Genesis Again

by Brian Dae

  Cassidy could not reasonably expect to eat the whole thing but he endeavored to make a polite dent in the amassed quantities laying before him. He decided against using his hands and tucked away at the dish with the utensils, savoring the rich food while he sat alone in the restaurant. On occasion, guests would come in, order their food and chat with the owner. Some would notice the single diner and switch to Vandian, posing curious questions about how he liked the food and if he had eaten it before. Then they would laugh, switch back to their mother tongue, and joke with the owner about another matter altogether waiting for their food to be prepared from the back. After eating for a while, Cassidy excused himself and thanked the owner again, leaving the restaurant to continue down toward the community center.

  It was early in the afternoon now and people having late lunches floated in and out of restaurants. This was not an uncommon sight in The City where business came in waves from open to close. By the time he reached what he believed to be the community center, he was off the main road and in a large lot which appeared empty in contrast to its size with just a dozen or so cars sitting outside. He began to worry if services were closed today but even if it were the case, it was not difficult to make the journey now that he had done it once. He walked to the front of the building and examined its shape, long and flat without any features that stood apart from the surroundings. It was like a large earthen mound which rose from the ground or piled from excavating a pit, flatly unremarkable. As a descendant of citizens reaching far back into their national history, he held only faint ideas of what Indigenous architecture should look like and tried recalling the buildings from his schoolbooks. The institution in front of him still looked foreign in comparison.

  When he stepped closer to the doors they slid open automatically and answered his question as to whether or not they were open. Completely deserted inside, he wandered around looking for assistance and found none. A little sign hung above the reception desk suggested visitors ring the little bell placed below but he disliked making a sound for attention, choosing instead to wait around looking at the various events and drives scheduled on the advertising board. Contrary to its current quietness, there seemed to be a number of activities slated for the following weeks judging by the dates alone. Most of the language again being foreign to him. Eventually a woman opened one of the side doors and asked what he needed while propping the door ajar.

  “I was wondering if you were open to non-members for your events,” Cassidy said.

  “It will be Hajella soon, which starts on the Sixth. If you come then, we will have food and activities planned. Please do bring your family members.”

  Cassidy thanked her and headed for the door but she told him to follow her through the visitor door. She led him to an auditorium-sized room adjoined to an open kitchen, laid out with wide circular tables and a few chairs. Against the back lay a large garden with towering fruit trees and flowering plants visible through vertical-windowed walls. This room served as the main activities room, not dissimilar to the one they used in the Veteran’s Organizations, though slightly brighter and larger in size. Inside the kitchen he could see geriatrics and middle-aged women cutting vegetables and marinating meat in large stainless-steel drums. The elders carried on with their work without bothering to look at the stranger, humming along as they labored to prepare these vast quantities. He wondered if he was interrupting their work and asked the young woman from before if they would like him to come some other time. The matriarch, an elderly woman with a shawl over her head, put down her knife and walked over to him. She patted him on the shoulder and looked at him understandingly.

  “You’re not the first one to come looking for answers sir,” she said.

  Cassidy felt embarrassed by her candor.

  “After these kinds of events, there are always people who want to make sense of things, to understand why something outside of their control has happened. All we can say is that we can’t explain these things because they aren’t related to us and what we do. Truthfully, their actions are as connected to you as much as they are to me because they are the evil in society.”

  “Ma’am, it’s true. I have assumed too much,” Cassidy said.

  “I don’t begrudge you for it young man. This has been a long history for us.”

  “For the Karkovians?”

  “Sir, you are mistaken. We may share the same faces but the Karkovians are a western tribe. No, I am a Ruven, one of the original inhabitants of this land, like the Voikos in the south.”

  Cassidy looked at the food they were preparing; the vegetables and spices were exotic and these things were what truly divided cuisines between peoples. He had never eaten their foods before and the absence of their taste was a mystery to him because he had tried foods from thousands of kilometers away but never theirs. He asked them what they were making. The woman who lead him in carried out a large stock pot and explained that they were making soup for the holiday party, a vegetarian stew made of root vegetables and newly harvested spring greens. This would be accompanied by an assortment of meaty pastries, braised venison, and thick slices of whole grain bread, hearty fare fit for tougher times. She invited him to attend the event next week and suggested he bring friends if he wanted to, though she never provided her own name.

