2-11-20

The black, angular silhouette of Hotel Novum cut sharply against the mustard-like sky. A thick, cold drizzle danced under the new streetlights that the City Council had so proudly displayed a few months ago. The likely intention behind this project was to light up the streets, add a little sparkle to them, and reassure residents that going out after dark would no longer run the risk of losing their wallet or the integrity of a bone structure. Unfortunately, the lamps only emphasized the ugliness of the City and did not allow people to forget about it even in its nightgown, which was usually rather flattering. In addition, the orange light bulbs extinguished any sign of starlight, which already barely pierced the leaden clouds that forever covered the sky above the metropolis.

Who did these lanterns shine for? “But for citizens, of course! And tourists!” was the Council’s reply. Those few citizens who had a pass allowing them to walk after the curfew, and even scarcer tourists who stayed in the only decent place – in the fifty-story Hotel, built in honor of the Republic’s 50th anniversary. In the whole building, light shone through the curtains only in three rooms of the second, eleventh and twentieth floor. No one in the City liked being around other people. Joint detention was the closest and fastest approach.

Arrest – this is something to be reckoned with, thought Henry, a student at the Polytechnic, looking through his notes from last year’s lecture: “One of the dangerous phenomena that also occurs spontaneously in nature is dispersion. Its effect is the refraction of differently colored* light beams at different angles, when they hit the boundary of the media at an inclination other than 0°. For example, white light falling on a prism.

*colored – see def. “Dictionary of Archaic Concepts,” ed. II.”

Henry twisted a small triangle of clear plastic between his fingers and bit into a white radish. Exceptionally disgusting, he thought. The sight of the new streetlights made him despise the Council even more. When asked why orange light bulbs were allowed, when they so clearly contrasted with the Superior Thought, the explanation was to make concessions and to listen to the opposition. In fact, the opposition was sitting on Veteran’s Street, and the white light bulbs were too expensive.

It’s hard to say what they’ll get – civil disobedience, perhaps illegal assembly or violation of city order. Probably all at once. After all, one does not exclude the others. Henry washed down the horrid radish flavor with water and, hiding the prism under his pillow, thought of the forty-nine other young men doing the same thing right now. He smiled at the huge poster on the side of the Hotel. Happy Anniversary, Mr. Mayor.

7:15

Lena did the same thing every morning at 7:15 sharp. Before she opened her eyes, she imagined herself waking up not to the sound of her mother’s slippers scraping on the linoleum, but to the sound of the electronic clock radio tuned to the morning broadcast of Program One. In her mind there was a clear picture: she is rising from the double bed, wearing a silk nightgown; she pushes aside the heavy, velour curtains, and she sees Freedom Square with the magnificent buildings of the Classical Theater, the Town Hall and the Cathedral; then going out for a walk with her little daughter dressed in a perfectly ironed apron, she greets her husband’s colleagues gathered for a party meeting.

Meanwhile, like every morning, the shuffle of slippers approached the door of the room and a gentle knock on the glass informed Lena that it was time to get up. Get up from the single couch, pull the cheap plastic blinds apart with the dirty string, look at the gray apartment building opposite, take off her cotton pajamas and put on a festive uniform. Together with girls from the female choir of the Musical Academy, Lena was supposed to perform today in a concert at the Cathedral, crowning the jubilee, that would happen after the 50th Freedom Parade. She had even got a solo. It was an excellent opportunity to  “present yourself in society.” Lena borrowed this phrase from a book describing the customs of monarchist neighbors. It seemed very elegant to her, and she intended to use it when she would visit these neighbors thanks to her future husband’s diplomatic visa.

As she entered the kitchen, father greeted her with a grunt from behind a newspaper and a raised ring finger that had not borne a ring for a long time now. Mother was bustling over the gas stove, overzealously stirring the oatmeal. Lena looked her up and down. No, I’m not going to end up like this, not with an absent-minded husband, in a nylon housecoat and gray hair cut by a neighbor, she thought. But what more can you expect when you drop out of university for a pregnancy and a husband, a motor fitter, who doesn’t even make enough money to keep you from working part-time in a sewing shop. And out loud she said: “Mom, haven’t you seen grandma’s brooch? I’d like to pin it to a blouse for a concert. Boys from the University and the Polytechnic will certainly be in the audience.”

Mom muttered “stir” and disappeared into the bedroom. She was never talkative, but on national holidays she was even quieter. No one whose fathers had rotten on Veterans liked parades.

19

“My dear, could you please mention my request for a stop sign at the beginning of our alley at the Council meeting?”

