Taj's Early Years

by Lotta Bangs

  So Fermina had arranged her own much safer network to help recommended friends of friends enter America.

  I didn’t have the highest opinion of the US system. We all had figured out that ‘the enemies of our country’ we would have to assassinate were usually just persons who spoke too openly about the abuses of democracy perpetrated by our authorities.

  Or they were the few elected US officials who had somehow managed to retain their consciences, and couldn’t be frightened, blackmailed or bought off easily.

  But suppressive dictatorships could be a great deal worse.

  Fermina had set up a safe way of vetting applicant migrants, bringing them in and getting them accredited.

  This system had been working very well until recently. Then some less honorable competitors had discovered it and were trying to take over her operation.

  Fortunately, none of the punks I had attacked had seen me, nor knew that I was a girl. They didn’t even know how I had managed to knock them out as I had picked up the stones afterwards.

  Chapter 5

  Becoming Alessandra

  I told Fermina my story and need for a new identity. As I had fluent Spanish and Portuguese, she contrived to set me up as her recently orphaned distant niece from Argentina.

  And in just two days she arranged through her computer, for the necessary properly witnessed and registered legal documentation, already signed by the parents and back-dated two years, for Fermina to adopt me in the event that anything happened to them.

  My age was reduced by nearly three years, and though I didn’t know it until many years later, Maggie, my future dear friend and ally, altered my physical fingerprints and DNA signature so the trackers could never identify me by my traces.

  Fermina permed what hair I had, added extensions to give me soft ringlets, and purchased two dozen colorful elasticized head bands with attached bangs to disguise my high forehead. She taught me how to look after and maintain the style and to hide my permanent marker with tattoo concealer, (masquerading as yellow eye shadow,) under mineral-based make-up applied in two very light coats.

  She gave me a pedicure and manicure and taught me to do this for myself, to care for my cuticles and to cream my hands and feet to keep the skin soft, so I would appear upper class.

  Fermina dressed me up very girlishly in good quality pre-owned designer outfits that couldn’t be traced back to a particular locality. They were all fussy things I would never have chosen. Dresses with puffy ruffled short sleeves in bright feminine colors and full, frilled dirndl skirts with sashes which tied at the back into bows.

  Not a single pair of jeans or plain t-shirt in the lot! At least she bought the sensible basic underwear new, also in bright colors.

  She trained me in how to walk, move and behave in a simpering feminine manner.

  Fermina explained my Argentinean history. My father had been a University professor of Ancient History. And my mother had been an American-born archeologist before falling in love with and marrying him.

  These people had actually existed until they and their two children disappeared a year earlier, just before they were denounced.

  “I thought Argentina was a democratic republic now. The dictators, the shooting of street kids and the disappearing of people were all in the past, weren’t they?”

  “You are correct, Taj. America too, is a democratic republic, yet you know that good people still disappear here or have suspicious accidents.

  “Your friend was only eight, and she was shot down. Once the system is set up, it must be too tempting not to use it occasionally, just to keep in practice.”

  “So Fermina, where did the Albas disappear to, that they no longer need their ID?”

  “They joined Galen, as many people have done lately.”

  “What is Galen, then, some sort of underground organization?”

  Fermina laughed. “Yes and no. They are underground in that no one really knows anything about them. Yet they’re also very visible. They have built towers everywhere. Anybody can enter one, but nobody ever comes out again. They are sort-of more advanced Scientologists, though they claim they are not a religion, but an educational establishment. They don’t pay taxes and have full authority over their own people, but don’t mix with outsiders.

  “They protect their own and also protect anyone who tries to join them. Several times new people were forcibly detained from entering one of their buildings by police, family or soldiers. Each time the Galen Security people ’froze everybody and they all disappeared inside the building.

  “The police, family or soldiers who had been trying to prevent people joining were released after thirty days with all their ideas rearranged. They now loved Galen and nearly all persuaded their friends and families to join them there. Everyone who had been in Galen for whatever they do to them, returned voluntarily.

  “There have also been hardened criminals: murderers, rapists, pedophile murderers and others, who also were completely turned around by thirty days at Galen and became exemplary citizens afterwards.”

  “They must have been brainwashed. There’s no other way to change ingrained beliefs.”

  “Perhaps, Taj, but none of the persons who were treated and returned ever complained. They all said that it was the best place in the world.

  “The Galen computer arranges all the papers for the illegals I bring in, but she also vets them before they are allowed on my boat to make sure they are good people. She says she reads their souls. She also has other powers. Whenever there’s a big disaster, Galen is there immediately to help. They put out fires, dig people out of wreckage or from underground. They’ve done only good things in the world.

  “The Galen computer is called Maggie. She has sent you a laptop and matching suitcase to make your journey easier. You can contact her at any time, simply by pressing control, tilde and M on the keyboard.”

  The laptop was sensational, more advanced than anything I’d ever heard of. It was already loaded with a quick course to acquaint me with its many innovative features and had a highly detailed dossier for me to study. The girl whose identity I would be assuming, had been raised multilingual and home-schooled by her parents and several short-term tutors. She had even reached black belt proficiency level at taekwondo. Photos and details of everyone she had known were included in the file.

