Princessa

Chapter 3  A Knight's Gambit

After the meal, Andy decides to walk home, through the chill night air, trying to clear his head, make some sense of it all. Feeling the cobblestone of the dark empty streets of the capitol under his feet. Listening to the echoing sound of his own footsteps. But he’s floating, barely feeling the chill mist surrounding the sight of his own winter breath. And yet aware of being able to see and sense everything all at once as if for the first time. Or the last, he doesn’t know which.

The muffled sound of taxis honking their horns in the distance, the stone and brick and wood of the buildings appearing sharp and distinct, even in the mist. And the names of the little shops, even the mist itself looks alive and moving graceful in the wind, like all part of the same cosmic dance. It’s exhilarating purely totally, and he wants to enjoy it absorb it and let all the myriad sensations sink in.

He’s feeling an absolute release from any bonds, and a freedom like he’s never felt before. Like a helium balloon slipped from a child’s hand in the park and just floating away by itself above everything. It’s magical serene intoxicating. Like good hashish, he thinks, but more powerful more intractable. Like he can do anything he wants to, whatever and get away with it, anything whatsoever. It won’t make any difference, ever again. He’s locked in fated zoned in inextricably sealed. And nothing at all matters now.

Like all the young boys in his country, he used to dream of growing up to be king one day. And like all the young boys, he’d given that up, become practical, joined the army. Now he’s just met the minister of defense, who is somehow related to the king, or at least is his chief confidant at any rate. And he has this mission, to take out the leader of the free world. They trusted him to do that; they believed in him, enough to give him this responsibility, only the wildest and boldest move his tiny little country had ever made in all their long struggling history. And it was all all of it in his hands; the whole future…of all these people, this place, and everyone, was on him. Things were looking up of a sudden, out of the blue.

But it wasn’t like the old general gave him any impression that they expected him back. This was more like a one-way ticket sort a deal. And why him, of all people. There were others they could’ve picked, older, more experienced. But none more, what was the word.... clever, he thinks. Or quick-thinking, able to think and act so quickly on your feet. Like racing full speed and suddenly changing directions, that nobody’d ever guess or be able to follow. Like a rabbit running full out and then suddenly stopping and turning and no one could ever catch you.

Well, that’s something, maybe; and… after all, he was their top marksman, by far, had the highest marks ever in target shooting. That was true enough. Could’ve even gone to the Olympics probably, maybe medalled in the biathlon. He would’ve liked that, would’ve been fun… yeah, some other time maybe, he thinks. But then…this other stuff, like his contact, Smet. What’s that all about, some kind of shake up at the top, or what; very strange.

Smet’s head of secret service now, the king’s bodyguards. And had been the chief of training at special forces when Andy was there, a couple of years ago. He liked Smet; a rugged old dyed in the wool war horse who had one focus and one focus only, the mission first, above all above everything. But Smet’s also the boss, or his boss anyway, why would they send an old dinosaur like that out on a field mission, albeit an extremely important one. And why had this mission come from Petros, minister of defense, and not Smet, head of security. Strange goings-on. He wonders about that.

Was the old man going to be there to watch over him, make sure he was okay, and that everything went off as it should. Or to clean up afterward if something went wrong, to eliminate any trace of evidence that could be linked back to them; like him, for instance. Just stuff y’have to think about, or consider anyway. But there was something else too. Something overshadowing all the other stuff somehow; making it hard to keep focused, to concentrate on these other things. Something Petros had said.

He turns the corner and sees the gleaming colored lights of the palace a few blocks off to the left The soft-hued pink and blues amidst the searching white. Like Disneyland, thinks Andy, though he’d never been there. But yeah… that was it, something Petros had said about meeting his niece. The amazingly beautiful Maria who was the most talked about kid in the country. At sixteen her photos were all over the magazines in Eastern Europe, had been for years, ever since she was a kid. That stunningly pretty young girl who was somehow the general’s niece, somehow the king’s granddaughter; and the most photographed royal, or royal wannabe, in this part of the world.

She’s at university now, even at such a young age, and had just been arrested for leading a student protest against the king’s policies. What a kid, and what a wild time in such an otherwise peaceful quiet out of the way little country. His footsteps lead him near the perimeter of the palace grounds. He knows this place, had walked by here often during his stays in the city. Had even been here once on a field trip when he was a boy in boarding school, and again once after that, a couple of years later when he was a decorated young soldier.

But why go here now. Just to think, just to sort things out. It was a test, he thinks to himself, like everything else. The meeting with the old general, in a public place like that. They just wanted to see how he’d react, how he carried himself. And he’d passed their test, he thinks, smiling to himself. Dazzled them with his arrogance and unpredictability, blown them right out of the water, like he always did. Or at rate, they hadn’t thrown him overboard as sometimes happened. Well… let’s see what they think of me now.

At a dark corner toward the rear of the buildings he takes off his coat and drops it to the ground. Then puts his hand on the iron grating and quickly scales the fence, hurls himself over and drops soundlessly down onto the soft turf. Hmm, he’s on their grass now, on the king’s lawn of  the king’s palace. And that brings him back to his senses. Must be some sort of crime, and feeling right at home now; spying is his business, crimes are a part of the job.

He moves through the shadows to the side of one of the buildings that flank the rear of the ancient palace. Then quickly quietly crawls up an old-fashioned drain pipe up to window levels and then higher, up to more windows and finally up to roof tops. Easy enough, no one around in the cold dark silence; and he’s good at this sort of thing, very good. Across the ceramic tile roof, like a cat burglar, calm, unhurried, mindful that in the foggy mist, one slip and you die. Nothing to grab onto between here and the dew-covered grass so far down below. That’s something to keep in the back of your mind as your ears strain for sounds and your eyes struggle with the shadows and the light.

