Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  “Same here, Marta, for sure,” Jillian says. “Where are you from?”

  Instead of answering Jillian’s question, Marta looks blank and turns to the others for help. I guess, Jillian realizes, that Marta’s grasp of English doesn’t go very deep. She probably doesn’t know any more of the language than her greeting.

  “Marta not know English,” the other woman confirms, in heavily accented, but perfectly understandable, English. “I know leetle English. I am Olga Vereskaya Patrushkin. I also am pleez to meet you.”

  “Your English is very good, Olga,” Jillian offers. Olga shrugs, but she’s obviously pleased. Shorter than Marta, Olga nonetheless stands a few inches taller than Jillian and is powerfully built. Of course, Jillian reflects, almost everyone in the Olympics has an incredible body. I almost forgot that one of the things that I enjoyed most in Nairobi was ogling the men.

  And speaking of men, why hasn’t anyone introduced me to the hunk standing over by the steps? Perfect development – strong legs, well muscled, big arms, but not too bulky, sculpted chest that probably looks even more spectacular under that tight shirt. What does he do? He could be a runner, his legs are long enough. Maybe a swimmer? His arms are a little bulky for that – in fact, if he worked out a little more, he could probably be a weightlifter.

  She realizes that she’s been staring, and she’s about to look away, but now he’s stepping over to her, arm outstretched, and she hears someone – Olga? – making an introduction. She doesn’t quite catch the name, either it’s Olga’s accent or she’s just not focusing. He’s wearing a sly grin, like he knows what’s going on. He says something as he shakes her hand, but she can’t figure out what he’s saying…

  “Karl not know English also,” Olga explains. “He pleez to meet you too.”

  So that’s his name. Karl. A good, strong name. It fits him.

  He’s taken a couple of steps back, but he’s still wearing that sly grin, like he’s vaguely amused by everything that’s happening.

  Maybe I should have stayed in the Olympic Village after all, Jillian thinks.

  But then she can hear Jago in her head. You are not here to socialize, he scolds her. You are here to win a race.

  Which reminds her that she still has a question for Olga. “What sport are you folks in? Do you all do the same thing, or…”

  “We are triathletes, same as you,” Olga says. “We very pleez to meet you, because we teenk you are the best triathlete.”

  “Triathletes? Really? All three of you?”

  Olga nods. “Yes,” she says. “You are…” – she searches for a word – “…excited? No, no, surprised? You are surprised that we three triathletes, like you?”

  “Well, I guess so,” Jillian admits. “I guess your accents fooled me. I thought that maybe y’all were Russians. Where are you from?”

  Olga looks puzzled. “We are Russians,” she says. She speaks briefly with Marta and Karl, then she laughs. “Karl say that you not know that Russians are triathletes.”

  “Karl’s right,” Jillian admits. “I didn’t know there were any Russian triathletes in the Olympics. Y’all haven’t competed before, have you? I would’ve heard about it if you had.”

  “They’re real good, too,” Jason volunteers. “At least, Karl sure is. I’ve been training with him. I don’t think the son of a bitch ever gets tired. He’s like a goddamn machine. He runs like a robot and he swims like a motorboat. He says he’s not very good on a bicycle. I hope he’s not just yanking my chain, because I’ll tell you what, if he can ride a bike like he runs and swims, he’s gonna give Marcus a run for his money, and that’s a fact.”

  “What about the girls?” Jillian asks, forgetting for a moment that Olga understands English. “Are they as good as he is?”

  “We very good,” Olga says pleasantly. She points back and forth from Marta to herself. “We both very good.” And strangely enough, it doesn’t sound like a boast, just a fact, a forthright self-appraisal of talent. It’s a tone that Jillian recognizes – a tone, she realizes uneasily, that she often adopts herself.

  “Good enough to beat me?” Jillian asks. She feels a ripple of excitement that she hasn’t felt in a long time. Can these girls really be good enough to challenge me?

  Olga translates Jillian’s question for Marta, and the taller girl breaks into an even broader grin. “Da,” she says, nodding.

