Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  Not all of the photos involve students and soldiers. In one, tears stain the dirty cheeks of an old woman who kneels next to the inert, blood-spattered body of a child. In another, perhaps a dozen mangled, contorted bodies lie heaped in a shallow pit.

  Jillian shudders and looks up. The guardian of the booth has not yet noticed her presence. Two posters hang on the wall behind him; to Jillian’s relief, both contain only text. One simply proclaims, in large, block letters, “U.S. OUT OF QEN PHON!” The other, scrawled in a hastier script, says, “Over Ten Thousand Killed, Many Thousands More Injured And Mutilated,” and then repeats, in larger print, the perhaps rhetorical question, “WHEN WILL IT END?”

  Various types of literature cover the table. Handwritten, photocopied fliers urge SMU students to attend a weekend rally to display their solidarity with the oppressed people of Qen Phon; “You CAN Make A Difference!” they proclaim. Other fliers, professionally produced but poorly photocopied, contain small, horrific photographs similar to the ones on the poster; they feature several paragraphs of typed text, punctuated profusely with exclamation points and lots of words entirely in uppercase letters. Dozens of slim, yellow folders urge “DEATH To Tanami, Enemy Of The People, Puppet Of U.S. Imperialists!”

  In a corner of the table, the glossy covers of three colorful paperback books feature the same man in various poses. In each photo, he is simply dressed in what appears to be some kind of drab uniform. He wears a warm smile, but his eyes betray a deep sadness. On one cover, he extends his hands toward the reader in a mute, impassioned invitation. One book is entitled “Qen Phon: Land of Joy, Land of Tears.” Another is called, “The Murder of Mantu Siko.” The third title is the increasingly familiar refrain, “When Will It End?”

  The young man sitting at the table says something unintelligible without looking up from his book. For a moment, Jillian isn’t certain that he’s talking to her – but, of course, there’s no one else around. Could he have been talking to himself?

  “I’m sorry?” she says, tentatively.

  He looks up from his book and stares at her, impassively, expressionlessly. “I said that he was a great man, a very great man.” He nods at the glossy paperbacks. “I noticed that you were inspecting the Mantu Siko collection.” He speaks in deep, rich tones, with a noticeably foreign accent that Jillian can’t quite place; like his features, it’s vaguely Oriental… or, perhaps, Arabian?

  “Well, I wasn’t exactly inspecting them, or anything,” Jillian admits. “I really was just trying to see if you had any information about Qen Phon.”

  “Mantu Siko was guilty of nothing other than harboring a passionate yearning for the freedom of his people,” he continues, as if she hadn’t even spoken. “For this, he was tortured and brutally murdered by the minions of Tanami, The Butcher. Before he died, both of his eyes were put out with hot pokers, and his tongue was cut off as well. Even in death, The Butcher feared the power of Mantu Siko to see the truth and to report it faithfully to the world.”

  Tanami, Jillian thinks. Tanami. Where has she heard… “Isn’t Tanami the name of the capital of Qen Phon?” she asks, hoping that an interruption might distract the intense young man from his diatribe.

  But he continues as if he hasn’t heard her. “Tanami’s storm troopers also mutilated his testicles with an electric cattle prod,” he adds, his eyes boring into hers. “I suppose that, symbolically, you might say that they feared that he would reproduce. But they were too late. The seeds of his heroic struggle had already been firmly implanted in the hearts and minds of the oppressed people of Qen Phon, and those seeds have proven to be exceptionally fertile.”

  Oh Jesus, Jillian thinks, I don’t want to hear this. I’ve got to get out of here. But all she actually does is stand there, her mouth open in disbelief.

  “And, of course,” he continues, “he had reproduced in the literal sense as well. I am his son.” He rises and extends his hand. “Akaso Siko, at your service.”

