Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  “This is our first year,” Valerie points out, trying not to sound defensive. “I think that using the marathon route for the run leg of the triathlon was a brilliant idea – and I can say that because I didn’t sign on until after the course was laid out. But it means that we’re constantly being compared to the marathon, which is unfortunate. I mean, we knew all along that we weren’t going to draw as many people as the marathon. I’m sure that a lot more people would have shown up if the weather had been better…”

  “And if you hadn’t lost your biggest sponsor,” Kennedy adds.

  “Well, that certainly didn’t help,” Valerie admits, surprised that Kennedy is interested enough to have done some research. “When Sam Adams pulled out, that was the end of our advertising budget. And we had to downsize our prize money quite a bit, so some of the pros backed out. But look.” She points down Boylston Street. “Here comes one of the pros right now. That’s Scott Marcus, very popular guy.” As if in confirmation, the small crowd in the bleachers begins to clap and shout encouragement to the approaching runner, who beams and pumps a fist as he crosses the finish line.

  Kennedy graces Scott Marcus with a bored glance. He points to the race clock. “Does that mean,” he asks, “that Mr. Marcus has been racing for more than eight hours?”

  “Exactly,” Valerie says, hoping that Kennedy doesn’t know that the clock has malfunctioned several times during the course of the race, and that the time it displays, while probably a good approximation, is anything but exact. “Actually, that’s a decent time for fifth place, maybe a little slow, but not bad. Some of the women should start coming in pretty soon. I wouldn’t be surprised to see…”

  “Listen, Ms. Johnson…”

  “Val.”

  Kennedy glances at the gold Patek Philippe that adorns his wrist. “I know that you were asked to try to convince me to press for the addition of the… what do you call it, the long-distance triathlon…”

  “Ironman distance. Two-point-four-mile swim, hundred-twelve-mile bike, twenty-six-point-two-mile run…”

  “Yes, the Ironman-distance triathlon. I understand that AmTri would like to see the Ironman-distance triathlon become an Olympic event. But I must tell you, in all honesty, that the chance of that happening anytime soon is exactly zero. For a variety of reasons.”

  “Such as?”

  Kennedy stares back at her for a few seconds as if the question has annoyed him. “First of all,” he says, “I’m new to this job, and I’m still feeling my way around. Frankly, I’m less than eager to undertake any new projects until I have a firmer grasp of the intricacies of my situation.”

  “Oh, of course, I didn’t mean to imply…”

  “Secondly, from what I understand, most triathletes are from the US, Australia, New Zealand, Western Europe… In other words, none of the top triathletes is from Eastern Europe or East Asia, which means that trying to add yet another version of the triathlon to the Olympics raises complicated international geopolitical considerations, issues that are well beyond the scope of our discussion here today.” He treats Valerie to a fleeting and patronizing smile. “And finally,” he adds, “the triathlon is already an Olympic event, of course, albeit at a much shorter distance. Many athletic events remain totally unrepresented in the Olympics, at any distance. Some of those events are clamoring for admission. Surely we should consider them before we try to add another variety of an existing event, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I don’t think you’d feel that way if you had more of an appreciation for the history of the triathlon,” Valerie says, trying not to sound as annoyed as she feels. “The Ironman distance was the original triathlon distance, and over the years it’s remained extremely popular…”

  “So I see,” Kennedy says, glancing around at the sparse crowd.

  Valerie’s eyes flash. “That’s not fair,” she says. “This is a brand-new race, and sure, we’ve had some problems…”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Kennedy says dryly. “The weather. The loss of your sponsor. The diminution of your prize money. The withdrawal of the professional triathletes.”

  Valerie feels herself starting to bristle, but she makes a determined effort not to let it show. This is a complete waste of my time, she thinks, but getting upset about it will do no good at all. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she finally says, “but I have to tell you that I’m more than a little puzzled about why they named a banker to head up the U. S. Olympic Committee. It’s obvious to me that you have no appreciation for the effort that goes into staging an athletic event.” There, she thinks, that feels better. She smiles. “No disrespect intended,” she adds.

