Authors: Gabriel Boutros
They were waiting for him in the living room, Joe’s expression of gleeful anticipation aggravating Janus further. He touched one finger to the side of the monocle and began recording Joe’s awkward attempts at magic: dropping the cards as he shuffled or forgetting a crucial step to one of the tricks. The children laughed and clapped at his mistakes, certain that it was all part of the intended entertainment.
After about twenty minutes of card tricks, the boys were called to the dining room table where Terry and Joe served burgers on paper plates. Janus, who hadn’t been told he could turn the camera off, continued recording.
The food devoured, spit-balls were the logical next step in the evening’s festivities. Terry, acting before matters got out of hand, popped out of the kitchen carrying the birthday cake that Joe had sneaked home in an unmarked box. She started singing “Happy Birthday to You,” and all the children joined in, gathering around the cake as she put it down in front of her youngest son.
The chocolate-coloured cake was unnecessarily huge, Janus saw, easily enough for two dozen people. Eight lit candles surrounded a plastic action figure that he didn’t recognize, but that clearly meant something to Rollie and his friends. And in neon green icing, in letters underlining the figure, was written, “Happy Birthday
Roolie
!”
“Christ they spelled his name wrong,” Janus exclaimed loudly enough to be heard over the children’s singing.
Terry slapped him on the arm and shushed him almost as loudly, although nobody else paid any attention to him. Janus sulked quietly, letting the camera record whatever or whoever happened to come into his field of vision. Naturally, neither Rollie nor any of his friends cared that his name was spelled wrong, enjoying the full power of the cake’s refined sugar in huge mouthfuls. They made the expected mess on the dining room floor, from which Terry had removed her mother’s favourite carpet, and were soon back at the Vid-bot. Laughter and screeches of delight quickly resounded once more through their living room. Rollie’s smile told his father that the party was going swimmingly, and that was all that mattered.
“Everything perfect, Allen. Yes?”
Janus turned his attention, and the camera, to Joe’s beaming face.
“Yeah, the party’s great.”
“I’m so glad Rollie is happy,” Joe said, placing his hand on Allen’s shoulder. “I tell you my cake will make him happy. Why do you worry always?”
Chapter five
Canadian Lung Association e-Pamphlet, issued March 2030:
COPD stands for chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. It includes chronic bronchitis and emphysema. COPD is a long-term lung disease that is often caused by smoking, as well as the inhalation of various airborne toxins. COPD slowly damages the airways that carry air in and out of your lungs, causing them to swell and be blocked by mucus. It also damages the alveoli, tiny sacs at the tips of your airways that move the air in and out of your lungs. Recent advances in medical science have allowed doctors to repair much of the damage to these sacs, although the repairs are sometimes superficial and often only temporary. Having COPD may put you at risk for frequent chest infections, pulmonary hypertension, heart problems, and so on.
June 28, 2039:
The slow-moving line of customers reached outside the doors of the administration supermarket. People were lost in their own thoughts, shuffling slowly forward when the line moved. Their unfocused gazes pointed off into space, at the sidewalk, or at the backs of other people’s heads.
Although it was a yellow alert most people wore air-masks because it was impossible to know how long the line-up would be on any given day. Even on the best days, nobody wanted to breathe too much unfiltered air.
Near the back of the line stood Jordan Robinson. He had his e-message monocle on under his air-mask, and kept his right hand in his pocket, discreetly communicating with his wife, Suzanne, who was up closer to the front. The signal jammer he’d been using in his apartment had stopped working a week earlier, and he had no idea how long it would take to smuggle the small replacement parts up from the States. Until then it was unsafe to have any conversations of substance inside their home. He’d had to change cities and identities three times over the past six years, and took it for granted that there were hidden eyes and ears anywhere he went.
So he stood and waited in line like all the shoppers, virtually indistinguishable from anyone around him, and e-messaged Suzanne.
“I know we’d talked about moving things forward this summer,” he said, “but I think we should wait until I meet my new students.”
“School doesn’t start for another two months. Are you really going to wait that long just to find some new recruits?”
“We can’t do it ourselves this time. After Toronto, it’s just too risky.”
“There’s nothing to connect us to that. We were long gone before…”
“I know. But I don’t want anyone to suspect it’s the same people doing things here.”
