American Empire : The Center Cannot Hold

by Harry Turtledove

  “You aren’t saying anything,” Cantorowicz remarked.

  “No, I’m not,” Flora told him. “We still have a couple of years to worry about that.”

  “Maybe you should run anyway,” the Democratic candidate said. “If he loses and you win, you’d still be able to support your family.”

  “I don’t think we’d have to worry there,” Flora answered coolly. She wasn’t kidding. Hosea Blackford was a talented lawyer with years of government connections. He would have no trouble making his way even if—God forbid!—he lost the election. Flora wasn’t sure she liked that in the abstract; whom a man knew shouldn’t have mattered so much as what he knew. But that didn’t change reality one bit.

  When I first went into Congress, I would have tried to change reality. I did try to change reality, and I even had some luck, she thought. She took pride in being called the conscience of the House. But ten years there had taught her some things were unlikely to change in her lifetime, or her son’s, or his son’s, either, if he had a son.

  Cantorowicz said, “Well, I hope you have to worry about it. But you don’t want to listen to that right now. You want to celebrate, and you’ve earned the right. Good night.”

  “Good night,” Flora told him. The line went dead. Silence had fallen in the Socialist Party office. Everyone was looking at her. She put the phone back on the hook and nodded. “He’s conceded,” she said.

  Cheers and whoops shattered the silence. People came up and shook Flora’s hand and thumped her on the back, as if she were a man. The racket woke up Joshua, who’d fallen asleep in Hosea’s lap. The little boy started to cry. Hosea comforted him. Before long, he fell asleep again, his thumb in his mouth.

  Someone knocked on the door. Eventually, one of the men in the office heard the noise and opened it. There stood Sheldon Fleischmann, who ran the butcher’s shop downstairs. He looked a lot like his father, Max. The elder Fleischmann had quietly fallen over behind his counter one day, and never got up again. Like his father, Sheldon was a Democrat. Flora doubted he’d voted for her. Even so, he was carrying a tray of cold cuts, as Max had done more than once on election nights.

  “You don’t need to do that,” Flora scolded him. “You’re not even a Socialist.”

  “I try to be a good neighbor, though,” Fleischmann answered. “That’s more important than politics.”

  “If everyone thought that way, we’d hardly need politics,” Hosea Blackford said.

  His flat Great Plains accent stood out among the sharp, often Yiddish-flavored, New York voices in the office. Sheldon Fleischmann’s gaze swung to him in momentary surprise. Then the butcher realized who he had to be. “You’re right, Mr. Vice President,” he said, giving Blackford a respectful nod. “But too many people don’t.”

  “No, they don’t,” Blackford agreed. “I did say if.”

  “Yes, you did,” Fleischmann allowed. “Mazeltov, Congresswoman.” He chuckled. “I’ve been saying that so long, it starts to sound natural.”

  “And why shouldn’t it?” Challenge rang from Flora’s voice.

  Had the butcher said something about women having no place in Congress, Flora would have exploded. She was ready to do it even now. But his answer was mild: “Only because there are a lot of men in Congress, ma’am, and just a couple of women. You do say what you’re used to.”

  Flora couldn’t very well argue there, however much she might have wanted to. She nodded. “All right,” she said. “I suppose I’ll let you get away with that.”

  By the relief on Sheldon Fleischmann’s face, he felt as if he had got away with it. “Mazeltov again,” he said, and went downstairs once more.

  In the office, Herman Bruck was talking with Maria Tresca. Maria was one of the few Italians in the overwhelmingly Jewish Fourteenth Ward. She’d also been a thoroughgoing radical even before her sister was killed in the Remembrance Day riots of 1915. For as long as Flora could remember, Maria had stood foursquare for the proletariat and against the power of big capitalists. Now, though, she listened attentively as Bruck said, “Amalgamated Mills is a very solid firm. They make fine-quality goods, and I think their stock is going to go straight through the roof. I got fifteen shares when it was at thirty-two last month, and it’s already gone up five and a half points.”

