“Your father is from Russia?”

“Yes.”

“Military visa?”

“Yes.”

“You volunteered?”

“My family is patriotic, Sir, I mean Ma’m.” This was mostly true. Anton’s mother, a Daughter of the Alaskan Counter-Revolution, and youngest child of a Patron, was in every way a patriot. His father had retired from the Alaskan army as an officer, but had joined it as an immigrant mercenary.

“I see.” Colonel Hoefstaedter looked at Anton’s dossier again. She said, “You’re genetically modified. Are you one of the smart ones?”

“An ancestor had something done about anemia. It was a common procedure two hundred years ago. Its all in my record.”

As the Colonel flipped through Anton’s dossier, she said, “I didn’t think cases like yours were covered by the Purity Laws”.

“They cast the net a little wider each year.”

The officer then did something that surprised Anton. She said, “I apologize for even mentioning it.

“No offense taken.”

“Let’s get down to business. You have been given a special assignment.” She paused, which he took as an invitation to respond.

“It’s an honour, Ma’m.”

“You haven’t heard your assignment yet.” The Colonel didn’t say this in a disparaging way. Whether she liked him or not, this man was a natural ally. That was more than she could say about the conscripts.

The Colonel rose from her chair, “Lieutenant, you will be briefed in full by military intelligence, but I want to talk to you personally about this assignment. You know that we’ve launched an attack along the Peace River?”

Anton nodded.

“That’s only part of our strategy. If we don’t control the factory and mine at Tar Island, just north of Fort McMurray, on the Athabasca River, controlling the Peace River does nothing for us.”

The Colonel escorted Anton to the large map of Alberta that was hanging on the wall opposite her desk. She pointed to the northern tip of the map, “Our first attack is happening right now, here.” She used a wooden pointer to describe an ellipse around a city called Fort Vermilion that was several hundred kilometres west of Lake Athabasca, on the Peace River. “That’s to protect our flank. Our second attack, the one that you will be participating in, will be here. She drew a line south-east from Yellowknife, through Lake Athabasca to Fort McMurray. “If we win both battles then we’ve secured our complete objective. If things don’t work out, our armies can reinforce each other as they retreat.”3

“Why are you telling me this?” Anton asked.

The Colonel circled back behind her desk. She used it to support what she said next. “As you probably know, the Republic’s Army, for the first time since Federation, has more conscripts than career soldiers. We’re having severe discipline problems. The General has asked me to create an informal network of trusted junior officers on whom he can count should issues arise.”

“Mutiny” Anton thought. He said, “I understand. Is that all?”

“No. There is still the matter of your assignment. Although your squadron will be part of the Second Army’s artillery corps, this will be only in a support role. We need you to survive.” The Colonel made this point as if she expected many people in the artillery corps not to survive.

“You know about the Alexandria Convention?” the Colonel asked.
Anton nodded.

She continued speaking as if he didn’t. “Normally we – the Albertans and the Republic – do not fight near Digital Age ruins. However, this battle is about one. Your platoon’s task is to occupy the control room of an ancient tar-processing factory. From the Republic’s perspective, that factory is worth an army.”

“I understand. I’ll be careful not to damage anything when I secure my objective.”

“Excellent.” The Colonel began to dismiss him, but then said, almost as an afterthought, “One more thing. I told you that you were one of a group of officers who are trusted by myself and the General. Your commanding officer is not one of them.” §

The moment Anton finished packing there was a knock on his door. He opened it to greet his commanding officer, Captain Shevetz. Shevetz’s people were from Russia too, but via a different trajectory than Anton’s father: they were political refugees and intellectuals who had emigrated to Alaska when Russia was still Communist.
Anton invited the Captain in. He assumed that Shevetz was here on platoon business, so was surprised when Shevetz began their conversation with the question, “Have you ever traveled?”

Anton looked at the man, trying to determine his point. There wasn’t much to go on. Shevetz was of medium build, had close cropped brown hair and eyes. He had a neutral demeanour that was easier to project on to than read.

Anton shrugged, “I went to Juneau once.”

“Have you traveled outside of Alaska?”

“No.”

“Not even to Yellowknife or Whitehorse?”

“No.”

“Do you have an opinion about Albertans?”

Anton replied, “Not really. I mean they’re the enemy. But I don’t think much about that. I like to focus on the positive side of patriotism, like glory and honour.”
“So you consider yourself a patriot? Don’t answer me as a subordinate, Anton. Tell me what you really think. I’m listening to you.”

Anton replied, “When I enlisted, my mother told me to be prepared to die for my country at any time. My father told me that the living are more loyal than the dead.”
Shevetz nodded his head. Anton wonder whether his commanding officer was agreeing with what he had just said, or was simply acknowledging it.

Shevetz continued speaking, “Your father was a officer, wasn’t he?”

“A Major.”

“Is he still alive?”

Anton nodded.

“He must be very loyal.”

Anton smiled. The Captain’s joke relaxed him.

Shevetz, however, was still on edge. He was impatient for this conversation to reach the destination he was directing it toward. He said, “Anton, have you ever fought before? I mean in a real battle with hand to hand combat.”

“I helped put down the Bottle-head riots.”

“What did you think when you shot your own people? Be honest.”

“I thought about the conflict between duty and patriotism.”

“Take this.” Shevetz handed Anton a small book bound in yellow burlap. Anton opened it. There was no title page and no publisher’s imprint, just text. Anton recognized the opening line, “Clients of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your chains.”

Anton handed the book back to Shevetz. “I don’t need this. I can figure out what’s right and wrong on my own.” He spoke these words with more assurance than he felt. He wondered where his moral grounding came from. Certainly not from God and Country, like he was trained to say. No. His morality – like his patriotism – came from his family; from his mother, with blood as blue and cold as the Arctic Ocean, and his father, the mercenary.

Shevetz’s sharp voice brought him back to the present. “Lieutenant, if you worry too much about right and wrong you may forget to choose sides.”

“Captain, I also hope you survive the upcoming battle”, Anton replied.

“We can’t ask for much more than survival, given current circumstances.” Shevetz exhaled a sigh of relief. He rose to leave. At the door he hesitated, as if coming to a decision. He said, “Anton, on the morning of the battle, don’t wear your Bands.” The Officer Bands were glow-in-the-dark strips of material that allowed officers to be seen when visibility was low.

Anton noted Shevetz’s grim expression. “Thanks for the tip, Captain. Before you go, I have a question for you.”

Shevetz stiffened.

“Do you know what’s happening with the First Army? The last I heard they were stuck on the Slave River portage. Have they made it to Peace River yet? Have they begun the assault on Fort Vermilion?” I was a practical question. If the First Army had already failed their mission was doomed. But the question itself based based on information enlisted men did not have. He could see that Shevetz knew something, but Shevetz viewed the question as a trap. He started to say something, stopped, nodded his head glumly, and then took his leave without saying another word. Anton saluted his back. §

The Second Army mustered at Yellowknife because of its central location between Nunavut and Alaska. A ramshackle flotilla of boats ferried the Army across Great Slave Lake to Fort Resolution, a small tourist and industrial hub situated immediately west of the mouth of the Slave River, 500 kilometres north of their ultimate destination.

The ferrying across Great Slave Lake took the better part of two days, with the biggest delay coming from the horse barges, which could only travel when the lake was calm. The infantry spent one evening at Fort Resolution. The next morning they began a quick march south along the western shore of the Slave River. Although the population of the region was in decline, the farms that remained were prosperous enough to maintain the roads year round. The cavalry traveled by barge down the Slave River.

The cavalry met the infantry at Fort Smith, where the river barges had to empty because a series of four rapids rendered the Slave River unnavigable for the next 25 kilometers. The portage had been difficult for the First Army, which had passed through here four weeks earlier. The ground was scarred by the marks made by wooden skids. At Cassette Rapids they saw their first dead slaves, poor souls who had been left for compost on the cold, rocky ground.

https://brianmacmillan.ca/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/path_of_the_second_army_2_yellow_arrow_512px.jpg

The portage ended at the town of Fitzgerald where the entire army got onto barges and floated down the Slave River to Fort Chipewyan, on Lake Athabasca. Fort Chipewyan, surrounded by rivers, marshes and lakes, had never been a fully integrated part of Alberta. Its physical separation from the south was compounded by centuries of anger at how the Athabasca River, and the entire Lake, had been poisoned by the upstream mines. The Fort surrendered to the Second Army without a fight.

At this time of year, the arctic was much easier to reach than leave via Fort Chipewyan. The problem was that the western edge of Lake Athabasca was impassable except in winter; the Second Army had arrived in spring, after the thaw. The entire region was a marsh. With the persistence of men who have no authority but to follow orders or die, the soldiers began the tedious task of ferrying men, horses and ordnance south in barges, through the delta to hard ground 50 kilometres south of the Lake. The first convoy took 5 days to transport a fraction of the Second Army.

They were saved from a several month delay by a cold spell that made the winter road through the marsh suddenly navigable. Thanks to the freeze, the entire Army, save for a few slaves, cannons and horses, made it to the head of Highway 63 in one brutal, 36 hour march. From there it was a straight shot to the factory at Tar Island.

The pace was set at 20 kilometres a day, which for an individual soldier walking with a heavy pack through rough terrain was reasonable. For an army with cannons and skittish horses, it was extreme. Nevertheless, the demoralized soldiers kept to the pace: endless delays had made everyone anxious to move.

After less than a week they arrived at the tip of the North Pit, at the point where Lake McLellan, Highway 63 and the Athabasca River meet. They were one day’s march from the front.

Camping was arranged on an first come basis, except for the best spots, around Lake McLellan, which were reserved for the nobility and their horses. By the time Anton’s squadron arrived, the camp ground had spread out around the northern-eastern tip of the mine.

Because of the way the senior officers talked about the Tar Island mine, Anton had envisioned it to be like a flowering, stone garden. The terraced, muddy brown-grey North Pit might once have been an Eden for machines, but never one for humans.
The ground was wrinkled, sharp and hard. It had rained recently. There were dark pools everywhere that looked more like oil than water. Anton imagined that if he lit a match the landscape would burn like brimstone.

While they were setting up camp Anton stumbled upon the remains of a team of slaves who had died trying to remove a cannon from where it had become stuck in a crevice of bitumen. The weight of the weapon had caused a piece of rock to crack. This created a small landslide, which had half-buried the cannon. The slaves had no gloves, so their hands were scarred and bloody. They had been shot in disgust, or despair, by an owner who couldn’t collect on his contract to deliver the gun to the front. After camp was set up, Anton’s men removed the corpses from under the ruined cannon, and buried them in gravel.

The North Pit was a cemetery for machines from the Digital Age. It contained giant backhoes, pile drivers and trucks. A few were decrepit, but a surprising number were not. Their camp clustered around the edges of a 10 metre high dump truck, at the top of a switchback road. When the truck had broken, two centuries ago, it had held 400 tons of rock. Over time, most of the rock had fallen out through rust-holes, causing the truck to bury itself. Although it was a good site for camping because it was well-drained, flat and sheltered, it was a poor choice for the soldiers because the skeleton machine haunted their dreams. It was like sleeping on Grendel’s lap. §

The next day the Second Army began the last leg of its march, serenaded by the loudly cawing birds that nested on the walls of the mine.

Just south of Fort MacKay, on the northern edge of the Alaskan trenches, there was a bottleneck created by a plank road that had been placed directly in the path of the Second Army. Passage over the road was blocked by Alaskan MPs with drawn guns.

At first Anton could not determine why the plank road was there at all. Then he heard the clatter of hooves on wood. Slaves had built the road so that the Alaskan horsemen could reach their position on the Army’s left flank without having to risk crossing the hard, rocky ground.⁴

Although the plank road was barely 2 kilometres long, the progress of the cavalry from Highway 63 to its destination – the parking lot that traced the eastern perimeter of the factory – was slow. Every few minutes a horse would stumble and fall off the road. Most of those that did broke limbs and had to be killed.

The crowd of soldiers in the front end of the bottleneck became angry as they became more compressed. Conscripts started to heckle the cavalry. Phrases like “look at the pretty officers” flew through the air. The officers mostly ignored the jibes: they were too concerned about the safety of their mounts. It was the military police who took issue with the hooliganism.

Initially the MP presence was slight, perhaps one policeman every twenty metres. After an hour the entire length of the plank road was lined with police. They lowered their face masks. A few cocked their guns. Most were holding truncheons in their dominant hands, facing the crowd, waiting to be attacked or to attack.

One rowdy conscript fired his pistol into the air. A squadron of military police immediately pushed out into the crowd. The first to arrive shot the conscript. While this was happening the crowd unsuccessfully tried to edge away from the military police.

Once all of the cavalry had reached the parking lot, a checkpoint was opened in the plank road. All of the infantry slowly funneled through this narrow gap. The identity of each soldier was checked against a list.

It was dusk by the time Anton made it to the other side of the plank road. He was herded past the slave quarters to the portion of campground reserved for Shevetz’s Company.

Once his tent was set up, Anton left his men under the guard of his Platoon Sergeant, an Inuit from the eastern arctic who had the unlikely name McAllister. He set off for the trenches to see if his gun had arrived.

The trenches were numbered with an alphanumeric system. Anton followed a radial trench numbered 3 to where it intersected with row c. He found his gun in position, exactly as planned. He identified it as his by the crack on its muzzle.

A full moon had risen in the south-east, so Anton could see the battlefield clearly. His primary objective, the factory, was to his right – the south-west. The factory’s northern tip was behind Alaskan lines. That was very good news. The bad news was the row of machine gun towers to the south. They were close enough that Anton could see the face of the Albertan who manned the tower due south of him. The Albertan waved. He was wearing the Albertan version of the Bands, so looked like a glow-in-the-dark skeleton when he did so. Anton flashed the Albertan a peace sign with his right hand. The Albertan gave him a thumbs up.

To the east of the the Albertan machine guns was a field of barbed wire that ended in three slag heaps. Beyond the slag heaps, just north of the South Pit, was the parking lot where the Alaskan cavalry was camping. The cavalry camp looked like something out of Camelot. The officers had grand, striped tents. Even the horses had colourful temporary stables . The flickering light of hundreds of torches added to the sense of medieval pageantry.

The spectacle disturbed him as much as did the thin, utilitarian machine gun towers.
Anton crawled through the trenches back to the camp in a sombre mood. When he reached the point where the trenches and campground met a voice whispered out of the darkness, “My friend, what are you doing wearing your Bands? Do you want to get shot?” Anton looked for the source of the voice but couldn’t locate it in the blackness. He acknowledged the comment by waving his right hand in the approximate direction from which the voice had come, and then quickly slipped away to the privacy, and security, of his tent.

It started to rain.

For most of the night the rain fell as mist. §

The next day began with a court martial. A Sergeant had allowed the men he commanded to desert. They had escaped into the North Pit. The Sergeant’s trial was brief, just a bland recitation of the facts, and a sentence. The only part of the event that was contentious was the manner of execution, which was debated in loud, but unclear, voices by the court’s two presiding officers. In the end, the defendant was shot in the pen where slaves were flogged.

Anton planned to spend the day exploring the factory. Just after noon, he was informed that he had permission to do so. He left his men under the guard of one of the Colonel’s men – a noble from Fairbanks.

The two military policemen who guarded the entrance to the factory expected him, but he was not allowed to proceed with his inspection without an armed guard. After an hour’s wait, a large, affable looking Private presented himself. When Anton asked what had taken so long, the Private replied that the military police were stretched thin this morning.

They entered the factory. It was silent and empty.

“Have you seen any Albertans in here?” Anton asked the guard.

The guard was walking two paces behind Anton. He stepped one pace closer so he could converse more easily. He replied, “No, Sir. Albertans are very strict about the Alexandria Convention.”

“Where are you from?”

“Tuktoyaktuk.”

“There are a lot of Russians there.”

