Juarez Square and Other Stories

by Young, D. L.

  Hanif had met Wellington a handful of times over the years, and the Chief Administrator always struck him as more of a schoolteacher than a head of government. Wellington had a kindly smile and a patient, deliberate way of speaking that Hanif, like many of his fellow citizens, found reassuring. Hanif had always regarded her as a loyal Torroxian in the mold of his grandfather and the Founders.

  The Chief Administrator sighed. “Worst mistake of my administration, caving in to public pressure and easing trade quotas with the mainland. None of us old-timers ever imagined fortunes could be made so quickly.” She sipped her coffee and frowned. “It’s been nothing but disruptive, this free market business. You know what I caught my niece watching last week? A bootleg fashion show from the mainland. Is there anything as silly in this world as a fashion show?” Hanif chuckled, recalling Andersen’s attire from the previous evening.

  Wellington placed her cup on the table. “Let me guess, he offered you money in exchange for your support.”

  Hanif considered his answer. If he said yes, would that implicate him somehow? Was simply being part of the discussion, listening to Andersen’s offer, a crime in itself? He wished he knew more about Torroxian law.

  As if she could read his thoughts at that very moment, Wellington said, “You can tell me, dear boy. No one’s going to throw you in jail.”

  “It was a business proposition,” Hanif said. “He wants to trade the Jacob seeds on the open market.”

  The Chief Administrator snorted and shook her head. “I should have expected something like this. Money, money, money. It’s all these traders think about.”

  Hanif nodded in agreement. “Just being in that house of his made me uncomfortable. All that unneeded space and the expensive decorations. It just felt…wrong.”

  A smile spread across Wellington’s face. She lifted her eyebrows and said, “That’s because it is wrong, my boy. You have good instincts.”

  “I’m glad you understand,” Hanif said, sighing in relief. He sipped his coffee. “I understand wanting to share the gene design with the mainland with so much starvation these days. But if it’s just so you can get rich—or in Andersen’s case richer—I just don’t see the point.”

  As Hanif spoke Wellington’s smiled faded. “My dear boy, you do understand that sharing your seeds with the mainland is utterly out of the question.” Her face turned cold and hard. Hanif recalled Andersen’s comment about hoarding the seeds.

  “I guess I figured,” he said slowly, “with the situation on the mainland, there’s no reason not to share—”

  “Director, Director,” Wellington said, raising her hand. She then reached toward a small, antique globe on the table and spun it round. “Do you remember this lesson from school? Find a place on the globe where free trade hasn’t corrupted the state, where it hasn’t poisoned public welfare.”

  Hanif remembered the lesson. Some kids learned it slower than others, pointing to country after country before the teacher finally told them there was no answer. No nation in the world, save their beloved Torrox, was free of the evils of international commerce.

  “My dear boy, do you realize those miraculous plants of yours are the most valuable asset Torrox has? They’ll ensure our independence for generations to come. They’re simply too important to our sovereignty to share with the mainland.” The Chief Administrator reached over and laid her hand on top of Hanif’s. “It’s what the Founders would have wanted, what your grandfather would have wanted.” She narrowed her eyes and squeezed his hand. “I hope we can count on your support.”

  The weight of her hand felt heavier than its delicate, slight appearance. He shuddered as the unspoken conversation—the suggestion beneath her words, the intention behind her steely gaze—reminded him of his dinner the night before. Just like Andersen, she wanted his endorsement.

  Hanif slipped his hand from under Wellington’s and reached for his coffee, prompting a frown from the Chief Administrator.

  “Chief Wellington,” he said, “I’m no expert in public policy, but if we have something that can benefit so many—”

  “Understandable,” Wellington interrupted, again raising her hand. She nodded her head sympathetically. “Your concerns are perfectly understandable. Politics can be a little unsettling for the uninitiated. I’m sure if I tried to find my way around your lab, I’d wander around like an old fool, not knowing which end was up.”

