In opstand

by Marieke Veringa

  Slightly baffled, I stumble back to the living room where the Quarter Meeting is still in full swing. I don’t have time to let Bartho’s words sink in, because Ernst grabs my arm and pulls me along to join a group of College pupils. Marcus and Severis are with them, too.

  “Ah, Justa. Did Bartholomew go home? He never likes these Quarter Parties much. Did he have any interesting advice for you?” Marcus’s voice sounds breezy, but his face is telling a different story. It’s no secret that there’s no love lost between him and Bartholomew. I shrug, because I don’t feel like telling him about my little private lesson in the hallway. “No, not really. Just some things about his classes, stuff like that.”

  “We were just discussing that Stateless suspect. How he’s admitted to gambling while in the courtroom. What an idiot. They really all are dim-witted, aren’t they? Sometimes you wish there’d be an exception to the rule. Or, actually, no. Not really.” Severis beckons another waiter and holds up his glass for a refill. Marcus does the same. I politely decline when he wants to fill my glass to the brim. I’m too scared I’ll drop it and make even more of a clown of myself in front of Marcus and his companions. “I still think the time of Catharsis was the best one.”

  Marcus nudges Severis’s shoulder. “And how do you intend to turn that into a realistic proposal during the next Sectorate Council? They’ll think the costs are too high and the yield too low.”

  Severis grins. “As it so happens, I have a solution for that. A new method. Costing half as much and working twice as fast. The lab has performed numerous tests. What I need now, Marcus, are test subjects. And you’re the man who can get me those.”

  “Is that so? What do you mean?” Marcus’s interest is piqued; I can see it in the way he turns toward Severis, his shoulders slightly hunched.

  Severis laughs. It’s an unpleasant sound, leaving little barbed hooks clawing into my soul. “Take that Stateless guy currently in being judged. Of course he’s as guilty as a kid with his hand still in the cookie jar. After his conviction, I’d like to – work with him, if you get my drift.”

  By using Catharsis. I remember seeing the glassy look in the eyes of the Stateless who were submitted to Catharsis years ago. Docile. Stripped of all basic emotion, of any semblance of an identity. Empty shells, vaguely looking like people. They were used to serve the Sectorial Institutes, to ease the lives of Sectorial citizens.

  They were abused.

  The word worming its way into my thoughts shakes me up. Abused. The endless rows of soulless people who were sold at auctions. Of course, the pretty boys and girls went first. Just bodies. Even though people are all too ready to gibe at the Stateless, some of our citizens do manage to find a use for them – as toys to indulge the perverse tendencies that exist in our society despite the perfection of the Sector. The rumors and witness accounts always cloaked from view. Buried under layers and layers of carpet to hide them from more intense scrutiny.

  “Let’s see, Severis. It’s not up to me to find the suspect guilty. That decision is made by the Tribunal.” Marcus’s concluding words pull me back into the conversation.

  By the Tribunal. By me.

  Severis barks out another insincere laugh. “Sure, but I’m talking about what comes after. As Arbiter, you decide on the type of punishment.”

  Marcus slaps his friend on the shoulder. “Absolutely, Severis. Absolutely.”

  A young woman joins our group and puts her hand on Severis’s arm. Her long, blonde hair is intricately wrought into an elaborate chignon on top of her head. When she looks at me, my eyes catch on her peculiar irises – one is blue, the other green.

  “Come, Father. It’s getting late. Let’s go home.” She pats Severis’s arm. Her voice is soft and melodious, her words urgent.

  “Everyone, may I introduce my daughter Nata to you? Who’s going to escort me home right now, I believe.” Severis lets Nata lead him out of the room. Marcus follows the two of them to see them out.

  At last, the final guest leaves the party. I watch as the servants gather the empty bowls and glasses. No soulless drones, but Sectorals who’ve chosen a career in hospitality. They’re paid well and they don’t have to be afraid of their superiors’ grabbing hands.

