Forty Leap (13 page)

Abraham Ventana was the group’s veteran. He
was senior in both age and time served. Whenever Abraham sat down
to talk to a group, I tried to find a seat close so that I could
hear what he was saying. His stories were both informative and
entertaining. It was 2009 when he had been captured, which meant he
had been in the control of the UAN for five years. The early time
he spent as a prisoner was time he described as comfortable if not
pleasant. The United Arab soldiers had never treated refugees as
military prisoners. There had been no questions or torture. The
accommodations, of course, were nothing like we had in the work
unit, but the days passed and passed and passed. When the work
units were formed, Abraham, at fifty eight years old, was assigned
quickly. It was a wonder he had never found himself on a cleared
manifest.

Before the invasion, Abraham had been a jack
of all trades. Some of his life’s work included painting (portraits
early on and then houses), repair and installation of air
conditioning units, cab driver, nurse, veterinarian’s assistant,
computer network technician, and a host of others that I simply
don’t remember. He was good at almost everything and there wasn’t a
member of the group who didn’t like him or envy him. On my fifth
night, the first night I had the option to sit and socialize, he
came over and introduced himself to me. I shook his hand and gave
him my name, but I was still brooding over the picture of Jennie so
he didn’t stay.

Though the rules were clearly posted, they
were not strictly enforced. As I mentioned, fraternization outside
the socialization period was considered against the rules, but
there were nights when some of the workers would go to the rooms of
some of the other workers. The only secrets between the members of
the unit, myself included, were those that were tangled in
contradicting stories. One such story surrounded Doreen Lander and
Carlos Castillo. They were together almost every socialization
period. Sometimes they would be joined by others, frequently by
Jesse Cataldo. At night, they would find each other as well, but
the reasons were not clear. Some people speculated that there was a
romantic relationship between the two that was sometimes enhanced
by Jesse. Others thought they were just “working” together. One
thing that was not a secret was that Carlos was planning an escape.
He was young, nineteen or twenty years old. In contrast to Abraham,
Carlos was one of the very last refugees to be captured. The work
units were already in full force at the time and the excavations
and renovations were ferreting out all of the stragglers. Carlos’
story is one of hardship and heroism. Much like Jennie, he had lost
family and friends and survived as a child against the soldiers and
the gangs that had formed in the streets of New York. Unlike
Jennie, however, he had a careless streak in him. Instead of
seeking the safety of high floors and shadowy alcoves, he had slept
on the street, almost challenging anyone to oppose him. He’d even
spent time in the subways. Jennie had told me about the subways
once. She’d gone down there expecting to find shelter and had found
only death and lunacy. With her foot on the last stair, she had
changed her mind and gone back up into the air.

Carlos and Doreen’s escape plans were mucked
up in the telling, but the knowledge of the plan had made it
through the entire crowd. To hear Jonah tell it, most of the unit
had wanted in at first. They had approached Carlos in small groups,
professing their expertise at one vital thing or another. He
fervently denied that he was even contemplating escape but no one
believed him. It got to the point, and again this was all before I
even arrived, where he was picking fights with anyone who would
even mention it to him. The truth, by my way of thinking, was that
Carlos, for all of his bravado, was truly planning an escape that
would never happen. I didn’t know why he chose to spend so much
time planning something that he would never execute. Certainly he
was no coward, but there was never any action taken and no one
seemed to bother about it much anymore.

Finally there was Lydia Tiri. I didn’t
recognize her right away. The hour I had spent with Warren Li’s
group had passed in the company of the Tiris, but the bulk of that
time had been passed listening to Daniel Tiri’s stories. I didn’t
see Daniel in the unit and Lydia looked very sad so I could only
assume the worst. She didn’t recognize me or at least gave no
indication that she did so I left it alone. I had enough depression
of my own without having to share with others.
Certainly there were more people in the unit and even more housed
in the building. Rod and Davis were a homosexual couple and were
constant targets of Carlos’ anger. Miriam was a previous business
analyst whose hobby was to collect pieces of information on the
others and work out the best ways for them to market themselves
within the unit. She tried it with me once, but I rebuffed her,
probably less politely than I would have liked. Anderson ate a lot.
Amber ate very little. The collection of personalities was almost
endless among the units. I couldn’t possibly have gotten to know
them all and had little ambition to get to know any of them.