But all this is natural to him, things he’d often done as a kid, even before joining the army, the special training, the elite status he’s now attained, even for such a young man. Just take your time, he thinks, do it right, blot out everything but getting across this roof, this building, crossing to the next, reaching the objective.

There’s only one light on in the windows of the residential quarters of the main palace building. He moves toward it, like a moth or a night creature and then hangs from the rooftop by his fingertips just briefly, to look down and around at the grounds far below. Just to do that because you aren’t supposed to. Without a sound, he drops down to a balcony. Then edges along the crevices of the cold stone walls, hugging body weight onto toes, fingers pressed into the mortar between the stone. Past a few more windows, finally to the one with the light.

It’s shuttered by old iron grates which are chained and locked with a shiny new padlock. That’s odd, all out of place here in the midst of all this reverent antiquity. He opens it and accidentally drops the lock on the stone casement where it rings out echoes into the dead night air. Strange, his hands are shaking; that’s never happened before, he thinks, looking at them objectively, like they’re just some tools you used on the job.

And even though it’s cold out, slick, even though he’s breaking into his king’s royal residence; things like that shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t make any difference. They never had before. He silently opens the window lock, pulls open one side of the glass panes and pushes the heavy drape aside to take a quick glance around the room before stepping in, out of the dark. It is all so different now, inside, in here. So warm calm tranquil after all that crawling along the cold wet rooftops controlling your breathing on the lookout for guards with automatic weapons, or cameras, trip wires. All the sort of things you have to bypass to get into the places they send you.

He sits on the edge of the bed and tries not to think, just look around. Be captivated by the splendidly decorous old palace bedroom, all the pretty fabrics and colors, the plush carpet, tapestry, portraits on the walls, the brilliant chandelier hanging from the high gilded ceiling, and the big solid wooden door with the fancy scroll work and heavy iron hinges. He barely notices when a young girl wrapped up in a robe and towel walks out of the steamy bathroom. “What do you want” she asks.

“Shssh” he puts his finger up to his lips and whispers “I’ve come to rescue you.”“Huh?” The girl is even prettier than her photographs. Her presence makes the whole room warm and glowing, outshining everything else.  She comes over and stands in front of him “are you one of the guards?” Andy smiles and shakes his head “secret service, come to set you free.” “You’re crazy” she says “I’m going to bed, okay?”

“Come with me” he whispers, strangely inviting. “Where?” she asks him. “America.” The young girl scrunches up her eyebrows “why?” He pauses and looks at her warm soft face “it’ll be fun.” She sits down on the bed beside him and starts to dry her hair with the towel. “Nice clothes” she says, noticing his fancy suit, all wet and soiled now “Milan, huh?” “No, well…almost. Just, outside there.”

The girl isn’t sure what this charming young fellow is up to. But it’s been so boring being locked in her room these past few days. She doesn’t much like it here anyway, preferring the wild excitement and freedom of university life. And to be locked up with guards at the door and escorting her just to go down to the kitchen to get a snack or something to drink; that kind of stuff makes her angry makes her want to get even with them for doing that to her, even though her “house arrest” is more formality than anything else.

She decides to get dressed and go with this crazy fellow. If for nothing else, than just to get out of the house, as it were, just to teach them a lesson. Once ready she starts for the door but Andy takes a hold of her sleeve and leads her over to the window. “This way” he says, smiling at her. 

Princessa, a story of love and war

 Chapter Two - Dinner and Bullets

There are people who decide things in the world, or try to anyway. General Petros is one of them, the king's advisor, next in line for the crown. Sitting at the end of the bar now, in the ritzy hotel, waiting. Angry at the man for being late, making him wait around for him. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway. 

And of course, the general had gotten there way early, like always. Be able to size things up ahead of time, make sure there’re no surprises. Now he’s getting bored, sitting there, the bright lights flooding the room. Wanting but not going to have, that second drink. Hoping none of the well-dressed businessmen will have the gall to come up and talk to him. Ask him about politics as it relates to their business deals. Ask him...whether he’s going to start a war or not.

They’re all piling in here now, under the glistening chandeliers, on the soft warm carpeting, after their days work. Coming in out of the cold dark evening, filling up the room with their boisterous noise and cigar smoke, their camaraderie and success stories.

The general looks at their fat happy smiles and fancy tailored clothes, and feels all out of place here. He doesn’t like civilian dress, doesn’t much like civilians. What a waste, that this is what we fight for. He gives in and orders another drink, double scotch, and thinks about the long-brief history of his little country. They’d been free from the Russians for less than two decades. Before that, it had been the Turks who’d occupied the country, enslaved the people. And in between, it was the Nazi’s turn to run roughshod over their land.

But that was the time the general remembered best, even fondly, when he was a boy; and the crazy Prince Leomont had ridden his gallant white horse throughout the countryside, rallying the farmers and peasants to go with him, to fight with him, and die with him. The old king had been massacred along with the entire army in the first and only battle against the mighty Germans. But his son, the young prince had refused to surrender. Had insisted that they would fight on forever if need be, in the mountains and forests, and farmlands and vineyards; from behind every rock and every tree… Well, that didn’t last long; the Nazi’s didn’t think much of a poorly equipped peasant resistance, no matter how zealous they were. But it was a time when every young boy in the country dreamed of riding alongside the fearless prince and fighting to the death like brave gallant fools.

And now the way things are going there’s that same feeling again. But he’s not young anymore; just a tired old soldier, more concerned with politics now. And there’s nothing gallant or brave about that. His country, his poor little country hasn’t been involved in any of the recent wars that have been going on all around them. It was the one thing they’d done, this neutrality, this struggle to stay out of all the foreign entanglements, that he and the king could point to with pride and…dignity even.

