Conversation · The Deserter

"She better come. I too have given my life to Mazovian socio-economics."

"A waste." He blinks his black eyes. "The material base for an uprising has eroded, the working class has betrayed mankind and themselves..."

"The historic opportunity for a revolution has passed. It will not come back anymore. However hard I try, whatever I do."

So that's why he's 'the deserter.'

"Once a deserter, always a deserter."

"I have done everything a man can do. What have you done?"

"We keep people alive. We help them survive, whatever the ideological situation. Day in and day out."

"Survive?" The old man spits into the dead fire. "For what?"

Don't say it.

"What can I do?" The old man suddenly looks around, suddenly confused.

What has he done? Perhaps a confession will lighten the load...

This is not the time to push.

The old man suddenly looks around, confused. "What can I do? What is there..."

"What have you done then?"

"Yes -- what? To get things going again..." The lieutenant steps closer. "Fan the flame?"

"There is no flame to fan." He stares right through at him, blinking his dark eyes. "There is nothing left -- of the world, of our dreams."

"I just mourn." He stares right through you. Then blinks again.

"Girl Child Revolution?"

"Always..."

"Girl Child Nation is too strong for that."

"No -- this is a vulgar criticism." He blinks his black eyes. "The material base for an uprising has eroded, the working class has betrayed mankind and themselves..."

"I'm afraid she's gone."

"The material base for an uprising has eroded." He nods and blinks his black eyes. "The working class has betrayed mankind and themselves..."

"Nothing in history is guaranteed. But revolution is still a possibility."

"No." He blinks his black eyes. "The material base for an uprising has eroded, the working class has betrayed mankind and themselves..."

"I dare not dream anymore."

"Good." He blinks his black eyes. "The material base for an uprising has eroded, the working class has betrayed mankind and themselves..."

"I come from there." (Point to the mainland.) "I can assure you, that is not what the people are planning."

"I am not a fool." He blinks his black eyes. "I know -- the material base for an uprising has eroded. The working class has betrayed mankind..."

"Women will always betray you."

"Women are more susceptible to bourgeois morals." He blinks his black eyes. "The material base for an uprising has eroded, the working class has betrayed mankind and themselves..."

"I've been there. The city is a tinderbox. It may still happen."

"It won't." He blinks his black eyes. "The material base for an uprising has eroded, the working class has betrayed mankind and themselves..."

"I've seen it." (Shake your head.) "Capital is too powerful. The rich are very well organized."

"They have you." He blinks his black eyes. "The material base for an uprising has eroded, the working class has betrayed mankind and themselves..."

"Her, who?"

"Always waiting. Always...."

Two police officers step out of the Whirling-in-Rags cafeteria. Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare inspects giant letters across the plaza mosaic, in dark red government-marked heavy fuel oil.

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 smelling of petroleum. ONE DAY, it says, I WILL RETURN TO YOUR SIDE.

Where it's morning. On Rue de Saint-Ghislaine, people are walking, the gas streetlights have already been switched off. Further inland, in Jamrock, the streets come alive with workers: men, women, children rushing -- muddy avenue after muddy avenue. The temperature is rising. Altocumulus clouds form above Precinct 41.

Where the afternoon grows late. On Rue de Saint-Ghislaine people walk home, streetlights will soon be lit. Further inland the streets are alive with workers: men, women, children. Streethawks and migrant labourers. The temperature is steady. Altocumulus clouds form above Precinct 41.

Where evening comes. On Rue de Saint-Ghislaine hydrogen streetlights switch on, casting black shadows. Further inland, the street grid appears dark -- unlit avenue after unlit avenue. The temperature is dropping. Altocumulus clouds form above Precinct 41.

"What have you been doing all this time?"

"I don't even know what that is."

"It's inhuman. It's sick. 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."

"That's steadfast."

"That's the length of my entire life."

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

"How have you survived all this time?"

"How does anyone survive?" He looks at his worn running shoes. "I steal."

Now hold on there...

"That's a choice. You could have become self-employed. Create the system."

"You're insane and grotesque. Everyone steals: vegetables, supplies. It's the life of a dog." He coughs once more, then puts his hand on his belly...

"How is your health, Mr. Dros?"

"I've been throwing up blood since winter. Red, like beet root -- been passing it in stool too..."

He does seem frail, gaunt for his age, more like 75 than 65. Trouble putting on weight could mean cancer.

"The RCM can provide medical services. You need to be looked over."

"I need to die." A droll smile stretches across his mouth. "You don't have medical facilities, you have guns. That's all they give you, toy guns."

You also have Drouamine.