MondoDario ショートストーリー

by

Dario Louis Ponissi

I curse all those who didn't understand the gravity of the problem.

They:the people holding the seats of power. They should have known better. Perhaps they knew and just didn't care, caring only to keep their positions for as long as possible, together with the benefits those positions provide.

I know I sound like a cheap subverter. On the other hand, I have no heart to find diplomatic words to define my anger, the rage I feel in my mind, as I sit alone in this suburban apartment, knowing I'm totally powerless against La Maladie.

Funny how the French word stuck to this horrible sickness. We were used to happy words from France. L'amour, la vie en rose...

But I'm digressing. This morning, I woke up with the intention of writing down everything I know about what happened.

I know that the media have been covering the topic fully and I don't even dream to be able to match their completeness, the fully exhaustive range of details and explanations they furnished us with, during these past months.

Why am I writing, then?

Mostly for myself, I guess. And for Francesca, of course. To remember her and her smile, made of sunlight and sea breeze and the gentle touch of water on her golden skin.

Francesca was nine, my daughter, and one of the first to fall prey to La Maladie.

It's been more than four years since her death now, but the pain of her loss is as vivid as ever. Life goes on, more or less, although I question its meaning every day. We still have children;some of them are a hardy lot, they say. But even if they survive, what about the next generations?

But let me start at the beginning, or I will never succeed in what I set out to accomplish. First there was the trip to Spain...

Sitges was beautifully wrapped in palm trees and seagulls, spreading out its beaches under the sun like a big starfish. Summer had just begun and the air was still free of that heaviness which would set on everything, a month or so later. We would go swimming early in the morning, breaking the transparency of the ocean with water games and laughter and mock terrors.

Beryl, my wife, had insisted in buying a huge inflatable dolphin, to counteract my poor endurance in water.

-We'll carry it along and, when you're tired, you can hang on to it and rest,- she had stated. I didn't protest, although the idea of a grown man, holding onto a rubber fish and splashing happily about, struck me as rather incongruous.

Francesca rescued me by taking possession of the dolphin and turning it into her favorite playmate. She would ride it over the waves, like one of those sea-creatures who always seem to be enjoying life to the fullest.

So it was with Francesca and, by sheer reflection, with me.
She sweated happiness.
In the evenings, we would get in the car and drive to nearby Barcelona, searching for a movie, or just dinner and a walk on the Ramblas.

I myself am a native of Oviedo, up in the north of Spain, so each discovery Francesca made in the ancient gothic quarter situated in the old part of the city, was a discovery for me as well, not to speak of Beryl, who is American.

She lives on a farm now, down in California.

I suppose she misses Francesca as much as I do. Strangely, the loss of a daughter didn't bring us closer to each other at all. On the contrary, we drifted apart almost immediately afterward. Perhaps we tacitly agreed on the fact that, if we stayed together, so would the pain. Some people are weak.

One night, towards the end of our holidays, we were just getting out of a galician restaurant near the palace of the Ayuntamiento, when we bumped into an old gypsy woman.

Most people do not like gypsies, because of their pushing behavior, perhaps, or for other reasons I do not care to report here. My position is instead to accept them for what thay are. You can't get angry at wind, rain or gypsies; all of them are natural phenomena, totally uncontrollable, acting on a very specific, although blissfully chaotic, plane of existence. The one we met had evidently been absent from our own for a while, because, instead of asking for the usual alms, she offered to trade.

-I read your palm for a coin, little girl. Read your very own future. Don't you want to know about yout future?- She said to Francesca.

Beryl took our daughter's hand in hers and moved away. -No thanks;maybe time,- She stated politely.

Francesca looked up at her. -Why not, Mom? I never had my palm read before; it sounds interesting.-

Beryl exchanged a glance with me, found she was in the minority and so gave in with a smile. -All right. Here is the money.-

Francesca positively beamed at her and signalled to the old woman that the deal was on. They were soon busy discussing luck, life, love, lines.

Then a very disturbing thing happened.

The gypsy's countenance went pale all of a sudden; she looked closely at Francesca's eyes and began crying. She crossed herself thrice and kissed the child's hand, whispering with a broken voice, "Pobrecita, pobrecita!"

I stepped close and got hold of the woman's arm. -See here! What do you think your're doing?- She shook her head. -Ah, senor! I'm so sorry! So sorry! Here, take your money back. You don't have to pay me. Please let me go now. Please!?-

I looked at her and saw she was mortally scared. I released her and she hurried away, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands.

I turned around and caught a deep frown on my daughter's face. She was staring intently at her hands, as if trying to understand what could have caused such a strange performance.

I deposited the coin in her left palm with a smile. -Hey, what about an ice cream?- I proposed.

She smiled back. -O.K.! Want one, too?-

I lifted two fingers, nodded. -And one for your mother,- I added.

She ran away, quite oblivious of what had happened a few moments before, making me think that children must surely be related to cats.

