Amerika

by Brauna E. Pouns

  “I have a little place,” he said. “Right over the hill.” She laughed, and wiped away her tears, and they

  walked back to his campsite. He had a fire, within a circle of stones, with a grill atop it. He made coffee and they sat on a log, drinking and talking intimately. She didn’t ask about him at first. She told him about Peter and her children and old high-school Mends. They had talked an hour before he told her that he had received no word from Marion and his sons for five years.

  “You never heard from them at all?” she asked in amazement.

  “Only the divorce papers. They . . . the prison authorities . . . didn’t allow any communication, in or

  out.”

  She saw that he still wore his wedding ring. She was shocked to realize that he didn’t know that Marion and Ms sons were in CMcago, She had no idea whether she should tell him. TMs cautious, hesitant, passive man was not the Devin she had known all her life. Her instinct was to wait.

  “Does it matter to you? About them?” she asked.

  He looked at her sharply, as if the question were absurd. “My sons are all I have left,” he said. “They’re all that matters.”

  “Then why are you here?” she asked. The words, spoken, sounded cruel.

  “I had no choice. They sent me here. I need time. I don’t want my boys to ... to see me like tMs.”

  “They’d love you, Devin. It wouldn’t matter to the kids—”

  He stared into the fire. “I’m—I don’t know who I am anymore. Or what I tMnk. Five years in that hole. Every minute of every day. You try to hang on but pretty soon you don’t even know what’s them and what’s you.”

  She touched Ms hand. “Let people help you.” He looked at her. “I want to—”

  “I don’t know if it will matter.”

  “It will. I believe in you.”

  He looked back at the campfire. “Don’t make me a hero, Amanda.”

  She suddenly felt angry—perhaps betrayed. She could not believe that Devin would give up. She spoke quickly. “You remember in college, when both you and Peter had gotten back from Vietnam? You were filled with such rage—it scared me. For a while I thought you were the man I would spend my life with. But you were too scary. I remember, you said, ‘If you can’t take the edge, forget me.’ I married Peter because I didn’t want to live on the edge. I wanted safety. But now things are changed and we all live on the edge. Even in Nebraska. Now I don’t have a choice. And you, after all you’ve been through, you don’t either.”

  Her words spilled out, surprising her. She felt she had gone too far, said too much. She stood up. Devin did not speak and would not meet her eyes.

  “It’s funny,” she said. “I’ve told myself a hundred times how disruptive you were. Always stirring things up. Never satisfied. And that there must be something wrong with you. And I was glad I didn’t love you.” Amanda turned and walked rapidly away.

  Chapter 7

  Billy picked his way through a vacant lot, dotted with small fires and indigents. It was a lawless free zone. The boy watched with amazement as people squabbled over territory and fought bitterly for no apparent reason at all. Quickly, a patrol wagon slid into the street. The policemen rounded up several of the indigents and threw them into the back of the van. Then it disappeared quickly into the night.

  As Billy wandered toward a quiet alley, he found himself confronted by a small gang of youths.

  “Lost little boy,” said the leader, not much older than Billy.

  “Look, I don’t have anything. I’m looking for—”

  “Bet ass you got nothin’.”

  “Smack? You wanna start easy. Speed up, slow down. Sugar—little Domino?” The young tough

  leered.

  “I want to ... I need to find the resistance.”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  “I need ...” Billy stammered.

  “You need too much.” The leader lashed out suddenly and smashed Billy in between the eyes. The rest of the gang then jumped in to finish him off. A little way down the alley, an older man watched with satisfaction.

  “That’s enough. Beat it out of here.” The youths slapped each other a few high fives, then ran off down the alley. The man bent over Billy, who lay motionless, bruises all over his face. But he was less interested in the boy’s condition than in the envelope full of pictures that lay in the jacket pocket. The man removed the package, crossed the street and made a mental note to get to a phone for the short call he had to place. Several minutes later, a small Toyota ambulance pulled up. The man nodded to the driver, then walked quickly down the street, pausing only to toss the empty envelope into a barrel of trash.