  When it came to cloth, he knew what he was talking about. He was a master tailor from a family of tailors, and always dressed as if he made five times as much as he really did. Flora wasn’t much surprised when Maria Tresca gave back a serious nod. But she was surprised when strongly Socialist Maria offered a stock tip of her own: “I just bought five shares of Central Powers Steel in Toledo. They landed that new contract for the Great Lakes fleet, and they may split two for one soon.”

  “Central Powers Steel, eh?” Herman Bruck’s round face grew alert. “I’ll have to look into that.”

  “You’re both buying shares in the stock market?” Flora knew she sounded amazed. She managed to keep from calling it speculating, though that was what it was.

  Bruck looked faintly embarrassed, but he said, “I’ve made a lot of money the last year and a half—that’s how long I’ve been in. And you only need to put up ten percent of the money when you buy on margin, so it’s a lot cheaper than it seems.”

  “It’s a lot cheaper as long as the market goes up,” Flora said. “If it comes down, you need to pay more money or lose your shares.”

  “It’s gone up for a long time now,” Bruck replied. “I don’t see why it should do anything else all of a sudden.”

  Flora wasn’t sure how to answer that, or even if it had an answer. She turned to Maria Tresca. “You’re putting money into Wall Street? You, of all people?”

  “Yes, some,” Maria answered defiantly. “If capitalism can make a secretary rich, let’s see it happen. I hope it can. And if it can’t”—she shrugged—“I’m not putting in more than I can afford to lose.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Flora said. “I can think of a lot of people who aren’t being so careful, though.”

  “What we need is more regulation of the market, to keep cheats and swindlers from having their way with people,” Maria Tresca said. “I don’t know too much about what goes on in the stock market, but that looks pretty clear to me. Some of those people will yank the shirt off your back and then sell it to you.”

  Sadly, Flora answered, “I think you’re right, but getting the legislation through Congress is a different story. The Democrats are against it, and so are the Republicans. And more than a few Socialists have made so much money in the market, they think it’s the goose that lays golden eggs, too.”

  She looked over at her husband. He held their sleeping son, all his attention, for the time being, resting on the little boy. But Flora knew Hosea also had money invested in Wall Street. She didn’t know exactly how much; he’d never talked much with her about that. Socialism in Dakota was altogether a milder thing, a more natively American thing, than it was here in New York City. What was shocking from Herman and Maria would have been nothing out of the ordinary for Hosea Blackford, though he and they belonged to the same party. He’d never cared to rub Flora’s nose in the ideological differences between them.

  But if even thoroughgoing Socialists were buying and selling stocks, where had those differences gone? Would you use your own money to try to make a killing in the market? Flora asked herself. She didn’t think so, even now, but she admitted to herself that she wasn’t sure.

  Are you a capitalist? Do you want to be a capitalist? It was like asking herself if she wanted to become a Christian. Very much like that, she realized—Socialism was about as much an article of faith with her as was Judaism. And yet . . . If I can provide for my family, why not? But that was the question: could she? One thing she’d learned in school still seemed true—what went up had to come down. Herman Bruck didn’t seem to believe that any more. For his sake, and the sake of many more like him, Flora hoped the rules had changed since she’d got out of Public School Number
130.

  Rain pattered down on Hipolito Rodriguez’s farm outside of Baroyeca. Here in the south of Sonora, winter rains were less common than those that came off the Gulf of California in the summertime. Rain at any season came seldom; were it not for the streams and ditches bringing water down from the mountains into the valley near whose edge Baroyeca sat, the town, the farms around it, and the silver mine close by couldn’t have survived.

  Chickens hopped in surprise when raindrops hit them. They pecked at the puffs of dust the raindrops kicked up. Maybe they thought those puffs were bugs. Rodriguez wasn’t sure what, if anything, went through their minds. He could think along with the rest of the livestock; the mule, though a powerful animal, was as evil as any beast ever born. But trying to think like a hen was more trouble than it was worth. The pigs seemed brilliant next to hens.

