by James Kiehle
A few well-chosen words later, the president hung up, took a moment to gather his thoughts, then turned to face Grant and said, “Help me out here, Colonel Grant. I’ve always found it curious that the most important words in the English language have the smallest number of letters, like the words Yes or No or God or War. You speak some Mandarin, right? How would the Chinese say them? What are their words for God or War?”
Peter felt like showing off, telling the leader of the Free World that even the word ‘China’ was not a Chinese word but first appeared in Sanskrit in 1555 and was introduced to the West by Marco Polo. Or that there were at least thirteen significant dialects in China and most varied considerably from district to district. It wasn’t like America where there are accents, like southern or nor’easter or Texan; in China they were virtually separate languages.
In the huge nation that comprises the People’s Republic of China, the phrase ‘standard Mandarin’ is usually what people think of as ‘Chinese,’ but there really is no such thing. Hanyu, the accepted standard (which roughly means ‘the way big shots in Beijing talk’) is a dialect that only half the country can speak or understand. Originally envisioned as a way to unite hundreds of languages, local variations preempted that. Given this, even something as simple as the president’s words ‘God’ or ‘War,’ could take many paths in translation.
But Peter replied, “Zan is war, sir, but specifically war is also Zan-Yi, Zan-Zung, Zan-Hwo…” He stopped himself before he could babble. “Zhu means God, for the most part. But God actually represents something more like ‘spirit’ or ‘heaven’. The literal is Da Tian Ren, which means ‘Great Sky People’.”
The president lifted his foot off the desk, sat upright, and smacked his hand on the table. “See what I mean? Short words, even in Chinese. Remember that comedian who wondered why the word ‘abbreviation’ was so long?” though no one did.
The president sipped his coffee from the mug, grimmaced like it wasn’t sweet enough, then fixed his gaze back on Peter.
“Alright, Colonel Grant,” he said, “bring me up to speed. What the hell is China planning?”
“One of your very short words, sir,” Grant answered. “War.”
6. The Threat
On the plane to Hawaii, Iris sought refuge, comfort or gossip from her school pals in the rear while her mom sipped scotch and seethed over imagined crimes that husband Russ might be committing back home in Bend.
Judy had silent suspicions about her beloved’s fidelity. Russ had been acting so oddly in the weeks leading up to their vacation. Meeting with buddy boss Ted Gallo until late too many times, even on weekends, disturbing sacrosanct Sundays reserved for family time.
What was Russ up to?
Judy knew that her husband was hiding something and Judy thought she knew what. Or rather, who. That fucking bitch trophy grandma, Mommy Dearest, Judy’s name for so-called “journalist” Maggie Chapin.
With his family out of town, was Russ arranging a rendezvous with the elderly platinum sex bomb? In Judy’s worst thoughts, Maggie was probably sucking his dick right this minute. True, Judy went to the gym a million times a year and was very proud of her “swimmer’s body.” But this was a realm in which Judy could not compete. So unfair. After 50, women are supposed to wrinkle, blob, and shag to shit, right?
Not Maggie. The queen cougar with her entourage of admirers. Larger than life, tall as an Amazon, with all that flaming sterling silver hair, those big, sultry, Liz Taylor eyes and red upholstered lips—mocking Judy’s personal motif, as her own long-time Queen of the Nile cut defined Judy aesthetically— so she knew that all this was not his doing.
Maggie knew Russ’s number and called it. She made it clear: With great age comes great seductive powers.
Witness: Last year at the company picnic on the Deschutes river, Maggie had, as if by magic wand, stripped to her Victoria’s Secrets and swan-dived into the water; Russ’s Merlot-sharpened eyes on a 50, 60, 70 or who the hell knew how old grandma supervamp might have been. Maggie could have dated JFK for all Judy knew. Big and little in all the right places, her boobs buoyant as buoys in the river water, Maggie looked up at Judy’s husband with a red yard grin that said, jump in, slave, the water’s fine.
Compete with that after sixteen years of marriage? No way.
Another sip of Chivas and the glass was drained.
“I’ll have another,” Judy told the flight attendant.
