But Miri didn't stop there. To keep Cali's seniors interested in contemporary affairs, she also mandated that the university establish a theater for its drama students in affiliation with the adjoining elder care facility. Because the theater also served as a meeting place and auditorium for the surrounding community, Cali's nursing home patients continued to attend political meetings and lectures as well as cultural presentations. Some even joined theater groups or worked as ushers and ticket takers.
The third part of Miri's three-pronged approach was the more difficult to administer, but produced the most meaningful results. A nursery for immigrant children became the architectural focal point of the nursing home—university complex. In it were housed the newly arrived children for whom adoptive parents had not yet been selected. These were the youngsters who entered the country unexpectedly early, their emigration records lost in the maze of U.S. bureaucratic procedures.
The nursery, centrally located and most often attached to the university at one end and the nursing home at its other, served multiple purposes in Miri's farsighted plans. For the students, it was an education in early childhood development. For the nursing home patients, it was a bridge with life in its earliest stages. For the infants, it was a cocoon of love and affection.
Because of Miri Mills's concepts for treating the aged with grace and dignity, Cali's elderly population prospered. They lived longer and more productive lives, suffering far fewer of the diseases associated with old age in other countries. Senile dementia was practically unknown and physical incapacities were quickly diagnosed and treated. The aged did not permit their infirmities to keep them in bed inasmuch as going to the theater or nursery was an activity not to be missed. These concepts resulted in an average Cali life span of more than one hundred years, despite that each individual was born in the United States, where the longevity was less than ninety. So the success of an effort to increase the quality and length of human life by bolstering the human spirit was an incontrovertible fact. A fact owed to the dreams and plans of a woman designated for exile by her native country.
Sadly, Miri did not live to enjoy the surroundings she had so methodically designed for her countrymen and countrywomen. At the age of seventy-seven, after again refusing to accept her party's nomination for prime minister, she suffered a premature heart attack while on a routine inspection of a nursing home in southern Cali. Cara, then deputy director of the Office for the Aging and Miri's assistant, was with her when it happened.
The early death of this wonderful woman who had done so much to advance and promote better living conditions for the aged cast a pall upon the entire country. Declaring it a national day of mourning, Miri's adopted homeland said good-bye with its first-ever state funeral. As Cara marched with the head of the procession, she had great difficulty maintaining her decorum.
As the plane continued smoothly on its course, Cara flipped back and forth through the briefing book reviewing the statistics related to Cali's nursing homes and longevity. The material was not new to her, but she wanted to be sure that she could quote from it without hesitation. Although Miri had been dead for several years, Cara considered the invitation to the conference to be a testimonial to the diminutive woman's devotion, and she wanted the world to know more about the accomplishments of one of the persons America had exiled.
Scanning the biographical data about Miri, Cara was deeply absorbed and didn't hear the copilot's knock on the door of the VIP lounge. "You almost scared the life out of me," she yelped as she looked up to see the boyish face smiling at her.
"Sorry, Ms. Romero. I just wanted to let you know that our landing destination has been changed to the Rockland Airport, just a few miles north of New York City. We should be landing in about twelve minutes."
Rushing in behind the departing copilot, Tim motioned to the windows. "The cloud cover is dissipating and you can actually see New York and Kennedy Airport. It's unbelievable," he said in an incredulous tone as Cara moved to the window. "Thousands of people are jamming the runway."
Peering between the clouds, she could see little specks moving back and forth like ants seeking sugar. As Tim had said, they numbered in the thousands, and although the plane in which they were flying required only one hundred feet for a safe landing, there didn't appear to be one hundred feet of unoccupied space within viewing distance.
"I just got a call from Michael Angelico, the liaison officer for the conference." He continued to stare out the window, shaking his head in amazement. "Angelico said that media personnel are ignoring the outcome of the lottery. Instead of twelve members of the press greeting you, every member of the press corps who ever wore an ID badge is out there. He advised us to land at Rockland instead. Angelico won't be able to get there in time to meet us, so we'll cab it to the hotel. Better get your running shoes on."
