The Gladiator (3 page)
Authors: Harry Turtledove
Popular fronts, he rediscovered, combined Communists with non-Communist Socialists and other fellow travelers. The
first one came along in France before World War II, to try to rally the country against Fascism. It didn't work. But later popular fronts swung France and Italy and Scandinavia away from the weakening USA and toward the USSR.
first one came along in France before World War II, to try to rally the country against Fascism. It didn't work. But later popular fronts swung France and Italy and Scandinavia away from the weakening USA and toward the USSR.
Without these fronts
, he wrote,
the victory of Socialism in Europe, while it still would inevitably have come, would have been slower. It might even have required warfare to eliminate reactionary forces from the continent
. That was what the textbook said, and the textbook had to be right. If it was wrong, the authorities wouldn't use itâand what would they do to an author who was wrong on purpose? Send him to a camp? Kill him? Purge his whole family? Gianfranco wouldn't have been surprised.
, he wrote,
the victory of Socialism in Europe, while it still would inevitably have come, would have been slower. It might even have required warfare to eliminate reactionary forces from the continent
. That was what the textbook said, and the textbook had to be right. If it was wrong, the authorities wouldn't use itâand what would they do to an author who was wrong on purpose? Send him to a camp? Kill him? Purge his whole family? Gianfranco wouldn't have been surprised.
Was everybody in the class writing the same ideas in the same words? Everybody with any sense was. Why stick your neck out when the answers were right there in black and white? How many times would Comrade Pontevecchio read the same sentences? How sick of them would he get?
Serve him right
, Gianfranco thought. The teacher called for the essays. The students passed them forward. Comrade Pontevecchio grudged a nod. “Now, at least, you know what popular fronts are.”
, Gianfranco thought. The teacher called for the essays. The students passed them forward. Comrade Pontevecchio grudged a nod. “Now, at least, you know what popular fronts are.”
He was right. Gianfranco didn't think he would forget. He still didn't care, though. But Comrade Pontevecchio didn't care whether he cared.
After what seemed like forever, the bell rang. Gianfranco jumped up much more eagerly than he had to recite. Escape! But it wasn't escape from school, only from history. Literature didn't interest him, either. Nothing in school interested him a whole lot. He felt as if he were in jail.
And his father and mother got mad because he wasn't a
better student! How could you do well if you didn't care? All he wanted to do was get out. Because afterwards â¦
better student! How could you do well if you didn't care? All he wanted to do was get out. Because afterwards â¦
But he couldn't think about afterwards yet. If he did, he would start thinking about how long it was till he got out. And that would hurt, and then he would pay even less attention than he usually did.
He sighed. Off to literature.
This year, literature covered twentieth-century Socialist writers who weren't actually Communists. Fellow travelers, Comrade Pellagrini called them. A light went on in Gianfranco's head. History and literature were talking about some of the same things, but coming at them from different angles. That was interesting. He wished it happened more often.
All the same, the class itself wasn't that exciting. Right now, they were going through Jack London's
The Iron Heel
. Gianfranco had read
The Call of the Wild
and “To Build a Fire” in translation the year before. Those were gripping stories. London plainly knew about the frozen North, and he was able to put across what he knew.
The Iron Heel
. Gianfranco had read
The Call of the Wild
and “To Build a Fire” in translation the year before. Those were gripping stories. London plainly knew about the frozen North, and he was able to put across what he knew.
The Iron Heel
was different. It was a novel about the class struggle, and about the ways the big capitalists found to divide the proletariat and keep it from winning the workers' revolution.
was different. It was a novel about the class struggle, and about the ways the big capitalists found to divide the proletariat and keep it from winning the workers' revolution.
“Marx talks about how, in the last days of capitalism, the bourgeoisie are declassed and fall into the ranks of the workers,” Comrade Pellagrini said. “You all know that. You started studying
The Communist Manifesto
when you were still in primary school.”
The Communist Manifesto
when you were still in primary school.”
Gianfranco found himself nodding agreement. He would have nodded agreement to almost anything Comrade Pellagrini said. She didn't look much older than the girls she was teaching, but she made them look like ⦠girls. She was a woman
herself, more
finished
than the girls, and prettier than almost all of them, too. She carried herself like a model or a dancer.
herself, more
finished
than the girls, and prettier than almost all of them, too. She carried herself like a model or a dancer.
