The Angel & the Brown-eyed Boy Read online

  “She sure looks cute, Henry. Lena did a nice job on her hair,” said Sylvia, the manager of the office.

  “Yes, she did. But she was pretty already.” Henry smiled. “I’ll be out there all day. If she wants something, please call me.”

  Madame No Mercy emerged from the director’s office on the far side of the secretaries’ bullpen.

  “Oh, ma chère!” she cried, flinging her hands over her head as though greeting a long-lost friend. “I could hardly sleep last night, worrying about you. But don’t you look sweet?” She wrapped her arm around the girl and planted a magenta kiss on her cheek. She noticed Henry watching. “You may go, Henry. I’ve got her now.”

  He walked back to his guard station like chains were hanging from his feet. He had such a bad feeling about the day. He couldn’t go down to see Jeremy without everyone knowing. He wanted to see what his decoding session had revealed.

  Madeleine walked next to the girl, noticing that she was clean and her hair had been styled. The skirt that peeked out from under that dreadful coat was appropriate. She nodded at one and all, strolling through the hallways with her protégé. Everyone knew how well the girl could dance. News of her performance had shot around the school like lightning.

  “Hello, hello.” She nodded in response to the teachers’ greetings. “Yes, this is Olga.” She felt like a queen, parading the child through the mahogany hallways. No more has-been Madame Mercier.

  They got to a door. Madeleine pulled Olga closer and whispered, “I’ve helped you a bit with your classes. This is a beginning Russian history class. I know you’re a native, but I thought it would be easier for you. I’ve set up your classes to make things easier for you.” She didn’t say, because you act like you can barely speak, much less write.

  Mel was lucky. His classroom had a wall of windows looking out over the street. Some of the teachers on the inside of the quad looked out over air vents. He liked working at this old place. He loved walking up to the stately stone façade and into the high-ceilinged mahogany hallway. It felt like going back to pre-Second Revolutionary times, elegant and aristocratic. It was from the olden times; the building had been constructed in 1859, hundreds of years ago.

  Mel rested his hands on the podium at the front of the room, waiting for his students to arrive. His Russian history and culture class was a required course. Conquerors’ privilege, he thought. When the British ruled the world, the history of England was taught all over India. Today’s American students had to learn about Russia.

  His course was popular beyond its required status. He had nineteen freshmen. The typical class size at the Hermitage was seven students. They’re looking for a place to defect to if we lose the war, he thought. Don’t be a cynic, his partner always told him. It makes wrinkles.

  He felt unsettled, with the new girl coming to class. It had been an unsettling few days. Jeremy had received the new intelligence briefs yesterday, coded so that even the Great Tech, Jeremy himself, couldn’t break them easily. And then that plane had disappeared.

  The night before, he and James had spent hours watching the video of the disappearing airplane. It was weird event number one of a weird evening.

  First the plane, and then Joel had e-mailed him a video clip they’d filmed that afternoon of the new Russian dancer. She was more than amazing, and supposedly on the missing plane. And then Madame Mercier had called to tell him he had to take the girl in his beginning Russian history class. Just a few days earlier, she’d forced him to put her in his advanced seminar, even though she didn’t have the prerequisites. Last night, she’d harangued him about how the girl needed to get passing grades where she could, because “who knows how she’ll get through the rest.”

  Madeleine threw his classroom door open. “She is here! Olga Bazhenova!” A tiny girl in a huge wool coat stood beside her. “She will help you with your class, Mr. Adams. A native speaker. When your class is over, would you escort her to her next class?” She laid a schedule on his desk, whirled, and exited.

  This was Olga Bazhenova.

  A tiny, skinny little thing lost in a big coat looked at him with impossibly huge gray eyes. They glittered with silver specks, which he found entrancing.

  He spoke to her politely, in Russian. “Welcome, Miss Bazhenova. Welcome to my class, and to the United States.”

