Queen's Daughter

QUEEN’S DAUGHTER

DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

Queen’s Daughter

David Suarez Gomez

www.emigala.com

For Ivonne Puga, My princess, my soulmate; my muse; and the consummation of all I am. From the beginning, all my words were for you.

“Even the humblest [bureaucrat] is expected to be competent, industrious, and even intelligent within narrow limits, but it is also necessary that he should be a credulous and ignorant fanatic whose prevailing moods are fear, hatred, adulation and orgiastic triumph.”

–George Orwell, 1984

“Our fctions are killing us, but if we didn’t have those fctions, maybe that would kill us too.”

-Salman Rushdie, Two Years, Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights

“The moment I saw her I say in all truth that the vital spirit which dwells in the inmost depths of the heart, began to tremble so violently that I felt the vibration alarmingly in all my pulses, even the weakest of them. As it trembled, it uttered these words: Ecce deus fortiori me, quie veniens dominabitur mihi.”

-Dante Alighieri, Vita Nuova

PROLOGUE

I never knew if it was fction or if it could be evidence. We have learned that every certain thousand years we forget what has happened before and reinvent new beginnings, nearer to us, of a story that was never born where we mark it, even if we believe so, and even if we build a castle of cards that justifes grand and wise theories—that always end up refuted—simple ways to make us feel safe in a universe that is not only chaotic but also meaningless. I never knew if there was any truth to the memories of this pseudo-hero—whom we can just as easily call a villain in the end—found in a corner, like damp paper, almost dissolved, consumed, just barely reminiscent of the fgure of a paper plane that the wind might have taken to the corner where it would be safe. But, regardless, whatever the memories may be, it’s my opinion that they deserve to be published. Especially in this time in which everything that is thought or felt at every moment is susceptible to be taken to a public space to earn raised fngers that serve as support, product of the ephemeral banality, to determine the ascent or descent in a ladder of an imaginary society, which we cannot really prove to be out there, or even that there even exists a space for that out there. Let us quote: “It was true. I had told him, even though it was futile: everything was over at that point. What was evident was not seen and that way the monster could run loose in the city, taking as a snack, every once in a while, an infant, sometimes an adult, and occasionally a whole passenger train. Why should I tell him about John Bureau? Why let him know of the secret society, more secret than any with a protractor? Athena's Owl, was that it? But I never told him about the dancing magician, his intellective creator. That, I reserved for the most secluded grave in my family mausoleum. “And wise as he was, even though young—which is no contradiction in any way—he found the dark, hidden room, the one he drew à la Escher, never thinking of Kaluza-Klein. And he discovered the text of the Scribes of Estonia. However, he never discovered that in the additional dimension, the hidden one, he could fnd the story of the dancing magician and his adventures, his pathogenic spells for fetuses like John Bureau that would have truly prevented, or in its case exterminated, the sequels of totalitarianism. “In spite of the struggle, convinced that everything was over, I decided to run away and seek refuge in the middle of a mountain forest, where I found Regina Magna, my enchanted princess, my dream… in her arms I cuddled for a decade, maybe more. A thousand years? And I laid silent waiting for the sunrise of new times, impossible though they may be. There I lay; surrendered, without knowing if my queen was the last invention of my feverish mind or the material realization of the dream of a useless but fun life.”

The author of these lines was, of course, Rich Summit. The author of these lines was, of course, Rich Summit. Jacob’s mentor. Jacob being David’s alter ego, my friend, the fun prophet.

Ricardo De la Peña

ONE

“JACOB GOLDSTEIN,” I said to the guard. He had seen me hundreds of times. He had checked the photo in my badge against my actual face at least half of those times. In his mind my badge was the actual Jacob Goldstein—I was just the fesh and bones doppelganger. He knew my name. But he needed me to say it for the report. He seemed excited. In spite of the many drills for apocalyptic scenarios that sadistic security ofcers drew up and subjected us to every month, nothing ever happened. Nothing ever happened to the people who deserved it. Getting to escort a disgruntled employee out of the marble building must have made the security guy feel important—must have been the greatest excitement he had faced as a federal government building security guard. He kept grabbing his Taser, as if readying to shock me should I choose to launch and take out all my frustrations on my boss, the Manticore. My peaceful smile must have disappointed him. I hurried to pack my stuf in the U.S. Postal Service box. Books, mostly. A picture of my parents. A couple of music compact discs which were in themselves a violation to statutes designed to prevent compromising the integrity of the bureau network. Luscious Jackson would be proud if they heard that, I thought as I placed their two CDs in the box. Some documents that’s always good to have handy. My Chicago Bears cup. But my most prized possessions were a postcard and a very dangerous book I had found in my research in the library; a book that described how our world had reached this sorry state—at 2 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ the hands of a single powerful evil wizard and his cohorts; a book describing how John Bureau had taken over. The postcard was a photo my cousin Diego took on a Saturday afternoon in Newport Beach, California. I hadn’t seen skies like that in ages. The District of Columbia was miserable. No one had bothered to tell it that spring was supposed to have sprung. But the weather was the least of D.C.’s problems. Crime rates? Not even close. The one problem the city had was that it lived in denial about having lost the war. The District of Columbia—and the Republic for which it stood—had been taken over by a powerful and evil wizard who had infltrated and corrupted the system. And of course, the system was so corrupted that even to mention the possibility of its imperfection meant being ostracized, labeled as unpatriotic, as a traitor, a commie, a terrorist sympathizer. Yes, the evil wizard John Bureau had the city, the Republic, the world at large by the balls. But for all I cared, John Bureau could have it all. To hell with him. To hell with it. To hell with trying to save the system and make a diference; with trying to be a hero or a martyr. To hell with playing the game; with trying to make my mother proud about her son serving the Republic. All I cared about was that beach in southern California. Jacob Goldstein, yours truly, had had enough of false and ill-motivated heroics. Jacob Goldstein had had enough of John Bureau, and was now walking out of the marble building, carrying a United States Postal Service box full of mementos, escorted by a security ofcer who looked as serious and patriotic as if he was storming the beach of Iwo Jima. Let him have his moment of glory. He wouldn’t get many other chances. Let him escort the dangerous thought criminal Jacob Goldstein Campe y Cos. Jacob was done working for any form of government. Jacob Goldstein Campe y Cos was moving to California. TWO