She was
so
pretty, Gianfranco almost thought it would be worthwhile to study hard and impress her with how much he knew. Almost. She treated students the way a busy doctor treated patients. She was good at teaching, but she didn't let anybody get personal. And Gianfranco knew that if he tried to impress her and failed, he'd be crushed. Better not to try in that case, wasn't it? He thought soâand it gave him one more excuse not to work too hard.
so
pretty, Gianfranco almost thought it would be worthwhile to study hard and impress her with how much he knew. Almost. She treated students the way a busy doctor treated patients. She was good at teaching, but she didn't let anybody get personal. And Gianfranco knew that if he tried to impress her and failed, he'd be crushed. Better not to try in that case, wasn't it? He thought soâand it gave him one more excuse not to work too hard.
“How does London take Marx's dynamic and turn it upside down, at least for a while?” the literature teacher asked.
Gianfranco looked down at his desk. He couldn't answer the question. If their eyes met, she was more likely to call on him. He thought so, anyway. Most of the time, he looked at her when he thought she wouldn't be looking at him.
She called on someone elseâa girl. The student made a hash of trying to explain. Comrade Pellagrini called on a boy. He botched it, too.
The teacher let out an exasperated snort. “How many of you did the assigned reading last night?” All the students raised their hands. Gianfranco had ⦠looked at the book last night, anyway. Comrade Pellagrini scowled. “If you read it, why can't you answer a simple question?”
No one said a word. People looked at one another, or at the clock on the wall, or at the ceiling, or out the windowâanywhere but at Comrade Pellagrini. Maybe she thought it was a simple question. Gianfranco didn't. You couldn't just copy from the book to answer it, the way he had in history. You had to recall what you'd read and make that fit the question. It all seemed like too much bother.
“All right.
All
right.” The teacher still seemed angry. “You need to know, so I'll tell youâthis once. Doesn't London show the bosses raising some workers to the bourgeoisie with what amounts to bribes to turn them against their natural class allies?”
All
right.” The teacher still seemed angry. “You need to know, so I'll tell youâthis once. Doesn't London show the bosses raising some workers to the bourgeoisie with what amounts to bribes to turn them against their natural class allies?”
“Sì, Comrade Pellagrini,” everyone chorused. Once the teacher gave the answer, seeing it was right was the easiest thing in the world.
“I want you to finish
The Iron Heel
tonight,” Comrade Pellagrini said. “We'll have the test on Friday, and then next week we'll start
1984
. You'll see how Orwell shows the tyranny of capitalism and Fascism.”
The Iron Heel
tonight,” Comrade Pellagrini said. “We'll have the test on Friday, and then next week we'll start
1984
. You'll see how Orwell shows the tyranny of capitalism and Fascism.”
A girl raised her hand. “I had to read that book in another class,” she said when the teacher called on her. “He calls the ideology in it English Socialism.” She sounded troubled, feeling there was something dangerous in the book that she couldn't quite see.
But Comrade Pellagrini brushed the question aside, saying, “Well, so what? The Nazis' full name was the National Socialist German Workers' Party. They weren't real Socialists, and they weren't for the workers. They used mystification to confuse the German people, and it worked.”
That seemed to satisfy the girl. It didn't matter to Gianfranco one way or the other. He hadn't read
1984
yet, and hoped it would be more interesting than
The Iron Heel
. But how interesting could a book be when even its title lay more than a hundred years in the past? And how interesting could it be when you had to read it for school?
1984
yet, and hoped it would be more interesting than
The Iron Heel
. But how interesting could a book be when even its title lay more than a hundred years in the past? And how interesting could it be when you had to read it for school?
Â
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The dismissal bell. Well, it was the dismissal bell for most people, anyhow. Annarita knew Gianfranco would be leaving
now. But she had the Young Socialists' League meeting. She didn't really want to goânothing would happen there. Nothing ever did. And she'd get back to the apartment an hour and a half later than usual, and still have a whole day's worth of homework to do.
now. But she had the Young Socialists' League meeting. She didn't really want to goânothing would happen there. Nothing ever did. And she'd get back to the apartment an hour and a half later than usual, and still have a whole day's worth of homework to do.
