The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “I never heard of her.”

  “Others have. Anyway, I’m sure she gets invited to their embassy parties. She almost certainly knows this guy, so I’m going to ask her to talk with him. She’s coming over later this week.” Alex turned his attention back to viewing the tape.

  “Oh.” Anna raised her eyebrows. She stood silently for a moment, then said coldly, “I guess I should prepare some hors d’oeuvres or something. Shrunken heads perhaps.”

  Alex glanced up from the videotape machine, confused by Anna’s unusual archness, but she had already left the room.

  “So, you want to speak with me,” Arieka stated between draws off her cigarette. She leaned back in the chair and surveyed her hosts coolly. They had all sat down at the dining table rather than on the sofa as if they were expecting to conduct business. Arieka noticed how the man held on to a file as if anxious to show it to her. “And why do I want to talk to you?”

  Anna sniffed as Alex explained, “As I said to you on the phone, it’s about Peter Halifax. I believe you were friends?”

  “I met him. I’m here. What about him?” Arieka’s eyes scanned the tiny flat. A few photographs on the wall near the sofa, some small carved wooden boxes scattered about, a black shawl with a pattern of bright roses woven into the cloth, currently used as a small tablecloth; otherwise everything looked as though ithad been acquired in Manhattan. Naturally, they would have come nearly empty-handed.

  “You saw the videotape?” Alex asked. Call me Alex, he had said when she had greeted him at the door with a questioning stutter.

  “Yes, a bit of it. And some stills in a magazine.” Arieka felt suddenly sad. “I knew he’d go back. I told him not to.”

  “After the show.”

  “Yes, we went to my apartment.” Arieka noticed how the woman stiffened. She had hardly said a word since her heavily accented greeting, just offered Arieka a drink and some cheese and crackers.

  Anna got up from the table. “I have an appointment.” Grabbing her purse, she left the apartment.

  “She thinks I slept with him?” Arieka asked after the door had snapped shut.

  “Perhaps.”

  “And she disapproves.”

  “Quite probably.”

  “She does not approve of a white man with a black woman?”

  “More likely”—Alex decided to drop all pretense of coyness—“she does not approve of her son-in-law with any woman other than her daughter.”

  “Her son-in-law?” Arieka repeated. Then as she began to piece together the facts, a look of realization came over her face.“So that was your grandchild on the tape?”

  “Yes. It gets lost in the translation, but it’s my name the interrogator invokes.”

  “Sheval . . . ?”

  “Yeah, Przewalewski. My daughter’s child and Peter’s adopted daughter.”

  “Adopted! Oh, that explains the age. I am so sorry!” Arieka moaned. It was to Alex’s ears one of the few reactions he had heard about Joanna’s death that sounded genuinely sympathetic.

  “So am I,” he said simply.

  “So he wasn’t lying . . .” Arieka sounded distant.

  “When?”

  “How did you know he went to my apartment afterwards?”

  “We called the hotel after the show. They told us he said he’d be out.”

  “Oh, yeah, he wanted to call you—his handler, he said—directly but then he guessed you’d all be asleep, so he left a message at the front desk. Then we went over to my place and had drinks.”

  “And?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not to me,” Alex replied truthfully.

  “We talked a lot. Played my guitar. He had me teach him some songs from my childhood. God, I could hardly remember the words, and my voice is not the best, but he wrote down what I sang and then sang it back to me. I guess he liked the alien words and rhythms. And we drank, smoked cigarettes—I gather he was not a nonsmoker, despite appearances to the contrary.”

  “He is now.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, Joanna—that’s the girl on the videotape—she asked him to quit.”

  “Oh. And he did?” Arieka remembered how much he had enjoyed smoking, how he had savored each cigarette.

  “I think he’d have done anything for that little girl,” Alex answered ruefully. “He really wanted to be a father to her.” He frowned at a memory, then said, “So that was it? Nothing else?”

  Arieka smiled. “I wouldn’t tell you if we did. But, you can tell his wife he didn’t. He said he would like to, but he couldn’t. I thought he was just putting me off; that maybe he was embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed?” Alex asked despite himself.

  “You know, from the scars.”

  “Oh, and how did you know about those?”

  “He told me,” Arieka answered with a bit of surprise. “He said his clothes hid a lot of unpleasant history. Anyway, I guess that wasn’t the reason after all. Well, I digress.”

  Alex nodded his agreement. He pulled out the photocopy of the photograph, pointed to the relevant section of the photo, and then produced a magnified copy of that section. Only two people were in the magnification—Peter holding a tray and an African diplomat in a long robe and wearing a hat with multicolored bands. “Do you know him?” Alex pointed at the diplomat.

  Arieka held the photocopy and stared at it a long time. She knew the diplomat quite well, in fact, but that was not what she was looking at. It was Peter, he was unmistakable; yet he looked so different! She looked at the black eyes, the bruised and beaten face, and heard his voice in her mind as he joked about his years as a slave. They had all laughed, had not wanted to hear anything but humor, had turned away from the possibility that there had been genuine pain. She heard the gunfire in her village, remembered her father dragging her by the hand as they ran for cover, remembered how in the city she had disowned it all and in America it was the stuff of anecdotes and colorful stories. “Yeah, I know him,” she said finally. “What can I do for you?”