  Marcus and Ernst are sitting near the fireplace, deep in one of their long-winded conversations about legislation theory. I ponder Bartho’s words and realize he might actually be right. It is strange for a killer to keep stabbing the victim when the person is dead, isn’t it? Why would he have stabbed her in the heart if Irina had been dead already?

  I want to know. Why go through the extra trouble? Why risk being caught after you’ve already done what you set out to do?

  And then, I realize I haven’t even asked myself the most basic question.

  Why did Aron want Irina dead?

  The question won’t leave me alone. All night, I lie awake and think about it, when at last, one of Bartholomew’s suggestions pops into my mind:

  The tête-à-tête.

  7

  I FINGER the collar of my white blouse. Ernst covers my hand with his.

  “What’s up, Justa?” His voice is laced with worry. We’re in our seats next to each other. Myrthe isn’t here yet, Aron is still in his holding cell, and the audience slowly files in to fill up the spectator stands. Marcus is standing a few feet away from us, talking to Severis, who’s decided to make an appearance in this Tribunal today. Ernst is such a familiar face among strangers – the only friend I have. I decide to share the cause of my restlessness with him and tell him about what Bartholomew said.

  Ernst looks doubtful, then shakes his head and conjures up a smile on his face. “You worry too much, Justa. Bartho is – well, let’s just say he should be glad he’s still a teacher at the College. His opinions are becoming too radical, Marcus told me. Rumor has it that they’re going to replace him if he keeps up his nonsensical babble about equality for the Stateless any longer.”

  I swallow down my nerves. “What – what do the rumors say?”

  Ernst pulls his hand back from mine and caresses my cheek. The gesture makes me feel like a child, not like a competent individual only one year his junior.

  “I heard they’re looking into him. Allegedly he organizes meetings at his home where he lectures about rewriting the Sectorial Decree. About the positive effects of doing away with the Sectors altogether.”

  I take in a sharp breath. Views like these… I want to ask Ernst how he knows this, but before I can utter the question, Myrthe rushes past us to take her seat, and Marcus roars that the Tribunal is now in session once more. Aron enters and is shoved into his seat. His eyes find mine and he narrows them. Then, his lips form a soundless message that I manage to decode.

  Talk to me.

  In response, I resolutely shake my head and turn my face toward Marcus, who luckily didn’t catch our wordless conversation. I listen as he gives a short summary of the proceedings so far – the evidence we discussed yesterday – before he introduces new information.

  “The suspect was seen within Sector boundaries not wearing a Pass.” Which is an offense in and of itself. A Stateless is required to pick up a visitor’s Pass and visibly wear it while on Sector grounds. It’s proof that he or she has a good reason to be here. As a result, Passes are hardly ever issued.

  So did Aron have a good reason to be in our Sector besides wanting to kill Irina? And why did he want to take her life? How did they even know each other? The same questions keep whirling around in my mind, like a spinning top going faster and faster for lack of someone to stop it with answers. Faster and faster, spin spin spin…

  “Justa, are you all right?” Ernst looks at me anxiously. I follow his gaze, directed at my trembling hands, and quickly entwine my fingers. I bite my lip until I taste blood, and meanwhile, I nod.

  “Yes. Of course,” I snap at him in an irritated whisper. Ernst averts his
face, but not before I notice his wounded expression.

  “Arbiter,” I hear myself say, my voice loud and clear. It sounds like the exact opposite of what I’m feeling. “I wish to exert the right for a tête-à-tête with the suspect.”

  Marcus stops talking mid-sentence. I didn’t hear what he was talking about; I should probably pay more attention. My eyes dart to Aron, sitting there in his chair with his head held high and his back straight, suddenly alert. Or had he been this attentive since the beginning?

  “Excuse me, Tributant. You wish to do what?”

