by Brian Dae
GENESIS AGAIN
CHAPTER ONE
“There is no diplomatic solution for Karkov.”
Televisions playing sports on mute became standard practice in city diners—closed captioning optional—a time-honored tradition to keep people from staring at each other while eating. The waitress bussing tables had forgotten to change channels after accommodating an earlier patron, exposing everyone to a primetime panel discussion on Karkov, the country bordering Vandia’s Western Territories and a regular topic in the nighttime news. Normally this oversight could be resolved by flagging the waitress down and issuing a polite request but the young men sitting below wanted none of it. They wore pristine military uniforms; new recruits spending their few remaining afternoons before basic training hanging out in The City. Political debate ruined their mood. As this small crew tilted their heads to watch the pundits speak they pointed toward the screen with derision. And when the discussion became heated one recruit raised his cup and began chanting a nationalist slogan: “Vandia dar hin! Long live Vandia!” joined by his friends clapping along and repeating. With enough enthusiasm this momentum swept the small diner and encouraged awkward refrains of “dar hin, dar hin” from neighboring tables. Eventually the game ceased when the soldiers mistimed their claps and burst into laughter looking at each other’s faces, wrapping their arms around shoulders, and shaking about. Amused with themselves for playing along, the other diners smiled and resumed eating their meals while the waitress took mental note and changed channels.
In this small diner a few tables remained silent throughout. Among them sat a middle-aged man alone in his corner booth with both hands gripped to a plain white mug, steam still rising off freshly poured coffee. Despite burning his fingers he hung onto that mug with his entire body as if dangling above a cliff, shaking violently and letting coffee dribble onto the saucer, the table, and his thick wool coat. His eyes fixated on an imaginary point, unfocused, while the debate replayed itself over and over again—on the radio, in newspaper articles, and when the recruiter addressed his graduating class. A round-faced woman sitting adjacent noticed his odd behavior and promptly informed her husband, whispering aspersions without lowering her voice. Her husband’s eyes never left his dinner plate. He ignored her comments and dragged sliced roast beef through thick brown gravy before plopping it inside his mouth, devouring it in two lazy bites. She chided him for his poor chewing habits and moved onto other topics having lost interest.
Oblivious to her audible criticism, the middle-aged man heard nothing over the quiet: the same deafening silence accompanying the dawn of each day. Here the earth stood still on its axis and the wind stopped blowing above the grasslands. Here birds stopped singing and men laid below the ground. Here the sun scorched the earth by day and the moon froze it by night. Soldiers shut their minds and held their breaths, floating off to their hometowns and familiar haunts through intermittent dreams; far away from the Sadlya Front. Spellbound by pundits wearing expensive suits and dyed black hair, their words had taken him back, unearthing shallow memories and giving them life once more. He trembled because he knew what happened next. Soon the messenger would race through their foxholes delivering the order to attack. All dreading the call they readied their rifles, ears alert for the signal. That was when the morning calm ended and the killing began.
“Thank you for your service,” she said.
A young girl dispatched by her mother stood before the recruits. She wore a checkered dress adorned with a little bow, her smile eliciting more smiles. Perhaps the young men thought of sisters or cousins because this gesture meant a great deal to them. They bent down to pat her head but their hands froze when the levity was interrupted by a sharp ceramic clang, turning their attention to a plain white mug laid horizontal on its handle. Already on alert the waitress walked over and placed her hand on the veteran’s seat, leaning in to ask if something were wrong as her tired eyes blinked. He appeared slow to respond, reciprocating stares with his mouth slightly ajar. Eventually their piercing eyes made his skin itch and woke him. Forcing out a hoarse apology from his lips, he stood up and handed her a five Vesa note before passing by her wide frame. A few excruciating steps brought him to the door, ushered out by a bell ringing overhead.