“Yes, Sir. My great grandmother sailed across the Arctic Ocean, from Archangel.”

“My father migrated to Alaska from Vladivostok.” That broke the ice.
The MP continued,“If you don’t mind my asking, Sir, you’re an engineer, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you also commanding an artillery platoon? It seems the brass don’t know what to do with you.”

“Colonel Hofstaedter wants veterans like me to firm up the ranks.”

“I see.”

They were standing at the north-eastern corner of the factory. Anton took out his map. He attempted to compare it with his surroundings. He couldn’t.
The Private stepped beside Anton, to help. Anton handed the map to him, and took one step backward.

The MP looked at the map, at the factory, and then shook his head. “Wrong map?”

“Not exactly. The problem is that there is no orientation or scale information. This
map portrays one of the factory’s corners, but we don’t know which one.”

“We should go to that corner, Sir.” The guard, without hesitation, pointed to the south-east. “Its safer there – closer to our lines.”

Anton nodded. Near and safe were good starting points for a random search.

The first corner they reached didn’t match the map either, but they saw that 500 metres away there was a second corner, created by a narrowing of the factory, that did. His objective, the control room, was perched on a metal tower that could be accessed by two metal catwalks and a half-dozen service ladders.

“We’re going to that tower to look around.” Anton spoke the words like a command.
The Private looked at his watch. “Certainly, Sir. We have one more hour, then they’ll come looking for us with the dogs.”

They entered the control room via a door on its northern wall. The eastern wall of the room was dominated by a window. The western wall was lined with three large panels, each of which displayed an electronic map of one of the factory’s main levels. A fourth panel displayed a schematic map of the entire factory. Anton inspected the schematic map. Green lights indicated functioning nodes, red those that weren’t. The perimeter of the map was ringed with red lights. What amazed him was the abundance of green lights. These showed that the entire south-western quadrant of the factory – the part behind Albertan lines – was functional.

Anton realized that the Albertans were fixing the factory. It was a humbling thought. This vast enterprise was one of the pinnacles of human technology. It had employed the largest machines, it had used the most energy, it had impacted the most things, including the climate of the planet itself. The Albertans were about to make all this work again; the Republic thought it could defeat them with horses and sabers.
The Private said, “Its time to go, Sir. We really don’t want to deal with the dogs.”

“I’m on my way.”

Anton turned his back on the digital maps and briskly exited the factory. The MP easily kept up with Anton’s pace. They returned to the Alaskan lines in silence, except for the sounds their hobnailed boots made on the ancient concrete floor.
Anton was relieved to discover that no one in his platoon had deserted. §

By 22:00 all activity in the right and centre flanks had ceased. The noise from the pavilions on the left flank continued until after midnight, when the cavalry officers ran out of wine. The camp remained silent for perhaps thirty minutes. At approximately 1 a.m. soldiers on the Alaskan right flank started to sing. No one voice was loud, but the volume increased as more and more soldiers joined in. The singing sounded beautiful in the pitch dark, but there was nothing particularly beautiful about it: the soldiers’ voices were rough and desperate.

They sang,

Arise ye clients from your slumbers
Arise ye prisoners of want
For reason in revolt now thunders
And once again ends the age of cant.
Away with all your superstitions
Servile clients arise, arise
We’ll change henceforth the old tradition
And spurn the dust to win the prize.
So everyone, come rally
And the last fight let us face
Let us occupy our world,
And unite the human race.

A chorus of cheers rang out from the Albertan lines. While the Albertans cheered a dozen gun shots were fired in rapid succession. Someone behind the Alaskan lines shouted “its all right, he got carried away”. The singing stopped; the camp became quiet again.

Anton was dreaming deeply when he was woken up by the Private who had the dawn watch.
Even though it was twilight dark, about a quarter of the camp was up. There were shadows of people everywhere, limned by the light of the campfires. Remembering the warning he had been given by Shevetz, Anton looked for glowing Officer Bands. There were some away to the east, but none nearby.

While he was cleaning up from breakfast he saw the glow of a Band, but at an odd angle. It came from the tent of the nobleman who had guarded his troops yesterday. A moment later the man’s corpse passed by on a stretcher. Anton made a point of not noticing.

It was 6:55. According to the attack plan everyone was to be in position at 7:29, 60 minutes after dawn, and 31 minutes before the battle was scheduled to begin. He signaled for his men to get in position, counting them as they went.

The platoon was in place with minutes to spare.

Anton counted his men again.

At 7:30 all of the campfires in the right flank were put out simultaneously. The entire Right Flank became enveloped in smoke.

“So what are we going to do, Lieutenant?” Anton could not see who had spoken, but he knew who had: a conscript named Atlutaq, who was one of a pair of brothers from the North Slope, near Prudhoe Bay.

Anton replied, “Stay alive.”

Atlutaq’s brother Tulimaq, who Anton also could not see, laughed, “That’s a good plan.”

“How are we going to stay alive?” This question came from Atlutaq.

Anton knew that his men were going to surrender whether he did or not. He said, “For starters, don’t fire that gun.” He nodded toward the cannon even though it was enshrouded in smoke. “Its more likely to kill us than the Albertans.” His words were met with a chorus of agreement.

“Then what?” This question came from his left, behind a pile of sandbags. It was the GM from California. The one who never spoke.

Anton inhaled deeply before replying, “I think its safest to take our objective. The Albertans have abandoned the factory.”

There was a long, tense pause.

Atlutaq broke the silence, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.” Anton lowered himself completely into his trench, and removed his revolver from its holster.

A muffled voice from behind Anton said, “I agree with Atlutaq. There’s no way I’m going past another MP checkpoint.” That was McAllister. He continued, “Lieutenant, you’re OK if we surrender? That’s what all of Shevetz’s men are going to do.”

A gun fired nearby.

Anton said, “Surrender. There’s no sense in dying needlessly. We don’t stand a chance against the Albertan machine guns.”

Tulimaq said, “You’re a good man, Lieutenant. I’m glad I didn’t have to kill you.” The Tlingit Private emerged from the smoke centimetres from Anton’s face, patted him once on the back, and then crawled around a pile of sandbags to join his brother.
When the smoke cleared Anton saw that he was completely alone. The entire platoon was hidden from him behind sandbags.

An engine backfired. Anton looked through a crack in the sandbags. Six 400 ton dump trucks had entered no-man’s land from the Albertan side, and were driving directly toward the Alaskan right flank. The trucks were filled with enough slag to bury a city block. They drove to the edge of the Alaskan trenches, and then stopped. They cast the entire Alaskan right flank into shadow.

When the Albertans trucks began their advance, a group of Alaskan military policemen rushed toward the right flank. One officer, a Second Lieutenant, was shouting for the artillery to begin firing, and for the infantry to prepare for attack.

The right flank did not attack. A few started to sing the song from last night.

So people, come rally
And the last fight let us face
Let us occupy our world,
And unite the human race.

The military police were uncertain what to do. It was one thing to shoot a random soldier who had gotten out out of line, quite another to start shooting when one third of the army was mutinying moments before battle.

The attack whistle sounded.

The first charge by the Alaskan cavalry was repulsed by the Albertan machine guns – there were dozens of dead horses and men. The cavaliers who remained regrouped for another attack. The centre held: it was not in outright mutiny – many riflemen were providing covering fire for the cavalry – but no one was advancing toward the Albertan machine guns.

On the right flank soldiers, in ones and twos, were crawling toward the Albertan lines while waving white flags in the air. Others had taken cover behind the Alaskan trucks, and were having a fire fight with their own MPs.

The truck nearest to Anton’s platoon blasted a loud note on its horn, and began to back up. The driver in the cab signaled frantically for the surrendering Alaskans to retreat with him. While his men set off toward the Albertan lines, Anton crawled in a perpendicular direction, toward the factory.

The MPs who were guarding the entrance to the factory had been shot and their gear destroyed. Anton paused to look at the dead soldiers. He was glad to see that none of them was the Private he met yesterday.

“Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your head.” A military policeman had sneaked up on Anton from behind.

“What are you doing here?” the MP shouted.

“I’m here to secure the room that controls this factory. Its one kilometre south, where the factory narrows.” He indicated the direction with his left elbow.

“Just you?”

“I’m supposed to be here with two squadrons. My men were killed by the Albertan machine guns. My name is certainly on your list. I’m First Lieutenant Anton Rostov. Didn’t you see me here yesterday?”

“There is a list, but I don’t have it. My orders are to shoot deserters on sight.”

“I’m not a deserter.”

“You’re an officer. Why aren’t you wearing your Bands?”

“Enemy snipers are targeting the Bands. Just before battle began I was ordered to take them off because we’d lost too many officers.”

“That would never happen. And if it did, why did your men get hit and not you?”

“I wasn’t hit because I took my Bands off.”

There was the sharp report of rifle fire; the MP fell to the ground, dead. Anton waved in the direction from where the shots came and mouthed the word “Thanks”. He grabbed a revolver from the holster of the dead MP, and slid down into the gutter that paralleled corridor he’d just been walking along. He lay still until his beating heart had slowed down.

Once his heart had stabilized and his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he began crawling slowly forward to his destination. He was underneath a column of four large articulated pipes. They traced the eastern edge of the factory.

After crawling south for one kilometre, he reached an access ladder that led to one of the catwalks radiating out from the control room. After minutes of careful listening he rolled out of the gutter, leaped onto the ladder, and quickly raced up. Climbing took no great effort, but coping with the fear of being shot did. Once he’d made it to the top he lay flat on the the metal slats of the catwalk, gasping for breath.

The control room was only metres away. Anton pulled himself up to a crouching position, and then stood up slowly. To keep his movements quiet, he focused on being balanced. He silently entered the control room through the same entrance he’d used yesterday.

He had secured his objective. §

Anton walked over to the window, curious to see how the battle was progressing. The Alaskan centre and left flank were mustering for what looked like a final attack. The right flank had completely mutinied, although many died before they succeeded in reaching Albertan lines.

Even though their numbers had been greatly reduced through desertion and machine gun fire, the Republic’s troops still outnumbered the Albertans. The Alaskans had one tactic, the same one they had been trying all day, which was to attack the Albertan machine guns from all sides at once. The machine guns could fire hundreds of rounds a minute, but could only cover a few degrees of the field at one time. If they were rushed from all sides they could be taken.

Before the last charge began, a handsome cavalry Captain called his men around him and took out a book. Through his field glasses Anton could see that the Captain was quoting from a collection of Tennyson’s poems. Whatever poem it was that the Captain read, it roused the horsemen, who clashed their sabers together in solidarity. The horsemen turned toward their enemy. The attack was sounded. The soldiers on the centre tentatively crawled toward the Albertan line, while the cavalry rushed forward on the left.

The Albertan machine guns fired only on the cavalry. The infantry could have won the day. But they held back. When it became clear that almost the entire left flank – the flower of the aristocracy – was dead, the centre surrendered en masse.

A flash of light drew Anton’s gaze away from the battlefield to a point immediately below the control tower. The ground here was untouched by battle except for one lone Alaskan cavalry officer who lay dead under his horse. The soldier and his mount were close enough that Anton could see them clearly, without the assistance of field glasses. The officer had broad, sweeping mustaches, and a metal hat plumed with white horse hair.

The dead officer reminded Anton of one of his father’s treasures, an ivory engraving of a distant ancestor who had fought with the Russian cavalry against Napoleon. The engraving was carefully stored in a dainty woman’s locket. The ancestor had died at the Battle of Borodino. When he did, he must have looked much like this, a flamboyant horseman ripped to pieces by artillery.

“Ahem.”

The intruder, an Albertan Sergeant, cleared her voice a second time to ensure she had Anton’s attention.

Anton knew what to do next. He said, “Let me put my pistol onto the ground before I raise my hands”.

The Sergeant replied, “There is no need to raise your hands, just put down all of your weapons. The war is over.” Fin

 

 

Start

This establishment is governed by Private Law.

Caitlin looked at the grimy notice. It was the last thing she saw before she entered the foyer from the stairs, and the first thing that guests saw when they entered the co-op from outside. She turned to face the cell. Its right part was defined by the slope of the stairwell. This was where the prisoner, a lean, ragged man, was now sitting. Although he was barely 40 years of age he had grey, thin hair. His skin was taut and sallow; his parched lips were white around the edges. The wall facing him was pocked by metal studs that had once been used to hang bicycles. In the far corner there was a rusty, galvanized bucket of water. The water in the bucket was used for both drinking and washing, first one then the other. His special friend Caitlin changed it daily. The cell had two light sources: a skylight, six floors above at the top of the spiraling stair-well, and the stained-glass windows that ringed the co-op’s entrance, toward which the cell faced. It was twilight; the setting sun was shining through the stained glass, casting cheerful red and blue shadows onto the cell’s peeling, yellow walls.

Caitlin addressed the prisoner with a quiet voice, “Here’s some left-overs. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring more, but you know how my uncle gets upset when I feed you.” She was tall for her age, and lank. Her simple, grey woolen clothes hung loosely on her stretched frame. Her thick, dark hair had been recently washed, and was carefully braided. She moved tentatively, as if she had not yet mastered either her body or the uncertain world through which it moved.

The prisoner arranged his chains so that he could turn to face his visitor. He was not used to speaking, so his voice was broken and gruff when he said, “What did you bring me?” He spoke with eager desperation. The young woman tilted the bowl she held in her hand so that he could see its contents: several pieces of beef gristle, a small scoop of potatoes and some greyish-green beans.

The prisoner carefully cleared some rotten scraps from the wooden tray he used as both a table and plate. He pushed the wooden tray through the small space between the barred gate and the floor. The young woman transferred the food onto the tray, and then pushed the tray toward the prisoner. The laden tray passed easily into the cell except for a tiny piece of potato, which stuck to the bottom bar of the gate. The prisoner received the food gratefully; he finished eating it in a moment, and then ate the small piece of potato that had stuck to the gate.

When the prisoner finished eating, he replaced the rotten scraps he’d earlier put aside, and carefully placed the food tray by the head of the woven mat he used for a bed. He wiped his utensils, a wooden spoon and a small, sharp knife.

“Who gave you that knife?” Caitlin asked.

“Mrs. Ellison.”

“Do you think she’s changed her mind about you?” the young woman asked hopefully.

“No, Caitlin.”

The prisoner looked at the pouch that held the knife, and then up at the young woman. His eyes were yellow and foggy, so foggy that Caitlin wondered if he could even see her.

“How did your trip go?”, the prisoner asked.

The young woman took a deep breath before replying. The inhalation straightened her slightly stooped shoulders. “The first time they turned me away. I’m too young to launch an appeal. The second time Mrs. Simpson came with me.”

“God bless that woman.”

“Didn’t she vote against you?” Caitlin asked.

“She abstained. If it had made a difference, she’d have voted for me. I know that. But … tell me what happened, child.”

Caitlin handed the prisoner the form letter she had received from the Office of the Procurator General. He pushed it back to her, and said gruffly, “Read it.” She did so,

The Co-operative at 14 Cyclades Avenue, Juneau, Alaska is entitled to imprison hoarders under the terms of the War Measures Act. Penal facilities must conform to the incarceration standards outlined in the Constitution and they are subject to periodic audits. No sentence can exceed 5 years without a review by the Third Circuit Court of the Alaskan Federation.

Cruel and unusual punishment is forbidden.

When she was finished reading the letter Caitlin added in a less formal voice, “The man we met said the Procurator has very little authority over Private Law.”

“What about an audit?”

“That’s what the man told us to do. He said that Mrs. Simpson has to set up a meeting with the Procurator.  He doesn’t have authority but he appoints auditors who do. It only costs $5.”

“Bastard!”

“Is $5 too much? Should it cost less?”

The prisoner looked at the Caitlin for several breaths before he spoke. “The meeting shouldn’t cost anything, child. It’s his job to see you.”

“Should I refuse to pay him?”