  Dark gray clouds rolled down from the northwest. The day was chilly, as chilly as it ever got near Baroyeca. Rodriguez was glad to stand close by the fire in the kitchen. His wife patted cornmeal into tortillas. Looking up from her work, Magdalena said, “Do you know what we need, Hipolito?”

  “No. What?” Rodriguez answered.

  “We need a stove,” his wife said. Most of their conversation was in Spanish, but the key word came out in English. She went on, “A good iron stove would cook better than I can with an open fire. It would pay for itself, too, because it would save fuel. It would even keep the kitchen warm on days like this, because less heat would go up the chimney. And I think we can afford one.”

  “A stove?” Rodriguez also said it in English. He scratched his head. Magdalena had always cooked over an open fire. So had his mother. So had everyone, he supposed, for as long as his ancestors had lived in Baroyeca. But times weren’t what they had been back in the old days. He knew that. Cautiously, he asked, “How much would a stove cost?”

  “Twenty-seven dollars and sixty cents,” Magdalena said without a moment’s hesitation. “I saw just the one I want in the Henderson and Fisk catalogue.” Henderson and Fisk was a leading Confederate mail-order house, and had been since before the Great War. Only after the currency stabilized again, though, had its catalogues started coming to places as remote from the concerns of most of the CSA as Baroyeca. Magdalena went on, “It’s called the Southern Sunshine cook stove, and it will do everything I need.” Again, the name of the stove came out in English.

  “A stove,” Rodriguez said musingly. “I’d bet a lot of women in Baroyeca itself don’t cook on stoves.” Changes filtered down to southern Sonora more slowly than almost anywhere else in the CSA, and the Confederate States had been founded on the principle that change was a bad idea.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” his wife agreed. “But I don’t care. We have the money. We even have the money for the stovepipe to take the smoke outside—another eighty-five cents.”

  If she said they had it, they had it. She kept track of finances with an eye that watched every penny. Even when the money went mad after the Great War, when a billion dollars had been nothing much, Magdalena had stretched things as far as they would go. The patrón had never had cause to complain about the Rodriguezes. The patrón . . . “Does Don Gustavo’s wife cook on a stove?” Rodriguez asked.

  Magdalena let out a dismissive snort. “Doña Elena doesn’t cook at all. They have a cook of their own, as you know perfectly well.” But it was a serious question. If the patrón didn’t have an iron stove in his house, what would he think of a peasant family’s getting one? Seeing the worry on Hipolito Rodriguez’s face, Magdalena said, “Don’t worry. I found out. Doña Elena’s cook does use a stove.”

  “All right. Good. Very good.” Rodriguez didn’t try to hide his relief. Things weren’t so rigid in the CSA as they were down in the Empire of Mexico, and they weren’t so rigid now as they had been in his father’s day, but he didn’t want to offend Don Gustavo even so. Better safe than sorry, he told himself. To his wife, he said, “Next time I go to town, I’ll send the order to Henderson and Fisk.”

  “Good, yes.” Magdalena nodded. “And then the railroad will bring the crate, and then we will have a stove.”

  A hamlet like Baroyeca would never have had a railroad connection if not for the mine close by. In plenty of places in Sonora and Chihuahua, the last leg of the journey from merchandiser to customer would have been by rattling wagon (or possibly, these days, by rattling truck). But not here. The trains that took out precious metal could bring in a stove from Birmingham.

  The mine also meant Baroyeca boasted a post office, a few doors down from La Culebra Verde. The Stars and Bars floated above the whitewashed adobe building. When Rodriguez went in, José Cordero, the postmaster, put aside the newspaper he’d been reading. He was a plump man with a small mustache and with his hair parted on the right and greased immovably into place. “And what can I do for you today?” he inquired. “Postage stamps?”

  “No, señor. I have some,” Rodriguez replied politely; by virtue of his office, the postmaster was a person of consequence. “I wish to purchase a postal money order, and to send the money to Henderson and Fisk.” He spoke with a certain amount of pride. Not every farmer could scrape together the cash for such a purchase.