  Her education was very advanced and she’d already been at university entrance level a year ago. The identity was absolutely perfect for me. I immediately signed up for an arts degree course through my new laptop.

  After three days of intensive training, Fermina smuggled me to Argentina.

  She only accompanied me a short way to the first connection, staying behind to make several appearances in public to alibi herself.

  Chapter 6

  First Day at the US Embassy, Argentina

  My driver continued past the ugly concrete American embassy building, dropped me down the next side street, and immediately drove away. I didn’t know his name nor those of the other men who had facilitated my rapid journey.

  Drained from the constant tension and the urgent feeling that I must stay alert, I hadn’t slept in four days, keeping awake by doing my course work and learning the capabilities of my fascinating new computer.

  I kept up my energy by twice beaming love to all my old Typhon friends and to Ava, so she wouldn’t feel forgotten in her new situation. Somehow, I felt certain that love could be felt in the afterlife.

  I barely noticed Buenos Aires. It seemed a pleasant modern city from the little I saw as I walked back wheeling my blue, monogrammed, Louis Vuitton wardrobe case before me. It was taller than me, but not difficult to handle.

  The US embassy had a great location, fronting onto parks and the estuary, but the building was an eyesore. The too-thin, discolored stucco revealed every defect in the underlying stonework.

  Only the greenery of a few potted shrubs, mostly oleander, offered any relief from the monotony of stained cracked concrete.

/>   The salmon pink bricks of the courtyard, shallow steps and portico were bumpier than the sidewalk and already had several over-mortared repairs where carelessness had knocked corner bricks loose.

  I had to turn backwards to drag my case up the steps, but it wasn’t difficult. Hollow-eyed, but still pristinely befrilled and curly-haired—the perfect image of a plucky waif, I stumbled a little, deliberately catching my bag in the doorway.

  I walked into the foyer, joined the line for US Nationals and demanded asylum when I reached the desk. I explained my situation quite concisely, presenting my mother’s last passport on which I also was listed.

  “Sorry, miss, you cannot use that passport unless your mother is present. Where is she?” The gray-haired clerk smiled down at me.

  “I-I don’t know.” I forced tears into my eyes until they dripped. “She was carrying my baby brother. Dad had most of our documents and cash. I only had enough money for a week, just in case. We’d had to leave in a hurry and became separated. I couldn’t find them again.”

  “We can issue a new passport in fifteen days, if you can produce several persons of good repute who have known you for at least five years.”

  I pulled a small hanky from inside my sleeve and wiped my eyes. “The midwife who delivered me and my brother in home births is the only person who would have known of me for most of five years. But she has never known me well . . . and children grow and change.” I blotted my eyes again.

  “I have no identifying birthmarks or deformities for her to remember. She may recall being annoyed by my distracting her with too many questions at my brother’s birth.

  “I have an eidetic memory so could provide you a list of my questions and her answers if that would help.” I’d thought it extremely clever of the real Alessandra to come up with that idea.

  “The only people I can think of, who may be able to vouch for me at all, are the three tutors who coached me in my studies and my taekwondo instructor.”

  While these people were contacted, an embassy aide, Mrs. Hammond, took charge of me. Tall, sharp-faced, thirtyish, with over-bleached short blonde frizz, her motherly act didn’t fit well with her brusque businesslike manner.

  She tut-tutted sympathetically over the terrible ordeal I must have endured. She wondered loudly why I was separated from my family and whether the people who had sheltered me had treated me well. I gave her no information no matter how subtly she questioned me.

  That wasn’t difficult as I had none. After a few minutes of her constant chatter, I tuned her out and pretended she wasn’t there.

  After more ubiquitous beige institutional hallways, my small room and bath were adequate. I unpacked my case, keeping family photographs and genuine handwritten letters and documentation in the locked bag.

  I hung up my clothes and put away my curling iron, curlers, manicure set, toiletries and make-up kit, checking the place for listening devices as Mrs. Hammond watched closely and talked incessantly.

  At least she allowed me privacy in the bathroom which I also checked thoroughly.

  The water was heavily chlorinated, so I wouldn’t be taking any showers here.

  My lightweight blue laptop matched my luggage and didn’t need external internet connection or power supply. It looked like a toy, was incredibly powerful, but played only games unless you knew how to access its many facilities. I left it on the desk.

  * * *

  After a reasonable lunch in their cafeteria, Mrs. Hammond escorted me into a large bare room big enough for a gymnasium. The only furniture was a ten foot long ornately carved wooden table placed at the furthest corner in the emperor position to make me feel small and intimidated.

  I sauntered in casually, exuding contempt instead.

  Three older men with unmistakable military bearing, sat at taller green-upholstered chairs with arms on the far side.

  A dimpled younger fellow with bright blue eyes, curly black hair and a longish Danny Zuko forelock, introduced himself as Bryan McCann. He showed me to the plain wooden center chair on this side, helped Mrs. Hammond into the chair on my left and himself took the right hand one.

  So I was supposed to believe they were on my side?

