Amerika (2 page)

His expression was blank.

“Did you hear me sing?”

He nodded. “Some.”

“How was I?”

He laughed, shaking Ms head in disbelief. “You absolutely amaze me.”

“Did you cry?”

He looked at her defensively. “Don’t be silly.” “You did, you did!” She kissed Mm joyfully. “You see, it’s so sweet, so innocent. Why would you ban a play like
The Fantasticks?”

He began to undo Ms tie and sat on the edge of the bed. His cologne carried with it a whiff of clove that always made Kimberly want to inflate deeply against his neck. She sat next to him, tracing his thigh with her fingertips.

“I will grant you that censorship is an imperfect science, but it is our policy to discourage art that agitates the human spirit.” A small smile began to play on his lips. “And
The Fantasticks
is art, however minor.”

She slipped out of her dress—the surest way she knew to prevent Andrei from holding forth too long on politics and theory. “It’s so dumb,” she said, standing rather incongruously, in her slip, in front of a row of formal portraits of Andrei with various world leaders: the aged Castro of Greater Cuba, Mbele of the Socialist Republic of Southern Africa, Barghout of Iraquistan. “You know people will go to plays,” Kimberly went on, “whether or not you ban them. And they’ll continue to listen to good music and to read good books.”

“Yes, my dear, but it is demoralizing to have your pleasures made illegal, to have good taste be a crime,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Also it makes it easy for us, when we wish to discipline someone. Every person of taste is by definition a criminal.”

She stepped in front of Mm and took over the task of removing bis clothing. She loved the first touch of his skin after Ms crisp shirt slid from his chest. “I hate politics,” she said.

“It is vastly hatable. But necessary.” His shirt now discarded, he hooked one finger underneath the thin strap of her slip, pulling it off her shoulder.

She pushed Mm back onto the bed, playfully tumbling on top of him. “Andrei,” she teased, “tonight, when you came to the church and saw us, if you hadn’t been my lover, would you have had us arrested?”

He rolled on top of her, gently grabbing a handful of her hair. “Yes. The others would have been jailed. You, however, would have been brought here for special treatment.”

Peter Bradford was awakened at dawn by his inner alarm dock. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, thinking. His sense of duty allowed no transition period between his dreams and the reality of the day, and his mind was at once active. Active and angular—-the words described Bradford’s face as well as his personality. He had a square, set jaw, and a determined and almost severe tautness in his smile. Only the eyes suggested humor and softness—and perhaps, as some people saw it, a certain lack of resolve. Peter’s thoughts were accompanied by the steady breathing of his wife and partner of the past twenty years.

He got out of bed carefully so as not to disturb Amanda. There had been a time, before the takeover, when no matter how rough his exit, Amanda slept on. She’d been serene, and she’d looked it, with smooth skin, a ready smile, and eyes full of mischief and affection. Since the takeover, her sleep had become more fractured—-riddled with uneasy dreams and fears that had left their tracks across her cheeks and brow.

“What time is it?” she mumbled.

“Six. Go back to sleep.”

She nodded, knowing she would not return to sleep but to that middle ground between dreams and wakefulness that was so loathsome to her husband. Peter watched as she repositioned her body, smiled at her, and padded quietly into the bathroom.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Jacqueline Bradford poured herself a cup of ersatz coffee and diluted it with powdered milk and molasses. The brew had a grayish color and smelled like resinous sawdust, but Jacqueline, a pretty seventeen-year-old, had no way of knowing that real coffee tasted different. At first glance, Jackie appeared rather delicate, but this impression of vulnerability belied her physical strength as well as her independence and daring. She looked up from the open textbooks she’d strewn over the table as Peter entered. “Morning, Daddy.”

“What got you up at the crack of dawn?”

She sat back in her chair for a moment and sighed. “I’ve got a monster day. Can you believe a quarter test, and as if that weren’t enough, today’s the tryouts for the Area Dance Company.”