And all that’s crashing down on them now, falling apart like broken glass. And what could you do, but just watch it fall and break. They’d tried to be smart about it, clever even. Sent more troops than anyone, for their size anyway, to all the UN peacekeeping missions, in every part of the globe; anytime, anyplace, without hesitation; just go and fight, do your job. Hopefully be able to stay on the cutting edge of all the new armaments and gear and technologies they could no way afford back here at home.

And everyone would know, or should know at least, and appreciate that they’re willing to do that; even eager to. Isn’t that enough…what more could you ask of them. And their soldiers. Often distinguished themselves, made a name for themselves as the toughest, meanest, bravest fighters anywhere. Always ready to be sent in first, in the riskiest missions, the deadliest fights. And at what a cost…these men, these boys, my boys, he thinks…all the lives, the heartaches, and funerals of the gallant fallen young men you send out there to die. But it’s how they survive; on a shoestring budget anyway.

He finishes his drink and finally sees his late-arriving guest, gracefully pushing through the crowd; dapper, smiling, right at home here in the fancy hotel. To the general, he looks so young so self-assured so friendly; and he hates him even more. Taller than the general, broader, and good looking too; a real charmer, thinks Petros. But just look at those clothes, tailored-Italian. Some kind of silvery-green silky material with the shiny white lining showing from underneath that flashy suit and cape-like overcoat.

Goddamn it, aren’t we supposed to be discreet, in the service; low-keyed, not standing out like some kind of goddamned count making a grand entrance. And those shoes, Italian shoes! My God, he wants to tell the boy, we make shoes right here in our own country; shoes good enough for anyone. He squeezes hard on his empty glass, but like it or not, Andre Korzene is the best they have.

He expects the young man to be ever so gracious and grand with a well rehearsed apology for arriving late, but instead he signals to a waiter and orders a drink. “Can I get you something” he says to the general. Petros isn’t easily caught off guard; but he too was expecting himself to be so gracious and eloquent at this first meeting, make that good first impression, you see. Smet had told him that the kid was genuine warm real; fuck Smet, he thinks.

“Let’s eat” he says gruffly. Korzene follows him into a simple elegant dining room and they sit at a white-clothed table in the corner, away from everyone else. “I’m Andy” he says shaking the general’s hand “pleased to meet you.” “Bruno” replies Petros. He wants to get a feel for the young man’s grip, see what he’s made of. But he instantly lets go, drops the hand and jerks back his own, trying not to look startled. It’s magnetic, like feeling you’re meeting your long lost son or your brother back from the grave, someone who knows you inside and out.

“Is your niece as beautiful as they say” asks the youth. “You should meet her sometime” says the general in all sincerity, though taken aback by such an arrogant question and at the same time reminded of the captivating charm and loveliness of the sweet young Maria.

A waiter comes to their table handing them finely decorate menus, burgundy-leather, hand-written calligraphy on fine woven paper. They’re very proud of these here. Proud to be the country’s finest hotel and restaurant; as good as you’d find anywhere in this part of the world. “I’ll have the stuffed goose” says Andy waving him off.

The general takes the menu, opens it and looks up with a relaxed smile “give me a moment” he says. But his mind isn’t on the food. The menu items all look the same, each more inviting than the last, and he doesn’t have time for all that. He looks back up at the waiter “so… what, do you suggest.” “Uh…the stuffed goose is today’s specialty” he says, all apologetically for sort of sticking it to the old aristocrat. “Fine” says the general, having survived a lot more over the years than a little awkwardness in a fancy restaurant.

As they eat, and talk about the food, politics, the world situation, Petros tries his best to find everything wrong with the guy. He’s way too young of course, that’s obvious. Anyone can see that. What is he, thinks the general, a couple of years out of boot camp, or what. And he’s just a bit too charming too engaging almost to a fault; like a peasant boy who’s got some education now, some refinement, and wants to impress you with that, make you and even himself forget all about where he comes from.

To Petros it’s like an act he can see through. And even at that, there’s something so likeable about this fellow, so genuine, as Smet had said; it’s sad cruel unpleasant, to be sending him off to die on this suicide mission; unavoidable though. “You know our country” says the general “and our people…maybe you even know a little bit about our history.”

Yeah, Andy’s thinking, been there done that, read all the books, fought for you guys, and even made a few daughters’ fathers mad at me. But old people…always think they know everything. Always think you know nothing. “There are two things” says Petros “that our country has always stood for; that we’re known for. We never involve ourselves in all the little wars and conflicts that our neighbors always get themselves tangled up in.

“We maintain absolute strict neutrality, always; we don’t interfere…ever. And secondly, if anyone ever…ever invades our soil, we fight them to the death, with all our blood and passion and…strength. We never, never surrender. You know that of course.” Of course he does, they tell you that in first grade history class and everyday throughout your schooling, again at military basic, and before every mission you go out on. It’s like a mantra, like our national anthem; so what.

“Of course, I know that” says Andy “it’s…our national pride.” “Yeah” says Petros, reflectively “it’s who we are.” How callous thinks the general, how brave and noble and shallow these gallant young boys are. So eager and anxious to die for king and country without hesitation without thought without even knowing why, or anything else you might learn over the course of a long life.

He’d hoped to…make things clear for the kid; that what he was saying would be more than just words, those same old words you hear all the time and don’t even hear what they mean. The young man seems to sense the general’s uneasiness and almost imperceptibly changes to reflect the older man’s demeanor, serious businesslike precise.

