by Orca Various
“It’s a yurt,” I answer, beating Toby to it for once. “Made of felt. From Tibet. My dad’s in one right now. Not this one,” I add.
“Aiden always has the musicians and dancers gather in there with him for a togetherness and focusing moment before the show,” Toby says, topping me anyway. “Dope carpets inside. Handwoven, like the ones my uncle collects.”
I liked it better when Toby was busy somewhere else. All I can say is, “Let’s eat.”
The hospitality spread has vegan, gluten-free, organic, local and also, fortunately, bad-for-you food. I grab a pizza slice and a hot chocolate, and we find seats by a heater. It feels good to sit; the cowboy boots are chafing again. As we eat, a blond woman walks by to another table, with a drink and something on a paper plate. She’s wearing a tan knee-length parka and a purple-and-gold scarf. A leather messenger bag is slung over her shoulder. It’s the woman I almost bumped into in the hotel lobby.
But now it all comes together: she’s also a skier with a black mustache and a bearded blond hippie on the Queen streetcar. “Dusan,” I breathe.
“What?” AmberLea’s chin disappears.
“Over there. No, don’t look! She might spot us.” I tell them what I’ve just figured out. “She’s SPCA, and she’s here. What’s going on?”
“She’s the translator,” Toby says. “I saw her yesterday. They called and she showed up after you’d left. She translated the words to the anthem from Pianvian to English and then Aiden invited her to the show tonight.”
“She knows where Bunny is. I’ve got to find out.”
“How?” says AmberLea.
“Maybe she’s got something,” I say. “Some clue. In that bag maybe. That’s where I found the bullets, remember? We have to get it.” My knees have started bouncing like crazy. AmberLea puts a hand on one to slow me down.
“Okay,” says Toby. “Our advantage is she doesn’t know we’ve figured her out. How do we separate her from the bag?”
“I’m on it,” says AmberLea. She pulls out her cell phone and tells us what to do.
A minute later we all take off our coats as if we’re settling in, and then I head back into the hospitality RV. From there I watch Toby and AmberLea chatter. AmberLea looks all around, then goes over to Dusan and, extending her phone, asks her to take their picture. Dusan smiles and stands up. Then AmberLea, a step or two at a time, gently leads them farther and farther away as she fusses over the perfect background, leaving Dusan’s stuff behind.
I force myself to stroll, not run, to Dusan’s chair, sit down and open the messenger bag as if it’s mine. There’s a cell phone, tissues, a balled-up pair of little black gloves, a hairbrush, lipstick. I look up. AmberLea has them over by the yurt, using it as a background and keeping Dusan facing away from me. I plunge back into the bag: subway tokens, coin purse, a slim wallet with twenty dollars, a bank card, driver’s license for Jennifer Blum, 244 Berry Road, Toronto, Ontario, M8P 2J6. And a folded piece of paper. Out in the square, there’s a roar as the openers finish. Instantly the backstage comes alive. For a moment AmberLea and the others are swallowed in the action. I open the paper.
PRESS RELEASE
JANUARY 1, 2013
The SPCA is shocked and appalled by the horrific murder of Aiden Tween as he bravely sang the anthem of free Pianvians everywhere, an anthem that the current brutal PPP regime has suppressed for fifty years.
There is no doubt the Pianvian government killed Aiden Tween. His savage assassination at his concert on New Year’s Eve is yet another example of the cruelty and depravity of the PPP, who will stop at nothing to suppress free speech and human rights.
Aiden Tween was a longtime, dedicated supporter of the SPCA’s struggle for a free Pianvia. He bravely gave musical voice to a people that have none. He became a martyr to our cause as he did so. We will forever be in his debt. Let him be an example to us all. Let the world rally to our cause with the same boldness. We extend our deepest sympathy to his family in this dark hour.
THIRTY-FOUR
I’m in my own chair when they come back. Dusan doesn’t even give me a glance as she heads to her table. The messenger bag is where she left it.
“Did you do it?” AmberLea asks. “I stalled her as long as I could.” Then, “Hey, what’s the matter? You okay?”