  Alex explained what they needed, and Arieka nodded her head. “He’s hot for me, so I’ll have no problem getting him to do my bidding, foreign aid or no foreign aid.”

  Alex thanked her, and when they parted, he kissed her warmly on each cheek, figuring that since she was not an American, he did not have to stick with the cold American custom of shaking hands.

  Arieka was on the street before she recalled that Alex had used the present tense: he is now . So he was alive! Her heart leapt with happiness for her friend. Somehow, miraculously, he was alive.

  21

  SHE DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO ASK the next time; in fact, he was not even quite awake. Still, his need was obvious, and Barbara reached over to be helpful—as a friend. Peter woke with her hands working their magic and his body on fire with desire.

  “Stop it,” he muttered while trying to hold on to the dream she had inspired. Allison, of all people. She used to do that, wake him up like that. After all these years, he had been dreaming of Allison. What would Zosia think? What would Barbara think?

  In response to his feeble command, Barbara draped one of her legs over him. He could feel the damp heat between her thighs. She continued to tease him and he moaned with agonized pleasure.

  “Please, Barbara, stop it,” he said, trying to put some conviction in his words, pushing her hand away. It didn’t work. She held him closer, grasped him more intimately, and kissed him passionately on the shoulders and neck. He tried to wake himself, to call up all the arguments against letting her continue, but it was too late, and still half-asleep he gave in and without in any way reciprocating he closed his eyes and enjoyed her kisses and caresses.

  He jerked convulsively and the movement woke him up. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His hand compulsively wiped his face, but there was no blood there, nothing at all. Barbara was sound asleep and he guessed hours had passed. He felt the familiar dread, that awful fear of sleeping, and sighin
g his resignation, he got up. He made himself a cup of tea and spent some time writing a letter to Zosia. Then when his eyes had grown tired, he closed them and began thinking about where his life was going and wondering what to do about Barbara. It seemed stupid that two people could have such desire and suppress it. Whom would it hurt? Zosia didn’t care what he did; he could even tell her and she would just shrug her shoulders, if she even bothered to listen. She didn’t even love him, had just sent him away into this impossible situation. Why in God’s name was he showing her a loyalty that was not only meaningless to her but probably undeserved? Doubtless, she was finding comfort in Tadek’s arms whenever she needed it.

  He wondered momentarily why he had never asked her outright what her relationship with Tadek was. She would probably tell him the truth—that is, if she deigned to answer. More likely, she would grow angry at the implied constraints on her independence. So, she guarded her independence and privacy jealously, while he pushed Barbara away just for the sake of some idiotic and unappreciated loyalty. Where was the sense in it all? Whom would it hurt?

  Zosia didn’t care, he would satisfy his physical needs, and Barbara wouldfinally have a chance to express her love for him. She had tried in so many ways. She made their little flat as comfortable as one could want, she cooked lovely meals and did most of the shopping and cleaned everything before it was even dirty. They went for walks together and she listened with rapt attention to anything he had to say, she took an interest in anything he was interested in, she studied English and tried to learn about English culture. She did everything to make herself attractive, not only physically but as a companion. A lifelong companion.

  And there was the rub. If he began a liaison with Barbara, she would be sure to misinterpret it. No matter how clearly he laid out the ground rules, she would think that he either loved her or would soon love her. The simple fact was that he didn’t. He found her pleasant and pleasing, physically attractive and a comfortable companion, but he did not love her. There was too little feedback. She was like a mirror, working to reflect his ideas and desires; it was fun and flattering, but it was terribly insubstantial. He needed someone with experience, with independent and vociferous opinions. He needed a partner, not an appendix. He needed Zosia.

  With years and experience, Barbara was sure to grow into a wonderful maturity, but it would take time, and if she were to spend that time as his companion or wife, he suspected they would never escape the almost father-daughter relationship that their friendship resembled. He would teach her and she would learn, but her experiences would be those of a student. She would have nothing to offer him except what he himself had helped develop. It could work, but it was more likely not to. And more to the point, they would be working toward the possibility that he might one day love her. Everything would hinge on his emotions developing according to a plan while she would have to maintain an almost infinite patience. It would be pointless and insulting. He would be trying to turn her into some gentler version of Zosia, and if Barbara ever understood that, she would learn to hate him forever.

  So, anything they began was doomed to be temporary. Even so, it might be a pleasant diversion if only Barbara weren’t so in love with him. Even worse, he would, as far as he could guess, be her first sexual partner. What a history to establish! Her very first man would be doing nothing more than using her to make up for missing the woman he loved. All her hopes of cajoling him into loving her would be used against her. When it all ended, as it surely would, she would have nothing more than the knowledge that the man she had dearly loved had treated her so shabbily. She might well come to loathe herself or the feelings that had led her into such a trap, and she would surely have nothing but contempt for him. Two years from now, could he stand the look of disdain that she would give him? He could hear her thoughts of the future: there he is, that loser, that louse who used me just because I was momentarily in love with him. How could I have been so stupid, how could I have not seen how contemptible he is?

