The Gladiator (2 page)

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Authors: Harry Turtledove

BOOK: The Gladiator
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“Dobry den,” the teacher said when Annarita walked into the classroom.
“Dobry
den, Tovarishch
Montefusco,” she answered.
Good day, Comrade Montefusco
. That was polite, but she wondered if she really meant it. How could a day with a test in it be a good day?
He waited till the bell, and not an instant longer. “And now, the test,” he said, still in Russian. His accent was very good. He'd spent a long time studying in Russia. Some people whispered that he'd spent some time in a camp there. Annarita had no idea if that was true. Nobody'd ever had the nerve to ask him.
He handed out the mimeographed sheets. Mimeograph machines and copiers were kept under lock and key. Annarita understood that. Counterrevolutionaries could use them to
reproduce propaganda harmful to the state. As far as she was concerned, this test was harmful to her state of mind.
It was hard. She'd known it would be. They wanted to find out who was just good and who was the very best. The very best—and the ones with the very best connections—would run things when they grew up. The ones who weren't quite good enough for that would get more ordinary jobs instead.
The ones who didn't measure up would miss out on other things, too. They wouldn't be able to travel abroad. They wouldn't get the best vacation houses by the ocean or up in the mountains. They wouldn't get the best apartments in the city, either. And they would spend years on the waiting list for a tiny, miserable Trabant, with a motor that sounded like a tin can full of rocks and angry bees, instead of getting a fancy Zis or a Ferrari or a Mercedes.
So Annarita knew what was at stake every time she wrote her name—
—on a test form. The privileges and luxuries that went with being the very best didn't drive her all that much, though they were nice. But the idea of being at the center of things, being where the action was—that pushed her. So did the idea of proving she really was the best to a world that didn't care one way or the other.
She got to work. Even counting in Russian was complicated. Numbers changed case like any other adjectives. And the nouns that followed them changed case, too, with strange rules. One house stayed in the nominative—the case for the subject. Two, three, or four houses (or anything else) went to the genitive singular—the case for the possessive.
Three of house
, it meant literally. Five or more houses and you used the genitive again, but the plural this time.
Seven of houses
was the literal meaning.
“
Bozhemoi!” Annarita muttered to herself. That meant
My God!
It wasn't good Marxist-Leninist-Stalinist doctrine, but it was perfectly good Russian. Comrade Montefusco said it when somebody made a dumb mistake in class. Annarita had heard real Russians say it on TV and on the radio, too. From everything she could tell, Russians were less polite than Italians, or polite in a different way.
She fought through the test. She was still in the middle of rechecking when the teacher said, “Pass them forward, please.” She sighed and did. She wasn't sure about a couple of things, but she thought she'd done well.
Analytic geometry next. It was interesting, in a way. Annarita didn't know what she'd ever do with it, but it made her think. Her father kept telling her that was good all by itself. Of course, he didn't have to do the homework and the studying. (He'd done them years before, but Annarita didn't think about that.)
She settled into her chair in the new classroom. Analytic geometry had one thing going for it. No matter what happened, no matter which Party faction rose and which one fell, the answers wouldn't change. Ideology could change history. It could change literature. It could even change biology. But math? Math didn't change. In a world where everything else might, that was reassuring.
 
