The Tyrant's Daughter

by Carleson, J. C.

  The camera pans left, and everything it shows is scorched and pockmarked. The corner of one building has been sheared away, revealing a conference room left eerily intact—a long table still surrounded by chairs and a telephone still on the desk, as if the ghosts of the dead were still hard at work amid the ashes. The camera moves on to show a street lined with overturned cars that look like they’ve been trampled by elephants. Everything that isn’t blackened is sooty gray, except where the glass from broken windows sparkles in drifts like a nightmarish version of fairyland snow. The city looks as if it has been roasted on a spit—spun over a hot flame until everything is burned and broken.

  Hundreds dead in overnight fighting, says the khaki-clad foreign correspondent. He’s just disheveled enough to be credible, but his silver hair is neatly combed perfection. The latest clash between government and opposition forces began when troops loyal to the newly installed regime fired on protesters yesterday, killing dozens of civilians. Antigovernment rallies have been increasing as many grow disillusioned with the country’s new leadership. Now the small skirmishes that have long been a way of life here have given way to a series of far more organized—and far more deadly—attacks as the fragmented opposition groups join forces against the General, as he is still called.…

  My mother is leaning so far toward the TV it looks like she’ll tumble off the couch. She’s struggling to understand the words—I can tell by her slightly open mouth and concentration-pinched eyebrows—but the pictures tell enough of a story that there’s no need for me to translate. The footage dances from the damaged government buildings to a more gruesome scene—an open-air marketplace shelled during the crowded evening shopping hours. Mundane items, dented cans and wilted produce, are scattered on blood-shiny pavement, and distraught relatives wail and cry in muted background agony as the report goes on and on.

  Neither of us says a word, even as the report ends and the news anchor switches jarringly to a story about a famous teenage actress’s latest trip to rehab. I take the remote control from Mother’s hand and mute the volume, and for a second the two of us stare at the silent image of a posh mountain lodge sitting amid impossibly beautiful trees. The contrast is strangely hurtful—my home looking like hell on earth compared to this heavenly resort for drunks and addicts.

  “It’s never been this bad before. Has it?”

  Mother frowns and shakes her head. “Not in the capital.”

  Not in the capital. Meaning it was that bad elsewhere. Like in Amir’s village. “What happened?”

  “The General happened.”

  The jagged scorn in her voice would be comforting if I hadn’t heard her pleading with him just days before. Now her contempt lacks credibility. She continues, still staring at the TV, seeing or not seeing the Technicolor orange juice commercial that has replaced the news. “He made a lot of promises to a lot of people, but look what he did. He just brought the war closer to home.” She sounds dazed.

  “But there’s always been fighting. Right?” My grasp on reality has been so shaken that I can’t trust my memories. I remember gunfire, bodies, death. But I also remember my father as king. I still don’t know how much of my history is invented.

  “Always.” Mother pulls her robe tighter. “But when your father was alive, the deaths were few. Fewer, anyway. Now there are hundreds dying every day, and it’s getting worse.”

  “Why do you want to go back there, then?” My voice is a small, hopeful whisper. Surely she has changed her mind after seeing our burned and ruined city?

  But my question only hardens her. She sits up, her spine stiff and straight, and looks at me with cold eyes. “It’s ours,” she says. “It’s our burden, our responsibility, and our right.” She sounds deranged and heroic all at the same time, a modern-day twist on Joan of Arc—maybe mad, maybe inspired.

  “But Bastien is a child. What can he possibly do?” I look over my shoulder to make sure our bedroom door is still closed. This is a conversation I don’t want my brother to hear.

  Mother shakes her head and answers me slowly, carefully, as if I were incapable of understanding. “Bastien is his father’s son, so the country is his to lead. That’s the way it has been for a very long time. But no one expects him to actually do anything, Laila. There are many people who will be making the decisions for him. His only job is to be.”