“So we just shuffle along like the sheep in this line? Waiting two hours to get a bagful of overpriced groceries?”
Even though he couldn’t hear her, Suzanne’s impatience came through loud and clear in her written words. Over the previous two days she’d been pacing in their apartment like a caged animal, pausing on occasion to glare at the news reports on the Vid-bot. She swore loudest at reports announcing further cutbacks in health care and education to help defray the cost of the ongoing war. He knew her moods well enough to recognize that he had to keep her from making a scene in public. They’d managed to fight the administration this long only by careful planning, and by minimizing all risk to themselves.
“Nothing will change overnight,” he said. “If we did something today the world would be the same tomorrow. You know that. Waiting until school starts, getting some young people to join up with us; this is how we keep the fight going.”
“Is that all we do? Keep the fight going? I thought we were trying to win the fight once and for all.”
Behind his air-mask Robinson rolled his eyes. Suzanne was like a child in so many ways, wanting everything right away, not willing to accept that success in the war they were engaged in had to be measured in the tiniest of increments.
“Hon, we
are
trying to win the fight. We’ve talked about this before. Just lashing out at the closest targets won’t make people react, except to make them scared of us.”
“Sheep scare so easily!”
“Yes, sheep; just like you call them. But they’re the ones we’re doing this for, remember? The goal’s a better world for everybody, whatever your opinion of them.”
He waited for her response, but got none for several seconds. The line moved forward again and then, just as he started to get worried, he heard from her.
“My number’s being called, finally. I’ll talk to you on the way home.”
“All right. You’ll see; everything’s going to work out. I love you.”
“I know you do,” she responded, and he could feel the coldness of the words that lingered on his monocle.
July 4, 2039:
In the few months since Joe met Sahar at Tony’s butcher shop, he’d found a reason to take the one-hour metro-bus ride which had nothing to do with duty-free groceries or reminiscing about the old country. This exotically beautiful lady was doing important work, just as he had done before escaping from Italy. Somehow she got in and out of the prison camp that all Muslims were obliged to live in. She risked her freedom and her life in order to raise money to buy medicine and proper food that could be smuggled back to her people.
Joe was shocked to learn that, along with their lack of freedom, the residents of Laval also lacked many of the common necessities of life. Shortages plagued their medical clinics, their grocery stores and their gas stations. An entire bureaucracy had sprung up across the river, the sole goal of which seemed to be to frustrate Laval’s residents in their attempts to obtain whatever they needed to live with any semblance of normalcy.
And so a black market had sprung up. Muslims with the courage, and the connections, to get off their island would regularly sneak into Montreal to meet friends and sympathizers who raised money to buy these basic goods, or who donated the goods themselves.
When Tony had introduced Sahar to Joe, she explained that she’d begun smuggling some years earlier. Her neighbour’s child had died one night because all the pharmacists they tried were out of the antibiotics that could cure her bacterial pneumonia. Sahar sat through the night with the young mother, holding her as she wailed and beat her chest. She knew all too well the pain of losing one’s child, and promised herself to never let such a thing happen again, at least not to anyone who crossed her path.
Joe was impressed with her dedication, not least because Tony had told him she was a
prostituta.
Joe had known many such women in Italy, but none who’d devoted themselves to helping their fellow man, at least not with anything more than their own physical talents.
Tony told him that he’d gotten to know Sahar the way most men knew women in her profession, only to find they had a common interest in helping others. Tony used to have a large Muslim clientele before the insanity of rounding them up began, and he’d been happy to help these people in their time of need. He and Sahar had been working together for years now, and they were glad to have Joe’s help.
Once or twice he had considered telling Allen or Teresa what he was doing, that he was helping Tony obtain necessary supplies for this woman, Sahar. But it was enough for him to remember Allen’s shocked expression the first time Joe bought unstamped meat from this butcher. He doubted Allen would accept that anybody living in his house was dealing with Muslims, no matter how altruistic the goals. And why tell Teresa, if this would force her to hide the truth from her husband?
And so Joe said nothing at home, happily continuing his regular visits to the butcher shop, and occasionally joining Tony on little side trips, armed with a shopping list from Sahar.
On this muggy morning, he got off the number 714 metro-bus along with a handful of other passengers, all of whom were speaking loudly in Italian, and walked north along St. Laurent Boulevard as he always did. Unlike the buses that ran downtown or in the West Island of Montreal which were deathly silent, the passengers of the 714 delighted in arguing loudly about the state of the world.