People in the same boring uniform she was wearing filed into the auditorium. Most of them looked as unenthusiastic as she did. For them, this was something you did because you were in the League. Being in the League put you on the fast track to joining the Party. And getting your Party card was a long step towards a prosperous, comfortable life.
But there were a few eager faces, too. Some kids really believed in the stuff the grown-ups who ran the League shoved down their throats. Annarita felt sorry for themâthey were the kind who couldn't see their nose in front of their face. And there were kids who liked to run things, too. She didn't feel sorry for them. They scared her.
Filippo Antonelli was one of those. He banged the gavel. “The meeting will come to order!” he said loudly. He would graduate at the end of the year, and she wouldn't be sorry to see him leave. He intended to study law and go into politics. She thought he would go far if he didn't get caught in a purge. As long as he went far from her, that suited her fine. He turned to the girl sitting next to him. “The general secretary will read the minutes of the last meeting.”
Stalin had been general secretary, too. He'd used that innocent-sounding post to run the Soviet Union. Isabella Sabatini didn't have ambitions like thatâor if she did, she hid them where Filippo couldn't see them. She was in Annarita's year, so maybe she'd show her true colors once he was gone. For now,
she just read the minutes. They were boring, and got approved without amendment. They always did.
she just read the minutes. They were boring, and got approved without amendment. They always did.
“Continuing business,” Filippo said importantly.
“First item is preparation for the May Day holiday at the school,” Isabella said. “The chairman of the May Day celebration committee will make his report.”
He did. There would be a celebration. They had money taken from the Young Socialists' League dues. They would spend some of it on ornaments and propaganda posters, and some more on a dance. The school administration had given them a list of approved bands. They would choose one.
Annarita looked at her watch and tried not to yawn where people could see her do it. The May Day celebration was the same every year. Preparations for the celebration were the same every year, too. Only the band at the danceâsometimesâchanged. Everything would go more smoothly if the people in charge didn't take it so seriously.
“The celebration of the victory over Fascism will be the next piece of business,” Isabella said.
That was the same
almost
every year. Two years earlier, in Annarita's first year at Hoxha Polytechnic, it had been bigger than usual. That was the 150th anniversary of the end of the Second World Warâthe Great Patriotic War, the Soviet Union called it. But it got back to normal last year, and would be normal again this May.
almost
every year. Two years earlier, in Annarita's first year at Hoxha Polytechnic, it had been bigger than usual. That was the 150th anniversary of the end of the Second World Warâthe Great Patriotic War, the Soviet Union called it. But it got back to normal last year, and would be normal again this May.
After the committee for the celebration of victory over Fascism reported, Filippo asked, “Any new business?” There hardly ever was. Annarita hoped there wouldn't be. Then they could get on with talking about the curriculum. They were going to send the administration a report. The administration
wouldn't read itâthe administration never read student reports. But it would go on file, and show the Young Socialists' League was doing its job.
wouldn't read itâthe administration never read student reports. But it would go on file, and show the Young Socialists' League was doing its job.
To Annarita's surprise and dismay, Marco Furillo raised his hand. “I move we investigate a shop that may be selling students subversive literature.”
“What's this?” Filippo said.
“It's true,” Marco said. “Have you ever been to the place they call The Gladiator?”
“That's the gaming shop, isn't it?” Filippo said, and Marco nodded. Filippo went on, “I know where it is, but I haven't been inside. Why?”
“Because they skate close to the edge, if they don't go over it,” Marco answered, his face and voice full of sour disapproval.
That name ⦠Annarita had heard somebody mention it before. Gianfranco, that was who. Did he realize the place might be dangerous to him? Filippo did the proper bureaucratic thing: he appointed a committee to look into what was going on. And Annarita surprised both him and herself by volunteering to join it.
The dismissal bell. Gianfranco exploded out of the seat in his biology class. If Comrade Pastrano thought he cared about the differences between a frog's circulatory system and a mouse's, the teacher needed to think again.
