Fiction >> Mark Sashine

FIREWORKS IN THE NEW LAND

 By Mark Sashine

                There was plenty of time for a snack at the cemetery. The Redeemer dismounted his bicycle at the ancient gates and secured the rusty ring to keep the silence going. A donkey or a horse would be more appropriate. He imagined himself delivering mail on horseback. The agency might not allow that. Humans can work for free   but   horses cost money.

                 The Redeemer washed his hands and face in the marble pool sat on the stone bench near a small vault and tried to spot a dagger in the rubble. It should be there. Juliet might have dropped it after piercing her heart. Or was it Guido Kavalkanti who lost it while marveling about Eastern wisdom. This place was exactly like in the books by Anatole France: ruins, wild grapes and spirits of the giants.

                He pulled out his sandwich.  Wings of Freedom was the invention of the refugee women. Grocery merchants peeled the skin off the chicken wings to satisfy the cholesterol-watching local ladies. Filled with fried dough or any other stuffing   those scrubs served as breakfast, lunch and   dinner.  Slightly rotten abandonato oranges made up a dessert.   It was cozy and peaceful under the shade of the wreathed angel where the flowers were fresh and watered. The Redeemer touched the warm hand.

                God takes care of this place. These people wouldn’t bulldoze old cemeteries or build a recreation complex over the place of mass murder to run away from Him. So quickly we ran and so far away that I can’t catch my breath. 

                He finished the sandwich and left some crumbs for the birds. On the way back he will sort the papers in the same spot to plan the delivery route.

                Down from the cemetery there was a school -bus stop at the crossroads and the local schoolgirls were there, chatting and waving their hands. He waved back and shouted   words of admiration.  Those girls were colorful like the birds he just saw: deep blue eyes on the tanned, olive faces, red-and black dresses and pitch-black hair. Their voices were rich and vibrant with hidden emotions not yet well understood by them.  Too bad he ran out of crumbs.

                 "Hey, stranger," said another voice. A ragged fellow stood under the shade of the tree. "Wanna a cigarette? These broads look more fantastic if you watch them through a cloud of American smoke."

                "I don’t smoke, sorry," answered the Redeemer, pedaling away.

                People couldn’t work legally.  The only way to earn money was to do petty crime.  Syrians controlled the welfare hotel for the refugees and hired people to do errands, cigarette bartering, and selling stolen goods. Broads, huh? Picked up the slang from his employers, no doubt.

He passed the town limits and was now on the shoulder of the highway. The red flag with the hammer and a sickle on the roof of the municipal building could be seen from afar. Communists had won the local elections. That flag had caused several heart attacks among the refugees who thought they come full circle. The Redeemer remembered the chilling feeling when his family together with the others was placed onto a train from one neutral country to another. Riot police with dogs surrounded the railway platform. The train loomed through the darkness in the middle of nowhere, and for a moment it seemed that they all were going to die.

                He looked at his watch and pulled out a pile of handmade road sketches. Every day the morning bus brought the newcomers for processing and they went on foot to the agency   three miles down the highway. There was a bus stop in front of the agency, also a shorter route through downtown but the people did as they were told in the hotel and dragged under the sun. The Redeemer stopped among them and distributed the sketches of the alternate route.  Two young couples followed his advice. Others took the sketches and thanked him but continued on their way.

                At the downtown fountain the half-torn poster, proclaiming English in a Week, flapped in the wind like the sail of a doomed ship. The Redeemer circled the Swarm place and rode down the coffee street.  He liked the morning sight of the local studs drinking their first cup in the small coffee shops after a night job done well.

                I have to do it at last.  Stop; secure my bike among the cars. Slowly, calmly enter the place. Order a cup of coffee and a small cookie. I know the right words now.  Sit at the little table under the morning sun. Sip my coffee for at least an hour. Read a newspaper.  Smile. 

                The familiar agency security guard winked and partly opened the gate. The Redeemer cut through the crowd, entered the backyard and put the bike into a slot with his name on it.  You could come in stark naked, but all the vehicles had to be secured.  There were two doors: the first led into the main office and the second to the waiting area, a basement where people waited to be processed. He entered through the first one.   On the other side Mike, the redheaded caseworker sat with one foot on his desk and a contact lens in one eye.  He was fishing in the cup for the second lens. There were droplets all over the place.

                " Hi, “he said, "You late again. We instructed you to come ten minutes before the hour. Here’s one of your leaflets."  He tossed the road sketch across the desk. Mike learned the communist phraseology from his political science studies in college, somewhere in Namibia, Texas.

                 "Take the papers to your friends on the beach," he continued with both his eyes intact. "Make sure they receive those promptly and dress accordingly if the interview is scheduled. It would be good if they wash themselves on that day or at least bathed in the sea. What?"

