Friday, December 23, 2011

The Christmas Hamster




I knew that I would regret it, but when I looked into his beady brown eyes I saw such a naked longing that it about took my breath away. It was as though I could hear him saying, “Save me, Jake! It’s all up to you!”
Oh, please don’t think that I am a sucker to every cute rodent that gives me the Bambi eyes; I am tough, masculine and I don’t worship at the shrine of cuteness. Japanese pop culture, with its wide-eyed anime, gives me the willies. Give me a fishing rod, a stallion to break and a cold beer after a game of football and all is right with my world. Okay, I’m exaggerating a bit but nobody would ever call me a girly man. Maybe my brother would, but consider the source: Chuck is an ex-Marine, ex-football captain and general all-conference hard-ass. He thinks it’s sissy to use a bottle opener when you can just as easily chew it off with your teeth. Daddy raised us tough in this hard scrabble land.
So why was I even considering the rodent? The truth is: my kids make me. You talk about Bambi eyes. They all three of them came to me and said, “Oh Daddy, if we had a hamster, we would love it, and take good care of it, and it would really be no problem, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” You can’t hear those squeaky voices with those big blue eyes dialled on full Daddy laser without feeling a tug. It sure didn’t help that Alice was in on it either. “It’s just a hamster, Jake. At least you won’t have to take it for walks.”
So, call me a sucker if you want, but you would have had to be superhuman to turn down those four. Here I was at McCardell’s Pets, checking out the critters. Along comes McCardell himself and sizes up the situation pretty quickly. “He’s cute, isn’t he, Jake?” I mumbled something noncommittal and he wraps a meaty arm around my shoulder and starts massaging. “He’s pretty cheap, you know...”
And just like that, I’m walking down Main with a cage and a hamster called Louie. You can’t miss me; I’m the guys with the burning cheeks, hoping that I can get the rodent home before one of my buddies spot me. No such luck; out of Bud’s comes the shambling figure of my old wingman Steve.
“Heya, Jake!”
“Heya, Steve. Kinda early to be drinkin’, isn’t it?”(Best defence is a good offense, as Coach Myer used to say.)
“Aw Jake, you’re sho boring when you’re shober! Hey, whatchoo gothere?” (So much for my best defence.)
“Nothin’, Steve. Hey, does Wanda know you’re tying one on?”
And suddenly, Steve bursts in tears, snot bubbling out of his huge honker.
“She lef’ me, Jake. Wan’a lef’ me!”
“Whoa Steve, just settle down. Take a deep breath and talk to me.” I gave him a few tentative pats on the back so he could get his breath back. He took a deep breath and rubbed the snot over the rest of his red face.
“Now, Wanda left you? Why would she do that?”
“She shays I’m an alcoholic and I need to get into a Twelve Step program or she won’t come home!”
I was staggered. I mean, I know Steve loves a beer every now and again, but an alcoholic? I didn’t know what to say to him. Suddenly, this thought pops into my head. “Tell him to try the A.A. meeting over in Buckley at St. Mike’s.”
So I told him about the meeting at St. Mike’s and he gave me a slobbery hug and told me that I was “the beshtes’ frien’ ever.” He staggered off, leaving me with the question, how the heck did I know about the A.A. meeting? I could hear the hamster rattling in his cage and I hurried out of the cold into my truck.
Out here, you need a truck and chains. It snows and snows, waits a minute and then snows so more. My cousin out in Seattle likes to send me emails about how warm and green it is out there this time of year. I like to ask him if he misses White Christmases, which usually shuts him up. I fired up the truck and headed for our spread up Sunshine Road.
Now when I say ‘spread’, don’t the idea that I am some kind of rancher like Daddy was. I’m purely a weekend farmer with a few head of cattle and a little seed corn. But I do like having elbow room and living out of the town. I’m a country boy.
I parked in front of the shed and hustled the little package into my office. Yeah, I said ‘office’; although my wife likes to call it the ‘cave’, like it’s a place for gnawing bones and breaking wind. I set the package on my desk and left to brew some coffee. I raided the cookie jar because I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth, or ‘several sweet teeth’ according to Alice. She watches me like a hawk, always reminding me to floss. You’ll note that I said ‘reminding’ not ‘nagging’, right?
