The Gladiator

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Authors: Harry Turtledove

BOOK: The Gladiator
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“I've never seen anything like it,” Annarita said truthfully. “Where do all the games come from?”
“We have crazy people locked up in a psychiatric hospital who make them up,” Eduardo told her.
She blinked. He really did like to see how close to the wind he could sail. Everybody knew the Party put troublemakers in psychiatric hospitals. Getting into one of those places was easy. Coming out? Coming out was a different story.
Everybody knew that, but hardly anybody talked about it. If you talked about it to the wrong people, you might wind up inside a psychiatric hospital yourself. But Eduardo didn't seem worried. He grinned at her.
Annarita wondered if he was a provocateur. Maybe the whole store was a front, a trap to catch dissidents. Would everybody who played games in here end up in a psychiatric hospital or in jail or in a labor camp or dead? She didn't like to think so, but the authorities could be sneaky. Everybody knew that, too.
She walked over to the shelves. There were titles like
Making Your Corporation Profitable
and
Economics of Club Ownership
alongside others like
Greece and Rome at War
. “You sell … interesting books,” she said.
“Well, if they weren't interesting, who'd buy them?” Eduardo spread his hands and answered his own question: “Nobody, that's who. Then I couldn't make my living having fun. I'd have to do something honest instead.”
Annarita Crosetti didn't want to get up in the morning. She didn't want to get up most mornings, but today was especially bad. After she killed the alarm clock, she just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. But she couldn't. She knew it. She had a Russian test first period, and a Young Socialists' League meeting after school. That meant she'd be up late with schoolwork tonight, too, and sleepy again tomorrow morning.
Even so, she didn't want to get up.
When she didn't start moving fast enough to suit her mother, she got shaken and pushed out of bed. She muttered and groaned in protest—she had trouble talking till she was really awake, which took a while.
Her mother showed no sympathy … and no mercy. “Come on. Get dressed,” she said. “Breakfast will be ready by the time you are.”
“
Sì, sì
,” Annarita said. By then she was standing up. Her mother went away, knowing she probably wouldn't lie down again.
Because there was a meeting, Annarita put on her Young Socialists' League uniform. It made her look ready to change a tire: marching boots, khaki trousers, dark green blouse. But all the Young Socialists—the up-and-comers—would be wearing
the same thing today, so what could she do? Not much. Not anything, really.
She put on the crisscross sashes, one with the badges of Marx and Engels, Lenin and Stalin and Putin, the other with badges of Moroni and Chiapelli and other Italian Communist heroes. The badges of the Russians and the founders were edged in gold, those of the Italians in silver. Annarita didn't know how many times she'd put on the sashes, but she'd never even thought about that before. It was as if her own countrymen were runners-up in the race for fame.
She shook her head. It wasn't as if. Italian Communist heroes were heroes only in Italy. Other Socialist people's republics had their own national heroes. You saw them, grim and unsmiling, on foreign postage stamps. But the founders and the Russians were heroes all over the world.
They should be
, she thought.
If not for them, Marxism-Leninism-Stalinism might not have won. And then where would we be?
“Annarita!” her mother yelled.
“Coming!” She knew where she needed to be: the kitchen.
It was crowded in there. The Crosettis shared the kitchen and bathroom with the Mazzillis, who were also eating breakfast. Everyone muttered good morning. Annarita grabbed a roll, tore it, and dipped it in olive oil. A cup of cappuccino was waiting for her. Her mother and father poured down espresso instead, thick and sweet and strong. If two or three of those little cups wouldn't get your heart started in the morning, you were probably dead.
Sitting across the table from her was Gianfranco Mazzilli, who was sixteen—a year younger than Annarita—and went to the same school. He just had on ordinary clothes, though. He
didn't belong to the Young Socialists, which made his parents unhappy.
His father used espresso to knock back a shot of grappa, and then another one. That would get your heart started, too. Of course, after a while you might not remember
why
you got it started, but Cristoforo Mazzilli didn't seem to care.
