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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780930324834 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Wings Press |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2002 |
| Series: | Complete Works of Cecile Pineda series |
| Pages: | 88 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.26(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Bardo99
A Mononovel
By Cecile Pineda
Wings Press
Copyright © 2004 Cecile PinedaAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60940-179-5
CHAPTER 1
Ringing, ringing, ringing, incessant ringing.
Where is he? Awakened from a plunging sleep, fumbling for the bell to silence it. The Angelus already. Must be. Clangor of an old story. Dreaming. Must have been. Rungs. Endless ladder rungs, hoisting himself up, tunneled in that wired cage, arm muscles screaming, leg muscles giving out. Endless spiralling rungs, straight to the roof. Ten? Ten storeys? Ten, or was it twenty? And all the while the sirens shrieking. Had his hands been free, he would have barred his ears.
All night the airwaves had been jammed, the regular frequencies commandeered in the emergency. He was on the point of giving up, tuning in the shortwave ... someone must have come on the line.
– Joe Viek?
– Yes ...?
– Joseph Viek?
– Here.
– There's been an accident ...
– an accident ...? Dawn already! He rubs his eyes.
– Afraid so. Yes.
– Where?
– Prypiat ... not far from here ...
... and feels the shock, the turmoil in his chest ... some pinwheeling comet, hurtling to earth, the thud of impact – oh God – Prypiat, the town he left behind when he married Myrna ... and his brother, Otar, – dear God, it can't be – and all the others. ... And the voice crackling through the speaker phone:
– Nothing to worry about. An evacuation has been ordered ...
– What's the impact radius?
– We're not allowed to say.
Of course he's not surprised. They have to be careful, especially where people like himself are concerned.
– How soon can you be ready?
– Say again? (He can hardly hear: there's some commotion in the hallway, someone shouting ...) Say again ...?
– Repeat: how soon can you be ready?
– Time to pack my bags, get my affairs in order ...
– Your bags!?
(Someone shouting in the hall out there, he can't make out what they're saying ...)
– My personal belongings – and my instruments ...
– You don't seem to understand – you're over the weight limit as it is.
Weight limit. Perhaps they're being air dropped – what if the roads are blocked ...?
(He can hear them quite distinctly now: Lift him higher. HIGHER.)
– Maybe just a change of clothes.
No doubt they'll have all the necessary instruments and medical equipment on hand. Usual in these cases, after all. Set up emergency triage units, assign evacuation teams, appoint quarantine officers as the case requires ...
HIGHER. LIFT HIM HIGHER.
– Say what? There's some commotion outside ... I'm having trouble hearing you ...
– ... half an hour to be ready.
– Why don't I hail a cab ...?
– A cab! That's a good one: they've all been pressed into service. ... The driver will be there for you in less than half an hour.
He remembers hearing the busy signal as the line goes dead and thinking it strange to be cut off so abruptly, making his habitual excuses: poor guy, must have his hands full in such an emergency – probably many more calls to make, how after all he himself is but a cog in the rescue machinery – many, many more among the conscripted with far more experience than he, and after all, now is not the time for self–indulgence.
Somehow he'll have to get the word to Myrna, there's no way to reach her at the plant, and Mammo – with the old age restrictions now in effect, her mother's no longer allowed a telephone.
He'll be gone for less than a week, no more certainly – grab a change of clothes, a toilet kit – and his daybook, a running record if questions ever come up – and they're inclined to come up more and more of late. A shame to leave his instruments behind. He feels empty handed without them, helpless almost, and now there's just time for a quick bite of something – a nice red apple perhaps – while he dashes off a note to Myrna. Darling, (mmmm, so tart against the tongue) I've been called up. Nothing to worry about. Just another pesky accident — he doesn't have to tell her where it is. Don't wait up. I'll try calling you from out there if the lines aren't dead. If not, I'm thinking of you, my dearest, and he scrawls his name, illegibly he thinks, and adds Don't forget to look in on Mammo now and then!
Here already. They've come for him. He can see the Land Rover down in the street flashing its hazard lights, splashing red through Myrna's lace curtains, on off, on off, reflecting against the apartment blocks across the street. Leave the note here, anchored by his half gnawed apple core – she'll be sure to see it when she clears the table – grab his bag, bolt down the endless corridor, past the closed apartments, their occupants inside, probably leaning against the doors, listening all of them, eyes glued to their peep holes.
– Look out, for god's sake!
