“How does Uncle Peter convince parents to give up their children at birth?” I said.
“You some sort of reporter or something?”
“It’s just a curious thing—to take away someone’s child,” I said, thinking instantly of Elena and Claudio.
“You’re not the usual type of person who shows up at the Colony.”
I shrugged.
“But the chickens like you, and they’re not often wrong about this sort of thing.”
“So how does he do it—get the parents to give up their babies?”
“Oh,” he said, “you’ll see. It’s all just one big … trick, I guess.”
“A manipulation.”
“Sure, a manipulation. He generates fear, builds distrust among the colonists, that sort of thing.”
I looked over at Ernesto.
“Keep your eyes on the chickens,” he cautioned. I turned my head back and jerked the stick away just before a chicken was able to clamp its beak down onto the rubber worm.
“Once they find out the worm is made of rubber, the whole thing is over,” Ernesto said.
We walked for a little while longer and then made our way back to the library. When we returned, there was a guard waiting outside for us. “Uncle Peter needs to see you,” he said to me.
I followed the guard at a fast clip down the road.
“What does he want to see me about?” I asked. The guard ignored me. Before long, we arrived at a large and ornate house. I was shown to a waiting room. A young boy—one of The Army of Salvation?—was sitting at a desk. He looked to be working on a school worksheet. I thought of my secretary. When the boy saw me, he jumped up and went over to one of the closed doors. He knocked on it and peeked his head in. After he came back to his desk, he told me that Uncle Peter would be ready in just a minute.
There was something about waiting for a person in a waiting room that made one feel utterly powerless. I wondered if Uncle Peter was indeed busy, and I felt a pang of guilt for having made Laura and all the others wait while I pretended to be busy. I was also reminded of having had to wait outside the principal’s office when I was young—I could hear the faint rumbling of my father’s voice and the short but declarative utterances of the much-feared principal, Ms. Cortés. I scooted my chair closer to the door—when the secretary looked up from her typewriter, I stopped moving and looked around innocently. Still, I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then the phone rang, and the secretary listened briefly before hurrying out of the room, and I boldly got up and pressed my ear against the door.
“… learned it from you?” Ms. Cortes said.
“Florencia—may I call you that?”
She must have nodded, because my father repeated her name once more.
“Florencia,” he said, “Javier is at the age where his brain is starting to work in novel ways—neurons and synapses are making new connections, and it would be unrealistic to expect the boy to ignore the brilliant ideas that pop into his head.”
“That is no excuse for tricking the other boys out of their lunch money, Mr. Gonzalez, and you—”
“With all due respect, Florencia, Javier did not trick anybody out of anything—he merely devised an ingenious game that the boys could play. Surely you’d rather have a group of boys doing that rather than smoking cigarettes in the washroom?”
The game my father was referring to was one that I had invented that week. It was a competition among my group of friends, to see who could be the first to get a teacher to dispose of our lunch tray for us. We had all put our lunch money on the table, and, one by one, we found a teacher roaming around the cafeteria and tried. One boy tried feigning a leg injury (the gym teacher, who he had stupidly approached, sent him to the nurse), and another boy went up to our history teacher and asked her to hold his tray while he tied his shoe. She nodded at an empty table nearby, and the boy reluctantly put the tray down there. When it was my turn, I waited until it was almost time for the bell to ring, and I made my way over to the science teacher. I told him we had a bet going at our table, trying to figure out what weighed more: a soccer ball or my lunch tray. I handed him the tray, and, as the bell rang, I ran off, leaving him holding the tray. I told him I was off to find a soccer ball, but I went back to the table, scooped up the money, and went off to class—only to get called into the principal’s office the very next period. Someone must have told.
There was much rustling of chairs, and my father was asking Florencia if she would join him for dinner sometime. Mortified, I hurried back to my chair and put on a remorseful face.
“Uncle Peter is ready to see you.”
I looked up—the boy was standing there. I thanked him and went into Uncle Peter’s office. It was a spectacular affair, filled with heavy, turn-of-the-century furniture and thick rugs. An elegant glass chandelier dangled from the ceiling. The usual photographs of the Colony and its founder cluttered the walls. Uncle Peter was sitting at his desk, fingering an unlit cigar.
“Tell me how your first day has been,” he demanded.
I nodded vigorously. “This place—everyone has been kind and welcoming.”
He leaned forward and lit the cigar, puffing on it. “I didn’t ask you to tell me something I already know,” puff, puff, “I asked how your day was.”
“It was excellent,” I said, forcing a smile. “Everything I hoped for, and more.”
Uncle Peter stared out the window. The man was an expert at making anyone feel as insignificant as a flea.
“I wanted to ask,” I continued, “about one of the guards—”
He snapped back to attention. “You’re an actor.”
I agreed with him.
“I need an actor for a special project.”
“Of course,” I said. “And what is it that I will be acting in?”
Uncle Peter waved my question away. “There is a guard waiting outside—do exactly as he says.”
TWENTY-TWO
I was sitting in a tethered rowboat with a guard, the smallest of them all. His ears had been taped into points, and he wore green from head to toe.