  Andrei had been summoned to Washington by Petya Samanov. Just as he was to leave for the airport, he received a call from Samanov’s office informing him that Marion Andrews would accompany him on the flight. Knowing the involvement between Samanov and Marion, Andrei was hardly surprised.

  Once airborne, they found themselves talking politics.

  Marion spoke firmly. “It’s going to be hard to sell Peter Bradford to the advisory committee.”

  Andrei gave a wan smile and stretched. “The wonderful thing about the advisory committees is you can always tell them what to do.”

  “Maybe in the Soviet Union,” she said, deadly serious. “But not here.”

  “Oh? How do you explain, then, the success of our occupation?”

  “You see the Transition purely as your victory, Andrei. What you don’t consider is that many of us, politically active Americans, were determined to make the best of the Transition. We took the opportunity to create an America we believed in. There were millions of people who never participated in the so-called American Dream—feminists, blacks, all the have-nots had goals not unlike your own. My God, we had an underclass—ten to fifteen percent of the population was perpetually illiterate, on welfare, or in prison. Now finally, that situation is improving.”

  He laughed softly. He was amused by her zeal and her naivete. “Ten to fifteen percent? In Russia, Marion, less than five percent of the people benefit from our society. We who are clever or lucky—party members, scientists, athletes, the military elite, a certain type of artist—we reap the rewards while the other ninety-five percent make all the sacrifices. Of course, all this inequity is in the name of the perfect Communist Man, who I’m told will arrive any day.”

  “You’re very cynical to be in the KGB,” she said coldly.

  “You don’t understand the KGB, Marion. You say you want a new society, but what you really want is power. Don’t confuse love and lust.”

  “And the KGB doesn’t believe in power?”

  “We believe in survival. Survival is power without dogma. Our goal is success, not ideology or meaning.” “That’s disgusting,” she snapped. Studying him for a few moments, she said, “You’re very frustrating. That’s a Soviet characteristic, isn’t it?”

  He smiled, his eyes closed. “Not Soviet. Russian.” A limousine met them on the Dulles Airport runway

  and whisked them into Washington. The city was a pale parody of its former self, a collection of grand buildings whose architecture bespoke a sovereign power that no longer existed. The streets were all but deserted.

  The White House itself was unchanged, except that the Transition flag flew out front, side by side with the U.S. flag. Marine and army guards stood every ten yards. An East German UNSSU captain saluted as Andrei’s car glided through the gates. A U.S. Marine sergeant met the visitors beside the west wing and held the door.

  General Samanov had left his Virginia mansion reluctantly. Now, at the White House, he occupied a huge corner office that had traditionally been used by each president’s top adviser. He greeted Andrei with a hug and Marion with a kiss, inviting both of them to relax. A bottle of vodka, three crystal glasses, and a tin of caviar were set up on an elegant antique table. Samanov put on a tape of Russian music, then poured each person a drink. He raised his glass. “To the Third Cont
inental Congress.” The trio drank in unison and sat in comfortable chairs set up around the table.

  “Ever get tired of the balalaika, Petya?” Andrei asked.

  “Getting tired of the balalaika is treason. Punishable by the firing squad.”

  “Maybe a firing squad is the best way out.” Andrei grinned. “A lifetime of balalaika?”

  They all laughed. The general leaned across the table and poured more vodka for Andrei. “Our superiors see our hold on the world cracking. Did you know there was a rebellion in Manchuria? Our own Manchuria! There are factions in the Kremlin that want the final solution to the American problem, and quickly. Otherwise they might just selectively attack four or five

  American cities. A couple of million dead would placate them. They’d see it as an example to the entire world.”

  Andrei was shocked. “Why?” he said.

  Samanov poured himself another drink. “When you lose and fail it is understandable. When you win and fail, that brings madness.” He looked at Marion and returned her smile. Andrei watched their exchange and decided that Petya had already discussed the Kremlin’s threat with her. Andrei wondered at the breach of security: could an American be trusted with information like that?