  Reluctantly, she takes his hand. It’s excessively damp, almost clammy. She feels repulsed, defiled. And he doesn’t so much shake her hand as just hold it as he continues to stare intently, almost rudely, into her eyes. His appearance does nothing to lessen her discomfort – he’s wearing ragged jeans and an old work shirt, and he has obviously not shaved for several days.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Jillian says, politely, but without much feeling. “I’m Jillian Kendal.” She seldom uses her full Christian name when introducing herself; but, in this case, she hopes that the formality might help to keep some kind of distance between them.

  “I know who you are,” Akaso Siko says. There’s an awkward silence. He continues to grasp her hand and stare at her.

  Jillian is accustomed to being recognized, her Olympic gold medal having made her a minor celebrity. Generally, she enjoys the notoriety. Occasionally, it’s the cause of some regret.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Jillian finally says, realizing how inadequate it sounds, but feeling a pressing need to say something.

  “He had the brazen audacity,” Akaso Siko says, “to believe that he could change the name of a city that had been known by the same name since long before the time of the Romans in Europe, a city that was engaged in orderly commerce long before civilization existed in Egypt.” It takes Jillian a few seconds to realize that Akaso is referring to Tanami, “The Butcher,” and not to his father. “Of course, the people of Qen Phon always refer to the city by its real name,” Akaso explains, “Zabori Denegri – ‘the light of the jungle,’ in your language.”

  Finally, he releases her hand from its damp prison, and sits down. “Now, what is it you wish to know about Qen Phon?” he asks.

  “Oh, gee, probably not anything that you could help me with,” she responds, uneasily. “I was just looking for some kind of general information. You know, what it’s like, places to go, what to do, things to see… you know, tourist-type information.” She smiles weakly. “But I guess that’s not the kind of info you have here.”

  “Qen Phon is not a place for tourists,” Akaso says, gravely. “It is not a safe place. The wrath of the people can explode into righteous anger at any moment. It can become very unpleasant. Especially for Americans.” He leans back in his chair, locks his hands behind his neck, and regards her coolly. “I am certain that it would be less than an ideal place for a vacation.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking about a vacation,” Jillian says, hurriedly, defensively. “I was thinking about going over there for the Olympics. Maybe.”

  “The Americans hope to use the Olympic Games to showcase what they like to refer to as the ‘democratic government’ of Qen Phon,” Akaso says, sarcastically. “Of course, no one is fooled. The entire world is aware of the brutal repression of the Tanami regime. If you participate in such a charade, you will do a great disservice to the people of Qen Phon.”

  “I’m not really into politics,” Jillian admits. “And I know for a fact that most of the athletes in the Olympics feel the same way. The Olympics should be a time for people to forget their differences and compete with each other in the spirit of friendship.”

  “I am not speaking of politics.” He waves away her objections. “I am speaking of reality. A handful of pampered athletes competing behind a facade of privilege cannot hide the despair that the people of Qen Phon face every day. The Olympics will not shelter the homeless. The Olympics will not feed the hungry or heal the sick. The Olympics will not free the thousands of political prisoners who rot in Tanami’s jails. The Olympics certainly will not resurrect the tens of thousands who have been slaughtered by Tanami’s death squads.”

  “Look, I…”

  “In fact,” Akaso continues, ignoring Jillian’s weak attempt at an interruption, “the repression will be worse during the Olympics, because Tanami hopes to discourage any demonstration of the will of the people while the eyes of the world are upon him. He does not know that the resolve of the freedom-loving people of Qen Phon cannot be crushed with gun
s and bullets. He does not understand that the hopes of an entire generation of oppressed people cannot be so easily extinguished. But he will learn,” Akaso adds, ominously. “He most assuredly will learn.”

  This guy is a raving lunatic, Jillian thinks. Could he really be an SMU student? He must be, or surely they would have kicked him out of Hughes-Trigg by now. She makes a show of glancing at her watch and does an exaggerated double-take. “Oh, darn,” she says, “I’m late for class. Listen,” she lies, smiling weakly, “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, but I’m afraid that I’ve got to…”

  “I will be happy to tell you anything that you wish to know about Qen Phon,” Akaso Siko says, smiling for the first time. The unexpected change in his demeanor alters his entire appearance; although he still projects a vague air of disreputability, he suddenly exudes a rough charm that has been well hidden until now.

