Gene Wolfe - Home Fires

Chelle, darling,

The hijackers are holding some of our people, and Achille and I have gone to talk to them about it. Should they hold us, too, don’t try to free us before Grenada. I, who love you so desperately, will love you all the more for that.

Skip

A freight elevator in the stern carried them down to the hold, where two hijackers watched its doors. Skip displayed his empty hands, identified himself, and stepped out into what seemed a rocking warehouse filled with boxes and more stainless-steel drums—filled, too, with stale air and foggy yellow light.

The hijacker who held an assault rifle told the one with a machete to tie Skip’s hands.

“No!” He held up his hands again. “I’ve come to negotiate, not to surrender. There will be no negotiations as long as I’m bound.”

“¡Puras vainas!” snapped the hijacker with the assault rifle, and Skip’s hands were bound. The hijacker with the machete marched him off between dark and beetling cliffs of barrels, crates, and boxes to a small, windowless office where an older hijacker took his feet off the desk and picked up a large knife. “You are no el capitán .” His English was accented but understandable.

“Correct,” Skip said.

“¿El jefe?”

“I am the captain’s attorney.”

The older hijacker grunted. “I will speak el capitán . No you.”

“Untie me and send me back to him, and I will tell him so.”

“One millón noras, we wish. One millón , and to be put a tierra .”

“You want me to bargain with you, señor. I won’t do it until you untie me.”

“You agree? You agree, I cut la cuerda .”

“Cut the ropes, and we’ll talk about it.”

For an instant, Skip thought that the older hijacker intended to stab him. The blow came, and for a time that might have been anything he thought absolutely nothing.

When consciousness returned, he was being dragged by the feet into a dark place. There he lay, head aching and hands numb, for hours that seemed very long.

Although I have often racked my brain for some means of softening up my opposite number, I never hit on this one. I will agree to anything, if only they will cut the ropes and let me go. They will do it, then start negotiating with the captain from a position of strength, insisting loudly and truthfully that I have already acceded to their demands.

They will also have a fine opportunity to gauge my importance as a hostage; if an immediate rescue is mounted, my value is high. And so on.

There may be such an attempt, ordered by Captain Kain. Or an unofficial attempt, headed by Chelle. Or no attempt at all.

If I were the man I would like to be, I would hope for the last. I am not.

The captain asked Vanessa to the meeting because of her assumed influence with Chelle. When I asked him why he had asked me, I expected him to say that I was Chelle’s contracto, and so on and so forth. That I too would have influence with her.

He said nothing of the sort; thus he has sensed what I have: that we are drifting apart, despite all my efforts. She screwed Jerry—that’s how she would say it—not so much to strike at me (Chelle does not strike like that) as from simple boredom.

Or the desire for a younger partner. She must find me as repellent as I find her attractive. Was Jerry the fifth man on Achille’s list? If I were made to bet, yes.

What can I do?

Tied up here, lying helpless in the dark, nothing; but if she comes, if she rescues me, she is certain to value me more as the (aging) lover she saved.

If.

What will I do when she casts me aside? Vanessa would be far too costly. Too costly, and utterly, dangerously, unpredictable.

Poor Susan will be out of the question. Someone who resembles Chelle? If I could find someone—which I doubt—it would be sure to end in disappointment.

Reviewing my conversation with the man behind the desk … Just what went on when Achille was released? The man behind the desk protested that I was not the captain, as though he had expected the captain to come in person. Could he have been as naive as that? Absolutely not. He was a man of middle years, and the hijackers presumably chose him as their leader. Certainly they accept him as leader.

Achille did not say he had been asked to fetch the captain. He said, in fact, that he had been told to take his paper to me. It was me they wanted. Me, specifically. The leader’s complaint must have been meant to disguise that; he had gotten the man he wanted, and did not want that man to know it.

Why?

All my life I have feared death; I think I could die now, gladly. I was afraid that the man behind the desk was about to stab me. Now I wish he had. Nothing. No more pain and no more sorrow. Oblivion.

Unless there is indeed some existence for us when the bodies we have worn are carrion. Who would not like to believe that? Does my mother’s ghost hover around me? What does she think of the man I have become?

She would forgive me everything. She always did. Why was it I never forgave her?

The man behind the desk wanted me. For myself? That is at least possible. If it is true, I wish that he would begin to make use of me. Or that I would die, and deprive him of the pleasure.

Everyone at the office assumes that I want Chet Burton to die. How I would despise myself if it were true! Chet, who took on an unproven young attorney? Chet, who taught me more than law school ever did?

Would-be attorneys used to sit in court, hour after hour, day after day, and so learned the law. We could use an infusion of that, I think. A big one. Let each student of the law attend court for two years before taking the bar exam. Those who failed it then would fail because they knew more than their examiners.

Boris knows more law than I do. He could pass the bar easily—if only they would let him take it. He knows more law, but he does not know courts, does not know the tricks of prosecutors, does not know the sympathies of juries, does not know the judges. He would have to learn those things. But he could.

Would Boris try to get me out if he were here? Yes. I doubt that he would succeed, but I know him and he would try. What about Luis? Perhaps.

What about Chelle? Chelle is here. Chelle counts. We are contracted, and I am rich. Chelle will be single, beautiful, and rich.

She will not come. Why don’t I die?

Skip was never sure afterward how long he lay in darkness. Perhaps he slept. Certainly he worried, and toward the end he prayed for death.

Perhaps there had been furtive steps; if so, he had not heard them. Something was moving his arms, ever so slightly. Rats? Rats might be gnawing at his fingers; he would, most probably, feel nothing.

There was a new odor, too—the stink of sour sweat? A new sound, soft grunts widely separated. And then the unmistakable sound of someone spitting.

He turned his head, not far but as far as he could. The darkness was unbroken, and at last he said, “Who is it? Who is that, and what are you doing?”

“My—” The speaker had been interrupted by the sound of gunfire, distant but unmistakable, echoing through the hold.

Skip said, “Who’s shooting? Do you know?”

(One more shot, alone, followed at once by a faint scream.)

“I chew rope, mon. My name Achille.”

“Thank God. There’s a penknife, fairly sharp, in my left-hand trouser pocket.”

“I can no reach in, mon. For this they cut my hands.”

Skip sighed. “And you couldn’t open it if you had it. I understand.”

“I talk, no more chew.”

Seeing the wisdom in that, Skip ventured no further questions. When the rope parted at last, he pulled his hands apart, rolled onto his back, and managed to sit up. His feet were still tied.