•
Back from the airport and hunched over the Bend Sun’s cramped editorial desk late in the day, Russ Perry studied a printed satellite image and shook his head. “This looks bad,” he told his assistant, Chris Berrenger. “Really kinda—”
“Bad. Yeah, Mr. Perry, I get it. How so?” Chris wondered. She sarcastically called him ‘Mister’ Perry, never ‘Russ’. She was a goth-punk-lesbian who really didn’t care much what the good folk of Bend thought of her or what Mr. Perry thought either.
“Look at this crack down below,” Russ pointed. “With all that water behind the Ice Shelf, this could be devastating.”
“So it’s worse than bad?” Chris said in mock fear. “Even badder than the worst?”
“Settle down. It’s not the end of the world,” Russ replied, peering at today’s choice of attire. “Nice outfit. Is that old?”
Chris smirked. She always wore black with spiked accents on neck and wrist, snakebite lips and a gothic cross, sometimes inverted, which went over in Bend like a whale soufflé. Catholic skirts, baby doll shoes and fishnets were de rigeur. Along with her midnight black lip gloss and nail polish, Chris wore enough liquid eyeliner to repave an Interstate.
She played with a nose ring and scrutinized the print. “Kind of scary-looking, like the fucker could break.”
“Exactly like that,” Russ agreed. “But without the fucker part.”
The photo was a satellite image of lower British Columbia. There was a large, white, crescent-shaped object in the center. Any human trapped in the woods the last few years might have thought the picture showed a snow-covered mountain range or that a blotch of liquid paper had spilled on it, but Perry and Berrenger knew better.
It was the Ice Shelf. A very long glacier in the making that backed up waters for hundreds of miles. An arrow-shaped indent had recently developed and there was a slim chance that the high waters behind the giant ice wall would soon break free, unleashing a major flood.
“How big would it be if it breaks?”
“Missoula-sized,” Perry said.
She handed the photo back. “Then what should we do?”
“Start building an ark.”
Russ was the managing editor of the Bend Sun, a small market newspaper in the center of Oregon and second in command to Ted Gallo, the editor and publisher, both his boss and his best friend. Ted was seated behind a worn oak desk the size of a ping-pong table, piled high with stacks of papers. A TV set was on, as always, with the sound turned low. The entire room was filled with boxes and filing cabinets. Gallo looked like he had just moved in.
Looking at the two men side by side, a bystander might think they were father and son.
Perry was in his mid-forties, about five-eleven with a medium-to-bigger build and had spiky brown hair sprinkled with tiny flecks of gray. His wife told him he looked like the actor Christian Bale, but less ruggedly handsome and nowhere near as manly. Ted Gallo was in his early seventies, with thinning hair the color of murky snow. He was slightly taller than Russ, with a similar, though more athletic build, and bore a slight resemblance to another actor, Victor Garber. Ted always wore a crisp, white shirt and a fashionable tie, even on Saturday, while Russ dressed as if he bought all his clothes from Banana Republic or The Gap, which he often did.
Russ gave him the photo.
“What’s this?” Ted asked.
“A new satellite shot of the Ice Shelf. Just want to know if you want this on page one.”
Ted slipped on glasses. “Not very sexy. Looks the same as the last time,” he s
hrugged. “What’s the diff?”
“The notch in the center.”
“That little thing? I’d need a microscope to see it.”
Russ grinned. “So, what do you think? Run the Ice Shelf pic on page one? I have a bet with Chris about it.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Ted tilted back in his chair. “Russ, we’ve got more local concerns to fret about. You know: Round Butte dam, the Deschutes flooding, all that stuff people in Bend actually care about. If the flood control guys continue to release water at the rate they are, all those expensive homes by the river are going to be waist-deep in river water. It’s bad enough that the city is sandbagging. They’ve never done that before in my lifetime. You realize how many of my friends live by the Deschutes?”
“Seriously? You have friends?” Russ wondered.