Gianfranco wished he didn't have to lug so many books home. His old man would come down on him like a landslide if he didn't at least make a show of doing his homework, though.
But before he went home ⦠Before he went home, he went to the Galleria del Popoloâthe People's Gallery. Once upon a time, it had been named for a King of Italy, not for the people. Once upon a time, too, it had been the most stylish and expensive shopping center in Milan. A glass roof covered a crossed-shaped district of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century buildings crammed with shops and restaurants of all sorts.
Fashion had long since moved on, as fashion has a way of doing. The expensive shops and the first-rate restaurants went elsewhere. The places that took over were the ones that didn't pretend to be up-to-the-minute or first-rate. That didn't mean you couldn't have a good time at the Galleria del Popolo. It did mean the good time you had wasn't the same as it would have been a hundred years earlier.
Now the Galleria del Popolo was where the people
gatheredâthe strange people, that is. Old men looking for older books prowled the secondhand stalls. People who played music that wasn't in favor with the cultural authorities played it in little clubs there. Gianfranco wouldn't have been surprised if the men and women at those clubs who smoked cigarettes and drank espresso or wine while they listened were political unreliables. If the Security Police needed to make a roundup, they would start there.
gatheredâthe strange people, that is. Old men looking for older books prowled the secondhand stalls. People who played music that wasn't in favor with the cultural authorities played it in little clubs there. Gianfranco wouldn't have been surprised if the men and women at those clubs who smoked cigarettes and drank espresso or wine while they listened were political unreliables. If the Security Police needed to make a roundup, they would start there.
He walked past a shop selling clothes that only people who didn't care about getting ahead would wear. Flared trousers and tight-fitting shirts for men, short skirts and gaudy stockings for women ⦠They seemed more like costumes than real clothes to Gianfranco. He imagined what his father would say if he came home in an outfit like that. Slowly, he smiled. The look on his father's face would almost be worth the price of the clothes and the price of the trouble he'd get in.
And there was The Gladiator. It had a license in the front window, the way any shop had to. Somebody in the Ministry of Commerce had decided the place could do business. As Gianfranco walked up to the door, he made money-counting motions. He couldn't believe The Gladiator ever opened up without bribes of some sort. Communism should have made corruption a thing of the past. He was only sixteen, but he knew better.
A guy coming out of the shop nodded to Gianfranco as he went in. The other guy looked to be two or three years older than Gianfranco wasâhe really needed a shave. But he looked to be the same kind of person: somebody who couldn't get excited about most of the life he was living. The knowing grin on his face said he got excited about The Gladiator.
So did Gianfranco. So did all the people who came in here, looked around, and decided they liked what they saw. There
were others. Gianfranco had seen them. They'd walk in, go to the back room and stare at the people playing games, eye the games and the stuff that went with them, and walk out shaking their heads. They were fools. They proved they were fools by not getting what was going on right in front of their noses.
were others. Gianfranco had seen them. They'd walk in, go to the back room and stare at the people playing games, eye the games and the stuff that went with them, and walk out shaking their heads. They were fools. They proved they were fools by not getting what was going on right in front of their noses.
“Ciao, Gianfranco,” called the fellow behind the counter.
“Ciao, Eduardo.
Come sta?
” Gianfranco said.
Come sta?
” Gianfranco said.
“I'm fine,” Eduardo answered. “How are you?”
“I'll live. I made it through another day of school,” Gianfranco said. Eduardo thought that was funny. Gianfranco wished he did. He went on, “Is Carlo here yet?”
“Sì. He just got here a couple of minutes ago,” Eduardo told him. “He thinks he's going to clean your clockâhe said so.”
“In his dreams!” Gianfranco exclaimed. That touched his honorâor he imagined it did, anyhow. A lot of people called honor an outdated, aristocratic idea. Maybe it was, but plenty of Italians still took it seriously anyhow. Gianfranco set ten lire on the counter: two hours' worth of gaming time. “I'll show him!”
“Go on into the back room,” Eduardo said. “I may have to give you some of your money backâI don't know if Carlo can stay till six.”
