2030

by Albert Brooks

  “I’m three blocks from there.”

  “I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes.”

  The Mediterranean was a small restaurant that had wonderful food and was always busy. It was frequented by a younger crowd that worked in and around Georgetown. It had been there since 2010 and had gone through several chefs until it settled on one who turned out to be a genius. Its linguini with clam sauce was the best in the city, and its risotto al gorgonzola was legendary. People often met late in the day for drinks and always wound up eating more than they wanted to. The meal started with the bruschetta, which arrived at the table exactly at the same time the customers did, and once they ate that they had to order more, so late-day business meetings often turned into early dinners.

  Paul and Jack had wine and made small talk. Jack looked better than Paul remembered. Certainly better in person than he did on the watch.

  “Did you lose weight?” Paul asked.

  “No. You thought I was fat?”

  “No. But you look different.”

  “I had my eyes enlarged.”

  “Seriously? You had them enlarged?”

  “Yeah. It’s not a big deal. They burn out a small part of the upper lid and when it heals it exposes more eye.”

  “Really? How long does it take?”

  “To heal or the procedure?”

  “Well, both.”

  “The procedure you do at lunch and you wear shades for a week, at most. And then you look like you’ve slept twelve hours.”

  “Or that you’re surprised at something.”

  “Does it look like that?” Jack sounded worried. “I didn’t want that, I wanted to look rested.”

  “I was kidding. You look great. It’s great to see more of your eyes; they’re good eyes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what’s the big secret? I can’t wait.”

  “Well, it’s not that big, but I told you I would tell you stuff as it comes through my desk, and we had one of our people attend a meeting a week ago in Indiana.”

  “Indiana?”

  “Yeah. Indianapolis. Someone who works at a local office heard about a group that seemed to be revolutionary—at least that’s the way it was presented. They’re calling themselves Enough Is Enough.”

  “I’ve never heard of them. Did they blow up our building?”

  “We don’t think so, but there was a lot of talk of sympathy with whoever did, and this might be a splinter group. We now have the names of many of the people who were there. The guy who runs it is named Max Leonard. Ever heard of him?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “We’d never heard of him, either, but these guys have to start somewhere. I would put his name in your database and be aware of it, and the name of the group.”

  Paul made a note to himself. “I appreciate that.”

  “We’ve devoted more time now to the violence. The bombing at your building shook a lot of people up at Justice and I think they’re taking it more seriously.”

  “This is great information. I owe you one.”

  “Do you want to go out sometime?”

  Paul smiled at him. “We’re out right now, aren’t we?”

  “No, I meant…”

  “I know what you meant. I’m in a relationship that isn’t so great so I don’t want to make it worse, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to or that it won’t happen at some point. I just think that if I confuse things right now by adding another person in the mix, then I’ll dig myself into a deeper hole.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “Yeah. I guess so. I’ll call you.”

  * * *

  On the flight back to America, Susanna Colbert was on the line with John Van Dyke. The President’s chief of staff had already been briefed about the meeting with the vice premier by others in attendance, but he wanted to hear it firsthand from her. “Did you get any indication of what they have in mind?”

  “No,” Susanna said. “Possibly they want the President to ask for it himself. Perhaps it’s too large an amount for anyone other than him to request.”

  “When you get back we’ll sit down with the President and see where to go. I don’t know if we’re prepared to have a major summit at this point, but if we feel that’s what it takes, we certainly can invite them here and see what it’s all about.”

  “I think that’s going to have to happen to get to the bottom of this. I feel bad because they might have been taking advantage of my short time in the job or that I’m not Spiller. You would know that more than I.”

  “Taking advantage of your inexperience, and I only mean that from their point of view, might have some validity. But trust me, Susanna, they hated Spiller. They told me so themselves.”

  “Well, maybe they treat people they hate with more respect.”

  “Those are the Arabs. The Chinese actually want to like you. Have a safe flight and we’ll see you here. Good job, even though you didn’t come back with the loot.”

  “I did get a couple hundred billion as walking-around money.”

  Van Dyke gave her a chuckle and disconnected. And then he thought about that for a second. When he was a boy, a couple of hundred billion dollars could change the world. Now it wasn’t even taken seriously. It was moments like this, at least for him, that marked the passing of time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Shen Li was on a friendly basis with every bigwig in the Chinese government. He spoke to them often about his desire to take his model of health care to the Western democracies and they were all for it, but they really couldn’t offer assistance. They kept saying to him, “When they ask, you will strike.”

  Li had made the government a lot of money as he enriched himself. He also made the government look kinder than they would have without his genius. China’s life expectancy ranking had gone from eightieth in the world to sixteenth. In 2030 the average Chinese citizen could expect to live to eighty-four, and much of this was due to Li’s ability to get care to the people who had been bringing the average down. It was suggested many times that Li get into politics, but Chinese politics did not interest him. He loved giving speeches and getting the adoration, but he also felt that nothing was better than providing a great service and becoming unthinkably rich at the same time.