“No!” The prisoner spoke too loudly. “You have no choice, Caitlin. You have to pay. Whatever he asks.” He continued with a quiet, weary voice. “Thank you. Thank you so much for doing this. If I ever get the money Mrs. Ellison stole from me, I’ll pay you back. I’ll do anything you want. I promise.”

Caitlin tugged at the loose thread which threatened to unravel the lace which trimmed the otherwise rough fabric of her home-made skirt,  nervously shuffled her feet but said nothing; she did not know how to reply.

The prisoner continued, “Make sure the audit happens as soon as possible. Can you? You will?”

Caitlin hesitated before responding. “I’ll do my best.” She inhaled deeply before she replied, “Dan …”

“Don’t use my name! If someone heard you, you could be punished too!”

The intensity of his voice caused her to take a step back. When she recovered her balance Caitlin said, “When Mrs. Simpson hears something from the Procurator I’ll let you know.”

“She can tell me herself.”

“Uh .. I …” Caitlin stuttered.

The prisoner replied softly. “I know. She won’t talk to me. She’s too afraid. But I’ll tell you child, she’ll vote for me, if the vote is free.”

The front door began to open with a loud, wooden creak. Caitlin rushed up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor before anyone saw her.

 

 

§

 

Caitlin knocked twice on Mrs. Simpson’s door.

“Please come in.”

Caitlin poked her head half-way through the door. She said, “I only wanted to ask …”

Mrs. Simpson gently, but firmly, pulled Caitlin into her apartment. She softly said, “Caitlin, we have to be very careful. No dallying at the door!”

Caitlin was so intent on her errand that the admonishment didn’t faze her. She said, “I just wanted to know how your meeting with the Procurator went. If you’re busy …”

“He approved the audit.”

“That’s wonderful news!”

Mrs. Simpson shook her head mournfully. “No. He wants $100.”

That was as much as Caitlin’s father paid his man for an entire year’s service.

Mrs. Simpson continued, “I want to help poor Daniel, but I don’t have that kind of money. Your father is influential. Maybe …” She didn’t conclude the sentence because she didn’t know what Caitlin’s absent father could do. She didn’t even know if he was alive.

Caitlin spoke respectfully. “Mrs. Simpson, my father is in California. You know that.”

“I also know that he is a very careful person, who loves you dearly. I’m certain he made provisions for an emergency.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“For Daniel it is. Have you seen the knife Mrs. Ellison gave him?”

Caitlin recalled how Daniel looked at that knife. She wondered what she could do to stop him from killing himself.

The day before Caitlin’s father left for California, she met him at his ship. He had been living there for several days already. The moment she arrived, her father turned his back on he was doing and clasped her hands in an uncharacteristically gentle manner. Caitlin reluctantly let him. She was angry that her father was leaving her, but now, just hours before his departure, that emotion was overwhelmed by sadness and fear. They walked hand-in-hand along the wharf, saying nothing as they gazed out into the Gulf of Alaska, Caitlin clung more and more tightly to her father’s hand.

They sat down side by side on an faded bench partially covered in chipped green paint. They looked out over Gulf. Caitlin’s father said,“This is the wrong time for me to go away. You’re too young and the world is … Never mind that. I want you to know that I don’t want to leave you. I’m going because I have no choice. My Patron …” Caitlin hugged his arm; her tears moistened his shirt.

After a few moments Caitlin’s father gently extracted himself from her arms and put a key around her neck. He interrupted the embrace not because he was unsentimental, but rather because he was consoled by doing his duty, and wanted to get started doing it in order to speed up his return. He placed his hands firmly, but lightly, onto his daughter’s shoulders, and said, “Look at me dear heart. Do you know where I keep my money?

She nodded.

“Where?”

“The Second Bank of Alaska.”

“Where is it located?”

“At Main and Palin. It opens at 10 am …”

“Very good.” He hugged her tightly and then squatted so that his eyes were parallel with hers. “Caitlin, do you see the number on this key?” He placed her hands around the key he’d just given her. “It is the number of the box this key will open. If you ever need money, but are afraid to ask your Aunt, or anyone, go to the Second Bank of Alaska. Say that you are my daughter. Ask for box 256. But only in an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Not something small, like a leaky faucet. Something big, like a threat against your life or property. Or perhaps someone else’s life. If you get confused, act like me. You are like me so trust your instincts.”

“Dad, why are you giving this to me and not to Aunt Katherine?”

“I’ve made other arrangements with your Aunt …”

He looked out over the Gulf and rubbed his hand through his black, oiled hair. “Of course I have. But …” He rubbed his forehead, which left an  almost translucent black smear “… I don’t trust her husband.”

“You mean Uncle Jim?”

He couldn’t bear to speak further; he just nodded his head.

Caitlin’s attention returned to the present. She looked up at Mrs. Simpson. “My father left me some money. Maybe its enough. I hope so. Dan’s imprisonment is so …”

“Shush child! Don’t say his name.”

§

Caitlin had never been inside the Second Bank of Alaska, so did not know what to expect. The bank was located in a featureless, squat building made of new, red brick. On the inside it appeared much bigger than it did from the street, because its top floors were taken up by a dome instead of offices. There was a huge painting on the dome of two men touching fingers, one had beard, the other was clean shaven.

The moment Caitlin identified herself to the guard at the bank’s entrance, the Manager was alerted. The Manager, a fat old man in a black suit, escorted her to the safety deposit box. The security guard, who had a waxed mustache and was armed with a long, slender sword, walked several steps behind them. Caitlin wondered if the man was guarding her or the Manager.

The Manager claimed to be a good friend of Caitlin’s father, and inquired several times after his health. Caitlin told the Manager that she had not heard a word from her father since he left to explore California 11 months earlier, but that didn’t stop the Manager from asking the same question again.

They reached a thick metal door that had a metal wheel for a handle. The security guard stepped forward and with some effort turned the wheel. The door rolled open. Caitlin entered the vault, unescorted; it was full of metal drawers. The Manager said farewell. The guard stayed behind, but turned his back to her and guarded the door.

Caitlin quickly found Box 256. It was empty except for a small block of gold and a stack of five dollar bills. She knew that the money was enough for the Procurator, but hesitated before taking it. Although this was an emergency for Daniel it was not an emergency for her. She wondered what would happen if she used up all of the money and she had an emergency herself. She didn’t know what to do, so she attempted to emulate her father. She removed $50 but left the gold and the rest of the bills.

 

 

§

 

“Did you get the money?” Mrs. Simpson asked, the moment Caitlin had safely entered the apartment.

Caitlin silently placed the small stack of bills on the table.

Mrs. Simpson counted the money and then said, “Is this all?”

Caitlin froze. Mrs. Simpson understood. “Let’s hope $50 is enough.”

Mrs. Simpson began to put the money away; Caitlin scooped it up before she could. Caitlin said, “I’ll pay the Procurator myself.”

Mrs. Simpson looked away; her tired eyes were ringed with dark circles. She said, “I guess you will.”

They went to the Procurator’s office the next day. They had intended to walk along West Sixth, but it had rained during the night, so that way was too muddy. Caitlin insisted on hiring a cab. Like tourists, they took a scenic route to City Hall that followed the harbour. They were dressed like they were going to Church, in bonnets and flowered dresses: Caitlin’s was white with red roses and a small cherry red handbag; Mrs. Simpson’s dress was her Sunday best, dark blue velvet decorated with small white nicotiana flowers that that looked like polka-dots.

The Procurator’s office was in the back of an old mansion, which shared a garden with City Hall. Although Caitlin and Mrs. Simpson had no appointment they were expected.

The Procurator wore a vaguely military uniform. He had a small, neatly trimmed grey beard and fastidious manner. He acknowledged Mrs. Simpson without rising; he gave Caitlin a dismissive glance. Speaking to Mrs. Simpson, he said, “Do you have the money?” He did not offer them a seat, which struck Caitlin as surprisingly rude behaviour from someone who dressed like a gentleman.

The Procurator arched an eyebrow when Caitlin stepped forward and handed him an envelope. Although she was barely a teenager, and Procurator’s desk was raised, Caitlin looked down at him. He counted the nine bills with a sad expression on his face. He said, “Only $45. I’ll take this as a deposit. Let me know when you have raised the other $55.” He carefully placed the small pile of currency into his billfold.

Because the payment represented a fee that the Procurator was collecting in addition to his regular salary, Caitlin assumed it would be negotiable, like a tip. When he took her money and gave her nothing in return, she realized that this payment was another type of transaction entirely: she was not paying him, he was taking from her. Caitlin’s face hardened when she realized what this implied: the Procurator was not noble at all, he was a thief.

Caitlin said, “Sir, I understand that you should charge nothing for an audit. It is a service my father gets free of charge from the City because he pays more than $50 a year in property tax, and is therefore a gentleman. The $45 you have just taken from me is a gratuity given in expectation of good service.” Her voice quivered with fury.

The Procurator ignored Caitlin. Her turned to a cowering Mrs. Simpson and asked, “Who is this child?”

Caitlin answered before Mrs. Simpson could, “My name is Caitlin Hofstaedter. My father, Doctor Hofstaedter …”

The Procurator smoothly interrupted her, “I know your father. He’s one of the Anderson’s men. He’s in California, isn’t he?”

“Yesterday we received word that he will return this spring”, Mrs. Simpson added helpfully.

The Procurator frowned. He made a point of shuffling some papers on his desk. After a moment he looked up, and said, “Very well, Miss Hofstaedter, here is your money back.” He handed $40 in worn bills to Caitlin. “My office will perform an audit of your co-op’s private prison. I assume this is about your father’s residence on Cyclades Avenue, and not your summer home. My people will contact you.”

“Please don’t contact us, Sir.” Mrs. Simpson piped in with an agitated voice. “Just let our Board know. There is no need to mention us at all.”

The Procurator nodded. He dismissed them with a wave.

 

 

§

 

The knocker clanged three times firmly and loudly. Caitlin leapt from her chair by the door to let the Inspector in. Behind her clustered a greeting party which included her distraught Aunt and grim-faced Uncle. Three other Board members, Mrs. Simpson, Mrs. Ellison and Mr. Constantinus, huddled in the foyer, underneath the co-op’s license. The prisoner watched intently from his cell.

The Inspector was a gaunt man with darting eyes. He wore a deerskin jacket that he had recently been greased to make it water-resistant. His long, stringy hair had been greased too, probably with the same animal fat that had been used on the jacket. He had a slightly rancid smell. He removed his jacket and handed it to Caitlin, who gingerly hung it up. on one of the hooks which lined the wood-paneled wall. Without his jacket the Inspector looked far more like a bureaucrat than a trapper. Although he wore a cheap wool suit, his shirt was made of fine cotton; and the precious stone on his belt must have been worth over $100. What surprised Caitlin most was his tie, which was from the noble school Artemis.

After a cursory inspection of the co-op’s license to practice private law, the Inspector turned his attention to the cell. As the Inspector approached the cell, the prisoner rose as much as his chains and the sloped roof would let him. He attempted to introduce himself. The Inspector ignored the prisoner. Instead, he brusquely said to Mrs. Simpson, “Remove the prisoner’s shackles immediately.”

At these words the prisoner’s face lit up. Caitlin glanced at Mrs. Ellison, who was whispering something to Mr. Constantinus. The Inspector spoke again. His voice was loud enough to be heard by all, but he directed his words to Caitlin. “I’m not releasing him, Miss. At least not yet. The chains are an infraction. You are not allowed to shackle someone who’s already behind bars.”

Mrs. Simpson, afraid that the co-op could be fined because of this, began to speak to the Inspector about how the prisoner wasn’t always shackled, but only at times like these when there were important visitors.

While Mrs. Simpson was speaking, Mr. Constantinus sullenly opened the cell and removed the prisoner’s chains. The Inspector turned his back on Mrs. Simpson before she had finished speaking, and entered the cell. He started his inspection with the back corner. He peered into the water bucket, and looked closely at the drain beside it. Once satisfied with the plumbing, he began to shuffle through the prisoner’s few personal belongings. He paused only once, to look at the knife.

When Mr. Constantinus finished unshackling the prisoner he backed up, so that his large frame blocked the prisoner’s access to the still open gate.

The Inspector, finished with examining the cell’s infrastructure, proceeded to example its content. He placed the prisoner’s head in his hands and silently examined him like a piece of fish at the market. When he suddenly let go of the prisoner’s head, it fell forward and then jerked up.

The Inspector brusquely exited the cell. Mr. Constantinus closed and locked the gate behind him. The Inspector turned to Mrs. Ellison. He knew from Caitlin’s affidavit that they were beneficiaries of the prisoner’s internment, and therefore the people most likely to cause trouble. He said, “Before I give my verdict, I’d like to have a brief word with the young lady.” He nodded toward Caitlin.

Caitlin and the Inspector retired to the mud room. Caitlin’s Aunt and Uncle followed, even though they were not invited. The moment the were all in the room, and had closed the door, Caitlin said to the Inspector, “I assume you’re going to release Daniel. His punishment is clearly cruel.”

The Inspector took a seat on one of the benches that lined the mud room walls. As he did so, Caitlin’s aunt and uncle respectfully backed out of his way. They stood facing the Inspector, half buried in winter coats. The Inspector shrugged as his spoke, “The cell has water and light. And hoarding is a serious crime.”

“He’s not allowed to go outside.” Caitlin said pointedly.

The Inspector put his hands on his thighs as he addressed her. “You must be realistic, Miss. Where would the prisoner go if he went outside? Your co-op doesn’t have a courtyard or backyard. If you took him to a public park he’d be out of your co-op’s jurisdiction. He could escape. Or be freed by a mob.” Caitlin nodded her head slowly, in acknowledgement not agreement. A prisoner had been freed on the Esplanade just last week.

She saw where this was going so could not keep silent, “You have to let him go!”

Uncle Jimmy interrupted with a slightly too loud voice, “Shut up Caitlin.” He said to the Inspector, “Sir, what’s the verdict?”

“I can free him for $20.”

Uncle Jimmy was aghast, “Whose $20?”

The Inspector nodded toward Caitlin, “Hers. The Procurator said she offered him twice that to fix the case but he didn’t want to take it on account of her father. I’m giving you a deal.”

Uncle Jimmy was enraged, “Caitlin, where did you get that money? Have you been stealing from me?”

Caitlin was terrified but stood her ground, “My father gave it too me.”

“If he gave it to you its mine. Give me that $50.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Caitlin. I’m your guardian. I can do whatever I …”

“Jimmy, shut up!” Aunt Katherine shouted. She turned to Caitlin, pressed her hands down on her shoulders and said “Empty your pockets. Now!”

Caitlin emptied her pockets onto the bench. She had one five dollar bill, some change and a pair of earrings. Uncle Jimmy scooped it all up shouted, “I forbid you from bribing this man so that hoarder can go free!”, and stormed out of the room. He left the door ajar.

The Inspector put on a crestfallen face. “So you don’t have $20? Anyone? No one?” Aunt Katherine scowled. Caitlin said nothing. Mrs. Ellison poked her head into the room.

The Inspector shrugged. “Can’t do it for free. Sorry.” Caitlin was paralyzed. She wanted to give him the money but didn’t want to say it in front of Aunt Katherine. The Inspector let himself out.

The co-operators disbursed: Caitlin was hustled away to her room by her Aunt; Mrs. Ellison and Mr. Constantinus went to Daniel’s apartment to celebrate with a bottle of Daniel’s vintage wine; and Mrs. Simpson hid the safety deposit key she’d palmed from Caitlin. Uncle Jimmy threatened to beat her if she didn’t tell him who had it, but that made Aunt Katherine so angry she shouted, “If you steal her father’s money he’ll kill you.”

Everyone shut their doors tightly so they would not be disturbed by the prisoner, whose wailing continued until the small hours of the morning.

 

 

§

 

“How is the appeal shaping up?”