  “Marta say she hope she beat you,” Olga translates, hesitantly.

  For some reason, Jillian finds Olga’s transparent attempt at diplomacy to be tremendously amusing. “Tell Marta,” she says, laughing, “that I hope she doesn’t.”

  ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍

  And so the triathletes – the two Americans and the three Russians – lounge on the steps while Jillian showers and changes.

  Russian triathletes, Jillian thinks, as she dries her hair. Russian triathletes. And good ones, too. I can usually psych out the newbies, but these girls seem so poised, so serene. So confident. Like they’re the ones with all the experience. Like I’m the novice.

  It’s unnerving.

  Maybe they’re trying to psych me out.

  ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍

  “So,” Jillian says, when she rejoins the group on the steps, “can I take you on a tour of the estate? A friend of Daddy’s owns it – he’s staying in Tanami for the Olympics, so he’s letting us use it. It’s pretty spectacular. Some of it’s so overgrown that you feel like you’re off in the middle of the jungle somewhere.”

  “Actually, Jill,” Sunshine says, “we’re heading off to take a look at an ancient temple. It’s just a mile or two from here, in Sataru. It’s really old, like a thousand years or something. It’s supposed to be really beautiful. We stopped by here to see if you wanted to come with us.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Jillian hedges. An old temple. How exciting. “I’ve already ridden about fifty miles today. I didn’t really want to get back on my bike until the race.”

  “Well, why don’t we just leave the bikes here and walk?” Jason suggests helpfully. “It’s not that far. Sunshine’s got directions.”

  As if in confirmation, Sunshine pulls a faded envelope covered with scrawled writing from her pocket. “Nathan wrote them down for me,” she explains. “He said it’s the oldest temple in Qen Phon. He said I shouldn’t miss it.”

  Figures, Jillian thinks. Nathan would think that some musty old temple was a major tourist attraction. “Oh, gee, y’all, I don’t think so…”

  “Oh, yes, you come,” Olga insists. “We meet you. Is fun. Good time.” She conveys Jillian’s reluctance to her compatriots, who join the pleading with gestures and rapid-fire Russian.

  “Okay, okay,” Jillian says, laughing. “I surrender. I’ll go, I’ll go. Let me go put some walking shoes on.”

  When Jillian returns, they’re all chattering brightly on the front porch, a bilingual cacophony of merry sound. Olga, in particular, seems to be talking all the time; as the only one in the group with facility in both languages, she seems to have been pressed into service as a translator.

  “Jill, there’s a problem,” Sunshine says hesitantly as they start down the broad path that leads to the front gate.

  “What’s that?”

  “You remember that reporter that you didn’t get along with very well? I think her name was Linda Andersen or something?”

  “Leida Andersen,” Jillian groans. “Of course I remember her – although God knows I’ve tried to forget her. What about her?”

  “Well…” – Sunshine seems abashed. “I’m afraid that she followed us out here. She’s been bugging me to tell her where you were staying, and I wouldn’t tell her, but she found out that we were coming out to see you, and she followed us. She’s got this little motor scooter, and she just puttered along behind us. We tried to lose her, but we couldn’t. I’m really sorry, Jill.”

  “How’d she find out that you were coming out here?”

  Sunshine looks even more embarrassed.
“I guess I let it slip,” she admits. “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

  “Where is she now?” Jillian asks, although she suspects that she knows the answer.

  “She’s probably waiting right outside the gate. She’s really persistent, you know,” Sunshine says, as if she’s trying to shed some of the blame. “She wanted to come in with us, but the guard wouldn’t let her. He threatened to shoot her if she tried to get past him. I think he meant it.”

  “Oh, shit.” Jillian is disgusted. “What does she want?”

  “She’s doing a story about the triathlon. She says she just wants to talk to you and take some pictures,” Sunshine says. “I think she’s got a video camera with her.”

  “Well I sure as hell don’t want to talk to her,” Jillian says emphatically. The group has come to a halt, waiting for Jillian and Sunshine to resolve the situation. “All she wants to do is find a way to make me look bad.”