  Hanif smiled uncomfortably. The Chief Administrator sipped her coffee and contemplated. “Let me think of an analogy that might help explain things.” She raised her index finger. “I have it. Do you perform any tests in your lab that yield a predictable result? In other words, you know the result will be A or B, without any ambiguity?”

  “Control tests. Sure, we do those all the time.”

  “I see. So think of our situation this way.” She lifted her cup to her mouth. “By the end of the week you’ll publicly endorse the incumbent administration. Result A is that you get to keep your job.”

  Hanif’s own cup froze inches from his mouth and a chill ran down his back. Wellington swallowed the last of her coffee and smiled. “You’re a clever boy. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what result B is.”

  ***

  Hanif meandered along the less-traveled footpaths near the perimeter of the superstructure, his feet shuffling aimlessly. Dark somber clouds hid the sun and a chilly morning fog blanketed the city as he skirted the edge of the power plant neighborhood. He passed quietly through the shadows like a wandering ghost.

  Wanting only to be alone with his thoughts, he hadn’t consciously selected a destination, but he eventually found himself passing under the tarp where the Jacob plants grew.

  As he looked at the seedlings, the memories came back fresh and horrible. A heart-stopping cancer diagnosis followed by six torturous months. Six months watching helplessly as his boy withered and faded in a hospital room that stunk of chemicals. Six months of tubes and needles and weight loss and sunken, tired eyes. Pink skin slowly turning pale from chemotherapy, skin that became as thin and delicate as rice paper. Six goddamned months holding out hope for a miracle. Then came the Tuesday morning when the light in Jacob’s eyes went dark. And the next day a burial at sea.

  Nothing was the same after his boy was gone. The small, noisy house that once seemed cramped with three was suddenly too big, too quiet for two. The nursery went untouched, frozen in time. Hanif broke down in tears every time he attempted to dismantle Jacob’s crib, unable to remove even a single screw. He and his wife, Miri, avoided one another, neither able to endure the crushing sadness always lurking behind the other’s eyes. Slowly they began to disappear from each other, Hanif losing himself in his work, Miri losing herself in another man’s arms. They soon divorced.

  “Thought I’d find you here.”

  Hanif jumped at the voice behind him. He turned to see Dilon, standing at the entrance of the tarp, holding a bag that dripped water onto the ground. His friend held up the bag and smiled.

  “Fresh tuna steaks, get ‘em while they’re, uh, room temperature, I guess.” Dilon’s face clouded over with concern as he noticed Hanif’s welling eyes. “What’s going on, Han?”

  They exited the garden and sat on a concrete bench. “You were right,” Hanif said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

  “About what?”

  “The sharks.”

  A heavily pregnant woman walked past, holding the hand of a chubby toddler who waddled to keep up. The boy stopped for a moment, locked eyes with Hanif and smiled, his plump cheeks lifting upwards. “I’m going to school,” he announced.

  “Come on, Santiago,” his mother urged. “We’re going to be late.”

  Hanif watched them as they hurried along. The toddler waved at him just before he disappeared around a corner with his mother.

  Hanif’s stare lingered on the empty space left by the boy for a long moment. “Plump babies,” he muttered.

  “What?” Dilon asked.

  “Plu
mp, healthy babies. That’s all this was ever about.” And wasn’t that enough? Why did politics have to butt in and turn everything upside down?

  “I take it your chat with Mister Big Trader wasn’t exactly inspiring?” Dilon asked.

  “Understatement of the decade.” Dilon listened intently as Hanif recounted the details of his meetings with Andersen and Wellington.

  Dilon shook his head. “Sorry to hear it, Han. I guess being a hotshot scientist ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “You said it,” Hanif agreed. A small part of him wished he’d never managed to perfect the seeds, then the larger part of him felt guilty for having such a thought. There didn’t seem to be any winning in all of this, only degrees of losing.

  “Any possibility you can sit this one out? Declare yourself neutral, that kind of thing?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  Dilon scratched his beard and considered. “Remember when you sneaked those protein rations to me when we were kids?”

  Hanif didn’t feel much like reminiscing. “Sure, I guess.”

