Chapter 4: Meeting the Tourists
Arthur smiled in spite of himself. Even though he was expected to do the chores; there was a sense of accomplishment in fixing up his host's place. His new home was still... rustic but after a couple weeks of work the yard was mostly cleared of junk, the lawn was mowed, and the house would be ready for painting by the weekend.
Arthur decided he had done enough chores for the day. He put his ladder and tools safely on the ground and entered through the back porch of the worn out dingy white house. He washed up in his host's tiny bathroom, and then walked down the hallway to his own bedroom. Almost square, fourteen feet across, with dark wood paneling, one north-facing window with actual shutters on the outside and curling green linoleum on the floor; his room was barely furnished. A very small bed was along the east wall. It was once a child's but now it was Arthur's to use; not too uncomfortable, though his feet did hang off the end at night. A sturdy wooden chair and a small desk covered in crayon and pencil marks faced the window, otherwise his room was unfurnished
He opened the largest desk drawer and removed a notebook and pen. Arthur turned it to a blank page. Slumping in the chair, he set his elbows on the armrests and his forehead in his left palm. He could feel the hated collar under his chin and see his naked lap below. The vulnerable state they kept him in was supposed to be a constant reminder of his low social status and the disgrace of his crimes. He was dishonored... so they often said.
It was a struggle to not despair but he pushed it away. Arthur Liggett wouldn't let himself cry. He was too stubborn, too proud; but sometimes though, just to maintain his sanity he needed to tell someone what he was going through.
Arthur stared apprehensively at the blank page for a while and then wrote his sister's name at the top.
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Tee,
I've spent three weeks in this damned weird place but it sure feels longer. I'm not allowed to wear any clothes except the work-boots and gloves I was issued, and those may only be used at work. This cold metal collar that's been clamped on my neck is something that I don't think I'll ever get used to. Back in college I helped wildlife biologists put tracking collars on bears in the national forest. Sometimes I imagine those bears rolling on the ground laughing their asses off. But I realize that I'm not just an animal to be tracked, I'm also cheap labor. Criminals here are used in the jobs that are too difficult, too dirty, or too dangerous for free citizens. The boots and gloves are issued for the protection of government property. That's right, I'm property now.
I'll tell you a little about what's been going on in my life these past three weeks. The morning after my trial I woke up in a tiny spare bedroom at my spokesman's home. Straight out of a dream right into the nightmare; I jumped up in a panic, stumbled into a wall and screamed out in pain before I realized where I was. Spokesman Ralkliv came running into the room and flipped on the light. He's a decent sort, I guess, for a Danubian; he wasn't even angry with me for waking his family up, just asked me if I was alright. I was anything but alright; it was about four AM, I didn't go back to sleep.
The morning after a switching is brutal. Every movement hurts; it stings and aches. I hobbled into the bathroom and turned my back to the mirror. It was shocking actually... I've never seen such a large bruised area; my skin had turned purple with many raised crimson lines crisscrossing over the top. It was mostly on my butt and the backs of my thighs though there was what looked like eight or nine lines across my upper back. The punished skin was still badly swollen but no longer hot to the touch.
After breakfast, Spokesman Ralkliv made me go outside like that; down the busy sidewalk, on a bus packed with commuters, all over the damned city. It hurt like hell but I tried to act like it didn't bother me. Naked, collared, and beaten; I was horribly embarrassed though most people didn't seem to pay much attention really.
Ralkliv kept me busy that first day. I had to go through a lot of paper signing, and more fingerprinting, medical testing and interviews with various people: a psychiatrist, a detective, even a stupid TV reporter. All that walking around did me some good though, worked out a lot of the soreness. Toward the end of the day Ralkliv took me across town and introduced me to my new boss.
Since I didn't know the language my spokesman decided to set me up with a job doing some manual labor that didn't require a lot of communication. I work for a stonemason who has a contract to build a brick walkway from the Plaza to the War Memorial. I had some experience with this kind of work back in the US so I don't require much instruction, which is good because the boss doesn't speak any English.
I had to stay in my spokesman's house for most of the first week, maybe so he could keep a close watch on me (to make sure I didn't kill myself or try to escape), or perhaps he was having a hard time finding anyone willing to house me.
After five days my spokesman told me to move to my employer Mr. Jakt's house, so I picked up my notebook and pen (my only possessions) and walked to my new home. By Danubian standards his place was a mess: the lawn was high with un-mowed grass and weeds, boards were missing from the picket fence, and paint was peeling off the house. Something pleased me about seeing this disorder though, perhaps because the rest of my life is now so structured.
Mr. Jakt is an older man who had apparently lived alone for years. His wife's long dead and he has no living children. He must be well past retirement age but just doesn't want to quit working, probably doesn't want to feel old and useless. Although I don't understand much that he says, the old man likes to tell me stories. He usually spends some time after supper gesturing wildly, laughing, and describing things I could only guess at; though it is reassuring to hear some laughter for a change in this overly serious country.
Spokesman Ralkliv got me enrolled in an emersion style Danubian language class three days after trial. The class had been going on for over a week already so I had to catch up quickly. There are eleven young foreign students in the class, as well as a couple older businessmen. I was the only English speaker and the only one wearing a collar though. From the way they looked at me I suppose I must be a big novelty.
My first week in class I learned the essential phrases for a Danubian criminal: "Yes officer", "No officer", "I don't understand officer", and those peculiar phrases that spokespersons and criminals exchange about a path. I also know the alphabet, numbers 0-99, and of course my name: # 88588. For work, I learned the Danubian words for the tools and supplies used.
By the second week I was finally able to sit down in a chair without much discomfort, which was good- I was real damned tired of standing in class by that point! I'm learning quickly though, after only eleven lessons I can now have some pretty compelling conversations with other students about the time of day, trolley schedules, and bus stops.
The number one lesson outside of class however, is to fear the police. They're hostile toward criminals in general, but they hate me. They blame me for the shooting. It doesn't matter to them that I didn't take part in that gunfight. I suppose since my 'partner' is dead they have to hold me responsible for their friend's injuries.
Just about every day after work a group of them come to humiliate me. They have all the paths covered and I know that any way I walk the result will be the same. When I get within ten feet the cop calls out my number. When I turn toward them they always do seem to have that same cruel smile.
It begins with that horrible kneeling position. They take sadistic pleasure in leaving me exposed to passing foot traffic. They make me kneel right out on the sidewalk, with my forehead on the ground and my knees apart while they stand around and talk about whatever interests them. Countless people walk past and though my muscles ache I try to remain still because I know they'll beat me if I move out of position. They usually finish up by having me thank them for 'discipline' or some shit like that; and before letting me go these cops always tell me how they're looking forward to seeing me the next day.
The Friday of my third week started relatively well; at my language class in the morning I could tell that I was pulling ahead of the crowd, probably none of the others were motivated like I was. Then later at work my boss let me off an hour and a half early since we ran out of stain for the mortar. That meant that I could be out of the city center before the cops came looking for me. It felt so good to escape them. I cautiously walked the back streets and alleyways that kept me away from their usual patrols. Eventually, I stopped on a narrow street with a few shops on the left and a diner on the right.
Behind me I heard a girl speaking in English. "You ask him."
Another girl says: "But he's naked!"