AS I WALKED out and was greeted by a dire drizzle, I thought of the last straw, the event that gave me the fnal push so I would plunge into the abyss. I had contemplated leaving my secure government job for a long time. If you look at the abyss long enough, you’ll get cold feet. But then this event, these series of events, rather, pushed me of the edge. I met a homeless woman near Georgetown. She was completely derelict, in her late forties or early ffties. Her hair was so flthy that natural dreadlocks had formed and her skin was tan with dirt and she smelled like Moloch had peed on himself when a heavenly host beat the crap out of him. She was a sad shadow of a person, alternating between panhandling and rummaging dumpsters for discarded pizza crust and sausage clinging to the stick in rancid corn dogs. I later learned her name was Ms. Dale and that she had come to her sad state not long after her daughter Jena died. Jena was only ten years old at the time of her death. She was playing hopscotch and Hula-Hoop at the same time. Her game unfortunately led her to the edge of the sidewalk where she slipped right at the moment a government delivery truck speeding to deliver the fve ffteen pouch made a left turn fatally close to the kerb. The truck hit Jena at forty miles per hour, sending her to an agonizing twelve-hour comma from which she would never wake and from which she mercifully passed the following morning. Ms. Dale was in a state in which any parent in her situation would be. When the frst shock of devastation passed, there was paperwork to take care of. Naturally, the government was 4 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ insured, and they would readily pay to avoid an election-year scandal. But before they did, the government’s insurance company intervened with nauseating technicalities. The company’s legal department got so creative that they should have received a nomination for a fction writer’s award. First, they pulled little Jena’s medical record and claimed she had a pre-existing condition that made her prone to tripping. Any decent expert with a spine and a conscience would have admitted that over-pronation is not a pre-existing condition and it does not lead to tripping. At its worst, it requires a special kind of running shoe. But the morally efete insurance company soon found a physician with no scruples ready to testify otherwise. Ms. Dale was in no condition to go to court, but the settlement the government’s insurance ofered was obscene. So, emotionally crippled as she was, she went the route of the justice system. Little did Ms. Dale know the maniac contrivances the insurance sharks had in store for her, and little did she know that truth had no place in the justice system—John Bureau would have none of that. The insurance company suggested that Ms. Dale was biased against minorities, and was falsely accusing the Filipino driver for his origin. Mind you, Ms. Dale was not present during the accident and she was not suing the driver. They cared not. It was only a lucky strike that the driver happened to be Filipino. But the pièce de résistance, the cherry on top, the shameless summit of mount cynicism came when the insurance company simultaneously counter sued the defunct Jena for imprudent behavior, the government for requiring a delivery of pouches by fve ffteen, causing unbearable stress to the whole drivers’ union, and Ms. Dale for abandoning her child. If faith or reason ruled the world, the judge would have dismissed all the arguments and held the insurance company in contempt. But since John Bureau took over, something worse than madness QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 5 controls all ofcial actions, something closely resembling chaos, or as the Hebrew would say, tochu va’vochu. (My father would rap my head and remind me that was actually Aramaic, not Hebrew). The insurance company became a powerful, ruthless plaintif. The government representative panicked, as government representatives are prone to do, called his supervisors (as government representatives are prone to do)—the supervisor panicked even more and passed it up the chain of command, each of them tripping on another as clumsy protozoan, and almost drowned in paper. Along the chain of command someone made a panicky executive decision and reached an undisclosed settlement with the insurance company. The gossip was that the fgure had six zeroes west of the decimal. With that, the government was obliged to the insurance company and poor Ms. Dale was abandoned. She suddenly found herself having to fght not one but two dragons. The judge urged Ms. Dale to settle, because by now the insurance sharks had gotten child welfare services and the drivers’ union involved and they threatened to take away custody of Ms. Dale’s now defunct daughter Jena and demonstrate in front of her house, respectively. That is when Ms. Dale completely lost it. She fainted, sufered seizures and when she regained consciousness, her sanity was being evaluated by the insurance company doctors who had earned millions of dollars in a clear cut case they should have lost because the bureaucrats failed to do what was right in a justice system that was rotten and allowed such things to happen. Ms. Dale abandoned the doctor’s ofce and all hope of decency in the world and became a derelict outsider. I had seen pretty messed up things before. I had seen the gross squandering of taxpayer dollars with the closing of fscal years. I had seen people who sexually harassed 6 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ interns and accepted gifts from the private sector rise up in government ranks. I had seen people be made work overtime without compensation and I had seen big fsh cash in overtime that had no justifcation. I had seen bobble head meetings where the job of everyone was to nod without question. I had seen Freedom Fries bureaucrats call everyone who didn’t agree with every aspect of the administration a terrorist; then change their stances one hundred and eighty degrees with the change of administration. I had seen nonsense. But what happened to Ms. Dale was the last straw. And I learned her story because one sad afternoon she punched me as I was walking past her and she screamed with fury, “You let him take over!” I moved away from her as quickly as possible. When I went into the ofce the next day, I gossiped with the secretaries—before they were “let go”— about what had happened. One of them said, “Oh, Jacob, that’s Ms. Dale.” And they told me the story. Within a month of that I called security to have the patriotic guard escort me of the premises of John Bureau’s marble palace. THREE

