The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica

by John Calvin Batchelor

  “And lastly, my lover, my companion, my strength, my friend, the father of my child, and the man without whom none of it would have been half as much fun, my husband, Cesare Furore,” finished Charity Bentham, taking the hand of a darkly handsome man, only slightly taller than she, broad and powerful. There was final applause. The King spoke up again to introduce the next laureate.

  The Benthams and Furores made ready to descend the dais by the ramp not ten feet before me. I studied them: first, a small lady whom I took as Mother Bentham, she being helped down by a very pregnant woman whom I took as one of the sisters. Then came an attendant handling a wheelchair bearing a sick-looking man who held himself as if he had had a stroke—the Reverend Increase Bentham. Two more attractive women followed close behind, both arm in arm with escorts. I noted that the Bentham family characteristic was that authoritative fix to their features, which was easily taken for haughtiness or extraordinary piety. Each sister had a prominent nose that was not her mother’s.

  The Furores took the ramp. I watched Cesare Furore. He was most attractive. Thord might have opined that he was overdrawn, a theatrical profile, studied, stunning. His manner in contrast seemed casual, anything but melodramatic. He was especially affectionate toward Charity Bentham, keeping her hand close to his heart, kissing it once—all quite Mediterranean of him, as my novel-reading had taught me. Cesare Furore held his wife intimately as he reached back to take the arm of the very same tall, dark, doll-faced young woman with the swan’s neck whom I had favored earlier. This temptress was Cleopatra Furore. I was not then informed enough as to the volcanism of fate to comment: like fool father, like fool son. There is also the Bible’s talk about the sins of the father being visited upon the sons, and my passing knowledge of the Greeks reminds me of their warning: Know thyself, if you dare. The Norse have it best in my case: A man with an appetite for longing will get a stomach full of trouble.

  Peregrine vaulted onto the ramp. He slammed Cesare Furore. He grabbed Charity Bentham by her shoulder, spinning her away from her husband and daughter. He shook her. He screamed at her. I could see Peregrine above me as sure as I ever saw anything. His face was twisted, as if in a great pain. He seemed aflame. It was passion. I was fixed in place, like everyone else, by the intensity of Peregrine’s attack. Charity Bentham stared at him in disbelief. It must have occurred to her that this might be the man who would end her life. Peregrine shook her harder. Her combs fell out, her braided hair flying wildly. She opened her mouth, could not speak, as Peregrine screamed the more—unintelligible things, mad words, sounds from the dark. Cesare Furore recovered first of all of us, reaching to protect his wife. Peregrine kicked him down.

  The officials on the dais were slow to realize the threat. An ancient German laureate’s amplified voice initially drowned Peregrine’s ranting. That did not last. I have father’s lungs. I know what can be done when we lose control. Holding Charity Bentham like plunder, he screamed a wave of hurt and bitterness, for all to hear, to judge:

  “You are my wife! You lied! You are mine! I never gave you up! That was your doing! I never agreed! They wanted it! They tricked me! Tell them! Tell the truth!”

  Charity Bentham was helpless. She wailed forth tears so big that they drained all dignity from her being. She seemed in a silent terror, as if not surprised, rather as if caught in her own nightmare.

  “Tell your lover who I am!” screamed Peregrine. “Tell them all! I am your husband! That paper is nothing! He doesn’t exist! Tell them or I swear I will kill you! As you’ve killed me! I am dead! Do you understand! You left me to die alone!”

  By then the officials had signaled the security forces. From all directions, they converged on Peregrine. Two slipped from the dais and tried to get hold of him without damaging Charity Bentham. Peregrine tossed them aside by using her body as a truncheon. He seemed increasingly desperate as he backed down the ramp, holding Charity Bentham high above him, screaming, “Don’t you see what it’s been for me? How do you think I survived? I only had one thing to live for! I lived for you! I thought you’d come back to me! When you were free of them! I thought they’d trapped you! I would have fought for you! I’ve been here! Where can I go? Why didn’t you come for me? All I ever wanted was for you to say you loved me! You didn’t have to give up anything for me! You could have kept your things! You just had to say that you loved me! But not him! I can’t stand that! How could any man take such a thing? Please, Charity, please, dear God, please! Help me!”

  Peregrine stopped shaking her. He lowered her to the ramp. He hugged her to his breast. She stood there limply. Slowly she regained herself, coming to life. She reached around Peregrine as best she could—he dwarfed her, though she was not small—and hugged him back. They stood there together, weeping, shuddering.