  “Can’t we just walk away from it? Can’t we just stay here?” I hate the whine in my voice, the fearful, weak sound of it.

  She clenches her jaw, and I see that she’s losing patience with me. “Do you remember when I told you the story of your name? Of how you came to be called Laila so many weeks after you were born?” She waits for me to nod. “Well, Bastien’s name also has a story.” She settles into the cushions, and I lean in, already captive. Storytelling suits her.

  “When Bastien was born, your uncle demanded he be given a religious name. He claimed it was important that a future leader have a pious start in life. Your father didn’t see the harm, but I did. I wasn’t about to let that horrible man control me through my children—I wouldn’t allow him that grip on my son. I named your brother after my grandfather because he was all things your uncle is not. He was French, first of all, and he was generous, kind, and worldly. I named your brother Bastien because I wanted to be sure that he always knew that there was another life, another world, than the one handed to him at birth. I wanted him to have one foot at home and one foot free. Does that make sense, Laila?”

  “No.” I’m being petulant now, but I can’t stop myself. “If you really want him to be free, then you’d never send him back there, back to that. You’d never turn him into a puppet.”

  “Don’t you want to honor your father?” She reaches over and gently lifts my chin. “What would your brother be if he couldn’t take his rightful place?”

  A little boy, Mother. He’d be a seven-year-old boy. I want to say it, but she’s already standing up.

  “Achh. Someday I hope you’ll understand, Laila.” She’s done explaining for now. “I’m going to get dressed.”

  The doorbell rings at that exact moment—so perfectly timed that I assume the sound is coming from the TV. But then I see the look on my mother’s face. Pure dread. She pulls her shoulders back and smooths her bed-ravaged hair. “It’s starting,” she says under her breath, and opens the door.

  TRUST

  The news has coughed up Darren Gansler like a man-sized hair ball.

  “I know it’s early,” he says when he sees my unkempt mother. “But it’s important.” He’s tieless and rumpled himself.

  “I know. Come in.” She turns to me before the door is even shut. “Laila, can you please run to the store and pick up some pastries? Something to offer our guest?”

  I wait for Mr. Gansler to wave off the gesture, to tell me it’s not necessary, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me, waiting. They both want me out of the house, out of earshot.

  No. I’m not leaving. Not this time.

  “I can’t. I don’t feel well. It’s—” I see their eyes hardening against me, so I hug my midsection and drop my chin, add a bashful breathiness to my voice. “It’s that time of the month. I just want to go back to bed.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the smirk off my face. I dare you to argue with that.

  Mr. Gansler grimaces and looks away, embarrassed by my feminine admission, while Mother narrows her eyes. She seems to be debating my lie, trying to decide how to react. It’s not in her nature to speak openly about such matters. She glances at Mr. Gansler and then at my bedroom door, measuring the distance between the two. “Fine,” she says at last. “But close your door.”

  I nod and shuffle to my room, trying to keep up the façade of pain. If I didn’t know better, I could swear I heard a barely there note of pride in her voice. I wish I’d known sooner that all I had to do to earn her approval was to act devious. Yes, Mother, I’m your daughter after all.

  Bastien is stirring under his blankets, so I close the door gently behi
nd me and sit on the floor with my ear pressed against the flimsy wood. I can hear every word of their conversation through it. If anything, the voices on the other side sound amplified. Today, there will be no secrets.

  “It’s time. We can’t wait anymore or things are going to get out of control again.” Mr. Gansler doesn’t bother with small talk. I feel a flush of perverse pride that something from my home could rouse this important man, this CIA officer, out of bed so early and put that twang of anxiety in his voice.

  “I know.” Mother is smooth again, comfortable in her scripted role.

  Bastien sits up and blinks at me. I hold a finger to my lips, and he nods and crawls silently over. He pulls his knees up to his chest and leans against me, his little body warm and trusting. He doesn’t look surprised to find me eavesdropping—I can’t decide whether this says more about him or me.