Caitlin took a moment to answer the prisoner. She had to be careful about what she said to him these days. He had become quite moody after the audit. She replied, “ I know that Harriet is with you; I think Mr. Sanders is. But …” She paused.

“But what?” the prisoner prodded, with a sharp note in his voice.

“I don’t think Mr. Sander’s wife is keen to release you.”

“How do you know?” He pressed his face against the bars as he spoke.

“I was talking with her about the vote. I said that I’d give her five dollars if she would support you. I was very polite and respectful, but when I offered her the money she suddenly changed. She said, ‘Who did you learn this wickedness from? This is what happens when you’re raised in a pagan church.’ I tried to explain that I am not a pagan. I said that even though my father is a scientist, I know sin when I see it.”

“What happened next?”

“She told me to stay away from her grandchildren.”

“Caitlin, if we don’t get Mr. Sander’s vote we’re going to loose. We don’t have much time. The vote is tomorrow. Can you talk to him one last time? Maybe he’ll take your money if you give it to him in secret.”

Out of compassion for the prisoner’s plight, Caitlin agreed to try her best. It was a hollow promise. She had no way of speaking to Mr. Sanders in private. His wife was always around. As she retreated up the stairs she said, “Goodnight. I’ll let you know the moment you win the vote.” The prisoner nodded somberly. He knew how to count. Caitlin ascended the stairs to her apartment with a heavy heart.

 

 

§

 

The prisoner knew from the expression on Caitlin’s face that he had lost his appeal. He said, “Sanders voted against me, didn’t he?”

Caitlin nodded, “It was Mrs. Sanders fault. She made Mr. Sanders vote against you. I overheard him talking about it afterward. He said, ”I was going to vote to release the prisoner. He’s not a bad sort, although his imprisonment has made him a little crazy. The reason I didn’t was something my wife said to me. She said that cells once you make them are never empty.  Safer to leave it full.”

“What about Mrs. Stanton?”

“When she voted no she said that your cell is here to send a message. She didn’t say what kind.”

Caitlin looked at the prisoner’s forlorn face and felt compelled to try to cheer him up. “This isn’t the end, Daniel. Don’t you worry. My father will be back soon. He’ll fix this. This would never have happened if he hadn’t gone to California.”

If Caitlin’s words were consoling, the prisoner didn’t show it. He asked glumly, “How did Mrs. Simpson vote?”

“You know she voted last, because she’s the Co-op President.”

“How did she vote?” he asked again.

“She abstained because a yes vote didn’t matter.”

“Just like before. At least she tried to help me with the Procurator. What about Mr. Thompson?”

“He voted against you”, Caitlin reported, sadly. “When he did, he said, ‘I have no choice. I voted against him last time. When he gets out he’ll be looking for revenge.’”

“What about Harriet?”

“Daniel! Of course Harriet voted for you.  But when she voted it was too late, you’d already lost.”

All affect had drained from Daniel’s face. He held the bars limply as he stared vacantly into the filtered light that was illuminating his face.

“Do you want to know what Harriet said when she voted for you?” Caitlin asked with a bleak, quiet voice. She did not wait for the prisoner to answer, “Harriet said, ‘I can imagine a world without crime more easily than I can imagine a world without prisons.’”

 

 

Mr. Market is a series of stories set in a dystopian near-future North America, that are really about contemporary ecological, social and political issues. This particular story features a cargo cult based on the ruins of the Pacific Investment Management Company (PIMCO) headquarters. It is a parody of how capitalism, in our time, has the trappings of a religion. It was written in August 2012 so its references are somewhat dated.

Start

Our boat, the Yéil, a seven mast, 250 foot schooner, skirted around the ruins of the US Bank Tower and sailed into Los Angeles Bay. The Bay is a narrow but long stretch of water between Long Beach Island to the west and what is left of southern California to the east. We were traveling to a village of perhaps 5,000 souls, where the natives lived – if the hyperbolic words of our scouts could be trusted – amidst a treasure of ruins. Our progress through the Bay was slow because we continuously had to stop to take soundings. The Captain cursed the fools who had made his inaccurate charts, but to me his anger seemed self-indulgent. The collapse of Los Angeles into the Pacific Ocean is a work in progress: better to curse the Earth for moving.

As we neared our destination, we were greeted by a ramshackle flotilla of rafts made of tires and scavenged pieces of plastic. The thin metal masts on these contraptions were fashioned into crude S shapes that looked like dollar signs. We dropped anchor in a sheltered lagoon perhaps three hundred metres from the edge of the village, which was situated in the deepest part of the bowl formed by the bay. The tire-rafts were too light- weight relative to the wind, tide and the waves to maintain a fixed position, so instead bobbed in a slow rotation around us.

The Yéil was oriented to the south-west. Long Beach Island was directly in front of us. The island at most points was little more than a sandbar. On its northern tip, which I now faced, it was far more substantial because a web of ruined expressways had trapped enough sand and seaweed to sustain agriculture. The natives grew several types of fruit including mangoes, pineapples and oranges. The crops had to be genetically modified because the combination of intense summer temperatures, salt-saturated winds and contamination from ruins made the environment inhospitable to most flora: only tough plants grew naturally, particularly bay hops, scrubby pine trees and sawgrass. Our estimate of the island’s total population – 20,000 – was far higher than seemed sustainable.

A dinghy, which I was surprised to see powered by a 2 horse power engine, pushed through the rafts and pulled up along side us. It had two inhabitants, a fair-skinned, lanky young man with knotted blond hair, and a tanned woman with henna-red hair and freckles. The man was shirtless, save for a strip of cloth he tied neatly around his neck, and draped down his chest. He wore finely woven blue pants, which were held up by red, white and blue striped suspenders. The woman was partially covered by a ragged dress, which was also made of red, white and blue material. Her hair was tied into neat braids to which were fastened small coins; she had currency tattoos all over her body.

We threw a rope ladder over the side of the boat. I gestured for the man and woman to come aboard. They declined. Rhonda, our staff anthropologist, mimed that we were interested in visiting the village. The natives did not immediately reply. Instead, the man turned off his boat’s engine, rose, placed his thumbs into his suspenders – no mean feat in a dinghy – and addressed us. He spoke in unaccented Television English. “I see that you are from Alaska.” He nodded at the image of the raven painted onto the bow of our ship. “You’ve come a long way. Catch.” He threw each of us a fruit. Rhonda caught her orange, I caught my lemon on a rebound, and the Captain – a bluff, unsteady man – had to retrieve his avocado from a pile of rope. The native spokesman frowned pensively as he sat down. Before Cody had a chance to interpret the dropped avocado as some form of bad omen, our anthropologist said, “My name is Rhonda. May we stay here for a few days? We would like to purchase – or trade for – provisions. We have many things that will interest you.”

Again the native spokesman stood up. As he did so his small boat was buffeted by the wake made by our nearly stationary, but large ship. He managed to remain balanced. “Nice to meet you Rhonda. My name is Cody. I am the PIMCO.” He spoke his title in a loud, strong voice that carried far out into the bay. He gestured toward his female companion and said, “This is Luck.”

After we returned their greetings, Cody resumed speaking, “You are welcome to stay until the anniversary of Default Tuesday, which you must know is in two days. We have fresh water, and plenty of avocados, tomatoes and citrus fruit.” A small wave knocked his boat; he hastily sat down.

At the request of Doctor Hofstaedter, the aloof, aristocratic man who represented our Patrons’ interests on this expedition, Rhonda and I made first contact. We were assigned this dangerous task ostensibly because scientists are better at establishing trust than soldiers.

Our transportation, a motorized rubber boat called a Zodiac, was lowered into the water by a hoist. Rhonda and I boarded it separately using rope ladders. The Pacific Ocean was choppy enough that entering the boat was awkward, but we were unencumbered so did so with no incident.

If the wind had been favourable we would have rigged a sail, but it was not. We turned on the engine and headed across the lagoon toward a spit of land on the north-east side of the native village. The flotilla of tires haphazardly followed us. About 200 metres inland from the spit I could see the ruins of an office building poking out of the ground. According to my charts, it had once been twenty stories high; now ten of those stories were buried. A symmetrical, relatively intact, second tower was beside it, to the south. Although the intact tower was also skewed and buried, to my amazement, its electric lights still worked.

Our craft was faster than any of the native ones, especially Cody’s dinghy, so we had to cut our engines to avoid beaching before our hosts. We landed just behind Luck and Cody, beside a highway on-ramp the natives used as a dock. The ruined north tower of an office campus was directly in front of us. To our left, perhaps 100 metres down the beach, was a large collection of lean-tos built in the lee of the partially intact south tower. This was the island’s main population center.

Rather than mooring our Zodiac, which ran the risk of occupying someone’s parking space, we dragged it a short distance onto a desolate section of beach. The natives made no effort to assist us, but when we were done Cody gestured for us to follow him toward a large fire pit situated at the edge of the village.

The natives were dressed in scavenged beach-ware. Most men wore shiny shorts, no shirt, and sandals made of automobile tires. Their hair was roughly cut, when cut at all, and almost always tied back with electrical cables. Some cables still had plugs attached. The women for the most part wore only bikini bottoms, although some wore smocks made of re-purposed materials; a few wore nothing at all. All of the natives were lean; none looked malnourished. In fact, I was struck by how healthy they were. Even the most wealthy Alaskan has some form of blemish – perhaps a chipped tooth, pock mark or callous. With the notable exception of tattoos and ritual marks, I could not see even one blemish or scar on any of the hundreds of natives who gathered around us.

Rhonda, noticing this as well, whispered to me, “They’re all genetically engineered.”

I nodded. It was a plausible hypothesis. Although there are few genetically modified people in the Republic of Alaska, there are many in the more backward California and Oregon Territories.

Cody gestured for us to sit on a piece of driftwood, which we did. Luck sat to our right, on a large, rotted office chair. She made a point of being oblivious to our presence. Rhonda began to speak, but Cody gestured for her to be quiet. We sat cross-legged, resting the palms of our hands on our knees.

After several slow minutes Cody leaned over to me and whispered, “San Bernadino County is beside your right shoulder. That is very unlucky. You should face it directly, with your chest.” He indicated that I should shift my torso 45 degrees clockwise, so that I was facing due east.

The setting sun shone so brightly the Sierra Nevada mountains looked like burning gold. In the foreground, the tips of sky-scrapers poked out of the water like lesser mountains. They too looked like they were burning, but with the kind of fire created by sparks of light. On the beach, directly in front of me, the natives had constructed a sculpture out of rubble and rebar that echoed the shape of the sinking metropolis.

As the sun set several natives appeared with firewood and kindling. A woman stepped out of the crowd. She carried a small, carved box in which lay a metal canister with a spout. After making a ritual gesture, she removed the canister and poured fuel onto the kindling. Her attendant used a square silver lighter from a sequined pouch to light a fire.

Rhonda choose this moment to attempt to speak again. She addressed Cody, but pitched her voice so that those nearby could hear, “We have a gift for you.” As Rhonda said this she removed a zippered purse from her satchel, which she opened and displayed to our hosts. The purse was stuffed with hyperinflation dollars. She deposited them in the sand half-way between Luck and Cody.

Luck picked up the gift. She carefully closed and re-opened the zipper on the purse, as if zippers had powerful juju. She then handed the purse to Cody, who opened it and removed a wad of ancient currency, and said, “They are all singles”, he cooed. Our scouts had told us that the natives valued US one dollar bills because the Hyperinflation had made them rare. When Cody had finished examining the gift he passed it to Luck, who gave it to an attendant to store away.

We waited for a response. If Cody or Luck gave us a gift in return, that would indicate a sense of equality between us. If they didn’t, they thought of our gift as tribute, and us as inferiors.

They gave us nothing. Instead, Luck leaned forward so that her face was only a couple of centimetres away from Cody. She spoke so that everyone nearby could hear, “It is time to play the market. Let us find out whose side they are on.” As if her words weren’t sinister enough, when she spoke the crowd rearranged itself into two distinct camps, one behind Cody, the other behind Luck. Cody’s people wore medallions shaped like dollar signs around their throats, while Luck’s team was adorned with currency tattoos and coins.

“I’m on it”, Cody replied with gravitas. He removed a handful of red and green dice from a plastic pouch that was lying in the sand near his feet. With a small, sharp gesture that engaged only his left forearm, he threw the dice onto the beach. He dropped onto his knees, leaned forward, and used his right forefinger to trace a line in the sand that connected the dice. The line pointed upward to the right.

While I waited for Cody’s verdict, I looked at Rhonda to see if she thought we should make a run for it. She avoided my gaze, which was an answer to my question: she was staying. I expected to flee.

Cody spoke, “Mr. Market is happy today.”

Luck stormed away without a word.

§

Rhonda struck up a conversation with Cody. I could not hear what they were saying, but thought it best not to intrude. I scanned the village for Luck. I spotted her in the middle of a crowd of large, young men who were sorting through a heap of metal on the eastern edge of the village. Periodically one of them would examine a piece of rebar, checking its weight and balance, as if choosing a weapon. Beyond Luck’s group – toward the dock – three women with long grey hair hovered over a cooking pot. They looked like they were brewing a potion. The witches were but a few metres from our Zodiacs – there were now two. The boats were guarded by a pair of Alaskan marines.

It was now dark, and I need light to explore, so I saw no reason to stay. I signaled my intention to return to the Yéil. Rhonda acknowledged me with a wave of a hand – she was preoccupied by her conversation with Cody.

I departed in one of the Zodiacs. Two marines stayed behind to guard Rhonda. When I reached the Yéil I went straight to bed. I fell asleep in an instant.

The only people awake when I arose early the next morning – aside from the watch – were two divers whose job it was to assess the salvage potential of the sunken metropolis in the bay behind us. I checked in on Rhonda; she had not returned.

I was anxious to get an early start because I knew that the scope of my investigations would be sharply curtailed the moment the economic assessment was done. Whether any part of this site would be protected from Alaskan salvagers depended on what I could discover during the next few hours.

Although I was in a rush, I used sail power to get to shore because the wind was with me and saw no reason not to conserve fuel. I landed just south of where I had done so yesterday, perhaps 100 metres closer to the village. With the exception of a border collie and a lone woman practicing yoga, the beach was empty. The dog, surprisingly healthy looking considering the local living conditions, decided that I was the most interesting thing happening this morning, so chose to accompany me. I wondered if the mutt’s genes had also been engineered.

My goal was to investigate the mostly intact south tower of the ruined office campus that dominated the south end of the island. I intended to approach it indirectly, via the north tower, because I did not want to be seen entering it.

I walked north-east along the beach toward the land spit that abutted into the bay. At the point where the spit intersected my path I encountered a group of native fishermen who were preparing for a dive. Their gear, snorkels, flippers and diving suits, was mostly made of old, brittle plastic. One man wore a rusty metal tank on his back that once contained compressed oxygen but was now empty. The fishermen casually greeted me in well-spoken TV English, but were preoccupied with their work, so otherwise ignored me.

On the other side of the spit I discovered a yellow-brick road, or more accurately a kelp-covered wave of asphalt, that led to the ruined north tower, cut across the beach and went out into the bay. The hill was porous. When the light from the sun was right I could see collapsed bits of highway, half-buried under the silt and kelp.

I carefully climbed up the asphalt wave. I followed its crest for a dozen steps – toward the ruined tower – and then slid into a ravine, unobserved – except for the dog, who still followed me. The ravine was also part of an abandoned highway. I followed it straight to the north tower.

The tower was beyond ruined: all of its windows had long since broken, creating a glittering beach of glass and concrete dust at its base. All that was left was a 10 metre skeleton of rebar and steel beams.

