Нил Стивенсон - Termination Shock

Saskia and Alastair exchanged a look across the table, each just verifying that the other had lost the thread of Rufus’s discourse. Rufus got a sheepish, mischievous look. “Now we call ’em Blue States and Red States. But it’s the same. The Cherokees, the Chickasaws, and others—the Five Civilized Tribes—got corn—what you call maize—from Mexico long before white people times and settled down and became farmers. West of, oh, about the meridian where we are right at this moment, corn wouldn’t grow. Just grass. People can’t eat grass. Bison can. So the people would eat the bison. Tough way to make a living until the Spaniards brought horses. Then it was a fine way to live. And that’s where you get your Comanches. Whole different mindset there from the Five Tribes. They never reconciled. What we now call Oklahoma was split in half right down the center. Five Tribes raising crops to the east. Comanches and Kiowas ranging free to the west, raiding the Five Tribes nations for horses and slaves.”

Rufus had previously told Saskia the story of his great-great-grandfather Hopewell’s adoption into the Comanches and so didn’t repeat it here. “But the whole Blue State/Red State thing is just that.”

Saskia to this point had been mostly content to observe the conversation, but she now shifted forward, her face showing sudden curiosity. “Which side do you stand on, Rufus? When I first saw you, you were standing on the tarmac blasting away at a giant beast with a Kalashnikov. Which would seem to put you more on the west side of that meridian you spoke of.”

“Well, that’s just what I’ve been asking myself,” Rufus answered with a wry look. “That’s my decision, innit? I’ve tried both. Worked both sides. Tried to settle down and grow crops and raise a family. Look where that got me. Then, I went all ‘Call me Ishmael.’ But Tashtego and Daggoo are supposed to die at the end. I’m not dead. So what am I gonna do now? You tell me.”

“I don’t think I have the capacity to tell you,” Saskia returned, “but you’re obviously a very intelligent man with energy and skills . . .”

“It’s not about energy and skill,” Rufus said. “It’s about finding a fit. Where does ol’ Rufus fit? Not many places.”

Saskia could think of one place where Rufus might fit perfectly. But this did not seem to be the right moment to point that out. So she crossed her legs demurely under the table and broke eye contact.

Michiel poked his head in from the Tree Car and raised his eyebrows at Saskia. Is now a good time? She smiled and nodded. Rufus, seeing how it was, excused himself and Alastair followed. Michiel thumbed out a message on his phone while coming down the aisle, then gestured at the seat across from her as if to say May I? Thus politely ensconced, he said, “I took the liberty of telling my sister and my aunt. They may be along in a little bit to pay their respects.”

“I shall look forward to it,” Saskia said. “This is very much a family affair, it seems.”

He turned his palms up. “We are not here in any official capacity. Venice does have an official plan for sealing off the Lagoon during storm surges. We are not part of it.”

“We’re back on the subject of MOSE?”

He nodded. “Currently, further work on the project is blocked because it was found to be in violation of the European Directive on Birds.”

“Excuse me, did you say birds?”

“Yes.” Michiel gave a shy, wry smile. “That is only one such violation, to tell you the truth. Also, the construction of the MOSE sea gates disturbed aquatic life on the bottom of the Lagoon. Mussel populations were impacted across several hectares. Every time such a violation is found to have happened, it triggers the European Infraction Procedure.”

“I have heard of this procedure,” Saskia said drily.

She did have to tread a bit carefully. Michiel was complaining—with very good reasons—about the European Union and its regulations. It was a well-worn topic that had led to Brexit and other consequences. Many and vociferous were the Euro-skeptics in the Netherlands. The queen had to treat the pro- and anti-European Union groups evenhandedly. “Some say,” she went on, “that it is not the most rapid or efficient process. Others say that such things are necessary for the protection of . . . birds.”

A new voice joined the conversation: that of a younger woman who had come forward from one of the Amtrak cars and now presented herself at the head of their table. “Have you been to our beautiful Lagoon? There are birds all over the fucking place!”

“My sister, Chiara,” Michiel said.

“Please, join us!” Saskia said.

Chiara sat down next to her brother. She was as enjoyable to look at as he was. It was one of those beautiful families. Some wordless communication passed between the two. She settled down. “Whatever Her Majesty might think in her heart of hearts about the European Union, she is here representing a member in good standing of the same, so let’s not put her in an awkward position!” Michiel said, glancing at Saskia.

“Of course,” Chiara said. “My apologies.”

Saskia laughed. “If you could hear some of what my countrymen have to say about European regulations, you would not be so worried about hurting my feelings on that score.”

“And yet you find a way to build those colossal storm defenses!” Chiara exclaimed. “I have been to the Maeslantkering! Fantastic! But we can’t even build a couple of gates.”

“It’s because their whole country needs it,” Michiel said.

“True,” Chiara admitted. “I complain of Europe, but in truth Europe is just a hammer that they use to hit us with.”

“Who are ‘they’ and ‘us’?” asked Willem, who had just showed up and taken a seat next to Saskia. He knew how to smooth things over if the conversation became difficult.

“‘ They’ are the rest of Italy, who don’t care about Venice, and also the local Greens. ‘Us’ means those who want Venice to still exist fifty years from now. ‘They’ can always identify a hundred infractions in any plan we come up with, and file papers in Brussels to stop any progress, and then congratulate themselves on being so virtuous.” She put her hands together in the prayerful style of a little girl going to her First Communion.

Michiel sighed and exchanged a few words with his sister in Italian, then added, “To be perfectly honest there is also corruption.”

“You will be shocked!” Chiara added.

“I had heard that there were problems with MOSE,” Willem said sympathetically.

“To give you an idea, it was started in 1987 and the gates didn’t become functional until 2020,” Michiel said.

“By which time the whole system was obsolete!” Chiara said.

“The lord mayor can tell you similar stories about the Thames Barrier,” Willem said. “They started talking about it after the 1953 disaster. They argued about it for twenty years. They started building it in 1974. They got it working in 1982. It is already outmoded.”

Chiara shook her head and looked out the window at a phalanx of wind turbines that extended over the curve of the horizon, red lights blinking in unison. “My brother is too diplomatic,” she said. “I’ll say it. You can’t solve such problems with local barriers. The politics are too . . .” She whirled her hand in the air, exchanged a few words with Michiel, and then settled on “intractable. A planetary solution is the only way.”

“We have a unique attachment to our city,” Michiel said. “It—not Italy—is our country.” He shrugged. “Other Italians, in the high country of Romania or Tuscany, might look at the map of Italy and say, ‘Eh, the Lagoon, it is a small bit of the map. If we lose it, Italy remains and is only a little diminished—we can move all the nice art to higher ground, we can even dismantle St. Marks and the Ducal Palace and reassemble them elsewhere.’”