I brought my coffee into the office and took the wrapping off of the cage. The varmint just sat there looking at me with those little eyes. I made sure that he had some fresh water and added some seeds to his dish. I ambled over to my easy chair and picked up my paper.
Wars and rumours of war, like the Good Book says. I flipped to the sports section to find out if the columnists figured the football season was redeemable. 3 and 8 was not very pretty. Maybe the new quarterback would find his stride soon. Maybe chickens would fly to the moon.
A thought popped in my head, I hadn’t spent any time with my kids yet this weekend. Well, there was time for that later. Kids need to get at least four hours of cartoons on a Saturday morning. But then my brain starting to argue with me. They grow up before you know it, I thought. How old was Bruce now? Eight? Pretty soon, he’d be old enough to take trapping.
I went to the rec room and there were three pairs of eyes glued on the antics of some green clown with buggy eyes on the t.v.
“Hey kids! Who wants to go outside and make a snowman?” Six eyes stayed focused on the t.v. and assorted mumbles emerged from three mouths. “We’re watching Count Dizzy, Daddy! Maybe later...” Oh well, I gave it my best shot, I thought shrugging my shoulders. I didn’t even see Alice standing in the doorway.
“Okay kids, everybody up and at it! Boots, coats, scarves and mittens! Your Daddy has a hankering for some fresh air and snowman-building! Let’s go!”
Women amaze me. With two sentences she had those three dressed and outside in less than two minutes. I wish I knew her secret.
We made snowmen for the two boys and then a snow princess for my own little princess. You can tell them apart because the snow princess has a pointy hat. I know it looks a lot like a dunce cap (which the boys made sure to point out) but Kristin was so happy she was positively glowing.
“Make snow angels!” the thought popped in my head. It was a dumb idea but the kids were all excited and red-cheeked, so I did it anyway, fool though I might be. They all jumped down with me and together we made a herd of angels, a stampede of the heavenly host. And then it was inside to fill up on hot chocolate and marshmallows. I went back to my office feeling as light as a feather. God, I loved my kids. I don’t know why I spend so little time with them. I picked up the cage and peered at the hamster. Louie stared right back at me.
“I kinda love my kids,” I said, full of beans.
“I know,” he said. “You just don’t always think of how you can show it to them.”
I dropped the cage.
=====
My heart pounded as I poured myself a quick shot in the kitchen. It was only my imagination, it was only my wild imagination. Hamsters don’t talk! Just calm down, Jake! I took a deep breath and tried to relax. Clearly I was under some substantial strain that I was unaware of, right?
“Jake! What are you doing with whiskey at lunchtime?” Alice bustled in with a tray of sandwiches.
“You would drink too!” I muttered.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m cracking up...”
“Oh Jake!” she said, ruffling my thinning hair. “Quit goofing around.”
I shrugged and tiptoed back to my office.
He was sitting calmly in his cage which had fallen on its side.
“So Louie, you can talk?” The hamster just got up on his haunches and looked at me with those bright eyes. I laughed nervously, glad that I’d said nothing to Alice.
I picked up the cage and put it on my desk. I opened my laptop and started playing “Angry Birds.” Several hours later, it occurred to me that I was hungry. And then I thought, I should really do something special for the mother of my children, like maybe take her out to the DQ or something. When was the last time we went on a real date? Maybe I should do it right and take her to the nice place out in Birch Creek?
Well, we had a great time. Why didn’t we do this more often? I drove the sitter home and went to my office to turn off the laptop.
The hamster looked at me and put his paws up on the cage.
“You wanna get out, Louie?” I picked him up and gave his head a pat.
“You know, Louie, I had a great time. I should take Alice out more often. What do you think?” Do hamsters smile? Because, if they do, this one was beaming. I tickled his ears because dogs like it so why shouldn’t hamsters?
“You know, when you do that, it’s kind of irritating,” said Louie. I didn’t drop him because this time I was frozen with shock. I slumped into my armchair still clutching the hamster.
“You really can talk, Louie?”
“Please, my name’s not Louie. I am the angel Timaes.”
“I must be drunk,” I whimpered.
“On two glasses of Merlot? I highly doubt it,” he said, his little nose wrinkling up.
“You know what I drank tonight?”
“Did you miss the part where I said I was an angel?”
“Why would an angel come to my house?”
“To help you.”