  “If the USOC had been able to keep its financial house in order,” Kennedy shoots back, “I’d have been the first to agree that my background for this position was less than ideal. But the fact is that I’ve had a strong interest in athletics for most of my life.” Kennedy appears to be more than a little agitated. With some satisfaction, Valerie realizes that she’s struck a nerve.

  “During my undergraduate days at Harvard,” Kennedy continues, “I often cut classes to attend Red Sox games. In fact, I was instrumental in arranging Copley National’s investment in the team. And the daughter of one of my closest friends happens to be a world-class athlete. Her name is Jillian Kendal. Perhaps you know of her?”

  “Jillian Kendal the runner?”

  “The very one.”

  “The Jillian Kendal who won the Olympic marathon four years ago?”

  “Exactly,” Kennedy says, with unmistakable pride. “The Jillian Kendal who won the Olympic marathon four years ago.”

  “That Jillian Kendal?” Valerie arches an eyebrow and points helpfully to the finish line, where a tall, slender woman with shoulder-length blond hair and a winning smile runs through the yellow tape, her arms outstretched in victory.

  Kennedy rises to his feet. He stares at the blond-haired woman who has just run past the finish line, then he looks at Valerie, then he looks back at the blonde again. For a few moments he seems confused. Then he smiles and visibly relaxes.

  “Precisely,” he says. “That Jillian Kendal.”

  1.1.8: University Park

  “I’m going to unwrap the sandwiches, okay?”

  Ijaz Hamdhi looks up hopefully at Akaso Siko, but he gets no response. He glances longingly at the small party tray on the end table that stands by the arm of the sofa where he strategically positioned himself when he arrived nearly an hour ago. The sandwiches, small triangles of crustless white bread filled with unidentifiable luncheon meats, don’t look especially fresh to him through the Saran Wrap that covers the tray. Ijaz has been trying to convince himself that the dingy appearance of the sandwiches is an illusion, a trick of the dim light. After all, the sunlight not only has to force its way into the apartment through a single filthy window, it has to suffer the further indignity of being refracted and diffused by the cellophane. And judging from the stains of various colors that dot this particular piece of Saran Wrap, Ijaz suspects that this is not the first time it’s been pressed into service to cover plates of foodstuffs.

  At least, Ijaz hopes that the items formerly covered by the Saran Wrap were foodstuffs. He decides that it’s probably best not to think about it too much. At any rate, the sandwiches would be a welcome change from the dried-out carrots and celery stalks he’s been dipping in ranch dressing and devouring for the last hour.

  He could, of course, just reach over and unwrap the sandwiches himself, without asking permission. But that would be rude, especially in light of the fact that, last time he asked about the sandwiches, he had specifically been told not to unwrap them. Not until more guests have arrived, Akaso had said.

  Persistence, on the other hand, was not necessarily rude, at least not as rude as unwrapping the sandwiches without permission. So he will just keep asking until his host relents.

  “Akaso? The sandwiches?” And then, because he feels that perhaps a little rudeness might speed things up, Ijaz adds
, “I don’t think anyone else is going to show up, you know? We can’t just let all this food go to waste. People are starving in India, and all that.”

  Akaso knows that Ijaz is Indian, of course – and since he tops the scales at well over two hundred fifty pounds, Ijaz is clearly in no danger of starving. But Akaso fails to recognize the attempt at levity, or perhaps he decides to ignore it. “What about Marika?” he asks. It sounds to Ijaz like some kind of accusation. “I saw you speaking with her yesterday. Did she say that she was coming?”

  “Yeah, I spoke with her yesterday,” Ijaz admits. “But we didn’t talk about the party. It just didn’t come up.” Lying, he decides, is preferable to relating what Marika had really said, which was that she’d rather have all of her teeth extracted without the benefit of anesthetic than set foot in Akaso Siko’s apartment, party or no party.

  “And Farahnaz? She was interested when I announced the party at the FSA meeting. I cannot understand why she is not here.” To Ijaz, it sounds as though Akaso is more angry than puzzled; perhaps he regards the absence of Farahnaz as some kind of betrayal.