In the far corridor, he makes out two figures in the stairwell, two men in top hats – undertakers, must be – silhouetted against the light, struggling to ease a stretcher around the turn. Old Chowiek lying there – hands inert, transparent on the coverlet. Dead? Is that what they're saying? Old Chowiek? It can't be. Just yesterday, he tossed him the paper, just yesterday: Here, Viek: your daily lies, and choked as usual on his smoker's laugh. Just yesterday. He can't understand, but there's no time just now. They're waiting for him downstairs. And these two, blocking the stairwell, about to come to blows....
– Shit! It's the last time. I've had it with these stiffs. I keep telling you: it's the last time ...
– Excuse me. If you'll let me by. I'm in something of a hurry. And he squeezes his way past them in the narrow landing, his back against the wall, takes the stairs two at a time now.
He can hear them, still at it up there, straining and cursing, but already he sees the sunlight brightening the entryway; in another moment he'll be bursting through the panes, out into the blinding glare.
There they are, waiting for him, pulled up against the curb, engine idling, exhaust steaming in the wintery air. Not a moment too soon. The driver waits for him to vault aboard, toss his bag into the overhead rack, and grab a seat before he shuts the door. The van gives a lurch forward, and they're on their way, five of them, not counting the driver. No one's talking. They're facing each other, bouncing about uncomfortably as they skirt the frequent potholes, staring at nothing or dozing off, each immersed in his own thoughts, or peering out the windows, trading glances now and then, exchanging pained but forebearing smiles when the van happens over a particularly nasty stretch. After all, it's an emergency. They all know where they are headed, more or less, and training and experience have taught them what to expect. It's only a matter of time before the driver reaches the first security barricade.
He wishes they'd hurry – he has pressing work to do, he's been assigned to the triage units – but the route winds the usual slow way toward the river, across Exchange Place and the Weaver's Green, past the Boulevard, and he marvels how the city has changed in only 24 hours. Already the traffic has been diverted, or commandeered. Nothing but emergency vehicles on the road, Land Rovers mostly, identical to the one he's riding. They roll past the government offices to where the courts front on the Esplanade, the imposing facade recently sandblasted to reveal its original golden color from before the war. Now it glows in the slanting rays of the declining afternoon. And on to the bridge, only the regularly spaced metal grating to punctuate the steady hum of the tires and rushing below, the roar of the Vlava, where it narrows ...
And her – Myrna – that time. He sees her leaning over the railing, her eyes fixed on the cascading water, having to raise his own voice above the roar ... Myrna, please, and sliding his arm around her waist, you don't understand. ... and when she turns her face to his, her eyes are wet with crying – already a war widow at twenty, shy at having someone comfort her.
He shakes his head, as if memory could be shaken free like waterdrops.
Finally! They're leaving the city behind now for the open country, part of what appears to be a long rescue caravan, traveling first in an easterly then southerly direction toward Prypiat where he grew up as a boy. Toward the plant, built with much press fanfare a few years back. With the slow but regulated flow of emergency traffic, they'll reach the impact zone roughly in another three hours or so. Mile after mile, the countryside reveals itself, flat fields, still fallow for the most part at this time of year, but here and there the soil has already been disked in anticipation of the first planting; a faint cast of green appears, cresting the furrows. The roadside is overgrown with last year's stubble, turning to grey in the spring rains. From where he sits, he can see a service road running parallel to this one, choked with emergency vehicles returning toward the city, flashing their blue code lights, signal of the civil defense teams.
A road security officer salutes them as the vehicle slows to a stop. They have reached the first emergency checkpoint. The officer wears paper boot coverings, a lead smock of the kind required by road security personnel. He reaches a gloved hand into the front window for the passenger manifest which the driver hands him affixed to a clipboard. He takes the list inside the guardhouse. They watch him through the shatterproof glass, talking with other personnel. At last he returns.
– Out, he commands. And take your personal effects. This vehicle is no longer in service.
Curious. He remembers stealing a furtive glance at one of his companion riders, but saying nothing. He reaches for his pack, tumbling it out of the rack, nearly hitting himself on his way out, down the steps, and out onto the roadbed. Shivering there in the cold, a slight wind blowing up from the east, from the direction of the danger zone. He wonders when they will be issued anticontamination masks.
– Documents, please.
He pulls off a glove, which he holds between his teeth, fumbling in his zippered pack to produce his rescue badge and civilian clearance. He waits his turn, casting an eye over the shoulder of his neighbor in time to see him produce an army discharge card as well, a card the man displays prominently. And thinks how he resents that bald kind of maneuvering. After all, in such an emergency there's little call for special treatment, but it comes as no surprise to hear the road security officer order him to fall out, and with a wave of his gloved hand, motion him toward the guardhouse area. Probably to be assigned to some cushy desk job where the air is pure.