  “What would have happened if you’d been caught?”

  Hanif shrugged. “I don’t know. A month of home detention maybe. What’s your point?”

  “Well, what makes this so different?”

  The way this man’s mind works sometimes, Hanif thought. Only Dilon could make the connection between a pocketful of soy protein and a winner-take-all political war.

  When Hanif looked at him crossly, Dilon showed his palms. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Let me put it this way. What do I always say when I have a lose-lose choice to make?”

  The question stopped Hanif cold. His eyes widened, his thoughts sent in a new, unexpected direction.

  A clever smile spread across Dilon’s face, the naughty grin of the boy Hanif had grown up with.

  In unison they said, “Go with the third option.”

  ***

  The next morning a luminous red glow gave Torrox’s southern dockyard a dreamlike quality. A perfect, beautiful dawn, Hanif thought, appropriate to the occasion. He stood at the bottom of the jetty steps, listening to the low rumble of the boat motors as the fishermen prepared for their journey. Normally at this hour, the crews hustled back and forth loading gear and food, their faces earnest and concentrated on the task at hand. But this morning the mood was light and relaxed. Smiling faces sipped coffee and chatted. No one rushed about, and the nets and fishing gear had been left untouched in the storage bins.

  There would be no fishing today.

  Dilon walked up beside him. “All gassed up. You pass out the lists?”

  “Just now,” Hanif answered, handing Dilon a long sheaf of paper. “Here’s your copy of the master.”

  Dilon whistled. “Got to be over thirty countries on here.” He looked down the list. “And so many people.”

  “Fifteen years of research and you collect a lot of names.” His heart still hadn’t slowed down from the last twenty hours of rushed, sleepless preparations, gathering up names and addresses of botanists who worked in governments, private corporations, and charity organizations in dozens of countries.

  “It would be so much easier just to email it out,” Hanif said.

  “But it wouldn’t be as fun, would it?” Dilon laughed.

  Both men knew email wasn’t an option. Even if Wellington weren’t already actively monitoring the lab’s communications, the auto-filters would catch and hold anything with research content directed toward the mainland.

  “You sure this is going to work, Dil?” Hanif asked.

  Dilon nodded. “It ain’t rocket science. Once we give away enough copies of the research and seed samples, then nobody’ll really own them anymore: not you, not Wellington, not Andersen, not even Torrox. And if nobody owns them, nobody can use them to get rich, win elections, whatever.”

  “So they become like a…” Hanif searched for the right word.

  “Commodity would be the term you’re looking for. A good or service that’s plentiful, affordable, and easy to obtain.”

  Hanif lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Yeah, I said it,” Dilon snapped with mock-indignation. “Maybe I didn’t study as much as a certain famous botanist, but I managed to retain a respectable portion of my fine Torroxian education.”

  Dilon looked out to the sea. “I haven’t been to the mainland in years. Sure you don’t want to come with? Lots to see.”

  “Thanks,” Hanif said, “but somebody has to stay behind and take the heat. This is technically a criminal act, you know.”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t call it that. The pitiful way you try to use a fishing rod to catch a bluefin, now that’s what I call a criminal act.” Dilon scratched his chin. “Way I see it, this is just a different way of serving the greater good.”

  The greater good. The phrase echoed inside Hanif’s head. In the mad scramble of finding names, making copies of his research, and dividing up seeds into packets, he hadn’t had time to reflect on the magnitude of what was about to happen. The plants bearing his son’s name would soon take root on every continent, nourishing millions. A wave of emotion crashed over him as he imagined countless starving babies saved, countless parents spared the agony of losing a child.

  Dilon seemed to understand the change in Hanif’s face. He grabbed Hanif by the shoulders and hugged him tightly. “He would have been proud of you, Han,” he said, his voice cracking.

  The crews began to settle into their boats and untie the mooring lines. “Looks like it’s time to go,” Dilon said, blinking away tears.

  Hanif took a deep breath and steadied himself. “How long will it take?”