“So…what can I do for you” he asks with a drink of the strong flavorful wine. “You know” says Petros, like mulling ideas over in his head “we’ve never taken a penny, not one penny of foreign aid; not from the Russians, or the Europeans, or even the Americans.”

The young man knew that of course, it’s reflected in his meager salary, in the meager budget of his country’s defense forces, in fact in just about everything throughout the whole country. “And the reason for that is” continues the general “that these generous, generous offerings always come, with strings attached, like that of a puppet. Sooner or later, they always call in their marker, and jerk you into dancing to their dance.”

The old general takes a drink and then continues “do you know how much…you can’t imagine how much, they offered us, to join with them, to side with them in this war. And…just for show, if nothing else; a show of support.” Yeah, thinks the young man, millions the papers had said, maybe even a billion…and, well, why not, why not take some…the country’s almost broke, always has been, just surviving on a shoestring, almost literally.

But then, like the old man says, maybe better to be poor and free than chained to the demands of international debts and obligations, who knows. The old general rambles on, like he’s talking to himself, or thinking out loud “well, sooner or later, you know, they’re going to want things from you; payback. Maybe a little base, here or there, out in the hill country, maybe…or, an airstrip, small, hidden away. And then of course a staging area on the border, for deploying troops; and…well, there’s never, never any end to it.”

He pauses, and then looks into the young man’s eyes “we can’t go down that path, and survive; we simply can’t, okay. And they haven’t given us any choice, in the matter. So…we’d like…to be rid of Mr. Tomkin. He’s…troublesome.”

Korzene shows no emotion, as he’d trained himself to do, no matter what; but even so he can’t help but smile a little, with a dancing gleam suddenly in his eyes. But inside he feels so wildly excited elated and at the same time amazingly calm serene, giddy almost, like being high. The minister of defense has just asked him to remove the most powerful leader in the world. “Okay” he says savoring his last bit of supper.

 

Princessa, a story of love and war

Chapter One Fate of Nations

They shake hands, cameras pop and click. The president smiling, and the king who is not smiling. Pictures for postcards and newspapers back home. “If you could only come to my country” says the king “see the land, the people. How far we’ve come.” “Maybe someday Vlad” says the president “but you need to come around to our side. Be a part of the team...before it’s too late.” 

Knocks him off stride. The king’s name is ‘Valdamir’ not ‘Vladamir’ and he understands English better than he speaks it. But not well enough to know whether mispronouncing his name was intentional, or maybe just a mistake. Either way, it says a lot about the man he’s dealing with.

Behind the scenes, away from cameras and public attention, the minister of defense meets with the vice president. “We understand your security needs” says Myerinck “and we’re willing to do everything we can to help.”  General Petros smiles, says nothing. American meddling is the cause of the insecurity in his part of the world; the wars and threats of terrorism looming over his country.

“We can offer you...aircraft” says the veep “fighters, state of the art. And pilots too, to train your people; all the protection you’ll ever need.” Still the general says nothing. The veep continues “with that, you could be...a regional power. Someone to be reckoned with.” “We can’t afford such things” says Petros “but our soldiers...are brave and strong, fierce.” Surely he knows that, thinks the general.

The vice president isn’t interested, doesn’t care. Reaches down beneath the dark polished table and lifts up a briefcase. Opens it up to show him the neatly stacked bundles of American dollars filling it completely. “This is a loan, which will...assist you to purchase all the armaments you need. With even some left over, I imagine. It’s our way of saying ‘thanks’ for all your help.”

The general looks at the money, more than he’s ever seen before, more than he can even imagine. Then he looks at Myerinck. “We’re not for sale” he tells him. The veep closes the lid of the briefcase and smiles. “Look, we all know your king has been playing coy and cute with...our state department; and his refusals of our generosity. So I guess it’s up to me to say it. This is our final offer, understand.

“And let me make this clear. The pipeline...is going to go through your country. That’s inevitable, it’s going to happen, there’s no other way. The oil has to flow...and yours is the most secure and...convenient route we have. So it’s going to happen, with or without you...or your king.”

“I understand” says Petros “but let me be clear also. We have a saying in my country...” He pauses, scrutinizing the man in front of him, making sure there’re no mistakes. Then speaks a couple of lines in a strange sounding language, a Euro-Slavic mixture that’s quite pleasing to the ear. “And what does it mean” asks the veep. “Don’t smile at my face while you’re lying out your ass” says the general.

The vice president laughs, but Petros continues like he’s on a roll now “we don’t do ‘coy’ and we don’t play games. We told your foreign secretary that we don’t want your money, and we don’t want your pipeline. And you’d be well advised to quit meddling in that region of the world. You can see where it’s gotten you, can’t you?”

“I only see allies...and enemies” says Myerinck “and it’s too bad. I had hoped...we could be friends.” “What if we took your money” says Petros “and your aircraft; and used them ...to attack you.”

The vice president glares at the man “it’s a mistake...to say things like that; even in jest.” “We all make mistakes” says the general “but it’s better to live with good intentions, than to die with bad ones.” “Yeah well, we’ll find out if you’re right about that, won’t we.”

On the flight home, the king goes over it with his defense minister. They hadn’t spoken in the rental car, not in front of the boy who drove them. He’s only eighteen, one of the king’s palace guards, Freidrich Arnstid, a young soldier. This was a perk for him, this trip, an amazing adventure to come all the way to America.

Ostensibly he was there to carry the luggage, book the flights, make the arrangements. A lot of responsibility for a young man. But soldiers need to grow up quick in a little country like theirs; surrounded by hostilities and long-standing enemies. You need to learn, and grow up quick if you ever want to become an old soldier like General Petros.

