by Kirsten Boie
“I’m afraid I must ask you to put back seven of those, sir,” said the senior salesclerk. She was beginning to look a bit weary. “All of our customers are trying to stock up on whatever’s left on the shelves, and so we’ve had to limit everyone to a maximum of three of any item. If you’d be so kind …”
Jenna tried to make herself invisible behind a column as she listened to the exchange. Just what was going on?
“Then I’ll take three of those as well,” said the elegant lady who had failed to find her shampoo. “You never know! Would you mind passing them over?”
The man handed her three bottles, then put four back on the shelf. “I’ll just have to send my son later,” he said. “And my daughter. That way we’ll get nine between us. But you can’t just keep blaming the new government for everything, you know!”
The saleswoman shrugged her shoulders. “I can only give you the information I’ve received from corporate office,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice. “But you know yourself that all these restrictions have only happened since the northerners were allowed into government. We never had problems like this before.”
The elegant lady nodded vigorously. “Scandia’s going to the dogs,” she said. “And the next elections won’t be for another four years, so who knows what those barbarians will have turned us into? We’ll probably all have starved to death by then!”
You don’t look like you’re starving to me, thought Jenna. She kept her head turned away as she slipped past them. Behind her she could hear the footsteps of the bodyguards. Please don’t let anyone recognize me!
When the sliding doors to the street closed behind her, she took a deep breath. All she wanted was to get away — not to hear any more complaints. Why did these things make her feel so guilty? What did it have to do with her? Just because she was half-northern and the king’s niece …
She continued down Main Street. She hadn’t been here for two weeks because of her trip back home. How could a town change so much in such a short time?
“All empty!” she murmured, gazing at the display cases in the coffee shop.
That was a bit of an exaggeration: There were still a few goods, though the gaps were more prominent. In the window of a clothing boutique, three of the mannequins stood stark naked, helplessly waving their slender plastic hands, while two others were only dressed from the waist down, looking almost ashamed of themselves. The last one, leaning forward slightly, wore nothing but a flowing blouse that hung down over its naked legs — the dummy seemed to be tugging at it, to cover up. Between all these, on the floor with its artistic folds of artificial satin, lay a handwritten notice:
We must ask our valued customers for their indulgence as, owing to current supply restrictions, we have nothing but remnants in stock.
But there were no valued customers even bothering to cast a glance at the pathetic scraps.
There were, however, crowds of people reading the reports posted outside the offices of the local newspaper. Jenna couldn’t remember noticing anything like that before she went away, either.
“It’s scandalous!” declared one man, tapping on the glass pane. Jenna couldn’t see what disaster was being announced in the evening edition, and she didn’t want to know. “My wife has cleared all the shelves in the cellar,” he continued, “and now we’re going to buy just about everything we can get our hands on!”
“There’s still some dishwashing liquid in the hardware shop!” cried a woman carrying two heavy shopping bags. “But it’s limited to two bottles a person. If you hurry, you might still get some.”
WTH is happening? thought Jenna. This can’t be true! But outside the supermarket there was a line stretching all the way to the street corner. “No more butter or margarine!” announced one woman, coming out of the market with bulging bags on both shoulders. Two little children followed her, also carrying bags. The younger one was crying. “Hardly any cheese left, and all the cans are gone!”
“All the cans?” echoed another woman near the front of the line. “You can’t be serious!”
The man behind her laughed harshly. “Cans can be stored indefinitely!” he said. “At times like this they’re always the first to go — it’s obvious!”
“But I’ve got small children at home!” cried the woman. “How am I going to feed them if things go on this way?”
Jenna stood there listening. How has this happened? she thought again. What’s going on?
“To think I supported the changes!” said a gray-haired woman at the back of the line. “I trusted the king when he said there should be equal rights for everyone! I didn’t mind when a northerner was appointed Minister of the Interior. But who’d have thought it would come to this? And have you heard? Two hours ago they blew up some pipeline somewhere! We all hoped that with members of parliament from both north and south, this government would manage to keep the rebels under control, but …”
She stopped and looked at Jenna. “What are you standing there gawping at?” she asked. “If you want to buy something, get in line.”
Jenna was taken aback. She shook her head. Thank goodness they didn’t recognize me, she thought. Without any makeup, and with my dark hair, they think I’m just another northerner. We all look the same to them.
And if the north was responsible for everything, why should they be nice to her?
Searchlights illuminated the valley, and in their glaring beams the emergency vehicles raced around, unfurling their hoses and feverishly digging broad ditches as firebreaks.
“Nahira!” Liron hissed into his cell phone. He hadn’t made contact before; there had been other more urgent things to attend to — telephone calls, talks with the rescue teams and the press. As Minister of the Interior, the man in charge of the country’s internal affairs, he’d had no time to himself.
The searchlights were hardly necessary. Behind him the flames were still roaring as high as they’d been a few hours ago, when he first reached the scene of the attack. They lit up the night in a blaze of yellow and red. The pipeline ran on raised girders across the valley, like some riveted metal monster wending its way between the trees. At one point the huge pipe had been blown apart, and the flames leaped far above the tops of the oaks and beeches. On each side of it, wide firebreaks had been dug into the ground.
