Letters from Novosibirsk

Karyne, leaving her a little bit confused (but mostly offended) in his wake.

  There was no air station at Novosibirsk, no Ground Vehicle station, functioning railroad station, nor snowmobile stop. There was, however, a road that led to Novosibirsk, though it was often clogged with geese, rabbits, pheasants, wolves—even a cow or two. No one else used it much.

  But Nura and Zofiya—often in good league with animals—had succeeded in clearing the way for a GV-load of newcomers to Novosibirsk, newcomers they would artfully manage to interview before their (uncertain) arrival.

  It was not that they objected to having a new face or two in the arena; on the contrary, they welcomed Wynnet’s efforts to recruit brave new souls to relinquish the comforts of society while forging a new world constitution. But they would have the final say on who would arrive, and who would not. And of course, changing the course of lives had come to be a specialty of the two gleeful ghosts. So what if Wynnet didn’t get exactly what he’d sent for?

  Very near the front of the vehicle, just behind the robotic driver, sat Walidah, a genetic purebred (of her own definition). She was as black as the leopards’ spots, though her skin was without interruption: her color ran pure from her wrists to her heels. She did not tolerate moles, age spots, pimples, or any other form of epidermal impurity. She had traced her ancestry back at least thirty generations, using DNA mapping of her ancestors’ bones, and a little imagination. There had never been a better-tempered, more beautiful, intelligent, and resourceful character than herself (she would tell you) simply because her genes weren’t “confused.” Tired of living among the mongrels of the third millennium, she would settle to make her home where at least she would find “purebreds of the intellect” if not more genuine physical thoroughbreds like herself.

  Sitting a safe distance behind Walidah was Orlin, a street sweeper from New Central Slavia. His great grandfather, whom he had not had occasion to know, was one of the last street sweepers known to the world. Having garnered his skills in the closing days of the socialist era, the old man was revered by many for his single-handed snow removal techniques, as well as branch-piling and summer soot consolidation. Orlin, from the day he had seen his ancestor’s focused eyes on video, resolved himself to reviving the art, hoping it would focus his own meaningless life. He brought nothing with him to Novosibirsk this day but the clothes on his back, a shovel, and a broom.

  Then there was Salamander, the martial arts enthusiast who could slither away from any threatening situation, and who now preferred to permanently slither away from people altogether.

  Among the others, another notable character was Clea, the transparentist; she lived for nothing but sunlight, living only in glass houses, wearing transparent clothes, and believing that everything about one’s character should be revealed immediately—that it was detrimental and morally unsound to withhold or hide any aspect of oneself. Also remarkable was Az, the unnaturalist. According to him, nature was always suspect, and should be ignored completely, its only pursuit being death.

  Of these (and some others), our matronly spirits decided that Walidah, Orlin, and Az should be duly admitted to the closed society of their Earthly resting place. The others in the vehicle happened to lose their way in the woods during a rest stop, never to return to the GV, or to civilization for that matter; though they were not unhappy about this, and believed they had found what they were looking for.

  Walidah, Orlin, and Az, however, did make it to Novosibirsk, though in a somewhat altered form.

  20.

  The three newcomers descended from their vehicle and let its door shut behind them. They began walking, out of step and generally ignoring one another, toward the first row of abandoned dachas in view, as the GV spun around and whirred back to its Mongolian airport stop.

  Winter had made its usual early appearance in New Siberia, and they could not help noticing the work of a resident ice sculptor: figures that were half-molded from the sparkling element, though encased in thick, clear layers that distorted with magnification and prismatic color. In one a woman half-knelt, her hands pressed to the ice casing, mouth open, eyes alert and playful, and hair—yes, hair—carved generously and flying about as if caught in a breeze. Walidah walked up to the sculpture and touched it; her fingers stuck fast to the ice, and she felt all at once removed from the new surroundings, so captivated by the icy woman’s dark eyes. Meanwhile, Orlin, while carrying away a couple of fine snow lumps to clear the way, ran up against an iceman as old and hoary as one of Siberia’s ancient settlers: his gaze was the gaze of radial crystals, his pupils merely a lesser shade of white. His stance, gesture, and facial expression with its burden of history all pointed to those ancient, frozen eyes. Old Orlin admired the work and turned away to further clear the path, not knowing that he had been seen and understood clearly for the first time.