“To help me do what? Do I have a Quest or something?”
“You’re already beginning your quest and that’s all I’ll say about it.”
My mind raced; God had big plans for me. Maybe, it was to be President or something, or to be an apostle or a missionary to Hollywood or something. The hamster just sighed as it read my thoughts.
“Why do you think that a quest has to be so grandiose?” he asked. “What if God just wants you to be a better father and husband?”
My bubble popped and went shooting around the room. “That’s my quest? God sends me an angel so I’ll be a better Dad and Husband?”
“You went to Bible School, didn’t you Jake?” asked the hamster.
“I had a couple semesters,” I admitted. They booted me out for missing chapel too often.
“Do you remember what it says in Luke about John the Baptist?”
“Um...”
“In fact, they read this passage at church last Sunday, and your pastor preached a sermon about John, didn’t he?”
“Aw Louie, I guess my mind was on the Bronco’s. I must have missed it.”
“It says that John the Baptist would prepare a way for the coming of Jesus. You do remember Jesus, don’t you Jake?” Now he was just being sarcastic.
“Course, I remember Jesus...” I muttered.
“John was to come in the power and wisdom of Elijah...”
“...to turn the hearts of the fathers to their children.” I finished. I must have been paying a little bit of attention last Sunday.
“Exactly,” said the hamster. “I am here to turn your heart back to your children and your wife.”
“My heart is not turned away from my kids,” I protested.
“In the last year, of your eight thousand odd hours, you spent nearly a thousand on your laptop surfing and playing games. On the other hand, you spent only sixty with your children. That’s roughly ten minutes a day. You spent more time playing Angry Birds.”
“Ouch.” I said rubbing the remnants of my hair. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, our record-keeping is most accurate,” said the hamster.
“What do I do?” I asked.
“You need to show fruits of repentance,” said the hamster. “Am I being clear?”
“Fruits?”
“You remember what John the Baptist said? ‘Those who steal must steal no longer.’ You have stolen from your family and now you must restore what you owe.”
“That’s a lot of hours to make up,” I said. “How am I going to do it?”
“Not to be a Luddite, but have you ever thought of turning off your laptop?”
I turned off the laptop, which beeped sadly as it said ‘sayonara’. “Level with me Louie; is there any hope for me, or have I botched it?”
“Psht,” spat the hamster. “Don’t be foolish. It is never too late! But don’t worry, I will stick with you in this and I won’t leave until my task is done.”
“Because then you’ll have earned your wings?” I said brightly.
“You watch entirely too much television!” grumbled the hamster.
=============
I know I watch too much t.v., but I changed my ways. Instead of holing up in my office, I spent time in the rec room doing what my kids were doing. I hung out in the kitchen, actually helping my wife clean up and such. I know I did kind of a crappy job of cleaning, but Alice smiles anyway.
=========
“What is it Daddy,” asked my little princess.
“It’s a present for all the kids,” I said. “But this year, the youngest gets to open it.”
“No fair!” whined her brothers from under a pile of torn wrapping paper and toys.
She tore off all of the wrapping paper and pulled out the cage. “It’s a dead hamster!” she sobbed. “Daddy, it’s a dead hamster!”
I smiled.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Klepto

Your Honour, I wish to deny all of the charges brought against me. They are absolutely untrue, or at least highly misleading.
Please examine my Portfolio, your Honour. Am I not fully normal? I have none of the Traits, none at all. Just look at my Evaluation. The People’s Collective Wisdom doesn’t make mistakes. It’s science. My eyes have just the right degree of spacing to indicate normal brain function; my teeth are regular, white and cavity-free, and just look at my x-ray. Note the absolutely typical spinal formation.
What’s that? My PsychoSexual scan? You know, I must have misplaced it, but I can assure you that it was as regular as pie. Hetero-Extrov-Aggresso: well within the SafeHappy Parameters.
I know it looks bad on the surface but there is an explanation. Let me tell you the whole story.
I woke up last Saturday full of joy and ready for another great day. I took my FullLife vitamin supplement, ate a ProteinPlus RealMeal from the dispensary and took the bus into town for some rest and recreation. That’s when I allegedly deviated from the Norm. Your report will indicate that I stole a briefcase from a man on the bus but nothing could be further from what really happened.