I USED to like my job. I was hired as an investigative analyst. I met with people, gathered intelligence and wrote reports to be used by the Ofce of the Inspector General. The reports were meant to interpret the state of the union. The best thing about the job was its Montessori nature. I had freedom to propose topics of investigation and they were generally approved. I started out as an optimistic, over-achieving, perhaps overzealous brat. Goldstein, the Golden Boy, they used to call me. In my defense I was never a Freedom fries bureaucrat. I couldn’t. My upbringing would not allow it—I’m a hybrid, a half-blood. I don’t believe in ultimate truths. I believe in the combination of truths. My mother is a Mexican Catholic who renounced her inheritance of a tequila company and a questionable title of nobility by marrying my father, an American Jew of Sephardic mother and Ashkenazy pater. Still, I went out and investigated and analyzed, proud of the badge I held; proud of the service I would be doing the Republic. Goldstein the Golden Boy went out there and found the truths. At frst my supervisors were pleased and forwarded my reports and fndings to higher echelons. They would commend me on getting the quotes I got from contacts and informants, and especially on getting them with the scantest representational funds. I had colleagues higher up the food chain who spent ridiculous amounts of tax-payer dollars to keep their contacts happy and talkative. One of them, in fact the senior investigative analyst, Manfred the Groper not only depleted the representational funds with regal despotism but also fled for exorbitant amounts of overtime because, he said, to 8 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ cultivate those contacts properly, he had to spend time with them out of ofce hours. In spite of my pride in my service to the Republic, I liked to keep it an eight-to-fve afair, and if my contacts would not get into talkative moods with cofee or an occasional cigarette, then I would not use more taxpayer money to cajole them into speaking. I earned a couple of awards for my fndings and my ability to do it with minimal overhead. Though, unlike the Groper, I never earned the highest honors. I fgured I needed to make a better efort, dig deeper. I was so naïve. Then with the vintages came tact, savviness, an ability to navigate further out, deeper down and fnd more interesting truths. Instead of investigating, say, the relationship between civil society and law enforcement in the inner cities, or the co- relation between gun shows and shootouts, I started investigating the shared leadership in government oversight and the fnancial sector (the rotation of personnel between Goldman-Sachs and the Federal Reserve and the Department of Treasury); or the increase in allegations of excessive use of force in non-white neighborhoods; or the impact of media consolidation on freedom of expression. During a meeting with an informant who was a cancer researcher in the Cleveland Clinic I learned that the typical treatment against liver cancer has an eighty percent probability of developing breast cancer among women within the next three to fve years. He had evidence that top Food and Drug ofcials were in the know but were kept comfortably numb by representatives from the pharmaceutical industries. My fndings became problematic. And when before my immediate supervisors called me Goldstein the Golden Boy, they started frowning, scratching their throats, growing uncomfortable when I came forward with a proposal. “Jacob,” they said—and they spoke in the frst person plural, fully taking QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 9 on the role of a collective apparatus—, “We know your heart is in the right place. You deserve all the credit you get. And we are frankly amazed that you can continue getting all this information with cofee meetings and ofce calls. But we believe you are going into murky territory. The reports you have produced, they seem like the stuf of left-leaning media. We believe that if you continue on this path you may fnd yourself labeled as the wrong kind of employee. We believe you should stick to opinion research or the stuf you were doing before.” My supervisors promised to promote me if I returned to be the guy I was, Goldstein the Golden Boy. But I could not. Like I said, something worse than madness seemed to rule the world. Madness was random. The constant sticking it to the little guy— which turned up in my every fnding—was not. I realized that I was barking up the wrong tree. I needed to fnd out not specifc instances of injustice, but the root of what had happened to the government for the people, by the people and of the people. Little did I know the great fend John Bureau lurked behind every misdeed, every injustice, every sticking it to the little guy. When they saw their recommendations fall on deaf ears, they started assigning me to advance teams of cabinet members. They said it would help me cultivate more contacts, but what they were doing was taking me of the street. And the place for investigators and prostitutes is the street. It’s where I felt at ease. However one man returned me to investigative analysis and continued overruling my immediate supervisors, signing WD- 47 format after WD-47 format of proposed investigations —Jameston. FOUR

EUPHEMISMS ARE NEFARIOUS. The movement for political correctness, another gem from John Bureau, started chipping away at freedom of expression so surreptitiously that before we know it we’ll never be able to say anything. Colors cannot be named. Neither can levels of disability. And of course people are never fred. They are “let go.” The reason why my supervisors didn’t let me go and had to sufer through my reports was Jameston, the big boss who kept sanctioning my investigations. He was a short, chubby man with a long career who had learned to play the game, but who remained committed to the ideals of the Republic. He called me into his ofce once a year, and digressed, talked about his children, talked about the good old days, had me drink two shots of straight Vietnamese vodka, and at last padded my shoulder and said, “Keep up the good work, Goldstein. Eventually you’ll crack this wide open and we’ll have so much evidence there will be no choice but to blow the whistle. I’m saving all your reports so than when that happens, when the shit hits the fan, we’ll be bulletproof. We’ll be able to say to Congress, to the Supreme Court, to whomever tries to impeach the veracity, ‘we’ve been warning you all along.’” That talk kept me in government for another year. Jameston was the kind of person who fnds ways to compromise, but who honestly tries to keep most people happy, and who has a conscience. But Jameston had a heart condition and a loving wife. Her pleas for him to retire fnally got the best of him. Jameston’s farewell was a thing of beauty; one of those occasions in which everyone—Manfred the Groper, the ofce QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 11 philanderer, and the resident Doctor No—sworn enemies— decided to bury the hatchet, drink heavily and recall times long gone. You could see bureaucrats dressed in boring Jos.A.Bank suits who rarely crossed word after hours carpool and start spinning the boring diatribes of everyday life in ways that seemed fascinating. Doctor No was by the way the one notable exception to the rule of a boring Jos.A.Bank suit. He earned his nickname and reputation by coming up with creative, yet perfectly plausible ways to block new projects. He would cite precedent, unreasonable work hours, impossibility to commit funds. Yet when you caught him in his fve minutes of joy, or if he had had a drink, he would become the most enchanting, whimsical gentleman, making long dissertations about Broadway musicals, the fashion trends for the following year and the Yale Club. The ofce philanderer, Manfred the Groper, had been around the longest. I gave him the nickname because he tried to cup a feel with every single woman in the ofce— with implacable impunity on account of how much it would cost taxpayers to dismiss him and how many awards he had received for his reports. The Groper also periodically raided the supply room with such senseless avarice that he probably had enough ofce supplies at home to set up his own Ofce Max store. Yes, this was the same Manfred the Groper who was the senior investigative analyst—and he was man of the year in the government almost every other year. How did he reach such wuthering heights in bureaucracy? Why did he achieve the highest honors continually? It took me years to fnd out. And I only found out by mere chance one time I stayed late and bumped into an open fling cabinet. Manfred the Groper was the man because he was the perfect bureaucrat, thriving on putting forth bland, innocuous reports that kept everyone happy and made everyone look good. “The Republic,” he noted in one of them, “is strong and its institutions solid. 12 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