  Az took another gulp from his portable vodka dispenser (cursing the weather as always) and stopped to light an Afghan opium cigar. As he brought the lighter up to his face, another light competed with it: the laser gleam of Zofiya’s round face, full of pride and aggressive motherhood. She had set herself inside the least symmetrical ice block, and more colors flashed from her than from any of the other appearing ghosts.

  Walidah and Orlin had walked on ahead, and soon Az, trailing behind, heard the heavy puffing of Wynnet approaching.

  “Az?”

  “Yeah.” He held out a hand.

  “Wynnet Lee welcome nice to meet you how was your trip.”

  “Not so great. But glad to be here. Cigar?”

  “No. Mid-morning update reports that surveillance indicates guests cited at the offender’s household.”

  “What?”

  “First N.P.C. meeting at two-thirty-five p.m. today, in my house twelve Wild Goose Lane. Data provided.”

  Wynnet smiled for 1.5 seconds and continued on to the next order of business for the day: his seventeen-minute exercise. A recent study indicated that fifteen minutes of exercise daily provided the optimum health benefit, and that more than thirty minutes daily might incur damage. Wynnet, therefore, had decided to exercise two minutes longer than optimum duration, because he believed that those two minutes would give him an evolutionary, and yes, psychological, advantage over other human creatures. The walk back to his cottage would take four minutes and thirty-eight seconds, which would be followed by twenty-two seconds of isosthenics….

  Az had found a place out of the sun to finally light his cigar, and momentarily he felt none of the Siberian chill; neither did he remember having met Wynnet, or why he was there, or what he ate for breakfast that day (or how he came to be known as Az for that matter). All he knew was that it must be lunch time, for his stomach gurgled, and the dacha he was now passing emanated an aroma of something sweet and delicious. He could not help but follow it to the door.

  But before he reached it, he was nearly knocked out by Todd, who had finally made his own way to Elsa’s. Todd raised his hand to knock, but before he could the door opened: little Kolya stood before them.

  “Heh-woh.”

  “Hello Your Majesty. Still safe in the serfs’ hands, I see.”

  “Who is it?” Elsa said softly.

  “Todd. You know, the baby oil—.”

  “Come in. Do you need a refill?”

  “Not quite. I’ve come on important business.”

  “Oh? We were just about to have a snack. I never repaid you for that tea we had together, remember? Would you and your friend care to join us?”

  “My friend?”

  Az scratched his leg and tried to refocus his eyes, the cigar butt hanging from his mouth.

  Todd turned around:

  “Who are you?”

  “Az. Nice to meet you too.” He looked up at Elsa. “I’d be happy to accept your offer.” He was through the doorway before Todd, who found the man more than somewhat revolting.

  “Where are you from?” Elsa asked Az, as Todd stepped in behind him.

  “Nowhere in par
ticular.”

  “And your ethnic origin?”

  “Lebanese, Chinese, Afghan, Somali, French, English, Yakut, and Kurd, I think. I didn’t know some of my grandparents, so a lot of it is hearsay.”

  “And Russian?”

  “Oh yes, I forgot that one. Or was it that we lived in Vladivostok for a while? I forget. Anyway, is that Thai tea I smell?”

  “Yes, we like it.”

  “Then I’ve come to a house of good taste—”

  “Excuse me,” Todd interrupted. “I’ve come on important business. It seems that there is a —”

  “Stop!”

  A new personage appeared in the doorway, a severe-looking woman whom Elsa seemed to remember having passed on the street once or twice. Her hair looked like a fifty-year-old eagle’s nest; her eyes shot with a fervor Elsa had never seen before, their once blue-green now threaded with silver and amber. She shouted:

  “We will NOT ALLOW HIM TO DESTROY US!”

  And before anyone could blink, she was gone, her ghostly presence vanished, as if all that had been known of her was her voice.

  For a moment they had to reflect: Who was destroying whom? But alas, Todd spoke up:

  “It was she.”

  “Who?” said Elsa.

  “The one I came to warn you about. Where is His Majesty?”

  “Who?” she said again.

  “Listen to me, dear Elsa.” He assumed a pedagogical stance—chest raised, voice tucked in, eyebrows aloof:

  “You are certainly