Annarita's father eyed the bottle of distilled lightning and said, “I wish I could get going like that.”
“Why can't you, Filippo?” Cristoforo Mazzilli said. “Doesn't hurt me a bit.”
“I should keep a clear head,” Annarita's father answered. “The patients need it.”
“‘From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs,'” the elder Mazzilli quoted. He reached for the grappa bottle. “I need this.” He was a midlevel Party functionary in one of the provincial ministries. No one would get hurt if he came to work a little tipsy, or more than a little tipsy, or if he didn't come in at all. Knowing that might have been one reason he drank.
As soon as people finished eating, they started jockeying for the bathroom. There were apartments—some right here in this building—where families fought like cats and dogs over the tub and the toilet. The Crosettis and the Mazzillis didn't do that, anyhow. Both families had to use the facilities, whether they got along or not. Easier when they did, so everybody tried. It worked pretty well … most of the time.
Going down the stairs, Annarita carried her books in front of her. Gianfranco carried his under one arm. Girls did the one thing, boys the other. Annarita didn't know why, or how long it had been that way. Maybe, if she remembered, she would ask
her mother. Did it go back further than that? She shrugged. She had no idea.
“Spring,” Gianfranco said when they got outside.
“Spring,” Annarita agreed. Spring here in Milan was a lot more hesitant than it was down in Rome, let alone Naples or Sicily. It stayed cool and humid. It could rain—it could come down in buckets. The sun was out right now. But clouds floated across the sky. If the sun hid behind one of them, it might not feel like coming out again.
Other students were coming out of the building, and from the identical concrete towers to either side. Stalin Gothic, people called them—when they were sure no informers were listening, anyhow.
Not far away stood the Duomo. The great cathedral was Gothic, too, only it was the genuine article. Every line of it seemed to leap for the sky, to point toward the heavens. Officially, the Italian People's Republic was as atheistic as the Soviet Union or any other Socialist state. Officially. In spite of Stalin's cruel joke—“The Pope? How many divisions has he got?”—His Holiness Pius XIV still presided over St. Peter's. Some churches stayed open. You weren't supposed to believe any of that stuff, but a lot of people did.
Annarita glanced from the Duomo to the grim, square apartment blocks and back again. The apartments looked as if they'd been run up in six weeks. They probably had, judging by the plumbing. The elevator in her building hadn't worked for years. She and Gianfranco had come down the stairs. They would climb them in the afternoon, too.
The Duomo … They'd started building it in the fourteenth century, and hadn't finished till the twentieth. That seemed—that was—an awfully long time, but they got it right. Yes, it glorified
superstition. So her teachers said, at least half a dozen times a day. But glorify it did.
In the square in front of the Duomo stood a statue of General Secretary Putin.
Old Pointy-Nose
, people called him. Not counting the base, he stood four meters tall—twice the height of even a tall man. All the same, the cathedral had no trouble making him seem like a midget.
At the moment, a pigeon perched on his outstretched right forefinger. Gianfranco pointed to it. “Looking for a handout,” he said.
“Good luck,” Annarita said. “The bird better hope that fist doesn't close.” Even though Gianfranco grinned and nodded, she wished she had the words back the second they were out of her mouth. Vladimir Putin was seventy years dead, yes, but making any kind of joke about him to a Party man's son wasn't smart. But
everybody
knew the Russians were so much better at taking than giving.
Fiats and Russian Volgas and smelly German Trabants and Workermobiles from the USA crowded narrow streets that hadn't been built with cars in mind in the first place. A century and more of Communism hadn't turned Italians into orderly drivers. Annarita didn't think anything could. A Volga stopped in the middle of the street to wait for an old woman on the far curb. It plugged traffic like a cork in a bottle. A trolley had to stop behind the Volga. More cars jammed up behind the trolley. The motorman clanged his bell. The drivers leaned on their horns. The man in the Volga ignored them all.