When I passed through some form of security gate, perhaps 20 metres away from the building, a line of green arrows embedded in the roadway became illuminated. The arrows led directly to a large, rectangular metal door at the base of the tower. When I reached the door, I saw that it guarded an entrance. Although the part of the building above the ground was ruined, the below ground portion had been somewhat repaired after the Hayward Quake. The door could not be opened from the outside. However, there was a small service door beside it. I entered the building the way people must have 200 years ago, by pressing a green button. This triggered a buzzing sound, and caused the service door to open inward. Because of a difference in air pressure between the inside and outside, a current of air urged me inward. I entered. My dog companion did not follow. Indeed, he mewled sadly, as if warning me.

The space ahead of me was illuminated by green parking signs, most of which still worked. I was on an asphalt road at the top of a small hill, which I quickly walked down. When I reached the bottom of the hill the road curved to the right and entered one of the odder examples of repurposing I have ever encountered: a parking lot created out of an auditorium, on the eleventh floor of a buried building. The parking lot itself was small – there were spaces for 20 cars, half of which were filled. The cars were all parked on what had once been the auditorium’s wooden stage, although one row of parking had been cut into the clam-shell seating that formed a semi-circle around the stage.

At the edge of the orchestra pit, which was at the base of the stage, I saw a red exit sign, which hung over a pair of wide doors . When I reached the exit, I was excited to discover that it opened onto a tunnel to my ultimate destination, the south tower.

The walls of the tunnel were lined with pale blue ceramic tiling and were lit by full-spectrum automatic lights, which suggested late Digital Age technology. On the walls of the tunnel there were safety instructions stenciled in a radiant paint that you could only view from certain angles. That paint was possibly the most advanced technology I’ve ever seen.

The tunnel ended at a circular glass door. When I passed through it into south tower, the entire atrium lit up. It was like the building itself was greeting me.

Although the atrium was intact – no windows were broken, a tile mosaic on the north wall was flawless, and the marble floor was brightly polished – it was an odd sort of intact because everything was slightly skewed: the main structure of the building – indeed the entire landscape – tilted north-west. Rows of offices lined the wall to my right. There was a bank of elevators in the center, and a large entrance to my left through which I could see hovels.

I approached the elevators, and pressed the up button. Despite my boundless curiosity about every aspect of this amazing building I did not hesitate about my destination, which was the top floor. The rich and powerful like to be higher than every one else, so this building’s treasures were likely concentrated there. I watched mesmerized as a flashing display above the elevator bank counted down from 21. When the number hit 11 a bell chimed; the door in front of me opened and I entered. I pressed 21 on the control panel; the doors closed. I expected to be whisked away. The ride was so smooth it took me a moment to realize that I was moving.

The elevator doors opened onto what had once been a reception area. Illumination once again accompanied my entrance. To my right I saw a desk, behind which was a hand painted sign that said “City of New Los Angeles”. The sign was propped up by the skeletons of two office chairs. On the wall behind the sign I could see the faded letters P, M and O.

I walked past the guard desk, through a pair of unbroken glass doors, into the inner offices. I scattered a small fortune in metal cans, as I did so.

The space before me had once been divided into cubes by cloth-bound moveable walls. The cloth on these walls had long since rotted away, revealing yellowed plastic frames. Many cubes still had desks, chairs and office machines. That none of this had been scavenged made me suspect the natives considered this a special, possibly sacred space.

Behind the cubes, along the wall immediately in front of me, was a line of offices. The walls and doors of these offices were decorated in ornamental plastic to make them look wooden. My attention was drawn to a large corner office to my left. It stood out because of the votive candles at its base and the $ symbol that had been etched into its plastic maple-wood door.

I tried to open the door, but it was locked.

I had a portable acetylene torch with me, which I used to destroy the lock. When I entered the office, the burnt handle fell off into my hands.

The office was undecorated except for a desk against the left hand wall, and a bank of filing cabinets on the right. The filing cabinets were locked, but the desk was not. I opened a drawer. It was full of paper documents. I picked up the one on top. It was an excerpt from a hand-written diary, which I read,

The chime of an elevator bell startled me

I crawled out of the office, and hide behind a nearby row of dividers. There was a security mirror on the ceiling above me, which allowed me to view most of what happened next.

I watched Cody’s reflection as he exited the elevator and walked over to the office I had just explored. He was dressed simply, in tire sandals and shiny blue gym shorts. A large $ medallion hung from his neck. I lost sight of him as he entered the office I had just explored, but I could hear him open drawers and shuffle papers. After a moment he exited the office, and walked resolutely toward the elevators. There was a chime, and the sound of an elevator door opening, then closing.

The moment the elevator door closed I rushed to the office, swept every loose piece of paper into my satchel, and ran towards the fire exit on the north-east corner of the building. I descended to the eleventh floor, where I was pleased to discover an exit into the courtyard between the north and south towers.

Because this was my last chance to explore unhindered, I decided to return to the Yéil via a round-about route that took me north and west – away from both the native village and my ship.

At the western edge of the courtyard I discovered a path that wended toward the northern tip of the island. From a distance, the path seemed like it was a smoothly paved relic from the Digital Age, but on closer inspection I saw that it was a more recent construction made of salvaged pieces of concrete and asphalt. In the distance I could see the ruin of the US Bank Tower, hovering over the northern tip of the island.

After I had walked north for perhaps one kilometre I stumbled upon the entrance to an untended garden. It was surrounded by a fence made of long, grey pieces of wood. Where the fence intersected the path there was a gate on which hung the sign, “City of New Los Angeles Sustainable Garden and Waterworks.” I entered through the space between a gatepost and the fence.

As I walked through the orchard, along a path that followed a slight upward incline, I realized that the garden was tended, but by machines, not humans: there were signs of automated controls everywhere, including monitoring devices, and a still functioning irrigation system.

Thirty minutes of slow walking later the garden gave way to an open area, in the center of which was a huge, flat building with long, narrow windows. There was a functioning engine on the western side of the building, which was attached to a pump. Beyond the pump was a semi-circular channel that sloped at an angle into the Pacific Ocean. The building – a desalination plant – was powered by a large, flat field of solar collectors which wrapped around its northern and eastern edges.

I walked around the perimeter of the building. From a distance it appeared intact. Up close I saw that it had been repeatedly vandalized. The vandalism reminded me of another great archeological site I had learned about in school: the ruins of Persepolis. The Persian capital city, reputedly the most beautiful city in the iron-age world, was destroyed by Alexander the Great. I remember asking a teacher why Alexander had done so and got an uncertain answer to my question: perhaps he was drunk, perhaps his soldiers needed to be paid with loot, perhaps he simply wanted to demonstrate his power.

Why here? Perhaps the answer was something even more base.

The midday sun was burning my skin, so I decided to sit in the scented shade of a hedge row of blooming hibiscus bushes. My mind became quiet; for once in my life I forgot about violence and decay. I sat for I do not know how long listening to the sound of birds and wind, and the flow of water through sluices. The machinery itself was silent.

Silent machines.

That’s what I’d expect in Eden.

I removed my purloined documents from my satchel. The first folder that I opened contained correspondence between the Illinois National Bank and a woman named Miriam Livingston. The cover letter read,

Attached to the letter was a reply from an organization called Abacus Legal Services. The logo at the top of the letter depicted a blindfolded woman taking a gold colored coin from a scale she held at eye level with her left hand. The address below the logo was Lakeshore Drive in Chicago.

At the bottom of the letter, in embossed type, were the proud words, “Delivering the world to our clients”.

The next entry read,

I skimmed through the chronicle of Miriam’s attempts to avert the complete collapse of the City’s infrastructure. I read the last entry, which was written exactly two decades after the Quake,

There were several more sentences that had been written, edited and crossed out.

I heard someone approach. I folded myself into the bushes, hoping that my khaki clothes would camouflage me.

The visitor was a marine from the Yéil. She entered from the east, through a gate that once was used by trucks servicing the desalination plant. Behind the entrance I could see a sign indicating that this place was once an on-ramp to Highway 110.

The marine withdrew a map from her satchel. She rotated the map several times, apparently trying to align it with what she saw before her. When she had done so, she scanned the compound, pausing periodically to refer back to points on the map, as if taking inventory. When her scan was completed to her satisfaction she folded the map, and returned it to her satchel.

I stood up and took two steps forward. When the marine heard me, she quickly turned, gun in hand. She caught herself when she recognized me. “Good afternoon, Doctor”, she said. She was a stocky, dark-haired Corporal named Karana.

“Good afternoon”, I replied.

I thought it best to question what she was doing before she did the same to me. “Where did you come from? Have you been exploring?”

“What are you doing here?” she replied brusquely.

I said, “Doctor Hofstaedter suggested I find the source of the natives’ fresh water. I’ve found it, so I’m done here. I’m going back to the ship”.

“Good. I’ll walk with you. Let’s go straight to the east coast. I have orders to avoid the village.”

The desalination plant was situated at the crest of a small ridge, so our path took us through a field that sloped down toward Los Angeles Bay. The field – sparsely covered by sedge and flowering herbs – was no longer part of the island’s irrigation system although, judging from the broken control mechanisms we encountered, it once had been. After perhaps two hundred metres the slope flattened; we found ourselves walking through the ruins of a long, flat commercial mall. When we reached the coast the ruins gave way to an orchard maintained by durable machines. The border of the orchard was demarcated by a row of bougainvillea, and a bleached wooden fence. We entered through an arched trellis crowned with roses, and then walked south along an ancient stone path. The bay was immediately to our left.

After a few minutes the path opened up into a circular area that, judging from the rusted remains of a see-saw and monkey-bars, must once have been a children’s playground. We paused to inspect a waist-high stone edifice.

“These used to be everywhere”, I remarked.

“What do you mean?” Karana replied.

“Water fountains.” I pressed a metal lever near the crown of the device and a 10 centimetre spray of water emerged. The water initially startled Karana. Once she composed herself, she stepped forward to try the device.

“Where do you pay?” she asked.

“The water is – was – free.”

“Even slaves drink here?”

“I don’t know about now, but there were no slaves when this water fountain was first put here.”

“Huh.”

When I tell Alaskans about water fountains most find them fabulous. Perhaps Karana felt like she was in a fable, watching such a valuable resource be so casually dispensed, but if so, she showed no signs. I wondered what she was thinking. Was she recalling one of the water usage lessons we all memorized in middle-school? Possibly her thoughts were personal. Was she was wishing that the Republic of Alaska had free water so she could afford to have three children?

I continued to speak, not so much to converse as to voice my thoughts. “Many historians think that potable water might have been the key to American democracy.”

I didn’t expect Karana to respond, but she did. “Yeah. Could be. I could never explain America any other way. I mean back then people used to cross their Betters all the time, didn’t they? Totally chaotic. So perhaps the explanation is that back then Patrons used water to keep their Clients in line. You know, like the Romans did with bread. But in this case we don’t see it – it just happened and that’s why things were stable.”

I was still trying to formulate a response to this statement when Karana stiffened. She muttered something under her breath.

“What did you say?” I asked. I thought my voice was normally pitched, but it sounded loud in the suddenly quiet space.

Karana raised her voice, but continued to whisper, “There’s some men behind those trees. Maybe five.” She nodded toward the eastern edge of the playground. A second gang of six men now blocked the path to the south. I looked up just as a net enveloped me. Karana fired one errant shot before she too was taken down.

Someone sprayed me with a harsh substance that made my eyes and throat burn. I passed out.

§

I awoke in an office in the south tower of the PIMCO headquarters that had been turned into a prison cell. Karana was in the office-cell beside mine. I could see her through a slightly transparent plastic divider. We were both attached to metal beds by electrical cables wrapped around our ankles. Our mattresses were made from vinyl chair covers held together by thread made from carpet fiber. Our blankets, likewise, were made of crudely sewn patches of cloth. The area outside of our office-cells – the atrium of the south tower – was guarded by two large men with $ medallions around their necks, who were armed with sharpened pieces of rebar. The guards sat passively in rotted vinyl office chairs.

I called out to Karana; she did not answer.

Whoosh.

I looked toward the sound. Luck had just entered through the main doors, accompanied by an entourage of women. She passed by without acknowledging me, and went straight to where Karana lay. Her entourage followed.

Luck moved to the head of Karana’s bed. She carefully gathered Karana’s hair into a bowl of soapy water that one of her attendants was holding. The touch of water on her skin caused Karana to stir slightly. One of Luck’s entourage forced Karana’s mouth open, while another poured a milky liquid into it. Karana struggled feebly, but was too woozy; she eventually slumped back onto her bed, asleep. Luck finished washing Karana’s hair, and then spent the better part of an hour braiding it. She inserted coins into the braids, which made Karana glitter and sound dully when she shook her head.

When Luck was done with Karana’s hair, she reverentially withdrew with her entourage. They whooshed as they exited the building.

I was still watching the entrance when a half-dozen tall, young men dressed in shiny blue gym shorts and dirty sneakers entered. They arranged themselves in a militaristic, though not quite military, formation in the middle of the atrium. Once in position, one of them whistled. A group of people were pushed through the rotating door into the office-cells opposite mine. The majority of the prisoners were old, although only a couple were obviously near death. The rest had injuries, such as missing limbs or digits. One baby – into whose mouth a cloth had been stuffed – had a hair lip.

Although most of the prisoners were either old or damaged, there were two exceptions: a teenage girl with scared green eyes, and a younger boy with scraggly blond hair and a subdued manner. The girl held the boy as if he were a teddy bear. Siblings. Orphans. There was some connection, damaged or otherwise.

I fell asleep.

§

When I awoke Cody was standing beside me. He wore the same necktie and pants that he had been wearing earlier but he now also wore a dirty white jacket with thin black stripes. The jacket had a fringe made of dried human fingers. Cody took a seat near the head of my bed. With some difficulty, I sat up beside him, taking care not to touch his grisly fringe. One guard stood at the entrance to the cell, watching us with a blank, passive face. I noticed that his pupils were dilated.

Cody spoke, “Look at this.” To my surprise he withdrew an ancient communication device from a small plastic pouch hanging by a string from his waist. Like most Digital Age technology it looked functional rather than flashy. He proudly showed it to me. I thought he was offering it to me to look at, but he pulled it away as I moved to take it.

“Be careful with your price signals”, he said sharply.

“I thought you wanted me to take it. I’m very sorry.” I tried to sound contrite, but my parched throat could only croak. He signaled for some water, which I gratefully drank.

Cody spoke, “I was offering the Black Berry to you for inspection. It will never be yours.” He handed the object to me again, in slow-motion. I accepted it with a show of reverence. The device was made of hard, dark plastic. When folded it fit into the palm of my hand; when unfolded it was the size of a small book. I turned it over. Its backside was a solar panel.

“Watch.” With a mischievous smile Cody leaned over me and pushed a button. To my amazement the Black Berry turned on.

The opening screen displayed the message, “Welcome Mr. El-Erian”. The message faded and was replaced by two digital runes: one with the caption email; and a second with the caption news.

Without thinking, I pressed the news rune. The screen immediately altered to look like a tiny, two column broadsheet, complete with photographic illustrations.

My heart nearly stopped: it appeared that the Black Berry was accessing the Internet. One of the challenges archeologists face while trying to investigate the technologies of the Digital Age is the interdependence of them all: one artifact cannot be complete without so many others. With our limited resources and knowledge, with galium arsenide shortages etc etc, and with such blunted machine tools – we can only reconstruct parts of these networks.

Was it possible that one node of the Internet was still active here?

It was unlikely. But the sustainable garden was equally unlikely and I had just seen it functioning untended – misunderstood (worshiped) for centuries.

The display on the Black Berry was divided into two columns. The column on the left-hand side was taken up by a small box with a right-pointing equilateral triangle in the middle. The right hand column contained a list of blue headlines. The date, which I could faintly see above the first headline, was from exactly two centuries ago: Default Tuesday. The infamy of the date mitigated my disappointment at discovering that this device was showing me a cache of one day’s news, and was not connected to a live node of the Internet after all.

