40, page 8
Five days into our outing, I was famished and sunburned, resting in the thin shade of an ancient tree and feeling my cells, one by one, turn to dust. Snow sifted down over the slopes, setting white into the bushy tops of the pines. The snow fell with the sting of woodsmoke. My eyes watered and I realized the snow was ash.
Mama came running and said a wildfire was near and we had to leave. She took down our packs and when she opened hers I saw it was full of jerky and trail mix, protein bars, and a half-eaten bag of bagels. We barreled down the trail to the car and drove out through fire across the ridges, the smoke so dense and hot it formed towering convective clouds that generated their own lightning that would strike down into the blazing woods below; fire breeding fire breeding fire.
All week Mama’d been sneaking food while I hunted. She called making me eat only what I bagged a lesson, and as we sped through the smoke and fire she said she didn’t mind if I hated her so long as I grew stalwart in needing no one beyond myself. That I not be weak like her.
Then she confessed she’d slept with my father one night after work. She was pregnant again. Pregnant with a child she’d months later come to name Ava Lynn.
* * *
A GOLD SWEATER over white scrubs and a cold windowless room. A sink, a toilet, a shower so narrow I had to stand sideways to bathe. Walls painted gold, a bed with a scratchy gold comforter, it could’ve been a room in some cheap motel. It was a cell, of course, though no one said exactly why I was being held or when I’d be released.
Three times a day, a broad-shouldered woman I guessed to be near Mama’s age brought me meals. She was the first Black woman I’d seen in the uniform of the Pearl. She had harsh eyes that never looked at me, and she never spoke, no matter the greeting or what questions I asked.
The meals were healthy and good. I ate my fill despite replaying in my mind the dinner-party firefight and Astoria and Yuzu slumped against each other. Sometimes I felt like crying, but I stifled the tears as I had when a soldier because tears were the physical manifestation of suffering and I refused to let them know I suffered.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried. I hadn’t cried after the massacre at the fairgrounds. Hadn’t cried when my team was killed in the tunnel road. Had I ever in my life cried?
Ava Lynn had been colicky. I remembered Mama, after a long day of working at the glass factory, rocking her on the front stoop. Dead tired, the baby squalling, Mama turned her weary eyes to me and said I’d been a perfect child, a child who never cried.
* * *
I LIFTED MY FACE from my pillow. From the open door, the guard called for me to come with her. I wore rubber-soled slippers and a canvas hood so I couldn’t see as she led me down a long stretch of corridors and up a flight of stairs. When she removed the hood, we were in an elegant lobby filled with Pearl. The guard and I passed through the huddle of soldiers and into a golden elevator.
Up we went, all the way to the top. The elevator opened to the brooding strings of orchestral music. General Özdemir stood there in a white floor-length robe, his injured arm in a sling. He wore no hat, his hair buzzed to his dark splotchy scalp. The general held the elevator door with his good hand, and told the Pearl guard she may leave.
The room was large, one wall a picture window overlooking the rooftops of nearby buildings. It was night outside. Wisps of rain dripped like golden hair down the lighted glass. The general motioned to a sofa for me to sit, then perched himself on the armrest.
“My youngest daughter loved this piece,” he said, referring to the music that played through speakers in the ceiling. “Each morning when driving to school I’d play music and tell my eldest to imagine her brain was dough, the music like an enzyme causing the dough to rise. It was a silly ritual, but we enjoyed it. My second daughter was just a toddler, and would often be in a car seat in the back.” The strings in the song swelling, the general wistfully hummed, remembering. “One morning, this was playing—Barber’s Adagio for Strings. From her car seat, my baby girl said, ‘Sad, Daddy.’ She said it again. ‘Sad, Daddy.’ I realized she was commenting on the song.” The general lifted his chin and closed his eyes, as if showered in watery notes. “A two-year-old, barely verbal, who had no background on the composition, who just by hearing an arrangement of sounds was rightly able to feel the song was sad.”
The music was indeed sad. I politely nodded.
