Memoria (2 page)

Her voice echoed in the receiver.

"Hello? Frank?" She sounded hoarse and nervous, breathing in short fits.

"Oh, hi," he said. "You okay? I thought you'd given up on me."

"I'm fine, thanks."

He heard her sniffle. Frank's heart skipped a beat. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I got soaked in the rain so I'm not feeling very well, sorry. You'd better tell me how it went in DC."

Her voice softened. Even her breathing sounded more even.

Frank glanced at the driver. You couldn't tell what he was thinking: no reaction was evident on the back of his head, and the part of the broad face seen in the rear-view mirror didn't betray any emotion, either. The cabbie kept his eyes on the road, steering with one hand and stroking his mustache with the other.

"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 ground
work
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.

F
rom 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.

The cabbie shook his head. "Don't give me all that bullshit about you having already done it," he reached between the seats, smoothed out Frank's creased coat lapel and patted him on the shoulder. "Not a good idea to ignore your duty. You know you've got to visit them three times a year. They run a free promotion now, too: you might still make it if you don't put it off for too long. Now off you go! I'll wait for you right here."

Frank scrambled out of the cab and wrapped his coat tighter around his body. Strange man, this veteran.
He seemed to read Frank's mind.
He
had a point
, though
: landing a well-paid job these days took a lot of luck. Having a place to live, a family and children was taking on quite a strain. He really shouldn't lose Kathleen. He should try and talk to her, maybe suggest moving in together — and why not for keeps?

For a split second,
Frank
wanted to stick to the status quo: what was the point in trying to dig up her past if they might not share a future? But today, it was different. Today, things seemed to
form
a pattern. He hadn't fallen for the bullying cabbie's abuse, he'd remembered his old boxing coach, he'd realized that he loved Kathleen — yes, loved was the right word — and worked up the courage to propose.

Frank couldn't help smiling.

The first raindrops hit the sidewalk. Frank glanced up at the stormy clouds thickening in the dirt-gray sky and hurried inside the lobby of his apartment building. He couldn't make it past the entrance: the hallway was blocked by the backs of newspapermen, TV reporters and photographers busy setting up their cameras and lighting.

They crowded into the lobby blocking out the reception desk. Frank tried to bypass them through a narrow opening to their left. When he finally made it to the desk, the doorman produced two days' back mail and suggested he hurried to the elevators if he didn't want to have to take the stairs: the lobby was about to close for a press conference.

Frank was just about to ask him what all that media fuss was about and who called the press conference, but two media men complete with a camera and the ID badges of an international news channel beat him to it and demanded the doorman's attention. After a hesitant wait, Frank looked at the media crowd. It had perked up, and Frank hurried to the elevators. He'd find out what it was all about later. Upstairs, Kathleen was waiting and he couldn't think of much else but her.

When he left the elevator, he saw that his front door was slightly ajar. His first thought was about old Mrs. Fletcher next door: more than likely, she'd called on him again and Kathleen must have helped her to set up the cable remote. The poor old bag couldn't live without her TV, applying for every talk show and dreaming of her fifteen minutes of fame.

Frank entered the hall and removed his coat. Kathleen's purse was missing from the shelf under the coat-rack mirror where she always left it. In its place, he found a note: "Kitchen".

A puzzled Frank forgot to close the front door and moved along the corridor, taking off his jacket. He turned to the right and entered the kitchen. On the kitchen table sat a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

Frank smiled. This was so unlike Kathleen. She'd never done anything like it. He hung his jacket on a chair and took a corkscrew out of the drawer. Apparently, their restaurant date would have to wait. Same went for the cabbie. Kathleen was easily aroused, fiery in bed, and she climaxed quickly. He'd make her groan with exhaustion as she readied to come, and then—

He pulled the cork out and tilted the bottle. The red bubbly warbled in the glass.

Then she would get ready — shower, makeup, whatever — while he went downstairs and asked the cabbie if he could wait a bit longer than planned.

Frank left the bottle on the table, lifted the full glasses and headed for the bedroom. His hands trembled slightly with arousal. He stopped in front of the door and took a swig. Excellent wine. He raised the glass against the light admiring the bubbles coming to the surface, kicked the door open and entered.

Kathleen lay on the king-size bed in her lacy lingerie and stockings, her arms spread wide. The electronic bracelet was missing from her right hand. Her raven-black curls tumbled across the pillow, her head turned to the doorway. Her glassy dead eyes stared at Frank.

For a second or two he stood there staring at the girl, unable to take it in, the wine glasses in his hands. His ears were blocked, his throat, tight. Finally, with a whimper, he rushed to the bed. The wine went all over his shirt and the sheets. He dropped the glasses, lifted Kathleen's head and looked into her eyes, praying for her to blink and say, hi there! But it didn't happen.