  “Two, maybe three weeks for every group but mine. We drew the short straw and got Asia and Australia, so you’re not going to see me for a while.” He looked up and moved his eyes around the sky. “Couldn’t ask for better weather. Fair winds and clear sailing on all the forecasts.”

  The friends said goodbye, and Dilon hopped onto his vessel. One by one, the boats slowly motored out of their slips. The crews smiled and waved to Hanif. He waved back, amazed and humbled at how quickly the entire fleet had agreed to help. These good fishermen of Torrox.

  Hanif stood at the end of the dock, watching the boats as they cut their engines, made sail, and drifted toward the horizon. About a mile out they split up into groups and began their separate journeys, each vessel bearing a gift of fifteen years’ worth of research and a packet of magic seeds.

  He’d always loved watching the fishing boats come in, but the sight of them leaving, he decided, was better. Much better.

  Last Goodbye

  I’m alone in the small, unfurnished room, the heart-sized red light glowing on the wall in front of me. The side walls play your downloaded memories of our times together like random scenes from a movie. And you know what’s weird? The images are exactly the way I remember them, too. None of those dizzying perceptual differences you always see when you look at a shared memory, no “reality delta” in neuro-tech parlance. They say that kind of thing almost never happens.

  Makes sense, though. We always laughed at the same jokes, loved the same movies and books. Our connection was there from the start.

  Kissing goodbye in the rain.

  My God, what were we here, twenty? Look at our bodies, so fresh and new, full of raging hormones. Could this possibly have been two hundred years ago? It’s strange, but whenever I think of you, even after all this time, this is who I always see: Sandra at twenty, tall and radiant, flaxen hair and coffee-colored eyes, that little scar on the bridge of your nose.

  Wow, look at us! Our lips pressed together madly, the rain falling in big drops, soaking us. A warm spring rain, joyous and full of hope.

  This was our first goodbye, right before you left for Paris. We’d only known each other a few months when you got the offer of a lifetime: free rent for a summer in France.

  You were supposed to come back in ten weeks.

  But ten weeks turned into six months, the
n a year. You stayed in Paris, I stayed in Dallas. Our weekly calls became less frequent. Excited chats about our future became awkward conversations about anything else. You were pulling away from me. I heard it in your voice, felt it through the phone line.

  That’s always been our story, hasn’t it? I get close, you pull away. Then you show up years later, promising it’ll be different this time, only to find me married. Then when I get divorced, you’ve just moved in with someone.

  And so it went for years, decades. A lifetime of near-misses and what-ifs. For years I wrote it off to fate or shitty karma or plain bad luck.

  I sigh and finger-swipe the wall, rewinding the memory so I can watch the kiss in the rain again. So lovely, so maddening.

  Morning coffee at the cabin on Lake Travis.

  Amazing. I can almost smell the freshly ground beans. You were sixty-eight here, and I’d just turned seventy. It was the year they approved rejuvenation treatments. Remember how insanely expensive they were at first? Worth every penny, though, watching our bodies age in reverse, recovering decades in months. What joy, drinking from the fountain of youth.

  I know I told you otherwise at the time, but I actually did get divorced over your treatment. When Rachel found out I’d paid for it, she flipped out. But I couldn’t just let you die of old age. I wasn’t ready to let you go.

  And look at how well our first treatments took. Neither of us looks a day over thirty.

  After treatment we rented the cabin on the lake and spoke of the future. New bodies, new lives. Endless possibilities.

  But high hopes gave in to practicality, and we went back to our elsewhere lives. Same old story. Maybe next time will be our time. We agreed to stay in touch.

  Then you wandered for a while. China, then Africa and India. Never staying in one place for long, always changing jobs, starting and ending relationships. I tried marrying again, but you know how that goes when you can’t give it your whole heart.

  Sometimes we’d find each other again. What lovely times. Twenty, thirty years might have gone by, but we’d fall into one another as comfortably and easily as if only a day had passed. As always we’d talk about getting together, but now it was more out of habit than intention.