I saw the man sitting at the back of the bus, massaging a tablet and reading today’s Truthlines. His briefcase was taking up the only remaining seat on the bus. Being an Extrov-Agresso, I have been awarded a Leeway for occasional confrontation within the Guidelines, as you will have read. I told the man that he was required to remove his case. The man, a florid, heavyset individual, pretended not to hear me but continued to tickle his tablet. I remembered my GentleLessons from second form and attempted a reasonably accurate tightening of my cheek muscles to mimic a smile and tried again.
“Citizen and friend,” I said. “You are over utilizing the scant resources of this bus. Kindly remove your case.” I said this in muted tones with my hands held out in a placating gesture. I did everything by the book but the red-faced man chose to ignore me. I considered a violent response but I knew that I would be in violation of the Guidelines so I changed tack. I took his briefcase and ran off of the bus with it, thus liberating the seat unlawfully taken by the briefcase.
Your Honour, I declare to you that I am innocent of AntiSocial actions. I did not steal the florid man’s briefcase; I attempted to heighten his appreciation of his own shortcomings. Pardon me? Yes, it is true that I attempted to sell the briefcase and its contents to a second party, but in my defence, I was wholly prepared to donate the proceeds to the PeoplesCharity. As I have already said, my actions might be construed as being impulsive but my intention was completely ProSocial. The florid man had to be taught a lesson in civility.
Oh, your Honour, the PeoplesProsecutor is not presenting me in a very good light. I realize that I was apprehended with the proceeds from the sale of the briefcase at the HopeLucky Track but my intention was to parlay the sale into an exceedingly generous contribution to the PeoplesCharity. The governing body clearly recognizes the healthiness of the HopeLucky Track otherwise it would not have been permitted, so I am at a loss as to...Pardon me? Rationalizing? I’m not sure what you mean by the word, Your Honour. I am merely attempting to explain my actions in the clearest light...Yes, yes. I will sit down now. Yes.
======
I hate the ModCenter. You would think by now that I would be used to it but every time is worse than the time before. They sent me in to see a BehaviorProbe and have my levels tested on entering. Big surprise: my adrenals were off the chart and my theta’s didn’t even register. They immediately shot me full of Relaxos and I slept like a baby.
I woke up an hour ago, ate a MoreFibre RealMeal and went in to see the Happiness Counsellor. Her name was Doctor Laura and she spoke with a very soothing voice. I have noticed that the Counsellors are always females of late breeding age. I believe that the thinking is that they will stir latent maternal-child responses. I know that I always feel guilty when I talk to one of them.
“Now John, would you say that you were happy at the time of your last offence?” she asked, her tablet open on her knee.
‘I was very happy, Dr. Laura,” I responded, a big smile on my face.
“And yet, you broke the Guidelines,” she said with a little frown puckering the corner of her mouth. “Were you taking your meds?”
“I may have forgotten,” I said mildly.
“This is your fifth offense, John.”
“I know, but there were extenuating...”
“Please John, we are friends, are we not?” Her eyes became less maternal and more frank.
I did not know how to respond to this; she was not a friend, she was a Counsellor for the State. I could see that she was expecting a positive response so I nodded.
“I am going to have to tell you, as your friend, that the Guidelines recommend a StrongerCourse.” My mouth went slack and my eyes widened. I had heard that the StrongerCourse was more about punishment than rehabilitation. It was the equivalent of the State saying, “We have done the best we can.”
“You can’t be serious Dr. Laura!” I protested. “I am your friend! You must not allow them to put me through the StrongerCourse!”
“I am your friend,” she affirmed. “But you are not cooperating with our treatment. You are refusing to take your meds. My hands are tied.” Her face was frozen and unyielding. This was not the Dr. Laura that I had counted on. She got to her feet and left the room and then they came for me.
=====
The StrongerCourse Complex is nothing like the ModCenter. It is made entirely of brick and the windows are barred. There are no soothing counsellors but rather Elderbrothers who attend us with electroshock canes and SolemnReflection cells. My cell partner was a squat man named Lindale. He grimaced at my ingratiating smile and ignored my outstretched hand.
“We don’t do that in here,” he said gruffly. I dropped my hand and wiped my face clean. What were the protocols here?
“Sorry, Youngerbrother,” I said.
“I’m not your bloody Youngerbrother, you can just forgot that shit they taught you on the outside. This is the real world, mate.”