                "I didn't say anything."  The Redeemer collected the mail and proceeded to the next desk. 

                The refugee settlement districts were chaotic. People could stay in the hotel and receive free meals only for seven days. After that they scattered mostly   in the summer villas at the beach before the start of the tourist season.  There was no heating and the owners didn't care how many families stayed under one roof.  A postal address was a blessing.  Otherwise   the people had to go to the night gatherings   for their mail.  There were three types of envelopes: calls to the consulates for the first interview, acceptances and rejections. At each desk the Redeemer signed the roster with the names and addressees. He browsed through them in search of his own.  No luck so far, but one of the   daily packages was not delivered yet.  He will distribute some at the Swarm and return for this one in about an hour.

                 It was noisy and stuffy in the room. Caseworkers were processing people.  High-pitched voices of interpreters sounded like squeaky brakes among the monotonous buzz of the refugees: Are we on time? Are our papers correct?  Can we feed our child here?  When can we get the allowance?  Can I celebrate the Holy Holidays? Can we stay in the hotel for more than a week? We do not know how to rent an apartment. What do you mean, we have to prove the persecution? I   worked all my life and now I have only a suitcase. Isn't that enough proof?   Secret Police doesn’t give its victims affidavits about torture or harassment. Who delivers the papers? This man?

                 All   the eyes turned on the Redeemer. Even the infants watched him closely.  In a hurry to leave he opened the wrong door and found himself in the waiting area. Some people were still there.  A couple had his sketch in their hands. They were both no more than eighteen years old.  And with a baby too.

                "Oh, there you are!" the girl said. "We came here much earlier and I found a place to change the diapers. Did that redhead give our thanks to you?"

                " He did," said the Redeemer. "So, you’ve been processed. Why are you still here?"

                "Do you know what they asked me?" said the youngster. "They asked if I was circumcised. We lost our families, our country, our citizenship, and this is the only thing they are interested in? What kind of people are they?"

                "Standard curiosity,” said the Redeemer. "I’ve seen worse. You, folks are young. Why did you leave?"

                "We might be young but we’re not stupid," said the  girl. "I want a family, a husband, a child, a house. I don’t want the man I love to go die or become handicapped in some stupid army.   All of them, even our parents, were talking   nonsense about honor, duty to the country, sacrifice. A bunch of idiots.  I told them if they wanted sacrifices they might as well kill themselves."

                "Good for you," said the Redeemer. "What’s with the baby?"

                "She coughs a lot. We are afraid of pneumonia. We should go to the refugee hospital but you have to spend the whole day there and we need to start searching for a place to live.  The allowance comes only in two days and without that money we can’t put down a deposit. Free meals in the hotel are all we have to eat."

                "Try to stay longer there."

                "You mean hide?" the kid said, "You know how it works. The Syrians will find you, especially with the baby. We have no cameras, monkey -wrenches or caviar to give them. And I am not going to run errands for them like the others."

                "Can you help us, please?" The girl looked straight at him. "We are desperate."

                Answering "No" became a habit. The agency had limited lodging for the very needy. It was for the caseworkers to decide whom to place there. The idea was that people had to learn how to survive on their own.  Many families were wandering on the streets. This kid is smart. The mobsters could use him only as a scapegoat.

                "Stay here," the Redeemer said. "Wait for me. I’ll come back in an hour. Meanwhile, ask your caseworker for help. See what happens."

                The Swarm was there, all right.  About a hundred people were hanging around the fountain all day long, gossiping, eating, and flirting.  The Redeemer started calling up names for the interviews.  He preferred to distribute acceptances and rejections directly to the addresses. You never knew. One person committed suicide upon receiving a rejection.

                 This consulate, that embassy...People took their envelopes. Those who knew him said thanks. Others tried to talk to him on how to get a job like his, how much does it pay, etc. When they heard that he worked for free their interest faded.  Some called him crazy. He got used to it.  A Syrian who searched his belongings in the hotel called him that way. There were four goons with knifes while he only had a frightened family.   There were books in the two heaviest suitcases.

                " Nuts," said the leather-clad leader." You are hopeless."

                Nuts he will be if he does anything against the rules now. He did his best. The acceptance   must come this month.  And   they will fly away. But whenever you fly, you take all this with you. These faces, these voices, these words.  It is all yours now. And this country is yours, even if   it doesn’t recognize your existence. If you stay longer your face will be like the faces of the people here. Only the fear you brought with you makes you different. Some difference.

