees while Justin asked about my father.

  “He’s well.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear. That’s good for us,” he massaged his throat, spat out grey phlegm, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “And Emilo? How’s he doing?”

  “His feet seem to be healing.”

  “And his face?”

  “Who can tell.”

  “Ha!” Justin drew in three short breaths as if stealing something from the air. He pressed two fingers against his chest, his mouth still open. I noticed his teeth had gone dark in patches near the gums, his lips cracked and white. “You need to see a doctor.”