  “The Third Continental Congress will divide America into six or more separate states,” Marion said. “It’s a call for a constitutional convention to amend Article IV, establishing the right to enter into regional associations.”

  “Precisely, my dear, precisely,” Petya said. “And that is what we are here to discuss. Leadership. And the Heartland, as it shall soon be called, must lead the way. So the question we face is who is to be the first governor-general of the Heartland. We have two candidates, actually. The front-runner, Governor Smith of Missouri, a man who has served us faithfully for eight years now.”

  “A known quantity,” Marion added.

  Petya smiled at her with pride. She could be consumed with such ruthlessness and power, and like a chameleon could change within a matter of seconds into a pliant lover. He was not quite sure which excited him more. “Exactly, Marion. And our second candidate is our Nebraska dark horse, Peter Bradford.”

  “He is a good man,” Marion said. “But unpredictable.”

  “You should both know that the Kremlin prefers Smith,” Petya said, looking directly at Andrei.

  “The Kremlin is ten thousand miles away,” Andrei said angrily. “If Smith is the governor-general, we will have riots. We’ve already had them in his own state. The people loathe him. They perceive him as our stooge. We must play a more subtle game if we want to pacify this country. Why can’t the Kremlin understand that?”

  Petya smiled. “Andrei, it has been the same with all colonial powers, from the Romans to the English to us. Those at home look at us in the field and think we have gotten soft, gone native, so to speak. We deal with people, they deal with theories. They have not absolutely mandated Governor Smith, only expressed a strong preference.”

  “Smith would be a disaster,” Andrei said. “We must have someone credible, someone the people will trust, yet who is willing to listen to reason. And that is Bradford. I truly believe I can work with, and through, this man.”

  “You know, Andrei, that if he turns on you, and the Heartland falls apart, the whole decentralization plan crumbles. Your career would suffer. As, of course, would all America. Most severely.”

  “I understand the risks,” Andrei said staunchly. “Bradford has the personal qualities. What remains is to package and sell him. And we can sell him—for God’s sake, that’s why we control the media!”

  “We can sell him, but can we control him?” Marion said.

  “Well put, my dear,” Petya said, enjoying playing off his two confidants against one another. “And that is why I have developed a plan that I think will guarantee the success of Peter Bradford.”

  Andrei relaxed, realizing that at last Petya had come to his senses.

  “I believe Mr. Bradford will make an excellent public symbol, a spokesman, a salesman for what we wish to achieve,” Petya said. “But he has no experience in high-level political maneuvering. Certainly you, Andrei, will advise him. But I think it is imperative that he have day-to-day guidance from his deputy governor-general.”

  Andrei was engrossed in Petya’s strategy. “Therefore,” Petya continued, “I’d like to introduce the ideal person to be Bradford’s deputy and political adviser.” He turned to face Marion. “Marion Andrews.”

  Marion smiled warmly. “Thank you, Petya.”

  Andrei felt as if his king had been put in check. Marion had sold Petya on this, of that he was sure. Now, not only did she stand to gain regardless of whether Bradford succeeded or failed, she was also in a position to oversee—or check up on—Andrei’s activities.

  He felt sick.

  “No one is better qualified,” Petya said. “Don’t you agree, Andrei?”

  Andrei was silent for a moment, waiting for the news to settle in. “Absolutely.”

  “Well, we will discuss the details later. Right now, the president is expecting us.”

  “I need a minute to freshen up,” Marion said. “If you don’t mind keeping him waiting.”

  “He can wait,” Petya said. The two men rose and remained standing. Marion walked over to the general’s private bathroom.

  Petya smiled indulgently. “A remarkable woman,” he said.

  Andrei smiled in grudging agreement. Petya watched him a moment. His fondness for Andrei grew each time they were together; he often felt like a father watching his son emerge from an awkward adolescence to the confidence of maturity.