  He knew there was hatred for the Karkovians, even if people refrained from speaking these things aloud, but the issue was never personal for him. During wartime, members of his unit thought about the war as propagated against a Karkovian regime and not its people, and so eventually when the government toppled, peace would return and life could carry on as before. They believed this. Though looking at the elders cooking he could not imagine them holding the same belief knowing full well the history of the Eastern Tribes. Vandians treated war impersonally because the costs were low in comparison to those who lost everything and the Eastern Tribes certainly did lose everything. History might be an eternal lesson proving that being forgiven is always preferable to forgiving others. Each and every conflict he read about since he became literate enforced this recurring theme. Except for the Karkovian War. Sometimes there are options other than forgiveness. One of the old women peeling potatoes called out to him while he was deep in thought.

  “Mister, if you’re thinking about something, how about helping us with the peeling? You would be surprised how many questions can be answered by having your hands busy.”

  Cassidy smiled and joined her in preparing the potatoes. Now that he was no longer standing outside they began chatting and telling jokes in their native tongue. The old woman placed a sack next to Cassidy’s feet and instructed him to toss peels into the empty bag so they could reuse them for compost. Working together in silence, the mound of potatoes began to shrink. Making imprecise cuts, he whittled down no fewer than ten kilograms worth through his hands, placing them in a salted basin of water. Earning a little respect from the woman, she introduced herself as Sofiya and then proceeded to speak at length about her childhood: tending to personable chickens, walking long distances to school, and collecting kindling. Simple things any rural family might endure and look back fondly on having long moved away from those things. Listening to her memories made him smile and laugh softly.

  “You are a quiet man, Cassidy,” Sofiya said.

  Cassidy smiled and nodded.

  “With everything that has happened lately, it’s important to keep talking, especially about the everyday things.”

  “I would agree with that. There’s not much we can do about the things that have happened,” Cassidy said.

  “But whenever we think about something else, people make us think about the actions of a few people. Even if they were among us, for a day or even for years, who really knows what causes them to act that way. For every senseless murder, aren’t there hundreds of people who have known them and spoken to them? Can we really be expected to know everything going on inside their heads? Although you haven’t asked me a single thing about the recent attacks, I’
ve gone and spoken about them. I’m just bothered by it all.”

  Cassidy peeled another potato and laid it gently into the metal bowl. He eyed the large sack and imagined it would take another hour to complete the task, even as the woman next to him went through them at a breakneck pace. She seemed at ease in this task.

  “Have you ever spoken with someone named Paul?”

  “There have been many people throughout the years with that name.”

  “It might not matter which Paul in the end. I have been wondering if that is the case.”

  “Was he a part of the attack?”

  “No, he was someone who was against those things and did what he could to stop them from continuing. He is and remains a good friend of mine but I haven’t seen him as of late.”

  The old woman continued peeling and thought hard about something. She rose from her seat and walked over to the fridge, taking out a small plastic container and bringing it over to him. Cassidy said that he was still full from eating earlier but she insisted and shoved the open container underneath his face. Inside were little red berries of what appeared to be some odd fruit. He picked up a piece and plopped it inside his mouth; the texture was crisp and it immediately released a light floral scent when crushed against his teeth. It was something he had not eaten before and the flavor was completely alien to him.

  “Back then, these fruits were very common across the plains. We would always harvest them by hand when I was a little girl and preserve them as a jam or relish. Now it is hard to find them anywhere, especially if you would like to eat them fresh.”

  “What do you call them?”

  “Merjicu cherries.”

  Cassidy thought about staying to finish preparations with them but they insisted his hands would be too sore and suggested he simply come back for the event. He mulled over the thought of attending and felt relieved to have been a part of it beforehand, feeling somewhat deserving of an invite now. Lugging the sack of potato peels outside, he saw that the women had already forgotten his presence and gone off to finish other things unrelated to cooking. After heaping the scraps into the compost bin he walked back alone to the entrance. Sofiya caught his visage in passing and yelled for him to come by and visit again. Cassidy smiled again and waved goodbye. When he left the community center it was already nearing sunset and the buses were running full of people leaving work. Holding onto the pole for support, he thought about eating something but he was still full from lunch and decided to forget dinner.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The letter arrived with his pension check; Vandian coat-of-arms emblazoned on each side. Strung in golden twine and sealed within a thick-green envelope—he knew its contents before untying the knot. They changed the packaging. Back when he received his first notice the army presented orders unceremoniously, a simple white envelope with a stamped insignia at the top left corner. Printed and mailed by the thousands. Soldiers went on to storm fortresses and seize territory upon receiving these standard forms thinking nothing of fulfilling their natural duties as citizens. Today he received a letter befitting his rank although one imagined even vain officers might be irked to see these official summons. Tossing aside its outer packaging revealed a twice-folded sheet which read in no uncertain terms that Karkovian War Veterans were to join the war effort as enlisted men, encouraged by military and civilian leadership to share their valuable experiences. How their insights might be solicited appeared vague. If all they were expected to do was to share stories, anyone could find them at the Veteran’s Organization on any given night. And what exactly could military luminaries learn from men who simply took orders anyway, never once did he remember being asked then. Of all the insight he gleaned from experience, the best would be to avoid war altogether if you could.

