by Brian Dae
Subway stairs opened onto the street two blocks down. Cassidy wriggled his nose at the smell of old urine and gripped exact change in his pocket as he descended below. At the ticket kiosk he deposited seven Vie for a round-trip from the Sixth to the Second District, four exits ahead without any transfers. Last minute shoppers and sightseers lined both sides of the terminal stamping their feet in the soot-colored snow they had dragged in, impatient with the trains. Tomorrow all the shops closed in earnest and the tourists would disappear with them. Taking time to memorize the revised hours served the purpose of identifying your train and the last train before being stranded in the cold. A long walk back in dress shoes would break his feet. As he stood double-checking the hours an elderly woman smiled at him and asked if he could repeat it to her. During his explanation a sudden rush of air came from the tunnel as the track lights turned green, pushing tourists back from the yellow safety lines. Train 44 came to a halt two feet ahead of the door markers and opened its doors. Knowing full well the train would sit there a good minute before speeding off he continued speaking as the crowds rammed themselves against disembarking passengers. She asked him if he were attending an event having dressed himself so formally and he answered her honestly saying that he was headed to the Veteran’s Organization. Catching the familiar glimpse in her eyes he avoided elaborating further and ended the conversation by bidding farewell and catching the train. Traveling beneath the city provided little to see so he closed his eyes and hung onto the railing.
Coming out of Central Station people saw the Deiderot with its steel-and-glass design, an anomaly among the older concrete structures surrounding the wide venue. The boulevard stretching before its entrance stood embellished on both sides with transplanted trees and modern sculptures occupying space far more valuable than any Sixth District lot, transformed into two large parks. On each side visitors wandered freely, throwing coins into wishing fountains, touring small gardens, and climbing artificial hills of equal height and shape rising at equidistant points. Free to gawk at the Deiderot while oblivious to its actual function. Although commanding respect from its sheer size alone, city management was conducted out of City Hall and national laws were passed in the capital, not here. In comparison, City Hall covered less than a tenth of the Deiderot’s size and the Veteran’s Organization no more than a fifth of City Hall. Only when foreign dignitaries or state officials visited did anyone see a glimpse of what existed inside. So while the grounds remained public for everyone the doors stood closed.
Missing breakfast made Cassidy’s stomach grumble. He avoided stepping inside the Deiderot’s grounds and headed east where smaller streets adjoined the central plaza. There businesses operated on the ground floor while residential lofts sat overhead, their many windows opening out to face the street. At first he thought the owners lived above their shops but came to realize none of them owned the buildings. A fact he learned after speaking to the owner of the Veruka Deli, where a single floor sat above the restaurant with its windows boarded shut. Inside a no-frills interior welcomed locals to choose among three different sandwiches. The owner stood behind the counter slicing a side of roast beef to order while his assistant smothered two slices of bread with sauce, openly flirted on by a large woman wearing hoop earrings making comments about every single ingredient he layered on. Looking rather bored, the owner’s eyes lit up when he saw Cassidy enter and started to pull out a slab of pastrami from the steaming tray. Cassidy said the order aloud anyway.
“I’ll have a pastrami on white.”
“Yeah no problem Cass, I’ll have it for you right away,” the owner stated.
He turned around to pick out two pieces of sandwich bread from the packaged loaves behind him and laid them flat on the prep table, rebuffing help from his assistant in preparing the order.
“Say Cass, what do you think of the news lately?” he continued.
“You mean the sanctions?”
“No, not the sanctions Cass, I mean the murder, the shooting on Tenth Street.”
“Oh that. I just read about it in the paper.”
“Barely 21 years old and he’s gone and killed a man. Didn’t even bother to shoot him face-to-face so the guy went out without knowing it was coming. Hell of a thing to do for no good reason. Different times, huh?”
“Well there was that time in the ’50s, remember the Artenios? Shootings every other week,” Cassidy said.
“Well yeah, but that was about money. Money I can understand. I’m not making you a sandwich out of passion Cass.”
The owner layered on slices of pastrami, coleslaw, and dressing and then handed the wrapped sandwich to Cassidy.
“Those kids are just making things worse for their people,” he said.
Cassidy shrugged and agreed with his shoulders, taking the sandwich and finding himself a seat alongside the wall where they hung large framed landscapes of the countryside. The shooter had been a Karkovian youth studying mechanical engineering at a local university. Whatever the reason for the murder, Cassidy found the story uninteresting and unwrapped his sandwich. A little sauce clung to the sides and dripped on his finger. He returned to the counter to get a few napkins and thought about what to do after lunch. There would be another two hours left until the event began.
CHAPTER TWO
“Nice to see you again!” the receptionist said.
Cassidy smiled and replied, “Good afternoon.”