“What are the protocols?” I asked.
“Survival,” he said. “And stay well clear of the Elderbrothers! Sadists, every one of them. Break the rules and you’re liable for electroshock and that’s no day in the park. He stooped down and showed me the burns on his scalp. “I was a slow learner,” he said grimly.
“How long have you been in here?” I asked.
“Ten years.”
“When do you get out?”
“You don’t. Leastways, I never knew anybody who got healed here.” He said the word with an ironic tone.
“The Guidelines say that rehabilitation is the goal of all Correction,” I said.
“You can forget that shit here,” he snorted. “This is the jungle, mate. Survival of the fittest.”
We went into breakfast together, picking up plastic trays and setting them before a scowling fellow who spooned a grey gelatinous mush onto our chipped plates. It did not look like a Realmeal and I raised an eyebrow at Lindale. He shook his head impatiently so I bowed and took my food to a long table. We joined several other men who were already deep into the hideous food, smacking and slobbering like a pack of hounds. I shuddered.
It tasted as bad as it looked.
====
We stood at attention outside of our cell while an Elderbrother with a clipboard was calling out names for work detail. I was put in a group of men and we were taken to the State Forest to gather branches for grinding into pulp. Before going out each man had to kneel in front of our Elderbrother and submit to having a button pierce his ear. We were told that the button was our invisible leash. While we were in the Forest it acted as a GPS device and if we left the Forest it would create a cerebral storm which would kill us. He smiled grimly and wished us a good day.
I was led to a line-lined path, given a wheelbarrow and told to fill it with smaller branches. I walked down the path and threw branches in. My brain was racing. Was there a way to escape? I pushed my barrow and thought. It seemed quite hopeless. I worked through the morning and afternoon.
Night was beginning to fall as I reached the end of the path. Nobody had mentioned where to go at this point. Did I press on? Which way? Left or right? Something inside me called out, “Run!” So, without thinking, I ran with all my strength, even though the button on my ear was starting to hum in a most disconcerting manner. After some time, I noticed what seemed to be a glimmering just ahead. Why not, I thought.
I found myself in front of a small cabin. I knocked at the door.
“I’m coming,” I heard a man’s voice answer. The door opened and an elderly man stood before me. He was dressed in a dark brown robe made of some curious fibre.
“Ah, a Youngerbrother!” he said smiling at me. “You are escaping?”
“They told me that escape was futile,” I said. “I don’t know why I ran.”
“Your heart was wiser than your head,” he said. “Come into my workshop and I will redefine ‘futile’ for you.” He guided me to a workbench and told me to sit. He lifted a magnifying glass to my earlobe and examined the button. “Ah, an M-230. I have just the thing for it. Lucky for you that I live within the bounds of the prison territory, otherwise this thing could give you quite a headache.” He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a slender black box. He held it up to the button and abruptly the button stopped humming and fell out of my ear into his hand. He tossed it to the floor and ground it beneath his heel.
“All is well,” he said. “Now come and we will have some pottage.”
Pottage turned out to be a stew of wonderful texture and flavour. I had never eaten anything so fragrant and rich.
“It’s good isn’t it?”smiled the old man. “Nothing in my pottage is synthesized or extracted. It is the food the God has given us.”
“It is remarkable,” I agreed holding out my bowl for another helping.
“I have no wine,” he said, scooping out the pottage. “Do you have a taste for some ale?” I shrugged my shoulders and he left for his larder. He came back with foaming mugs filled with dark liquid. I tasted it delicately and immediately swallowed so deeply that I began to cough. It was magical and made me feel like the first time I’d taken the blue meds. I was filled with joy.
“Slow down, slow down,” laughed the hermit. “It is quite strong, you know.”
We sat in front of a fire while the hermit took out a wooden appliance and began tamping a brown substance into the bowl. He took a burning stick from the fire and soon fragrant smoke filled the air around his head. I could not imagine what he was doing but it almost looked as though he was sucking in smoke from the appliance in order to blow little clouds of it from his nostrils. Odd.
“Now that we have eaten and drunk, let us further enjoy ourselves with speech,” he suggested. “I will suggest a topic that we can discuss and we will see if we can come to a meeting of the minds. The Greeks called it a symposium.”
“What shall we discuss?” I asked.