  Cordero’s answering nod was grave, for he recognized as much. He made a small ceremony of taking out the book of money orders. “What is the amount?”

  “Thirty-one dollars and seventy-six cents,” Rodriguez said; that included the stove, the stovepipe, and third-class freight. He set banknotes and coins on the counter till he had exactly the right amount.

  The postmaster counted the money, then nodded again. “Yes, that is correct for the order itself,” he said. He filled out the money order, then added, “You must also know, of course, there is a fee of thirty-two cents for the use of the order.”

  Rodriguez winced. He hadn’t sent a money order in so long, he’d forgotten that one-percent fee. He fished in his pockets. He had some change lurking there; he’d intended to visit La Culebra Verde after sending away for the stove. He found a quarter and a dime. José Cordero solemnly gave him back three cents. He sighed. He couldn’t buy a beer for that. Then he found another dime. He brightened. He could go to the cantina after all.

  “How long will the stove take to come?” he asked.

  “Ah, is that what you’re getting? Good for you,” the postmaster said. “How long?” He looked up at the ceiling as he made mental calculations. “My best guess would be three weeks or a month. You should light a candle for every day sooner than three weeks.”

  “Gracias, señor,” Rodriguez said. That was about what he’d thought. Now he could use Cordero’s authority when he told Magdalena.

  “El gusto es mio,” Cordero replied. Rodriguez didn’t think the pleasure really was his, but he always spoke politely. He went on, “I hope your wife gets much use and much enjoyment from it. My own Ana has had a stove now for several years, and she would never go back to cooking over an open fire. The stove is much cleaner, too.”

  “I had not thought of that, but I’m sure it would be.” Rodriguez hid a smile. He’d done a little bragging, and the postmaster had responded with some of his own. That was the way life worked.

  “It is,” Cordero said positively. “You’ve spent a lot of money, but you won’t be sorry for it.” He sounded as if he were giving a personal guarantee.

  “Without doubt, you have reason.” Rodriguez inked a pen, scrawled the name of the mail-order form on the envelope, put in the order form and the money order, and handed Cordero the envelope.

  The postmaster looked embarrassed. “Personally, I would gladly send it for nothing. You understand, though, I cannot be my own man in this matter: I am but a servant of the Confederate government. I must ask you for five cents more for the stamp that shows you have paid me postage.”

  With a sigh, Rodriguez realized he hadn’t brought a stamp of his own along. He passed Cordero the dime he’d found, but eight cents wouldn’t let him go into the cantina. Before the war, beer
had been five cents, but it was a dime nowadays. No help for it, though. He watched the postmaster put the envelope in the bin of mail that would leave Baroyeca. Once it was there, he left the post office.

  Standing on the board sidewalk, he sighed again. No point in going into La Culebra Verde when he had no money to buy. He thought little of men who sat around in there hoping to cadge drinks from their more prosperous friends and neighbors. He didn’t want to be one of those freeloaders himself. But he didn’t want to turn around and head straight back to the farm, either. What point to that? He didn’t escape from it often enough to care to go home as fast as he could.

  What to do, then? He looked up and down Baroyeca’s main street—Calle de los Estados Confederados—wondering which shops he could visit without drawing sneers from the proprietors. A man with eight cents in his pocket couldn’t buy much. He jingled the coins. Because of the pennies, they did sound like more.

  His eyes snapped back to a building at the far end of the street. It had stood empty since the weekly newspaper folded in the middle of the great inflation. Now, he saw, it was empty no more. A couple of bright new words were painted on the front window. From his angle, he couldn’t make out what they were. He ambled toward the building, still jingling his few paltry coins.

  Before long, he could read the words. He stopped in surprise and pleasure, a grin spreading over his face. FREEDOM! the window shouted, and below that, in slightly smaller letters, ¡LIBERTAD! As he got closer still, he could make out the much smaller words under the big ones: Freedom Party Headquarters, Baroyeca, Sonora. Everyone Welcome.

  Everyone welcome? Hipolito Rodriguez’s grin got wider. He stopped fooling with the coins and went in.