Throughout October, Samud and I became
friendly. Most of the time, when he rescued me from socialization,
he took me to see Dr. Miktoffin. Once in a while, though, we sat
and played chess. It had come out during one of our conversations
that I could play the game. As an avid player himself, he was
delighted to find an opponent. Apparently, his social life was
extremely lacking. Living in North America was difficult for the
Arab citizens, as it must be for any “colonists”. Work was
demanding, almost overwhelming, so any excuse to escape for a short
while was something to which even Samud would cling. He won
regularly. Of course, he was student of the game. I was a poor
player, having been taught by Wyatt when I was six years old. He’d
shown me the game as a prank, hoping I would be able to play Jeremy
to a standstill and embarrass him. Of course Jeremy had made me
look foolish and I wondered whether the joke had been intended to
be on Jeremy or me.

During the first week in November, Samud had
to travel to what had once been Saudi Arabia and was now the
capitol of the United Arab Nation. He would be gone almost two
weeks during which I would not be pulled for any sessions with Dr.
Miktoffin. Missing the research was no great loss. Though the
doctor was always excited to see me, he was able to provide little
in the way of results. While he maintained that my condition was a
physical manifestation of some innate abnormality, he could neither
identify the abnormality nor even discover a roundabout explanation
for its existence. I had begun to doubt the doctor’s ability and
began to feel much like a maltreated lab rat.

The absence of Samud meant that I would have
to spend twelve straight days in socialization. It was a gloomy
prospect, but there was nothing for it. I had already begun to grow
impatient with my situation, wondering desperately about my family
and, moreso, about Jennie.

It was during this period that I met Igor
Grundel. Never in my life have I met a person whose name is more
fitting to his personality. Igor was a mean potato of a man with
scrunched features and a gravelly whisper for a voice. He always
smelled like my grandmother’s kitchen even though we all used the
same soap and ate the same food. I had noticed him during the
previous weeks, but never thought to make note of anything but the
man’s odd appearance. For all of his oddities, he seemed popular
among the group. But his secrets seemed well hidden. When he
approached me, it was with a miserly smile and wringing hands.

“May I call you Mathew?” he asked by way of
introduction.

Looking up from the photo of Jennie, I willed
him to go away. When the hint did not take root, I folded the paper
carefully on the creases and put it back into my pocket.

“I am Igor,” he said as he pulled out the
chair next to me and sat his strange body down. “I was noticing
that you often spend all of your time here looking at that piece of
paper. I would bet that you spend much of your other time staring
at it also.”

I did not like him and I did not want to talk
to him, but I did not dismiss him nor did I answer him. Perhaps my
treatment of Miriam had softened me a bit, returned just a bit of
who I’d been before all of this time jumping nonsense.

“If you were to write her a letter, I could
have it delivered for you.”

At this I must have had some visible reaction
because his entire face lit up with glee. Even his squinty eyes
opened wide with the smile. But I had learned to be cautious. I was
not blind to the fact that several of the others had broken off
their conversations to observe mine.

“How?” I asked. “She’s been cleared back into
the States.”

He nodded. “Of course she has. But you
certainly don’t believe that our government is the one blocking all
of the communication and holding up the clearing of manifests, do
you? Has your friend Samud convinced you that the benevolent United
Arab Nation is working their hardest to see us home to our loved
ones while the United States prevents it?”

Mentioning Samud was a ploy and I knew it,
but its effect was no less severe. I suddenly saw myself in the
eyes of my peers. I was the teacher’s pet, the lackey to the
administration. This impression of myself, no matter how
distasteful, made me even more suspicious.