Over the past year it has become evident that oversight exercised by the government over key sectors has paid of, as the XXXX industry has abandoned all practices that are in detriment to transparency and accepted recommendations to enforce anti-trust practices that will ultimately lead to more prosperity.” I reviewed dozens of his reports. They were all facsimile copies of one another, just substituting specifc industries and some adjectives here and there. Naturally, his reports were praised by government and industry alike, and his proneness to grope the ladies in the ofce was let slide. No one ever questioned that he often accepted lunches, dinners, expensive watches or paid vacations from industry representatives. How could they question that? He was the best at what he did. He had tenure, seniority, he was a patriot committed to the well-being of the Republic. So what if some junior ofcer complained of him brushing up against her bosom? Accidents happen. Corridors are not that wide. So what if he raided the supply room with gusto? A man so talented had to have some eccentricities. Yet on Jameston’s farewell both Doctor No and Manfred the Groper displayed levity and friendliness. Doctor No even invited the Groper to the Yale Club should they ever meet in New York. “Do you remember, the story about the lunar stones?” asked the Groper. “You mean back in the seventies? When we were supposed to write some sort of scientifc report on them but someone screwed the pooch?” asked Doctor No, sipping burgundy and wiping his forehead clean of the few beads of sweat that drinking often produced in him. “Yes!” the Groper turned to face the newer faces and tell them the story. “So NASA sends various samples of lunar rocks to the Smithsonian. They had a military escort. A two-star no QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 13 less. It seemed like it was a dignitary they were tailing, but no, just a bunch of rocks from the moon. So with all fanfare the moon rocks are delivered and presented to the Inspector General. They get here in hermetically sealed, space-age containers and then transferred to a special viewing cabinet, temperature and humidity controlled. Yet after the summer interns took a look at them and we did the reports necessary, they were just very exotic paper weighs taking up precious space. Calls to NASA and to DoD were blind dead-end alleys. They would not send the detachment to pick them up. So the director says we should ship them and bill them. So, they have, of all people, what was that guy’s name, the one with the moustache?” “Nathaniel,” ofered Doctor No with a slight chuckle. “Yes! Nathaniel! He was a technician at our auditorium. So the director has Nathaniel lead the eforts to send the moon rocks back. But guess what? The hermetically sealed, space-age containers are nowhere to be found. Nowhere! Well, except for one, but that’s the one I took the day I forgot my Tupperware.” Doctor No rolled his eyes. “Anyway,” continued the Groper, “Nathaniel, not fnding the proper containers decides to wrap up the moon rocks in newspapers. The poor guy is there in his knees with copies of the Post, like he’s wrapping his Christmas presents! He adds packing peanuts, bubble wrap and brown-tape. Forget about hermetically sealed containers. Then he sticks them in Skillcraft boxes and takes them to the USPS and writes NASA, Florida! When the director found out he went pallid! He said, ‘NASA is going to have my head on a platter.’” Everyone roared with laughter. Jameston’s eyes welled up, both from the merry gufaws and from the fact that this was in all likelihood the last time he was going to see all these people gathered together at once. Unless his idea of heaven was spot 14 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ on. In which case, maybe he would not like to have all of these people with him. And this made him well up more: this was indeed the last time he would be in the presence of the exact combination of people. This was Jameston’s last stint as a government man. I was in a corner, sipping Jameston’s Vietnamese vodka, with the distinct feeling that something was about to change, that I was on the brink of a breakthrough in my career, in my pursuit of truth, in my uncovering of who was the man behind the strings. Maybe it was the vodka talking. I had been wrong before. So many times. If this was the case there was always suicide. Suicide gets too much bad publicity, but it is honorable in most cases. It is a statement. It is having the stones to carry through to the ultimate resolution. I thought of my idea of heaven—unlinked from prejudices against self-immolation. My happy suicidal thoughts were interrupted by Jameston. “You know, Jacob, I do regret one thing. I do regret that I didn’t have the stones or the luck to see us through cracking this wide open.” “I know, sir. It’s a real shame to see you go. Frankly, I don’t know how long I’ll manage to stay aboard without you to look out for me.” “You’re a fne young man. You have a great career ahead of you.” “Well, yeah, if I play ball. But I don’t know if I want to.” “If they push you out they’ll be bums the lot of them. And the Republic would have lost a fne servant. But you have a fne career ahead of you regardless of what you decide; wherever you are.” “I’m honored, sir. But I think today the Republic has already lost the fnest servant I have had the pleasure of working with.” I meant it. I knew Jameston played the game, compromised, but he had enough social conscience to allow real work be done, QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 15 real investigations to take place. Sure he signed of on the nominations of the Groper for government man of the year, but he also kept me in the payroll and out on the streets snifng out the truth. If there was no room in power, in government and in public administration for pure idealism and naiveté, then at least Jameston made sure idealism and naiveté were escorted a few stories up and made their voices heard. His successor—the Manticore—sadly called security and had idealism and naiveté kicked out. Little did I know that my protector’s retirement would trigger me fnding the monkey, the fend, the degenerate, but powerful sorcerer John Bureau, next to whom powerbrokers like the Manticore, the Cheneys or Rockerfellers or the Bildebergs were but lowly butlers. FIVE

IN HIS BESTIARY, Jorge Luis Borges defnes the mythical manticore as a creature with three rows of teeth that ft into each other, the face and ears of a man, the body of a lion, and the tail of a scorpion, which shoots arrows and causes bloodshed. The manticore, adds Borges, loves human fesh and its voice resembles that of a trumpet. Flaubert notes that the manticore also spits forth the plague. I never bothered to learn Jameston’s successor’s name. I only called her the Manticore. Her frst order of business was to have the Groper describe in detail the lunar rock episode. When she read it, she made some calls to the Department of Justice and had Nathaniel prosecuted for breaking protocol. Nathaniel. A guy who had retired almost a decade ago and whose only mistake was having the initiative to carry out an order to the best of his ability. Next she fred everyone—except the Groper—who was within fve years of retirement age and who did not exercise direct supervision. Fired! Secretaries, researchers, people who had worked for years, punching the clock or not, pushing pencils or not, but people who had made an efort, a career, who had survived the system; people who expected to retire on their terms. Bottom line: people. She didn’t even allow them the dignity of a proper farewell. She did not give them a month’s notice; she believed twenty four hours was more than enough. And she had them escorted by security to the door. The Manticore had to pay severance. And that’s the excuse she gave, “Oh, they’ll be better of.” But these people, like all people, took some pride in their jobs. And being shown the boot and adding the insult of escorting them as if they had been caught in QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 17 malfeasance, was just the cherry on top. Of course, paying severance for all those people depleted the funds for the rest of the year meaning we had no operating budget. All representational funds gone. All subscription money to online databases gone. All inter-agency training gone. All possible requests for motor pool gone. Then she promoted the Groper to Assistant Director. The Republic had its share of shortcomings. There was no question about that. Our ofce had its share of shortcomings. But now, with the new leadership, something worse than madness seemed to be the norm; something like directed chaos, or, again, as they say in Hebrew (Ouch! Father, please! Aramaic in origin) tochu va’vochu. Then I learned that the Manticore had been hired from the private sector. Years ago, she had been the legal advisor for the insurance company that turned the table on Ms. Dale. She had orchestrated that perverse act of topsy-turvy justice that left Ms. Dale not only childless, but derelict. The Manticore was the worst kind of bureaucrat: a small person with big ambitions; blind adoration for the institution and no regard for the people; she was the kind of person who believes that Freedom fries really mean freedom and that they should be sold all over the world or else. If I harbored the slightest hope that her senselessness could mean I could slip some reports past her, they were short lived. Especially after I met with my top informant. SIX