“Freedom,” he smiled. “A very apt subject for one who until recently has been a Youngerbrother.”
“What is freedom?” I asked.
“A pertinent question,” he nodded, blowing smoke from his mouth. “Are you free now?”
“I am,” I nodded. “Now that my button has been removed, I am free.”
“No man is free,” he said. “We simply do not see the chains that bind us. We act out of fear, hatred, impulse, and compulsion to do things we would rather not. We are more machine than flesh, I fear.”
“The Guidelines say that that obedience is freedom,” I said.
“That depends on whom you obey,” he said, blowing smoke.
“Our first obedience is to the State,” I said.
“Do you think so?” he asked. “Youngerbrothers usually do not view it that way.”
“It is true that I find myself in violation of the Guidelines,” I said. “But, surely that is my weakness at work, my failure to be a perfect citizen.”
“You must be right,” he said, in a tone that suggested that he thought otherwise.
“How do you see the matter?” I pressed.
“Freedom is a creature that dwells within,” he said. “Most of us make the assumption that if we appear to be free that we must be. Perhaps the fact that you are unable to fully obey the Guidelines means that you are freer than most of your fellows. Tell me about the meds they give you.”
“The meds merely make me calm!” I protested. “But, what you are saying cannot be true. The Guidelines are our mother and father, our life pattern!” Surely such a truth was self evident, I thought.
“You must have been a good student in the State school,” he said, sucking on the appliance so that his face was lit up by its glow.
“I was Worthy2ndTier in my final year,” I said proudly. “Top marks for citizenship and social awareness.”
“And yet, here you are, on the run from the State and a violator of the Guidelines.” He tamped his appliance into the fire. “Something is wrong with this picture.”
“It’s me,” I said. “I’m what’s wrong! If only I had remembered to take my meds!”
“I am upsetting you,” he said mildly. “Perhaps it is time to sleep?”
He fell asleep in his chair in front of the fire and I considered all that he had said. The man must be mad to question the self-evident truth. It was then that I saw a little golden cross hanging from a golden chain by his fire. What a lovely piece. It glittered like the sun on water.
====
I had also fallen asleep in my chair and I woke to the sound of the hermit clattering around in the next room. I could smell something otherworldly cooking and my mouth watered. It was a smoky smell, sweet and only slightly acrid. I stumbled into a room in which a large iron contraption dwarfed everything else. In the centre of a large iron pan, the hermit was cooking brown tubes which crackled and jumped. I thought I would die of pleasure.
“Sit you down, Brother,” he said. “Sausages in ten seconds.”
We sat together and he told me about his past and his youth in a land called Russia. I was intrigued to hear about his years in what he called a monastery but most of what he described was difficult to understand.
“Enough of me,” he said. “Let us speak of your future.”
“I cannot imagine my future,” I said. “I cannot go back to the State...”
“You must not,” he said. “You must take the Freedom Road to Canaan.”
“I don't know what that means,” I said.
“I will send you to Marta; she will know what you must do,” he said. “Come I've packed you some food!” We walked out to the trail and he gave me instructions to get to her house. He also gave me a capacious coat to cover my bright red uniform. He did not give me the little gold cross that I’d noticed and put in my pocket.
==
Marta's stone house was a day's walk down the trail. It was twilight when I arrived, tired and thirsty. I thumped the doorknocker and waited. The door opened and bright blue eyes glittered at me.
“Who are you, young man and what is your business with me?” I detected the refined English of a foreign learner.
“I am a Youngerbrother fleeing the State,” I said, opening my coat to show her the red of my uniform. “The hermit who lives in the forest said that you might help me find the Freedom Road.”
“How does Father Sergei imagine that I could do this for you?” she asked, her lips pressed tightly together.
“I don't know,” I said.
“Well, come in. I will give you a meal and a bed.” I went in. I saw a room that was filled with photographs in silver frames. Everyone looked like they were from another time; bearded men in uniforms, girls in long dresses with their hair tied up in bows, horses and dogs, pigs and chickens.
“You like?” she asked noticing my interest. “Old country, old ways. Now everything is new and cheap and ugly.” She sniffed with hauteur. “You would like tea perhaps?”
“Tea?” Presumably something Russian, I thought.
