Juarez Square and Other Stories (20 page)

Hanif shifted in his chair. Most of his colleagues considered Andersen’s pro-commerce platform akin to treason, an affront to the Founders’ vision of communal harmony and self-sustaining economics. Having devoted his adult life to the study of soybean DNA, Hanif hadn’t given the topic much thought. On the rare occasions when he considered matters of personal wealth and open commerce with the mainland, the concepts felt as strange and alien to him as Andersen’s opulent home.

“I like to think of myself as open-minded,” Hanif said cautiously, “when it comes to serving the greater good.”

The trader’s eyes brightened and he leaned forward. “I’m glad you feel that way, Director. Torrox could use a few more open minds these days.”

Andersen rose from his chair and moved to the large-paned window that spanned the length of the room. “Contrary to what my opponent says, I believe the Founders were great men, Director Ahmed. Wise men, visionaries. But political philosophy must evolve with the times or it risks becoming obsolete, wouldn’t you agree?”

Hanif didn’t answer.

Andersen gazed out the window. “My advisers tell me the election for Chief Administrator is shaping up to be the tightest in our history. It seems trade policy has the public divided, split right down the middle.” He turned toward Hanif. “With a population of only ten thousand, I’m sure you can appreciate how every vote matters.” Andersen lowered his chin. “And the right endorsement could very well tip the scales.”

The comment and its implication caught Hanif off guard. He groped for a reply. “You might be overestimating my influence,” he said. “I’m just a scientist.”

Andersen smiled. “Yes, just a scientist. A scientist who’s managed to do something no other scientist on the mainland has been able to do. You’re too modest, Director. You’re a celebrated son of Torrox, and deservedly so.” The compliment was delivered with such apparent sincerity, for a moment Hanif almost believed it.

“Tell me, Director, do you think it’s fair, or even morally defensible, that we hoard these seeds like some miser in a Dickens tale while the children of the world starve? Tell me where this outdated ‘Torrox first’ policy makes sense, with your plants or anything else, because I simply can’t see it.”

A worker entered carrying two dessert plates of chocolate mousse. She seemed to sense the tension in the room, clanking the desserts onto the table and hurriedly exiting.

Hanif cleared his throat. “Mr. Andersen, I’ve spent years in a lab trying to solve a very serious problem. In the course of my work I don’t stop to think about the political implications.” He knew his non-answer wouldn’t satisfy the trader, who had the look of a man intent upon getting what he wanted.

Andersen stepped toward Hanif. “Ah, but your work has lots of implications, political and otherwise.” He paused for a moment, then added, “For example, what if I were to tell you there’s great interest in your plants, Director Ahmed?
Mainland
interest
.”

Hanif blinked. There were laws about that sort of thing. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Have you been speaking with the mainland about—”

“No, no, of course not,” Andersen laughed, waving his hand. “I would never violate our wondefully antiquated privacy statutes.” He walked over and sat down next to Hanif. “I’m speaking hypothetically, of course,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Let’s suppose,
hypothetically
, a small group of Torroxians had the foresight to arrange a licensing agreement with the mainland. Such an arrangement would be quite lucrative for those involved. And a pro-commerce administration could make such an arrangement possible. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

Hanif swallowed, finding his throat dry and scratchy. Was this a bribe? Was this what the dinner had been leading to all along? He turned Andersen’s words over in his mind. Yes, he decided, that’s exactly what it was. A political bribe. A high crime.

Andersen’s eyes were fixed on him, keen and observant, sizing him up. The trader gestured toward the window and the ocean beyond it. “You know what’s happening on the mainland as well as I do, Director. Floods one year, droughts the next. Crops are failing everywhere. Famines in North America, for goodness’ sake.”

He leaned in so close Hanif could smell the wine on his breath. “Those tough little plants of yours can grow anywhere. Do you have any idea what that means in a world where billions are starving?” Andersen grinned as if he were about to reveal the most wonderful secret imaginable. “We’ll be able to name our price,” he said.

