Wolf Country

by Tunde Farrand

  ‘Have a look at this!’

  We both looked down at the park below. I started counting out loud.

  ‘Now, there are seven children down there. Seven children whose parents chose to believe in a future. Seven children whose parents look after their own family instead of dwelling on something that can’t be changed. Seven–’

  ‘Our life is not stable right now.’

  ‘Philip, I’m thirty-two.’

  I hated raising my voice but any willingness to understand his point suddenly dissipated. I had always been so attracted to his darkness and mystery but now they merely reminded me of the distance between us. Mum’s words kept ringing in my ears, that a jovial type would be more suitable for me, someone full of joy and optimism. And my impulsive reply that I didn’t want anyone else.

  ‘It’s not you, Ali. But I keep seeing the faces of those abducted children.’ His voice was ghostlike, melancholy.

  ‘Phil.’

  ‘I’m useless.’

  ‘You’ll be a wonderful father. I know it.’

  The party was a disaster. The only good thing about it was that we got to see an exclusive High-Spender area and the inside of Linda’s stunning Georgian villa. Even from a distance Philip could tell it was fake, a good imitation but still fake, built at the beginning of the new system. ‘Look at the wall; it’s perfect,’ he whispered. ‘It would be worn and darker if it were original.’

  The streets were unusually wide and empty, and at the end of Linda’s street there was a heli-taxi station with helicopters parked outside. Linda’s mansion stood in a French formal garden, with a mini-waterfall at the back. When Philip saw it, he pulled a face of disgust.

  ‘One hour, not a minute longer,’ he said, checking the time on his ID phone. ‘I’ll shoot off, with or without you.’

  Linda welcomed us with an exaggerated smile, holding an oversized champagne glass in her hand. I felt awkward and followed Philip into a corner, where we hoped to observe the party without having to make conversation with the other guests, all snobbish High Spenders. Sensing the icy superiority in the air, I regretted accepting the invitation.

  The house didn’t appeal to me. In the sleek, modern interior, white and gold dominated, but the lack of curtains made me miss our cosy apartment. I saw a bespoke sofa, serpentine in shape, designed for sixteen people. Among the numerous professional photos on the walls hung a life-sized painting of Linda, posing in a white fur coat.

  They were all eagerly waiting for the arrival of a special guest, a certain Tiara Joy, a senior winner of that year’s Elevate!, a programme in which participants compete to become a High-Spender celebrity. Every year the lavish lifestyle of the winner is broadcast on the Globe. There are two age groups: under and over forties. Tiara won after she walked in to her audition stark naked, but for a pink flower headband. The tabloids were full of gossip about her ‘hot body’. In her mid-forties, she was still very attractive and youthful, with long platinum-blond hair. Philip and I agreed we had to flee the party before Tiara’s arrival.

  The conversation revolved around a new app called SpendItAll, which was designed for those who didn’t have the time to spend the minimum amount to earn their Right To Reside in any given month. At the press of a button on SpendItAll, Linda ordered the painting of herself and paid for it or for any of the millions of offers on the app, and she and Mark were saved, and could remain High Spenders for the next month. Linda said in a dramatic voice that she was getting bored with paintings and from next month she needed new suggestions from SpendItAll.

  I exchanged frequent glances with Philip. He was staring at the garish portrait of Linda on the wall. At this moment Mark approached Philip. His skin was unnaturally orange, but the wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead were white. After making small talk for a few minutes, Mark offered Philip an exclusive interview slot on the Globe, an opportunity that could lead to bigger, more important contracts, and celebrity architect status for Philip. For example, to finish the Paradise project, as Mark hinted. The other guests’ conversation had died away and I held my breath. Apparently the previous architect had had a heart attack, it turned out later, but Philip rejected the offer anyway, so it didn’t matter.