I touched the arrow. For the next 10 seconds there was an advertisement for a golf tournament. This was followed by a conversation between two men in suits, a taller, thin one with blond hair, and a stockier man with darker hair that was parted in the middle. The two men were talking about how T-Bills had just been given a haircut. Although I recognized most of the words they spoke, many were used in ways that were mystifying to me. For example, the word “market” was used repeatedly, but in a broader sense than it is used today. For me, a market is a place where farmers sell produce. The men in this video used the word as if it were a substitute for all forms of economic activity, including mining, education and manufacturing. Phrases like, “The apocalyptic collapse of the bond market” suggested a religious aspect to the word.¹

The specific meaning of the story was equally obscure. I deduced from the conversation that a T-Bill was some form of promissory note issued by the United States federal government, but I could not understand how a T-bill could have a haircut, nor why the blond commentator was so insistent that a 25% haircut was somehow insufficient and should have been “more along the lines of 50%”. It was as if he welcomed more of something that he thought was bad. He did so because of the “moral hazard” posed by small haircuts, which reinforced my feeling that there was a religious aspect to this story. I was excited: The Crash has always been attributed to political, economic and ecological factors. Religion is never mentioned. This could be a big story, at least in the world of 21st Century archeology.

The video faded to grey; the right-pointing arrow reappeared. I was silent, intently trying to understand the religious aspect of Default Tuesday and the Hayward Quake. The two commentators appeared to be proponents of two different sects, one which advocated stern practices and one which preached tolerance. It was possible that a religious schism contributed to the Collapse. Perhaps these two sects couldn’t agree on courses of action, even in the face of disaster, and as a result broken infrastructure was never repaired and the Digital Age ended.

Cody broke my reverie, “Read a story to me.” he commanded.

“Certainly” I replied.

I moved my index figure over the list of blue headlines in the right-hand column of the main page.

• Was Malthus an optimist?
• Roubini predicts bull market
• Rebalancing your portfolio without Treasuries
• CFPB files suit against the Treasury
• Rogue seismologist predicts massive quake
• Fed Chief Shot

I clicked on the headline, CFPB files suit against the Treasury. The following story appeared,

“Excellent choice.” Cody said. “A very important text.”

I waited for Cody to say more. He gestured impatiently for me to continue.

I read,

“You can see how Regulators and Inflators are the enemies of Mr. Market”, Cody said gravely. I said nothing. I neither saw nor knew.

“Do you understand me?” Cody pressed.

I hesitatingly replied, “No. Not at all. I don’t know. Its all about money. But I don’t understand half of what it means.”

Cody scowled.

I continued, despite reservations. I said, “I am familiar with the assassination of the head of the Federal Reserve. It happened on Default Tuesday, just hours before the Hayward Quake.”

Cody leaned toward me so that his lips were near my ear. He said in a soft voice,“What do you know about the Ben’s death? That is one of our mysteries.” He paused, stood up, and then clapped his hands together, “Of course. You are the Ben!”

“No. You are mistaken … I mean what do you mean?”, I protested.

Cody grabbed the Black Berry. “Don’t try to regulate me, Fed!!”, he shouted with a staged furor. “You cannot tell Mr. Market what to do. One day he is up. The next day he is down. But every day he is chaos!” He exited the building with a whoosh.

Although Cody’s words suggested intense anger, his manner was ritualistic: I had unwittingly become an actor in this savage’s passion play.

§

I awoke to the sound of drums

Whoosh.

A dancer flew into the building. She, like all of the natives, was lean and tall. Her body was covered in henna tattoos of currency symbols; her lip was pierced with a $ shaped stud, and her dreadlocks were full of coins. She was followed into the atrium by a small rhythm orchestra, whose members were banging noisily on instruments made from found metal objects. The tattooed woman was dancing in an African style, alternately / asymmetrically stamping her left and right feet. Her arms were bent; she shook her hands beside her head. Her right hand was missing a finger.

While the tattooed woman danced, the guards began to remove the prisoners. The baby went first. The cloth that had plugged his mouth when he had been brought in had been removed, but the infant was quiet. He was so still I assumed he was drugged or deathly ill. The children went next, followed by the adults, and the rhythm orchestra. The tattooed dancer went last.

Two guards came into our office-cells, a man who attended to me and a woman who attended to Karana. They cut our bonds with pieces of sharpened rebar, and then herded us through the revolving doors. My head was throbbing, and I was unsteady on my feet. I looked over to Karana. She was in far worse condition than I was. Her skin was tinged green; she had to be supported by her guard.

When we exited the building we found that we were on a stage, which was defined by a ring of torches. Luck and Cody were to our right, seated on office-chair thrones. They faced a large crowd. The prisoners were sitting on a long driftwood log between us and Luck. We were pushed onto the sand beside them. As I struggled to sit up, I saw that the full moon was watching us from the eastern sky.

Cody stood up. In his left hand he held the Black Berry, in his right he held a golf-club. He was wearing baggy surf pants made of shiny red material, a golf shirt, and the finger-fringed jacket I’d seen earlier. After a moment, the noise of the dancers, drummers and crowd faded into silence. He addressed the crowd in loud, clear TV English, “Today is the 200th anniversary of Default Tuesday. Since that day we have been children lost in the wilderness, wondering what madness has Inverted the Yield Curve. Let us make the Sign of the Crash.” As he spoke, Cody drew a diagonal line with his left hand that started at his right shoulder and ended at his left thigh.

“Dow 14,000 Dow 100” the crowd chanted. “Dow 42,000 Dow … ” “Dow what?” “Dow … zero !!”

After the repeated chants of Dow zero settled down, Cody said ritualistically, “Neither bonds nor equities were safe. Did you hear me? Neither bonds nor equities were safe!” and then sat down. Luck stood up. She cleared her voice and said. “We will begin with the options. Calls. Puts. Gather yourself.” As she spoke, the sibling prisoners were led forward by a female guard. The girl had a dazed expression on her face; the boy’s face was streaked with tears. The boy tightly squeezed the sister’s hand.

Luck said, “Is there a call for these orphan children? Because they are brother and sister they must be optioned together.”

A gaunt man with leathery skin stepped into the torchlight in front of Luck, “I would like to buy a call option.”

“So would I.” A younger man with dirty blond hair stepped forward.

The gaunt man looked aghast when the younger man spoke: he fell to his knees in the sand in front of Luck and said, pointing at the younger, fitter man, “Please cancel his bid. I am 41 years old and do not have a wife. This man has the rest of his life to breed. My time is running short. Please.” The second bidder watched the old man with a bemused look on his face.

Luck scowled as she said, “I deny your petition.” The older man began to protest, but thought better of it. He withdrew several metres, still prostrate, before he stood up.

Luck turned her back on the two bidders and addressed the crowd. “This is a zero sum trade. It must be cleared through arms.” As Luck spoke these words a man pulling a child’s wagon emerged from the crowd. He was wearing nothing but shiny blue athletic shorts; he had a collar around his neck that was connected to the handle of the wagon by a cord fashioned from carpet fibre. The rickety wagon, once painted fire-engine red, was now spotted by rust. Metal shards were piled on wagon; several toppled off as it was dragged through the sand. The wagon-puller went first to the older man, who chose a rusty metre-long piece of rebar for his weapon. The younger man chose a rust-free weapon that was short and thick.

The wagon man traced a fighting circle in the sand. When the circle was complete Luck shouted, “Begin.”

The older man concentrated on avoiding the swings of his larger, stronger foe, frequently moving to the edge of the fighting circle. When he stepped out of the circle he was roughly pushed back into it by the crowd. He had no strategy but to avoid being hit, and appeared to be motivated by nothing more than fear. Eventually the younger man landed a solid blow onto the older man’s right calf. The blow broke the skin and perhaps punctured an artery.

The older man left a trail of blood as he crawled through the sand. The younger man calmly stalked him, waiting for an aesthetically pleasing moment to end the fight.

Someone in the crowd flung a piece of chipped concrete at the younger man. It struck him in the cheek but didn’t injure him. The blow nevertheless proved fatal: the distraction provided an opening the older man seized. He painfully, but quickly, raised himself part way up, and then with all of his force, he swung his weapon at the young man’s neck. The young man died the moment the blow landed.

The victor, his face crazed with pain, hobbled over to where his prize, the girl, and her brother sat. He used his weapon as a cane so was hunched over, like a crippled dwarf. He grabbed the girl by her right wrist and dragged her away into the crowd. The girl tried to hold on to the hand of her brother, but failed. The young boy tripped along after her, crying uncontrollably.

In the distance an engine back-fired.

Luck raised her arms beside her ears and waved her hands at the agitated crowd, while shouting, “Extras!” As she did so the drummers began to play with an insistent but irregular beat.

The prisoners were chided to their feet by the guards. One man, quivering with fear, did not rise until he had been struck several times by a sock stuffed with stones. The prisoners’ faces expressed emotions ranging from equanimity to terror.

The wagon man emerged from the crowd. This time his load was a large wicker basket that contained old plastic water bottles filled to the brim with a murky liquid. He dragged his wagon over to where the prisoners stood. A half dozen guards simultaneously approached the prisoners from behind. The crowd began to chant the mantra, “One day it is up, one days it is down, every day it is chaos” in time to the drums.

The wagon man approached the baby with the hair-lip first. A guard grabbed a bottle from the wagon, unsealed it, indelicately forced open the child’s mouth and poured liquid into it. The child sputtered and protested feebly. The guards moved down the line, offering drinks to each of the prisoners. Some hesitated before drinking; others simply closed their eyes and gulped. One man had to be forced to drink. The liquid was clear and bitter: several prisoners vomited and had to drink a second time. After drinking, each made the Sign of the Crash, and then took a seat on the driftwood log. They began to shake violently.

After ten minutes all of the prisoners had fallen over dead, save for one scrawny old man who – although he shook uncontrollably – had not received a fatal dose. Cody nodded to two guards, one of whom grabbed the old man’s hair and pinned him against his left knee. The second guard slit his throat with a knife fashioned out of a fractured copper pipe.

A crew of young boys collected the corpses and roughly dragged them to the beach. The corpses splashed as they were dumped into the Bay.

Luck shouted, “Bring the Regulator and the Inflator.”

Karana and I were hustled forward. Karana was so limp she had to be supported by two guards. Her shirt was flecked with vomit. I too felt nauseous but resisted offers of assistance. We were roughly pushed to the ground in front of Cody and Luck.

Luck handed Cody a leather pouch from which he removed a handful of red and green plastic dice. Cody threw the dice onto the ground in front of our prostrate bodies. He made a show of inspecting the dice. Still crouching, with a severe expression on his face, he traversed the perimeter of the torch-lit stage while waving his hands beside his ears. When he had completed his circuit he stood straight. He said in a loud voice, “Mr. Market is very angry.”

Luck spoke with a loud voice, “Begin with the Elizabeth.”

While Cody had been playing the market a metal gurney had been rolled – or more accurately, pushed – across the sand into the space in front of Luck. Two guards put Karana onto it. She was limp and sweating profusely. I was nauseous with fear; my saliva was so acidic I had begun to gag.

Cody raised both his Black Berry and his golf-club scepter to the sky. He held the pose for a dramatic moment, and then handed his symbols of office to a retainer. In return he was given a tiny plastic box from which he removed a saw-toothed knife. He approached Karana.

I thought I heard a muffled cry from the direction of the dock. I could not be certain because the drummers began to play again. The tattooed dancer resumed her spirit-hands dance.

Cody’s voice boomed. He affected a ritualistic manner, “Bear witness to what happens to those who would Regulate.” He placed Karana’s right hand in his. With one quick, sharp gesture he cut off her ring finger.

Karana’s screams were muffled by the t-shirt in her mouth. She shuddered and then she was still.

Cody solemnly picked up Karana’s bloody finger. He displayed the trophy to the crowd. Luck shouted, “Rehypothecate the Ben!” In her right hand she brandished a stick of bleached drift-wood studded with nails, and decorated with strands of bright cloth. I stopped breathing.²

There was a loud crack. Luck collapsed. I heard another four cracks. The men who had been guarding Karana and me crumpled. A final gun shot grazed Cody’s shoulder; it was enough to knocked him to the ground. The crowd dispersed in a chaotic stampede. It took several moments for my fear-wracked brain to register that a rescue party had finally arrived. I tried to stand up but was so disoriented and weak that I toppled to the ground. A marine rushed to my side. He threw his thick arm around me and began to drag me along the beach toward the dock.

“The Black Berry. The Black Berry.” My rescuer looked at me quizzically. Rhonda – who had accompanied the rescue party said, “He’s talking about the plastic device near that man’s right hand.” She pointed. “It’s an incredibly valuable Digital Age artifact.” My rescuer, a Sergeant, hesitated: although Rhonda was not in his chain of command, she was the granddaughter of our Patron. Rhonda repeated her words as a command. Two marines fired at the ground in front of the scattering crowd while the Sergeant moved resolutely toward Cody.

When the Sergeant got to where Cody lay, he raised a pistol to shoot him a second time. Rhonda shouted with a tone of hysteria in her voice. “Don’t shoot! Bring him with you. We need prisoners.” The soldier’s arm swerved, but he fired anyway. Cody twitched as a bullet punctured his right foot. The soldier picked up the Black Berry, carefully placed it into his satchel, and returned to my side. He signaled for the two Privates to pick up Cody’s limp body. Before doing so, one of the two bandaged his wounded foot.

My vision was distorted; I had lost my sense of balance. Fortunately, my escort was strong enough to propel me forward despite myself. I made it all the way to the dock, where I tripped and fell face first onto the beach, immediately in front of where my rescue boat bobbed in the water. My marine escort swore colourfully while he tossed me into a Zodiac. I looked at Karana. She was vomiting over the edge of the other Zodiac.

The moment our boats pulled away from the beach a group of male villagers rushed to the dock. One native tried to get into a launch but was shot repeatedly; this caused the rest of the natives to pull back. The recoil from the guns rocked our boats.

Our Zodiacs curved around the on-ramp spit, and then sped into the bay. The desalination plant and gardens were now directly west of us, on our left. I heard a loud noise. I reached for a pair of binoculars that lay on a discarded pile of gear near my head. I raised them, with shaking hands, to my eyes. The desalination plant was on fire. It was surrounded by a crowd of natives. I began to curse violently. This made my rescuer quite angry. He shouted at me, “Shut the fuck up. We didn’t destroy the water factory. We just blew up some switches so those clowns can’t use it any more. We’ll salvage it later.”

The air was full of popping sounds, which suddenly grew much louder. There was an explosion that I heard as a deep rumble and saw as a flash of light. The native surge around the desalination plant ebbed in the instant following the explosion, but the press of bodies was too great. The natives surged forward again. They began to pile on top of each other, desperately trying to get enough height to smother the now raging fire from above. Limned by the fire, and from a distance, they looked like a river of soldier ants flowing over dead prey, except they were far more disorganized than ants. The hapless souls didn’t even have buckets that worked.

As I watched clouds of smoke engulf the desalination plant, I wanted to shout at the marines, “It looks like we’ve forgotten how to blow up switches, doesn’t it? Big surprise. We’ve forgotten how to do all sorts of things. We can’t make photovoltaic cells, we can’t make integrated circuits, we can barely make elevators!” I wanted to say this but I had lost the strength to fume. Instead, I rested my tired head on a pile of cables so that I didn’t strain myself while I watched Eden burn.

Fin

Author Notes

The story begins when a ship called the Yéil arrives at Los Angeles, two centuries after California was destroyed (mostly flooded) as a result of the Hayward Quake. The name of the ship (Yéil ) is a reference to the trickster, Raven, who in Tlingit mythology is credited with (among other things) stealing the moon on behalf of mankind (unlike Prometheus he got away with it). Disruption is an important narrative device in all of the stories.