“I'll worry about that later,” Gianfranco said. He had moneyâmore money than he knew what to do with. Even if his father wasn't a big Party wheel, he was a Party member. That all by itself just about guaranteed you wouldn't come close to being broke. The trouble was finding anything worth buying for your lire. Cars and apartments had waiting lists years long. TV sets kept you waiting for months. So did halfway decent sound systems. You could get cheap junk right awayâbut you got what you paid for if you spent your money like that.
A couple of hours of fun? Cheap at the price.
Other peopleâalmost all of them guys from a couple of years younger than Gianfranco up to, say, thirtyâsat bent over tables in the back room. They studied game boards with the attention they should have given to schoolwork. Carlo looked up and waved when he saw Gianfranco. “Ciao,” he said. “Watch what I do to you.”
“You can try,” Gianfranco said, and sat down across from his gaming partner. Carlo was nineteen, just starting at the university. His father wanted him to be a pharmacist. He didn't know what he wanted to do with his lifeâanything but push pills, probably. Gianfranco felt the same way about being a bureaucrat.
For now, they both forgot about the real world. Here, they were railroad magnates building rival lines across Europe. They had to lay track, buy engines, and move passengers and goods from one city to another. Dice and the quality of locomotives controlled how fast they could go. Cards told them what to take where and added disasters and blizzards and floods. But there was still a lot of strategy. Getting your line through the mountain passes, picking the shortest or the safest route (the two weren't always the same) between two towns, building here so the other player wouldn't â¦
The Gladiator didn't just sell games and offer a place to play. It also sold books, so players who got interested could learn how things
really
worked. Gianfranco knew much more about nineteenth-century railroads than about twentieth-century history. He'd learned this stuff because he wanted to, and because the more he knew, the better he did in the game.
really
worked. Gianfranco knew much more about nineteenth-century railroads than about twentieth-century history. He'd learned this stuff because he wanted to, and because the more he knew, the better he did in the game.
“Goal!” somebody three tables over shouted. He was running a soccer club. Gianfranco had tried that game, too, but he
didn't like it as well as railroading. Playing soccer was great. Running a team? Paying and trading players, keeping up the stadium, getting publicity so your crowds would be large and you could afford to pay better playersâthat all seemed too much like work.
didn't like it as well as railroading. Playing soccer was great. Running a team? Paying and trading players, keeping up the stadium, getting publicity so your crowds would be large and you could afford to pay better playersâthat all seemed too much like work.
Carlo was building his own rail line into Paris, an important center where Gianfranco was already operating. Carlo offered lower shipping rates than Gianfranco was charging. Gianfranco lowered his even more so Carlo couldn't steal his business. He cut rates as low as he could while still making money. Then Carlo cut his so he was losing money on that route but trying to make up for it other places.
“Is that in the rules?” Gianfranco asked.
“It sure is.” Carlo brandished the rule book, a thick pamphlet. “It's called a âloss leader.' And it's going to ruin you.”
“We'll see about that,” Gianfranco said. He built toward Vienna, where Carlo had been operating by himself. Even before he got there, Carlo cut shipping rates. Gianfranco cut them even more. If Carlo wanted to keep him out, he would have to start taking a loss in Vienna, too. He tried it. It didn't workâlosing money on two major routes, he couldn't make enough on the others to stay in the black. His whole operation started hemorrhaging money. He had to give up the Paris line.
Gianfranco didn't gloatâtoo much. “I think you got a little too cute,” he said.
“Maybe,” Carlo said unhappily. “I didn't expect you to get back at me so fast.” He tapped the rule book with his forefinger. “I saw this loss leader thing in here, and it looked so cool I had to try it out.”
“I've done stuff like that,” Gianfranco said. “I think that one can be good, but you pushed it too hard. The game will bite
you if you go with any one thing too much. You've got to stay balanced. That's how you make money.”
you if you go with any one thing too much. You've got to stay balanced. That's how you make money.”
“You old capitalist, you,” Carlo said. They both laughed.
Â
Â
Annarita didn't say anything about The Gladiator to Gianfranco at supper or at breakfast the next morning. She didn't feel like getting worried questions from his parentsâor from her own. Right now, all she knew about the place was that Marco Furillo thought it was politically unreliable. That didn't prove much.