All I can do is nod. My brain is working the way I skate: flailing around helplessly. I can’t tell them the kind of horrible trap I’ve led everyone into, especially Aiden Tween.
Then Dusan is striding past us, cell phone in hand. I jump up. Toby looks at me questioningly. I wave him off and follow her. I don’t know what I’m going to do. She stops and starts, looking at her phone as if she’s having trouble getting a signal. We’re over near the yurt now. I step in front of her as she frowns over her phone.
“Dusan.”
She starts a little, then looks up at me blankly. “Pardon?” It’s the teachery voice I heard in the hotel lobby after we visited Aiden Tween that first time.
“Hi, Dusan. Nice to see you again.”
“Sorry, that’s not my name.” She moves to step around me. I block her and say, “Oh, you have lots of names, just like you have lots of voices. And beards and mustaches—and a gray Civic with a busted bumper.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“You’re going to kill Aiden Tween.”
For a moment she stares at me, as if she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth keeping on trying to fake me out. Then she jerks her head toward the open doorway of the yurt. We step inside. Like Toby said, the place is filled with fancy carpets. Lighting from somewhere gives it a soft glow.
Dusan turns to face me. “I’m not killing anyone,” she says coolly. The fabric around us swallows her voice. “Aiden Tween will be lucky to die a martyr’s death in the struggle against forces of oppression.”
“I’ve read your press release for tomorrow.”
“Then you know the Pianvian government, the PPP, is going to kill him.”
“I know the SPCA is going to kill him and blame it on them.”
Twin spots of red start to burn in her cheeks. “The SPCA fights for freedom. Sometimes freedom comes at a heavy cost. But not to you. All you have to do is stay out of the way, which is less than your grandfather did.”
“My grandfather—”
“Your grandfather butchered my great-grandfather in cold blood,” Dusan hisses.
“Zoltan Blum was your great-grandfather?”
“Of course.” Her eyes glitter. I flash on her ID: Jennifer Blum. “And your grandfather blew him off the face of the earth with a bomb in a golf ball. There was nothing even to bury. And probably he said that somehow it was for the sake of freedom. Maybe he even believed it: it’s easier to tell yourself that than ‘I did it for the money.’ Well, this is for the sake of freedom, freedom for a whole people, freedom your grandfather and his CIA masters set back fifty years. The whole world will rally to us if they think the Pianvian government killed Aiden Tween.”
“My grandfather wouldn’t do stuff like that,” I say.
“He had the anthem.” She shakes her head.
“There are a million reasons why he could have ended up with that song.” I don’t know what they are, but I keep babbling. “Somebody else could have killed your great-grandfather. You said he was scared and being followed. Maybe he gave it to my grandpa to keep safe and then got killed and my grandpa got scared and didn’t know what to do with it, so he hid it. Ever think of that?”
“You think of this,” she says. “Either Aiden Tween dies or your brother does.”
“Whaaat? Why? The deal was, get Aiden Tween to sing the anthem. Period. I did that.”
“But now you can make trouble for us, so the deal has changed. Deals often do. Ask your grandfather.”
“He’s dead.”
“Good.” She spits at my feet. Something roils inside of me.
“I’ll stop you,” I say.
She smirks. “It’s not me you ha
ve to stop. And it’s far too late to stop anything.”
“Oh yeah? Better check that box of bullets you carry around.”
Now she laughs. “There is more than one box of bullets.”
“I’m still going to stop you.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me, little boy. Unless Aiden Tween dies, your brother will be killed. So you have a choice: him or your brother. A worthless pop star becomes an instant martyr for Pianvian freedom, which is better than he deserves, or your brother dies slowly and alone. I guarantee you, there will be nothing even to bury. Make a better choice than your grandfather did.” Jennifer Blum walks out of the yurt.
THIRTY-FIVE
Bunny or Aiden Tween. I stand there staring at the riot of patterns in the carpets. They’re a handwoven maze; there’s no way out.
I have to save my brother. And that means someone else dies. How will they kill Aiden Tween? Snipers? A bomb? Screams, blood, chaos. To block it out, I try to imagine Bun right now. Is he handcuffed? Blindfolded? Staring at an ax? Does he understand what’s going on? Has he made friends with them all? That would be a Bun thing to do. Maybe they’ve liked him too much to hurt him, or think he’s just too weird. People react to Bun in odd ways.