  She stared at him, not saying a thing. After a while, she stole a glance at the other students in the room. Then she looked down. Her coat kept falling down her shoulders, revealing a preppie-looking outfit underneath.

  Mel abruptly became aware of how embarrassed his new student was. And how delicate and sensitive. She wasn’t a haughty Russian ballerina doing a stint in a Manhattan school for the arts so she could defect. Russians didn’t defect to the United States anyway. The flow went the other way. She was there to do something. He didn’t know what, but it was important. He also realized that he’d protect her, no matter what it cost him.

  “Sit down, Olga.” She didn’t respond, searching his face as though she was trying to comprehend what he was saying.

  He tapped her shoulder and pointed to an empty chair separated from the other students a bit. “There, Olga. Sit there.” She did.

  He began his lesson, speaking in Russian as he usually did. Kids began learning Russian in first grade. It was the world’s dominant language, spoken everywhere, the way English once had been. If kids wanted good jobs, they had to speak the empire’s own. Most kids were fluent by high school, so he required them to speak Russian in his class.

  He was getting into his lecture when Hughie butted in, speaking English. “Mr. Adams, I don’t think she’s Russian at all. I think she’s from outer space. My dad said that plane that disappeared yesterday didn’t disappear. It’s in a time warp somewhere. They took those people to their world and put her down here. My dad said, ‘She’s probably not even human.’”

  “Hughie, that’s ridiculous. Does she look like an alien?” He waved toward her. She sat there, lost in the big coat, pointe shoes sticking out. Her eyes looked twice as big as they should, gleaming and silvery like her hair.

  “Yeah. She looks like a freak. She’s not Russian. Make her talk some Russian, or I’m gonna call my dad and tell him there’s a subversive here and no one’s doing anything.” He pulled out a cell phone.

  Mel went over to the girl, who obviously understood something of what was going on. She looked terrified.

  “Do you understand, Olga? They want to hear you speak Russian.” Her hand was buried deeply in her coat pocket, fingering something. “Can you do that? Just a few words?”

  Surprisingly, she nodded.

  She walked to the chalkboard—the Hermitage was unique in continuing to use them. Tradition, the board said. Money, the teachers said. All the other schools used jelly surfaces and electronic chalk.

  Olga picked up a piece of chalk. She wrote in an elegant Russian script, what the aristocracy had used before the First Revolution. Mel had seen it only in museum renderings. She wrote very quickly. Her grammar and spelling were perfect. Finished, she turned to the class and spoke in an antique Russian dialect that matched her writing. Her aristocratic intonations were as different from what the Russian masses spoke as upper-class English was from a bayou twang.

  “The most important moment in contemporary Russian history occurred in the year 2097, when President Yuri Sokolov rescinded the Russian Constitution and assumed the power of the tsar. The beginning of the Second Empire marked the death of love and freedom. The people and military were behind him—he made glowing promises. He said he’d solve the problems of universal nuclear arms.”

  She looked at them, clear-eyed and a bit sad. “In the late twenty-first century, by 2097, every country had what they called ‘weapons of mass destruction.’ It was only a matter of time until someone used them. If that happened, everyone would use them and the planet would be destroyed.

  “Tsar Yuri’s power came from others. He killed his own son and took his life force
so he could live longer, and murdered millions more. Yuri was the emperor of death. He convinced world leaders to follow him by killing them if they didn’t. It was a bloodbath.

  “Yuri said he destroyed the atomic weapons, so the world felt safe. But not for long, as people created a new devil. Today, we fear computers and electronic tools and make all who touch them into demons. But, all the time, technology watches us, informs on us, and spies on us.

  “Are the atomics really gone? Does anyone know?”

  The class stared at her.

  She bowed, and spoke in Russian-accented English. “I am dancer, I am not a scholar. I dance. That is what I do, and that is why I came here. You decide if I am Russian.”

  Mel erased what she had written on the board as fast as he could. He didn’t want any of them to photograph the board on their cell phones and have it translated. She had spoken absolute heresy. No one believed those stories about Tsar Yuri killing his son. No one repeated them if they did. Tsar Yuri was supposed to be the savior of humanity.