“Sit down. I will make some!” I sat down in a capacious leather armchair and peeked at the books on a small table beside me. I saw a leather book, The Brothers something or other by a Russian writer and an old picture book, “Imperial Russia.” I riffled through its pages: more soldiers, proud-looking women with flashing eyes, and black bearded monks clad in dark robes.
“It was another world,” she said, seeing the book in my hands. She bore a large tray with a silver pot and china cups. She poured an amber stream through a silver strainer into the cups. Then in went a dollop of a red shiny substance which looked like a gel.
“If you like old ways; this is how we drank tea when I was a little girl.”
It was surprisingly good.
“So you are a Youngerbrother? What is your name?” she asked when she'd finished her tea.
“My name is John.”
“My older brother was named Ivan,” she said, her face softening ever so slightly. “Why are you fleeing the State? Not that any sane man would not,” she added.
“I tend to steal things,” I confessed.
“You are poor?” she asked.
“I take things but I don't know why. I had forgotten to take my meds.”
“The State makes you sick,” she said. “They wash your brains. Maybe it is a mark of sanity to rebel against it all.”
I shook my head. What she was saying went against everything I believed to be true. Was the State not our father and mother? Were we not its beloved children?
Dinner with Marta proved to be beyond words to describe. She made a red pottage of some sort of vegetable which she called borscht and poured a red fluid that she called wine. I felt like I was immersed in a russet glow. After we had eaten, she poured more tea and she spoke of her girlhood in Russia and the persecution of her people by the government.
“You can see why I fled Mother Russia,” she said. “But your State is even worse. Your police are like Ivan the Terrible’s oprichniki only with computers and cameras. There is no privacy and no freedom. A man cannot read the books of his choice or believe in his father's God.”
“I was taught that the State is our mother and our father and all that we need for happiness,” I murmured.
“What kind of a mother does not let her children grow to maturity? What kind of a father keeps his child in perpetual infancy?” she said. “The State allows no freedom,” she said grimly.
“Freedom is obedience,” I quoted, curious as to what she would say.
“That is like saying ‘Stupidity is intelligence,’” she said tartly. “Freedom is the opportunity to choose. It is a matter of spirit, not flesh. You cannot tell a man, ‘I will set you free, brother! But, here, first put these chains on!’”
“When you say ‘freedom is a matter of spirit’, what do you mean?” I asked.
“There was once a man of God who was told by the authorities to bind his lips and not speak of the Almighty. He refused, saying that obedience to God was more important than obeying the State. For his stiff neck, he was taken to prison and chained between two guards. This did not stop him from speaking about God, in fact, his conversation with his captors, a captive audience, if you will, was all about God. There was never so free a man as this prisoner.”
“I’m not sure what your point is,” I said.
“You do not see?” she sighed. “You have lived too long in slavery, John. Freedom for the man of God was not in his circumstances. His spirit was so free that he was full of joy, even in his chains. This is what true freedom means.”
“I am free now,” I suggested tentatively.
“You carry your chains with you,” she said tartly. “Consider this: you steal for no reason and do a thousand things for no better reason than you learned to do them in your State’s school. Until recently, you were kept in line by drugs. You are only now starting to consider what freedom really means.” She got out of her chair and placed an elegant hand on my shoulder. “But sleep now, John. Tomorrow I will set you on the road to Canaan.”
===
We rose early. Marta made me a substantial breakfast and packed food for a long journey. She explained that Canaan was a long walk and suggested that I stay close to a stream that ran down from the distant mountains to the west. It was there that I would find Canaan and freedom. She also told me that if I needed a place to stay that I should visit her nephew Piotr who lived two days travel along the stream. She accepted my grateful thanks with an imperial nod and just the ghost of a smile.
I settled by provisions in a rucksack and slid it to my shoulder. In my pocket, I could feel the pressure of a small picture frame that I could not resist. I walked to the stream and headed for the north and whatever freedom might be.
====
I saw smoke in the sky before I saw Piotr’s house. It was a ramshackle affair, as was Piotr himself. Never have I met a man who was so indifferent to personal grooming. In his thick brown beard I saw signs of his last few meals.
He met me at the door with a cry of joy and a huge hug. He was more grizzly than human.
“Any friend of Marta’s is a friend of mine,” he assured me, massaging my shoulder with his massive hand. “You look like you’re starving!” Indeed, I was at the end of my food and eager to dine with a man who knew how to eat.