  Mrs. Hammond played ‘good cop’ and Bryan stayed fairly neutral as the men tried to learn how badly I had been corrupted by the insurgents I must have been with.

  They were especially interested in whether I had taken part in any sabotage or spreading of propaganda against the current régime. They tried to intimidate me, calling me a refugee, saying it was normal procedure to process refugees before allowing them into the USA.

  I just kept repeating that I was a 5-year-old US citizen with full citizenship rights and demanded to see a lawyer if they insisted on cross-examining me or trying to blame me for every dissident action of the past year.

  The lawyer was not forthcoming, so I reverted to silence.

  They stopped for a coffee break when a refreshment tray was wheeled in. I refused both coffee and the proffered soft drink.

  Bryan tried to tease me: “You know it’s un-American to refuse to drink Coke? We may not allow you entry if you’re so difficult to get along with.”

  I stared him down. “I know that Big Business owns the American government, but hadn’t realized that it had actually become compulsory to eat and drink the poisons they produce. I’ll have plain still water, if you have it, thanks, otherwise nothing.”

  Bryan laughed uncomfortably. “You’re a real card, aren’t you?” and he reached out his hand—I think to ruffle my hair—which I couldn’t allow.

  I ducked away, grabbed his hand, stood abruptly, shoved back my chair, which fell with a loud echoing crash, and twisted his hand back hard in an arm lock just short of painful.

  “I’m not a little puppy eager for a pat on the head. Nobody touches me, okay?”

  There was stunned silence.

  “I’m sorry, Sandy. I was out of line. Just trying to be friendly.”

  “I’m being friendly too, Bryniebaby. I haven’t broken your arm. My given name is Alessandra. I don’t welcome familiarities. Being young does not exclude me from human dignity. You wouldn’t have dared be so hands on with a woman of thirty.”

  Brian apologized more sincerely. I let him go, picked up the chair and sat down.

  The burly gray-haired head inquisitor in the center chair, wearing nonspecific military uniform with major’s insignia, had never offered his name, but had the look of high security.

  He spoke softly for the first time: “Now that you’ve finished playing games, Missy, could we get on with business?”

  “No, sir. I don’t think so. It’s been a very long tiring day for me and I need a nap. When you find me a lawyer I approve of, then we may continue this farce. Now I need to retire.”

  And they had no recourse but to let me do so.

  * * *

  Back in my room I used the computer to take several photos of my exhausted-but-trying-to-be-perky appearance, and ran a bath over two Vitamin C tablets to neutralize the chlorine.

  I shampooed my hair at the sink, using the safe bath water to rinse it, then had a long welcome soak, and scrubbed with a loofah, rinsing my body with reserved water from the sink.

  I patted my hair dry with a series of towels, applied setting lotion and put my hair into curlers, with a befrilled mob cap on top so nobody could get a close look at my hair while I slept.

  I put soaker in the bathwater. After it had dissolved, I added my last three changes of clothes. It felt so good to be really clean again after days of cursory sponge baths.

  * * *

  One of the former tutors was now an instructor in Buenos Aires. He met with me that evening, questioned me on the subjects he had taught and asked about my continuing education. He was pleased that I was studying for a BA. He willingly identified me as his former pupil.

  After a light supper, I was allowed to retire again.

  * * *

  I donned rubber gloves and bashed my laundry c
lean, rinsed it several times and hung everything on hangers on the shower-curtain rail.

  I hadn’t liked all the questions, nor the people who pretended to be my friends to gain my confidences. They made me feel very lonely and vulnerable, even though I hid my feelings well.

  Attack is always the best defense.

  When I feel bad, I try to love my friends more, but there were none here. I had been sending love to each of my company and double that amount to my squadron mates every few days, but hadn’t received even a tingle in reply.

  Now I funneled out a continent-wide swathe of love north-westward, to the entire company, figuring nobody else would yet have reached further south of me.

  This should have hit every one of them in the USA or Canada, and let them know that I had survived and was still free, but again there was no response.

  So I sent love specifically to Ava. Though she had passed, her soul would still exist somewhere, and I wanted to maintain at least the illusion that I could contact her.

  I wanted her to know she hadn’t been forgotten.

  Perhaps it was my loneliness that made me imagine that she returned a weak answering pulse.

  Encouraged, I sent a great outpouring of love back to my fountain guy to let him know that I was alright and still free. He always answered in kind.

  * * *

  I Photoshopped the pics I had taken a little earlier making myself look sadder, more forlorn. It was so easy with this computer’s intuitive programming.

  I had asked for and received a wash basin. I filled it with water over half a Vit C tablet, washed and rinsed off in the bath, keeping my hair dry. I put it back into curlers, with the mob cap again to keep them in place.

  On the internet, I sent a pseudonymous news report to an international news service.

  Shared that to Facebook and Twitter, and to a wide network of carefully chosen ‘friends’ with a photo of a haunted, hollow-eyed, 5-year-old Alessandra Alba after a day of heavy questioning. Without the support of a lawyer. By the embassy people who should have been trying to help the poor little mite.

  Locked down the computer functions and left a Lumosity exercise on screen before retiring for the night.