 
Gianfranco bombed an algebra quiz. He'd studied. He'd even had Annarita help him get ready for it, though she was rushed—she had her own Russian test to worry about. He'd thought he knew what was coming and how to do it. But when he looked at the questions, his brain turned to polenta.
And when his father found out, he probably
would
get pounded into cornmeal mush. Not that his old man had been any great shakes in school. He would be something better, something more
interesting
, than a mid-level paper shuffler if he had. He wanted Gianfranco to do what he hadn't been able to.
No matter what he wanted, chances were he wouldn't get it. Gianfranco cared more about basketball and soccer than he did about schoolwork. He was better at them than he was at schoolwork, too. He wasn't great or anything, even if he wished he were. He wasn't tall enough to be anything special as a basketball player, either. He enjoyed the games, though, where he felt like a caged animal in the classroom.
He was shaking his head and muttering to himself when he trudged off to history. He knew he would have trouble paying attention. He was still worrying about that stupid quiz, and about why he was too stupid to get things right. And who cared what happened back in the twentieth century, anyway? It seemed as far from his own life as Julius Caesar did.
Besides, Comrade Pontevecchio was a bore.
“Let's get to work!” the history teacher barked as soon as the bell rang. “Let's all be Stakhanovites in our quest for knowledge!”
He said the same thing every morning. Gianfranco didn't yawn—you got in trouble if you showed you wanted to go to sleep. But he thought this particular Party slogan was dumb. Doing more than your assigned quota made sense if you worked in a factory and made bricks or brushes or something like that. How could you learn more than was in your book, though?
Of course, Gianfranco hadn't learned all of what was in the book, let alone more than that. “In the nineteen sixties, what two events showed that the corrupt, capitalist, imperialist
United States was only a paper tiger?” Comrade Pontevecchio asked. His finger shot out. “Mazzilli! Yes, you! Recite!”
Gianfranco jumped to his feet. “Yes, Comrade Teacher!” But it wasn't yes. “Uh …” His wits seemed frozen. “The Vietnam missile crisis?” There was something about Vietnam in the chapter, and something about missiles. He remembered that much, anyhow.
It wasn't enough. Titters ran through the classroom. Some of the laughter was probably relief. Not everybody would have known the answer. Gianfranco could tell it was wrong. He stood there, waiting for the teacher to put him out of his misery—or to give him more of it.
Comrade Pontevecchio made a production of taking a red pen out of his shirt pocket and writing in the roll book with it. “No,” he said coldly. “Be seated. If you don't care about the past, how can the present matter to you?”
I'm living in the present
, Gianfranco thought.
The past is dead
. But the history teacher didn't want an answer. He wanted Gianfranco to sit down and shut up. Miserably, Gianfranco did.
“What is the real answer? What is the right answer?” the teacher asked.
Teobaldo Montefiore threw his hand in the air. He did everything but sing it out, which would have got him in trouble.
Yeah, show off how smart you are, you little suck-up
, Gianfranco thought scornfully.
If you were really smart, you'd be in the advanced track, not stuck here with me
.
When the teacher called on Teobaldo, he jumped to his feet. “The Vietnam War and the Cuban missile crisis!” he said, squeaking with excitement.
“Very good—so far,” Comrade Pontevecchio said. “Why are they important?”
All of a sudden, Teobaldo didn't look so happy. “Because they showed capitalism was doomed?” You could hear the question mark in his voice. He wasn't sure he was right any more, even if he gave an answer that was almost always safe.
“Sit down,” the teacher snapped, and wrote something in the roll book in red. Comrade Pontevecchio looked out over the class. “Anyone?” His scorn grew by the second when nobody took a chance. “Knowing what is only half the battle, and the small half at that. You have to know why. Do you think Marx could have invented dialectical materialism if he didn't understand why?”
Nobody said anything. When Comrade Pontevecchio got into one of these moods, keeping quiet was the safest thing you could do. Gianfranco stared down at his desk. People had been trying to drum dialectical materialism into his head since he was five years old, but he still didn't get it.
“When the United States backed down and let the Soviet Union keep missiles in Cuba to balance the American missiles in Turkey, what did that show?” the teacher demanded.
Gianfranco thought he knew, but he wasn't about to stick his neck out. Luisa Orlandini cautiously raised her hand. Luisa was pretty. Even if she got it wrong, Comrade Pontevecchio probably wouldn't bite her head off.
Probably.
He nodded to her. She stood up. “It showed the American capitalist regime was only a paper tiger, Comrade Pontevecchio,” she said.
“That's right,” he agreed—he'd called the USA a paper tiger himself. “And what does the Vietnam War have to do with this?”
“The Vietnamese were trying to liberate the south from a
neocolonialist dictatorship, and the Americans tried to prop up the reactionary elements,” Luisa answered.
“Yes, that's also right.” Comrade Pontevecchio warmed all the way up to chilly. “And what happened then, and why?”
“Well, the Americans and their reactionary running dogs lost. I know that,” Luisa said.
“Sì. They lost. But how? Why? How could America lose? In those days, it was very rich. It was much bigger and richer than Vietnam. What happened?” Luisa didn't know. Comrade Pontevecchio waved her to her seat. He looked around for somebody else. When no one volunteered, he pointed at somebody. “Crespi!”
Paolo Crespi got up. “The Americans stopped wanting to fight, didn't they, Comrade Pontevecchio?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Uh, I'm telling you, Comrade.”
“Well, you're right. When the United States brought its soldiers home from Vietnam in 1968, that was another signal to progressive forces around the world that not even the heartland of capitalism would go on defending an outdated ideology anymore. And so the cause of Socialism advanced in Asia and Africa and South America. One war of national liberation after another broke out and triumphed. Meanwhile, what was happening here in Europe. Does the term ‘popular front' mean anything to you?”
It was in the textbook. Gianfranco remembered that much, but no more. Comrade Pontevecchio frowned when no hands went up. “You haven't been studying as hard as you should have.” He pointed at a girl. “Sofia! Tell me about popular fronts!”
She got to her feet. “I—I'm sorry, Comrade Teacher, but I don't know.”
“And what excuse do you have for not knowing?”
“No excuse, Comrade Teacher.” That was the only right answer. You were supposed to know. If you didn't, it was your fault, nobody else's. That was how teachers and the rest of the school system looked at things, anyhow. If the textbook was boring and the teacher hated students … well, so what? Textbooks had been boring ever since they were written on clay tablets, and teachers couldn't wallop kids the way they had in the old days.
Comrade Pontevecchio picked on a boy. He didn't know what a popular front was, either.
“This will not do,” the teacher snapped. “Get out your books. Write me a fifteen-minute essay on what popular fronts were and why they were important. Anyone who does poorly will have more work assigned. These are your lessons. You
will
learn them.”
Gianfranco almost hadn't brought his textbook. The miserable thing was thick as a brick and weighed a ton. But he would have been in big trouble if Comrade Pontevecchio caught him unprepared. He opened the book and looked in the index. There they were—popular fronts.
Oh, boy
, he thought. He flipped to the right page and started scribbling as fast as he could. If he parroted the text, he couldn't go wrong. And he didn't have to think while he wrote, either. Comrade Pontevecchio didn't care what he thought or if he thought, as long as he ground out the right answers.

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