  One night Li was having dinner with Zhou Quinglin, the current head of the Political and Legislative Affairs Committee. Quinglin was one of the highest-ranking members of the Politburo. He told Li about the meeting with Secretary Colbert and how China refused the request for three trillion dollars. Li was shocked. He had had no idea his government was finally putting their foot down. He also had mixed feelings. He completely agreed that the United States needed to break its addiction to Chinese loans, but he so desperately wanted into the American market that he didn’t like the idea of alienating such a lucrative source. But Quinglin told him that the Politburo was certain the U.S. would come back and deal on terms that were heretofore unthinkable. “What do you mean?” Li asked.

  “I can’t say, but we feel that the opportunity has finally come to change the way we do business with the United States, and possibly the world.”

  “Oh, you must tell me what you mean. You can’t hang that in front of me.”

  “I not only can, but I can also say that you might get your wish.”

  “My wish?”

  “We might finally be able to help you crack that market. Your robots may one day be operating on American hearts.”

  “You’re so mysterious. Are you planning an attack?”

  Quinglin laughed. “Yes, we are going to invade the United States. Rockets are being fired as we speak. Listen, my friend, I’ve said too much already. I just wanted to make a point that things may be getting easier for you to go where it has previously been impossible. That’s all I will say.”

  Li had no idea what was going on, but anything that could help make his dream come true was positive. So he decided just to enjoy the anticipation. They both drank well in
to the night and talked about their favorite subjects, women and money and cars. And music. Shen Li loved classical music, the old and the new. He idolized Beethoven. He also loved Aaron Copland. Sometimes when he was dreaming about conquering the West he would listen to “Fanfare for the Common Man.” Every time the old woman who cleaned his penthouse heard Aaron Copland, she would say, “That’s the devil’s music.” And that made Li turn it up even louder.

  * * *

  A high-level cabinet meeting was called the day after Susanna Colbert returned from China. She relayed in detail all of the information she’d gathered. The President listened intently. Having never been turned down before for economic assistance, he was in uncharted waters. “Do you think they want me to beg for this myself? That certainly is what it sounds like.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Susanna said. “It sounds to me like possibly they want different terms to loan this kind of money. New terms.”

  “Yes, but Chen Biao does not want to sit with me in person just to ask for twenty percent interest. That could be relayed through others, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Opinions varied widely. Secretary of State Bob Nugent was opposed to any top-level meeting at that time. “I think there’s nothing that can come of it,” he said. “It sounds like some sort of trap. Almost like they want to humiliate us and they need you there so they can feel good about it.”

  The President disagreed. “I think the question before us is how badly we need them. I am not above begging for three trillion. If they want it to come from me, so be it.”

  The vice president, Ronald Simpson, volunteered to go to China to see if that would be sufficient to secure the loan, but the President thought that was a bad idea. “We can’t have another situation where they refuse us and demand again to see me. That would make us look weaker than if I just agreed.”

  “What if they came here?” Van Dyke asked.

  “I think they would,” Susanna told him.

  “Then maybe we should set up a summit.”

  “No,” the President said. “Not here; too much press. What about Camp David?”

  “What if they won’t come here?” the vice president asked.

  “Then fuck ’em,” Van Dyke replied. The President looked at his chief of staff.

  “John, I would like nothing better than to fuck ’em, but we desperately need this money. We can’t even get the goddamn lights back on without it. We are in no position to fuck anybody. If they don’t want to come here, let’s deal with that when they say no. They’re either going to help or not, but obviously they want this meeting, so let’s give it to them. Invite them to Camp David and make it sound like it’s the most special honor we can offer. Which it is, by the way. I like that place to remain private; I don’t want the Chinese crawling all over it, but I’m willing to let them. Make them understand it’s a privilege.”

  As the cabinet members got up to leave, the President asked Susanna to remain. This was the second time this had happened. If it continued there would be talk, or at least jealousy. He pulled his chair up next to hers. “How did your first encounter feel? Were you nervous?”

  “I wanted very much to succeed for you. I wish I could have come back with something real. They might have taken advantage of me.”

  “I don’t think they took advantage of you, Susanna. I sent you for a reason. There were things that Spiller did that annoyed the hell out of them. He would have gotten nowhere; they would not have even wanted to meet with him. I made a gesture of sending you, which in their culture is a way of starting over. Apparently they took it a little too literally, as God knows what they want.”

  “I still feel I might have let you down.”

  “If you do, I’ll let you know.”

  She smiled. “Thank you for making me feel better about it. May I ask how your mother is doing?”

  “You may. Thank you. I really feel my mother is going to exist in this machine-like cocoon for decades. It bothers the hell out of me. I wish she would die.”

  Both the President and Susanna were surprised at how easily this came out of his mouth. What did this woman possess that he could say such a thing so effortlessly? And she was somewhat surprised that it sounded as natural as it did to her. “I know the feeling,” she said.