  My view of Linda as the most snobbish person on Earth changed when I realised she wasn’t as bad as most of her guests. One of them, a frighteningly elderly fashion designer wearing a frilly dress and a pink fascinator as big as her head, was talking loudly and contemptuously about aspiring High Spenders. Even with her back to me, I could sense her words were addressed to us. I felt shame filling every part of my body. Philip only had to look at me once to see how I was feeling. He took my hand and dragged me out of the room, without saying goodbye.

  As we were crossing the lawn, we saw a bright pink heli-taxi land in front of Linda’s mansion. Two bodyguards in black suits disembarked before helping out a blonde woman in a golden mini dress. It was Tiara Joy, squeaking instructions at her staff. We scurried away as fast as we could. I expected Philip to be upset, but he was easy-going, and joked about the party on the way home.

  ‘That ageing fashion designer looked like a walking skeleton,’ he said in the street, laughing.

  ‘A skeleton dressed up as a ballerina,’ I said, giggling. We laughed and kissed and zig-zagged across the pavement, arm in arm. Philip did a brilliant imitation of the fashion designer: ‘And, honestly, you can’t go anywhere these days without bumping into High Spender wannabees. How thoroughly disagreeable!’

  I could still see the shock on Linda’s face when Philip refused the job on moral grounds. ‘Moral grounds?’ Philip exclaimed. ‘They don’t even understand the word.’ We laughed so hard it hurt.

  The next day, to our surprise, Mark gave Philip a ring.

  ‘Fashion designers can be horrible. Don’t take it to heart, Philip. My offer still stands.’

  I don’t know if it was Mark’s apology, or his relaxed style, or maybe our underlying desire to become High Spenders, but Philip later agreed to finish the Paradise project; his first and last work on a shopping centre.

  seven

  The end of the month is dangerously close now. We have only three days left to catch up with our spending to qualify for the class we are in. I am on the promenade, making my way to the monorail stop. While I feel drained by the typical end-of-month crowd, with everyone rushing to spend what is required, I can’t help but find it amusing. In front of me, a middle-aged man is dragging an oversized plush crocodile, clearly bought just to increase his spending as he must have teenage children now. A mother with two small children is followed by three fully packed e-trolleys bigger than her kids. From a distance they look like five kids obediently following their mother.

  I’ve just checked my account and I have some spending to do. Of course, the last thing on my mind this month was shopping. I still have time to do it, thank God for online shopping and instant home delivery, which is – like all transportation – done very efficiently by underground trains. But shopping for me now is a chore and I don’t understand how I could have enjoyed it so much when I was an affluent Mid Spender.

  I have arrived at Nurse Vogel’s street. Like me, she lives in a Low-Spender area, but it’s a much rougher neighbourhood than mine. Next to her building, just beyond a fenced-off area, a group of tower blocks are awaiting demolition. A mega-excavator is being driven slowly towards the first building, followed by a group of construction workers. A large billboard advertises a new luxury High Spender development.

  Nurse Vogel lives in a standalone tower block, one of six that form a circle around a modest local supermarket and a little playground. Sadness lingers over the place; the people’s faces are wrinkled and gaunt, their clothing drab. They keep their heads down and I feel horribly out of place, embarrassed that I might exude a superior air of pride and confidence I picked up unintentionally when I was a Mid Spender. Nurse Vogel must have
a good income from the Dignitorium. She could even be a Mid Spender. So why has she chosen this place?

  She lives on the ninth floor. In the tiny lift, I’m overcome with sympathy for her, as it strikes me that most of her friends and family must be gone by now. I wonder what it might feel like to be alone in the world, that everyone we have ever known is dead and we are left behind like a museum piece. But then I realise I am in exactly the same position. All my loved ones are dead and gone.

  At the end of a narrow, poorly lit corridor I find her flat, Number 62. I’m shocked to see that her door is covered in graffiti: ‘Non-profit scum!’ The dark red paint has run on the white surface and dried like blood.