"Damn, I'm being deprived of my grand entrance." Cara put her papers back into the attaché case and began gathering her luggage for the debarkation.
"We've already been cleared by customs," said the copilot as they exited from the VIP lounge, "and we'll be landing in less than two minutes. We'll get as close to the Rockland terminal building as we possibly can. Then, you're on your own." He paused before reentering the cabin. "Good luck at the conference, Ms. Romero."
As soon as the plane touched the ground, they raced down the stairs with all their luggage in hand and dashed for the main terminus. Trying to appear casual, they entered the building and hand in hand blended with a crowd of incoming passengers from an adjoining airplane. They had not yet walked the length of the terminal to the street exit doors when they heard the announcement come over the loud speakers, "Paging Cara Romero. Paging Cara Romero." Cara's surprised reaction elicited a response from the woman who was walking next to her, "I can't believe it. I can't believe it. They must have landed at Rockland!" she yelped with delight. "I guess so," mumbled Cara as she held Tim closer.
Huddling together, heads practically touching in pretense of romantic ardor, they rushed out the door and pushed their way into a waiting cab, throwing their luggage into the topside storage bin with an unfamiliar ease.
The thirty-minute trip to the Southwind Hotel was made in almost complete silence except for an occasional affectionate murmur or theatrical kiss. Although Tim was almost sure that the driver could not hear any conversation, he did not want to take the chance of him being able to identify them and their destination. Once the change in landing sites became known, he was sure every cabbie in the Rockland area would be checking his trip ticket.
"I'm sure we look more like honeymooners than homosexuals from Cali," he whispered to Cara as he nuzzled her neck.
"I didn't know this was part of the assignment," she whispered back.
Casually entering the hotel, Tim strode up to the registration desk and announced the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Smiley, the names in which their reservations were being held, to the waiting clerk. Cara lingered behind—just as they had rehearsed with Gary Kane—and waited for her husband to complete the forms and return with the key.
Giggling in nervous relief, they boarded the empty elevator and pushed the button for the thirty-fourth floor. Cara pressed her watch for a blood pressure check as she slumped against the wall.
Ten
They unlocked the door to 3408 to the sound of an insistent telephone. "I don't know that I'm ready for this. Maybe we should just ignore the ring," Cara said, collapsing into an overstuffed chair.
"Well, it's good to know that you're not bored by the life of a diplomat," said Tim as he reached for the phone switch. Turning it to one-way visual, he and Cara watched the pompous face of Michael Angelico fill the screen.
Michael Angelico looked like the maitre d' of a bad French restaurant. Gray receding hair emphasized a forehead too broad for the rest of his face, a nose in the shape of a question mark, lips in a perpetual pucker, and ears that looked like they were ready to detach and return to the head to which they really belonged.
"Welcome to the Southwind, Mr. and Mrs. Smiley," he said with a sober expression. "With your permission, I'll be right up to meet with you."
Two minutes later, before they had a chance to recover from their thirty-fourth floor view of the concrete city, Angelico arrived.
"Mrs. Smiley," he began, "and I must call you that, because I don't dare use your real name—"
Cara quickly interrupted. "In fairness to the country I represent, Mr. Angelico, when you speak to me or about me, you should use the proper title of Ms., which in Cali indicates an uncommitted, or in your language, unmarried, woman. Nor is it necessary for you to call me by a name other than my own in the privacy of my room. I will not allow the American media to force me to change my name in my private living quarters."
Pleased by the firmness with which she had handled Angelico, Tim nodded encouragement.
Angelico noticeably stiffened. "Of course." After a seemingly endless amount of throat clearing, he continued. "Ms. Romero, in view of the great interest the people of this country have in you and Cali, as demonstrated by the airport disturbance, for which I, incidentally, apologize, the conference committee has asked that you hold a press briefing prior to our first meeting. We are hopeful that the briefing will satisfy this nation's interest in you, personally, and enable us to get on with the business at hand."