  “I don’t see how we can avoid her,” Jason points out. “I’m sure she’s out there waiting for us. And I don’t think there’s any way we can stop her from following us.”

  “I guess not,” Jillian admits sullenly.

  But then she brightens. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a long key that dangles from a loop of wire.

  “She can’t follow us if she can’t find us,” Jillian says, steering the group off the main path onto the narrow trail, crisscrossed with bicycle-tire tracks, that leads to a side gate. She laughs gleefully. “We’ll stop at the front gate and say hi to her on the way back in.”

  5.1.2: Sataru

  “I didn’t even know there was a town this close.”

  “Haven’t you explored at all?” Jason asks. “You’ve been out here for, what, three days?”

  Jillian shakes her head. “Haven’t had time. Haven’t really been off the estate much, except on my bike. And I’ve never come this way at all.”

  “You’ve been into Tanami, haven’t you?”

  Jillian shakes her head again. “No, I told you, I haven’t been anywhere. I think we passed through Tanami on the way here from the airport, but it was dark, and I didn’t see much of anything. What’s it like?”

  Jason shrugs. “It’s okay, for a city. It’s really crowded, lots of people, rushing all over the place. But they’re all really friendly. It’s like they’re all going out for the gold medal in the hundred-meter friendliness competition. And it’s unbelievably clean. I think it’s the cleanest big city I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s even cleaner than Tokyo. And there are all these enormous glass buildings, they all look like they were just built yesterday. Just like Dallas,” he smirks. “You’ll feel right at home. And the stores – Jesus, you just wouldn’t believe it. Millions of tiny little shops, everywhere. You can buy anything. And the prices are so low…”

  “This town looks pretty nice,” Jillian admits. “I guess I was expecting some squalid little clearing in the jungle or something. What did Sunshine say this place was called?”

  “Sataru,” Sunshine calls back. Walking a few paces ahead of Jillian and Jason, she seems to be intently studying the directions scrawled on the envelope as she looks around for the landmarks that will tell her which way to turn next. “It’s supposed to be a really old village.” She sounds puzzled. “At least, I think that’s what Nathan said. But this place sure doesn’t look very old. I hope we’re not lost.”

  As they had approached the village, the gentle hills had given way to a plain and the jungle to small fields, flat and regular, neatly cultivated with rows of knee-high plants. The fields were dotted with structures that seemed too small to be houses – but judging from the signs of habitation, that’s obviously what they were.

  A few of the plots offered no evidence of activity, but most of them were being tended by at least one person, sometimes two or three, engaged in agricultural activities like hoeing, planting, and trimming. Most of the workers sported broad, round, black hats, pointed at the top and tapering gently to the edges, obviously designed to protect the wearers from the sun, which was surprisingly strong for so late in the afternoon. But except for the hats, their clothes were decidedly western, blue jeans and T-shirts seemed to be the rule. And despite Jason’s assessment of the friendliness of the natives, the workers gave little indication that they were even mildly interested in the procession of Olympians who strolled past their fields. Some of them looked up for an instant before returning to work. Others, who must have heard the athletes chattering as they walked by, chose not to look up at all.

  And then the small farm plots had gradually given way to a residential neighborhood, diminutive houses on tiny lots with carefully manicured lawns and neat fences. Small groups of small children, riding small bicycles and playing games in the small front yards, stopped to gawk speechlessly at the athletes. Although Jillian and Jason smiled, said hello, and even waved, the round-faced children just stared back at them with big eyes.

  And now, abruptly, they’ve entered the business district. The street grows wider. Small vehicles dart about, forcing the athletes to retreat to the conveniently appearing sidewalks. Both sides of the street are lined with buildings that look so new and so clean that they add weight to Jason’s contention that all the buildings in Tanami appeared to have been built yesterday. But unlike the tall towers in Tanami that Jason had described, these are mostly one- and two-story structures, with an occasional four- or five-floor monolith towering above the rest.