EVERY INVESTIGATIVE ANALYST tries to meet with the widest array of contacts. But every investigative analyst gravitates around one top informant that time and again points in the right direction. Paraphrasing Scott Fitzgerald, we only have a limited number of experiences, and we continually come back to them as our source. For me that man was Rich Summit. He looked like a shorter version of a mall Santa Claus, with a well-trimmed beard, plump rosy cheeks and small brown eyes that looked like they were about to lose focus and fx themselves on nothingness, like a camera lens pointed to the lemniscate of infnitum. Rich Summit was the kind of guy who could be an uncle or a professor and who either sees in young people he meets a promise for the future or a hopeless brat whose bark must be redirected to the right tree. I had not yet fgured out which I was, or why in fact he met with me. I normally met with him on Fridays and by coincidence, chance or divine decree, I was always distracted when I met him, whether from over exertion, a romance gone astray or sheer frustration with the system. I rarely had my “A” mental material. I made asinine questions. I pointed out the obvious. Sometimes Rich Summit looked at me with exasperation, on the verge of rolling his eyes, and he would explain to me one more time what he had just said. And yet he kept agreeing to see me. I met him in a Starbucks a few blocks away from the National Mall. It was a Friday. I was distracted. In other words, it would be a typical meeting with Rich. I had not gotten over the departure of Jameston and the prosecution of Nathaniel or the “letting go” of scores of co-workers; much less over the story QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 19 of Ms. Dale and the appointment of the Groper as assistant director. I had given up shaving and I must have looked rather unkempt. Without much hope for the future, I sat ready to let my hand write what I was only subconsciously hearing Rich say while my mind drifted until it was time to ask an asinine question of something he had just explained. Except that Rich slapped the table. “It’s all over,” he said. “What? Is it all over?” “Did you know that the stock exchange has the equivalent of the world Gross Domestic Product of one hundred years?” “The world GDP of one hundred years?” I couldn’t help myself. Realizing this, I attempted a comeback. “Is that because the banks are allowed to loan money while only having ten percent of all their operations in actual cash?” “The banking multiplier is only part of it,” he said shaking his head. “What does the trick is the derivatives market. That multiplies the banking sector by ten. So less than one percent of all worldwide operations are backed by actual real money.” “Well, but that is not a secret right?” “It’s better than a secret. It’s a secret in plain sight. And the best part is this: no oversight. The monster is loose. We are past the point of no return. Do you know how many days the stock exchange worked years ago?” “Five?” “Four. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. This is obviously in the pre computer era. The volume of operations became such that they had to halt on Wednesdays to log it all in the books. They did the same Saturdays. But with the advent of computers and their constant sophistication, this was no longer necessary. Operations are logged immediately as they happen. But it’s a self-perpetuating system. You hear that the market closes. But in fact it never does. Because operations continue 20 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

around the world around the clock. And you cannot stop it. The system has become self-aware. It’s the Terminator nightmare. It’s Skynet, only, instead of killing machines, the system is made up of fortunes that do not exist, yet have the capability to bring the world to its knees! So much for the dangers of fction. The nonexistent fortunes can ruin the real lives of millions of people. And the lie repeated a million times became a truth upon which the world depends—you cannot halt operations without collapsing the whole system. Imagine chaos, panic, people rushing to banks and grocery stores. Looting, violence. Do you know that since 2008 the majority of the world population lives in cities? This means that in the event of chaos, in the event that the system entirely collapses, less people know how to actually produce food. We allowed ourselves to get tremendously separated from primary activities. Sure, the city is full of politicians, fnancial analysts, entertainers, salespeople, bankers, ofce workers who consume what the system produces. But how many of them can actually create a sustainable meal? How many can survive after a month when the canned food, the water bottles run out, when there is no electricity, no air conditioning to counter the temperature outside? So no. The system made itself self-perpetuating. And people will defend it, knowing the alternative. Again, operations cannot be stopped without collapsing the whole fnancial system; the current world order, in fact. “Now I heard a rumor of how it all started. You heard about Jekyll Island and the creation of the Federal Reserve by bankers? That’s child’s play. That’s just another chapter in a grander narrative. We are talking about something far graver, far more dangerous and far more powerful. We are talking about John Bureau.” And that was the frst time I heard the fend’s name. True to my moronic style I echoed, “John Bureau?” QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 21

“Yes, Jacob. John Bureau. I frst heard that name when I was young. I was part of a society for the initiates, called the Owl of Minerva. I guess it was your prototypical secret society. But I pride that its sole intent was the pursuit of knowledge. And drinking. I was doing my masters in economics. And I had the distinct feeling that something was odd, that something in the world didn’t add up. I felt that the avidness for individual lucre could not account for how fucked up we were. I felt like…” “Like something worse than madness ruled the world?” I ventured. His eyes lit up. That was probably the one bright sentence I had spoken in all my years of knowing him. “Yes. Exactly. So I looked beyond the school grounds and in the archives of the Owl. I asked people I trusted. I asked those who initiated me. It took me a while to get to that name. And I was told there is a book describing who John Bureau is and how he took over the world. But chasing a rumor is a young man’s game and I was engaged with my frst wife and we were expecting. I could never fnd the book. But the name kept coming up. It is worshipped, kept in utmost secret and adored with zeal in the highest echelons. And I also heard it despised by outcast bands of poets and human rights defenders. The powers that be have made a damned good efort to keep that name away from any digital records. Go ahead, take out your smart phone and Siri him. You won’t fnd him. “So Jacob, you’re upset about Jameston leaving? You’re upset about your new mean boss turning everything upside down? You want to fle a report that will blow the lid on everything that is wrong with the Republic, with the world at large? You want to become the ultimate whistle blower? You want to know why Ms. Dale got hosed; why the little guy gets it every time; why there is a permanent rotation of personnel between Goldman-Sachs, the Department of Treasury and the Federal Reserve; why no one in politics or the fnancial sector 22 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ who is truly guilty of a heinous crime is ever convicted? Find John Bureau. Go to the books, Jacob. That’s why I’ve been meeting with you for the past years. Because I knew someone of your background is perfectly capable of understanding that there are two worlds coexisting. And accepting two worlds coexisting is what it takes to follow the trail of John Bureau. We’ve been led to believe that there is no magic in the world, that what we see is what we get. When in fact that is the biggest, grandest, most blatant lie John Bureau told the world. Go to the books. Find that name. That’s the money you have to follow, kid.” SEVEN

I WENT BACK to the ofce and flled out form OF-W86 to report extended periods of feld work and/or temporary duty outside the ofce. With the protection of that leaf, which the Manticore signed absent-mindedly, I had time to pursue the rumor of John Bureau. Rich Summit was a lucid man if there ever was one. He was right. My background allowed me to hold two opposing worldviews simultaneously as true. And all my research suggested in fact that we had run out of logical explanations. I was ready to look for the magical ones. Besides, Rich would not lead me on some conspiracy theory I could confrm or deny with a quick listen to the Alex Jones podcast. He had said go to the books. That meant he had done the leg work already, for years—and he was better connected than I could ever hope to be. So no use asking about John Bureau while whoring around in the streets—it was time for the library.