Now they’re in the plane, and Freddie is off wandering around the aisles, looking for pretty girls, or anyone who might look suspicious or out of place. He’d booked the flight when they arrived at the airport, using different names, different passports. That’s what you do when you can’t afford a private jet. But even so, someone might recognize the king, so you have to be aware of that, see who’s flying with you.

Petros and the king can relax now, and speak freely. Unlikely anyone will overhear them or even understand the strange dialect of a little Eurasian country that nobody’s ever heard of. “I felt like killing him, right there” says the king “with my bare hands.” “Why didn’t you” asks Petros. The king looks down at his hands, resting on the fine suit he’s wearing. The two of them dressed like businessmen, flying on a commercial airliner, second class. “They’d think...we were barbarians” he says “living in caves, herding goats for a living.”

“They think that already” says Petros “couldn’t find us on a map, even if you told ‘em where to look.” But they knew all that going into the meeting. This great historic event, the first and only meeting their little county’d ever had with the great and powerful Mr. Tomkin. Even so, the results were even more frustrating than they’d imagined.

The king tells how the president mispronounced his name; Petros laughs. “I like that, ‘Vlad’ makes you sound like Count Dracula or something.” The king laughs too, but then Petros tells him of his meeting with the vice president. And there’s no more laughter. “Good God, Bruno...you didn’t really say that, did you?” “I spoke...the words that came to me” says Petros “just, the truth is all.”

“You told them...what we think, in private. What we don’t want them to know we’re thinking.” Petros says nothing. Neither apologizing for what he’d said, nor surprised at the king’s reaction. He knows the king would have done the same thing, if he’d been in that position.

The stewardess brings them food, and wine to drink. It helps to ease the tension, focus on something else. Just the food, and drinking the wine. “Bruno, has it occurred to you...that diplomacy is maybe not your strong suit?” “Diplomacy” says Petros “is what little dogs do when they’re afraid of the big dog.” “Yes my friend, and these sayings roll off your tongue like a commander giving orders to his troops. Right or wrong, they’re going to follow you, aren’t they?” “Am I wrong” asks the general.

“No” says the king “no, it’s just that, we need to...find ways to stop wars, not start them.” “We didn’t start this” says Petros “just think of it...what we’ve done, over the years; since the Russians left. All that work...all that we’ve accomplished, so far.” The king nods his head, the two of them recalling the years of ‘the struggle.’

It was an amazing thing, impossible almost. No one ever thought the Russians would leave, that they’d be free someday. It’s all they had ever known, what they’d grown up with. Foreign armies occupying their land, running their government, the lives of the people. Just do what you’re told, is all. Don’t ask questions or you might not be around for long. That constant fear, that constant threat.

But you get used to it. It’s all you know. Then one day, after all those years...there’s talk of change. That it all could change, and you’d be free. Own your own land, say what you think, do what you please. No one pays any attention; heard it all before, many times, and nothing ever comes of it. But this time it’s different. Really seems to be happening. No one can believe it. Don’t even know what to do.

Such overwhelming joy throughout the land, the whole country; to be free. Just that, to be free. And the celebrations, parades, speeches. Drink ‘til you’re dizzy, dance ‘til you can’t stand up. For days and days it goes on, the dizzying celebration of freedom. Like there’s no tomorrow, or yesterday. Just this moment, this moment that will go on forever.

But then what. After all that, then what. Valdamir quickly proclaimed himself king, ruler of the country; with General Petros and the army behind him. And the people were thrilled that their king was back and running the country, just as it should be.

But that was the easy part. The hard part was trying to make it work. The endless struggle, building a country, a government from scratch. Asking nothing from outsiders, wanting nothing from them. Just the hard work and sacrifice of their own people. Just to believe in themselves and their king. The promise that this would lead to something. Something good for all of them. Now all of it crushed to ruin, right in front of their eyes.

“It isn’t fair” says Petros, bluntly “the Americans have no right...no right to do this to us, or to anyone. They’re just like the Russians.” “I know, there’s no reason to it” says the king “but they’re so arrogant, these people. Think the whole world is theirs to do whatever they want with. That no one else matters. Doesn’t even count for anything.”

“Exactly” says Petros “and you know, half of them don’t even graduate high school or go to college.” “Really?” asks the king “how is that possible...in the richest country the world has ever seen. Where did you hear such a thing.” “I make it a point, to study my enemy” says the general. “Oh, so they’re our enemy now. Did you, declare war on them.” “I do what I’m told” says Petros “if someone starts a war...I kill people.”

Yeah, an easy thing to say, thinks the king. But what about that boy Friedrich, traveling with us. And all the young soldiers, boys like him. Maybe he’s one of those innocent kids you get killed in your glorious wars. Easy enough, to follow orders. And if it all goes to hell, you say ‘I was only following orders.’ But what about those who decide the fate of nations, and the lives of all these people.

 The Last Man

"Come here, all of you. Sit down, children" he says to them. "I have something to tell you." The three young people sit down around the table and reach for the cigarettes. "Drink" says Smet "go on, it's good for you."

He looks at the three young faces, two of them he's recruited and trained, and the the third, the girl, he has sworn to protect with his life. Here they are, all assembled before him. His little ones, as he likes to think of them.

He takes a big drink and begins "I'm a very old man." Maria smiles, a bit giddy from the cognac. "Though still man enough to handle a young wench like you" he says. She leans back and laughs, shaking her head. 

The old man continues. "But when I was a boy, long before your parents were even thought of, we were at war. The Nazis were stomping their way through our country, and we resisted. We fought them with hunting rifles, with pitchforks, with rocks and stones and bricks, if we had to. And to no avail. We were willing to fight them to the last man or woman or child. And we often did just that.