                 The last person took the mail and the Redeemer headed back to the agency. It was nearly midday; the sun was coming to its full strength, and silent dogs replaced the noisy people. They followed him steadily and patiently to the gates where the leftovers from the morning crowd were. The dogs were regulars. He wondered if some of them were former refugees themselves who found an asylum here. In the dog world there are no language barriers and citizenship quotas.

                He picked up the late delivery, signed the roster automatically and opened the door into the waiting area. They were there, in a dark corner. The girl was crying. The kid sat head in his hands.

                "They told us to go away," the girl said. "We are young and able-bodied. Help is only for the elderly and sick. We are not sick. As for our baby we better make her healthy fast or we will not be permitted to enter any country."

                "It's time to go," the kid said. "Thanks for your help. We need to get back, so that I can still talk to the mobsters today."

                "Wait," said the Redeemer, "Watch the mail for me, please."

                He went down the corridor to the break room for the caseworkers. They were all there, drinking coffee. No one noticed him entering.

                "There is a family in the waiting room. They need help," he said coarsely.

                "So help them."  Mike looked around waiting for laughter.

                "You have apartments available, I know."

                "None of your business. Other people are more in need."

                "Not now.  I deliver to those addresses. Three apartments are vacant. This couple is young and helpless. Please, put them into one."

                "Your people are always helpless. They are whiners. Anyway, what’s got into you?  Did you forget the rules? Go deliver the mail if you don’t want yours to be lost. That’s why you are here in the first place, isn't it?"

                The Redeemer took a plastic cup, poured some coffee into it and drank it slowly.  He threw the cup into a trash can and said word by word, trying not to stutter, "I know that you give those apartments to the people you like. Good-looking women and all. If you help the needy family I will keep my mouth shut. But if you don’t, I will reveal the names of those privileged to the Swarm, the Syrians and to whoever will listen. I am nuts, remember?  The people will believe me."

                There was no answer. The Redeemer sat down on the chair and looked at their faces one at a time.  The middle-aged woman in the corner broke the silence, "OK, you made your point. Tell them to come in. But this is your last mail delivery. We can’t trust you anymore.  Sounds fair?"

                The baby was asleep when he returned to the couple. "They are waiting for you.  I wish you well," he said.

                The youth squeezed his hand in a handshake. In a moment they were gone. The Redeemer unlocked his bike and rode to the cemetery.  He sat on the bench at the gates to look at the roster. Then he saw it: at the end of the list there was his name. It was an acceptance.  The transportation department was inviting him to come and pick a day to leave. He looked around and took a deep breath.

                So long, my friends. Keep your dagger.  I will be back as a free man, a tourist maybe. People will smile at me, offer services and tell stories about ancient times. They will be surprised at my intention to walk to the cemetery and down the sunny road into the town.  But I will not tell them the reason. Those angels, this bench, this fountain and these birds, they will know what I have buried here. And now it’s the time to go home.

                In the evening the Redeemer told his wife about the acceptance and that he had quit the mail delivery. They were talking in the patio when a loud boom filled the air.

                "Fireworks," said his wife. "It's a local   holiday today. Let’s go out."

                They walked towards   the beach. Crowds of people were singing and dancing.  Hand-in-hand   they immersed themselves into the flow, let themselves go for the first time in many months, drifted until they found themselves far away from the carnival, somewhere on the cliffs with only the night sky, the whisper of the sea and brilliant lights above.

                "Something big happened today,” his wife said.  "These fireworks are for us."

                "I know what we are going to do now," said the Redeemer.

                "And what will that be?"

                "We have a drink at the local bar."

                "Of course," said his wife. "I crave that chocolate cake in the window."

                They turned   back and ran as fast as they could.

© Mark Sashine, 2003. All Rights Reserved.

Mark Sashine was born in Russia in 1956. His family immigrated to the US in 1989, and they now live in Connecticut. Mark holds a PhD, Professional Engineering license, and works as an engineer. In 2002 he graduated from the Breaking  Into Print Course of study in the Long Ridge Writer's Group in Connecticut. You can reach him at spockovich@att.net
 

FEATURED BOOK:

Disappearance of the Outside: A Manifesto for Escape

by Andrei Codrescu
Taking into account his own exile from Stalinist Romania, as well as the plights of such greats as Garcia Marquez, Breton, Dada, Kundera, and Milosz, Codrescu issues a call for those living in a free society to reach beyond a benign reality founded in technology and commercialism by tapping into their imaginations and striving for a better, evolutionary existence.

Sonia Choquette. (first generation born in the USA)
"The first thing to say about the experience of an immigrant is that people are like a tree whose roots have been cut off. Fortunately the human spirit is regenerative but only if you acknowledge that you have suffered a major psychic wound, even if you move under the best of conditions. So you can build new roots." Read more...