ENTERING THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE, disgusted as I was with the system, I almost choked when I had to present a photo identifcation and pass through a metal detector. Could one John Bureau be responsible for all this? Could this system of bureaucracy that suddenly became more powerful than any of its operators have been orchestrated by John Bureau? I spent weeks looking through books, references, cross references. The problem we faced went way back. Some brave economist had denounced it in the eighteenth century (but even 24 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ by then, the problem was old). Jacques Claude de Gournay was the nomothete who denounced the illness of “bureaumania,” though he later opted for the less mellifuous “bureaucracy.” Sociologist Maximilian Weber noted advantages to the regime of bureaucracy, but even he had to concede that it threatened individual freedoms—I would add common sense—and could lead humanity to a “polar night of icy darkness.” (Weber, the mellifuous, might have been a stif, but he had the heart of a poet). For a good couple of centuries, philosophers and social scientists had explored the origins of bureaucracy and warned against its evils. And instances of it were described as far back as the Roman Empire by Lactanius, the Chinese dynasties that preceded the Quin and the cultures of Mesopotamia. Wait… Roman Empire? Mesopotamia? Quin Dynasty? This really did go way back. I had been coming to the public library for three weeks straight, for a good nine hours each day. My eyes were sore. One of the infections of bureaucracy—among the most nefarious— was the use of fuorescent lighting, the kind that renders skin a greenish, sickly hue, in lieu of more ample windows that allowed natural light in. Bureaucracy fghts against what is natural. I set a book down and rubbed my eyes. Suddenly, my sight came upon a door that was partially blocked by a book case. That was precisely the kind of thing bureaucracy would do: block a door to save space. Once I heard a great man tell a story of someone who died because he had a heart attack in a government ofce and the paramedics had to be screened through security and their equipment swabbed in search of explosive materials. But there was something about this door. It was close to six and the library would close soon. I looked around and there was no one in sight. I left my books and timidly approached the book case. I checked once more to see if QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 25 anyone was aware of my unscripted movements. In the post- P.A.T.R.I.O.T. Act dichotomy between security and liberty, and the ridiculous, Pyrrhic victory of the former, it was only a matter of time before they installed surveillance cameras in the library to thought police users with the excuse of preventing shoplifting. So, before the eye in the sky came, I tried pulling the case. I miscalculated the weight. I crouched parallel to the wall and pushed the case from below. There was a slight sound. Not enough to attract attention, but I triple checked. All clear. I reached for the knob, turned, and as if there was a spring that had just been released, the door sprung open vehemently. The room was dark and I instinctively touched the wall, feeling my way to fnd a switch. An old, warm bulb from another era, before the infection of fuorescent lighting, welcomed me with its golden incandescence. There was a short corridor that led to a small hexagonal room. At the moment I did not give it much thought, but some sort of Escher paradoxical architecture was in place because the dimensions inside did not match those outside. The hexagonal room had old book shelves along four of its walls, pregnant with books and codices. Most were bound in leather and possessed the delicate scent of old paper. I looked around and browsed the titles: De Vulgari Eloquentia; The Anglo American Cyclopaedia; History of a Land Called Uqbar; Pierre Menard’s Quixote; J.C. Audetat’s Quixote; Pope’s Illiad; a monograph of the Babylon lottery system; Hic Sunt Leones; Aristotle’s Poetics; blueprints of the Library of Babel; a frst print of Radioactive Man where he and Fallout Boy die in every page; Memoirs of Christian Rosencreutz; Principles of Sympathy; Father Kircher’s Deciphering of Marci’s Manuscript on Botany, Astrology and Anatomy; Frau Trofea’s Personal Account of Her Experience of the Dancing Plague; I Unicorn: An Autobiography; The Collected Letters of Presbyter Johannes; The True Apocrypha Evangelism; The Book of the Rising into 26 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ the Light and the Dissolving into Darkness. And on, and on, and on. I understood then that I was in that most irresistible of nooks that all libraries—even libraries designed, stafed and managed by bureaucrats—have: the forbidden section. I was looking forward to a bountiful romance with the forbidden. I would have locked myself inside to read the jewels of the crown until daybreak, until I had to come out for food. I wanted to check for the absence of colophons to confrm I was in the presence of some incunabula, books published in the few decades after Gutenberg’s Bible. I wanted to touch and smell every item in the hexagonal room. But one particular book grabbed my attention and refused to let go. It was bound in blue, discolored leather and had the title pressed in gold Roman type. I could not believe my eyes—or my luck—so I read the title again. The second read confrmed what I hoped: How John Bureau Conquered the World and How We Plan to Overthrow Him. There was no author, but it was published, it said, by “The Scribes of Haiim.” Compared to other volumes in the hexagonal room, this one was signifcantly new. Its colophon said 1941 reprint. I was enthralled when I confrmed, leafng through it, that How John Bureau… was indeed the secret history Rich Summit wanted me to fnd. It was almost closing time and I had no guarantee I would have access to this sancto again, so I decided to break the law and take the book with every intention of not returning it. And I was ready to become a thought criminal by reading it. I had a ziplock bag in my backpack. I placed the book in it, neatly coated it with my sweater and tinfoil from my sandwich—to prevent detectors from hollering in case it was tagged—turned of the light, closed the door and replaced the shelf outside in its guarding position. I had a rush of adrenalin, but to my pleasant surprise, I did not buzz when I stepped out of the library, and as soon as I turned the corner, I ran like mad to my apartment. I locked the door, closed the QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 27 blinds, cleaned a small table and took out my precious loot. I began reading and reread it several times all through the night. I savored every forbidden word in that book. And by the time dawn broke, I was in a state of literary ecstasy. I was also in denial. And in shock. Two questions held my soul: could that story be true? And if it was, was it even possible to defeat John Bureau? EIGHT (How John Bureau Conquered the World)