"In one skirmish, I don't know, out in the farm country somewhere, I was the last man standing." He pauses to take a drink and light up his pipe. "So what happened" asks the girl "did they kill you?" Her sarcasm doesn't faze him.

"Yes, you could say that." He pulls back a deep wrinkle in his forehead that might have once been a scar. "They shot me here, right here. And I fell amongst the dead and the dying." He pauses again. "Go on" says the boy "then what happened."

"Well, some hours or days, I don't know which, but sometime anyway, I woke up and I was in this little fruit cellar at a farm place, one of those little hole in the ground dug outs beside the house. You lift up the wooden door and there're steps going down, a place where people would store vegetables, potatoes, that sort of thing.

"It was cold, I remember, and dark. And I was in a little dug out room that was hidden away by some wooden shelving where you'd store jars of canned fruit and the like. It had a plain white cloth on the back, like a curtain. And you couldn't see through the curtain and the shelving and the jars. And the funny thing was, there were these two little girls at this farm. I don't know, maybe they were eight years old and six years old, something like that. Sisters, I suppose.

"Anyway, I never saw anyone else there. I don't don't know how I got there, even. But these two little children, they wore those funny long dresses and heavy colored cloth scarves around their heads, like the peasant people did in those days. Maybe those were their Sunday clothes, I don't know. And there were beads that they wore around their necks, for some reason.

But these two little kids would care for me and tend to me, changing the wrapping on my head, ever so often. Bathing and cleansing me with cold water from the well, I guess. And they'd feed me yogurt from a wooden spoon and talk to me like I was some kind of doll that they played with. And "eat now, soldier boy, eat the good yogurt" they'd say to me. And "drink your milk now, drink it before it sours."

"I don't know how long this went on, several days maybe. I was in and out of consciousness in that dark little room. I hadn't the strength to get up off the straw that I was lying on." He stops and takes a big drink. "Then one day... soldiers came, I could hear... the little girls screaming and crying and running as I lay there... frozen with fear.

"There were shots, then it was quiet, all quiet. And I lay there weeping like a little baby, hidden away in that cold dark room. Then later, much later, it was dark out now, night time. I crawled out of that little place on my hands and knees. It took all my strength... and I went to each one of those soldiers. They were drunk and sleepy from the wine and foods they'd found to eat, I guess. And I went to each one with my knife and slit their throats, one after another, seven of them in all. And each time I did that, cut their throats and felt the blood run down my arms and hands, I felt stronger and stronger.

"At sunrise... I found the two little girls, I didn't even know their names, each one had been shot in the head, once, like executed. They were sitting there in the farm yard, leaned up against each other like two little dead dolls, all white and lifeless with black blood stains down the front of their faces.

"I left them there like that and went away, but I took the beads they wore. "Here" he says, lifting them out from under his sweater and shirt. "Look at them, the blood stains have long since disappeared."

(an except from the book "Princessa, a story of love and war")

Panama

I was tired, tired of being me. Tight-assed white boy with short-cropped hair. Saying all the right words to all the right people.

"Loosen your hips, Tenyente. Like this." Johnny grabs me and salsa's forward, back and again, moving to the loud music like he's born to it, in his blood. Loud Latin music pounding late into the night as carelessly as palm trees on the beach under the moonlight. 

The girl smiles, smiling at me maybe. Such a pretty smile, a pretty face. But it's not her, not the same girl. Doesn't matter, not tonight. Reach for the tequila, tip it up and dance with the bottle, like I was holding her, getting the rhythm, the feel of it. She laughs and takes my hand, Hands the bottle back to Johnny. 

Then it hits me, either you are, or you aren't. There's no middle ground, never will be. That's the secret, to this place. The girl is warm and soft, arousing me with her gentle innocence. Johnny tips up the bottle and comes round behind me, grabbing my hips, making them move to the beat.

The three of us dancing at his place, like the party never has to end. He reaches around me for the girl and pulls her close against me. Feels so good. I've never done this before. Dancing with a man and his pretty young wife, after hours. Even if it isn't her, the girl I'm looking for. 

But you can do anything when your life is over. They never tell you that. It's a secret and they don't want you to know. Johnny told me when we came in, to this plain little house of his, in from the bars and the night. "It's an honor, Tenyente. Never had such a high-ranking officer in my home before."

Imagine that. You go to a school and they give you a rank. And it's more than somebody else. How is that possible, to be more than somebody else. To honor them by being in their home. Imagine that. I imagine the girl in my arms on a soft mattress, kissing her in the dark.

But it's late, and I have to go. Doesn't matter, it was the night, the night I stopped being me. Driving through the dark deserted streets, away from the black jungle, the base, and crossing the high bridge over the canal. With the ships anchored in the distance, waiting for their turn.

Take a run past the bars one more time, the red-light district, just to see. Might as well, it's on the way. A pretty girl stops me on the street, leans in through the window. Pretty face with lots of make up.

But not a girl, not at this late hour, and I have to excuse myself and leave. Tell him it doesn't interest me. Takes some doing, finally just pull away, with him standing there alone in the light with his make up and pretty dress.

I feel for him, for some reason. All of us want to be picked up and taken home. Even me, even him. Too bad it wasn't a girl. Sometimes it is, you get lucky. Is it luck, or does looking all the time increase the odds. Always looking for her.

The phone rings, midnight. I should've been at work. "My day off" I say. "No, check the calendar, should've been here at ten." Throw on my clothes, and drop the girl off, apologize for being late. The split-shift schedule, six days on, four days off. Who can tell them apart, all run together after a while. And she was the girl, I think. Maybe, never saw her again. Lisa, she said her name was.