General Özdemir crossed to a bookcase and tapped a compad to silence the music. He lifted the pad from the shelf and turned to me. “Jo Sam once told me about visiting a little cathedral in France. Just a box of stones out in some field, is how he described it. He was very young, wasn’t at all religious then, but was taken by the truth that once inside, everything was a ritual: the robes and gold, the prayer and incense and choir. Everything elevated to transform a box of stones into a space worthy of God. He told me he wanted to make the entire world a cathedral. That’s when I knew he was a visionary, and I would follow him anywhere.”
He stepped to me and held forth the pad. My heart clutched as the screen showed an image of Ava Lynn in a gold jumper, smiling and about to blow out candles atop a white cake.
“They get cake on their first day,” he said. “Give the children cake. A child’s loyalty is won in their smile. Rituals— Jo Sam is a genius with rituals.”
“When will I see her?” I asked.
The general drew away the compad. “I’m certain you didn’t have anything to do with what happened at the dinner party, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He returned the pad to the bookcase, then stepped again to me and offered down a hand.
Together we crossed to the picture window. Peering out at the darkness and rain, General Özdemir tugged at his sling’s strap and winced. “This war has cost us much, has cost me everything. My wife, my two young daughters.” His chin dolefully swung. “I’m just a man, my rank meaningless, my grief ordinary.” His bereaved eyes trailed down the arc of my wings. “But you? You’re a miracle. A miracle in a world that’s lost its faith.”
He tilted his face to the window. His reflection in the glass dabbed a tear from his eye. “You must understand that we want to end this war. End the suffering. This is our proposition to you, my angel. Help us find our peace, to move on to the great new world Jo Sam has envisioned. A world worthy of God. Become a symbol to our cause, a herald to a new and glorious day, and you have my word you’ll see your sister again and very soon.”
“A symbol, sir?”
“Like an arrangement of sounds can spell sadness to a child’s ears, a woman with wings can mean hope for the hopeless. Jo Sam believes that, as do I.” His scrunched face tightly smiled. “Of course, if you don’t share our belief, we’ll carry on without you, as will your sister.” He held my hand. “This broken world yearns to be healed. Don’t you want that? To end this war? To end the suffering?”
The moment hung precariously balanced. Though I worried as to what I was conceding, and had questions I couldn’t pose because to push might topple the tower, I had to think of Ava Lynn, and do whatever was required to secure my sister’s safety.
“End the war,” I said. “Yes, that’s what I want.”
THE LIMOUSINE rolled through the shadows and wind between the golden buildings of the city center. Streets haunted by sordid absence, the few who strolled the sleepy walkways were soldiers. White Humvees marked the checkpoints. My window would roll down and a Pearl would peer with probing curiosity at my wings.
We turned into an alleyway and pulled behind the building to a rear portico. The guard who’d been with me from the start helped me out of the car and escorted me through a gold-and-glass doorway. The lobby was small and filled with golden planters overflowing with white bell-shaped flowers like lilies from outer space.
The guard used a special golden key to operate the elevator. As we rode to the top, I watched her turn the key over and over in her large veiny hands. The muscles of her shoulders stretched her uniform sleeves, her neck as thick as my thigh.
The door opened onto a penthouse that was a vast round room with high ceilings and curved plated windows. A tubular glass-fronted fireplace held the middle, surrounded by a sunken pit of gold cushions and more of the exotic white flowers.
I asked the guard if this place was mine. For now, she told me. I asked what I was supposed to do here. Whatever you want, she said. I asked her name. She weighed in her mind whether to answer, then told me it was Donta. I said mine was Mazzy, and extended a hand, but Donta only replied that she already knew my name.
* * *
FROM THE PENTHOUSE BALCONY, I could see everything below, the buildings and the few rectangles of windows aglow, the golden-lit streets empty of cars. Through the rain and distance, I could scarcely glimpse the valley’s ring of hills, phantom-black against the murk.
I peered out over the golden city and wondered where they were keeping Ava Lynn. Maybe Dewey was out there, too. Where was Dewey? Without me he was of little value to them. He was disposable, and I feared the worst.