  The security guards closed from above and below. Charity Bentham clung as fast to Peregrine as he to her. The guards pried them apart. Peregrine did not react until they had taken her a step back. Then he exploded, flailing angrily, lunging toward her. Two guards jumped him from behind, pulled him from the ramp, and rolled him to the floor. Musicians scattered from the pileup. Peregrine held his own—he seemed superhumanly strong—until two more guards joined the fray. This was clearly unfair. I forgot myself.

  “Father, it’s me,” I said, springing to his defense, grabbing one guard by his coat and flinging him backward, checking another with a sweeping hook of my leg.

  “Don’t hurt him,” cried Charity Bentham from above us.

  “Get out,” Peregrine shouted to me from the floor. He twisted against an armlock. I prepared, watching my back, to kick them away. I might have carried the day. I was half a foot taller than my largest foe, as skilled in close combat as any. Often afterward I daydreamed about what I might have done to save Peregrine from his fate. I do believe I felt then, for the very first time, the darkness inside me—the beginnings of shape-changing. It was not to be. I had forgotten my puppies. Goldberg and Iceberg evacuated my waistcoat, one rocketing high, the other low, both yelping. I stood stunned, calling them back.

  The guards took advantage of my surprise to take me down. My dogs, to their undying fame, stood by their man. Had they been even half-grown, those two, having been close to me for a quarter of an hour, would have killed to defend me. As it was, at only eight weeks and dopey on sugar, they harassed my enemies ferociously, sending up a howl worthy of a pack. For one glorious moment, it was four on four; me, Peregrine, Goldberg, and Iceberg versus them. Then they reinforced, and we surrendered.

  My Father’s Crime

  I WAS dragged through the crowd, down corridors and staircases, into the bowels of the castle. I was vaguely aware of the angry faces staring down at me. There was a cursing and crying out in the ballroom, followed by a pervasive stillness, the sort of shock that follows a public furor.

  I realize that I seem to fear the facts. Even after more than four decades, in another century, another millennium, it is not possible to recall that night without regrets so deep that I bow my head and pray forgiveness for the damaged, which all of us were, and for the culpable, if any were. Ignorance of one’s contribution to a crime does not excuse one, or the crime, or anything. I should have seen. I should have guessed. I was there, at the center, and I could have tried. What? Something quick, something apt. It is I who should apologize to Peregrine. He needed help, he begged for help, and not my boyish sort, Robert Louis Stevenson and a leap from the rigging. He needed respect, steadfast sympathy, patience, calm love. I provided only the sham of indomitable camaraderie. It was a cheat. I cannot dismiss the thought that my interference in Peregrine’s affairs somehow prolonged his ordeal and led him to compound his wrong with far worse.

  They took us down three levels. As I have mentioned, the King’s castle was still under construction. There was not yet a security complex. Workmen had finished the formal parts of the castle first, had left the auxiliary aspects incomplete. There were stacks of lumber, piles of brick and stone. We finally passed
into a long, narrow, well-lit lesser hall that I took as a promenade. Three of the walls were up, the fourth only blocked out.

  As we came in, a group already there turned to watch. I spotted Rinse, and behind him Israel, Thord, Earle, and several guards. Rinse did not see me; I did not see Guy, Molly, Orri, or Gizur, who I supposed correctly had avoided detention. Israel saw me, did not wave. I could not acknowledge him, my arms trussed behind me. The guards were furious with me and Peregrine, yanking us across the room and into an antechamber at the right. The guards arranged a straight-backed bench and slammed us down, passing the short chain of the handcuffs through a slat of the bench. We were pressed together, bent over and twisted sideways. We were surrounded by security guards in garish, leather-upholstered uniforms. Their chief, a beefy man who more whispered than talked, introduced himself as Skaldur, told us were were in a lot of trouble. Skaldur left in a contained fury. Peregrine and I sat silently for a time; a laugh from outside (Thord’s as he cajoled for understanding) startled Peregrine.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said to me.

  “I shouldn’t have taken the penalty, huh?” I said as jovially as possible, referring inanely to an ice hockey concept.

  “This can’t ruin your life, too. Why did this have to happen? What’s wrong with me? Now what am I going to do?”

