Pascal briskly walked past Manami, entered the living room and turned towards the wall. Seneca and Manami came in behind him, locked the door and silently watched as sobs shook Pascal’s shoulders. After a while Pascal wiped his face with his hands, took several deep breaths and turned towards them.
“Alright. I’m listening,” he said quietly.
“Julius, Mr. Alexander, sit down at the table. I’ll bring you something, let me just see what we have here,” Manami passed by the dining room table and into the kitchen.
“A glass of water, ma’am… please,” Pascal said while taking a seat.
Seneca sat down in the chair across from Pascal. Manami poured two glasses of water, placed them on the table in front of Pascal and Seneca and sat down next to her husband.
“All three of us were wrong, we misjudged the situation. We were afraid of an assassination attempt against you, Alexander,” the Mayor of Megapolis spoke quietly, looking at his fingers, wrapped around the glass. We thought that the Kaellas were controlling the game, as it has always been. The two of them believed that too.”
“What do you mean ‘they believed that too’?” asked Pascal. “Did Erivan do something on his own?”
“He killed them, Alexander… both of them. Father and son.”
“Killed? Kaella? And Prince?”
“Yes. During the interview. He destroyed the submarine.”
“How? Where were the inspectors? The bodyguards?”
“Erivan had obviously prepared all that in advance. He hid the real results of the polls from the Kaellas. And served it to him at the last moment. He forced him to panic. Kaella became reckless. I think Erivan’s squads carried it out. He killed them, Alexander. And President Xing too.”
“Xing, too?”
“Yes. His entire family. Wife and children. They fired a missile at the presidential motorcade in the center of Capital City… from your airplane.”
“What do you mean ‘from our airplane’? I don’t understand…”
“He somehow got his hand on one of your aircraft… one built by you. From one of your factories… or from an airport.”
Pascal was silent.
“I gave Raul and your people my airplane,” Seneca continued. “And a squadron to protect them. But that was not enough. Because as soon as Erivan declared war numerous airplanes took off in their direction from several airports.”
“Erivan declared war?” Pascal asked.
“Yes. War on the Non-Consumers. He took over the position of President of Earth, in accordance with the Constitution.”
“But… you, ma’am, said that Raul…” Pascal looked at Manami.
“That is the only thing we can conclude, Mr. Alexander,” Manami answered, “because…”
“When I was informed about all of Erivan’s squadrons that were headed their way, I immediately called Raul,” Seneca explained. “And I informed him of everything that had happened. About the murders of the Kaellas and the Xings. And the threat against them. I told Raul that I had informed all your closest cities and that your airplanes were taking off too. That my squadron would protect them until they arrive…”
“Don’t tell me any more, Seneca. It’s not necessary,” Pascal whispered through his tears. “My noble Raul… all of them… Margot… Jagdish… all those young people… children, they were still children… My faithful Liam… my Citra…” Pascal fell silent, with his head hung low, covering his face with his hands. “Erivan didn’t fire on them?”
“No,” Seneca whispered. “Our squadron created a shield around them. He didn’t fire on them, he didn’t even try.”
“He didn’t…” Pascal wept. “He sent planes… to force them down. He wanted me alive. And they crashed the plane down because… only so… So that Erivan would think… that I was dead too! You didn’t kill them, Seneca!” Pascal shouted. “I killed them! I did! It’s because of me that they are dead! They sacrificed themselves for me!”
Pascal jumped from the chair and rushed towards the exit. He turned the doorknob.
“Unlock it, Seneca! I’ll kill him! I’ll kill Erivan! Unlock it!” he screamed.
Seneca got up from the table but did not approach Pascal.
“As you have said yourself, Alexander, your friends brought down the plane so that Erivan wouldn’t learn where you were. So that he would think that you were dead. So that you would be safe. By leaving the shelter you would render their heroic death worthless. Make it futile. The last words that Raul said to me, before he hung up, were ‘Save Pascal, Seneca. He is the only hope that this world has.’”
Pascal cried out loud. Seneca went to him, put his hand on his shoulder and said
“Wait for me just until tonight. We have to talk… after that you will make up your mind. If you want out of the shelter, I will get you out of Megapolis. I have to remain neutral in this war. I have to save this city. No one can know that you stayed in Megapolis.”
“Yes… I will… I’ll wait for you,” Pascal said quietly.
Seneca went out of the shelter and locked the door behind him.
“Sir,” said Manami. “Do you need anything? I have to go to mu children.”
“No… no, ma’am. Thank you. I’ll retreat there… to those quarters… until the mayor comes.”
Chapter 75
Sayash was a regular dandy. He trimmed short his gray hair, with its M-shape receding hairline and magnificent white beard, a real man’s beard that grew far below his Adam’s apple and high up on his cheek bones — with a few passes of the trimmer. In the beginning, when he had just found the trimmer, in an alley behind a salon, Sayash used to stand at night in front of a lit shop window to see what he was doing. But that stopped being necessary a long time ago. It appeared that now he could trim his bear even in his sleep.
He didn’t touch his eyebrows. He knew that he was more masculine, that he was more intimidating when he let them grow, and hang down over his dark eyes, bristly as they were. And the capillaries in the corners of his eyes were charmingly ruptured, from the wind and the sun. The only thing that he uncompromisingly purge almost daily were the hairs in his nose and ears.
He was especially proud of the white carpet on his chest. When he would wake up and prop himself on his elbow to see where he had spent the night, without thinking, mechanically, by force of habit he would draw the tips of the fingers of his other hand together, as though to take a pinch of salt, grasping the highest hairs on his chest and drew them to the ends of his beard so that they would connect. He was aware of how the continuous whiteness emphasized the beauty of his dark, wrinkled face.
And of course the shoelace around his neck. He always put in his backpack any type and any color of shoelace that he found. He liked to change them a lot. Either a different one every day, or several of them braided, several days in a row. He would tie to the shoelaces the occasional pendant, a bottle cork or piece of glass, if it was striking enough, with a piece of twine. But not very often.
Sayash was constantly moving from one city to another, because when a person is limited to the same dumpsters it means that they are limited to the same people and their tastes. He couldn’t get over the fact that some people always wore the same things. They stuck to certain colors their entire lives. He thought that he would die if someone forced him to paint this refined thin body of his in the same colors. That is why he always had many colors. He wore plaid.
When Sayash would first approach a clothing dumpster he would be overcome with excitement. In the last several steps before their direct encounter he wouldn’t see the dumpster at all. A kaleidoscope with the most wonderful colors would be spinning before his eyes.