When Vess and I had finished, we knew that unhappiness and trauma had been minimized to the extent possible. Still, we felt the strain of that which remained! The pride of the inceptors had been unavoidably damaged and a number of the nootchi had been aggrieved. Nootchi grow very attached to their home place, and it is hard for them to move. They have spent years weaving a village, planning it, decorating it with gardens, laying out its walks and pretty-places and play areas for the young. Nootchi are the cement of a community, they stick fast, and it is like flaying a fluggle to tug them away.
In any case, persons from all four village categories came to us, as we knew they would, to complain. It was during our last formal session. They bowed, calling us Aisos Torsummi. They presented their petition and asked redress of grievance. We inquired whether they wanted vengeance, and they affirmed this. Such an imbalance was someone's fault, their grief demanded redress. While we knew the real trouble had started with the selectors who had sent too many inceptors of the same, faulty lineage back to this village, we did not say so, for the selectors were not answerable to people below them in caste. We would take care of that ourselves.
Nonetheless, we told the villagers a truth: that the trouble began when the recording-campes died. The inceptor who was then the village master had the duty of requesting a new recording-campes. Ke had not done so. That inceptor was still alive, and keros name was such and such, and the aggrieved had our permission to kill ker, if they wished, though we advised them it would be courteous to listen first to keros explanation.
Since inceptor in question had been retired to an aged persons' farm at some distance, vengeance would require the aggrieved to make a lengthy trip. Serially, the aggrieved ones declaimed their intention of doing so, and we made note of their intentions so they would have no trouble getting travel permission. Their actually going to the aged persons' farm was unlikely. Since many of those in the group would be sent to their new homes on the following day, thus separating them from one another, it was doubtful they would ever get around to confronting the old inceptor. Grievance and anger need a certain heat of immediacy and a constant draft of rhetoric to keep them burning. This is why humans who explain their anger to counselors and psychologists go on being angry, they fan their anger with a constant hurricane of reminiscence. Separating those who are aggrieved is like raking out a fire, a good way of cooling things down, while the process of formulating their grievance served both to focus and to ameliorate their feelings. Knowing who was to blame, they would not waste energy on other targets.
Our last few hours on Quo-Tern were spent with the most able campesi, those who would remain, and the current village manager who was, luckily, a person of some administrative talent, though he had not had the will or the authority to do what we had done. Village managers live by the will of the village, and villages make painful changes only when they are in agony. When agony is not present, no matter how imminent it looms, painful change must come from outside. This is a truth. We detailed the measures that would be necessary to restore the land to health and we swore ker'i to the task, however long it might take. The few inceptors who were left in the village were forbidden to initiate breeding until the task was done, and the village master was given the necessary medications to quell all mating odors and assure compliance. As a parting gift, we gave the village, as was customary, worms from our own home lands, thus tying their fate to ours and our future to theirs. We have a saying, "Where one lives, all live,- where one suffers, all suffer." One, in our language, includes all living things. In your language someone has said, "No man is an island," which encompasses the concept but which, by mentioning only mankind, misses the point.
The task was completed when ton'i, Vess and Chiddy, met with the selector who had sent the faulty inceptors to Quo-Tern. Before going there, we reviewed the standards for selection and found that tabulation of current breeders by place and identity of parent was neither required for the record, nor easily derived therefrom. We advised the selector that this lack had resulted in unnecessary trauma and dislocation, that we recommended a warning system be initiated to identify such blips in the future. We told lie that the recommendation had already gone to the Bureau of Selectors. The selector thanked to'eri for to'erosi diligence, and also for to'erosi recommendation that the selector not be mercifully disposed of, inasmuch as the mistake could not have been easily avoided.
Sometimes mistakes are not foreseeable. You, dearest Benita, made a mistake in selecting the inceptor you did. Still, it was not one you could easily avoid. Your race is thrust into sexual behaviors so young! Far too young. Until recent generations, your young persons did not mature so early. You are so well fed, so overexposed to chemicals that act upon you like fertilizers, you sprout up like weeds! We speak of this, Vess and I. He admires you, though he does not have for you the tenderness that I do. Where does it come from, this tenderness? I do not know. I have felt it, now and then, for things, sometimes, for places, for ideas. You are the first other I have felt it for. The feeling is very precious to me.
Mrs. Chad Riley-THURSDAY AND FRIDAY
On Thursday morning, Mrs. Chad Riley, the former Merilu McElton, had returned with sons Jason and Jeremy to the family home in Georgetown, intending to stay only long enough to pack their clothing and the boys' toys. Thirty-six hours in a huddle with her mother had set in concrete her desire to leave Washington. Since she and the boys had luxuriated in room service meals in the suite between visits to the pool, the spa, and the beauty shop, and since they had not ordered a paper or looked at anything on TV but the cartoon and shopping channels, Merilu was still unaware of the events that had much of the world either dumb with astonishment or loud with accusation.