  Skaldur returned, leading Charity Bentham and Cesare Furore into the room. Peregrine flinched at this, tried to stand, was pushed down roughly by a guard.

  “That will be enough of that,” said Cesare Furore in English. He held himself so commandingly that the guards snapped to attention. I could see that his powerful build and angular features made him a center in a crisis. He was overbearing, overmuch, unless one was sympathetic to him. Skaldur must have been, for he repeated Cesare Furore’s order in Swedish, then dismissed all but two of his men. The others filed out and shut the door, but because the wall was not completed, I could see them through the superstructure.

  “Did they hurt you, Peregrine?” asked Charity Bentham.

  “Let the boy go, please?” said Peregrine.

  “We must answer questions,” said Skaldur.

  “We’re not going to bring charges, Peregrine,” said Cesare Furore in a warm, paternal voice.

  “Then let him go,” said Peregrine.

  “Where are my pups?” I tried.

  “It’s my fault, all of it,” said Charity Bentham. She had regained herself, standing apart from her husband. Her hair was still mussed, her cosmetics ruined, which made her seem more vulnerable than was the case. Her compassion seemed genuine. That haughty Bentham look could mislead. She continued, “I should have explained to you earlier, Peregrine. We aren’t what and who we were. Meeting you tonight like that, it was wonderful, exciting. But I didn’t mean to upset you. What I said up there, about Cesare, it was only a speech. I didn’t prepare it with you in mind. How was I to know you would be here? We’re old enough now to forgive each other. Will you forgive me?”

  “I won’t listen to your lies! Adultery!” cried Peregrine. I felt then that I did not know Father. Everyone jumped at his outburst, the guards outside flinging open the door. Skaldur reached over to take Peregrine by the shoulders. Past the guards, through the door, I could see Israel. It was just a flash, but I could see them all being escorted out of the chamber, much laughing and good humor from Thord and one of the guards. I supposed at the time, correctly, that they had been brought down for questioning like us, and since they had committed no crime, and since Rinse was a liar, they had been released. I wanted to call to Israel and Thord for help with Peregrine, then thought better of it, intuiting it was best to keep our transgressions separate and our familiarity a secret. I was right, though I wish now that I had risked it, cried out, bolted, done anything foolhardy.

  Cesare Furore arranged two chairs before us. He indicated to his wife to sit, and when she hesitated, he sat himself neatly and began evenly, “We’ve known each other a long time, Peregrine. Twenty years? More. What’s happened is no one’s fault. People do grow apart. Things intervene that keep us from our dreams. This isn’t unusual. It doesn’t have to continue. A long time ago, when we first met at school, you told me—we were celebrating, after a Harvard game—you said, ‘It is what it is when it is.’ Do you remember? We’d gambled on a sure thing and lost. The game ended in a tie. I didn’t like what you said at the time. I’ve reconsidered since then.”

  Cesare Furore went on like this about several other collegiate incidents, all cleverly nostalgic, finally returning to his theme.

  “If you still believe what you told me, then what has happened to us must make sense to you. We’re old and dear friends. You and I have a lot in common. At least, we have had. Nothing has happened to keep us apart now. We aren’t enemies. We can work together on this. You know that anger isn’t a solution. What happened tonight, it is regrettable but totally understandable. You were overcome. We can learn from the past. It is possible. Your concerns are natural. I think this is all very sad.”

  “Is this your son, Peregrine?” said Charity Bentham, sitting opposite me. She took Cesare Furore’s hand. Why did she have to do that? I do not excuse her. It was stupid, might have been cruel. I took my lead from Father, would not answer them.

  “Let the boy go, Cesare,” said Peregrine, seemingly under control again. “You can do anything you want to me.”

  “We don’t want to do anything to you,” said Cesare Furore. “You and your son, if he is your son, this boy, are free to go. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Skaldur?”

  “What is your name?” said Charity Bentham to me.

  Peregrine rattled the chains. He didn’t want me to name myself. Is this proof he knew what he was going to do? I think not. He was frightened, was being cautious. Cesare Furore thought Peregrine was objecting to our cuffs, ordered Skaldur to remove them. Skaldur hesitated, then compromised with his caution, releasing me, leaving the cuffs on Peregrine, so that he was free from the bench, not free to go.

  “I want my dogs back,” I said.

  “Go on. Get them. Get out,” said Peregrine. “Tell Izzie not to wait up, you know? It’s gonna be right, in the end.”