Peter smiled at his daughter’s histrionics and moved to the cupboard for a cup. “What about sleep?” Without missing a beat she answered, “Plenty of time for that after I’m dead.”

He poured himself a cup of mock coffee and faced her, leaning against the counter. “What’s the exam?” “Western civilization.”

“Which one? Our version or theirs?”

“How can the famous Milford County administrator be so cynical?”

“Hey,” said Bradford, “I’m allowed to be a little cynical. I’m only a hired hand. It’s not like the county’s named after me.”

“No,” said Jackie, trying to maintain the grown-up level of banter and, in her enthusiasm, taking it just a shade too far. “It’s named for Devin Milford’s family— and a lot of good it’s done him or any of them.” “Jackie . . Peter Bradford began rather sharply, then broke off. The reference had stung him, but it wasn’t Jackie’s fault. She had no way of knowing of her father’s boyhood friendship with Devin Milford, nor of their rivalry in everything from baseball to girls, nor of her father’s dim and secret feeling that he was in some way falling short of Milford’s ferociously high standards of behavior. “Never mind.”

“Well,” said Jackie, “I'm glad I’m a dancer. No cynicism in that. No politics either.”

Peter shifted his weight to reposition himself. He considered getting into the naivete of her outlook, but decided it was best not to. “How’s your program?” “Fabulous. I’ve been working on this one move where I come off a leap and use my momentum to come up in a handstand. I had trouble with that move for a long time. I couldn’t develop enough momentum.” She smiled proudly. “But I got it.”

“Great. I’d like to see it.”

“Come to tryouts this afternoon.”

Peter looked uncomfortable. “I’ll try, honey. But if it’s a tryout, I don’t want it to look like I’m trying to use my influence for my daughter.”

“Sure, I understand.” She sighed, looking into her coffee mug as if to be certain he knew she didn’t.

He walked over to her. “Jackie, I’m not sure you do. I’ve got to be fair, and being fair isn’t just what I may intend something to be—it’s got to
look
fair as well.” He raised her c
hin
and smiled into what could have been her mother’s eyes. “I love you—you know that. I’m proud of you and your dancing.”

She nodded. “I know. It’s just not always easy being the great man’s daughter.”

He smiled and gave her a quick kiss as he headed for the door. “I’ll tell you a secret. It’s not always easy being the great man.” He buttoned up his heavy winter coat. “Got to go, sweetheart,” he said, laughing, and shut the door behind him.

Devin felt rejuvenated by the brisk chill of the morning air. He walked, eyes front, alongside the guard, suddenly aware of the barracks coming to life. Upon reaching the administration building, they entered a small barren hall in which four other prisoners sat waiting, each accompanied, as he was, by his own guard. As Devin sat down away from the others, a woman prisoner entered from another door. No one spoke; all looked directly ahead: five men, one woman, and six guards. A moment later, a man in American army fatigues entered. The American army, Devin reflected bitterly. In essence there was no such thing anymore. The great old cotton uniforms were about all that remained. But then, the same could be said for what used to be civilian America. The guts, the spirit of it were gone. All that was left were some scattered artifacts with brand names on them: shredded Levi’s that people still wore, cans of Miller High Life at the side of busted-up highways, rusted-out Plymouths that might last one more winter.

At once the guards commanded, “ ’Tenshun!”

The six came sharply to attention. The officer gave a small nod and commanded the prisoners to sit.

The officer looked at the six prisoners unwaveringly for what seemed like several minutes. “In a few hours you will have your names returned to you. I am here to remind you why you came to be numbers deserving no more respect than a cipher. You disgraced your country and brought shame and hardship on your families.

“At Fort Davis we have tried to demonstrate the value of having a name that is used in the service of your society, not your own self-indulgence. Now you will always have your number. It will follow you wherever you go. It is waiting to be used again, should you fail to apply the lessons learned here. For those who have any doubt about your rehabilitation, I owe it to you to tell you that if you thought this stay was unpleasant, the next will be worse. You will all rise and take the oath of allegiance. Anyone not comfortable pledging that allegiance is free not to do so.”