As I cling to this thought, I’m interrupted by voices. People are crowding into the yurt: dancers, backup singers, musicians, then Aiden Tween and Sumo, surrounded by a moving mountain of bodyguards. Standing by the entrance I have a flash of hope: maybe they won’t be able to kill Aiden Tween, with all this security. It won’t be my fault if they try and fail. Will it?
They can all barely squeeze into the yurt. The security mountains back off. One of them stares at my clipped-on pass, then shoulders over and stands beside me. Everyone gets quiet. Aiden Tween looks tiny in his stage outfit. The gold of his hair exactly matches the sequins on his jacket. He looks pale at the edges of his makeup. He raises his gold-and-white gloved hands and starts to speak, his southern accent coming out stronger than I’ve heard it before. “Tonaght as we know, the show gon’ be a l’il bit…diff ’rent, and I’m countin’ on y’all to make it a good one. If things, uh, get a l’il crazy out there, a few thangs not in the playbook, jes’ stay cool an’ know we’re well looked after, here an’ above. Everythang gon’ be fine. All right, c’mon an’ join hands for prayer.”
I slip out of the yurt. I can’t watch Aiden Tween saying his last prayer. I’ve sentenced him to death. Now I’m a killer too. AmberLea and Toby appear. I can’t look at them. Behind us, everyone bursts from the yurt and streams up the backstage ramps, ready to go on. The intro music begins to pound. “You want to watch the show?” AmberLea asks gently. I shake my head. “Let’s go sit down,” she says. “You go,” she says to Toby.
We go back to the chairs and tables as Tween’s show kicks in. His last one. I put my head in my hands and keep it there, for I don’t know how long. Finally, AmberLea says, “It’s going to be all right, Spence. Bunny will be all right. They’ll let him go.” She’s trying to reassure me, but there’s this note in her voice that tells me something I should have known all along. I look up.
“No, they won’t,” I say. “They’ll kill him too.” Friendly, oddball Bunny, who could look out a window and sneak to a telephone has seen and heard way too much to go free.
“Too? What do—?”
“Listen,” I say, “there’s not much time. Dusan changed the deal on me. They’re going to kill Aiden Tween when he sings the anthem and blame it on the other guys. She said they’d kill Bunny if we tried anything.” I swallow hard. “But she lied. They’ll kill Bunny anyway. We’ve got to stop them.”
AmberLea blanches. “Oh my god. We’ve got to tell someone. We’ve got to—where is she?” She looks around wildly.
“I don’t know. But it won’t be her. Remember she said a shooter watched the streetcar? I bet there’s a sniper out front.”
“Maybe we still have time. Come on!” AmberLea jumps up as Toby approaches. “When does he sing the anthem?”
“Soon,” Toby says, “right after ‘Ooooh, Ooooh Ooooh.’ That’s next.”
“He can’t sing it. Stop him! It’s a setup. The SPCA will shoot him when he does.”
“What?” It’s the first time I’ve seen Toby lose his cool. “I’ve got to tell Sumo, get him offstage.” He starts to run. “Call the cops!” comes over his shoulder. “I’ll tell security.”
AmberLea whips out her phone to call 9-1-1. There’s no signal. “There were cops out at the barriers.” She turns to run too.
“Forget it,” I say. “The cops will never find the shooters now. They could be in the square, a building, anywhere.”
Toby comes charging back as “Ooooh, Ooooh, Ooooh” kicks in. “He blew me off,” he pants angrily. “Told me to shut up and that security is under control, that Aiden gets death threats all the time. He said there’d be a riot if we yanked Aiden offstage. What the hell’s wrong with these people?”
The good guys are the ones on your side. “Okay,” I say. “It’s us against them. We’ve got to find her, make her call it off.”
“How?” says AmberLea.
“I have a way.”
“You two do that,” Toby says. “I’ve got to protect him.” He hurdles the steps into an RV. A second later he’s out, sprinting past with a big purple-and-gold flag in his fist. “If they can’t see him, they can’t shoot him,” he calls.
