Henry looks at Mahesh to see if he is serious. Not only does Mahesh seem serious, he seems genuinely angry and a bit dangerous.
Henry finds Maya in the group and forces himself to focus on her face when the room flashes red and his knees buckle.
~ * ~
USAVille
It
’
s morning in America, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
Outside, a rolled-up newspaper lands with a thud in the middle of Henry
’
s driveway. Or the driveway of wherever he happens to be. He gets out of bed and looks out his second-floor window in time to see the newspaper boy turning around his bike (is that a Schwinn?) and slowly pedaling away. There
’
s a mailbox at the end of the driveway, and on the other side of the street a clumsy necklace of two-story raised ranch homes is strung out in both directions. None of the neighboring houses have lawns or plantings of any kind. None of the other houses have vehicles in the driveway or flags on their porches or toys in the front yard.
Except for the fast-vanishing newspaper boy, the scene is devoid of life.
It
’
s seemingly morning, but he has no recollection of the night. Or how he got here.
He lies back down, stares at the slowly spinning ceiling fan above him, and attempts to place himself by taking an inventory of recent events. The inventory, if true and not the imagined drivel of a damaged mind, frightens him. It also does not answer the question looped on his internal PA system: Where the hell am I?
A second look out the window reveals either a recently abandoned or a nearly completed mall at the end of the cul-de-sac, replete with half a set of golden arches and a box store with a giant red K on its incomplete exterior.
This scene of ghostly mall, silent
streets, and empty driveways co
ul
d be anywhere back in the America of credit crises, bank failures, and economic doom. But with the Himalayas looming in the background behind the inadequate arches, he realizes that he is in some kind of alternate, experimental, unfinished America.
Retrieving the paper, which he has no desire to read, seems the natural thing to do. He pulls on his jeans and sneakers, which he has no recollection of removing, and makes his way downstairs. The house is sparsely furnished and randomly decorated. There is a kitchen table and chairs but no window curtains or wall coverings. A glance toward the living room reveals a leather couch, an easy chair, and a fifty-seven-inch flat-screen monitor hanging on the wall above the unused fireplace, but there are no books or DVDs on the shelves, knickknacks or magazines on the end tables, or any sign that other humans may have once inhabited this space.
At the end of the driveway, he bends and picks up the paper. He is impressed to see that it is the
New Yor
k
Times,
then less so when he sees vaguely familiar headlines and a nine-month-old publication date. Lifting his arms overhead, he stretches from the waist, left and right, down and up, before straightening back upright and tilting his head toward the presumably rising sun and closing his eyes.
“
Howdy, neighbor.
”
He opens his eyes. To his right in the next driveway stands a tall black woman in a black pants suit, with a black leather knapsack draped over her shoulder.
“
Morning.
”
She takes a step toward him.
“
You know, I was here when you arrived last night. On a gurney.
”
“
How unlike me. That
’
s usually how I depart from a place.
”
His reply draws her a step closer.
“
Maya asked me to stick around and keep an eye on you this morning.
”
Henry slowly nods.
“
Thanks. I have no recollection of. . .
”
“
They knocked you out, gave you a couple of
somethings
to settle you down. Maya spent the night, making sure you were all right, but she had to go home this morning to take care of some personal matters.
”
He doesn
’
t know how to respond to this, other than to nod.
The woman crosses the small patch of thin lawn between the lots and extends her hand. She
’
s tall, more than six feet.
“
Madison,
”
she says.
“
Madison Ellison.
”
“
Nice name.
”
“
I created it. The names of my favorite avenue and my favorite writer. Anyway, welcome to the tentatively titled USAVille. I
’
m the only other person dumb enough to live in this botched sociological experiment, but at least I have an excuse: I have to. Or at least I
’
m being handsomely paid to.
”
After he releases her hand-, she places it on his shoulder and steers him toward her house.
“
Come, I made breakfast.
”
Henry follows, as if doing so is as normal as following Marcus and Gerard and Victor across a tiki-lit patio on Meat Night.
~ * ~
Unlike the house he just stumbled out of, Madison Ellison
’
s house is thoroughly and beautifully decorated with a warm and colorful mix of African and Galadonian art and furnishings.
“
It ought to be,
”
she explains, sliding a spatula-sized portion of omelet onto a plate.
