20 Years

—Come here, you have to see this.
—What is it?
—This is…wowee, come here.
They’re in the kitchen, the two of them. He is sitting at the table watching the small black and white Sanyo. There are dozens of people sat on the wall. Dozens more are chipping at it with sledgehammers, regular hammers, one man throws a sickle at the concrete barrier.
—Look at this, my father says and points to the small screen.
It’s David Hasselhoff with some sort of bandanna singing some awful shit into a microphone on top of the wall. Below him people are giving the peace or freedom sign and smoking cigarettes.
—We’re next, my mum says from the sink. She’s washing cups and forks.
—Wait for me to wipe the grease off them first, my father says, eyes glued to the television.
He’s always had a practical, peasant sense about him despite the unpractical peasant that he is. He is a product made by a country of contradictions.
—Mmda, he says. We’re next.
Although I realize this is a momentous spot in history, I really don’t care. Empires are built. Empires crumble. Whether they’re taken down by financial pyramid schemes, coups, or sledgehammers, it’s the same thing to me.
—We’re next, eh?
—We gotta be, I say watching them all try to dismantle the wall. There’s a weird futility about all this. Little people with cigarettes hanging from their lips running around with little hammers trying to take down a concrete and steel ideological divider. We’re right. You’re wrong. I say something about that. I don’t remember how I phrase it, though.
—Pfft, eh.
And then:
—Let me wipe off the grease before you wash the dishes.
Mum doesn’t pay attention to him.
—It’s all because of Reagan.
Mum agrees.
—Gorby might’ve had something to do with it too, I say.
—Eh, pfft.
I hate when he makes that sound. The Condescending Cock sound. The You’re An Idiot Who Doesn’t Know What He’s Talking About sound.
—Look.
Hasselhoff again.
—That’s that guy from ah…that movie with the car, he says.
Mum looks over at the small screen for a few moments, then goes back to the dishes.
—The grease’ll clog the, uh…
He’s hooked to the images.
Perestroika.
Glasnost.
Гласность
And then there’s the giant graffiti on the abandoned water tower just off New York Avenue, as your train inches into the District of Columbia: Solidarność
Movements and counter-movements. It all seems so silly.
—This is something, eh? This is…wowee, it’s…I mean…just it’s…eh? He looks at me. He looks at my mum. I’ve never seen my father on the brink of tears.
It doesn’t matter to me. Any of this. It doesn’t matter if I am here, there, anywhere. We are stupid. I think this now, even at age twenty. We are all so stupid. So little. So petty.
—Eh?
Yes. Eh.
Within three months I’ll be able to buy chunks of the wall from vendors down on Canal Street in Manhattan. K-Street in D.C.
Capitalism will have eaten Communism.
Will have outspent it.
—The grease’ll clog up the pipes if you don’t wipe…
I leave them both there. The house smells like old people. Mildew or…something foul that only old people give off.

The Assassination of an Author (A Simple Mission)

—Make it like this.
—How? I can’t do it.
—Eh you can’t do it. Do it! And stop pissing about.
—But it’s not straight enough.
—Like this. Give me the pencil. Look. Steady your hand on the paper.
The man drew a line protruding out from the rectangle; out toward the sky, which the boy had colored cerulean blue with his pencil.
—See? Like that.
—I can’t do that, the boy said. —My hand’s trembling. It’s crooked.
—Eh you can’t. Concentrate. Just copy mine. Over and over, for the rest of the buildings. Each one gets an antenna on top. See?
—I need a ruler.
—Eh, a ruler. Just concentrate. Go slowly.
The man had helped his son draw a crowded cityscape with crudely manufactured concrete government housing. The apartment buildings had large enough windows (also suggested by the father) to reveal their occupants—rudimentary drawn figures of men and women, each with a listening apparatus or pair of headphones, in the process of surveilling one another.
—What is this for if it’s not part of schoolwork?
—It’s for something…for me. Just for me. Make sure you put one on every building, understand?
The boy tried to keep his hand straight.
—Understand?
—Yes.
The man walked out of the room, through the small hallway connecting the flat to the kitchen, and into the bathroom. He clapped loudly and listened for electronic feedback. The boy heard the waterpik motor go on.
—Dad.
The man turned on the water faucet.
—Dad?

–

—I want you to come straight home from school. Understand?
He was sewing the drawing into the boy’s school coat lining. He looked like an awkward giant the way he held the small needle pinched in between his thumb and forefinger. He maneuvered it along the edge, making thread loops and closing them.
—No football, understand?
—Yes dad.
—What did I say?
—Yes dad.
—Tell me what I said.
—Straight home. No playing with Lucian or any of the others.
—Good man.
He pulled the thread tightly and closed the gap in the fabric. And then he made a triple knot with the hanging piece of leftover thread.
—You’ll need to take this to the consulate this afternoon. Alone. I can’t go with you. They can’t see me otherwise they’ll stop me.
—But dad…
—In your jacket like this, all right? Just put it on and walk normally.
—Why?
—Eh why. Just do what I say, that’s why. Walk normally. And don’t look behind you. Don’t let anyone stop you, understand? This needs to get to the consulate. If anyone calls your name, run. They’re expecting you. All right? Run for the gate. For the barrier. They’re looking out for you. All right?
—Yes dad.
—When you get to the gate, the Marine will ask you who you want to see. You tell him one word: scissors. Understand?
—Yes dad.
—What did I say? Look at me.
—Scissors.
—Good man. That’s a good man right there.
He patted him on his head.
He said:
—When you get back, I’ll have schnitzels ready. And mashed potatoes.
The boy did not say anything.
—All right? Your favourite, hey? That’s my good man.