“This is too tight,” the guard complained, pulling at the small hat that was tied under his chin. He glared at me, as if this whole thing was my idea.
I had been given an itchy white beard and a floppy, red sleeping cap. There was a pillow stuffed under my shirt. The guard looked at his watch.
“In three minutes,” he said.
I put my hand in the water. It was cold—glacier run-off—but not turbulent. The riverbank was heavily vegetated, but, up ahead, I could see a clearing. That’s where Uncle Peter would be waiting with all the children.
“You see,” Uncle Peter had said to me in his office, “Christmas is still a month away, and all the children want to talk about is Santa Claus this and presents that.”
“Christmas,” I said, shaking my head.
“And I am nauseated from hearing about this. They have forgotten about Jesus and the real meaning of Christmas.”
I asked him how this had happened.
“This year, we brought in some new children through a boarding-school program. They brought with them disgusting tales of gifts and a fat man in red and white. So we’re going to give them what they want. We’re going to give them Mr. Santa Claus himself. And who better to play the role than a real actor!”
It was a very “Human Solutions” way of dealing with the problem—I had to give him that. Uncle Peter was going to gather the children together after lunch and lead them on a walk through the forest and over to the river.
The rowboat was moving now, and I held on to the sides. We gathered speed, and, before long, I could see Uncle Peter over by the clearing. The children were gathered around him—there seemed to be more than a hundred of them. I squinted to see if I could pick out Claudio. I knew that, with such a large population, it would be some time before I would be able to find Claudio—but every passing moment filled me with a growing sense of urgency.
Uncle Peter pointed at me, and the children began jumping up and down and waving their arms.
“Santa! Santa!” they yelled. “Bring us our presents!”
I stood up shakily.
“Ho Ho Ho!”
“Louder,” demanded the elf.
“HO HO HO!”
Then I saw Uncle Peter pull a small handgun out from under his belt. He showed it to the children and leveled it at me. The ensuing gunshot was louder than I expected—echoing off the water. Uncle Peter had promised that he would fire far above my head, but it was, nonetheless, terrifying. I finally remembered to clutch at my belly and double over.
“Fall off,” whispered the elf.
“I know,” I said. “But the cold.”
The elf grabbed both sides of the rowboat and leaned hard to one side. I stumbled overboard, hitting the water with an icy thud that pulled the air out of my lungs. I floated downstream on my back with my eyes closed. I could hear the cries of children moving farther and farther away.
“Okay, okay,” said the elf. He had been rowing his boat alongside me. “We’re far enough now.”
I sputtered into an upright position and went to pull myself up the side of the vessel.
“No, no,” he said, poking me away with an oar. “Just swim to the riverbank there.”
I was sick of this elf telling me what to do, but I dutifully swam to the riverbank and pulled myself out of the water. I struggled out of my wet costume and left it on the ground for him to pick up.
TWENTY-THREE
By the time I was showered and dressed, it was almost time for dinner. I made my way over to the library. Ernesto was sitting at his desk.
I straightened a book that was sticking out on one of the shelves. “I’m putting on a play,” I said. “Uncle Peter asked me to—a play about his life.”
Ernesto chuckled and shook his head.
“You know what he had me do this afternoon?” I said.
I told him about my performance as Santa Claus.
“That man,” Ernesto said, frowning.
“It’s true,” I said, “but the cleverness of it—that counts for something in my book. If nothing else, he deserves a small amount of grudging admiration.”
“Admiration?” Ernesto said, curiously. “He emotionally scars a group of children by feigning murder, and you want me to admire him?”
Any man who was this strongly opposed to Uncle Peter was at least somewhat trustworthy. If nothing else, he would provide information to help me plan the escape.
“Anyway, it’s going to be a children’s performance. I need to find some boys and girls who are interested.”
“There are sometimes announcements at dinnertime. After the blackboard.”
The dinner bell rang. Ernesto and I walked over to the dining hall and got in line. There was whitefish and scalloped potatoes and coleslaw. I loaded up my tray and followed Ernesto to one of the benches.
“Attention!” The microphone crackled to life. Uncle Peter stared at us sternly. “There are many names on the list today. Let’s get started.”
The first name on the list was Eugenia Castro’s. She had large hands and a farmer’s build.
“Why is your name on the list, dear?” Uncle Peter asked sweetly.
Eugenia started to cry. She was wringing her hands, and they were starting to turn red.
“I don’t have all day,” Uncle Peter said.
“If you just—”
“I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!”
I tried to eat without making a sound. Ernesto was looking down at his food and mechanically bringing up each forkful. He seemed to be completely removed from the present situation.
Eugenia cleared her throat and wiped her eyes. “I revealed to my boy that I’m his mother,” she said.
Uncle Peter put down the microphone and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He shook his head in disbelief. He lifted his hands in resignation and looked around at the other colonists.
“I must be mistaken,” he said, picking up the microphone. “It sounded like you said that you told your son that you are his mother.”