  “Excuse me?” Jillian is caught completely off guard. Flustered, she’s not even sure that she’s heard him correctly.

  “I have not returned to Qen Phon since my father’s funeral, last year,” Akaso Siko says. “Although the people would welcome my return, there are some who would, shall we say, strongly object to it.” His smile dazzles. “However,” he continues, “although I have not set foot in Qen Phon for nearly a year, I am certain that I know more about it than you will learn from any other source. And I will be pleased to share my knowledge with you – if you will give me the honor of accompanying me to dinner this evening.”

  Dear God, thinks Jillian, I don’t believe it, this is too bizarre. This… this creep is asking me out to dinner. This Arab, or whatever he is, is actually asking me out on a date.

  While Akaso had been spouting his political rhetoric, Jillian had the uncomfortable feeling that he was somehow different, in an indefinable but very basic way, from the other men that she knew. But now she sees that she’s been wrong. He’s just like all the others. They’re all the same.

  Men are such children.

  She can see it in his eyes – disguised, but not quite fully hidden by the macho front that he’s putting on – that scared, little-boy look that all men have when they ask her out. He’s just like all the rest: His pride is on the line, and he’s terrified of being rejected. All the tough talk is just a facade. She is in control now. The ball’s in her court, and she holds the advantage.

  “I’d love to,” she says, smiling ever so sweetly. She sees the sudden flash of triumph in his eyes. “But I can’t,” she adds, with the barest twinge of regret. “I’m afraid that I have other plans for this evening.”

  Distress. That’s what his eyes show: sudden emotional turmoil, instant panic. With just a few, well-chosen words, she’s taken him on a roller-coaster ride of hope and despair. And he doesn’t even know what hit him. Yet.

  What fun.

  “Tomorrow night, then,” he blurts out. “What about tomorrow night?”

  She smiles again, and even before she speaks, she can see the anger register in his eyes as he realizes what’s happening: how vulnerable he’s become, how exposed he is, and how expertly she’s exploited his weakness. His eyes narrow into slits and grow watchful, almost hooded, as he waits, fully aware of what’s coming.

  “I don’t think so,” Jillian says, flatly. There’s no further need for pretense – the game is over, and she has scored a quick and decisive victory. His eyes tell her that he understands the situation perfectly: he won’t be taking her to dinner, not tonight, not tomorrow night, not any night.

  She’s hurt him, she realizes, perhaps more than she intended to. The men that she rejects are always hurt, but they mostly suffer nothing worse than slightly bruised egos. They’re used to it, and they recover quickly. It’s all part of the game.

  But this is different. Akaso must recognize that Jillian hasn’t turned him down because she doesn’t like him. She’s turned him down because of what he is, and because of the distance between them. As far as she’s concerned, he is, simply, foreign – and not just because he is, by definition, from another country, but because he is, in her eyes, something less than human, another species altogether.

  His eyes blaze. “In my country,” he hisses, “I am a national hero. Women throw themselves at my feet. No woman would dare to treat me with such inexcusable rudeness.”

  “Well, the women in my country,” she responds, coldly, “obviously have a great deal more sense than the women in your country. And the men,” she adds, “have considerably better manners.”

  They stare at each other for a few, long seconds. Then, suddenly, Akaso blinks; his eyes soften and, to Jillian’s surprise, he smiles. “Then you must forgive me,” he says. “I meant no offense. I am farther from my home, in so many ways, than you can possibly imagine.” He speaks softly, but intensely. His eyes no longer blaze with anger, but they’ve turned as cold as ice. “At times, my behavior becomes, shall we say, inappropriate.”

  “No offense taken,” Jillian says, returning his chilly smile. Suddenly, she’s tired of the game, it’s gone on long enough. “I must go,” she says, just as he starts to speak. “I’m late for a test.”

