Conversation · The Deserter

"It's not enough," he hisses. "The total, combined power of international capital -- all their fear and terror -- tore into Revachol. Streets rose from the ground... houses turned to ghosts." He gestures erratically, then falls silent.

"Dark magic?"

"The combined might of international capital, all at once -- all the greed and terror in the world -- tore into Revachol. It lifted streets from the ground and turned houses into ghosts. We were in the flak tower..." He gestures toward it.

"...huddled on the floor. The artillery was eighty kilometres away in Ozonne but I knew, I knew the Commune would fall. We would all be turned into ash. So I said I was going to the map room..." He looks east.

A terrible shame, still within him. The lobes of his ears are red with it, the shame and smallness of what he became.

"What then?"

"I ran. I climbed the chain link across the water and hid inland. In the bunkers underground, like the weakest of the weak... a mouse. Frightened of the ordnance all night and the sound of the rotors in the morning, whirring -- thith-thith-thith..." He looks at the sky.

Airships. Multi-rotored airships used in the Landing.

"Airships?"

"Aerostatics. The Landing had started. I climbed out -- into hell. There were ships all above. Hissing, whirling, and men pouring out. The chain was submerged so I had to swim back. The fortress was half submerged too, shattered."

"They'd all drowned in the lower levels, or got torn to shreds above. The anti-aircraft gun had malfunctioned -- so had I. I left them without ideological direction..." He opens his eyes and stares right through you. "It was real. I'd seen it. I'd seen it in reality."

Some kind of great terror. Worse than you've ever seen.

"That's definitely enough now."

The old man does not say more. Those black eyes of his keep piercing you, as he looks to some great distance and shakes his head slowly -- retreating from it.

These eyes are charred black by the images that have entered them.

"Seen what?"

"The mask of humanity fall from capital. It has to take it off to kill everyone -- everything you love; all the hope and tenderness in the world. It has to take it off, just for one second. To do the deed."

"And then you see it. As it strangles and beats your friends to death... the sweetest, most courageous people in the world." He's silent for a second. "You see the fear and power in its eyes. Then you know."

"What?"

"That the bourgeois are not human."

"You've lost your mind."

"Now is not the time, detective..." The lieutenant says, gently.

"I had to. I had to fight it. I could not stop anymore..." The old man falls silent. His black eyes keep piercing your skin as he looks to some great distance behind you, shaking his head slowly -- retreating from it.

"That's definitely enough now."

Say nothing. Let him finish.

"I had to, I had to fight it. I had to never stop..." The old man falls silent. His black eyes keep piercing your skin as he looks to some great distance behind you, shaking his head slowly -- retreating from it.

"I've always suspected the same.."

"What was that?"

"Airships. I climbed out." He closes his eyes: "Into hell. The Landing was complete. The chain was submerged, I had to swim back. The fortress was half submerged too. Shattered."

"You didn't go to the map room."

"No. I climbed the chain link across the water and hid inland. In the bunkers there, like the weakest of the weak... a mouse. Frightened of the ordnance all night and the sound of the rotors in the morning, whirring -- thith-thith-thith..." He looks at the sky.

"And when was this exactly?"

"What's Reaction?"

"Petty-bourgeois terror. It's in all men."

"It wasn't Reaction -- you were just afraid."

"It's the same thing... you haven't seen it. Not really -- not naked. It's impossible not to be afraid."

It remains unclear what it is. He makes leaps he doesn't expect you to follow.

"I understand. Communists are natural cowards. Quantity over quality."

"You haven't seen it. The face of who you serve -- naked. It's impossible not to be afraid."

"Understood."

"Well done. I won't explain it to a minion of capital."

"Again -- you've been hiding here for 43 years?"

"Forty-three years and 10 months."

"That's insane."

"It's not how a human being should live, but I had to..." He grimaces, clearly in pain. "...I couldn't just forget. I couldn't just forget what I saw."

He just couldn't...

"You couldn't give up."

He nods.

But he can now.

"What have you been doing during all this time?"

"Hiding, fishing, waiting..." He looks across the water.

Where night falls... Hydrogen streetlamps burn on Rue de Saint-Ghislaine, golden light casting black shadows. Further inland, in Jamrock, the street grid appears black -- unlit avenue after unlit avenue. Altocumulus clouds form above Precinct 41.

Two police officers step out of the Whirling-in-Rags cafeteria. Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare inspects a series of burnt black letters splashed across the plaza mosaic.

Patrol Officer Judit Minot points west. "The fishing village..." She glances at her watch. "We meet in 15 minutes. It's a ten minute walk."

The officers go, leaving behind the writing -- still smouldering. ONE DAY, it says, I WILL RETURN TO YOUR SIDE.

"Always waiting." The old man turns his eyes from the shore and back to you.

"For what?"

"For her to return."

"Her, who?"

"Girl Child Revolution."