Oliver didn’t have to set an alarm clock on any Tuesday. The resounding “my dear” carried throughout the suburban villa, and in the summer as far as the terrace and the garden. Mother didn’t have much on her plate, and her applications to the City Council were inversely proportional to her responsibilities. And she never failed to remind father to bring them up at the meeting. As if it was needed, as if someone had ever denied anything to the Chairman’s wife. “I’ll remember on Thursday, darling, today is the circus!” came father’s annoyed voice from the downstairs bathroom.

Oliver was not interested in politics like his father. And since he joined the army, his father had no interest in him. Oliver wanted to be a soldier since he could remember. Front line hero. He was a little disappointed that the Republic had no front at the moment. His mother still held on to the hopes of getting him into the civil service, but so far all that tutoring in foreign languages ​​had gone to waste. His father no longer had any hopes for him. Probably he did not have any hopes for the rest of his life either, since he’d been demoted from the State Council to the Council of this musty hole that had been granted a city charter as a grim joke. There were still enough connections and money though to keep his equally disappointing son in here. Father did his best to keep Oliver in the local unit, because mother would throw an impressive tantrum every time her beloved boy might leave the house. Yesterday’s cause for despair was today’s parade: “Surely some scatterbrain will catch his eye and they will get married, because he looks so handsome in the uniform.” Oliver thought exclusively about the uniform.

He smoothed his hair, adjusted the belt, put on the cap, and studied his reflection in the mirror with quiet satisfaction. There were no medals on his chest yet. His old scout jacket was barely visible under them though. He was nineteen years old, strong, healthy, and full of enthusiasm. I still have plenty of time. I will catch up, and maybe even surpass the Marshal. If only there was something to fight for!

On the stairs, he passed his father who was fighting for the memory of being important, and in the kitchen, his mother, fighting for a stop sign on a cul-de-sac. He ran out of the house and threw the breakfast packed by the housekeeper into a nearby bin. He would go to the inn with the boys; he would not dare show up with a child-like takeaway. His mother will embarrass him enough with photos after the parade. She’ll probably send them to Grandma and Aunt. To the women who nearly got in the way of his military career. Fortunately, father gave as much as was needed to whoever asked for it, and the relatives who lived in the Empire were conveniently forgotten. The weather was perfect. Oliver turned his face towards the sun. The aerial guys are lucky, he thought.

98,8

Sylvia clutched her visa and city pass in her pocket with a sweaty hand. She decided not to part with them throughout the whole stay. Considering how hard it was to get them, she didn’t want to imagine what she would have to go through if she lost them. When applying for a visa, for the first time in her life, someone considered her as a potential threat. It amused her, and the memory of the absurdity helped to keep her hands from shaking at the airport. The Republic was governed by strict laws. If the border control trooper would consider the rickety blonde with the fearful gray eyes as persona non grata, there was no appeal. Fortunately for her, this man seemed more surprised than concerned that someone was voluntarily traveling to his country. Friends advised her against this trip – had she not heard what was going on in this black-and-white madhouse? Of course she heard it, like everyone else: at school, from adults, from television. But whatever it was, her only relative lived there.

For Sylvia, nothing was more certain than that. She had to find the man who was her family. In vain, the nun had tried to explain that if you look at the matter from a broader perspective, 98,8 percent of Sylvia’’s genome was shared with the chimpanzee, and yet she did not want to go to equatorial Africa. In addition, if one would look at the emotional bond with her grandfather’s brother, who did not know about her existence, it was identical to that of said random chimpanzee. Sylvia refrained from pointing out that if she had been raised by monkeys, she would probably have had a happier childhood than in the orphanage run by the nuns. She was too afraid of sister Mary’s potential reaction though.

She was not afraid of the City now. It was eerily quiet here, she hadn’t heard any cars or people all night, but for someone who didn’t fully understand the reasons for the silence, it was somewhat soothing. Hotel Novum was tidy and lived up to its name, in fact it was sparkling new, probably because no one was using it. Last night, apart from Sylvia, only two other guests stayed there. Well rested, she went for a walk. She had little information about her great-uncle so she thought to start looking for him with the help of the City Hall, and there she found the door locked. She saw an inn, opposite the office and while buying a pack of menthols, was informed from the waitress that today is a holiday, so nothing’s open, but there will be a parade and a concert, and here, take a flag, so you don’t look suspicious, and that it will be merry, because today people will drink a lot.

Outside the bar, Sylvia lit a cigarette and watched the preparations for the jubilee: a platform was built, flags were hoisted on lampposts, and children in white collars were placed in all the corners of the square.