  The world basked in a nostalgic delusion about what had happened after 2097 when Tsar Yuri reestablished the Russian Empire. The “Bloodless Revolution” they called it. No one talked about the details of the Second Empire and how the atomics disappeared.

  Propaganda painted Tsar Yuri as the Siberian Santa Claus. Mel knew the truth because he was a scholar. He’d researched hard and long while he was at the national university and had had access to banned books. He found out that the United States once had been a great power. The politicians claimed it still was, but everyone knew it was little better than a province of Russia. Mel had read the US Constitution—the real one, not the one foisted off on them now. He’d read the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, and the other founding documents in their original forms, and fallen in love with them. Mel wanted the real USA back as passionately as the federal agents wanted him for treason.

  Hughie clutched his cell phone. “Was that Russian she was talking? That isn’t what we learned.”

  “It was how the nobility spoke, Hughie. Do you believe she’s Russian now?”

  “Yeah, but she said something about the Second Empire and how we got to the Great Peace. I could understand that. It wasn’t what you say. I’m going to tell my dad about it.”

  Mel went over and whispered to him. “You can do that, Hughie, but I want you to think about something before you do. How many people do you know who have disappeared? Do you want to make someone disappear?”

  Hughie put away his phone.

  Moving to the blackboard, Mel asked, “Everyone satisfied?” He’d use a wet sponge to clean the board after class and make sure no one could read what she had written. “OK, Olga is a dancer, not a scholar. She may not do well in our academic classes.

  “We won’t talk about what she said.” He glanced at the ceiling where the eye was installed. You could never tell if it was on you or not.

  The bell rang. He held up his hand before setting them loose. “I don’t want to hear any more about Olga from any of you. I don’t want anybody pushing her against the lockers, or taking her lunch, or any of that. Understand?” The class shuffled out.

  “Olga, come here.” He felt shaken. She was in danger. How could he protect her when he couldn’t free himself? “I’m going to walk you to your next class.” He led her down a corridor. When they got to the classroom, he stopped.

  “If you need any help, call me. Do you have a cell phone?” She looked at him quizzically.

  “One of these?” He held his out. She looked at it, obviously not knowing what it was. “Well, scream as loud as you can. You have three more classes, then lunch. Madame Mercier will have you all afternoon. Then, you’re staying with Henry and his wife?” A nod. “Good. They’re good people. He’ll take you home tonight.

  “But one thing, Olga. Don’t say anything like you did in my class. You’ll get in trouble. Understand?” Another nod. “Is there anything I can help you with right now?”

  That solemn movement of her head and her soft voice. “Where is Golden Boy?”

  “Who?” Mel was surprised. “I don’t know where he is. He pretty much goes where he wants.”

  He was concerned, walking back to his classroom. What did she want with the Golden Boy? She wasn’t his type at all.

  8

  Mel kept tabs on her the rest of the morning, calling her teachers after each class.

  “She’s doing fine, Mel,” said Roseanne Chriss, who taught literature. “She’s an odd duck, but the kids seem to be accepting her all right.”

  “They consider her something from outer space,” said his friend Wally, who taught math. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to teach her anything, but she’s nice to have around.”

  That was the thing: she was nice to be around. And disturbing. He couldn’t get what she’d said about world history out of his mind. How did Tsar Yuri Sokolov get rid of atomic weapons? Every nation had held stockpiles of deadly materials that would remain radioactive for thousands of years. If Yuri had dismantled them, how could he have hidden the parts from people who would reactivate them? And how did Olga know what she did? Why did she speak upper-class Russian so fluently, yet speak English like a toddler?

  While waiting for his next class, he sat at his desk and pulled a stack of papers out of his briefcase. He rested his head on his hand and pretended to grade exams. The eye in the center of the ceiling was motionless.