I turned back inside and lay on my bed. A large golden birdcage sat on a stand at my bedside. Inside the cage, on a series of tiered perches, slept a dozen tiny white birds like balls of cotton. I tapped the cage and the birds woke ruffling.
It became inexplicably necessary that I touch one, maybe hold one. While I was searching for the latch on the cage door, the elevator opened. Donta stepped to welcome Nalli Sandoval.
In a long white fur, Nalli found me with her eyes. Like we were the dearest of friends, she hurried across the room. “I told the general you were special,” she gushed, and knelt to embrace me. “An effortless portrait of bravery and grace.”
* * *
WE DRANK TEA by the fireplace. Nalli educated me on the duties of my new station, as I was now a symbol for the Novae Terrae movement. She explained when and how I was to eat and drink. How I was to let people come to me and never go to them, should only speak when spoken to, and then say as little as possible.
“I can’t drink or eat or talk or move?” I asked.
“Just for public appearances, silly.” She grinned. “Think of yourself like royalty, like a queen. But you can say as much as you want to me. We can eat like piggies and gab all night like sisters.”
I still wore my scrubs and sweater. Nalli led me to a wardrobe full of clothes, a dozen copies of the flight suit Yuzu had put together for me. She told me that while in public I must always dress the same. “You’re playing a role now, sweetie. But we’re all playing our roles. It’s nothing to be sad about. I play a version of myself people know from the movies, which is just me, but more. You’ll just play yourself, but more.”
Nalli drew a little jewelry box from her handbag. A gift from Jo Sam, she said. Inside was a bracelet of gold and diamonds. She took my wrist and secured the bracelet.
I was embarrassed for us both. I wanted to grill her on what had happened at the dinner party, why Yuzu and Astoria had attacked, where the Pearl had taken Dewey, but instead she was trying to pacify me with jewelry I didn’t want and would never wear.
Nalli glanced off at the little birds in their golden cage and said she had something else to tell me. “You’re free to fly anywhere you want,” she said, gently smiling. “You can fly straight off of that balcony day or night, but I’m afraid you can’t leave the valley. They’ve installed air defenses. For our protection. The shield will destroy anything that breaches the perimeter. The Air Force sent in planes and they exploded over the hilltops, one after the other. I saw it with my own eyes, Mazzy.”
Nalli leaned forward and lay her face against my thigh. I could feel the bones of her lithe body as she hugged my leg. “We all just want you safe, sweetie.”
Even her affection felt rehearsed. “I’d like you to leave now,” I said, a bit harshly.
“Oh, honey, don’t be like that.”
I softened, if only to be rid of her. “I’m tired, is all,” I said, and gently lifted her by her shoulders. “I’ve hardly slept in days.”
At that, Nalli smiled and showed me her bracelet that was just like mine. “Sisters,” she said. “We’re going to have such fun. Everything you could possibly want is here.”
* * *
IT WAS EARLY EVENING when General Özdemir sent word for me to meet him downstairs. The general wore his high-crowned hat and medals and fourragères, one arm in a gold silk sling, his free hand holding a large white umbrella. I wore my gold uniform and a white cloak to cover my wings. Donta ahead on point, General Özdemir’s security detail behind, Pearl soldiers saluted as we strolled the rainy streets, the general and I side by side under his umbrella.
Clouds obscured the tops of the buildings. The wet asphalt sizzled under the tires of a passing military convoy. Most of the storefronts lay vacant, but gold-clad business owners rushed from the few that were open, bowing to the general and me.
A woman in a white apron burst out of a bakery. Donta blocked her from getting too near. “Pain d’Alethea,” the baker called, her arms dusted with flour as she held out a white box tied with golden twine. “Chocolate bread, for the angel.”
Donta glanced back to General Özdemir.
He flicked a hand. “Have it sent to her home.”
The baker broadly smiled, the mop of her wild red hair bouncing as she backed away, head lowered to the rain.