  I stepped shakily to the door. Charity Bentham leaned back in her chair and studied me. Skaldur opened the door, looked hard at me, then told the guards to return my puppies and to escort me to the service exit. I tucked them back into my waistcoat. They had relieved themselves on the floor nearby—all that sugar—and the room reeked. It would have been funny if not for Peregrine’s posture. I turned to see Father’s face just as the door closed. He looked exhausted, stiff, hurt, and had one quality I could not identify. It was resignation. The last I heard, Cesare Furore had started talking again.

  I walked through the archway, urged on by a guard behind me. Israel had straggled back from the rest and lingered at the exit, arguing with Rinse. It was a ruse, for as soon as he saw me he broke off and signaled me to follow at a distance. Once clear, Israel grabbed me and we sped around the corner, down the access road, and into Thord’s waiting sled. Earle hugged me, the puppies squealed, we all laughed at our escape. Orri drove us straight home, where Guy, Molly, and Thord welcomed us with tea and inquiries. I told them what I had witnessed in the Great Hall and what I knew of Charity Bentham and her husband. Thord made telephone calls through the night. That was how he heard the news. We were at breakfast. I do not remember my first reaction. I do not want to try.

  Peregrine Ide murdered Cesare Furore. He strangled him. He crushed his windpipe. He hanged him, holding him at arm’s length above his head, using the short chain of the handcuffs as a garrote. As best he could that first morning, Thord pressed his informants in government for details. The newspaper reports were slow in coming and so sensationalized as to be worthless. Also, there were ghoulish rumors on the radio; there was unrestrained slander on the street. And over the next weeks, there followed Byzantine political machinations attendant upon the crime, the trial, and the sentence of life im
prisonment without parole. Briefly but devastatingly for all, Sweden became hysterical over the murder in the King’s castle by a so-called alien indigent. It is enough here to say that the remnant of the American exile community that had stayed on in Stockholm through the 1980s (either detained, jailed, or, like my family, wanted elsewhere) was soon to suffer for Peregrine’s crime.

  I heard little of the infamy directly, since I left Stockholm the afternoon of my seventeenth birthday, escorted by Orri to the closed-down boys’ camp at Vexbeggar. Israel said it was a precautionary move. It was actually crucial, because the authorities were soon searching Stockholm for “Peregrine Ide’s accomplice.” I was suddenly as much a fugitive as Peregrine had ever been.

  Since it seems to me now revealing of itself, I report the following of what happened in that anteroom, on that night, after I left Father. It is fragmentary, pieced together from several sources, only one of whom was an eyewitness (Skaldur, whose statement to the court was surprisingly sympathetic to Peregrine). Peregrine never again spoke of that night. Charity Bentham would not, or could not, talk about it with me.

  Cesare Furore had continued making appeals to Peregrine. Peregrine would not respond. I imagine he sulked, as was his way when he had been childish. Charity Bentham asked Cesare Furore to leave Peregrine be, saying that if Peregrine wanted to solve his problems, he was the man for it, that he probably preferred to confront his past by himself. If that is what she said, she was perceptive. Cesare Furore ignored her advice and burdened Peregrine with facts.

  Israel had told me only part of the truth. Peregrine and Charity Bentham had married the very same day Peregrine and Israel had fled America; they had consummated their marriage in Charity’s ancient Volvo, parked discreetly in an airport lot. Israel stood watch. Later, Charity’s father, Increase Bentham (who, Israel told me, had detested Peregrine, thought him a fraud and ne’er-do-well) had the marriage annulled. Cesare Furore said that Increase Bentham had bungled the annulment, that he had forced it on Charity while she was on the mend from the news, conveyed in a letter from Peregrine, that he had a bastard son. Cesare Furore explained that he had checked the annulment papers and acted carefully. He instructed his lawyer—after his own marriage to Charity—to have Peregrine cited for deserting his wife. When the suit was brought to the attention of the court, it was possible, though messy, to have Peregrine, as a fugitive from justice, declared no longer Charity Bentham’s husband. I might be conflating legalisms here, confusing one state’s statute with another state’s codicil. It does not matter. Peregrine never contested the annulment, had in fact refused to communicate with Charity after his one confessional letter—in shame, I suppose, for being the father of me. In the end, Cesare Furore thought, as a final security, to remarry Charity Bentham some years later.