BEFORE RECORDS WERE KEPT, before they even mattered, there lived in the Land of Time a powerful sorcerer named John Bureau. Though it was periodically sieged by neighboring kingdoms whose monarchs sought the privileges of perpetuity lost in the Fall of Adam and Eve, the Land of Time proved unconquerable. In the magical geography, before the space-time oracular mechanism that linked all places and all times was destroyed, the Land of Time was closer to the earthly paradise than any other point in the world. Life was pleasant in the Land of Time. Shadows lived long and merry lives, stretching drowsily as the sun and moon performed their celestial choreography. And the shadow’s owners went to and fro at their leisure with the particular slowness and acquiescence of a leaf fickered by the subtle spring wind. In this, John Bureau was unlike his fellow citizens. There was a particular uneasiness about him. Even when he was studying or putting into practice sacred knowledge, casting spells, reciting divinations or decanting dreams, he seemed to be speeding. This made him stand out and learn at a faster rate than his fellow sorcerers. He was ravenous and avid in his desire to seize knowledge and to transform reality. When others asked him what the rush was, considering the benefts of his place of residence, he replied, “Ars longa. Vita brevis.” His response was met by surprised looks and dismissive giggles. “As much in a hurry as you may be,” they replied, “the stars will not move faster. Respect their drowsy movements of lazy elegance if you want to read them correctly.” Partly because of his avidness, the lord of the realm, Time QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 29 itself, took a liking to Bureau. The sorcerer was invited to Time’s palace with frequency where he was regaled with the dances of eons and centuries, and was served by minutes and hours. John Bureau’s respect for time, his strive to accomplish as much as possible every second greatly pleased the lord. But Time failed to see that Bureau’s obsessive restlessness was cause for major concern. For Bureau there was always something more important and pressing and precious than the present beholding him. And therefore, though it bit him in the nose, happiness was always pushed back. Unaware of the peril of this decision, Time shared with Bureau the secrets of the space-time oracular mechanism that linked all places and all times. Time indeed shared many secrets that ultimately made Bureau one of the most powerful wizards; secrets that no one man with a frail heart should possess. In exchange, Bureau interpreted dreams for Time in such grey tones that Time found amusing. The Land of Time was vast, but the moment came, however, when John Bureau’s restlessness led him away. He believed he had seen and learned all he could. Time regretted seeing John Bureau go, knew he would miss the grey interpretation of dreams, but had no intention of standing in his way. He bestowed upon John several gifts and charms: a cracked glass that allowed the beholder to gaze into the future, a set of golden mean calipers to allow all his designs to bear the mark of perfection, and a good supply of hours as well as some years to use when necessary. Thus began John Bureau’s journeys. His good looks and noteworthy prowess in the felds of magic and what would in latter-years be known as alchemy soon earned him quite a reputation. Bureau learned from and worked with the brightest minds of the lands of Persia, Egypt, Babylon and Judea. Then, after a few years of learning wanderings, he set up a small shop which became well known for distilling dreams and taming 30 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ nightmares in the environs of Mesopotamia. Or the Mesopotamia of back then. Details are scant as to their frst encounter, but John Bureau met and fell in love with a beautiful woman, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Haiim: Princess Naiveté. It is said that to impress her, Bureau drew a circle, spoke a sacred word ordering the circle to reproduce itself, and the circle did, until it escaped its two-dimensional reality and became a very real fower of the most exquisite scent. Her advisors, well aware of the reputation and hometown of John, urged the princess to welcome him to the court, for a proper court, they said, cannot be without its share of foreign and exotic denizens that lend piquancy and an air of metropolis. A tender relationship evolved between Bureau and Naiveté. Only in Naiveté’s milk-and-honey eyes, her golden skin, her desert night voice and fresh touch, did he feel truly at ease. In her presence his restlessness evaporated. Only conversing with the princess, did Bureau’s knowledge, and in fact his life, gain any meaning. Bureau felt that a single evening strolling around the palace terrace pool, hand in hand with her was more powerful than any of his charms, anything he had ever learned. The princess often summoned the sorcerer to her chambers, where they would talk for hours, until afternoons became nights and nights became mornings. In the beautiful marble terrace that overlooked the land of Haiim, the rivers and the mountains, the inevitable occurred and the talks became caresses, whispers, moans and pleasure. John Bureau and Princess Naiveté crossed the invisible threshold of carnal unity and for both it seemed like the rest of life was dust in the wind. And on the matter of dust, since his visits to her chamber became more frequent, suspicions and rumors rose and lingered like the dust of an old carpet under the sun. But the intoxication of love made Bureau and Naiveté carefree. In spite of the whispers and the rumors, Bureau and QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 31

Naiveté gave themselves entirely to each other, for they had learned the greatest thing you’ll ever learn. In that fair and magic realm of Haiim John Bureau fnally found peace. He loved Princess Naiveté more than he knew he could. He felt, whenever he saw her, whenever he caressed her, the ultimate mystical process take place in his heart. He was a very powerful sorcerer, but no concoction of his could come close to produce the increased heartbeat, the dilated pupils, the ultra- sensitiveness in the skin, the irrational thoughts, the vulnerability, and the feeling that everything had a meaning, that he was…happy. Only fnding your place in the world could even come close to the glorious high of loving. But the time came when the king wanted to use his heiress as a chess piece to secure the expansion and prosperity of the realm through an arranged marriage with Prince Elegance. Incidentally, when her father informed her of this, Naiveté was not torn. Love and marriage were not a construct that went together as horse and carriage. In that court, it was not uncommon for everyone to have their legal spouses and their actual loves happily coexisting in the royal corridors. Except for providing an heir, there was no reason why she could not remain John’s. And she was naïve enough to believe that everything could work out for all involved parties—her father could have a kingdom; Elegance could have a wife and an heir he could boast about; and she and Bureau could have their love. But Bureau was not as simple-minded. When John Bureau was told by his love what her father was doing, he was beyond disgusted. Still riding the high of love, he felt devastated, sick to his stomach, ill-at-ease. He cried like a schoolgirl. John wanted Naiveté all to himself. He could not conceive of someone, anyone, traversing the sweet, golden geography of her body, or rippling the pond of her heart where he wished only he could see his refection. Naiveté gave herself fully to him to calm him down. But seeing her nude body, 32 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ tortured by thoughts that anyone else could gaze at it, undid him. He was desperate and begged her to leave at once for the Land of Time. He was in good terms with the lord and they could, he said, live a happy, quiet life together. She was so moved by John’s need for her that her milk and honey eyes shed tears of joy and pain and accepted. She spoke to him softly in that desert night voice that rendered Bureau a mad man. She said they should make arrangements to leave in forty eight hours, in the dead of night. Every palace has at least one secret passage that leads, in the event it is deemed necessary, to the anonymous safety of the city. They agreed she would use one such passage that ended next to the fountain in the main square of Haiim. During the next hours John moved hastily to tie up loose ends. He prepared concoctions that would be useful for the road, like hunger sedatives and capsuled strength. He packed up all his potions, formulae and equipment he could take riding. He could not sell the property lest he raise suspicions, but he boarded all the windows. And he invested a signifcant amount of his riches in two fne horses and gave them his very own dream distillate so that they could ride without end until they reached the land that saw John Bureau’s birth. And in the few spare moments he could fnd between errands, John dreamed of his beloved and thought how beautiful she would look riding. He wondered what she would think about the Land of Time. He imagined the home life they could lead where the comfort and luxuries of the castle would have to be made up for with the exquisiteness of pleasure and the sweetness of tenderness. Never did Bureau imagine any other outcome for him and his love. But when the agreed time came, John found himself alone in a fountain with two drugged horses. His princess was not there and no trace of her in sight. He tried to listen for any sign that could tell of her approach. All the warm thoughts of tenderness suddenly became chilling thoughts of unrest. He paced in a QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 33 panic. Then he remembered he had packed one of the gifts Time had given him: the cracked glass that allowed the beholder to gaze into the future. Though he had expected to give it to his frst born, the situation got the better of John and he used it. A moment later he dropped the crystal and smashed it with a hatchet, for it revealed that though his princess loved him, she would not leave with him, drawn as she was to naïve thoughts of trying to please everyone and a slight temptation to meet Elegance. Further, John saw what he had feared so bitterly: his beloved in someone else’s threshold; giving herself to another man; having this man’s child. Fear and jealousy turned his blood sour. In a ft of rage John butchered the horse he had reserved for Princess Naiveté, mounted his own and rode for days far from the Kingdom of Haiim until he lost himself. He regained consciousness a month later, having been rescued by nomadic desert tribes. He was fed and clad. He thanked his benefactors and left. The bitterness in his heart did not yield, but he harbored a faint hope that he could fnd meaning to life again. Brokenhearted, John Bureau longed to fnd solace returning to the Land of Time. His past there, while restless, now seemed to him like a haven, an oasis of a simpler time before he had known the glory and agony of love. But Time is not a merciful master. When John returned, the place where he had grown up seemed barely recognizable, for time marches at a diferent rate in its epicenter than it does in the periphery. John Bureau felt even more disconsolate now that his hometown was foreign to him. He requested an audience with the Lord, but Time had other priorities at the moment. One morning, walking through the main square of the Land of Time, John Bureau reached a tipping point. Dawn had broken and patches of radiant blue skies showed through the thick, grey clouds. Bureau felt sick to his stomach and the cool, crisp gust 34 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ failed to help. He stumbled, rushed to what he considered the most discreet corner of the busy square and vomited violently. Bent in half, he heard his own guttural eforts sound remote as if they belonged to someone else. He was further nauseated by images of Princess Naiveté in the arms of Prince Elegance, images of Elegance’s seed impregnating her. He wished he could stop vomiting. Tears swelled in his eyes. Finally, with his mouth tasting like bile and feeling miserable he left the Land of Time once more to live as a hermit. Far from helping him, loneliness made his heart sourer with every passing day. He would gag and choke whenever he thought of the images he had seen in his looking glass. Bureau turned into a thunderstorm whenever he thought of his own days with the princess. His frail heart was broken, and it would never recover. The wound was infected. Any other man would have withered and died, but John Bureau, being from the Land of Time, lived on. And he knew too much. More than any man with a frail heart should know. The indefatigable march of the stars turned his depression into fury until he made up his mind to have his vengeance… NINE