  “Do you really?”

  “Well, not exactly, but I know I would have the same feelings if I were you.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I still would like to see your mother. Would it be odd if we visited her together?” The President thought about it for a moment.

  “I don’t think you and I can go see my mother. It would be hard to explain. To the press. To Betsy. To everyone.”

  “I understand. Could I visit her myself?”

  “You really want to do that?”

  “Yes. So at least if you choose to discuss this with me, I will understand it.”

  “I can arrange that. Thank you, Susanna.” The President got up and escorted her to the door. “Do you mind when we discuss things off topic?”

  “Off topic?”

  “Like my mother.”

  “Absolutely not. You can feel free to talk to me about anything. I enjoy it.”

  “So do I. Thank you.”

  When she left the room, the President was certain she was the most comfortable person to talk to in all of Washington. Maybe because she was older, or because he admired her so much; he didn’t know why, but she seemed like a soul mate. He couldn’t believe he had blurted out that he wished his mother would die, but it not only felt normal, it was a relief. The President also knew his own personality. If he got used to this, he would never want to let it go.

  * * *

  Los Angeles was deteriorating. Third-world diseases not seen in the United States in a century were breaking out in various parts of the city. In Echo Park, an underground drinking-water facility had been contaminated by broken sewer lines that were seeping through the aquifer, and three thousand people came down with cholera. In another part of the city thousands of people had developed whooping cough, a bacterial disease of the upper respiratory tract, and that origin was never found.

  This once-great city was having a collective nervous breakdown. The people who had not left still numbered in the millions and were staying in broken buildings or sleeping in army tents or in cars. And they began to go crazy.

  It manifested itself almost like a bad zombie movie. Each night large groups of people would roam the city. They weren’t part of the Los Angeles gangs that had been in operation before the quake. Those gangs were still there, roaming outside of their territory, looting every store that had anything left to take. But the zombie gangs were something else entirely, just large groups of people who were losing their minds.

  It began with them just walking through the city. Walking every night, sometimes singing, sometimes silent. But soon they started breaking into stores and then homes. Bel Air and Beverly Hills, where the mansions had all been destroyed, were overrun by the zombies. The owners of those houses were long gone. When they left they took their valuables, their diamonds and their Picassos, so the zombies would steal a grand piano. Watching a Steinway being pushed down Wilshire Boulevard by a thousand people singing a song no one had ever heard before was something to behold. The cops and the National Guard did nothing about it. They had to keep their priorities straight, and their first concern was violence.

  Murder had gone up a thousand percent. Most of the murders were connected to armed robberies—people needed money, and those who had any were at risk. And then there was just plain crazy behavior. Men getting wildly drunk and fighting to the death. It was as if an entire city had posttraumatic stress disorder and no one was equipped to deal with it.

  Those who were sent to a facility, as Brad Miller was, were considered the lucky ones, although no one in Pasadena felt lucky. But at least there they were protected from violence.

  Brad never understood why he was picked to leave
while others were allowed to stay, if “allowed” was the right word. But as time went on he understood. The people in the Pasadena tent were perceived as weaker than those who remained in the city. The very old, the very young, single mothers with babies, people who were disabled, those were who Brad was surrounded by. Men in their thirties and forties were nowhere to be seen. So the tent people are the weaklings, Brad concluded. But he had to admit when he saw the news pictures of the zombie gangs that maybe being weak was a good thing. At least this is better than being attacked by roaming monsters.

  Still, Brad knew he had to get out of there. And once again, feeling like Lenny in Of Mice and Men, he took out the worn brochure of the retirement ship and stared at it, as if it were some far-off island. He knew this would be a burden on his son, but he was running out of options.

  * * *

  When Max Leonard got back to Indiana after his meeting with Walter Masters, something had changed in his personality. Kathy noticed it immediately. He was quiet, more pensive, kept more to himself. She tried to bring him out a bit, asking him all kinds of questions about the trip, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it.

  He and Kathy had been basically living together—he spent almost every night at her house—but when he returned from seeing Masters, he slept in his own bed. Kathy would call and ask if he wanted to eat dinner or come over and make love, anything, and for the first time in their short relationship he said no. She thought it was her. Did he meet someone in California? What happened out there that changed him? Is he falling out of love with me? But Max assured her that that wasn’t the case. He even bought her a beautiful bracelet and told her that he loved her more than ever; that if he seemed detached, it was only because he was in deep thought on how to “even things out,” as he put it; and that he was only sleeping at home because he was up half the night thinking and he didn’t want to bother her. She accepted this explanation.

  Enough Is Enough didn’t have any more meetings scheduled, although Max was in constant communication with the five people he considered the brains of the group. He encouraged protests when the members wanted to show up somewhere, as when a hundred people went to Chicago to march against the biennial Social Security bump, but other than giving his okay, Max was preoccupied. It was only when Kathy came by his place unannounced one day that she got wind of what he was up to.