He was content to listen quietly, not joining in any of the discussions, in case anything he said in public found its way to the administration’s ears. Now that he was involved with Tony and Sahar’s work Joe knew enough to avoid drawing any unwanted attention to himself.
The walk to Tony’s butcher shop was less than five minutes from the stop, but this was enough time to cause his lungs to start burning. Terry wanted him to wear his air-mask every time he stepped out of the house, even on yellow alert days, but the heavy mask made him feel claustrophobic, and he’d decided to trade the irritation in his lungs for the illusion of freedom.
As he stepped through the glass door of the store, noting that veal cutlets were on special, Joe saw Tony at the far end of the counter speaking with a tall, fair-haired man in his late thirties. Tony had his back to the front door, but by the way he was wagging his finger at the man it was obvious he was unhappy.
At the sound of the bell that tinkled with the opening door Tony turned his head quickly to look toward Joe. His face was red, as if embarrassed or angry, but Joe had no idea what could be upsetting his friend.
“
Ciao, Giuseppe
,” Tony called out, not rushing forward to squeeze Joe’s hand as he’d always done. “Please sit down. I’ll be with you soon.”
Joe looked from Tony to the other man, whose eyes never turned toward him. He allowed himself a mild shrug, then took the nearest chair, looking away from the two men.
He studied the daily specials advertised on the storefront chalkboard, but his thoughts, and his ears, were turned to the argument between the two men.
“
Basta, Signor Robinson
,” he overheard Tony say. “On this we can never agree, so tell her I will not discuss it anymore.”
The man referred to as Robinson spoke quickly in a whisper, so that Joe could only make out a few words, such as “people you know” and something that sounded like “work together.” Even at that Joe was embarrassed at listening to a private conversation, but he’d never before seen his friend this agitated.
He heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Tony and the stranger heading for the front door. Tony had his head down while his hand rested on the other man’s shoulder. Joe wasn’t sure if the hand was there to direct the man out of the store, or to console him.
The man left the store without a word, never glancing in Joe’s direction, and Tony stood for a few seconds watching him walking away.
Finally he turned to look at Joe, who wasn’t sure what he should say or how he should act.
“Forgive me, Giuseppe,” Tony said, but Joe just waved away the apology.
“It is me who is sorry to interrupt you, Tony. This
Inglese
, he is a friend of yours?”
“A friend? No. But he has, how shall I say it, a common interest.”
“
Come
? Common to you?”
“To both of us, Giuseppe. He is a man who does not like how the
amministrazione
runs things. He wishes to make things better for people. He is the kind of man who cries at the brown rain and the dead trees.”
“Then he is a good man,
si
?”
“
Si
,” Tony agreed, sounding unsure. “But he is also an angry man. At his home, they are angry.”
“Tony, we are all unhappy-”
“No, Joe. I mean really
full
of anger. The kind of anger that makes him want to hurt people.”
“He is very…
radicale
?”
“
Si, amico
. I told him I do not want him to come to my store any more. They think violence will change things. But violence leads only to more violence, and helps no one.”
Joe nodded imperceptibly, but said nothing. He understood this stranger who believed that violent methods were needed to make changes, but he also understood his friend’s antipathy to such a strategy. The years of ongoing violence in his home country had done nothing to improve the people’s lot. Still, Joe knew that sometimes a sharp slap in the face was the only way to get anybody’s attention.
Tony rushed around the counter to the espresso machine and began pulling out some small cups and saucers. As he was preparing their coffee and biscuits the American national anthem suddenly blared from speakers all along St. Laurent Boulevard. Joe looked at the watch he’d brought with him from Italy: it was noon on the dot.
He’d heard that there’d be an ongoing loop of anthems, patriotic songs and folk music played in public spaces all afternoon. Although outdoor parades were a thing of the past, the administration insisted on celebrating American Independence Day. The idea was to foster a spirit of unity, even if these celebrations now superseded those of Canada Day, which came just three days earlier. The irony of Canadians celebrating the independence of a country that ran their own as a private fiefdom was not lost on many people.
“
Americani
,” Tony hissed, clattering the bowl with the
biscotti
onto the counter. “They think they invented the
indipendenza
, and now they steal it from everyone.”