Cassidy wrapped his coat tighter to keep cold air from chafing his sides. Nearby pedestrians orbited around this passing object, hitting him with their elbows in crossing. He ignored them and maintained pace, eyeing the holiday decorations illuminating Main Street with their red and yellow lights. Neighborhood stores joined in by hosting elaborate window displays that featured ornamental figures and fir trees covered in fake snow. Every now and again festive music—common songs people played every single year—escaped their doors when someone entered or left. All this effort proved inconvenient for him. What should have originally been a short trip downtown consumed his entire day as department stores and restaurants struggled to accommodate demanding tourists looking to cross off lists and fulfill wishes. For simple chores like purchasing stationery or ground coffee, one waited behind the throng and kept on waiting. Just as well, he thought. Once he had been a tourist too when he toured The City Gardens with his wife Elena. She never displayed an interest in flora and could scarcely summon words to describe the wild wisps of pink and purple dotting her hometown, indifferent to their familiar sight. Cassidy worried it would bore her and suggested they visit the art gallery instead but she insisted, remarking how all her friends recommended it. And true enough, when they approached the flowering trees tucked within the inner sanctum, he saw a genuine smile emerge from the corners of her lips. They stood there cradled between two skylines, a concrete cage, and only then could she admire beautiful flowers. Although his eyes looked distracted recalling this memory, his walking gait betrayed an unmistakable familiarity. Every year decorations came and went unchanged, obliging him to move quickly unless accompanied by an out-of-towner. In their commitment to city mores, they hit him with their elbows.
Walking onto a narrow undecorated side street allowed him to escape their blows. There a light layer of snow covered the litter-strewn ground and gave it a sheen of purity. Without streetlamps hanging overheard he depended on storefronts and residential windows to illuminate the area, shuffling on through with his fingers hidden in his pockets. Pausing for a brief moment he stared at a storefront window advertising television sets. Compared to Main Street’s vibrant displays it looked purposeless and lonely; their newest model decorated in rosewood trim sat center playing the same news channel from before—its sound obscured by a centimeter of glass. Reading the chyron scrolling below it declared: “Ministries of Foreign Affairs and Defense to issue joint statement on Karkov.” An ominously neutral statement. Overhead soundless hosts promoted rumors or speculations which would be verified in an hour when the official line was released, looking off-putting when their demeanors went unaccompanied by words. While Cassidy stared on, the store owner inside pressed his knuckles against his palm glaring through the glass. People who loitered outside his store made for unpaying customers and their presence deterred others from entering. Cross eyebrows and menacing eyes failed to communicate his intent despite facing the adversary straight on, sitting three meters behind the television screen. An ordinary challenger might rub his eyes and catch the owner’s displeasure but he remained focused. By appearing so enthralled, an elderly man passing by expressed curiosity in what had possessed him to stand there, walked over, found it uninteresting, and left. The owner empathized with the older gentleman’s confusion and cursed aloud. Eventually Cassidy would resolve the conflict himself when he turned and carried on walking.
Locals knew how to traverse their neighborhoods by slinking through side streets but most decided against trespassing through th
e back alleys, believing those paths belonged to rats and vagabonds. Cassidy peered in and squeezed through the space not exceeding a meter wide. In person one found these dark passages tight and unruly, situated underneath rows of air conditioning units and messy cabling eternally dampened by fanned exhaust. He leaned forward to lower his head and exited these short stretches to still more side streets and back alleys before arriving a street away from his apartment building. It began snowing again. Moving at a brisk pace, he rummaged through his coat pocket and found the door key tied in lint, racing his finger across its serrated edge. Upon climbing the front steps he found someone had kept the door ajar with a makeshift cardboard doorstopper and peeled the door open with his foot, stepping inside to an only slightly warmer room. The lobby appeared barely wider than the back alleys as it split into hallways, stairs, and an enclave for two elevators’ doors. With so many residents living inside, legally or not, it might be expected that the wait times would be long using the elevator. However, its age and manual controls discouraged regular use by listing instructions in a confusing diagram of Vandian script. Cassidy considered himself an expert now and often waited to help others ascend as he lived on the top floor, looking both ways before closing the doors and rotating the brass colored handle. Releasing the counterweight sent him up a shaky four-story ascent finishing with a final jolt to your knees which caused new residents to collapse in surprise. When he stepped out the smell of caramelizing onions saturated the air.