  “We’re not interested in simply delaying the inevitable, Yasmin. If he can’t hang on to power, then there’s no sense in backing him. And frankly, I’m not convinced he’s even going to play ball. We sit on different sides of a pretty high ideological fence.” Mr. Gansler sounds peevish, like a man who needs a strong cup of coffee before dealing with this mess. I wonder whether he has a wife, and what he tells her when he rushes off. Don’t hold dinner, dear, I might be late. We’re launching a civil war today—you know how it is.

  “You control the money, so you control the outcome, Darren. His grip on power may be shaky right now, but it’s not too late to reverse things. Besides, if you decide to back someone else you’re going to have to start from scratch. There is no one else with a chance of uniting the factions. The General may not be the best choice, but right now he is the only choice.” Her voice is low, convincing. Almost hypnotic.

  For the first time I wonder how much of a role she played in my father’s decisions. She is, after all, calmly negotiating support for the man who killed her husband. Did she ever use that same lulling tone to suggest a bombing campaign? Did she speak with such smooth confidence while listing the virtues of using chemical weapons against unsuspecting villagers? Against children?

  Stop! I have to purge these thoughts from my head. They’re distracting me. Bastien fidgets, trying to get more comfortable against me, and I force myself to focus.

  “He’ll listen to me, Darren. I’ll make the arrangements. Just promise me that you’ll deliver the money personally. I can’t vouch for anyone else, but I know that I can vouch for you. I trust you—you know what’s at stake better than anyone else in Washington. You’ve been there. You know what it’s like.”

  Nice touch, Mother. I feel dirty listening to her shamelessly manipulate him. I’m certain he’ll see through it.

  But apparently he doesn’t.

  “We need to move fast. It’s a lot of money, Yasmin. A lot of money. Make sure he understands the obligations that come with it.”

  “He’ll understand.”

  I hear them moving, the front door opening, an exchange of goodbyes, and then nothing. I crack my bedroom door open silently, slowly, nudging Bastien aside so I can peer out.

  My mother, master manipulator and careful plotter, is standing with her back against the front door. Her face is pale, and her lips are pressed together like they’re barely containing a scream. She is a hurting, haunted shell.

  Good. Let her hurt. The anger that jumps unbidden into my mind scares me. It feels like a point of no return. But if I’m hurting, she should be too.

  She opens her eyes and looks right at me. For several long seconds we’re frozen, staring at each other, and somehow I become the guilty party. I drop my eyes, ashamed, but I feel her continue to stare. I don’t look up until I hear the ice cubes tinkling into the glass and the sounds of my mother, still in her nightclothes, pouring herself a drink.

  ATTENTION

  The news holds us prisoner while the sun rises outside. Slashes of morning light enter our apartment through the gaps of our still-closed blinds, but none of us get up to open the shades.

  We sit, glassy-eyed, waiting for the revolving-door news channel to get back to the story. Four minutes of commercials to three minutes of news; snippets of home in hyperactive forty-five-second bursts only every so often. Mother swirls the ice in her otherwise empty glass, and the cubes rattle like boozy castanets until they melt. Bastien is on the couch next to her with his hands hovering slyly near his mouth. When he thinks no one is watching, he sucks his thumb the way he used to when he was younger. He turns it into nail biting the moment anyone looks, which he seems to think is a more acceptable vice for a seven-year-old.

  I’m too impatient for the teases and the snippets, so I turn on my computer. I have to wade through several layers of reports—the rehab starlet has already checked herself out!—before I find what I’m looking for. The news is not good. Retaliation has begun, and the death toll is climbing. The General has gone on the offensive, and the provinces are suffering his wrath.

  My first thought as I read this is of Amir. Is that strange? I search, and I’m relieved to find no mention of his village.

  “Laila, are we going to school today?” Bastien has abandoned his news vigil, and now he’s restless.

  I glance at the clock. We’re already late. “Yes, let’s go. We might as well—there’s no new information anyway. Get dressed, quick.”