The fire brigades did what they could, pumping water onto the trees while small planes circled over the area, dousing the flames from above. There had been a succession of explosions, and even from a distance the heat and the stench were almost unbearable. Luckily there were no towns in the vicinity, and this pipeline was the least important in Scandia.
“Nahira, can’t you keep your people under control?”
He looked around, but there was no one within earshot. It might be a national emergency, but he hadn’t expected the military to turn up. He had told General von Thunberg he was going to contact the king. He’d just have to hope the general didn’t ask to be in on the conversation.
It seems as though everybody in Scandia has at least one secret cell phone these days, thought Liron. He moved a bit farther away from the fire, and realized the intense heat had made him incredibly thirsty. And everyone seems to be spying on everyone else. This would have to be a quick conversation — under no circumstances must anyone suspect what he was doing.
“‘My people’!” Nahira replied indignantly on the other end of the line. “Liron, you can’t be serious! I’ve seen it on TV. Don’t you realize they’re up to their old tricks? It’s those rich southerners again, you know perfectly well it is! How crazy do you think ‘my people’ are?”
“Someone was crazy enough to do it!” said Liron. The general had broken away from the group of officials he’d been conferring with and was now heading toward him. “And whoever it is means business. It’s an inferno here! Nahira, I’ve got to go. We’ll …”
“Wait!” said Nahira. “Lorok thinks he’s discovered something, Liron. He’s keeping a daily watch. If what he suspects is
right …”
The general was standing right in front of him. Liron flipped the cell phone shut.
“Did you speak to the king?” asked von Thunberg.
“So far I haven’t managed to get ahold of him,” said Liron. He slipped the cell phone into his pocket. “I’ve told his head of security, so I hope he’ll call back right away.”
At that moment, a ringtone sounded in his pocket. He knew from the tune that it was his official mobile phone and that the king would be on the line.
He reached into his pocket and fingered his two phones. He picked out the one that was ringing, and hoped the general wouldn’t notice that it was different from the one he’d just had in his hand.
The double doors leading out onto the large roof terrace were wide open, but even now, in the early evening, there was scarcely a breath of cool air. Far below the balustrade, the tropical sea was shimmering, and beyond the bay the mountains were turning blue in the evening light. From down below came the voices of the sunbathers, calling to each other and laughing — the sounds of summer.
On the terrace, looking a little out of place, were two lounge chairs with broad arms and thick upholstery; on one was a pile of newspapers, and on the other was Norlin, his left arm hanging loosely down to the floor beside an almost empty glass. He was snoring so loudly that the sound could be heard in the bright, high-ceilinged room behind him, where Bolström had just turned on the television.
He flicked through the local stations showing Brazilian soap operas and variety shows until at last he found an English-speaking news channel. He flopped into a chair and used the remote control to increase the volume. From the terrace, Norlin let out a loud grunt and turned over, accidentally knocking the near-empty glass. It tipped over and began to roll, spilling its remaining contents onto the marble tiles and finally coming to a halt up against the balustrade.
“Norlin!” shouted Bolström. “Wake up! Stop that infernal racket!”
The man on the chaise longue went on snoring. His face was red and bloated, his mouth half-open.
The images on the TV screen switched rapidly from a motor race somewhere in Italy to an attack on a bus in the Middle East, while the crawl at the bottom silently announced the latest stock market figures.
And then there were flames.
“Norlin, come here if you want to see what’s going on! They’re really getting down to business now!”
The man on the terrace woke up with a start.
“What did you say, Bolström?” he asked. His eyes were bloodshot. He anxiously scanned the terrace for his glass, but finally gave up and reached instead for the bottle, which was just an arm’s length away.
“Stop drinking, Norlin!” said the man in the room. “I’m surprised you can even stand on your own two legs. Just come in here and look at this! Things are really heating up, you could say!”
On unsteady legs, Norlin stumbled shakily into the room.
“That’s Scandia!” he said. His speech was slurred, and he held on to the back of a chair for support.
“Yes,” said Bolström, “our friends are on the move at last. Stopping the oil supply is a good idea. But they’ll have to knock off a few people — I told them that from the start. Not long now and we’ll be able to strike. We’re flying back, Norlin. Remember? Has that information got through to your sozzled brain?”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” said Norlin, still clutching the chair. “I’m Viceroy of Scandia. I’m …”
“You’re an incurable drunk, Norlin, and that’s all you are,” said Bolström, and went on watching the TV. The flames soared upward, and the reporter spoke into his microphone. “This,” said Bolström, “is history in the making. Your nettle-some daughter and her friends got us into this mess, but now at last we’re beginning to get the upper hand again. Take a good look. My phone calls to the old captain worked after all! The food shortage wasn’t nearly enough. But this is good. This is really good.”
“How come you’re suddenly on the side of the rebels?” whined Norlin. “I thought we were trying to root them out. Now they’ve even set fire to our oil!”