Renting a Sixth District apartment spent half his pension even after housing subsidies covered a third of the cost, which seemed ridiculous to him judging by its decrepit state. Constructed in the ’30s, this dilapidated concrete shell lacked modern amenities like constant hot water or well-insulated windows, adding discomfort to an already colder-than-normal winter. Untold numbers crammed themselves multiple families to a room; a sign the cost remained prohibitive to most prospective clients. They were mostly immigrants here. His neighbors who produced this pungent onion aroma were recent emigres from across the Northeast Sea where he figured the people subsisted on a diet of onions and fish. Their endless permutation of three or four recipes drove everyone miserable by blanketing the hallway in old world heritage, saturating the air with reminders of their traditions. Cassidy considered uncreative diets a blessing as it would have improved upon his current situation, having abandoned the diner with just a sip of coffee. For him a lazily furnished room laid testament to the past three years living haphazardly; everything served a temporary purpose from the kitchen table to the bed a room over. He contributed nothing to his studio apartment except for a toaster and kitchenware. Opening the fridge revealed its similarly bare contents: half a carton of old milk and unidentified vegetables decaying in the crisper drawer. He would need to shop for groceries soon. Scouring the cabinets yielded stale sandwich bread and sardines in mustard sauce which combined to make an unpleasant sandwich.
Bread crumbs accumulating on the kitchen table below revealed a preoccupation with memories. He remembered draft papers arrived during his third year of college, the semester before an early graduation. That same day he visited the local branch office and negotiated a deferment until he finished his studies, taking full advantage by lessening his coursework and delaying enlistment another full year. When commencement came around the military stood watching them while they received their diplomas, whisking them away not a week later. Cassidy knew college-educated men could become officers and so he sat side-to-side with his fellow officer candidates on the bus to Fort A. Necessity streamlined basic training to six weeks while the officer course lasted ten weeks in total, allowing him to skip the entire first year of fighting. A feat he proudly planned. Newly-minted, these officers would be driven across the border to lead men serving since the war began; the same men he saw every other day at the Veteran’s Organization. Soldiers from other wars despised those who avoided service using bureaucratic methods but by the third and final year people forgot the details and it made no difference then. What mattered is who returned home. Soldiers saw little reason to compare heroics when a war professed no winners or losers. Glorification at home served to disguise failure.
His fingers still trembled. Cassidy sat at his desk and held onto his kneecaps. After regaining his composure he thought about writing another letter. He wanted to avoid hearing Elena’s voice and by now it had been two years; though he remained confident in recognizing her inflections and mannerisms without error. With his son growing into his teenage years he suspected that would be a harder challenge. Missing these years weighed heavily on him and this guilt translated into countless drafts tossed inside the trash bin. Today he felt assisted by the present he could send with it—a fantasy novel he read around the same age. But while he remembered enjoying the book enough to carry a fondness for it, recalling specific details proved difficult and he struggled to even describe the main plot. After peeling back the wrapping paper and sliding the book onto his desk, he began to read the cover and jacket. Wandering about the room book-in-hand, he eventually lost track of time and laid out on the couch with a blanket draped over his legs, neck sore from poor posture. Closing the book halfway, he thought about the New Year’s party tomorrow and waddled the cold steps back to bed holding the blanket underneath his armpits. Shock from the cold sheets made him roll into a cocoon and lay still until the next morning.
When Cassidy woke five minutes past eight unrested and light-headed he felt reluctant to leave his warm bed. Freezing whiffs of air rained needles on his toes and he withdrew back into a ball, covering his ears with his blanket pulled over his head. The party began in the afternoon, leaving him plenty of time for a second shorter nap which he took. If veterans made time to attend a single event it would be the New Year’s party at the Veteran’s Organization because they held it the weekend before the actual holidays began, avoiding conflicts with family festivities. Members typically absent from its regular functions arrived to catch-up and see where people settled—functioning members of society interested in rekindling old friendships over glasses of cheap boxed wine. They might disappear again until next year or join the fold as regulars when things started to fall apart. Unfortunately more crossed over to one side than the other. Either way, the event resembled school reunions or religious gatherings where the results were cathartic for some or depressing for others. Holding himself in a cloth ball, he truly wished his fellow veterans could live normal lives—whether successful in their pursuits or insignificant parts of a greater machine, whatever made things move in the same direction. Society owed them this much.
