Doug Larsen: The Alicia Revolution

“Chantlo, listen to me!” I insisted.

“Yes, Mrs. Anderson?”

“I’m just a bankrupt computer programmer!” I protested. “I don’t know anything about revolutions or conspiracies! I came here because I was hoping you’d make me feel better!”

He looked at me. “I do not understand. ‘Make you feel better’?”

“Yeah!” I said defensively. “Like you did for my dad! He showed up sad and forlorn and defeated. You sent him back, healed and full of life. Do the same for me.”

Chantlo looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “You are a person with good health, with never a fear of starvation. You live in a country where citizens are treated with dignity and respect. You do not live in fear of violence or repression. Surely you feel better than anyone in Thusbammanna.”

“But I don’t, all right? I can’t take care of my own problems, much less help you in some revolution! I just want to get back on an airplane, and go home! It was a mistake to come here!”

Chantlo drove in silence for a moment. “This is not the way our esteemed friend, Mister Anderson, would have done things.”

“I’m not Mister Anderson, all right?” I snapped. “I’m his daughter. I even have a personality of my own.”

Chantlo took the rudeness in silence. Then he spoke fondly. “Mister Anderson was a very gentle, giving man.”

“He still is,” I said with annoyance.

“And his late wife,” Chando probed tentatively. “The woman who is nearly deified in our country, his Alicia—she was as well?”

I laughed shortly, without humor. Talking about my mom is very painful for me, even this many years away from her death. “No, that’s not how I’d describe her.”

“No? Indeed?”

“No. She was little and tough and fiery. She never took crap from anybody in her life. Dad says I’m a lot like her.”

Chantlo looked almost disappointed. “I have never imagined her that way. I have only seen her through your father’s eyes, and he saw her differently.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” I said. “She was the finest woman I’ve ever known. But she wasn’t at all like my dad. He gave her the stability and calm that she needed. And she gave him the energy and confidence that he needed.”

“He seemed lost without her, when he was here.”

I dabbed at my eyes. “They both knew what they had.”

Chantlo opened his mouth to ask something else, but I interrupted quickly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about this anymore, OK?”

He nodded, and we drove in silence.

Talking about my mom is always tough for me. There was never anyone in the world I respected as much. She was never afraid of anything. I liked to think that I was a lot like her.

Except now, of course—running away when things got tough. Oh, God, I’m just not up to this, I thought with a rush of self-pity.

I took a deep, shaky sigh. “All right, Chantlo,” I said. “How can I help?”

We ended up driving toward Chantlo’s house. “Please understand, Mrs. Anderson,” he explained, “I do not know how you can help us. But your very presence gives us hope.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Up until recently, the resistance movement flourished, thanks in large part to the underground nutrition system established by your father. We were able to better care for our people, and warn those who are in danger. We also attempt to document human rights abuses and get this documentation into the hands of your government. We are attempting to make a case for American support of our resistance movement, to encourage the resumption of free elections. This, of course, causes concern on the part of the corrupt military dictatorship. They are growing wealthy at the expense of our people, but they are having more and more difficulty with a populace that is less and less docile. Their response has been increased brutality, and a sophisticated assault on the leaders of the resistance movement. Many of our leaders have been executed, others are jailed, awaiting questioning. The duly elected leader of Thusbammanna fled to America when overthrown by the current regime of cutthroats, so he is safe. But those attempting to change everyday life in Thusbammanna are living in great danger.”

I digested this in scared silence. Chantlo turned into a poor neighborhood, and pulled up at a tenement house that I assumed was his home. We went inside.

“And here you find another reason I consider your arrival to be fortuitous,” Chantlo said. “Please allow me to introduce two people who may be already familiar to you.” He indicated two women; obviously a mother and daughter. The mother was about my age, and the daughter about my son Tommy’s age. “You remember your father telling of the little girl he rescued?”

“Sure,” I said, the light beginning to dawn.

“This is the girl! And her mother, of whom you must also have heard. They are visiting relatives and friends in the city.”

I shook hands warmly with them. The mother, whose name was Marina, was all smiles and grace. The little girl, named Anya, was now a teenager, and not as welcoming. I found it strange that after all of the stories my dad had told of this family, this was the first time I ever learned their names. Dad had never known.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I told them.

“Hello, very pleased,” Marina said. Anya only eked out a thin, sullen smile.

“Marina’s English is not as good as those of us in the city,” Chantlo explained. “Her daughter can speak English more proficiendy.”

“It’s better than my Thusbammannan,” I answered. I looked closely at Anya. There was still very faint distortion of her features here and there, a result of the rifle beating she had received at the hands of soldiers ten years ago. But she was obviously healthy, and very obviously possessing a teenaged attitude.

Marina nudged her daughter and said something to her in Thusbammannan. Being a mother, I knew for sure that Marina was reminding Anya of her manners. Anya just rolled her eyes and shrugged.

I looked at Anya with complete recognition. / have a son your age, I thought at her. I can’t do a thing with him, either. I’d had more than my share of that crap, so I turned to Chantlo. “Please tell them that I’m very glad to meet them,” I asked politely.

“You must, of course, stay for dinner,” Chando invited.

I didn’t really want to, but I knew how impolite it would be to refuse.

Dinner was interesting and tedious at the same time. People dropped in to meet me, for word had spread that the daughter of the originator of the Alicia Project had come. I enjoyed that, but Anya was a continual cloud of sullen gloom that hovered over everything. She didn’t say a word the entire time, refused to interact, and just generally acted like an adolescent bitch. I stopped myself. She was just an average teenager, no worse, and I was being harsh because my son had exhausted my patience. And I needed to make allowances for the fact that she had been brutally beaten when she was very young. I didn’t suppose that Thusbammanna offered any kind of counseling to help children recover from that kind of trauma. It was probably amazing that she was functional at all.

Realizing this, I surprised Anya with a smile. She looked startled, and almost smiled back, but remembered herself in time and merely looked aloof. It was amazing. A different country, on a different continent, and teenagers were still the same.

I went back to the hotel to get some sleep, but wasn’t terribly successful. A lot had happened to me, and a lot looked like it was about to happen. A thousand feelings, all conflicting, coursed through my brain. I slept badly, and was relieved to see the dawn.