  He did not want to hear that about himself.

  So, Barbara was out of the question. Not so much for the sake of his loyalty to Zosia, but for his own self-esteem and for the sake of his friendship with Barbara. As a friend, he would advise her against getting involved, and as a friend, he would do what he could to prevent her from making a mistake. Someday, perhaps after she had gone through some relationships, after she had more experiences and had formed her own opinions; someday after Zosia had kicked him out for good; someday when they could approach each other as equals—then perhaps she would be available to him. But by then he was sure she would not want him anymore.

  The next day he was determined to bring up the subject with her. It had to be a daylight conversation, one where he would not be influenced by irrational desires. Breakfast was too early and a bit too rushed as he got up late. During the workday, in the shop was inappropriate—there were too many interruptions. Lunch was impossible because one of them had to keep an eye on the shop while the other ate. So, it had to be at dinnertime.

  Barbara shopped and cooked again although Peter offered to take a turn at it. She claimed to enjoy it, and besides, he looked tired, was it a bad night? He had to admit that his sleep had been pretty brief and unsatisfactory. Too bad, she commiserated, perhaps tonight would go better. And with that she disappeared to do the shopping as he relaxed through the afternoon, keeping an eye on the customers and helping them to find the books they needed.

  The meal was lovely, and they finished it off by splitting an orange that she had splurged to buy from one of the German-only shops. He told her how the children in his neighborhood had used to refer to the rusty, sludgy water as orange juice, and they both laughed at his humorous description of drinking the muck.

  After cleaning up the dishes together, they relocated to the couch and had another glass of wine while chatting about various things. She asked for more stories of his childhood, pointing out that it was useful research for her, and he willingly obliged, glad to have a reason to put off the difficult discussion he had in mind.

  He told her about how his brother, Erich, and he used to turn off the water to their father’s showers and how they would roar with laughter at his discomfiture. “It was quite unusual to have a shower to ourselves, and I think he was proud of it—so it was all the more painful for him when the water inevitably and inexplicably gave out each time he was all lathered up. We worked out a really convoluted signaling system from our hallway down into the cellar, and one of us would get to sit upstairs and watch the fireworks.”

  Barbara shook her head in amused disapproval as he continued relating some of the things he and his brother had done. It had been nice then, when he and his brother still got along, when they weren’t competing for what seemed like a limited supply of love and attention.

  “You should go see him,” Barbara suggested.

  “Erich?” Peter was astonished at the suggestion.

  “Yes. See what he has to say for himself.”

  “I don’t think so.” The security implications alone were horrendous. Besides, what in the world would they have to say to each other? “No,” he reiterated as if Barbara had argued with him, “no, that wouldn’t be a good idea.” He paused, then added, “Anyway, I don’t know where he is.”

  “Oh, I think you can assume he didn’t move from London.”

  “No, perhaps not,” he replied distantly. Funny, they could stumble across each other on the street and not recognize each other.

  Barbara picked up the bottle and poured the rest of the contents into their glasses. Then she slid over on the couch and, curling her feet up under herself, leaned against him and said,“Here’s to families,” and tapped her glass against his.

  He draped his arm around her and agreed, “To families.” It felt nice with her curled up against him. Peaceful and friendly and not worth disrupting with complicated discussions about their strange relationship. Besides, he was getting tired and it was nearly time to retire
for the evening. Better to leave it to another day.

  22

  “WE’VEGOT TO DISCUSS THIS!” Karl exclaimed. He had managed to remain calm as he had walked down the hallway and snapped at Richard’s secretary in a normal fashion, but once he had entered Richard’s office and closed the door behind him, he could maintain calm no longer. They were sunk! “What are we going to do?” he wailed.

  Richard glanced down at the calendar. Four weeks until the U.S. elections, just about right. “We?” he asked innocently.

  “You’re the one who told me to deny everything!” Karl fumed. “Now they’ve gone and proved the videotape was made here. Some technical details I don’t understand.”

  “They have a different video system there. I never told you to claim the videotape was made in America. I just said to say it was not authentic!”

  “But they’ve got his identity documents. They’ve released them to the press!”

  “Who are they?” Richard asked out of curiosity.

  “I don’t know! Someone just gave the documents to the American press. They clearly state his history, and most of it matches his story! We’re sunk!”

  Richard smiled at Karl’s naive addiction to pieces of paper. He made a common assumption—that once something was on a document, it was the truth. Karl stared at Richard, desperate for a response, but Richard let him stew a few seconds longer as Richard ground out one cigarette and calmly litanother. Satisfied at the delay, Richard said, “Now, tell me exactly what they have done.”

  Karl explained that his presentation had, to his surprise, been shown on American television exactly as Richard had predicted. Karl was sure it had had a good effect, but unfortunately, not long afterward, the documentation that Peter had taken with him when he’d left was released to the American media. Also the original videotape had been analyzed, and it had been ascertained that it was unlikely that it was produced in the NAU.