“Miss! Smoking in the Square is prohibited on National Holidays!” a childish but stern voice resounded to her left. A group of five young boys in scout uniforms stared at her. She blushed and looked around apologetically for the trash can, to get rid of the cigarette butt.

“Friends, the parade has not started yet. Be a little understanding,” the young soldier decided to go easy on her, watching the eager young men with amusement in his brown eyes. The boys saluted and moved on to continue their patrol.

“Sorry, I didn’t know about the ban, I’m not from here,” she whispered.

“Really?” The soldier raised his eyebrows slightly, glancing at the small flag protruding from her purse. “Perhaps you’re not such a stranger after all. If I can recommend anything from today’s celebrations, it would be the concert at the Cathedral at 3 p.m., but I’ve heard that the military parade is also not bad.” He winked playfully, bowed slightly, lifted his cap, and with a rhythmic step walked away towards a group of soldiers gathered at the impressive stairs of the Theater. Sylvia decided to smoke another cigarette while the scouts were out of sight and to join in the celebration. The “Republican freaks” didn’t seem so insane after all.

14:50

A high-pitched squeak came from the speakers as the Mayor approached the microphone on the podium. He looked around at the crowd gathered in the Square. The representatives from the Capital, seated to the right of the stage, stared intently at him, expecting a speech worthy of such a great occasion. Until now, the celebrations could not be faulted. The procession was accompanied by the music of a small brass band, the military parade ran at an ideal pace, the children with flowers did not stumble as they had last year. The weather was fine, sunshine illuminated the Marshal’s monument and brightened the white pennants waving above the crowd, slightly hurting the Mayor’s eyes.

Absolutely nothing could justify the fear the official had felt since morning. The premonition that something catastrophic was about to happen woke him up at dawn. Now he wiped his forehead and glanced surreptitiously at his watch – 14:48 – all according to plan. All that remained was to get through the speech, invite everyone to the concert, and he would be able to return to his office, staying there until Liberation Day.

“Citizens, Brothers and Sisters, Dear Esteemed Guests, on this special day for Our Beloved Republic…”

Lena didn’t listen to a single word. She impatiently shuffled from one foot to the other, trying to tame her nervousness that grew with every minute. She was still sad that her mother had excused herself from the concert with a headache. She hadn’t been to any of her daughter’s performances all year, but this one was the most important. Lena glanced out of the corner of her eye at the soldiers, lined up in neat rows. The sight made her feel safe and hopeful for as long as she could remember. 

“Gathered under the image of the Leader, Commander, and Father of our Nation, we reflect on his legacy, his vision of a united and strong Republic…”

“Now!” boomed from somewhere in the crowd.

A group of men, evenly spaced among the crowd, raised their right hands above their heads in unison. Colorful flashes danced on the black canvas stretched at the back of the stage, sent there by something the young men held in their hands. The Mayor staggered at the podium and fell sideways with a bloody hole in the center of his forehead. For a few seconds there was complete silence, while the crowd tried to understand what had happened. Then the silence was replaced by unbelievable chaos.

Security rushed to the members of the Party Committee and escorted them to limousines parked nearby. The military rushed to the front and back rows to cut off the escape route of the shooter and anyone involved in causing the distraction. Voices shouted “Guns!” but no one had even heard the shot that hit the Mayor, which only added to the panic, and the group of girls burst into tears. Children screamed or laid on the pavement paralyzed with fear.

Sylvia did not know how she found herself on the other side of the military cordon surrounding the square. She wanted to leave, but she was hypnotized, watching the pandemonium, playing out before her eyes. “Go home! Go!” cried someone. It was the dark-eyed soldier she had met earlier that day. He was tugging at her arm with one hand, and with the other he was holding by the collar a boy clutching a piece of plastic in his hand. Terrified, she listened to this order and ran towards the hotel.

Lena was petrified. She stood on the stage, in the pool of blood leaking from the Mayor’s head, watching people trample over each other. Her face, her white shirt, and grandma’s brooch were sprinkled with this blood too. Standing so close to the center of the stage didn’t seem to be an honor now. She felt extremely dizzy and fell down next to the dead body.

***

Henry was furious. He was crammed into a cell with the other twenty-three men who had not dropped their prisms in time. He felt betrayed. They promised there would be no bloodshed, that the boys would be as safe as possible. He recalled meetings from the last months, analyzing the command’s comments, wanting to figure out who was the originator of the assassination plan. He was ready to say goodbye to the illusion of freedom, but not to life.