“You still haven’t told me how you deliver
the letters.”

He shrugged. “Channels.”

“No thank you,” I said.

He seemed taken aback, so sure was he that I
would do anything to contact Jennie. “You don’t think I can do
it?”

“How would I know that the letter had
arrived?”

“I have sent many letters on their way and
given many people hope. It lifts a large burden when one knows that
his family and friends know that he is alive and safe.”

I peered around the room and looked at the
people looking at me. Their expressions betrayed none of their
feelings.

Again, he had not answered my question. Nor
would he.

It occurred to me that I had nothing to lose.
My fears were grounded in bad memories of high school mischief.
Pass a private letter to one student so that she can pass it to
another and another and the letter is read over and over until your
most private feelings are public knowledge. Maximum humiliation for
minimum effort. I would keep the letter simple.

“I just give you a letter?” I asked.

He brightened, feeling that he had closed the
deal, but wagged a finger at me just the same. “You will do
something for me first.”

My suspicions arose once again, but I
listened.

“There is a manifest that will clear in six
days. It will thin out a work unit in the Bronx. Transfers usually
come from other thinned units, so ours is not a candidate. You will
see that I am transferred to the Bronx.”

“What?” I was appalled. “How am I supposed to
do that?”

He smiled knowingly. “You will ask your
friend.”

“He won’t be back for another week.”

He nodded in response. “I am aware. There
will be enough time.”

“I’ll think about it.”

But there was nothing to think about, really.
Even the smallest hope of getting word to Jennie lifted my spirits.
I couldn’t
not
try. And, from what I could understand,
several people had already
paid
Igor to send out letters to
loved ones. He had been providing that service for the better part
of eleven months. No one questioned his methods or doubted his
effectiveness. All were certain their letters reached their
intended recipients. The recommendation was unanimous.

Of course, no one had had to arrange a
transfer for him and, as word got out that it was I who was to
guarantee that the
mailman
would be on his way to a
different unit, some bad blood began to stir up throughout the
group. Before, most people had thought of me very little, if at
all. Now they just thought very little of me.

Samud came to see me on his first night back.
He had not even been to his home yet. Instead of going to Dr.
Miktoffin’s laboratory or staying in my apartment, we went to his
office where I had first met him. He was very excited about
something, but refused to tell me what it was until we got
there.

“Sit down,” he said, pulling a bottle and two
plastic cups from the bottom drawer of his desk. “It’s not
champagne, but it will do for our celebration.”

“What are we celebrating?” I asked.

“My promotion. And the fact that I am going
to be moving back home.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling a strange sense of
disappointment. “When?”

He must have sensed my feelings because his
mood lessened. “Two months,” he said. “The first of the year.”

“Will that mean an end to Dr. Miktoffin’s
research?”

He smiled again. “I’m afraid so.”

This did not disappoint me. In the time that
Samud was away I had begun to realize just how much I disliked and
didn’t respect the doctor. In spite of things, however, I had
genuinely come to like Samud. He had proven a good companion.

Pushing my untouched drink forward, he
continued, “I have been given a large amount of responsibility and
with it, a large amount of power. I would like it very much if you
would accompany back to my country.”

To this I had no response. All the time that
we had been together, it had been in the back of mind to ask about
Igor’s request. During the previous week, all of my thoughts had
been focused on two things. The first was the letter to Jennie,
which was composed, penned, and sitting between my mattress and my
box spring. The second was the way I would approach Samud about
getting Igor transferred to the Bronx. Never had I expected him to
throw his own promotion at me, let alone the offer of citizenship
within the United Arab Nation. Of course, there was no way I could
even consider accepting his offer. For the first time in weeks, I
thought seriously about my next leap. It had been a long time since
my arrival and I had no way of knowing when I would depart. What
would it be like if it were to happen to me in a foreign country,
surrounded by people who did not speak English and who would not
regard me as anything but an alien enemy? The notion was foolhardy
and I think he knew it.