We sat down to a roast that he assured me was once a great feathered bird. It sounded wildly unlikely but to my amazement, I found it quite succulent. I ate like a starving man which earned me the approval of Piotr. He actually stopped shovelling food into his own mouth to watch me. I poured me a glass of clear liquid which I took to be water. I swallowed rapidly and spewed the flaming liquid over the remains of my bird.
“Aha!” he laughed. “Vodka does not agree with you?”
I gasped and shook my head no. “I thought it was water,” I finally got out, tears streaming from my eyes.
“It is water, the water of life. Long life!” he toasted and threw back his glass. I smiled weakly, raised my glass and tried a tentative drink. It burned going down but I didn’t shame myself a second time.
“Now you are a real man,” he laughed. He brought out a cake of sorts and cut us both thick slices. It was filled with little chunks of matter, all the colours of the rainbow. I looked doubtful and he laughed again.
“Little pieces of fruit,” he said. “Go on, you will love it!” And love it, I did.
He pulled me to a comfortable chair in front of a roaring fire and together we sat and digested our feast. I looked around the room and immediately I was struck by a lovely statuette made of a whitish substance which glowed in the light of the fire. He noticed my gaze and picked it up.
“It is a Pieta, carved by an unknown sculptor,” he said proudly. “It was from my father’s estate. Look at the face of the Madonna! Such tenderness and understanding! This sculptor, whoever he was, had a loving mother.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“My dear fellow, the artist creates what he knows. This artist knew a woman of great compassion and maternal feelings. I like to think it was his own mother.”
“I never knew my mother,” I said, yearning for the Pieta with every longing of my heart.
“The State was your mother,” he paraphrased sadly. I said nothing. Time passed in the glow of the fire.
“Tell me about Canaan,” I said eventually.
“It is a place that they who fled the control of the State created. It is a place where fear and control are eschewed and men and women can be free to rule themselves.”
“I cannot picture such a place,” I said. “How can such a society work? What would they do with a broken man like me?”
“How are you broken?” he asked gently.
“I steal things for no reason,” I said my face burning with shame. I took the cross and picture frame from my pocket and set them in his lap. “Look! I stole these things from people who were only kind to me! I am broken.”
“Don’t say ‘broken’,” urged Piotr. “Say ‘a little bent’ instead. Why do you steal?”
“I don’t know. I see something and I long for it. It fills my mind until the only relief I can get is to take it.”
“How horrible for you!”
“At least when I lived in the State, they gave me meds to curtail my impulses.”
“Ah yes, the chemical control,” he said heavily. “It works when you take it.”
“Mostly,” I said. “So, you see, they will never let me into Canaan. I cannot live without strong controls.” My heart was a heavy lump of rock in my breast.
“So for you, there is no freedom?” he said.
“How can there be?”
He lifted up the Pieta and held it up to the light so that it reflected into my eyes. “You see the baby clinging to his mother. What if freedom was choosing to give your heart to someone bigger and stronger for safekeeping?”
“You are speaking of the State?” I asked.
“Bigger, stronger and loving,” he amended.
“You are speaking in riddles,” I protested.
“Am I? Ah well, I am content to sleep now.” So saying he shambled off to bed to leave me gazing at the lovely statuette. At once, the sharp, salt edge of desire rose in my heart. To take the Pieta was a longing like thirst in the desert. I could think of nothing but lifting it in my hands and putting it in my pocket. It would be mine and my hunger would be slaked for a little while, another little while. I tried to turn my back on the mother and child and compose my body for sleep but it was like a piece of meat stuck in my teeth that I could not ignore. I got out of the bed and looked at it again. How it shone in the fading firelight!
The face of the woman was calm as though the child was the only thing in her universe. The child was also calmly beholding his mother. What would it be like to be so calm, so relaxed, so focused and yet so at rest? There was no strain on the two faces, just a connection that went beyond time and space. Somehow just looking at the two made my heart stop racing and I was breathing easier again. I thought that maybe I could put the piece down and sleep.
===
I could see the walls of Canaan ahead of me in the distance. I reached in my pack to find a fruit. To my surprise, I pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper. A note was tied to the package. I read:
Brother John,
After much prayer, I am giving you a gift that will remind you never to give up and always to pursue true freedom.
I unwrapped the package. It was the Pieta.