  When she opens the door, I almost don’t recognise her. She’s wearing a loose top in vibrant purple and a pair of wide-legged turquoise trousers with Indian mandala patterns. An oversized wooden necklace is hanging around her neck and her curly hair, fully let down for once, is framed by a colourful headscarf. She greets me with a smile and when I ask about the graffiti, she only shrugs.

  ‘I used to clean it off but it only encourages them. So now I just ignore it. Come in.’

  I find myself in a square-shaped studio, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  ‘But what’s their problem with you?’

  ‘I guess they’re right. I should have long retired like other women of my age.’ She points to an armchair under the window. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  ‘How can people be so cruel?’

  ‘The graffiti is not the worst of the bullying, trust me.’ There’s no anger or bitterness in her voice. ‘The subtle everyday humiliation is far more painful, for example, when my younger colleagues dismiss my advice because they think I must have lost the plot at my age.’

  She drops down on the sofa, which is covered with an ancient multi-coloured blanket. I gaze around the room that she uses as her living, dining and bedroom. The flat is tiny but oozes the warmth and comfort of long-forgotten times. I wouldn’t call it tidy, but the disorder lends it a special charm. I don’t think I’ve ever visited a home without a Globe before. Seeing my face, she laughs.

  ‘Don’t be such a snob, Alice.’

  ‘But…everything looks so…different.’

  ‘This mix-and-match style was quite fashionable when I was young.’

  My eyes wander to the mantelpiece. The vase Nurse Vogel showed me a couple of weeks ago on the phone is not orange any more. It’s red.

  ‘They changed it back,’ she says when she notices me staring at it. ‘But I don’t care any more.’

  I’m desperate to say something encouraging about the vase’s disappearance but I don’t know what. I can sense a gaping loneliness, a lack of anyone who really understands her.

  She leans forward and examines my face.

  ‘Your skin is tighter and even the circles under your eyes have disappeared. I can see a twinkle returning. Am I wrong, or are you feeling better?’

  I tell her about Ruth and Felicity. She keeps nodding.

  ‘You’re on the right track. I’ll meet up with you anytime you need, but I’ve got a feeling this little Felicity will do most of the work.’

  While she’s in the kitchenette making jasmine tea for us, I take another look around her living room. The shelves are packed with old books, and the distinctive smell of paper hits me as I get closer. There are also framed photos everywhere. Apart from a young Nurse Vogel – her lively eyes and warm smile haven’t changed over the years – there are two other people in the photos: a man with a moustache and a green-eyed, lanky boy who grew up to be a handsome young man.

  She returns with two steaming mugs and places them on the low birch table between us. She notices that I’m looking at the photos.

  ‘Your husband and son?’

  She nods briefly and for a moment her face turns grave. It’s strange thinking of Nurse Vogel as a wife, sister or mother. She is the epitome of the perfect carer, the rock everyone else relies on. I find it hard to imagine her with a family.

  One picture is her son’s graduation photo, with his name written on it: Adam MacKay.

  ‘MacKay?’ I ask, surprised. ‘Not Vogel?’

  ‘It’s safer this way.’

  ‘Safer? From what?’

  ‘Not from what. From whom. Since the deaths of my husband and son I don’t use my married name any more, so that no one will connect me to them. Of course, as the case of the vases shows, I was utterly wrong.’

  Unintentionally, I turn my head to look at the vase.

  ‘I’m fed up with putting on a brave face, Alice. I’m fed up with lying and pretending. If I tell you the truth, will you listen to me?’

  I nod.

  ‘But I’m warning you, it will go against what you were taught at school.’

  Not waiting for my reply, she starts to speak, her voice more serious than I’ve ever heard.

  ‘I was in my thirties when our world started to change drastically. Capitalism was out of control, the elite became greedy and ever more powerful. The gap between rich and poor grew rapidly until the very terms were meaningless. There were the ultra-rich, and then there were the rest, whose standard of living was rapidly worsening. The elite owned more than ninety per cent of the land. For me and my family just to stay in our shabby studio, we worked ourselves sick. Landlords could name any price they wanted. The home owner became the new celebrity. Men wanted to be them; women wanted to marry them. The rest of us spent our lives in meaningless drudgery. I worked so hard I had two miscarriages.’