Conducting this meeting in the formal manner she intended, Cara deferred to Tim, who, as escort officer, served as both her bodyguard and her public relations representative.
"Before we proceed with a press briefing, Mr. Angelico, we need your full assurances that the briefings will be conducted under the highest security for Ms. Romero. We will want a full credentials and weapons check as well as security personnel on all entrances to the building and the meeting room during the briefing, and during the conference's subsequent meeting. If you are in agreement with those conditions, I see no reason why we cannot acquiesce to your request."
"Mr. Felmar, do you really think all that security is necessary? After all, we are a civilized society and we respect Ms. Romero as being the representative of a world government. I do not believe—"
Tim did not allow Angelico to finish his sentence. "Civilized, but violent," he interjected. "New York has more murders in one day than Cali does in one year. My country would not be happy with me if I did not take the proper steps to ensure the protection of our representatives. I will call you in the morning to make sure that all such matters receive proper attention."
To be sure that Angelico had no doubts about Tim's authority, Cara joined the conversation. "He speaks for Cali," she stated with finality.
After discussing some additional details of the security requirements and the press briefing, Angelico left, but not before asking a question that they were to hear many times on this New York visit.
"Ms. Romero," he began almost humbly, "I promised my sister that I would ask for your personal assistance on a matter of great importance to my family." He hesitated.
"Yes, please continue."
"Twelve years ago, my younger sister, Leona, sent her firstborn child to Cali. He was a much-loved three-year-old child. Of course, we have heard nothing since. Leona has never been the same. She begged me to ask you if there is any way you can find out how Alberto is doing. Is he still alive? Is he happy?"
Cara noted the discomfort with which he asked the questions and wondered whether his body language was the result of his sorrow over the loss of Alberto or embarrassment at having to ask a lesbian for help.
"I am sorry, Mr. Angelico, but there is absolutely nothing I can do to help you or your sister. Documents relating to the birth identity of Cali's citizens are very carefully guarded, rated top secret by your country and priority-one by mine. The only information given to the Calian adoptive parent or parent’s concerns essential health and medical data. I am sorry. I can do nothing for you."
Resuming his diplomatic role as though the personal request had never been made, Angelico bowed slightly. "Thank you for meeting with me, Ms. Romero. I will be present at tomorrow's briefing and look forward to seeing you then." He turned to Tim, practically clicking his heels before he spoke. "I will call you in the morning to confirm the briefing plans. I am sure you will be very well satisfied with our security arrangements."
Angelico was barely out the door when Tim and Cara ran to their luggage and began changing into eveningwear for their first night in America.
"These clothes have no style at all," he groaned.
Tim was right, of course. Even though they had carefully chosen the best clothes available at the simulated American store, they still looked drab. Because of prohibitions against exporting, Cali's futuristic clothes and vibrant transparent materials were not yet being shared with the rest of the world. That would all change one day, Cara supposed. Her generation did not share the elders' isolationist policies and they certainly did not object to inflating Cali's treasury with heterosexual money.
"After the airport experience, I'm actually glad we have these American clothes. It makes it much easier for us to blend. Besides, there's no one to impress. The only people who will notice us on the streets of New York will be those of the wrong sex."
"Let's hit those streets," yelled Tim, and they both bolted for the door, laughing like two children who had just tasted the shared joy of a secret.
Eleven
Of the five senses, smell was undoubtedly Cara's worst. Although she could distinguish the odor of pungent garlic from that of sweet Sappho Perfume, the aromas between evaded her. So, it surprised her almost as much as it did Tim when she reacted so quickly to the New York air that assailed her nostrils as they exited through the hotel's revolving door.
"What is that smell?" she asked, crinkling her nose in horror.