  She whirls around and strides away. She can feel the intensity of his gaze burning into the back of her head as she walks across the big room, out the doors, through the columns, down the stairs, and into the heat of the blazing Texas sun.

  2.2.3: Washington

  The following is a transcript of a press conference conducted by J. Stanton Kennedy at the Washington, D.C. headquarters of the United States Olympic Committee.

  Kennedy: Ladies and gentlemen of the sporting press, thank you all for turning out on such short notice. It’s ten o’clock, so let’s get started. I’m going to read a short statement, and then I’ll open up the floor for questions. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to hurry off to a meeting after that, but I’ll try to answer as many of your questions as I can.

  “I am pleased…”

  Oh yes, thank you, Larry – we’re handing out press kits that contain the text of my statement and a wealth of additional background information that you may find useful. And so, without further ado…

  “I am pleased to announce that the International Olympic Committee has unanimously approved a comprehensive substance-testing policy that is considerably more stringent than the policy that is currently in effect. The new policy is designed to ensure that performances of competitors in the Olympic Games are not tainted by the use of any foreign substance that is capable of artificially enhancing athletic performance. For logistical reasons, the policy, which was approved at an emergency session of the IOC in Geneva yesterday afternoon, will not be implemented at the Olympic Games in Qen Phon in July. However, it will be in full force at the Olympic Games in Prague four years hence.

  “Although the final wording of the policy has not yet been approved, its concept is simple. Every athlete…” – every athlete – “…will be tested prior to his or her performance. An athlete who is determined to have indulged in the use of any prohibited substance will be barred from competing in the Olympic Games. Any athlete who earns a medal will be tested again subsequent to his or her performance. An athlete who tests positive for any prohibited substance will be stripped of his or her victory and denied his or her medal. Additionally, any athlete who fails either the pre-competition or the post-competition substance test will be barred from international competition for a period of four full years for a first offense, meaning specifically that they will be disqualified from competing in the immediately following Olympic Games. A repeated violation will result in a permanent disqualification.

  “The United States Olympic Committee has long favored the establishment of a policy along these lines. While we feel that it is long overdue, we are exceptionally pleased that such a comprehensive substance-testing policy – which we believe is firmly in keeping with the spirit of the Olympic Games – has finally been adopted by the IOC.

  “Also, a new event has been added to the Olympic Games: the first Ol
ympic Ironman-distance triathlon will be held as part of the upcoming Games. There will be separate events for men and for women. The trials will be held in Dallas on June 5th to select the triathletes who will represent the United States in Qen Phon.”

  Well, that finishes my prepared statement. There’s a good deal of supporting material in the press kits that you should all have by now. Does anyone not have a press kit? Larry – over there, I think you missed a few people in the corner. Is that everybody? Good. Good.

  Now, are there any questions? Just a minute, just a minute, please, not all at once. Ma’am, over there, that’s right, we’ll start with you.

  Q: I’m Donna DeJesus of the Chicago Sun-Times. Mr. Kennedy, just a few weeks ago you accused the Russians of dragging their feet on drug testing. To what do you attribute their sudden turn-around?

  Kennedy: Ms. DeJesus, far be it from me to attempt to explain the Russians’ behavior. That’s a question you’ll have to ask them. All I know is that I received a message this past week from Dr. Petronovich, my counterpart in Russia, in which he expressed an interest and a willingness to reach an agreement along the lines that the United States had previously proposed. I contacted the Executive Board of the IOC that very afternoon, and an emergency session was arranged for – let’s see, for two days ago. We finalized the outline of an agreement the next afternoon.

  It is a considerable understatement for me to say that I am very gratified by the extraordinary speed with which we were able to proceed – gratified, and more than a little surprised, I must admit. I imagine that we have set some kind of Olympic record for policy-making.

  Yes, the gentleman in the plaid jacket…

  Q: I seem to remember that a couple of months ago you said that nothing less than full drug testing this year would be acceptable to the United States. In light of that, I don’t see why you would treat this announcement as some kind of victory. It sounds to me like all that really happened is that the Russians talked you into a four-year delay.