Long Beach Island was created when the Hayward Quake (a major fault) – and its numerous aftershocks – caused much of the western coast of North America to flood. The “Island” is what remains of the southern suburbs of Los Angeles. It is comprised of what is now the area west of highway 405 (the San Diego Expressway), including land currently under the Pacific Ocean. Its northern tip is the area between Highways 110 and 405, just south of downtown Los Angeles. Downtown Los Angeles is completely under water.
The set for the story is the shanty town that has grown up around the old Pacific Investment Management Company (PIMCO) headquarters, in Newport Beach. In the story, the ruins PIMCO headquarters is slightly closer to downtown Los Angeles than it is today because of aftershocks from the Hayward Quake.

I chose the PIMCO headquarters as the set for this story’s parody of financial shamanism because at the time of writing PIMCO had more bond assets under administration – $1.8 trillion in May 2012 – than any other company, and was the largest financial firm on the west coast of the USA. Mohamed el-Erian, the person whose personal communication device is featured in the story, is one of the two CEOs of the firm. I hope he’s nice enough to not sue me for some reason or another.

The idea behind the parody is that when the Collapse happens, trade decays and, as a result, communities have to draw upon local resources in order to survive. The natives who live on Long Beach Island have few skills to help them survive – knowledge about bond and equity trading has become practically useless, and quite meaningless in a world without global financial markets. Over time this “knowledge”, because of its association with the lost wealth of the early 21st Century, gets turned into the magical language of the local religion. All this is to parody our current deification of free market economics.

The Sustainable Garden – aka Eden – was built during the Collapse. This is one of my favorite historical themes, that even in dark ages technology develops.

 

 

The next morning is my last. The plan is for one of Ravi’s men to drive me to the airport. We leave in the late morning after a leisurely breakfast. The streets are empty compared with yesterday, so our journey is uneventful. As I sit in the rear of the car I find myself in a pensive mood. Having found my signature style I feel unexpectedly unsettled, like a sailor who has stepped off of a ceaselessly rocking boat onto solid ground. The quest for a signature style, which has been such a defining characteristic of my life, is now over. Undoubtedly a time will come when I will feel compelled to change my look again, but that time is in the distant future. What will my next move be now? Can I be content simply expressing the identity I have chosen for myself?

At the entrance to the airport, at the point where the rickshaw drivers patiently wait at that invisible but all too real barrier between powered and human traffic, I have my driver stop our car and say to him, “Can you please ask one of the rickshaw drivers over there who speaks for them?” I ask. He looks at me quizzically so I rephrase the question. “Please ask to whom they pay baksheesh.” He shrugs then rolls down the window, says something quickly to one of the rickshaw drivers, and then addresses me. “Their manager is not here, Madame.”

Perfect. “Please wait”, I say as I step out of the car and approach the cluster of rickshaws. The drivers are a thin, unkempt lot, wearing rude dhotis. Their shoes are made of some form of recycled rubber, probably old tires. I am impressed with the craftsmanship, but saddened. You can only do so much with such material.

“Do any of you speak English?” I ask. Most nod mutely no, but one man speaks up. “I do Madame. Can I help you? Would you like a ride to the airport?”

“No.” As I reply, I remove what remains of my money from my pocket and divide the bills into ten groups, one pile for each rickshaw driver plus one pile for my driver. When I am done distributing the money, the English speaker asks again, “We are all most grateful for your gift, Madame. Please, can we help you?”

“There is no need. Chatterjee’s man is taking care of me.” I nod to my driver.

The rickshaw driver rolls his head in agreement but nevertheless asks again. “Are you certain that there is no help that we can give you?”

I look into the back seat of the car, which is crammed full of packages. On top of the pile I see my carry-on suitcase, which I know contains my bouffant wig and tiara. “No thank you. I have more than enough.”

Fin

References

1. Bouffe is a reference to Opera Bouffe, typically a light, comic Italian or French opera.

2. The Italian phrase ”Abbiamo venduto la parrucca, ora puoi comprare la villa a Parma” means “Now you can buy your villa in Parma”, which is an indirect way of suggesting that the outfit Bexx has just purchased is expensive.

3. Sourav Ganguly was am extremely famous cricket star in the Oughts. This reference is added for the benefit of readers who are familiar with Kolkata to underscore the seriousness of the cricket riot.

4. Rosa Luxembourg was a famous German communist revolutionary who was murdered in January 1919. The child is named after her to emphasize that the wig manufacturing family is aware of the class ramifications of Bexx’s materialism. This is not such a stretch. There is a very strong tradition of communism in Kolkata. That’s why one of its main streets is called Lenin Sarani.

Author’s Note

This story was originally written for a media and the law course. I hope that I have succeeded in parodying Kinsella’s series as much as is allowed by our first amendment rights – but no more. This is a friendly parody. I also hope that my work gently prods shopaholics everywhere to consider how it is that their relentless pursuit of style is harming themselves and our planet.

Because I am writing a parody of an English book, I have chosen to use English spellings. I have chosen to use Calcutta instead of Kolkata in the title to underscore the class divide between Bexx, Gavin, and the people of Kolkata.

If you see any grammar or writing errors, I would kindly appreciate your input. I find my paragraphs can get overloaded with moods, tenses and aspects!

I can’t believe you got this far, thank you for reading!

Fin

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The next morning I strike quite a figure walking down Lenin Sarani in my Jackie O’ digs. Even without heels I am tall. In go-go boots and a beehive I tower over the locals.

Initially I am disappointed by the shopping: the retail stores are a pale imitation of my favorite London shops and the branded goods are more expensive than at home. Though the shopping doesn’t improve, the stores certainly become more interesting when we turn off of the main thoroughfare and enter the New Market.

My favorite stores are magical places where the wares of the world are conveniently gathered and prettily displayed for my consideration and purchase. There is nothing pretty or convenient about the New Market. The streets are crowded with hustling retailers engaged in the rawest forms of commerce. I see chickens tied by their necks to bicycles racks, asphyxiating fish flopping in filthy buckets of water, blacksmiths smelting metal in tiny furnaces, and children creating silver leaf with tiny hammers. You would think that I would feel out of place in my cream-coloured mini-skirt and powder-blue go-go boots. But I don’t. The realization gives me a thrill. “This really could be my signature look”, I think. My sunshiny thought is quickly covered by clouds. “Provided I can find a bouffant wig.”

After 30 minutes of uneventful browsing through silk scarves and jute bags I notice an old woman sitting on the stairs in front of a building. Her tattered clothes are stiff with dirt. She is not wearing shoes. Her thickly calloused feet suggest that she has never worn shoes. I want to help her. I quickly search through my purse. I only have credit cards, a cheque book and odd bits of makeup and accessories. I have left my money behind because this excursion is Mr. Chatterjee’s treat. I consider asking Rajit for some change but hesitate because it may be rude to spend Mr. Chatterjee’s money on a poor, homeless woman. And besides, charity should be personal. If I choose to give I should do so with my own possessions.

An idea pops into my head. I’ll write this woman a cheque. Ten quid seems about right. I pin the cheque to her lapel using a beautiful hat pin from Harrods that is in fact more valuable than the money I’m giving her. As I turn away from her I feel that something isn’t right. A cheque seems such an incomplete present in such an intimate situation. I sift through my purse looking for something else to give her and to my delight I find the perfect gift. Though I cannot be certain what exactly her colours are given how filthy and unkempt she is, my intuition tells me that maroon lipstick will look perfect on her. I place the applicator in one of the folds of her skirt. As I do so, her hand tightly clasps it but she doesn’t wake up.

The encounter leaves me inexplicably fatigued. Rajit senses this and signals for our car. Our next stop is the Barabazar market. We take the Strand along the Hugli River, towards the Howrah Bridge. The roads are appallingly congested, apparently because of a cricket match between Dhaka and Calcutta that is about to begin. In the shadow of the bridge, across from the Armenian Ghat, a flash of tinsel catches my eye. My gaze drifts towards the bridge … I can’t believe what I see. I shout “Rajit, stop the car!” It’s an impossible request: though the traffic is crawling it nevertheless has an inexorable momentum. Fortunately, we’re only moving at 2 kilometres an hour so I don’t injure myself as I leap out of the car door and race towards a tiny wig shop nestled in the shadow of the bridge. I really can’t believe it. There in the window is the same beehive wig I am wearing.

The wig is not why I am here. Synchronicity with loud accessories is not a good thing. For starters, the best accessories are always expensive because you can’t skimp on gaudiness, and, as I have learned from my work as a financial reporter, one contributor to a high price is scarcity. To see an expensive accessory that you thought was unique in a tumbledown store can be devastating…

That isn’t what motivates me. Seeing my wig here suggests that perhaps my bouffant …

Rajit catches up to me at the entrance to the store and manages to hold the door open for me as I enter. The store owner at first says nothing to me but merely looks at my beehive wig and then at the wig in the window. She has an expression of disbelief on her face, mixed with – I’m not certain what. After a moment of silence Rajit impatiently says something to her in Bangla. To my surprise she then addresses me in English.

“What is your name?”, she asks. She has an Oxford English accent.

“Rebecca” I hesitantly reply. “Call me Bexx.”

“My name is Rachana” she replies. As the shop-keeper addresses me Rajit slips out the front door, probably to assist our driver, who is having an animated discussion with a traffic cop.

“I bought mine in London.” I point to my wig and then at the one in the window and laugh. I fear that this may not be the best conversation starter but the wigs in the window and on my head are the elephants in this room.

Rachana asks, “Do you like it? It was made with my daughter’s hair.” After she says this Rachana pokes her head through the beaded curtain behind where she is sitting at the cash register, and speaks quietly in Bangla to someone in the back room. A wisp of a girl responds to her call. The child’s colourful sari is clean, if somewhat ragged. Her alert, dark eyes remind me of the sales-gamin at Bouffe.

Now I have as dirty a mind as any Essex girl. But it is a nice dirty that fantasizes about alternative uses for silk scarves and what kind of lingerie should start where my thigh-high boots end. Looking at this girl – whose jet black hair I am wearing on my head – seems raw, even vaguely obscene to me. Perhaps that is why I take off my wig as I kneel down beside her, so that my eyes are level with hers. Though she shyly plays with her dark tresses as I kneel she does not flinch. She is a very beautiful girl. I hope that Gavin and I have a daughter who is this pretty.

Then a most unsettling thought races through my head. “I don’t just want this girl’s hair, I want her.” I wonder, “Can you adopt someone who has parents? Can it be done in person or does it require a broker? How much does it cost?” I restrain my enthusiasm. “Hold on! I mustn’t be hasty”, I think. “If I am considering adopting her then I should find out if we get along.” While still looking into her beautiful brown eyes I ask her mother, “Does she speak English?” Rachana nods. The child says nothing, but continues to look at me. “What is your name?” I ask.

The child continues to play with her hair for another moment and then to my delight, replies, “Rosa. After Rosa Luxembourg. Do you know who Rosa Luxembourg is?”

I recognize the name from a college history class, so nod vaguely yes as I present the child with my beehive wig. “Rosa, this wig is made from your hair. I bought it in London.” The child responds to my words with a very expressive look, though I have difficulty determining exactly what it is she is expressing.

I continue to speak, “Everyone thinks the wig is really cool.”

The child bursts into a smile but steps away from me and closer to her mother, who puts her hand affectionately onto her child’s head. I know in that beautiful, sad moment that I will never possess this child. Rosa’s place is here, with her own mother.

My reflective mood is dispelled by Rachana, who asks “Miss Bexx, are you looking for another wig?” As she say this she hands me the same bouffant wig that I could not buy for love or money in London!

I gingerly inspect it. I don’t know exactly what I am looking for – cobras, perhaps – then quickly put it on and pose in front of the mirror. Though there is such a subtle difference between a bouffant and a beehive, the bouffant is the look for me. I look so good that I squeal with delight. In fact I look exactly like the display model at Bouffe.

As I think this I freeze in terror.

A good shopper is never derivative. To look like a store display is to say to the world, I have no creativity; I do not deserve to call myself a shopper. I am simply someone who picks and choses, or worse I am no more than a compulsive spender of money. This harsh realization breaks my heart, and judging from the look on the shopkeeper’s face, her heart as well. My hands actually shake as I remove the wig and return it to her. I wistfully say, “It is very beautiful, but no thank you.”

I’m feeling guilty and unsettled by my sudden change of heart so I look for something to buy. Ten scarves, 3 saris and 5 coarse but durable jute bags later I return to our car.

As we slowly pull away from the wig store towards Mohandas Gandhi boulevard, a poor looking woman with a finely wrought necklace made of beer can tabs, bangs on the window of our car. She speaks – or more accurately moans – at me and then thrusts her naked child against the glass of the car window directly opposite my face. Our driver shouts at her to leave us in peace while I reflect on my shopping experiences.

“What would you like to buy next?” Rajit asks, once we’ve pulled away from the beggar and her child.

“How about jewelry?” I suggest.

“That is a very good choice. I have an excellent suggestion for you.” He pulls out his mobile phone and makes an appointment.

We turn off of Mohandas Gandhi Boulevard onto a winding street called Biplabi Trailakya Sarani that leads directly into the Barabazar Market. As we approach our destination the dress of the men changes dramatically. The area under the bridge had been dominated by mustached men in dhoti, while the men in this neighbourhood wear pants, and most have beards. At one point a tall, thin man who is entirely naked walks by, whisking the ground in front of him with a swatch of twigs. From his actions I assume he’s a nutter, however the crowd parts reverentially to let him pass.

Our car stops in front of a textile store. I am deep in conversation with the owner before Rajit has had time to tell me that the jeweler who we are visiting lives upstairs. The jeweler, Samir, is a small, round man with a well-kept beard several shades greyer than his hair. He wears a tiny pillbox hat, a brightly braided vest, and printed pajama pants. The combination of this outfit and his obsequious manner makes me think of him as a chauffeur for a magic carpet service.

Pardon my stereotypes. Despite my comic-book prejudgements, Samir has tremendous skill as a jeweler. I am impressed – almost overwhelmed – by his work. His materials are the best and his subjects are varied. I could wear his pieces dressed as Jackie O’, as a punk rocker or to evensong. Once again I am paralyzed by choice. I wonder if it would be excessive to buy everything.

I pause to reflect on why I would want to buy everything and realize I have been looking at the problem of shopping all wrong. I have always told myself that I purchase so many accessories because I want to keep my options open; I cast acquisitiveness as freedom. Each item is a possible look, and the possibilities increase the more you buy, because things go with each other. But I have all the freedom I want – why do I need more choice? What am I really looking for here? I look at my reflection in one of the dozens of mirrors in the shop and see a face adorned with a pillbox hat and beehive and answer my question. I am looking for my signature style. I am looking for my identity.

Just as my mind flits to thoughts of bouffant wigs Rajit speaks, “Samir, this is not your best work.”

Samir replies calmly, ignoring Rajit’s sharp, patrician tone. “Sir, this is my best work. However, you are correct in implying that it is not the best jewelry I have to sell. My best piece was made by an unknown craftsman. Behold.”

I have always thought about what it must be like to be a princess and to be able to wear accessories that are national treasures. But the pragmatic side of me until now has prevailed: “That jewel-encrusted crown is beautiful” I would think during my visits to the Tower of London, “but I certainly can’t wear it with a slight, sexy, black dress.”

That is how I would joke about treasures before I saw the Raj Mahal Tiara.

Samir speaks as he unlocks a tiny silver box, “This piece comes from the Raj Mahal Hills, which is a remote area in northwestern Bengal on the border with Bihar.” As he tells me this story, he opens the box and removes a crimson pillow on which rests a gorgeous band of wrought platinum inset with deep blue star sapphires. “The Hills are in a region which was ignored by the world until the Mughals arrived from Afghanistan. Then the Hills’ position overlooking a narrow point on the Ganges River became very strategic. First the Bengalis built a fortress. Then the Mughals stormed it and took the area for their own. Later, under the British, when the border between Bengal and Bihar ceased to matter, the fortress was still used, though to suppress local dissent. The peasants who lived there were reduced to poverty by the wars and eventually the Zemandars, who ruled the area, enslaved them.” He pauses dramatically and then says, “It was those slaves who mined these sapphires”

I am transfixed by the star sapphires. “It looks like there are little angels dancing on the stones”, I say haltingly.