  “Andrei, are you ever sorry you took the Central Administrative Area?”

  “Rather than—”

  “The overview with me. Or the planning staff in the Kremlin.”

  A thin smile played on Andrei’s mouth. “Sometimes, Petya, there is more to be done at the end of the tentacle.”

  Petya laughed, walking to him. He reached out and embraced him. “So you say.”

  Finally Andrei stepped back, “Is there any point to this meeting with the president?”

  “Not really,” Petya said. “It’s more of a courtesy call. It is not of a personal interest that we meet with him, but of a historical interest.”

  Andrei raised his eyebrows, his face uncomprehending. “He will be the last president of the United States.”

  Devin paused so that the sound of his own footsteps crunching over crusted snow would not distract him from what he thought he was hearing. Music? Could it be that the sounds of strings and brass were issuing from the bam where he had kept his first pony so many years ago? He approached. The music grew louder. He poked his head in the half-opened door and saw a ragtag orchestra rehearsing, twenty or so musicians watched by twice that number of Exiles of all ages. He noticed Dieter Heinlander playing the cello. Some of the Exiles were pressed against the walls; others watched from the hayloft that served as a balcony.

  The orchestra was wrestling its way through Mozart’s Haffner Symphony. The strings traced out elegant figurations that suggested an orderliness that Devin feared had vanished from the earth forever.

  He slipped in a side door and took a place along the wall, wanting only to be an anonymous listener. The orchestra, although clearly a mixture of amateurs and professionals, played with great feeling. When they finished, the people watching roared with their approval. The conductor, clad in an ancient and frayed pair of ill-fitting tails, was amused by the applause for a rehearsal. He grinned and waved, half jokingly accepting the response.

  “More! Encore!” someone cried.

  Then a husky black man in a tan overcoat stepped forward from the violin section and raised his hand for silence. “Thank you. Maybe we’re getting better,” Alan Drummond said with a smile. “Recently, a new Exile joined us. Unlike most of us who have been uprooted and sent hundreds, even thousands of miles from our homes—for this man it is a homecoming.”

  Devin didn’t know how
this man had recognized him, but he saw where his words were leading. He wanted to flee, but remained.

  “He means a lot to me,” Drummond continued. “Actually, I have never met the man. What I mean is that it was through his actions that I first became an active Resister of the policies of the New America. He awakened in me a sense and feeling which had lain dormant most of my life. The feeling of being American—not just someone who does the best he can for himself and his family, but also for his country. I would love to impose upon him and introduce the former representative from Massachusetts to the Congress of the United States, and the only real candidate for president in the 1992 election, Devin Milford.”

  There was a smattering of applause as people began turning their heads, straining to see him. Alan pointed at Devin, who was still standing against the wall. Dieter stood up and walked to him, roughly putting his arms around Devin’s shoulders, bringing him forward. The applause increased, and a few people began to cheer. Devin wasn’t sure how to respond. At first, he felt frightened and intimidated, not knowing how the Exiles would receive him, but as the applause built, he began to warm to the passion of the ovation. When the chant of “Mil-ford, Mil-ford” began, he raised his hand for silence.

  “I—” Devin’s eyes were tearing. “I—thank you.”

  There was scattered applause, followed by an awkward moment. Devin sensed that they wanted comforting words but tonight he had none to offer them. He turned to the conductor. “Maestro . .

  The orchestra played, Brahms this time, and when they had finished, people crowded around to shake Devin’s hands. Then they drifted out of the barn slowly.

  With the last handshake, Devin looked around to find all the Exiles gone except for Alan Drummond and five others. “Devin, let me introduce you to the Exile Council,” Alan said. “You can trust all these people. We believe the camps are infiltrated but everyone here has been checked way, way back.” He grinned. “We’re genuine antisocial, reactionary enemies of people.”

  Devin grinned.

  “We want to do anything we can,” Alan said. “But we’re scattered. There must be hundreds of groups like us across the country, maybe thousands trying to find some way—something to do.”