  Bastien skitters off without protest.

  Mother barely acknowledges our scurried attempts to get ready for school, but she stops me as we’re rushing out the door. “Laila, wait. I need you to do something for me.” She steps into her bedroom, then emerges with a thick envelope. “Give this to your friend, please. What’s his name, Amir? It’s the money we borrowed.”

  My friend? And his name so easily forgotten? “Where did you get this? I thought we were broke. And why don’t you give it to his cousins the next time you see them?”

  She frowns at my questions and pushes the envelope at me. “Laila, please. Just do as I ask. We have plenty of money now; we won’t need to borrow from them again. And I don’t think I’ll be seeing anyone from that family anytime soon.”

  This has something to do with the news. With Mr. Gansler’s visit. With my uncle. “Why?” I ask, not expecting a response.

  She surprises me with a half answer, which is half more than I expected. “Darren’s interests have shifted, and he’s the one who pays the bills.” She shoos us off and shuts the door before I can ask anything else.

  I walk Bastien to his school. It’s out of my way, but late as I am already, another twenty minutes doesn’t matter.

  He straddles the curb as he walks, one foot on the sidewalk and one on the street. It gives him a lurching gait that makes me think of Amir’s sister. “Bastien, why did your teacher ask to meet with Mother?”

  He scowls and kicks at a rock. “She says I’m lying. She says I make things up.”

  I know immediately what he has been lying about, and my heart aches for him. “Did you tell people you’re a king?” I ask softly.

  He looks at his feet and bobs his head in the tiniest of nods.

  I start to tell him he shouldn’t say such things, that it isn’t true, but I stop myself. Who am I to say what’s true? Mother has dragged us both into a game I don’t understand. For all I know, Bastien will be king once she’s done maneuvering. And if not, our future is a bleak question mark. Bastien’s stories may be the only things that survive intact.

  I shudder and walk faster. “Hurry up,” I snap at Bastien, and he looks relieved the conversation is over.

  ALARMS

  I arrive at school to find that my Here and my There have collided.

  Cars and trucks with flashing lights crowd the street, and somewhere inside a tinny alarm sounds, on and on and on. Icy fingers of panic caress and then start to claw at my chest. My first thought is that the war has followed me, encircled my life completely.

  Then I notice the other students.

  They’re milling around the front entrance in a boisterous cro
wd, their expressions falling within a narrow range from neutral to cheerful. At worst, some look bored. There is no crying; there are no screams. But I still can’t push away the piercing dread that something terrible has happened.

  I find Emmy standing near one of the fire trucks. She bounces up and down on her toes and waves with both hands when she sees me. “Laila! Where have you been? Have you heard the good news? Someone called in a bomb threat!”

  I’m certain I heard wrong—I’m so distracted by the red-white-red-white lights dancing across her face that I can’t grasp the meaning of her words. “What?”

  “Bomb threat! Woo-hoo!” Someone in the crowd yells it, and then someone else tries to start a chant. “Make the call! Make the call!” It doesn’t catch on, but I can’t stop myself from taking a step back, away from the shouting. I stumble over the curb, falling in a clumsy heap.

  “Oh, Laila.” Emmy’s eyes go wide and she covers her mouth with a hand. “I didn’t even think.” She rushes over and pulls me up. “Don’t worry. It’s not a real bomb—it never is. This happens at least once a year, but usually not until the weather’s nicer, or on Senior Skip Day. We’re just waiting until the principal makes the call—he has to officially make the decision to evacuate the school for the day. Which always happens.”

  I understand her this time, but it doesn’t keep me from wishing we could move just a little farther away from the building, farther away from the flashing lights. Just in case. “But what if—?” The alarm clanging in the background cuts off abruptly, and the students cheer.

  Emmy’s bouncing on her toes again, but she keeps a tight grip on me. “Okay, that probably means he’s about to make the announcement. Shhh. Listen.”