  But conscription demands no purpose, only political will. As their pension plans and personal freedoms remained tied to the state, not a single draftee called to arms could refuse summon unless they were willing to sacrifice everything. With exceptions. In their generosity the government would allow them a short period to settle their affairs and this time began counting down before they finished reading the letter’s contents. Just enough time to purchase additional life insurance and make peace with loved ones. At this moment he wondered what those at the Veteran’s Organization felt—days like these where one might expect everyone to visit or none at all. What frightened him was the question of whether they all received this letter or just him alone. Guessing the method for how these things were decided drove men mad. Ultimately ordinary people’s fates depended almost entirely on luck while well-connected individuals simply waited for things to come together. Arguing over what sequence of events led them to be chosen wasted precious time better spent elsewhere. He chose to stand at his doorway ruminating over the past three years.

  Nothing remained of the day he arrived. A feeling abducted his life and carried it away, dragging him away from everything he held dear and left to pick up whatever pieces settle where he awoke. All the little details became fuzzy. Struggling to even remember how he managed to find his current apartment, it shocked him to find his signature written on the lease. An ignoble landlord allowed this despondent person to wander onto his property and live there under the pretense of being Cassidy, leaving the actual person to deal with the imposter’s actions. And in the process becoming someone else no less. Perhaps he became a ghost of purgatory then, wandering the earth with a blank expression unable to affect the world around him; his insignificant existence made known to himself for eternity. For all those years he lived without worry he only avoided acknowledging the darkness but the darkness did not forget him. What did remain of those terrible days was the feeling which chased him here, hidden just below the surface.

  Cassidy grew up in a medium-sized town not unlike the one he settled down in—imagining as a kid he would never return to these suburban villages. Upstarts always bragged about escaping these comfortable surroundings only to fail and become another planted tree, stuck at their roots. It became an ordinary thing to see former classmates take on working class jobs, marry a class year down, and raise children who would struggle like they did to pronounce the names of the fantastical characters he read in novels or the names of people who changed history in antiquity. His observation bothered him not from prejudice or an inflated self-worth but because he realized the lives his father and mother lived were not so terrible after all, even as he compared them to settlers living on the plains confined to their plots. At least they managed to move there from somewhere else. Removing himself from this particular world only returned him to one of its duplicates.

  Most of the men he served with were familiar with this lifestyle and wanted it consciously, wishing to return to something they understood after spending a few harsh years on foreign soil. Although he lived the life they wanted it was never his intention. Things got thrown into the air and this was where the knife landed—outside his choice and hardly something he would willingly repeat. What he hated about escaping to these little hamlets could be expressed by a lack of color in living. A certain richness in being uncomfortable on your own terms to accomplish something you truly desired. Cassidy needed to be somewhere he could blame himself and strive forward, antithetical to homes surrounded by manicured lawns and nosy neighbors, good schools and local parks. In truth all he really wanted was failure. He wanted to scream aloud that all his failures were his fault alone. By doing things right he feared he had only kept running in the same direction when he belonged to the things behind him. Asking for this much exceedingly presented itself as an unreasonable demand once he married and had children so he settled down where they needed him and he watched the clouds follow after. Eventually it would catch up to him the second he thought it safe.

  Now he needed to return home to Elena, to his family, regardless of what mistakes he made in the past three years. Cassidy had told her he would be coming home today and the idea scared him. He honored his promises to her fastidiously ev
en when it stopped making sense to them both. She reserved herself as a special existence in his life which allowed him to break from his delusions and consistently so, even as he reminded himself she was no savior. To him she represented how things should have gone and as they did. Except he deserved her less than he did before. Guilt chewed at his spirit and left him blank. While he cried in despair to return every other day, what point was there in seeing her again when he had done her such wrong and for no apparent reason, preparing for the worst day by having it occur immediately. He saw the signs too early and bought it when everyone else was still selling, foolishly believing one could time the purchase.

  Stepping off the taxi he saw a neighborhood little changed aside from the value of the land they sat on. He joked often then about selling the house to retire down south where better weather awaited them and costs remained low. This thinking became less serious the longer she lived there. Gratification came from living somewhere they made their own and staring at its picturesque frame reminded him of every reason compelling them to live there instead. Tranquility and consistency lent structure to life, letting him turn off his mind to think of nothing. How could anyone imagine wars being waged thousands of kilometers away when such a place existed? That such suffering might even be inside his own head? Certainly not when payments were due at the end of each month, year after year.