Beryl came close to me and squeezed my hand. -That woman, what did she mean by calling Francesca 'pobrecita'?- She asked me.

-It means 'poor little one',- I explained. She gave me an angry look.

-I KNOW THAT! I just wonder what was she REALLY trying to say.-

She looked worried, so I tried to reassure her. -Oh, she was just an old fool. Probably forgot her routine and made up the whole drama to cover up. Don't think about it.-

She nodded, but the evening was irretrievably spoiled. After a short walk, we headed back to Sitges.

Conversation dwindled and Francesca fell asleep as soon as we got into the car. I could see her through the rearview mirror, a Renaissance smile on her lips.

The next day was one of heavy rain and we remained in the apartment, playing games, reading and watching TV.

And that was the beginning; or the end, depending on which way one looks at the story.

We were having dinner and watching the news. Suddenly, Francesca put down her fork and closed her eyes, shaking violently. Beryl and I were up in a moment.

- What is it, honey, what happened?- my wife said, in an alarmed tone.

She got no answer.

Francesca kept trembling and now tears began streaming down her cheeks. On the TV screen, the usual bloody images from yet another local war, sharply commented by the voice of a trained anchor woman, served as an eerie contrast to Francesca's sobs. We took the child to bed and tried to soothe her, but most of all we tried to understand what could have caused the attack.

Francesca held tight to Beryl's hand, sweating profusely and refusing to open her eyes. She also kept mumbling one word, so I got closer, to see if I could make it out. Her voice was muffled by her clenched teeth, but I understood all the same.

Beryl looked at me questioningly. -What...what is she saying?!-

I hesitated for a second. -I...think she's repeating the same thing over and over.-

-Yes, but what?-

I sighed, puzzled. -'Scared.' she is just saying 'scared'.- "Like a broken record," I added in my mind, shivering.

Beryl frowned. -Scared? Of what?!- She didn't wait for an answer, but turned to the child and embraced her tenderly. -Do not be scared, France. I'm here. We're here with you, baby. We'll protect you from whatever it is that scares you, honey.-

I pulled on a pair of jeans, slipped into my shoes. -I'm going to get a doctor.- There was no telephone in the apartment, but there was a booth on the street, just outside the main entrance of the building. As I left, I could hear Beryl's voice reassuring Francesca, although without much success.

The doctor came at once and examined the child thoroughly, but gently. He was an old gentleman of pure catalan stock and spoke English with a singsong cadence that was very pleasant to the ear.

Francesca actually calmed down a little. She even stopped crying, but still refused to open her eyes. The doctor seemed puzzled. He cautiously pressed her cheeks downward with his thumbs.

-Here, Francesca, does it pain you if I do that?-

Francesca shook her head in denial.

The doctor nodded and turned to us. -It is not her eyes, I think. It looks more like some kind of a shock. She is...how shall we say...frightened by something she has witnessed, something...Has anything happened between the two of you, maybe?- he asked.

-Not at all. It's been quite a normal day,- I said, looking at Beryl for confirmation, but she seemed absent and there was a harsh expression on her face.

The doctor's eyebrows went up slowly. -Perhaps la senora remembers something? - he proposed cautiously.

Beryl stared at him. -Yes I do, doctor. Tell me, could a state of shock appear after some time had passed by? I mean, if I were to scare you today, could you be affected tomorrow?- she asked.

The doctor considered the idea for a moment, sighed, -It is hard to say. People are different. But I would not exclude that possibility.-

-Then it was that woman!- Beryl stated, flatly.

-A woman?- inquired the doctor.

-Yes, the old gypsy!- She proceeded to relate the accident of the day before and I saw the doctor nod in agreement to her hypothesis. And yet, deep inside myself I suspected that the thing we were facing was something much bigger than a common scare.

I was more certain of it when, three days later, Francesca fell into a coma.

We called an ambulance at once, but were told that it would have been faster to bring Francesca in by taxi, as all of the hospital's cars were out. I cursed on the phone for a few seconds, describing the symptoms as very grave, stressing the fact that it was a desperate situation,

-Yes sir, I understand the situation perfectly. We've had the same kind of call at least a hundred times, since yesterday. It looks like some kind of epidemic,- said the operator on the other side.

I went cold all over, whispered a few words of apology and hung up. I went back to the apartment in a daze. Beryl saw my face and paled.

-What is it?- she asked.

I shook my head. -I don't know. There've been other cases like Francesca's. The guy on the phone sounded...bad. We're on our own. I'll go back downstairs and see if I can get a taxi.-

I walked towards the door, but Beryl stopped me. She looked scared and I hated to see her like that.

-What's happening, Jorge?-

I took her in my arms, tried to calm her. -It will be all right, Beryl. The doctors will help her, you'll see.-

She nodded, told me she believed so, too. I didn't believe her for a moment, but I got out anyway.