  I’m sure Marcus heard me the first time. His eyes tell me that he’s giving me a way out, a chance to retract my words, and that he’s not pleased with my request at all. For a moment, doubt seizes me. What am I doing? But then I suppress those doubts and uncertainties clogging up my throat. I know what I’m doing, after all. I want to confront my best friend’s murderer with the one, all-encompassing question of why.

  Something tells me that Aron will never answer that question if I ask him in front of the other Tributants, of Marcus, of the audience. If he does, he’ll admit to being guilty. And even though he doesn’t seem to be acquainted with all the protocols surrounding a Tribunal in general, he doesn’t for one second strike me as the retarded, lust-driven barbarian that every Stateless person is made out to be.

  “Tributant Advena, please repeat your request.”

  I look straight at Marcus. The words trip out of my mouth, clumsily and awkwardly – and without a doubt, unadvisedly. “I demand a tête-à-tête with the suspect. Now.”

  8

  THE cramped room I’ve been escorted to makes me feel boxed in. I stretch out my arms and imagine touching the walls on either side with the tips of my fingers. I have about as much space behind and in front of me. It feels like the oxygen levels are plummeting with every passing second, like a balloon with a tiny puncture hole letting the air out in a slow hiss. I try to ward off my mounting anxiety.

  The door across from me opens and I recoil. Of course, my back hits the wall, and the last bit of air still hiding in my lungs escapes them in a panicked gasp.

  Aron enters. His hands are cuffed in front of him, the cuffs linked to a thick belt around his waist. He walks uneasily, his right leg limping. A fresh, red mark on his cheek, just below the eye. I picture a flat hand forcefully hitting his face to leave that mark and suddenly I feel ashamed, because I know he was punished because of my request.

  “Five minutes.” The guard slams the door shut. And that’s when I realize my mistake. Aron is between me and the exit. I’ve quite literally put my own back against the wall. There are no tables or chairs in the small room, nothing to separate us, no barrier, nothing to hide behind.

  Aron rolls his shoulders backward. I follow his movements with my eyes. How he cocks his head to one side, then the other, popping a muscle in his neck. I count the seconds and try to string sentences, words, letters together, but my lips won’t part. My tongue is a useless instrument in my mouth.

  Why? Why? Why? WHY? W.H.Y?

  One word. I only need to speak one word. I’m almost there. Almost…

  Then, Aron takes a step forward and the three letters tumble down and shatter into pieces on the concrete floor. I can hear them break one by one. The wall presses into my back, or maybe I’m pressing my back into the wall. Aron is so close. We stand there, noses almost touching. He’s pinning me there with his body and I freeze. I become one with the wall. My arms hang limply at my sides, my legs won’t budge. I just stand there, feeling the panic and the fear and the... anger surging through my body.

  What’s he doing? My heart skips a beat, two beats, a thousand, before I feel his warm breath in my neck, and his lips against my ear.

  “They’re listening in. They can hear everything.”

  Is he expecting me to reply? I’m just as useless as the language skills presently failing me.

  “Listen, Justa. I’m innocent. We don’t have much time. I didn’t know the girl. Irina. I met her for the first time that night. She had something for me, something important. Something that needed to be taken out of the Sector. That’s what I do, get it? I trade in information. I’m not a murderer.”

  Murderer.

  I find my voice again. That’s the reason I’m here.

  “Why?”

  “Shhh. They’re listening. If you want to know more, whisper it to me.” His breath rushes the syllables of his words. I feel them tingling in my ear. Aron presses his cheek against mine, nudges my head to the side, his skin brushing mine as he maneuvers my mouth in front of his ear.

  I stiffen.

  We are standing so close. Like two lovers using their bodies to feel and touch every last bit of the other. The fact that Aron can’t use his hands makes it even more intimate. I no longer feel fear. It’s strange. His warmth envelops me and calms me down. His honey-laced voice draws me in.

  “Why? Why did you kill Irina?” Her name shakes me from the trance-like state induced by Aron’s voice. Confusion lunges at my throat and I tremble a little. What am I doing? Unfamiliar emotions tumble over me, threatening to sweep me up in their somersaults and spin out of control.