The old lady tottered over and got in. The Volga zoomed away. The trolley got moving, too. The swarm of cars behind it would take longer to unknot.
“There ought to be a law,” Gianfranco said.
“There
are
laws,” Annarita said. “People don't pay any attention to them.”
“That trolleyman should have photographed the guy's license plate,” Gianfranco said. “When they found out who he was, they could have fixed him good.”
“Maybe the trolleyman did,” Annarita said.
“Yeah, maybe.” Gianfranco sounded as if he liked the idea. Annarita wasn't so sure she did. They already had so many ways to keep an eye on you. Who needed a motorman with a camera? Even typewriters were registered. As far as the Italian People's Republic was concerned, they were more dangerous than assault rifles. And computers … Her school had a couple, which made it special, but only the most trusted teachers and the very most trusted students got to use them.
She thought the progress to real Communism, the kind where the state withered away, would come faster if people could more freely use the tools they had. No matter what she thought, she kept her ideas to herself. What you didn't tell anybody, you couldn't get in trouble for.
While she was thinking dark thoughts, her feet kept walking. She turned right and then left and then right again. She hardly noticed the apartment blocks and shops she passed.
“We're here,” Gianfranco said.
“Sì,” Annarita said. “We're here. Oh, boy.” Gianfranco laughed. He was more likely to say something like that. She was the good student—he just squeaked by. But she couldn't make herself get excited about school today.
 
 
Enver Hoxha Polytechnic Academy was named for a Communist hero, but not for an Italian Communist hero. Hoxha had administered
Albania for most of the second half of the twentieth century. A lot of Italians laughed at Albanians, their neighbors across the Adriatic Sea. Few did it it where Albanians could hear them, though. Albanians were supposed to have nasty tempers, and to be fond of carrying knives.
Students from other schools jeered Hoxha Polytechnic's soccer and basketball teams because the academy bore a foreigner's name. “Odd jobs!” they shouted. “Odd jobs!” Despite a century and a half of Socialism, Albania remained the poorest country in Europe. Young Albanians sometimes crossed the Adriatic in small boats. Working as farm laborers or handymen—or thieves—in Italy seemed better to them than going hungry back home.
A big black-and-white photo of Hoxha stared down at Annarita and Gianfranco from over the entrance. He didn't look as if he approved of them. He didn't look as if he approved of anybody. Considering what he'd had to do to drive the Fascists out of Albania during the Second World War and then rule the country for so long afterwards, he probably didn't.
“See you,” Gianfranco said, and hurried off to his first class.
“Ciao,” Annarita called after him. She didn't want to go to Russian. It drove her crazy. Everybody who wanted to be anybody had to learn it. It was the most important language in the world, after all. When the Soviet Union sneezed, the rest of the world started sniffling. But still …
Annarita had had a couple of years of Latin. She understood the idea of cases, of using endings instead of prepositions to show how words worked in a sentence.
Homo
was a man as the subject of a sentence. If a man thanked you, he was
homo
. But if you thanked him, if he was the object, he was
hominem
. In the
possessive, he was
hominis
. A man's dog was
canus
hominis—or
hominis canus
. Word order mattered much less in Latin than in Italian. The same was true in Russian, only more so.
But if Latin's grammar was weird, an awful lot of the vocabulary looked familiar.
Man
in Italian was
uomo
, while
dog
was
cane
. You didn't need to know any history to see that Latin and Italian were related.
Russian's vocabulary, though, seemed even weirder to Annarita than its grammar did.
Man
in Russian was
chelovek
, and
dog
was
sobaka
. Worse, the Russians used a different alphabet, so everything looked funny.
Man
looked like
e
oBek, and dog looked like Co
aka. Some of the letters were recognizable, but others would fool you. C was sounded like “s,” P was “r,” and H was “n.” If you weren't careful, if you absentmindedly thought the way you usually did, Russian could really bite you.

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