  “It’s a mystery, alright,” Ijaz says, although he knows that Farahnaz had expressed interest in the party just to be polite. He also knows that the only reason that Akaso’s presence is tolerated by the Foreign Students Association is that he is, in a word, foreign – and as such, according to the organization’s charter, he cannot be excluded from FSA meetings. But nothing in the charter says that the other members have to tolerate the company of Akaso Siko in any setting other than FSA meetings, and none of them, other than Ijaz, chooses to do so.

  For a few seconds, Akaso appears to be deep in thought, and Ijaz steels himself to be grilled about the rest of the FSA membership – or at least the female membership, which seems to be the pattern emerging in Akaso’s questions. But then Akaso sighs and, to the delight of Ijaz, peels the Saran Wrap from the sandwich tray. Ijaz feels that Akaso’s action implies that he’s resigned himself to the reality that no other guests are going to arrive, and he fleetingly considers making a joke about that, but decides that it might be more prudent to eat a sandwich or two first. He’s relieved to discover that the sandwiches don’t taste quite as bad as they look, although they’re certainly not fresh – and, in fact, even after eating three or four crustless triangles, he finds that he’s still unable to identify the sandwich fillings. He starts to ask, but then decides that perhaps he’s better off not knowing.

  Akaso seats himself next to his guest on the sofa and presses a button on the TV remote control. Across the room, a grainy picture begins to emerge on a small screen. It appears to be some kind of war movie, soldiers storming a beach, dodging bullets. Men in uniform are running everywhere, screaming at each other over the roar of exploding munitions. Akaso mutes the sound and begins to flip channels. A basketball game. Then a car commercial, something red and fast, Ijaz isn’t able to make out the brand before Akaso moves on to the next channel. Then a courtroom scene, two lawyers in a heated exchange, gesticulating angrily, the judge sternly pounding his gavel on an imposing wooden bench. Then an athletic event of some kind, an aerial view of a few dozen runners racing down a curving ribbon of asphalt, a bird’s-eye shot apparently taken from a helicopter, or perhaps a drone.

  “Ijaz, you are a friend,” Akaso says. “So I know that you will give me an honest answer.”

  Uh-oh, Ijaz thinks. Here it comes.

  “Sometimes, I sense a certain… tension, shall we say, between myself and some of the other foreign students. Have you noticed this as well? Or is it just my imagination?”

  Ijaz hesitates. “You want me to tell you the truth?”

  “Why else would I ask you?”

  “Well, let’s see…” Ijaz swallows a last bite of his sandwich. “You never smile. You dress like you’re some kind of refugee. You’ve haven’t even tried to lose your accent. All you ever talk about is politics. And you don’t really talk, all you ever want to do is argue.” He counts each point off on his fingers, as if he’s making some kind of list. “You’re always trying to get everybody to do things they don’t really want to do. You snap at anybody who has the nerve to disagree with you…”

  “Ridiculous,” Akaso snaps. “I am sorry if I burden you and the others with my stories of the abominable injustices that are daily facts of life in Qen Phon,” he adds, his voice thick with sarcasm. “But the Butcher of Qen Phon murdered my father, who was a great fighter for the freedom of my people. I cannot pretend that it did not happen just so as not to discomfort my friends.”

  Ijaz shrugs. “Hey, you asked me to tell you the truth, so I did. And I am your friend, Akaso. If I weren’t your friend, I wouldn’t be here.” Of course, Ijaz knows that the only reason he’s there is because the attraction of free food overcame his aversion to Akaso. And he suspects that Akaso knows it too.

  “I know what happened to your father,” Ijaz continues. We all know what happened to your father, he thinks. That’s all you ever talk about. “But most of the foreign students are just trying to fit in here. It’s tough enough just being an outsider, especially at a rich-kid school like SMU. The American students look down their noses at anyone who’s different from them. They’re not even interested in American politics, Akaso. And they’re certainly not interested in the politics of some little country halfway around the world.”