“Some say those are the souls of those who died mining the stones.”

“Can I have it?”

Both Samir and I look to Rajit for an answer.

I stop breathing while I wait for a response. “Rajit has to say yes.” I think. “He has an entire purse full of money, after all. How much can this piece cost?” I answer that question myself. “A lot. Maybe a room full of rupees.”

Rajit says something quietly and quickly to Samir in Bangla and then nods assent.

I exhale a little bit too loudly as I thank Rajit, a thanks I cut short because I cannot keep myself away from the treasure on the crimson pillow. “The tiara will go perfectly with my Jackie Onassis outfit and wig”, I think.”…the bouffant wig I didn’t buy.”

I’m suddenly alarmed.

“Rajit, can we pay for the tiara and leave? Now. I loved meeting you Samir, but we’ve got to go. Now.”

“Yes. Yes. Certainly.” As Rajit pays Samir he asks him, “Who won the test match?”

“You don’t know?” Samir sounds surprised, “The game never ended.”

“What do you mean?”

“An umpire made a very unfavourable call against Kolkata. You’d best be careful when driving home. There are groups of hooligans causing trouble throughout the city. There is a rumour that Sourav Ganguly himself has been called to restore order. The rioting is particularly bad near the Howrah Bridge…”

Where my wig is.

As we exit, I hesitantly ask Rajit if it will be OK for us to quickly pick up my wig before returning to Ravi’s place. He insists that we will have to return for it tomorrow because of the riot.

My flight home is tomorrow.

Our car exits from the bazaar exactly where we entered, just below the Armenian Ghat, on the edge of the River, scant metres from my goal. Through a thick, restless crowd, I can see the wig shop. I imagine that I can even see the anxious look on Rachana’s face as she struggles to bar the entrance to her shop. Though she is so very close, she might as well be on a different planet; the crowd is impassable and looks dangerous.

Some people think that shopaholism is about compulsive materialism. That’s like saying that anorexia is about the denial of food. It is a true but shallow statement. Shopping for me is about defining who I am in an ungrounded world full of choices. I remember when I first realized I was a shopaholic. I was a little child. I wasn’t buying anything. I didn’t even fully understand what buying was. I had just dressed up in one of my sister’s outfits and some of my grandmother’s costume jewelry. When I looked at myself in the mirror I thought, “I love how I look. This is so cool.” It was a complete feeling, though from the first time so transient. I wanted a different look scant moments after achieving my first. Is my disease dissatisfaction or hunger? Perhaps if I could settle upon one look my identity would settle down and my symptoms abate.

I normally reserve such reflections for my therapist, but I tell you this one to explain what I do next.

As our driver leans his elbow onto our car’s horn and begins a slow turn right, away from the store I have the profound realization that my signature style is nobody’s priority but my own. If I do not get that wig now I will never get it. And I have to get it myself. Before Rajit realizes what I am doing, I step out of our idling Maruti, slam the door shut behind me, and am immediately sucked into the centre of the riot.

I briefly glance back towards the car. Rajit is struggling to exit but the Maruti has now been completely enveloped by the crowd and he can’t open the car door. One exuberant fellow is actually standing on its hood shouting and waving a cricket bat wildly around his head.

“I must keep focused”, I think as I continue to push forward. “I must get to the wig shop before Rachana finishes barricading the entrance.”

Though I am in the middle of a cricket riot I am somehow not a part of it and my presence – aside from the odd astonished look – goes … if not unnoticed, at least unopposed. Without too much effort I tack across the flow of the crowd and break free several metres from my destination. Thankfully Rachana is still struggling with the metal gate she uses to protect her shop. It seems rusty and rarely used. “The wig! The wig!” I shout above the noise of the riot but she doesn’t appear to understand me. Instead she wordlessly marshals me into her shop and then gestures for me to hold a bent metal bar in place while she padlocks the metal gate. which she had finally succeeded in pulling down to the ground. I am so relieved to have made it into the store before it is closed that it takes me a moment to realize that we are now sealed in. I reach into my bag for my cell phone to call Rajit, but it is not there.

The bouffant wig is where I left it. I pick it up and walk towards the cash register to pay. To my surprise Rachana turns off the lights and pushes me and her daughter into the back room. There’s a bearded man there already. He politely introduces himself as Mohsin. I look closely at how he is dressed. Suddenly things begin to make sense. Though Rachana is Hindu, at least culturally, her husband is Moslem. That appears to be a problem.

I haven’t even completed this thought when a crowd of people start banging on the metal gate and shouting. As they bang I wonder what the rioters are wearing. Are they men wearing dhoti’s who look like so many angry Omar Sharifs, or are they bearded and dressed in pajama pants and pillbox hats. Are there women with them? What about teenagers and children?

We remain silent while, for one tense moment, the rioters try to break through the metal gate. After a long moment, they give up and drift away to other easier targets.

“What did they want?” I ask Rachana.

She doesn’t answer my question. After a brief, uncomfortable pause her daughter Rosa does. “The men want to kill my father because he is a Moslem and a communist and married to my mother who is a high-caste Hindu.”

I don’t have a response to this so I bring the conversation back to the topic that is foremost on my mind. “I’d like to buy this wig. Which credit cards do you take?” I lay my best cards down like a royal flush. To my surprise there is a long pause before Rachana answers, “We don’t take credit cards.”

… and I have no cash.

This is one of those moments that separate the pros from the amateurs. “Rachana, I have an idea. Why don’t we trade?” She looks at me skeptically so I hastily add “… I’ll give you my wig, which must be worth the same as that bouffant, and I’ll throw in this broach”, which I pray is as real as the money I paid for it. The merchant carefully inspects the gold and emerald brooch for a moment and then to my relief she nods assent.

I have a feeling of profound trepidation as I replace my beehive wig with the bouffant. I look into a large mirror beside the cash register and see reflections of myself in the mirrors that are scattered around the store walls. I reach into my purse, remove the Raj Mahal Tiara and put it on. I can confirm from thousands of reflections that I have completed my look.

At that very moment someone starts banging on the door of the shop. It turns out it’s Rajit’s man. He’s come back for me! It takes only a few moments to unbolt the door. As I exit, Rajit sees me and immediately makes a call on his mobile phone. I see to my relief that the rioters have moved on. A moment later a hunter green Jaguar pulls up in front of the store and out bursts my dear fiancé Gavin who rushes over to me and gives me a huge hug. A long moment later we separate and he checks me out, “Bexx, I expected to find your mutilated corpse, but … but … not this … you look perfect.”

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The trip to Kokata takes the better part of a week. First, we take a private jet to Milan. The flight from Milan to Dubai is rough. To my amazement, I get bumped to economy by some Saudi Princess, but travel the last leg of my journey in first-class. I arrive at Kolkata airport tired, cranky and burdened with duty-free goods.

Immediately upon exiting customs I am met by the love of my life, Sir Dudley Gavin Dudley, who is stylishly decked out in a collarless silk shirt and perfectly tailored, tapered black pants. His shoes are hand made. The outfit is entirely new, which cheers me up considerably. “He must have bought these clothes here”, I conclude hopefully. Behind Gavin stand two men in light cotton outfits and mustaches. They both vaguely look like Omar Sharif. Gavin introduces them as Mr. Chatterjee’s men.

As we proceed to our car, a beautiful hunter green Jaguar, I look back and see the words DUM DUM AIRPORT flashing in bright blue-white neon. I smile. Gavin notices and pulls me into his muscular arms. “It’s nice to see you happy, dear heart.”

“I was just laughing at the sign. Was the airport named after Sir Dum Dum the youngest son of the Earl of Stupid, perhaps?”

“Don’t mock my relatives”, Gavin replies sternly.

For a moment I’m taken aback. “Have I offended my fiancé?”, I think. “It certainly is common for aristocrats to have silly names, after all. And Gavin does have a number of nitwit cousins.” Gavin notices my consternation and bursts out laughing. “Its just a name, though a sinister one. A dum-dum is a particularly vicious – and now illegal – type of bullet. This district used to be the British arsenal where the bullets were made. There was a rough side to the British Raj.”

I reply, speaking almost to myself, “What a way to go, torn apart by a dum-dum bullet.” My words don’t make me laugh as I look out my window and see prematurely aged men pulling rickshaws against the faded backdrop of what once must have been glorious townhouses. The interior of the car seems even more plush when set against this foil of poverty and decay.

After a splendid dinner held in the courtyard of Mr. Chatterjee’s home, which is actually one half of a palace (the other half is an exclusive hotel). Tables are cleared and the courtyard is transformed into a market. Along one wall artisans carefully lay out their wares on colourful rugs. In the centre, a group of Rajastani puppeteers and musicians put on a performance.

Though the puppet show is charming, my mind, gaze and eventually body wanders over to the artisans’ stalls to browse and inevitably buy. The selection is astonishingly good. It takes me but a moment to decide to purchase most of the earrings and silver bangles from the first two artisans. It is not until I reach the third artisan’s table, which contains pieces that are more like fine art than jewelry, that I settle into the shopping groove. One piece in particular catches my eye, a silver bracelet embossed with an array of semi-precious stones.

“How much is this?” I ask.

“For you, 400 rupees” he replies.

“It costs a few pence more than 4 quid”, I think with amazement. This doesn’t seem possible: the bracelet is made of two different rare metals and garnished with 6 expertly cut tiny emeralds. All for the amount of money that I make in five minutes hosting my television show.

I overpay the jeweler, secretly hoping that he will use the money to replace his tattered clothing, and place the brooch around my neck. As I do so, Mr. Chatterjee sidles up beside me. He is accompanied by a handsome young man who looks exactly like Omar Sharif.

”Rebecca, I would like to introduce you to my son, Rajit”

Giving how dashing he is, I expect Rajit to kiss me once on each cheek, but instead he modestly shakes my hand. “That is a beautiful brooch you are wearing. Did you just buy it?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He then notices the bags that are lying in a heap at my feet, and the empty tables behind me. “I see that you bought more than just the brooch.”

I flash him a guilty smile as I reply, “It is all so beautiful, and so cheap … I mean inexpensive.”

Mr. Chatterjee notices my awkwardness and smoothly interjects, “Rebecca, I have an idea. Tomorrow, while Sir Gavin and I iron out the details of my IPO, why doesn’t Rajit take you shopping?”

I look towards Rajit to see what he thinks of this excellent idea. “I would love to” he replies, “provided Rebecca doesn’t mind.”

“Of course not!”

To my astonishment Mr. Chatterjee then hands his son a wallet that is thick with money. To his son he somberly says, “Take care of her tomorrow. Buy her whatever she wants.” Rajit takes the wallet and places it in his pocket. The transaction is conducted as if the wallet did not even exist: both Chatterjee and his son are looking at me.

I am beaming, of course.

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At the best of times I need only the thinnest excuse to go shopping, so this turn of events is more than justification for an excursion to my favorite store.

Though the address of Bouffe is on that highest of high streets, Oxford, its entrance is actually situated on an alleyway, as if its proprietors want to discourage traffic, which I assume they do given that the entrance to the boutique is guarded by a bouncer and a velvet rope. When I arrive, the bouncer is surrounded by a gaggle of teenage girls who insist that their friend has put them “on the list”. As I haughtily glide through these tarts like a hot silver spoon through butter, I remove my foundation applicator and delicately smash it, extract my splurge credit card from the wreckage, and proffer it to the bouncer with both hands, Japanese style. He bows slightly as he accepts it, and in one movement scans it and returns it to me. A silvery chime indicates that my credit limit has been established, and is acceptably large. The bouncer unclasps the velvet rope and gestures for me to enter.

Inside, there are three sales-models languidly posing around the store’s displays: a bottle blonde near the perfumes, a brunette at the jewelry case, and a very young, freckled girl with a copper coloured wig in the clothing section. Though the store is barely twenty paces across, these Charlie’s Angels of ennui each sport adorable, brightly colored microphone headsets and earpieces – just what you’d expect if Coco Chanel designed for MI5.

Considering the impact this tiny boutique has on the London fashion scene it is, in many ways like the sales-models themselves: a wisp of very fashionable nothing. This nothingness is enhanced by the bright, white walls, which leave you with no sense of depth. The Jackie O’ display dominates the street side of the store. An Andy Warhol print covers most of the back wall. The floor is dotted with small, well-designed spaces which showcase the remainder of the store’s product – some large, brassy jewelry, a couple of bags, one pair of knee-high platform boots, and a delicate belt made of shrunken skulls. The elder models display a professional level of attitude, which presents a formidable barrier to communication. The young, copper-haired model is fastidiously arranging the skull-belt so that it looks like a smiley face. She seems approachable so I speak to her first.

“I’d like the wig that the display model has … “

“Hello” she replies enthusiastically. “Can I help you?”

Her interruption puts me off so I stutter my question a second time, “I’d like the bouffant wig that the display artist is wearing.” The artist, who is standing perfectly still in the store’s tiny window gives me a wink.

“Oh, I’m sorry, but that’s not for sale.”

“What!” I think. “How can a wig in a clothing store not be for sale?” Then a thought strikes me. Perhaps this is a repeat of the dark days of the summer of 1995 when everything I wanted to buy was reserved for Sarah Ferguson or Princess Di. I say, “Oh, has someone famous already bought the wig? Sting perhaps? Or Prince Charles?”

The sales-model nervously adjusts her size 1 dress as she repeats, “No. It’s just not for sale.”

I catch a side-long look of myself in the mirror. “Maybe I’m not fashionable enough to buy it? Bouffe is very fussy about its clientele”, I think with trepidation.

The sales-model notices and replies anxiously to my unspoken question. “It’s not that you’re dressed in last season’s style. You look beautiful. It’s just that the wig is not for sale. It is part of the store’s permanent collection.”

I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of things that I’ve really wanted that I didn’t ultimately get. Though I am one wedding vow away from being rich, I know how to consume on the cheap. I don’t need money. I get what I want because I am persistent. I will suggest, cajole, push, wheedle and on rare occasions even beg to achieve my consumption goals. Despite these formidable skills, at this moment I am overwhelmed by despair. The only words that I can utter are “but … my signature style.”

These are powerful words to the shopping cognoscenti. The sales-model grasps my hand tightly. I look her directly in the eyes just as a tear dribbles down her freckled cheek. I watch as it splashes onto her bony shoulder. She says, “We could sell you something else. Another wig perhaps?” This thought excites her. “Would you consider something a little more mod?” She lightly pushes me towards a corner of the store that I hadn’t noticed before. There, sitting on a plaster pedestal illuminated by ambient light, is a beautiful beehive wig.

“What do you think? It’s made from the same hair as the bouffant wig.”

One of my most important mottoes as a shopper is never to compromise. As soon as you let trivialities like money and convenience guide your purchases you are doomed to mediocrity. I know in my heart of hearts that the bouffant and not the beehive wig is my signature style; the beehive is too much, but the bouffant is … perfect.

I glance towards the store display.

“I’m sorry, but the bouffant really isn’t for sale.”

I look back at the beehive. It is fun and sexy.

“Would you like to try it on?” the sales-gamin asks.

I hesitate.

“Not every outfit can be a signature.”

Though I am heartbroken not to be able to buy the bouffant wig, the girl’s wise words clinch the sale. As I pay for the wig – and the skirt, jacket and go-go boots which go with it – the blonde sales-model who had watched my entire shopping spree with listless scorn, activates her headset and speaks one sentence into it in Italian, ”Abbiamo venduto la parrucca, ora puoi comprare la villa a Parma”¹

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¹Now you can buy that villa in Parma.