Bend flanked two sides of a usually tranquil Deschutes river, named for a local native tribe, and the center city was on the verge of flooding from recent hard rains. On the west side of town, mostly newish homes on rolling hills built far into the woods, wide tree-lined streets with dazzling vistas of the nearby Cascade Range mountains—Bachelor and the Three Sisters to the west; the high desert to the east. Downtown was nearly level with the river.
“Are you at all worried about China-slash-Taiwan?” Russ asked.
“China-slash-Taiwan is days away, if ever.” Ted took off his glasses, spun them in circles. “I know you’re new to this gig of running the joint, but what do you think?”
Russ shrugged. “Stay at home, of course. Feature the Deschutes. Was this a test?’
“We’re a local paper. I didn’t think you had Bend confused with Taipei.” Ted replied. “Any good art on the river?”
“Not really. We have a runaway bathtub near the bridge—”
“I saw that. Not really Pulitzer material, but use it. Hold the Ice Shelf satellite shot ‘til tomorrow. It’s too late to put it on page two, right?”
Russ said, “Right. The rest of the paper’s been put to bed, except for pages one and sixteen and the last page is mostly ads. I’ll jump two of the leads there.”
“Tomorrow then,” Gallo said and picked up the Reuters and Associated Press reports. He leafed through them. Russ started to leave, but Ted stopped him.
“Wait. Shut the door. I have something to tell you.”
“About?”
“Take a seat.”
Russ sat on a high wooden chair opposite Ted Gallo.
“Is this about the pass I made at Maggie?” Russ grinned, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “Swear to God, she was coming on to me.”
Ted, not laughing, said. “It’s about the paper. I’ve decided the Sun needs to fall into the right hands—Yours.”
“You’ve accepted my offer?” Russ asked.
“With provisions.”
Pumped up, Russ said, “Just so you know, I have lousy credit and a notorious temper and I suck at being the boss, but I do have references. You, for one.”
Gallo laughed, but pinched his forehead as if warding off a headache. “I’ll vouch for you. In fact, I’ll go one better. I’ll carry the debt.”
“Carry the paper on the paper?” Russ wondered.
“Yes. But I have some concerns. They aren’t about funding, but cash flow.”
“Meaning?”
“Start with the state of newspaper publishing. It’s in absolute freefall. Ad lines are down. Papers close, go broke, sell assets for peanuts to the big presses with deep pockets. We’re doing okay, but I haven’t added staff since you came aboard. How are you going to stem that tide?”
“Don’t mince words, Ted. Come to the point.”
“What’s your solution to keeping this monster afloat?” Gallo asked. “In real terms.”
Russ, serious now, replied, “We’re a daily newspaper and don’t need to be. Television and radio are far more immediate for getting the news. I suggest that we drop down to a three-times-a-week print schedule—Tuesday, Friday, Sunday. In the meantime, we build up an online presence, far more than we have now. Imagine an anabolic Craigslist with local ties, pictures, video feeds. We make our landing page fun, time-critical news-wise—up to the second newsfeeds, a social media subsite and local links—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Ted held up his hands. “My riding into the sunset and you taking the reigns is one thing, but those ideas cost m-o-n-e-y. In fact, a lot of m-o-n-e-y. You want me to invest as well as to sell?”
“I’m thinking a million two-point-five. To start.”
Ted, pretending not to smile, said, “So, basically, I give you all the keys and you kick me out the door, leaving my wallet with you to ransack. Something like that?”
“Exactly. It’s win-win.”
Ted’s hand squeezed his. “Hard bargain but, son, you just bought yourself a boatload of trouble and heartbreak. In a few weeks, you’ll own the Sun and be contemplating suicide while my wife and I take a slow trip around the world. We’ll try not to laugh at you.”
“Bonus,” Russ smiled. “You’ll finally be out of the office, too.”
Ted asked, “Did you talk to your wife about this? What’d she say?”
“I didn’t tell her yet. It’s a surprise.”
“Does Judy like surprises?”
Russ snatched the photo from the desk and said, “I very seriously doubt it.”
•
Judy Perry lay on a white towel, mind drifting in the wet warmth of the Hawaiian sun, smiling. Oliver Peoples shades perched on her nose, zinc’ed-up like it was plastered in stucco. The sun was hot and Judy kept slathering on the lotion until she gleamed.