“Come on,” says AmberLea. “Gotta find her. Split up. I’ll take that side.”
THIRTY-SIX
I jog up the closest backstage ramp, which is tricky in the cowboy boots. It’s dim back here, and the glare from the lights out front is blinding. I push up my glasses and wait till my eyes adjust. Stacks of gear and equipment cases sharpen into focus amid the scaffolding. Shadows flit past in the gloom. None of them wear a tan coat or a purple-and-gold scarf. They’re roadies and tech workers: Aiden Tween shows have a lot of special effects and stage and costume changes. I remember a clip I saw on TV where he’s somehow beamed down to the stage from a spaceship or something. I look up. The spaceship sways on cables overhead.
I move forward. My guess is, she’ll want to be as close as possible to watch Aiden Tween die. Out front, the lights change to cool blues and greens. I hear Aiden Tween oohing over the music. Back here, dancers huddle around a heater, their costumes barely reflecting the stage lights. A guitar tech stands at a rack of instruments, a little meter flashing red and green in the gloom as he plucks strings.
I slip past him, stumbling on a bundled snake of power cables, peering into the depths as I go. The stage lights shift, oranges and blues now. Ahead, they silhouette a stubby figure that would be Sumo, then a blocky, medium-sized one standing in the arms-folded-hip-cocked pose Deb goes for when she’s going to disagree with something you say, then another mountain range of security guys. I pause by some kind of hydraulic thing that begins to rise as the song ends. A roar washes in from the crowd.
The light switches to a dazzling white that gleams off the top of Sumo’s head. The other silhouettes all reach up and tug down the bills of their caps. I’m guessing the blocky silhouette is a woman, but she’s too stocky for Dusan. A “hockey girl,” as Jer calls Deb. Beyond them, I glimpse the stage. Aiden Tween is out there, all alone in the lights, in a sequined red matador jacket. The transmitter for his headset microphone pokes out beneath it, from where it’s clipped to the back of his electric-blue leather pants. He raises a gloved hand.
Time is running out. I change tactics. I scuttle forward, as close to the stage as I can get, and duck into the gloom behind a riser. Staying in the shadows, I turn to face backstage. Glare from the stage lights might pick out Dusan’s face if she’s close enough. Behind me, Aiden Tween’s speaking voice floats out over the crowd, his accent flattened out again.
“My life is about music, and sharing it with you.” Another wave of cheering rolls in. “But there are places in the world where people can’t hear music, not just my music, but any music. One of those pla
ces is called Pianvia. People are fighting for freedom there, the freedom to listen to music and to do other things too.”
There’s a stab of motion to my left. Two security mountains spring to life and tackle someone in a flurry of very large arms and legs. A second later they’re strong-arming Toby and the flag past where I’m hiding. “You don’t understand,” Toby is pleading. “They’re going to…”
I let them go. There’s no time to wonder where AmberLea has got to; it’s down to Dusan and me. I scan shapes and faces, shadows and glare. The lights shift. And there she is, way over to my right, by a bank of speakers and behind a chest-high equipment box, biting her lip, cell phone to her ear, waiting for Aiden Tween to die. Instantly, I’m running, stumbling through the dimness in a broad arc to come in behind her.
Onstage Aiden Tween says, “Tonight I have the honor of singing the national anthem of those brave folks, a song that has never been heard before. We’re streaming it around the world to show we’re standing up with them.”
I lose Dusan for a second as I push through some dancers. I’m willing time to stop, running to beat the gunfire, the screams and pandemonium of Aiden Tween going down in front of thousands of people. I swing around a forklift and there she is, maybe fifteen meters ahead. Her coat and the messenger bag are beside her.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the national anthem of Pianvia Free.”
In the second of silence that follows, I watch her jab angrily at her cell phone, then smash it down. Aiden Tween starts to sing.
Love you tender, love you true,
Pianvia, I will
Pungent pasture, splotnik too
And pigs have much to swill
I start toward her. She bends, pulls something from her coat. A gun.
Pianvia, Pianvia, fleever, blotz and yill
Oh my country, I love you and I mostly will
Springtime blizzard, summer rain, landslides in the fall…