While she was packing, however, she switched on the TV and was surprised to find she could get nothing but news. Submitting to the inevitable, the fact that something extraordinary had happened eventually penetrated her self-absorption. Putting two and two together to make five and a half, Merilu decided the FBI had had something to do with it, and that Chad was probably in it up to his neck, which was why he had been so distant lately. At that point, she slid the half-packed suitcases under the bed and called her mother.
"Before I go back to Missoula with you, Mom, I got to give him a chance. I think he's in trouble!" A not unpraisworthy part of Merilu's credo was that women stood by their men when the men were in trouble.
"Now you're sure, honey-bun? You don't know what he's been up to. He could have a woman on the side, you know. He could be mixed up in drugs. The FBI, they must come upon a pile of drugs, doing the work they do. Or money. Gracious, isn't a day we don't read about laundering money, though I've never been able to figure out why it's against the law. Ever since I found out it was illegal, I've just ironed mine and Daddy's. Mostly for the collection plate, you know. Just a little swipe with a hot iron will get rid of most germs, and it flattens the bills out nice, too. Sometimes I press it between two pieces of wax p..."
Her daughter interrupted, "Mom, have you seen the TV?"
"Why, no, dear. I've just been sitting here having a nice manicure and pedicure. Is there something special on?"
"You better turn on the TV. I mean, it makes me think probably Chad isn't up to any of the things you mentioned. It's something else. Something worse. Chad probably wanted to talk to me about this the whole time, and he just couldn't. Chad's going to thank me for giving him a chance to get outta this town. When people find out what his FBI's been up to, he'll wish he'd left a long time ago."
Merilu then called Chad's office, to be told by the receptionist that he was in a meeting and couldn't be disturbed. Two subsequent calls brought the same reply. Merilu nodded wisely each time. She bet he was in a meeting, all right. Everybody in the world would be having meetings, not that it'd do them any good!
Came suppertime, Merilu fed the boys, read to them for a while, then put them to bed. She bathed in scented bath foam, did her hair the way Chad liked it, and pulled the sui
tcase from under the bed in order to retrieve the negligee set he'd given her for their last anniversary. At nine o'clock, she was gorgeous. At eleven, she took the latest Danielle Steel to bed with her. At midnight, she took off her eye makeup and the peignoir and made herself a milk punch. At one o'clock on Friday morning she turned off the light.
At three, when Chad tiptoed in and began moseying around in the bedroom, opening doors and drawers, she came alert with astonishing speed, switched on the light, and immediately grasped at the idea that had floated to the top while she was dozing.
"Chad! I've been talking to Momma, and I've decided if you won't transfer to Missoula, I'm taking the boys and going without you."
Though she had intended this threat to make him think about things, he turned in her direction as though he hadn't really heard her, his eyes fixed and concentrated on something in the far away.
"Good idea, honey," he said in a distant voice with a weird reverberation in it, almost like an echo. "They won't let me go right now, of course. Not that I'd want to until we find out what the hell is going on. But your getting away right now, yes, that's a really good idea. This city's going to come apart."
Mouth open, shocked into momentary silence, she watched as he continued doing what he'd been doing when she turned the light on. Packing an overnight bag. In Merilu's mental attic, the idea of Jerusalem and Washington coming apart and Chad acting weird began to resonate. It's the end of the world, she thought. That's why all this is happening. And she hadn't been to church in months.
He snapped the case shut, took it in one hand, and came to give her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
"I don't know when I'll get back here. Be sure to lock up when you leave. Tell your mom and daddy hello for me. I'll be in touch."
He threw her a bonus kiss and was out the door. A moment later she heard the front door slam, the car start up and drive away. Only then did her waking mind remember its earlier preoccupation. Chad hadn't acted like a man who was involved. He acted like a man who was absolutely in the dark and almost afraid to know what was going on.
Bert Shipton-FRIDAY
Late Friday morning, a guard rattled the bars of Bert's cell and told him he had a visitor.
"That'd be my wife," opined Bert, with obvious relief. Good old Benita. You had to give her credit, by God. She was a good old girl.
"Not unless she has a bigger mustache than my wife," said the guard, unlocking the cell and standing aside. He and Bert knew one another in the relationship of miscreant and warder, one that had been renewed periodically over the last several years. "I've met Benita, and this guy's not her."
Bert, confused, shambled after the guard into the visitors' room where he took a seat opposite a stiffly upright man garbed in a three-piece suit and an air of unassailable rectitude.
"Bert Shipton?"
"Yeah."
"Mr. Shipton, my name is Prentice Arthur. I'm with one of the national security agencies, and I flew in this morning particularly to talk to you. We've just recently become aware that your wife has become involved with some very... well, they're foreigners, actually, people who may be very dangerous. I doubt very much she even realizes what trouble they may cause, but we're very worried about her. If you can tell us how to reach her, just so we can protect her, we'd be glad to offer you some help in your present situation."