"That, my dear Cara, is the sweet aroma of garbage which spills out from those containers," he pointed to metal cans lining the sidewalk, "into the city's streets. New York never installed an underground refuse collection system. There was an old subway and it could have been converted for garbage control, but the tunnels had become homes for the city's poor. The authorities do not want to force the poor to return aboveground, so the availability of underground facilities has been ignored. Only when a body needs to be removed or raw sewage pumped out do officials even acknowledge that the subway tunnels exist. Internationally, New York is known as 'Shitty City.'"
"No wonder this city has such critical health problems. The air alone is enough to make one sick. I must have been too busy running from reporters to notice it before. Now, it's overwhelming."
They continued their walk without conversation, Cara engrossed in the city's landscape. Everything was so different from Cali. The streets and buildings were of a dull gray cement. The colorful plastics that dominated her country were not in evidence, nor were the outdoor gardens or saplings or the architectural accents of glass and contrasting synthetics. Stores were everywhere—row after row of all kinds of stores: food, clothing, pet, liquor, and religious. Lots of religious. Litter, too, was everywhere. The streets were dotted with garbage of various colors and sizes. Pedestrians stepped over it, next to it, and into it. Those pedestrians, of course, looked just like Calians, with one notable exception—men did not hold hands with men, nor did women with women. As visibly demonstrated, Americans were attracted to members of the opposite sex.
As they approached the third intersection of their walk Cara became aware of the numbers of women standing on each corner. She and Tim stopped, pretended to be looking into a store window, and silently watched as one sashayed over to a car stopped for a red light. She was a big woman, with long stringy yellow hair piled high atop her head, dressed in all green: green scoop neck blouse, green short skirt, green stockings, and green boots. As she pivoted her body to speak to the driver, her skirt flared, flashing a hint of green tights. The light changed and the driver pressed hard on the gas pedal. Jumping back, the woman looked at them and smiled. The woman knows, we are looking at her
, thought Cara, and to her surprise, she found the interaction almost sensual.
"I really shouldn't be staring," she motioned to Tim to move on, "but I've never seen a woman prostitute before. I'm used to seeing an occasional male, but not a female."
"It's a good thing," he said, acknowledging her blushing cheeks.
"And it's so ironic," she continued. "They all seem to be standing in front of churches. But, I guess that's usual when you consider that almost every other building is devoted to religion. Why?"
"That's an easy one to answer. After gays left the country and Olmstead became president, the religionists confiscated the companies and homes that had been relinquished by the emigres. They seized the property in the name of the church and then erected assembly halls and church-related businesses. Eventually, of course, the citizens objected to supporting all these houses of worship, particularly because the dwellers in the houses were repeatedly involved in scandals of major financial proportions. So now, most of the churches are merely facades, housing nothing but empty halls." He paused. "Of course, the fact that America has all these churches contributes to the country's hunger problems. Churches and church-related businesses do not pay taxes and that makes this country very poor."
Entering the restaurant that Tim had picked, Cara visibly applauded. With deliberate selectivity, he had chosen the Mayflower, a restaurant built before the 2020 World Environmental Acts prohibited the use of wood in commercial eating establishments. The elegant surroundings were in sharp contrast to places like Topanga's, where Cara frequently dined. In Cali, even the most formal of restaurants were devoid of wood, fashioned mainly in plastic and glass with emphasis on natural decorations of plants and flowers. Aquariums, once the rage, were no longer being used because of the increasing number of endangered fish. In the newer eateries, upscale fashion was double glass walls in which beads of many colors were placed for a nice-light effect, but one that was becoming common and failed to encourage intimate evenings. But the Mayflower, with beige marble entry floors and black granite edging, and massive beveled mirrors that danced light into crystal chandeliers, surrounded one with intimacy. Cara stroked the burnished mahogany railing that led into the main dining area and wished she was with a woman.
The Meadowlark Sings Page 6