Cassidy woke a second time and stretched his arms; he had reached the limit of how many times his body could sleep in succession. Rather than waiting until later, he assembled his evening attire on the bed and donned the full suit early, pulling long black socks up past his ankles. Socks always came first. A glance in the mirror mistook reality by lending him undeserved credibility in the clothes he wore, proper dress for men who worked in the financial district. In truth, an officer’s pension placed him within the same income bracket as his fellow tenants and well below middle class. For the most part he wore tacky secondhand clothing left at discount stores whereas his suit had been something he consciously wanted. Infrequent meals even made him look a better fit than before. Wearing this costume resurrected a working man’s pride in his step as he strutted about the room in sandals, chest held high. To pass time in an efficient manner, he fiddled his fingers underneath his old television set and flipped on the switch. It connected him to the most recently viewed channel: The Drama and Entertainment Network. Immediately the image of two brothers eating colorful cereal populated the screen and reminded him of breakfast. He took a whiff of the milk and dumped its soured contents down the sink while the regular programming returned.
“Humbert you swine!” A well-dressed woman declared.
A pig-faced man wearing a hat indoors slapped the woman across her face and stood over her body with a menacing gri
n. Cassidy changed the channel. Something needed to play in the background if he were to forget how cold it was and it needed to be something he could watch without mentally participating. The task fell to a wildlife documentary on bears. Five minutes of tired commentary describing the strength of a bear’s bite droned on. Half an hour later the doorbell rang. Outside the tragic image of the paper boy standing beneath three layers of clothing and cotton scarves greeted him; the weight of his carrier bag left him unbalanced and struggling to keep his weight on both feet. Handing him his weekly subscription, the boy suggested that payment be left under the mat. Other people followed this advice he assured. Cassidy held far too little trust in society for that and preferred to cause the boy additional trouble instead. After conducting the exchange, he bid the boy farewell and shut the door to keep colder air from coming in. Some unknown resident had opened the windows in the hallway to vent out the smell of onions. As a result, everyone’s room might be four or five degrees lower and he felt it. Ultimately though, the issue lay with the landlord who failed to hire a contractor who could fix the central heating unit and keep it working the entire winter. In time, summer’s blistering heat would return and they would undoubtedly be complaining once more about the failing cooling system as well. He unfolded the newspaper and read its headline: “New Round of Sanctions Levied against Karkovian Industries Tied to Terrorism.”
Like most Vandians, Cassidy possessed nothing of Karkovian origin. Perhaps an older Karkovian man living in the Seventh District ruminated over the loss of pickled vegetables and fish but his neighbors would fail in naming a single Karkovian brand. He thought the charges silly. These latest sanctions targeted low-volume, low-margin goods discordant with the concept of money laundering—brands unable to sponsor advertisements in the local newspaper let alone support international syndicates. No effect would be felt by the overwhelming majority of citizens. The purpose appeared clear enough—to inflict pain wherever possible. Nothing new. Going through the remaining headlines made him think about his own predicament. With stores closing for the holiday season there would be nothing left to eat without stocking anything in advance. Except a few ethnic shops maybe. This close to the holidays it might be the case already. Subway stations ran on reduced hours and he would need to leave earlier than usual if he were to make it in time for the party. Cassidy put down the paper and skimmed the headlines once more: another murder, another positive economic indicator, opinions pieces, and potpourri. Things he would read and reread during the holidays. Dressed to begin with, Cassidy left his room and locked the door behind him, thinking about what to hoard his cabinets and fridge with before entering a four-day hibernation.