He entered the reception hall wondering if her statement were appropriate for the Veteran’s Organization, whatever its implication. Ambiguity figured heavily on his thoughts. Director Schlaff split the regular attendees into teams and assigned them with the task of decorating the hall because citywide austerity measures left them without contractors. Now two hours before the party everything should have been complete save for final touches. Cassidy stood back to admire his own handiwork displayed above the stage and contemplated how visitors might interpret it among the wreckage. Half the room had been left untouched or otherwise incomplete while the remaining half was covered in eclectic decorations lacking any cohesive theme—abstract pieces like winter animals surrounding golden wreaths, or trees drawn in an upright upside-down pattern. People still working on their projects swatted away at balloons floating about the floor and cursed periodically when things started falling off the wall; many being the sole member of their team still working. Relying on individuals who drifted in and out, appearing for weeks and disappearing for months on end without warning proved a foolish venture. Cassidy wondered if his ‘Welcome to the Party!’ banner sounded sarcastic now and felt unsure if that was the artist’s intention. A middle-aged man with scraggly hair called out to him while he thought it over.
“Hey Cass, we’re over here!” Paul said.
Paul’s team worked on table arrangements and they celebrated their work vigorously, consuming wine at a breakneck pace while distressed servers excused themselves to restock bottles for the evening. Floral arrangements, flannel, and folded red napkins adorned circular tables accommodating ten or twelve guests each whose reservations were written by hand in blocky penmanship. With mostly store-bought decorations their members had ample time to distract other volunteers wandering the floor cup-in-hand, regaling stressed men with inappropriate jokes. Once their cups ran low they started to pick apart the cheese displays; a decision causing servers to close the metal lids and admonish them for starting early. Eventually rebuffed, the similarly aged men wearing mismatched suits obliged and sat down at a reserved table to play cards. They were all Karkovian War veterans though serving in different units and in different capacities; having watched a war decimate their peer groups and classrooms alike whilst spreading the newly created veterans throughout the country like flowering weeds. Pure chance and economic opportunity drew this lot together here and this allowed them to share retellings and confirm wild stories if they chose to do so, but no one really did. Even after befriending Paul for these past three years Cassidy still knew little about his pe
rsonal stories. He respected the sentiment. Revealing his cards on the table, Cassidy lost the first round of cards and sat back wondering if luck or poor strategy caused his defeat.
“Does anybody have good news for a change?” Cassidy asked.
“My kid was accepted to Tiver University,” Shawn said.
Everyone sitting at the table congratulated him.
“He’s going to attend Tiver, can you believe that? We screwed up raising the kid but now he might go off to become someone important. You can never predict how things are going to turn out can you?”
“I went to Tiver too,” Cassidy said.
“Well you had the misfortune of going in the middle of a war so you’re still stuck with us idiots,” Robert said.
Cassidy scratched his nose; it was his tell when dealt a particularly bad hand. Government buildings prohibited gambling on premises but no one kept tabs on who owed what or collected any winnings. They bet imaginary money and took it seriously as if someone might really call their bluff. Back during the war soldiers wasted their luck playing cards, drinking contraband liquor, and reading whatever they managed to get their hands on. He attributed survival to frequent losses—a karmic exchange of temporary suffering for protection during fighting. Considering how things turned out he figured he was still paying for something.
“Say Cassidy, aren’t you supposed to help your team with decorations?” Shawn asked.
“Half of them stopped showing up and I’m the other half,” Cassidy replied.
“Really? I thought Scott would be one of the few people to actually stick around. Maybe we’ll see him later in the afternoon, who knows.”
Attendance increased closer to six o’clock when arriving guests could expect to be served dinner; a staid assortment of boiled hot dogs, oven-baked burgers, and mixed table salad. Inexplicably, demand for these items remained consistent. They dropped an ongoing game for a head-start, queueing along the steam trays with plates in-hand as people funneled in. Time spent mingling with irregulars helped update blank spots in their contact lists and explained both absences and appearances alike. Reaching for fruit salad, Cassidy struck up a conversation with a lieutenant and listened to his story about emigrating overseas to pursue a failed marriage, followed by a ruinous return back home. Unwilling to admit he forgot the lieutenant’s name, Cassidy sipped his wine and listened on. These stories lasted for quite a while. People who started a conversation leading with a divorce could sap an entire afternoon from the listener. Paul emerged from the crowd and saved Cassidy by pulling him away.
“Cass, I need to ask you for a favor,” Paul said.
“Sure, I owe you one anyway.”
“It’s something serious Cass. I can’t ask anyone else to help me with this.”
Cassidy looked over his shoulder and nodded.
“I have this friend, a guy with these really goofy-looking ears, like a cat’s. He’s got nowhere to stay right now and I need to put him somewhere for a day or two until he can set something up.”
“He’s not crazy right?” Cassidy said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m asking if he’s going to murder me in my sleep.”
“You think I’d put a killer in your room? Have a little more faith in me than that.”
“Okay fine, but I’ll talk to you about it later.”