  “Exactly!” Akaso jumps off the sofa and begins to pace as well as he can in the small apartment. “It is our responsibility to educate the Americans, not to… not to emulate them.” He stops pacing and nods. “Yes, that is good,” he says, as if to himself. “Educate, not emulate. Education, not emulation. I must remember that.”

  “Akaso…”

  But Akaso will not be interrupted. “The American students are soft and lazy. They do not want to work. They do not want to study. They do not even want to think if they can possibly avoid it. But it is our responsibility to enlighten them, Ijaz. We know what the world is really like. We know how cruel and evil it can be. We know that there are bigger problems in the world than figuring out how to get your parents to increase your allowance.”

  “Look, I know what you’re saying, but…”

  “And the women, they are the worst!” Akaso starts pacing again, waving his arms as he walks back and forth in front of the sofa. “They are not even women, I should not dignify them with such a title. They are little girls. They do not even speak of their mother and father, they speak of their ‘Momma’ and their ‘Daddy,’ just like babies. Have you heard them?”

  “Before we continue this lively discussion…” Ijaz holds out a blue plastic cup hopefully. “I think there’s more Coke in the refrigerator, yes? As long as you’re up…”

  “Are you certain that you wish for another Coke?” Akaso asks, suddenly the concerned host. “I have Dr. Pepper as well.”

  “Yeah, thanks, a DP would be cool,” Ijaz says. “Don’t fill it, half a cup’s fine,” he adds, as Akaso takes the cup and heads off into the kitchen. The dry sandwiches have made him thirsty, but drinking half a cup will be faster than drinking a full one, and he’ll be able to make his excuses and leave that much sooner.

  Returning from the kitchen with two drinks, Akaso gives one to Ijaz and settles down at the other end of the sofa. Ijaz is not entirely surprised to notice that the cups are full; Akaso must have realized that his guest is hoping to depart as soon as his cup is empty, and Akaso obviously has more to say.

  “You know,” Akaso says, leaning back into the corner of the sofa, “I see these women, these girls here at school. I hear the way they speak rudely to their men. I see the way they try to act as if they are so… so tough.” He shakes his head at the deplorable situation. “They think they know what they want. But I know what they really want.”

  Ijaz takes a sip of his Dr. Pepper. “Okay, I’ll bite,” he says, against his better judgment. “What do they really want?”

  Akaso leans forward, as if wanting to ensure that Ijaz doesn’t miss t
his important point. “American women,” he explains, “want a man to protect them. They want a man to tell them what to do. They want a man who is not afraid of them. They want a man who is strong.”

  Ijaz grins. “A man like you?”

  “Yes,” Akaso replies. “Exactly. A man like me.”

  Ijaz examines Akaso’s face for any hint that Akaso is joking back at him, but Akaso appears to be quite serious.

  “Then why is it,” Ijaz asks, “that I’ve never even seen you with an American woman? If you’re the man they’re looking for, why haven’t they found you yet? I’m not trying to insult you or anything,” he adds, as Akaso begins to glower at him, “but there’s got to be at least one woman here at school who you’d like to… to educate, if you know what I mean.”

  “The women here are not worthy of me,” Akaso says, his voice steely. “The fact is that I could have any of these women, anytime I want. If I didn’t have to attend to my studies. If I didn’t have to educate these ignorant Americans about the atrocities that occur in my country day after day. If I had nothing better to do than to waste my time with one of these brainless children, I could have any one of these women. Any one of them.”

  “What about her?” Ijaz points to the TV screen where a tall, slender woman with shoulder-length blond hair and a winning smile runs through a yellow tape, her arms outstretched in victory. “Could you have her?”

  “What do you mean, the girl on the television?” Akaso is confused. “I speak of real life,” he says, indignantly, “not a TV show.”

  “That’s Jill Kendal,” Ijaz says. And as if in confirmation, Jillian Kendal suddenly appears in block letters at the bottom of the screen. “Don’t you recognize her?”

  “The girl on the TV?” Akaso is still confused. “She is someone you know?”