  Every inch of space on the ground floor of every building seems to be occupied by some kind of shop. Stores selling electronic goods. Stores featuring brightly colored clothing. Stores offering unrecognizable substances that seem to be foodstuffs. Restaurants with windows that display plastic versions of menu items. The size of the shops ranges from tiny all the way up to very small, but there’s no sense of clutter or confusion, everything seems to be neatly arranged, well organized, and immaculately clean.

  The orderliness of the town is even more striking because of the number of people who inhabit it. Merchants and shoppers. Mothers holding the hands of children or pushing them in strollers. People of all ages and in all types of dress, casual and business, solemnly weaving small bicycles through the crowds. Men in uniform – policemen? soldiers? – casually holding or leaning on lethal-looking weapons, ignored by the masses that bustle around them.

  “Where’d they go?” Jillian asks, suddenly aware that the Russians are no longer following them. “Sunshine,” she calls ahead. “Wait up a minute.” Looking around, she finally locates her quarries gathered in front of a shop on the other side of the street. “Jason,” she orders, as she walks off, “go tell Sunshine to wait up. I don’t think she heard me.”

  “Jill, good, you are here.” Olga is clearly relieved. “You help? Store man no speak Russian. I try talk to him in English, but my English not so good, and I think his English not so good also.” She laughs. “You help?”

  “Sure, I’ll try,” Jillian says. “What’s the problem?”

  Olga shows Jillian a handheld electronic device that she’s been examining. “Karl want… what you call, calater?”

  “Calculator?” Jillian suggests.

  “Yes,” Olga nods, “cal-kyu-lay-tor. Must have, I think you call it, geomeet? Geomeer?”

  “Geometry?”

  “Yes.” Olga is even more pleased. “Yes, gee-oh-mee-tree, thank you. Does this… calculator have… geo… geometry?” She grins broadly, obviously enjoying the chance to use her two new big English words.

  “Gee,” Jillian says, squinting at the small, metallic object. “You’re asking the wrong lady. I barely know how to add and subtract on these things. I didn’t know anybody even used them anymore.”

  “You American? Olympics?”

  Jillian looks up at the shopkeeper who leans on the other side of the glass display case that stretches the entire width of his small shop. “Yes, that’s right,” she confirms. “I’m on the American Olympic team.”

  The man nods seriously
. “They not American,” he notes, gesturing to the others.

  “No,” Jillian confirms. “They’re Russians.”

  The shopkeeper scowls, his dark face growing darker. “Russian no good,” he says. “Russian help Red October. Kill people. No good.” He snatches the calculator from Jillian’s hands. “I no sell to Russian,” he sneers.

  For a moment, Jillian is too stunned to react. Beside her, Olga, her smile gone, whispers a translation to her compatriots.

  “These people are my friends,” Jillian says, and suddenly she’s angry. “These people are world-class athletes. And who the fuck are you? You think you’re hot shit just because you’ve got this pathetic little excuse for a store?” She slams her palms down on the glass case, startling the storekeeper and rattling the display.

  Although the surprised man does not seem to understand every word, he clearly understands Jillian’s tone. “Why you friend with Russian?” he demands loudly, his voice shrill. He sounds more confused than angry. “Russian Red October. You American. American no friend with Russian.”

  “Yeah, well these Russians happen to be athletes, not politicians,” Jillian shoots back. She moves forward so that she’s in the storekeeper’s face, her fists clenched by her side. “And you have no fucking right to be so goddamn rude to them. You owe them one hell of a big apology, buddy.”

  “Me apology?” The small man, several inches shorter than Jillian, is flushed and sweating. “I no apology to Russian,” he says, his voice rising in pitch as it rises in volume. “Not now, not never. Never!”

  “Jill?” Olga tugs gently on her arm. “We go?”

  “In a minute.” Jillian shakes her off. “As soon as the son of a bitch apologizes to you.”

  “No, Jill. Is good we go now.” Olga grabs Jillian’s arm again, this time more firmly. Jillian spins around to face her. To her surprise, a crowd has gathered. Perhaps two dozen people have congregated in a semi-circle; they stare at Jillian impassively, whispering among themselves and pointing. Beyond the crowd, Jillian can see a man in uniform walking slowly but purposefully toward them, rifle in hand.