“It didn’t go well, I’m afraid,” Frank said. “Not for us, anyway. The talks have been rescheduled.”
“So what’s so bad about that?” Kathleen’s voice asked, caring and sweet.
She was good at it. You could trust her to find the right words of support when a man could use some. She knew how to strike the right note in a conversation, ignoring her own problems.
“Just my future,” he started pouring his heart out. “My career, and this promotion, too… I’ve been laying the groundwork for this deal for a long time. Too long, in fact. Now it’s back to square one.”
“I don’t think so! It wasn’t your fault that the talks didn’t go through, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t.” Frank could almost see Kathleen’s foxy smile and, unconsciously, his lips curved into a smile, too. “I’ve no idea how it happened.”
“So you see! Your career is in no danger.”
Her words soothed him a little. Frank had even forgotten about the bald cab driver, let alone the failed talks. Kathleen was the best pill ever. Her voice sounded soft and musical.
“Frank, I miss you. Please come soon.”
In his mind, he saw her lying on their king-size bed in her designer lace underwear — the girl wouldn’t wear anything less, or at least he’d never witnessed it. Her groomed skin glowed golden against snow-white sheets; the dark lace teased, promising passion and pleasure.
He choked, swallowed and shifted in the seat. “I will. I’m coming now.”
“Please do,” she paused. “Oh, and this old lady next door, she dropped in…”
“Mrs. Fletcher? What did she want?”
“She still can’t get the hang of her remote. She needs help to set up the cable channels.”
“Did you do it for her?”
“No. I didn’t let her in. She didn’t seem too eager to see me, anyway. She said, she’d better wait for you to come back.”
“Looks like I’ll have to pay her a visit.”
“Just make sure you pay me a visit first.”
He got the hint in her voice. “Sure.”
She hung up. Phone in hand, Frank lingered for a couple of seconds, then slowly exhaled and turned to the window.
They’d already left Queens behind and were crossing Queensboro Bridge. To their left, barely half a mile away, rose Manhattan. If traffic permitted, he’d be there in minutes. Along the East River, towers stood in ruins; their burned-out, bomb-smashed skeletons crowded the ocean shore, black squares gaping where windows had been.
The only memory of the city war that had ravaged the center of New York. Try and erase this out of the memories of millions.
They hadn’t tried to. Yet.
From afar, the blackened concrete stumps looked as if they could fold any moment like a house of cards and then slide down the shore into the ocean at the slightest poke. And once their remnants were done with, you’d be able to see the towers of the New Financial Borough in the process of construction. There, the enormous edifice of Memoria’s HQ had already arisen: the corporation that had stopped the bloodshed thirty years back. It was Memoria that had given people hope and a sense of security. Had it not been for Memoria, the whole Eastern shore from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico would still be engulfed in flames, fighting the resources war.
Bellville’s army — migrants from Texas, New Mexico and other Western states — had wanted to secure their own grasp on the country. But they had lost the oil war. Jacque Bellville himself had been tried and executed in DC. His entourage had fled abroad. Those of their combatants who had failed to escape had been locked in migrant camps, stripped of their right to vote and subjected to round-the-clock monitoring through security cameras and the personal electronic bracelets that Memoria had enforced on the entire population.
Frank’s gaze followed the enormous orange spot of Memoria’s flag fluttering over the corporation’s tower.
“Jesus. Things seem to be improving much faster in DC,” he said. “Most of their buildings are already restored. The Capitol building is as good as new. Memoria’s branches are mushrooming on every corner. And there aren’t so many migrants left there, you know, most have already gotten their citizen status.”
The cabbie braked at a red light, turned round with a smirk and showed Frank his electronic bracelet. An orange light flashed on the man’s right wrist which meant that he’d fought for his citizenship in General Hopper’s squads.
Frank lowered his eyes, embarrassed. His own bracelet was flashing with a little green light which meant that he’d been born after the war. His own citizenship was an automatic after-war privilege.
“You don’t know how lucky you are, kid,” The cabbie clasped the steering wheel and moved off when the light turned green. “Having a house, a job — a girl…” He glanced at Frank through the rear-view mirror, grinned and added in his strong, low voice, “You never had to lose your friends or family.”
“But why—” Frank stopped short.
It had been a long time since he’d had a chance to talk to a veteran who’d chosen to preserve his war memories. All the old people he knew — those who still remembered the battles between Hopper and Bellville — had died since, or had Memoria erase their recollections. Somewhere in this city lived Frank’s old boxing coach. Like so many others, he too must have visited one of the corporation’s numerous branches, having forgotten the war and with it, his old students. Frank wasn’t even sure the man still lived here — he could have relocated from New York for all Frank knew. His coach used to talk a lot about freedom, the word acquiring many new meanings through his interpretation. In the young Frank’s eyes, he was the wisest man that ever lived, his mentor and his role model.
How long had it been since Frank had seen him last? Had to be nearly a decade. Occasional phone calls and seasonal greetings didn’t count. He absolutely had to see him. Make him meet Kathleen, maybe…
Frank rubbed his face hard and interlocked his fingers. Wasn’t he a jerk, after all? How could he forget the man who was, in fact, his second father? What if the man failed to remember him?
“What was it you said?” the ageing cabbie squinted in the rear-view mirror. “Why won’t I get rid of my past?”
Frank nodded and unclasped his fingers.
“When half the civilian population happily erase their memories, apparently content with living below the bread line,” the veteran looked back to the road, “when I live next door to a migrant camp packed with those motherfuckers…” he cut himself short, locked his hands on the steering wheel and hunched over it, tucking his head into his wrestler’s shoulders, wide and sloping.
Well, well, well… Frank leaned against the door keeping an eye on the cabbie and wondering what this sudden candor could mean and whether the cabbie was indeed candid and not demented. The latter seemed more likely. Success is never blamed, so the victors in that war guarded their presidentially granted right to preserve their memories. They didn’t have to visit Memoria three times a year, like all the others had, and the recollections of the past war remained entirely their own business.
“Here we are, kid,” The cabbie pointed at the meter.
“Would you mind waiting a bit?” Frank reached into his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll go get my girlfriend,” He handed the man his fare.
“No problem, kid,” The mustached face softened. The man ran his thick strong fingers over his mustache and added, “I suggest you pay Memoria a visit, too.”
Frank pursed his lips waiting for him to continue.