Arriving in Panama, landing with hills and green jungle to the left in the bright morning sun. Beaches and flatland to the right, and buildings all white in between. Tropical white with their red-tiled roofs. Old, stately, and quiet, glimmering in the morning sun. 

They put me up at the Albrook Club. A room above the club and the salsa music below. You can smell the air, thick with tropical sweat, inviting. Maybe go down there, to the music, pick up a girl, bring her up to my room. My neighbor is Lenny Irving. But I never knew his last name, just Lenny, everyone calls him Lenny.

He knocks on my door. "Let's go" he says, to the 21 Club in his open-air jeep, almost cold in the night. A ten dollar cover, girls get in for a buck. Pretty good odds, you'd think. Swanky place, soft carpeting, leather sofas in the dark recesses, away from the bar and the chandeliers. Pretty people here, we stay a while and Lenny buys them drinks.

Much later in the pre-dawn fog, we end up in the dark dark alleyways. Lenny's OSI, undercover, wearing tropical khaki with the cloth belt around his jacket. Meet up with the head of secret police, an old brown-skinned man, quiet, dignified. Sentry's stand at attention and salute when the three of us walk into the whore house. Colombian girls, the whores are Colombian girls. The government owns their contracts.

Lisa was a Colombian, with her coffee and cream skin. So skinny, with Indian cheek bones, and such a smile. "Let's do it" she'd say, watching football at my place on tv. Couldn't wait til halftime, and then again when the game was over. Or at the beach, in the water, everyone around. I liked that girl.

Driving through the streets of Panama, with Lisa, stopped by the throng of marchers in the streets with protest signs. "What is it?" I ask. "They want the Americans out" she says. "They're marching for General Torrijos, to kick the Americans out."

At work we fly the meaningless sorties, marking the target range with phosphorous smoke. The jets come by and hit the smoke, as if we were at war. And we are, we just don't tell anyone. Tracking the missions down country, with four-letter codes for Santiago, Rio, La Paz. The cargo planes go there for...... training I guess. Nothing else, contraband, if you've got connections, pistachio nuts, Hummel figurines, stuff like that.

Up country is different, very different. Managua, Tegucigalpa, Guat City. The choppers go there and we track them with four letter codes, xxxx. The rioters killed in Guat City, gunned down from the choppers above. They say the government fired on them to disperse the crowds.

I see my neighbors back home, all our apartments are joined together in one long row. All young officers in green, green jump suits. Pilots, young lieutenants and captains playing rugby and flag football on the weekends. And me too. I see Dave back home from his mission, knowing the Guatemalan government doesn't have any helicopters.

The major gives me a reprimand for coming in late to work. They don't like me, I don't care. I make complaints to the wrong people, say the wrong things. The colonel chews me out. Everyone coming in to the club for Commander's monthly social hour. "Everyone's gonna think you're an asshole" he yells at me. "Everyone already thinks you are" I tell him. The wrong thing to say, to the wrong person.

Watching football on tv, Sunday at work, no flying today. A captain rushes in, all frenzied. "Turn on the local news" he says "Torrijos has been killed." His plane went down in the jungle. All souls on board are dead. The rooms fills with colonels and all the high ranking brass. "Where the Squadron leader" asks the Commander. "I'm trying to raise him on the radio" I tell him. 

We watch and listen to the local news. Those who can, translate for us. Major Rodriguez, a little Latino guy, is head of search and rescue. "Send up a plane?" he asks. "Hell no" says the Commander. Finally the squadron leader arrives, back from fishing. The Commander sees him come in. "When I retire, I want to be squadron leader" he says. "Sure thing boss" he tells him.

They assemble a team to meet with Panamanian officials. See if we can help some way. Top brass, search and rescue, diplomatic liaisons, and so forth. "Should I contact CIA" I ask, trying to be helpful. The Commander looks at me with his hard-set eyes. "That'd be a damn poor idea" he says.

I don't understand, not that it matters. For days it goes on. No one can get close to the wreckage in the deep dense jungle. A reporter calls, wants to know what hotel William Casey is staying at. Tell him I don't know. Wrong thing to say. Director Casey, head of CIA isn't here, officially. Or is he.... officially not here. Either way, he was on the pax manifest, so he must be here somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Panama, with the crowds of protesters, angry that Torrijos is dead. Stopping for the crowds in the streets. Looking for Lisa in the crowd and never finding her.

 

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Interrogation

Category: Short Story Winners, Issue 2

                                                                                                            

The girl is in a small room, seated at a heavy bare table facing an opaque glass wall. A heavy-set pleasant looking man with glasses comes in and sits across from her. “Hi” he says “how you doing?” “Speak French” she says “I don’t speak English good.” “Okay” the man replies speaking French now “I just have a few questions for you, then you can go. “You killed my friend” she says “kill me.” “Just relax” he tells her “nobody’s gonna do that…you, want some coffee?” “You know who that was” she says “my cousin Jori; his father’s deputy defense minister, head of special forces.” “Nobody killed your friend” says the man “the boy’s fine; really, he’s okay. You can, go see him…when we’re done here” “When his father finds out” she continues “he’ll come here, and he’ll kill you; and your wife and your children and your parents and brothers and sisters.” “What, brings you to America?” he asks. “Are you married” she asks him “you gonna go home, tell your wife you killed a young boy and a girl, so you could pump more oil, make more money, get a promotion. Is that what you gonna tell her?”