She looked out on Iris, as she did about every ten seconds.
The pool at the hotel had all the amenities, including fluffy towels, attentive service, and a chilled Mai-Tai that rested beside her—her third—along with Iris’s celebrity magazines and a floppy straw hat with a flower in the brim that she resisted wearing. It was a goofy-looking hat she only bought for protection. Judy let the sun bake her instead.
She glanced at a tabloid, then read the very puzzling Amazing Predictions of Amaria, about the apparently imminent End of Days.
The prophecy was called Countdown, though Judy thought WTF would be more appropriate.
Points of light form the adonai a moment before night falls
unveiling the black stone hidden by light; shadow illumination
Arc of fire descends to high rice; flames grasp for heaven
Prairies on the dark horizon obscured as a cloud — world spectacle.
Six will move as one at speed of the rotation— more proof, less clarity
Far off waters approach the temple — deep, remorseless and rising
Time’s end in a flash of brilliant light —embers and ashes
and I, as a real thing, say goodbye
After reading more of it and not understanding a goddamned word of it, Judy dozed off in the sun.
Russ, needing weak office coffee, saw Maggie Chapin in the break room.
“You didn’t answer my text,” she said in her seductive, deep voice. “Should I feel hurt?”
Russ looked up while he sipped the strange brew. “I was driving,” he lied. In fact, he’d pressed Reply but got cold feet and clicked off.
“A simple no would have sufficed,” Maggie said, stirring her coffee. “You know, Claude is out of town, too—Paris. How long is Judy away?”
“A week this time,” Russ said, feeling mildly bashful.
Maggie, a tall, flamboyant woman well past a certain age, had strikingly pretty silver and black hair worn straight back and held by a big metal clip. Today she wore a shimmering teal-colored satin blouse with a bow tie and oversized tortoise-shell glasses. Maggie didn’t really need to work as her husband Claude was heir to an escargot farm in France, one of the largest in the world, and they lived handsomely off his trust fund, not her 35k annual salary—overpaid in Russ’s mind.
Chapin covered society and parties for the Sun, but as there wasn’t rea
lly much of that in Bend, also wrote about cooking, new restaurants, and reviewed plays in Eugene and Portland, not to mention covering Bond measures and School Board meetings; a journalistic Jill-of-all-trades. Russ’s wife, Judy, didn’t like Maggie—or trust her—having suspicions that Russ had a secret crush on the woman, which was kind of true. Judy once said that Maggie was Cruella DeVille with a suntan.
“Don’t you ever get thirsty?” Maggie asked, standing closer now, her midriff glancing off his package, arousing him. “We should have a drink tomorrow, yes?”
Russ didn’t reply, but wondered, What was it about this woman that left him tongue-tied?
Maggie answered for him.
Checking behind her, seeing they were alone and shielded by walls, Maggie placed her palms on his chest and pushed Russ back against the refrigerator, her lips parting into a veiled smile, then moved closer and closer to his face. He could smell her lipstick.
Then she abruptly pulled back and grinned.
“Seven o’clock at the River Room. Be there early.”
•
In Waikiki, Iris jumped in the hotel pool, screeching with every splash like it was scary and the other kids did exactly the same. Judy loved the sounds of little children in mock danger. It was an almost universal call. She’d heard it in the playas of Mexico, the detskaya ploshchadka of Moscow, and back home in Bend. The comical screams always made her smile. To Judy, it was a sound of joyful life.
Judy drifted under the blazing sun, her mind shifting from one unconnected thought to another. The world suddenly seemed an opaque white. She floated in some waking sleep, feeling painless and free. Nothing was wrong...
She opened her eyes and checked on her daughter again.
Iris apparently not in immediate peril, Judy pulled out the cell and hit redial to talk to Russ, knowing he must be worried; she hadn’t yet called.
A song was playing: “Love is Blue,” an instrumental hit from the 1960s that her mother used to listen to, but this version was apparently remixed; the instruments sounded swirling and far away.