“
I
’
ve been here for six months, and the prince was very generous with my lifestyle budget. The idea, I imagine, was for my place to be a sort of model home that others like you could visit and better imagine the possibilities.
”
He sits slump-shouldered at the head of her kitchen table as annoying boy-band music plays in the background. If he had to guess, he
’
d say Jonas Brothers. Unless Hanson has made a comeback.
“
I saw what appeared to be a shopping center at the end of the street. And one golden arch.
”
She retrieves two pieces of browned wheat bread from the toaster. Keeping one for herself, she places the other on his plate.
“
The second arch is supposedly en route,
”
she explains.
“
Their ambitious intention, in case you haven
’
t noticed, is to create a Western, distinctly American community here, with authentic American amenities to put at ease homesick corporate types like yourself who do not want to go the native Galadonian route.
”
“
This is delicious. By
‘
they
’
I take it you mean the prince.
”
She nods.
“
So is this the Shangri-La Zone?
”
“
Nope. That, at least in theory, is big-time commercial. This is residential with some commercial accoutrements.
”
“
How come there
’
s no . . . well, life here?
”
“
Money. And momentum. Or at least a more formal type of commitment from some of the better-known multinationals.
”
“
What
’
s the holdup?
”
“
For starters, in addition to the worldwide economic collapse, they
’
re waiting for more aggressive measures to be taken by the Galadonian government to stimulate foreign investment and development. Plus they have legitimate questions about cultural restrictions, infrastructure deficiencies, political instability, and, frankly, the emotional stability of the man in charge of the whole shebang.
”
“
Apparently Happy Mountain Springs didn
’
t get that memo. With those obstacles, why would anyone consider it?
”
Madison Ellison sits down next to Henry.
“
A market the size of a nation, even a micro-nation like this, is a terrible thing to waste.
”
“
So what are you, like the royal Realtor or something?
”
“
Nope,
”
she answers.
“
PR. Last year the Galadonian government contracted my parent company to maintain its stellar magical-little-kingdom image in the world while cleaning up any potential messes that may occur during the upcoming, let
’
s call it transitional phase.
”
“
What company?
”
Before she responds, her phone rings. She holds up a hand as she rises to take the call.
“
Yeah. Yes. Well, if that
’
s the case, then why not do a video press release about something positive, about how, I don
’
t know, these new state-of-the-freaking-art factories are actually
empowering,
not enslaving, women, giving females from rural areas opportunities they never could have experienced prior to the prince
’
s social renaissance. Two
s’
s
in
renaissance
.
”
She clicks off the device and stares out the window, gathering her thoughts before returning her attention to Henry.
“
Is that what this is?
”
Henry says, gesturing at the house and beyond.
“
Ground zero of a social renaissance?
”
“
Absolutely. It remains to be seen whether that which is being reborn is good or bad. But it
’
s a renaissance nonetheless.
”
“
That is, if you
’
re sticking with the literal versus the humanistic variation of the definition. What company are you with again?
”
“
I didn
’
t say. But it
’
s not one you
’
ll have heard of. We had to do a totally separate spin-off after the prince contacted my old blue-chip firm, which you surely have heard of. Had to because of the risk, because of the potential PR fallout for our corporate umbrella brand if our name were to be attached should this all go horribly awry. If you want a hint, it
’
s the same Madison Avenue firm that China hired to put out fires before the Beijing Olympics.
”
“
Tainted milk,
”
Henry says, counting on his fingers.
“
Lead in toys. Choking pollution.
”
She takes a bite of toast and, with her mouth full, answers.
“
Exactly. And don
’
t forget Darfur and all those pesky human rights issues. We didn
’
t make them go away, but we certainly spun them the best possible way.
”
“
Tibet be damned.
”
“
I mean, what do you remember about Beijing? Michael Phelps
’
s eight gold medals or a couple of human rights crazies protesting outside that French supermarket?
”
“
Darfur be damned.
”
Madison Ellison waves him off.
“
Please. What are you gonna do, blame the brands, the quarter-pounder with cheese and the twelve-ounce can of Coca-Cola, for the mess the world is in?
”
Henry holds up his hands.
“
Hey, I
’
m supposed to be teaching people in a toxic watershed to talk about crystal-clear bottled water. I
’
m in no position to blame anyone for anything.
”