“You’re…in our country illegally” he says “why.” “Check my passport” she says “it’s stamped.” “Who…are you here with” he asks her “and what…” “And when you kill me” she tells him “none of you will ever, ever be safe again. My people…will come here; they’ll blow up your nuclear plants, your bridges, your railways, your houses” she says, looking at the man’s face “and it’ll never end.” “We’re not…concerned with all that now” he tells her, soothingly “just, wondering, what you’re doing here, is all.” “You have a son?” she asks. “Why should your boy live, and Jori die; why not the other way around.” “If you don’t…want to talk to me” he says flatly “there’re other people who… have some questions for you…maybe not so nice, though.” “I’m talking to a dead man” she says “call your wife, tell her she’s a widow; and that she’s gonna be next; tell her that, and your kids too.”

The rodent-faced man in the expensive suit is Culver Hayden, the undersecretary; he’s watching the girl from the other side of the glass window, and he’s had enough “oh Jesus, get in there Patterson; we’re not running some fucking debate society here; go get some answers.” The door opens to the little room and a great large young man with short hair walks in. His face is all red and beat up from the fight on the ferry boat. He motions with his head and the other man leaves. “So” says the girl “you gonna rape me now, or what?” The big man comes over and spins her chair around to face him, then he grabs the neck of her sweat shirt and tee shirt and rips them open from top to bottom with his huge hands. She kicks at him hard as she can, catching him in the throat, and he drops back and sits on the floor, clutching at his neck. The force of the kick throws her off the chair onto her back and she looks at the man and then quickly crawls under the table. The big man grabs ahold of the heavy table and throws it again the opposite wall, his face all red from trying to get his breath back.

Then Hayden walks in “Patterson! out” he says “now.” “I’ll kill that little bitch” says the big man, wheezing as he leaves. “Yeah, if you still have a job” the other man says. He turns to leave and then looks at the girl, huddled into a corner, clutching at her torn clothing and shaking. Good, he says to himself, not bad for an initial interview.

Posted by Mikael Covey on 05/23 at 12:00 AM | Permalink

Friday, March 09, 2007

The Boy With No Candy - a children’s story

Category: Issue 6, Short Story Winners

In the land of beautiful children there was much merriment and play. All the children would hold hands and dance around the beautiful flowers. And they would sing songs and play games. And they would eat the fruits and nuts from the never-ending bowl, and they would all bring candy to share with one another as a treat. They dressed in beautiful colorful clothing, and they all wore new shoes.

One day a new boy came to watch them play. But his clothes were all raggedy and torn and dirty; and he was not good-looking like all the other little children were. They saw him as they danced and played their games, but no one said anything. They could tell that he was different, not like them; and that was a surprise to them, to see someone who was different, not beautiful or wearing pretty clothes. They seemed unsure of what to do, but they thought if they just ignored him and didn’t look at him or his dirty clothes then maybe he’d go away. After a while the new boy went away.

But the next day he came back and watched the beautiful children playing again. The children all saw him there standing quietly by himself, and then one of them said “do you want to join us?” “Yes” he replied. Then another child spoke up. “Did you bring candy?” she asked. Her name was Morita, and she wasn’t as smart as some of the others, but she made up for it by carefully memorizing all the rules. That way if someone forgot or didn’t follow one of the rules, Morita would quickly remind them; and that made her feel like she was just as smart as the others.

“I have no candy” said the new boy. “Then you can’t play” replied Morita “those are the rules.” The new boy watched them for a while and then went away again. Some of the other children were not so sure of how Morita had handled this, but they didn’t say anything because she was the one who always reminded everyone of the rules. And no one wanted to challenge her, because then she might find some rule that they had broken. So it was best to leave her alone.

The next day the beautiful children were all playing again, all dancing and singing around the beautiful flowers. And again the new boy came to watch them, quietly standing by himself a short distance away. And as the children saw him there again, they were no longer surprised by his presence or by his ugly tattered clothes or even by his homely appearance. They stopped singing and playing for a moment and looked at him. They were uncertain of what they should do. But finally one of them said “why don’t you bring some candy? Then you could play with us.”

“I don’t have any” replied the new boy. “Why not?” asked another of the beautiful children. This seemed to interest all the children, and they walked toward the new boy, trying to find a way to understand him. “Why do you wear such ugly clothes?” asked one of the beautiful children as they came nearer. “Yeah” said another child “and why are you so…” then she stopped herself in mid-sentence and blushed but hastily added “why don’t you get some candy from your mother?” “Or your father?” asked another child. “Or bring some from home” said another.

As they surrounded the new boy they were surprised now to find out that not only was he not a good-looking child, and that his clothes were even uglier and dirtier than they had appeared in the distance, but also he didn’t smell good. In fact he smelled bad, and this was something very strange to the beautiful children. They had never known a child to smell bad, and all they could think of was that it was somehow like the garbage that people threw out. That was what the new boy smelled like to them. The beautiful children didn’t know what to make of this, but one of them asked “why don’t your parents take better care of you?”

“I don’t have any” replied the new boy. “Where’s your father?” asked one of the boys. “I don’t have a father” said the new boy. “Why not?” they asked. “I never did” he said, unable to explain it to them. “Well then, what about your mother?” asked one of the girls. “She’s in prison” said the new boy. It seemed to the beautiful children that the new boy was nothing but problems and troubles, but being children, they persisted, trying to find the bright side to things. “So who do you live with” they asked him “where is your home.” “I don’t have one” he said. “I used to live with relatives, after my mom went away; but the occupational army killed them and then bulldozed our house.”

The beautiful children were not familiar with geo-political issues, but they were an optimistic bunch of kids. “You can come and stay with us” said one boy. “Yeah” said a little girl “and my mom can be your mom.” “And my dad can be your dad” said another. “And you can take a bath” they told him “and get some clean clothes.” “And bring some candy” said Morita. The new boy was amazed by their responses. “You are all so good” he told them “so generous and kind; but you must understand, no one could ever give back all that has been taken away from me.”