  Aron’s shoulders touch mine when he pushes his body even closer to mine. I’ve never been this close to a boy in my life. He feels so different from Ernst. Aron’s body is stronger, more muscular, harder.

  “I did not kill her! Just listen to me!” The stress Aron puts on the one-syllable word makes his assertion even more powerful.

  Not!

  Not!

  NOT!

  It bounces around in my head like a ping pong ball out of control, hitting the insides of my skull. I try to push Aron off, but he’s too strong. My hands aimlessly linger on his chest.

  “Justa, you’re the only one I can talk to. Help me. The parcel I was supposed to drop off is the key. It’s a data stick. Irina gave it to me. I’ve hidden it. I don’t know what’s on it, but it’s important enough to kill for.”

  The door swings open and the guard steps inside. Aron’s breath speeds up, and my heart trips with the same inconsistent rhythm.

  “I’ve hidden it. Just before I was arrested. You’ve got to...”

  He can’t finish his sentence. The guard roughly pulls him off me and throws him against the left wall. His head hits the stones and he stumbles to his knees while the guard kicks his shins. I see a trickle of blood running down Aron’s temple.

  “Are you all right, Tributant?” he asks me, worry in his voice. I look at the man. Heavy-set, a bald head, and his uniform stretched taut against his belly. I nod slowly. It feels as though my head is about to fall off. Maybe it will. Maybe all my secrets will now spill out like vomit onto the guard’s shiny shoes.

  9

  MARCUS fixes me with his gaze. For over a full minute he hasn’t spoken. He’s just looking at me. His hands are in his lap, fully relaxed, his legs lined up straight. His back is pressed against the seat of the chair he’s occupying. The chair facing mine. Our breakfast plates are on the table in front of us, untouched. Ernst left early this morning. He’s probably already in the courtroom to pour over this week’s notes.

  I ball my hands into fists, then relax them again. Clench – unclench. I repeat the same gesture over and over again and count the times I do.

  At one hundred and forty, Marcus speaks.

  “What did he tell you?”

  I look up and frown. Of all the things I’d expected Marcus to say this was the one I least anticipated. After all, whatever’s said in a tête-à-tête is strictly secret. Even to the Arbiter.

  Marcus must have caught the confusion in my eyes, because he gestures dismissively and pats my knee lovingly. “No, my dear Justa, you misunderstand. You look so shocked! I worry about you. Let me rephrase that.” Marcus searches for the right words, a relaxed smile on his face. “The suspect told you
something that upset you. I want to help you, Justa. Share your worries with me.”

  I shake my head and brush a strand of hair away from my forehead with irritation. How I’d love to take Marcus into my confidence and share with him. Aron’s words kept me up all night, causing me to miss out on sleep yet again. My own reflection in the mirror startled me this morning when I finally puckered up the courage to drag myself out of bed. Blue-gray rings under my eyes make my skin look even more strikingly pale.

  “Do you know where Ar… where the suspect was arrested?”

  Marcus pulls his hand away from my knee and crosses his arms in front of his chest. He leans slightly forward and gives me an inquisitive look.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I… the… Just wondering. How it went down – his arrest. I could ask during the Tribunal but it would only waste everybody’s time,” I avoid his question.

  Marcus nods approvingly. I know how much he hates wasting time, how much he loathes Tribunals that drag on for days and days because the Tributants ask unnecessary questions and can’t decide on a verdict.

  “He was arrested at the Media Station near the place where they found Irina.”

  “Oh.” I know the Media Station he’s talking about. Irina and I used to go there a lot to do research for our courses. The internet connection is stable there and since we only have one room with access to the internet at home – Marcus’s study – it was always easier to just go down to the Station than to wait for Ernst or Marcus to finish up in there. Come to think of it, there were lots of students and even College teachers there to use the facilities. I think back to my meeting with Bartho. He comes there a lot, too.