“News of your arrival has spread,” General Özdemir said. “They already adore you. What great things we’ll accomplish.”
This wasn’t a stroll. This was a parade.
The general shifted his umbrella, braced his good hand under his arm in the sling. “Did you know I was once a producer?” he said. “I worked with Raja Garbos, Nalli Sandoval, many of the biggest stars. And before that I owned a theater.” We paused at another crossing, Donta stepping into the road to halt oncoming traffic. “When I was a child, and by child I mean your age, I wanted to be an actor. I studied theater in college, had plans to be a star.” He took my arm for us to cross the street. “But there was one problem. Do you know what that was?”
I shook my head.
“I can’t act.” He chuckled. “I mean I could play parts that were already close to me, but I couldn’t, well, pretend.”
We passed into the open air of Silvesteri Plaza, a park-size circle of concrete filled with fountains and statues, a huge arch of braided gold named Glory Gate, and the famous triple-tiered golden pyramids by the renowned artist Xavier Yan.
“I went to workshops with the very best instructors,” the general said. “Even saw a therapist, a friend of my mother’s, who specialized in that kind of thing. And you know what? I was an absolute failure. A hard truth to bear at the time. But that truth was followed by another greater truth. Not being able to pretend vaulted me into the glorious position I now hold. That’s my advice to you—never pretend. Always be yourself.”
“You’ll have to tell me who I am, then.”
He grinned. “Honesty and humility, that’s who you are. And that’s who they’ll adore.”
At the far end of the plaza, two rows of white tanks created a corridor. We crossed to the checkpoint, where Pearl soldiers in white rain slickers eyed the bulge of my wings under my cloak. I walked with General Özdemir through the hall of tanks and we exited onto a barricaded thoroughfare closed to traffic.
“I hope you’re hungry,” General Özdemir said. “The chef is the finest in the city.”
We crossed the street to a restaurant with a white stone facade and gold block letters that read BISTRO NOVUM. Donta held the door for us. Inside the restaurant awaited unabashed opulence: white marble walls and tables veined with gold.
The maître d’, a spritely gentleman with a handlebar mustache, bowed to the general and then to me. The man took General Özdemir’s umbrella, and then my cloak, which he draped over his arm. I felt naked with my wings exposed, and we followed him through the tables as all the other diners stood and demurely bowed, each and all wearing gold frock coats gaudily accessorized with ribbons and medals of unknown distinction.
The maître d’ seated us at a back corner table. He offered menus, but General Özdemir just told him to have the chef prepare the special. Eyes low, the man backed from the table, clicked together his heels, and hastened away.
Donta and the other guards formed a human wall between our table and the others. The general set his hat on the banquette beside him, straightened his white wig, and looked at me. “I’ve yet to properly thank you for what you did. For saving my life.”
“Oh,” I said. “I only did what was right.”
General Özdemir slyly grinned. “You and I, we’re neither good at pretending. Let’s keep it that way, shall we? You need me and I need you. And isn’t that lovely?” He pursed his lips as if tempted to say more, then beckoned the maître d’. “Please send over the new boy,” he called. “The man I sent you.”
The maître d’ bowed, then disappeared into the kitchen.
The general used his table knife to poke a wayward strand back into his wig. “Think of it. You, formerly Army, me, a commander of the Pearl, dining together as friends.”
He turned his head as someone approached. Donta stepped aside to allow a large, sheepish busboy to the table.
Dewey’s eyes widened and flashed their recognition. He chuckled, blushing.
He was here. He was alive. In my excitement, I nearly stood.
“Is your new job to your liking?” the general asked.
Dewey’s smiling eyes didn’t leave me. “Yes, sir.”
“This is no fishing boat. The chef’s standards are very high.”
“Yes, sir.”
General Özdemir held forth his knife. “My knife is dirty.”
Dewey finally looked to the general. “My apologies, sir. I’ll get you a clean one.”
Dewey reached for the knife, but General Özdemir set it back on the table. “And I take lemon in my water.”