  ‘Two miscarriages!’ I gasp.

  ‘We lived like cattle, rent slaves, but at least we had work and an income. For the increasing part of the population that was retired, there was no way that their meagre pensions would cover the ever-rising rents, so they were dependent upon social housing and other state benefits. Of course, it couldn’t go on forever, and the burden of the sick and elderly became too great to support. That’s when they evicted all pensioners from their own homes and moved them to the infamous retirement homes.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard a lot about those and how inhumane the conditions were due to the sheer number of residents.’

  ‘I worked in them, Alice, and I wouldn’t even keep a dog there. But it wasn’t really the high numbers that were the problem; the elderly were simply a convenient scapegoat. In reality, if the elite had just paid their taxes, the burden on society would have been significantly reduced. Anyway, families demanded higher quality care for their loved ones, and that’s when the demonisation of the old and disabled started in the media. It worked for some people, but not for most, who finally saw through the whole system, clearer than ever. Despite the fact that huge swathes of housing were newly available, after the elderly had been moved to the retirement homes, rents kept on growing. Mansions and skyscrapers stood empty while people starved on the streets. Across the world, the people started rioting. This is the real history, my dear. You won’t hear it from anyone else. Those who could testify are long dead.’

  She’s watching me and I can’t hide my confusion.

  ‘You don’t have to believe me,’ she says. ‘I know it must be a shock for you.’

  ‘And your son...?’

  ‘Adam grew up disillusioned and hopeless. He had a good job offer from Australia and he saw it as his only chance.’ She quickly wipes her eye. ‘I talked him out of it.’

  ‘You make it sound like his death was your fault.’

  ‘And probably my husband’s too. Not intentionally, of course, not even directly. But if I hadn’t pushed him, Adam would be still alive.’

  ‘Pushed him to what?’

  ‘I had only good intentions, I swear.’

  These final words sound like a death sentence.

  ‘So you talked him out of going to Australia?’

  ‘And he listened to me. He stayed and
became one of the leaders of the riots. The uprising began when his group broke into an empty skyscraper and organised the rebellion from there.’

  ‘You must have been so proud of him.’

  ‘I was. Until my husband joined them. And soon I lost them both.’

  Her eyes are filled with tears. I go and sit down beside her, and give her a long hug. I can’t believe that a fragile body like hers can hold such a strong spirit. She leaves for the bathroom. When she’s back, her eyes are dry and she’s back to her former self.

  ‘What happened after the riots?’ I ask.

  ‘Little changed. The economy collapsed, and homelessness and destitution ruled. Then the elite monopolised the Earth and proclaimed themselves Owners. The new system was established in which they allowed the economically useful to stay alive for as long as they continued to support the system as consumers, and the non-productive were put into Dignitoriums. A puppet government was set up to serve solely the interests of the elite. You know the rest.’

  ‘But then how was all this the non-profit people’s fault?’

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘But… They claim that the ageing population demanded pensions and healthcare and that caused the collapse. And the disabled who demanded–’

  ‘They teach whatever they want, my child. I don’t watch their documentaries and I don’t read their propaganda. All I do is remember.’

  She is staring ahead and again, I’m surprised at how her playful, lively face can turn so serious. I go up to her and hold her delicate, weightless hand in mine. I really don’t know what to believe now. She doesn’t bear any resemblance to those poor senile people shown on the Globe and in textbooks, but her story contradicts everything I’ve ever known.

  ‘I can see you are struggling to know what to believe, Alice, and I understand. Sometimes even I am taken in by the twisted reality; it’s all around us, it sucks us in.’

  ‘Is there any documentation, or books that support this?’