Hanif clenched his jaw. The shameless greed of this man. This
trader
, this peddler who hustled and schemed in the ridiculous pursuit of piles of money. He was exactly the kind of man Hanif’s grandfather would have loathed, and rightly so.

Hanif sucked in his breath, steadying himself so he could tell this trader where he could go. His plants weren’t for sale and neither was he. But before he could speak, Andersen pushed away from the table. The screech of his chair against the floor made Hanif jump. Andersen stood and moved again to the window, his back to Hanif.

“I can see that righteous indignation on your face, Director.” He turned to Hanif and raised his eyebrows. “Before you say something you might regret later, could I give you some advice?”

Hanif said nothing, suddenly remembering that in a few weeks this man might very well be the most powerful person on the island.

“History,” Andersen said, “is full of countless fools who misread the political winds, chose the wrong allies, and then paid dearly for their misjudgment.” He lowered his head, his eyes cold and serious. “But you don’t strike me as a fool.”

* * *

“So what did he offer you?” Chief Administrator Wellington asked as she stirred sweetener into her coffee. “A big house? Points on a licensing fee for your plants?” She raised her thin white eyebrows and gazed at Hanif over oval-shaped spectacles that rested low on her nose. When word spread about Hanif’s visit with Andersen, the incumbent Chief Administrator reacted quickly, summoning Hanif to her residence early the following morning.

The two sat alone in the front room of Wellington’s humble, sparsely decorated home. Following her election four years earlier, Wellington had refused to move into the larger, more elegant official residence of the Chief Administrator. She’d famously declared in her inaugural address, “I neither deserve nor expect special treatment for serving the greater good, which for any patriotic Torroxian should be its own reward.”

Hanif had met Wellington a handful of times over the years, and the Chief Administrator always struck him as more of a schoolteacher than a head of government. Wellington had a kindly smile and a patient, deliberate way of speaking that Hanif, like many of his fellow citizens, found reassuring. Hanif had always regarded her as a loyal Torroxian in the mold of his grandfather and the Founders.

The Chief Administrator sighed. “Worst mistake of my administration, caving in to public pressure and easing trade quotas with the mainland. None of us old-timers ever imagined fortunes could be made so quickly.” She sipped her coffee and frowned. “It’s been nothing but disruptive, this free market business. You know what I caught my niece watching last week? A bootleg fashion show from the mainland. Is there anything as silly in this world as a fashion show?” Hanif chuckled, recalling Andersen’s attire from the previous evening.

Wellington placed her cup on the table. “Let me guess, he offered you money in exchange for your support.”

Hanif considered his answer. If he said yes, would that implicate him somehow? Was simply being part of the discussion, listening to Andersen’s offer, a crime in itself? He wished he knew more about Torroxian law.

As if she could read his thoughts at that very moment, Wellington said, “You can tell me, dear boy. No one’s going to throw you in jail.”

“It was a business proposition,” Hanif said. “He wants to trade the Jacob seeds on the open market.”

The Chief Administrator snorted and shook her head. “I should have expected something like this. Money, money, money. It’s all these traders think about.”

Hanif nodded in agreement. “Just being in that house of his made me uncomfortable. All that unneeded space and the expensive decorations. It just felt…
wrong
.”

A smile spread across Wellington’s face. She lifted her eyebrows and said, “That’s because it
is
wrong, my boy. You have good instincts.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Hanif said, sighing in relief. He sipped his coffee. “I understand wanting to share the gene design with the mainland with so much starvation these days. But if it’s just so you can get rich—or in Andersen’s case richer—I just don’t see the point.”

As Hanif spoke Wellington’s smiled faded. “My dear boy, you do understand that sharing your seeds with the mainland is utterly out of the question.” Her face turned cold and hard. Hanif recalled Andersen’s comment about hoarding the seeds.