"I don't know where she is," Bert responded in a guarded voice. "She left last Saturday. Left me a note. Said she'd be in touch later."
Arthur nodded. "We're aware you don't know where she is right now, but you may be able to help us find her. We'd be happy to help you out with your bail, if you'd like to assist us."
"Bail?" He thought about this long enough to flavor it with his usual bias. "Well, if you'd like to include a little something for my time and effort, I might be able to help you."
His mustache hiding a lip sneeringly lifted at one corner, the visitor said, "Of course. A hundred a day for your trouble."
Bert smiled, disclosing teeth evenly coated with ocherous velour. "Happy to be of help to my country," he said, puffing a miasma into his visitor's face.
"We'll take care of it," said Arthur, not breathing as he turned his face aside. "Here's my card. We'll call you at your home tonight."
"Yeah, sure," said Bert, with another smile, from which his visitor hastily averted his eyes. "I hate to mention it, but I'm... a little short right now. And since my car's... out of commission, I'll need a little cash to get home."
"I'll leave some money with the people up front." The visitor rose and left, while Bert watched him every step of the way. So little old holy-cow Benita was in trouble! Benita was never in trouble. With some effort, he focused on the card which gave him no information except the name, Prentice Arthur, Security and, in the lower left corner, an Albuquerque phone number. Now why in hell did a national security suit have a local number?
Half an hour later, supplied with a hundred dollars in twenties, Bert headed unerringly for the nearest bar. When he soared out, two hours later, who should he run into but one of those fags his wife worked for.
"Good afternoon, Bert," this person said. "I got a postcard from Benita today. Seems she's taken a new job in Denver. We'll miss her. Nice to see you. Bye." The person, conscious of being watched, then walked to the corner, and when around the corner and unobserved, vanished.
Bert hadn't been able to bring the face quite into focus. Which one was it? Was it Goose or was it the other one? Never mind which one. So she was in Denver. Sure, that made sense. Not too far away to take the bus. When he'd talked to Carlos this morning, Carlos said she'd taken a bus wherever she was. Bookstore job made sense, too, sure, big city like that had lots of bookstores. And Carlos said it had to be someplace on mountain time.
Well, so there he was, he already had it half figured out! He sure as hell wasn't going to tell Mr. What's-his-name about Denver, though. Not when they were paying him a hundred a day to find her. Wait a week. String him along. A hundred a day was too good to pass up.
Across the street, in the front seat of a large van, Prentice Arthur asked, "Dink, who's he talking to?"
Dink flipped through a notebook. "Looks like the guy that runs the bookstore where the target used to work. Rene Guselier, usually called Goose."
"Did you pick up the conversation?" asked Arthur, over his shoulder.
"Got it," said a disembodied voice from the back of the van. "The woman's got a job in Denver."
"He didn't say what kind of job?"
"No mention. Wouldn't it be another bookstore? That's the only place she's ever worked. How many can there be? Denver's a sports town, isn't it? Sports fans don't read, do they?"
"Their wives probably do," said Arthur. "Since they have a great deal of time on their hands. Get us on the next plane to Denver."
As the car pulled away, the voice asked, "Didn't you tell the guy you'd meet him this evening?"
Prentice Arthur shook his head. "Look at him! By evening he won't be in condition to meet anyone. It's only a two-hour flight if we have to come back to pick him up."
"Morse still wants the family?"
"Well, before I left Washington, I managed to convince him that since he really wants the woman, the man and the kids will be more use to us helping find her than they will be locked up somewhere. The way Morse wants to disappear people left and right, you'd think this was Argentina!"
While the men in suits were on their way to the airport, the subject of their surveillance managed to locate a cab, more by luck than effort, and went home, arriving there at five. It was an hour earlier in California, he told himself foggily. Carlos would be home, but Angelica wouldn't. Good time to call.
The phone rang a dozen times before Carlos answered. "Yeah."
"Hiya Carlos. How's everthing?"
"Dad? Are you out of jail?"
"I am oh-you-tee out. This guy from some federal office, he bailed me out. He says your mom's been makin some... dangerous friends. That's a r
uckin kick, huh? Mama moocow, with dangerous friends."
"What are you talking about, dangerous friends? She's got a job in Denver."
"I know that. How did you know?"
"I figured it out. She said she took a bus, and she was on Mountain Time, so I figured Denver. You know, big city, lots of places to work. Then I ran into Mr. Marsh, Walter Marsh, on my way home this afternoon. Funny thing, there he was, right in front of me when I came out of the union. He said he was in town at a booksellers' convention. Him and Goose got a postcard from her. From Denver. After he left, I thought, wow, maybe he has her address, but when I went chasing after him, I couldn't find him."
Sheri Tepper - The Fresco Page 17