Eugenia nodded and stared straight ahead, pulling her thick shoulders back defiantly. I was sitting close enough to see that her legs were shaking and her breaths were quick and shallow. Uncle Peter signaled a pair of guards, and they slowly advanced upon Eugenia. The colonists yelled and screamed for her to be punished. Someone threw a bread roll at her, but she batted it out of the air and did not break her posture.
“Her son was born five years ago,” whispered Ernesto. “He has Down Syndrome.”
“So she can’t talk to him?” I asked.
“She can talk to him–she just can’t tell him she’s his mother. As you know, babies are taken away from their parents and raised separately. A child is meant to be raised by the community as a whole, without ever knowing the identity of their mother or father. They have only one relative here—an uncle.”
I looked over at Eugenia. She was crying. One of the guards held up a potato sack and cut a hole for Eugenia’s head. He pushed the sack down over her head, then cut holes for both her arms to go through.
I leaned towards Ernesto. He explained that all traitors and rebels were forced to wear clothing that would set them apart from the other colonists. The men wore red shirts and white trousers, and the women wore potato sacks. They were mistreated and abused by the other colonists. It sounded like a great strategy for making sure everyone stayed in line—a constant reminder of what could happen to you at any moment.
“It sounds to me,” Uncle Peter said, “like you’re a person who talks too much—would you say that’s true?”
Eugenia kept her head down. She looked terrified.
“Let me tell you what we do to people who can’t keep their mouth shut. Sometimes we do nothing.”
Eugenia’s shoulders sagged gratefully. There were murmurs amongst the colonists.
“BUT OTHER TIMES,” Uncle Peter continued and then dropped his voice down to a whisper. “We sew their mouth shut!”
There was a collective gasp. Eugenia squeezed her eyes shut. Uncle Peter took a leisurely sip of water. His capacity for cruelty was astounding.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t we head over to the clinic after dinner?” He said this as casually as if he were suggesting they go for coffee sometime.
Uncle Peter went through the rest of the names on the sinner’s blackboard—at one point, a young boy confessed to praying that Santa Claus would be resurrected like Jesus. Ernesto shot me a pointed look, and it occurred to me that I had seldom witnessed the collateral damage of my own Manipulations.
When Uncle Peter was done, I hurried over and asked if I might make an announcement.
“It’s about the play,” I said.
“Then do it already,” he said impatiently.
“Hello,” I said into the microphone. “My name is Javier. I’m new here. I’ll be putting on a children’s play a month from now, so, if you want to participate, you can write your name on this piece of paper.”
There seemed to be no interest whatsoever. Uncle Peter took the microphone back. “It will be a play about my life,” he said. Still nothing. “Rehearsals will take place during evening prayer.”
This did the trick. A boy stood up and came over, and then another boy, and then a girl, and, before long, there were enough children on the list to put on a production.
“Our first rehearsal will be very soon!” I called out.
I looked at the sign-up sheet. Claudio’s name was not on it. I remembered what Elena had told me about her son playing clarinet in the orchestra.
“Who runs the orchestra here?” I asked Ernesto.
“The orchestra,” he repeated, looking around the room. “That woman over there.”
I walked over to the woman and waited a few feet away until she finished a conversation she was having. Then I tapped her on the shoulder and introduced myself. Her name was Greta. She was a stern-looking woman
with a heavy German accent.
“You make the play?” Greta asked.
“Yes, yes,” I said enthusiastically. “You’re right.”
“Good,” she said, turning away.
“Wait,” I said. “The play needs music. Music.” I mimed someone playing a violin.
“Music, yah,” she said impatiently.
“Can your orchestra do music for play?”
She made a face as if she had eaten a rancid walnut.
“It is for Uncle Peter, this play,” I said. “It is about his life in Germany. I need German music.”
She looked at me.
“Uncle Peter wants,” I said.
Greta exhaled sharply through her nose. “I can do music.”
I thanked her profusely and left before she could change her mind. I returned to the table and began to tell Ernesto about my conversation with Greta. We were interrupted by a young boy who ran up and tapped me on the shoulder.
“Did you want to be in the play, too?” I said.
“Uncle Peter says you should come to his office tomorrow after lunch to interview him for the play.”
“Very well.”
The boy ran off. I turned to Ernesto. “Uncle Peter has messenger boys?”
Ernesto motioned for me to follow him. “I need to close up the chicken coop for the night,” Ernesto said. “Or else the fox will get them.” We took our trays to the front of the room and left the dining hall.
“You sure you want to hear about the messenger boys?” Ernesto said. “It’s the kind of thing you might wish you didn’t know—unless you were an undercover reporter or something along those lines.” He winked at me.
I grinned. It seemed like a good idea to let him continue to believe that.
“That’s all right with me,” he said. “I want the world to know what goes on in here.”
The messenger boys were called Sprinters. Being made a Sprinter was the highest honour for boys at the colony. Uncle Peter would use them to communicate with colonists who were on opposite ends of the colony, hence the name. He also had them carefully trained to help him with many menial personal tasks.
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