“I guess I figured,” he said slowly, “with the situation on the mainland, there’s no reason not to share—”

“Director, Director,” Wellington said, raising her hand. She then reached toward a small, antique globe on the table and spun it round. “Do you remember this lesson from school? Find a place on the globe where free trade hasn’t corrupted the state, where it hasn’t poisoned public welfare.”

Hanif remembered the lesson. Some kids learned it slower than others, pointing to country after country before the teacher finally told them there was no answer. No nation in the world, save their beloved Torrox, was free of the evils of international commerce.

“My dear boy, do you realize those miraculous plants of yours are the most valuable asset Torrox has? They’ll ensure our independence for generations to come. They’re simply too important to our sovereignty to share with the mainland.” The Chief Administrator reached over and laid her hand on top of Hanif’s. “It’s what the Founders would have wanted, what your grandfather would have wanted.” She narrowed her eyes and squeezed his hand. “I hope we can count on your support.”

The weight of her hand felt heavier than its delicate, slight appearance. He shuddered as the unspoken conversation—the suggestion beneath her words, the intention behind her steely gaze—reminded him of his dinner the night before. Just like Andersen, she wanted his endorsement.

Hanif slipped his hand from under Wellington’s and reached for his coffee, prompting a frown from the Chief Administrator.

“Chief Wellington,” he said, “I’m no expert in public policy, but if we have something that can benefit so many—”

“Understandable,” Wellington interrupted, again raising her hand. She nodded her head sympathetically. “Your concerns are perfectly understandable. Politics can be a little unsettling for the uninitiated. I’m sure if I tried to find my way around your lab, I’d wander around like an old fool, not knowing which end was up.”

Hanif smiled uncomfortably. The Chief Administrator sipped her coffee and contemplated. “Let me think of an analogy that might help explain things.” She raised her index finger. “I have it. Do you perform any tests in your lab that yield a predictable result? In other words, you know the result will be A or B, without any ambiguity?”

“Control tests. Sure, we do those all the time.”

“I see. So think of our situation this way.” She lifted her cup to her mouth. “By the end of the week you’ll publicly endorse the incumbent administration. Result A is that you get to keep your job.”

Hanif’s own cup froze inches from his mouth and a chill ran down his back. Wellington swallowed the last of her coffee and smiled. “You’re a clever boy. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what result B is.”

* * *

Hanif meandered along the less-traveled footpaths near the perimeter of the superstructure, his feet shuffling aimlessly. Dark somber clouds hid the sun and a chilly morning fog blanketed the city as he skirted the edge of the power plant neighborhood. He passed quietly through the shadows like a wandering ghost.

Wanting only to be alone with his thoughts, he hadn’t consciously selected a destination, but he eventually found himself passing under the tarp where the Jacob plants grew.

As he looked at the seedlings, the memories came back fresh and horrible. A heart-stopping cancer diagnosis followed by six torturous months. Six months watching helplessly as his boy withered and faded in a hospital room that stunk of chemicals. Six months of tubes and needles and weight loss and sunken, tired eyes. Pink skin slowly turning pale from chemotherapy, skin that became as thin and delicate as rice paper. Six goddamned months holding out hope for a miracle. Then came the Tuesday morning when the light in Jacob’s eyes went dark. And the next day a burial at sea.

Nothing was the same after his boy was gone. The small, noisy house that once seemed cramped with three was suddenly too big, too quiet for two. The nursery went untouched, frozen in time. Hanif broke down in tears every time he attempted to dismantle Jacob’s crib, unable to remove even a single screw. He and his wife, Miri, avoided one another, neither able to endure the crushing sadness always lurking behind the other’s eyes. Slowly they began to disappear from each other, Hanif losing himself in his work, Miri losing herself in another man’s arms. They soon divorced.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Hanif jumped at the voice behind him. He turned to see Dilon, standing at the entrance of the tarp, holding a bag that dripped water onto the ground. His friend held up the bag and smiled.