  You never knew they were watching you, until you disappeared. No one talked about people disappearing, and none of them ever came back. Bob Blaine, who had taught sociology, had dared to ask some of the questions Mel had been thinking during a faculty discussion group. “We’re broad-minded, educated people. Why don’t we talk about these things? Are we in the middle of the Great Peace? If we’re in an unprecedented period of peace and nonviolence, why do people disappear? And if we’re doing so well economically, why don’t they replace the school roof?

  “Speaking of what we don’t talk about, does anyone know for sure what year it is? Or why no one talks about that?”

  Bob disappeared the next day. A few days later, the school’s director announced that Bob had taken a leave of absence for health reasons. Would they please welcome Mrs. Archer, who would be taking his place? The teachers applauded and never questioned the disappearance of a perfectly healthy man.

  If they were in the Great Peace, why was everyone afraid? Why the eyes and snipes? Why did no one acknowledge those who had disappeared? And they didn’t know what year it was.

  The great and beloved Tsar Yuri took over in 2097. How many years had passed since then? The government said one hundred. Mel had no idea how many had really passed. He was thirty-five. Or at least he’d celebrated thirty-five birthdays. All the timepieces were electronic, set by satellites. Owning a paper calendar or a clock not on the satellite system was illegal. If they caught you trying to record the days by marking on a piece of paper, or anything, you could disappear. Why would they want to control time?

  The dizziness he felt thinking about it told him the reason: if you didn’t know what day it was, or what time it was, or even the year, how could you be sure of anything? Boundaries slipped; reality slipped. What was real? How many years had passed since the revolution? Why were they fed this nicey-nice reality?

  Was Lincoln Charles real? They saw him three times a day, telling them to take control of their lives and stop whining, to exercise more and think positive thoughts. He’d been president since Mel had been a kid. Had anyone actually seen him?

  He had a crazy idea that the seasons were manipulated. That was crazy. They couldn’t change winter or summer. They’d have to control the spin and rotation of the earth. But what had happened before the Great Peace? The official history made it seem like Yuri took over in 2097 and got rid of the atomics the next day. That was impossible.

  It must have taken a long time. So would advancing society to the point where everyone was law-abiding. How long did it t
ake for humanity to evolve from an aggressive, territorial species, into the passive sponges they were now?

  How long did it take to advance technology so snipes could keep track of what everyone said, or—maybe—thought? Where did they analyze it? In computers, or what? Because the government had high, high, technology, even if the people didn’t. Mel knew almost nothing about technology, because it was illegal. His notes were handwritten, as was everything else. People knew of computers, but didn’t know how to use them. Techs took care of that—techs who were kept out of sight, considered one step above criminals.

  People had lots of TVs. They had cell phones, movies, and games, but nothing that made you think. They lived on an island called Manhattan in a state called New York, fed what passed for reality over the ever-present media.

  Mel leaned over his papers. He wanted to get up and scream at the eye, “My name isn’t Mel Adams. It’s Mel Abrams! I’m the guy who ran out of the national university five years ago with a briefcase full of stuff you didn’t know existed! And, yes, you assholes, I am a fucking revolutionary!”

  He clutched his forehead in his hand, determined not to lose control. He was one of them, and so were Henry and his wife. And Jeremy was the fucking grand dragon, hiding in the school’s basement, acting like a disabled nerd.

  “In two months, you’ll be history,” he wanted to scream at the eye. “The party is on in two months, assholes!”

  He clenched his teeth and forced himself to be still. He didn’t dare lose control. Five years before, he’d been a doctoral student at the national university. While doing research for his dissertation, he’d amassed documents that laid out a history far different from the official version. He’d cached what he found in the library, afraid to take it through the sensors.

  That ended the day they caught him watching the disk. The security guards rushed him and he ran for his life, his satchel stuffed with papers and disks. He ran, legs aching and lungs burning, dodging down alleys and climbing over fences. He hid in one rathole after another, washed dishes to feed himself, and used every dime to buy fake papers that never held up.