Paul thanked him and excused himself to use the restroom outside. As he headed out, the director appeared from stage right and introduced himself. His face appeared ill with fever as his eyes hung over dark bags and cheeks flushed bright red. A palpable feeling of discomfort emanated from his neck which he stroked at odd intervals and twisted about, writhing before the audience. While he spoke of the government’s commitments to its veterans, visiting parliamentarians looked on visibly unimpressed. They had struggled to find backgrounds to pose in front of and touched their watches reflexively as if to count down the seconds with their jittering fingers. After another ten minutes of speaking, the director handed the microphone to an aide who would begin explaining the end-of-year raffle. She explained how the prizes were to be distributed—the top prize being a 500 Vesa check and subsequent prizes offered small appliances or household necessities, all funded by local charities. Staff members walked by each table and handed out raffle tickets. Additional tickets were awarded through games and activities the tables participated in, mainly riddles or trivia and the occasional round of charades. Cassidy being in a table full of regulars diminished his chances considerably; their collective efforts yielding one additional ticket after a thirty-minute rout. Another hour remained but his table surrendered, disinclined to play further when neighboring tables trounced them. People who excelled at these events were fundamentally different on a psychological level Robert explained, and it was meaningless to compete on their terms. Rather, they would need to depend on blind luck during the drawing. All in agreement they started to play cards again, wasting their luck.
Indifference struck Cassidy as well. He sat lost in thought, more interested in the mysterious guest that had arranged for him. For although he trusted Paul’s judgement of character it became clear there would be no formal introductions. If anything, he would have appreciated Paul being forthcoming enough to say when he could expect the guest to arrive, especially when temperatures outside approached freezing again. Halfway through the program schedule Cassidy began worrying if the guest were waiting for him outside. It would be better to leave a few trains early and do his shopping now if the raffle was going to begin late, and miserable odds aside, their potential winnings provided little incentive to stay behind. When the hosts started singing holiday songs, Cassidy handed his raffle tickets to Shawn and wished them all happy New Year, picking up his coat and dropping his nearly full paper plate into the garbage bin as he spent the night filling his stomach with wine instead. Sitting near the back allowed him to fade behind the audience and slide past the small doors adjoining the meeting hall to eventually find his way outside. Luckily it did not begin snowing yet. He stood by a light pole and rocked on his heels waiting for someone to approach him. A few minutes later he started to walk home.
Walking out the parking lot reminded Cassidy how everything closed for the holidays including the Veteran’s Organization itself and all the government buildings. Storefront windows added an additional ‘Closed’ decoration to their doors telling their customers to turn back; owners and workers leaving early to get a head start on their flights back home or to save a few hours driving out to the suburbs. Even the large banks shut their doors—quiet and dark except for their logos which kept shining on. Only the immigrant communities remained open during this time. Attracted to the sound, Cassidy wandered past the subway station into these dense streets where smaller lots allowed entrepreneurs to sprout up and new immigrants to rent cheaply; people here continued their lives undeterred by the holidays. Delicious smells lingered in the air and bustling foot traffic weaved through narrow passages, seemingly disappearing and reappearing at random to Cassidy. Unfamiliar faces responded to his stares with curiosity and softened as he smiled back, inviting him to explore further into their neighborhood. He decided to find a grocery store here but found it difficult when everything was written in foreign script and cardboard boxes blocked out windows. Relying on contextual clues, he found boxes of fruit freezing outside a corner shop and assumed he found his way, though the fruit looked unrecognizable and exotic to him. Their colors and shapes defied the climate they were being sold in.
Inside the store looked to be the same size as his regular store but additional shelving made it feel tighter. Customers had to squeeze between spice racks and jams made of ten or twenty different things. The clean-shaven curly-haired owner bid him good evening in a thick Geardi accent and resumed watching a televised sporting match with loud commentary, clearly enthralled. Cassidy slid past an impressive assortment of flatbreads and dark whole wheat loaves stocked from local bakeries, likely in the same neighborhood, and ventured fu
rther in where he found canned foods of every variety: small oily fish sitting next to curried meatballs, gelatinized scrap meat, and pickled vegetables that looked surprisingly familiar to the unappetizing canned goods he knew. Fortunately he defaulted to a simplicity bordering apathy when it concerned eating, preferring expediency over taste as nothing offended his palate save for liver. Canned fish at least resembled the animals on the label it purported itself to be so he loaded his basket and thought about giving the prepared foods a look over in case his visitor possessed higher standards.
Lured deeper by the smell, Cassidy stepped out from the aisles to find the owner’s wife, or perhaps his mother, sitting behind the deli counter on a plastic stool reading a newspaper as she oversaw large vats of olives and steam trays full of seasoned rice and various curries. She waited for Cassidy to approach before putting her paper down. He thought himself irritable peering through the glass display, visibly ignorant of their cuisine and unable to understand what the translated labels conferred. Reading his apprehension, she used brusque questions in broken Vandian to help him select a few entrees, things which were safe bets: herb seasoned rice, peppery beef-fry, fried chickpea fritters, curried chicken, and vinegary salad. Her short thick arms ladled generous portions into Styrofoam boxes, tying them down with butcher twine and poking two holes on one side to release steam—handing them over with little green tickets. Unsure if he could hold the groceries and takeout simultaneously, he made an effort to redistribute the weight evenly in each hand before moving on. Payment was conducted at the man’s station, who greeted him with a smile and handed over a large cloth bag to hold his groceries. Cassidy made a mental note to return in the future, especially if the food was any good.