“Precisely, my friend,” said Bolström, and hurried across the room to the telephone. “That is precisely what people will say. It’s starting to work. And gradually the ignorant voters of Scandia will be forced to realize what sort of government they’ve saddled themselves with, so it won’t be long before they’re cheering wildly as our tanks come rumbling in. Which is why we’re flying back.” He rummaged through a pile of notes that lay scattered near the phone, and keyed in a number.
Norlin held his bottle up to the light and gave it a little shake. Not a sound. “Have we got any whiskey left, Bolström?” he moaned. “Some of it must have spilled.”
“That’s right, Scandia,” said Bolström into the phone. “Exactly. Two tickets. Thank you. I’ll pay by credit card.” He turned around.
“We’re on our way now, Norlin,” he said.
Breakfast had been served in the king’s dining room. He had introduced these working breakfasts last year, soon after he had been freed. They were not official sessions, and no minutes were kept: He simply invited whomever he wanted, and the guests varied according to the problems that had to be discussed. Magnus alone made the choice, and today his guests were Liron, the Minister of the Interior; General von Thunberg, the commander in chief of the army; and his future brother-in-law, Lord Peter Petterson, representing the aristocracy and the business class.
From the buffet table came the scent of freshly brewed coffee; the tea was already in the pot; and the croissants had just been served, warm and crusty from the oven. Next to the scrambled eggs were strips of crispy bacon, links of savory sausage, and thin slices of fried tomatoes. There were jams for the bread; milk for the coffee; and granola, yogurt, and fruit. The French doors were wide open. It was another glorious summer morning.
The mood at the table, however, was subdued.
“Who else could it have been?” asked von Thunberg, taking a bite out of his buttered croissant. A crumb fell onto his tie. “I can’t think of any other culprits. It’s as clear as day, Your Majesty. The reforms are moving too slowly for the rebels. A coalition government makes decisions slowly and the rebels don’t like it. The northern parliament members and the southern ones have very different views. Besides, they don’t want to work with us: They want revolution! The rebels have gone back to being rebels! It’s exactly the same problem as before.”
“Nonsense!” said Liron. He was standing next to the buffet table, leaning against the frame of the open doors, with just a cup of coffee in his hand. “I’m sorry, Thunberg, but why would the rebels do such a thing? They’d only turn everyone against them and wreck the reforms they’ve been fighting for all this time. It doesn’t make sense! It has to be in their own interests to work with us and make sure all changes happen peacefully, so that there’ll be no excuse for the military to be brought in against them …”
“Your Majesty,” said von Thunberg. He crossed to the buffet table, picked up a large plate, and loaded it with food. He evidently had no difficulty eating and talking at the same time. “It’s time you let me bring in my men! We could search the premises of everyone we suspect of being in league with the rebels. All over the country, Your Majesty, in the south as well as the north. And at the same time we could protect any potential targets that the rebels might want to attack, like the pipeline yesterday. We need soldiers on the streets! Show the people we’re not prepared to sit back and let ourselves be attacked. Otherwise, won’t they get the impression the government’s simply doing nothing — or even that some members of parliament are on the rebels’ side? People are already talking.”
“You forget, General, that I can only order the military to intervene in internal affairs in the event of a national crisis,” said the king. “And can we honestly call this a national crisis? Times have changed in Scandia, thank goodness.”
“But the mood of the cou
ntry is changing, Magnus — we can all sense it,” said Petterson. “Even the people’s respect for the royal family has been dwindling over the last few months. All those articles recently about your niece! The free press is full of criticisms of current policies, what with all these shortages — you must have seen that for yourself — and they’re holding you responsible, too. And now the pipeline. You’ve got to take action! Let Thunberg bring in his men before it’s too late!”
The king looked down at his steaming cup and blew on it before taking a sip. Then he made a face. “Too hot,” he murmured.
“I’m against it, Magnus!” said Liron. “Totally against it. As Minister of the Interior, I do not want to see this country suddenly swarming with soldiers. We could easily lose control. We’re on the right path now, but we need more time.”
“You think so, Liron?” asked the king, looking thoughtfully at him. “Of course, that’s what I’d prefer.”
Margareta entered the room through a side door. As she passed, she kissed Petterson on the cheek.
“Why don’t you make a speech to your people, Magnus?” she said without any further greeting. “Try to explain the problems of transition to them. Ask them to be patient, the southerners as well as the northerners. You’re king — they’ll listen to you.”
“Should I inform the TV stations, Magnus?” asked Petterson. “Maybe tonight, after the news? The people of Scandia usually spend Sunday evenings watching TV, now that the reception is so good everywhere.”
The king nodded reflectively. “Maybe,” he murmured.
“But don’t wait to bring in the military until it’s too late, Your Majesty!” urged von Thunberg. “There’s a lot of resentment building up.”
The king looked at his watch. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ll have to bring this discussion to a close. I have an appointment. And, Thunberg, I’m sure you want to get back to your estate as soon as you can — I’m sorry I had to send for you on such an important day.”