– You, he says.
– Yes, sir!
– You're on the next bus. And he waves the driver away. They are left, teeth chattering, on the loading dock, watching the driver reverse the Land Rover and head back in the direction from which it came. Another vehicle pulls up, none too soon, presumably to take them the rest of the way. With the exclusion of the fifth man, only four are left headed for the target area. Back inside the vehicle, he turns to his neighbor.
– Does it seem unusual to you, this changing of vehicles?
– Not especially, no. They have to control the mileage range to limit the degree of known contamination.
– But wouldn't they issue us respirators?
– Maybe. Still a long way to go.
– Must be the breeder plant.
His neighbor shrugs.
– No one knows for sure.
And predictably, they are halted at the next checkpoint and made to leave their vehicle. As before, they are required to line up with their belongings while the road security officer checks their documents.
The first two in line produce some sort of laminated pass, much like a boarding pass. The officer examines these with unusual care. At last he directs them inside the guard house. When he emerges some time later, he wears a troubled look.
– Fall out! The officer motions him and his remaining companion. Report to the district officer on the double!
Not a good sign. Both of them are directed aboard a new vehicle, this one armed with metal plates. The banquettes are thinly upholstered in foam with a kind of fake leather covering – a holdover probably from the war. They take their seats opposite one another.
The road is unusually pitted, and the ride, though of relatively shorter distance, is the most uncomfortable – so far – of the day. The metal plates rattle alarmingly, evidently because the bolts have not been tightened in some time. A luminescent haze seems to be building up, thinning out the sunlight. He can see dense fog massing in the distance.
At the final checkpoint, they are ordered to remain in the vehicle, waiting for the District Officer. The wait seems interminable. The driver groans with impatience. He reaches into his khaki jacket pocket for a pack of gum. They, all three of them, sit staring straight ahead, wrapped in their private thoughts. At last, a security officer comes on board to examine their documents, his face masked behind the respirator required of all frontline personnel.
– Out! He motions to his companion who sits more to the front than he. He watches as the man reaches up for his pack in the overhead rack. The man turns back briefly.
– So long, then. He waves.
He watches him leap down onto the roadbed. Outside someone stops him briefly.
And now the officer stands before him, demanding his identification, carefully scrutinizing his documents. His voice sounds tinny through the respirator mouthpiece.
– When were you called?
– This morning.
– By your civilian rescue division?
He nods in reply.
– And who did you talk to?
He doesn't think he remembers. He's unsure. The officer re-examines his papers.
– No one appears to have signed your orders. And he shows him the signature line. Blank. No avoiding it. White space. Another delay.
– Wait here. The officer returns to the guardhouse, perhaps to consult a supervisor, perhaps to confer directly with the regional office, that is if the lines aren't down. He waits. The driver chews gum, and the engine idles, discharging plumes of exhaust into the frigid air.
At last, the road security officer towers over him once more, scrawling something on a clipboard.
– Thought you were getting off easy, did you? He tears a sheet off his clipboard.
– You're heading out. Report to the operations theater.
Back outside, he gives the Land Rover a smart rap. At once, the driver engages the clutch. With a sharp rattle of armor plates, the vehicle lurches forward once again.
At last! Once more he's on his way. He is aware of some release, a feeling of fatigue, perhaps. He allows himself to be lulled by the motor's hum, the rocking of the vehicle. He lets his thoughts precede him. Repeatedly he has been ordered to report to evacuation stations, field hospitals, really, or, when he did his foreign service, epidemic tents set up somewhere in the bush. This is the first time he's been assigned to a real hospital, probably a substantial installation, part of the new city, not the sort of temporary processing center he has been accustomed to – at least not until now. He can't help feeling pleased, although just how flattering is it really to be called in an emergency he knows so little about, even if it borders his home town?
In general, he knows what to expect: he knows the area. The fenced–in barracks just outside Prypiat, the dreary wood frame construction, and the peculiar clumsiness of the outdoor stairways leading to the second storeys, row after row, barracks reconverted from relocation sites following the war. Swinging his bag down from the overhead rack. Hopping down the corrugated steel steps. Saluted by the officer in charge. Signing the log. All familiar rituals. Reassuring. Nothing remarkable.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Bardo99 by Cecile Pineda. Copyright © 2004 Cecile Pineda. Excerpted by permission of Wings Press.
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