So she waited till the two of them went down the stairs together and started for Hoxha Polytechnic before asking, “You've been to The Gladiator, haven't you?”
“Sure!” He sounded enthusiastic.
“What do you do there?” she asked.
“Play games, mostly. I get books sometimes, too.” He started talking about a complicated coup he'd pulled off against somebody named Carlo. It didn't make much sense to her. Then he started talking about how railroads really operated in the nineteenth century. Some of that made even less sense, but he knew a lot about it.
“How did you find out about all that stuff?” Annarita asked.
“I told youâthey've got books there. The more you know, the better you can play,” Gianfranco answered. Playing well mattered to himâshe could see that. He didn't care much about school, so he didn't work any harder than he had to there.
“Do you ever do anything ⦠political at The Gladiator?” she asked.
He looked at her as if she were crazy. “I play games. I talk
with the other guys who play games. What could be political about old-time railroads or soccer teams or hunting dragons?”
with the other guys who play games. What could be political about old-time railroads or soccer teams or hunting dragons?”
“Dragons? You're confusing me,” Annarita said.
“Some of the games are in this pretend world,” Gianfranco explained. “They're all right, I guess, but the railroad's my favorite.”
“How come?” Annarita asked.
“I don't know. I just like it,” Gianfranco answered. She made an exasperated noise. He carried his books in his left hand, which kept his right free for gesturing. “Why do you like a song or a movie? You just do, that's all.”
“I know why I like a movie,” Annarita said. “The actors are good, or the plot is interesting, or it's funny, or something.”
“All right, all right. Let me think.” Gianfranco didâAnnarita could watch him doing it. That impressed her all by itself. He wasn't stupid or anything. They'd been living in each other's pockets since they were little, so she knew that. But he hardly ever wanted to do more than he had to to get by. At last, he said, “When I'm playing, it's like the railroad is really mine. I'm in charge of everything from paying the workers to fixing the track if a flood washes out a stretch to figuring out how much to charge for hauling freight.”
He'd talked about that when he was trying to explain what he'd done to Carlo. Carefully, Annarita said, “It sounds like a very, uh, individualistic game.” People in the Italian People's Republic weren't supposed to be individualists. They were all supposed to work together for the eventual coming of true Communism, when the state would wither away.
The state hadn't done any withering lately. It still needed to be strong to guard against reactionaries and backsliders and
other enemies. So it insisted, in films, on radio and TV, in the newspapers, and on propaganda posters slapped onto anything that wasn't moving.
other enemies. So it insisted, in films, on radio and TV, in the newspapers, and on propaganda posters slapped onto anything that wasn't moving.
Gianfranco understood that
individualistic
was a code word for something worse. You'd have to be dead not to. “It's no such thing!” he said hotly. “It's no more individualistic than chess is. You run a whole army there.”
individualistic
was a code word for something worse. You'd have to be dead not to. “It's no such thing!” he said hotly. “It's no more individualistic than chess is. You run a whole army there.”
Annarita knew she had to back up. You couldn't say anything bad about chess, not when the Russians liked it so well. She tried a different approach: “Well, maybe, but people have been playing chess for a long time. I've never heard of a game like this before. Where does The Gladiator get it? Where does the shop get all its games? I don't think other places have any like them.”
“I don't know.” Gianfranco's shrug, a small masterpiece of its kind, showed that he didn't care, either. Then his eyes narrowed. “How come you're so curious about all this?”
She wondered if she should tell him. After a moment, she decided toâif she said something like
I just am, that's all,
it would only make him more suspicious. She realized she should have had a cover story ready. She wasn't much of a secret agent. “Don't get mad at me,” she said, “but somebody at the Young Socialists' League meeting yesterday said they were politically unreliable.”
I just am, that's all,
it would only make him more suspicious. She realized she should have had a cover story ready. She wasn't much of a secret agent. “Don't get mad at me,” she said, “but somebody at the Young Socialists' League meeting yesterday said they were politically unreliable.”
Gianfranco said something that should have scalded the gray tabby trotting down the street. But it just kept goingâcats were tough beasts. Then Gianfranco said, “Whoever thinks so is nuts. We sit. We play. We talk. That's it.”
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