At once, the six prisoners stood. The officer studied them a moment longer, then turned toward another officer. “Sergeant?”

At his command, the sergeant walked to the head of the room behind the officer and pulled a cord. A large flag dropped from the ceiling—a new and strange flag, frightening by its very benignity. Against a blue background were crossed Soviet and American flags. Suspended in the crux were the white globe and olive branch symbol of the United Nations.

“You lead, 83915,” the officer commanded.

Devin hesitated for a brief second, took two steps forward, and faced the flag, as did the other prisoners. They began to recite the pledge of allegiance: “I pledge my allegiance to the flag of the community of American, Soviet, and United Nations of the World, and to the principle for which it stands—a nation, indivisible with others of the earth, joined in peace, and justice for all.”

The words came out devoid of meaning or emotion or inflection, as if the voices from which they issued were barely human. But then, emotion was not demanded or even desired. Rote recitation was good enough; the object was compliance, not belief. The goal was to breed the habit of not caring. Insincerity was expected and not punished. The game was far subtler than that.

Peter Bradford lifted the garage door and looked across the bare fields that began at the edge of his property. A light powdering of snow had dusted the dark land; the air smelled electric. He climbed into a twelve-year-old Wagoneer, which was as new a vehicle as anyone in Milford owned. The great U.S. automaking plants had been idle ever since the so-called New Understanding had gone into effect. Peter turned out of the drive onto the tree-lined street heading toward town. He kept twisting the radio dial as he drove, but all he could find was the double-talk that passed for news: talk about increased production and U.S.-Soviet trade and friendship. He changed the station and got John Philip Sousa. Flicking the dial once again, he was party to a Spanish language lesson.

Switching off the radio, he circled the main square of Milford. In the center of the square was the county courthouse, a relic of the early part of the twentieth century. It was a massive red-brick building adorned with pillars and a dome. Even though he saw it almost every day, for some reason this morning it evoked in him the sort of thought he barely allowed himself anymore: the realization that America had once been a nation of high strivings and of grandeur.

On the courthouse lawn stood the proud statue of a World War I soldier, and also the spacious gazebo that for years had served as the focal point for local ceremonies.

Milford had been a bustling market town when the courthouse was built, a center of commerce for farmers. Soon thereafter, however, the community began a long, slow decline. First, in the 1920s, the new railroad line bypassed Milford. Later, during the 1960s, the new interstate highway also went elsewhere, taking with it the potential business and industry that might have spared Milford its economic malaise.

However, if the town of Milford was considered an economic failure, it was a success in other ways. Its wide tree-lined streets were as uncrowded and inviting as they had been in the twenties, and its gracious old homes were as comfortable as they had ever been. The town had little crime, little poverty, and a genuine sense of community spirit.

Peter passed several battered pickups, an ancient John Deere tractor, and a horse and wagon, as well as a couple of vintage cars. The primary mode of transportation in Milford, however, seemed to be bicycles, which far outnumbered all other vehicles combined. Self-consciously, Bradford nestled his jeep between the rows of bikes in front of the only lighted sign in the square:

HERB ’N BETTY’S CAFE GOOD EATS

The neon had long since given up trying to hit all the letters, and it wavered gamely in the gray morning light. Peter entered Herb ’n Betty’s, nodding to the assortment of farmers, truckers, and loafers who gathered there to play cards, gossip, and drink what passed for coffee. The walls were decorated with an elk head, stuffed ducks, and old basketball trophies; the tables were covered with stained, red-and-white-checked tablecloths. As Peter headed for his regular booth in the comer of the cafe, a farmer stopped him to complain about a long-delayed replacement part for his tractor. Another grizzled old-timer seized his arm, leaning into
him
conspiratorially to ask about the latest talk of guerrilla forces.