There was a cab coming up the street and I waved it down. The driver complied promptly and I told him to wait. We brought Francesca down and got her into the car. She was wrapped in her favorite blanket and seemed to be only sleeping.

The driver took a look at her and started the engine. -To the hospital, right? -he said, in a rather resigned way.

-Yes. How did you know?- I asked, puzzled.

He shrugged. -You're the fifth one, since this morning,- he explained. -Hope it's not catchy,- he commented in an undertone.

I told him to shut up and concentrate on driving, but felt a stab of guilt, because what he had said, I had actually thought.

A few days scraped by.

Beryl and I were at the hospital most of the time. The rooms were full of children, mostly between eight and twelve years old, but not a few were younger. Later, we also saw a couple of teenagers being brought in. they all looked the same, their eyes open and staring into nothingness, their faces pale and permanently set in a warried frown. Some would, from time to time, utter a single word, always the same, always, "SCARED".

Then, the first deaths occurred.

The children would just open their mouths and scream for a few seconds, then they would die. Just like that. A long, horribly pitiful wail, suddenly cut at the top of its pitch.

Just like that...for God's sake...just like that...

Sometimes, they would die in rapid succession and the scream would jump from mouth to mouth in an atrocious travesty of a chorus. At these times, the hospital's personnel would be thrown into a frantic confusion. Doctors would yell at paramedics, nurses would push stretchers, running along the corridors, trying to get the little writhing bodies to the emergency rooms, hoping they could be saved.

Machines were brought into rooms, medical machines for life-support
functions, electric stimulators of the heart, artificial lungs, oxygen bubbles, computerized things, things with displays and wires and needles and tubes.

Everything that human science provided against death was tried, but the children kept passing away, wailing, wailing.

I hope I will never, NEVER, have to listen to that sound again.

By the time this was happening, the whole thing had become big news, of course. The media jumped on "La Maladie" with all their might. Experts were consulted around the clock, field reports were broadcast at all hours, day and night. Deaths appeared on every kind of screen, sometimes in slow-motion, utilizing every possible camera angle. Scientists confessed in worldvision their inability to cope with the "epidemic," but hoped to find a cure within a few months. Spiritual leaders either assumed a wrathful profile, stating this was God's punishment for human wickedness, or exhorted people to pray to that same God to save the human race. A few philosophers, backed by a handful of biologists, proposed that what we were witnessing was just an evolutionary adjustment of some sort, as not all the children on the planet were affected by it.

Three months after it had started, "La Maladie" was in full rampage all over the world and nightmarish scenes could be seen everywhere.

I mean the coffins.

When Francesca died, after two months of silent wasting away, we were told there were no coffins available for at least a week. A factory was producing them as fast as possible, but the demand had been high and stocks had been rapidly depleted. We had to wait and so must many other people.

When the coffins arrived, they arrived all together. The streets became full of adult mourners clustering around small, white wooden boxes still smelling of paint, being loaded on a long line of funeral cars. Grief and tears, dismayed glances and sagging shoulders. The landscape of sorrow contained the same elements everywhere.

After six months or so, deaths began to abate and the official position of science, philosophy and religion was that things would get better. Government agencies stated that it had been an unusual "natural adjustment," an inexplicable psychosomatic disease that was bound to disappear in a short time.

We were told our children had been too "sensitive," too receptive to the subliminal barrage of messages they received every day from the world. Messages of violence and horror; of dishonesty, pollution, war, racism, drugs, exploitation, injustice, fear. Mostly fear. Fear had caught them still unprepared for such a world, had deprived them of a childhood and thrown them into the struggle before they could build an efficacious defensive system. Hence, their minds had refused to go on and brought about the crisis.

So we were told.

The children who had survived to "La Maladie" had, apparently, more ruthless personalities;they were more aggressive, more selfish and possessed of a healthy greed(that's the term they used, "healthy), coupled with a strong, competitive sense.

It was all natural, all explainable. Scientists brought up Evolution. Philosophers upgraded humanity and made clear that this was the advent of a new race, something Nietzsche would have been proud of. Religion's top echelons released new spiritual dogmas on the Divine Plan for humanity.

I'm now thinking this world will be very different from the one we used to know, a world without art, music, poetry. A world in which business and the law of survival of the fittest will rule sovereign in sterile wedlock.

I sometimes wonder if the world is actually going to last very long.

After all, people like Newton, Einstein, Hawking, were "sensitive" persons. They saw things better than others, dared to challenge common sense armed only with their imagination.

If everything is reduced to pragmatic thinking, then I foresee we'll soon stop to evolve and, probably, will find an easy way to self-destruction.

"La Maladie" has been gone for the past two years or so and nobody talks about it anymore, except me.

We're all out of danger, they say, and anyway, dead is dead. But I strongly believe we buried our future along with our children and there are times when I wake up at night in a cold sweat, with this strong urge to scream. Those are the times I get really scared...

THE END

Copyright(c) 1992 Dario L. Ponissi