I KEPT the book close to me, in my ofce and wherever I went. The questions became unbearable: Could it be real? And if so, could John Bureau be defeated? I began seeing government work for what it was. It all seemed useless. When I was not rereading the book I was staring for hours at the photo of Newport Beach my cousin Diego had sent me or walking the National Gallery during lunch. On one such visit I came upon Thomas Cole’s the Voyage of Life. The work is composed of four panels that span childhood, youth, manhood and old age. The frst shows an angel and an infant navigating a river on a small boat. The boat is just sailing out of a dark cavern and is laden with roses and laurels. The second panel shows the angel, standing in the bank of the river, urging on the young man who is now alone in the boat. The river is fanked by fertile lands on either bank. A mountain and a cloud palace lay in the horizon. The youth is aiming at the cloud palace and his eagerness is contagious. However, by manhood, the fertile lands have given way to rocks and death; the previously calm and pleasant river has turned into dangerous rapids; and the palace in the clouds has disappeared behind a violent storm. The man is kneeling on the boat, beseeching heavenly protection. The angel still guards the protagonist but remains at a great distance while the man is faced by ghostly apparitions in the sky. And then, as I was about to lose hope, old age: The man, who has lost half his hair and all its color is once again closely guided by his angel. The river has made its way to the ocean and the imposing darkness of the clouds has been left behind. The sun shines once more amid suave and pastel colored clouds. A second angel is descending 36 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

from the light to greet the man. After looking at that oeuvre, I quickly found my way to the restroom, went into a stall and wept. Was my angel far away? Had I left my youth behind? Scott Fitzgerald’s fappers would consider me an old man, without a doubt. Alexander of Macedonia was in his deathbed at my age. Was life intrinsically turbulent? Was John Bureau in complete control of the world? Were hope and naiveté dead? Was my only consolation fowing into the ocean? Perhaps. The Pacifc Ocean. Orange County. California. I was through with trying to make a diference. I was through with the Manticore and trying to blow the lid. I knew how powerful John Bureau was. What diference could I make? I wanted to do a real, honest, salt of the earth job, with my hands. I wanted to get a tan and surf. And it would also be nice to live with family, close to my cousins, Diego and Jaime; and my parents, the Countess and Abba. I walked away from D.C. with the intention of never going back. The end of the continent, a golden eternity in the Golden State was all I wanted. The only real memento I took of D.C., representing all my disillusionment was the book How John Bureau Conquered the World and How We Plan to Overthrow Him. I would keep that as a reminder. But as I suddenly did not feel like a young man any more, fghting powerful wizards interested me less than reuniting with the family.

MOTHER, better known as the Countess, née Ignatia Campe y Cos, belonged to an undoubtedly proud, questionably noble, and indefatigably eccentric family. The Campe y Cos trace their origins to anno Domini 1727; the sixteenth day of August, 1727, to be precise. The “dynasty,” like everyone in it, was Leo. QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 37

The sign of the Lion, supreme sovereign over the element of fre, and sign of the House of Hapsburg, the Campe y Cos believed, was the true root of their nobility. It was the foundation for their obstinate belief that they were somehow anointed from above. It also represented their trademark ingratitude, because regardless of whether they were anointed from heaven or not, the Campe y Cos benefactor was a monarch from the House of Bourbon. As such, winking at the Hapsburgs was ill-advised. On August 16, 1727, during the third year of his second reign, King Philip of Spain, ffth of his name, bestowed upon Ana Maria Campe y Cos the title of Countess of St. Valparadiso—a sizeable region in western Mexico. It is said that King Philip was struck by Ana Maria’s sizable beauty mark, placed prominently in her left temple. Later generations would say that the beauty mark, or chiquiador, was nobler than “the whole sum of bums of the so-called enlightenment.” Like all things in the New World, nobility was a hybrid, bastard version of what it was in moldy Europe. It was certainly not a noblesse d’épée, stemming from the valiant who fought the infdel in the Crusades, but it wasn’t exactly a noblesse de robe either granted to the wealthy merchant classes. Nobility granted for the settlers of the New World on the one hand required the precondition of commercial prestige, as would be the case in the noblesse de robe, but it also involved securing a stronghold of the Spanish crown in heathen territory, as was the case in the épée variety. Ana Maria Campe y Cos settled in western Mexico and, after securing a permit from viceroy Miguel de la Grua Talamanca in 1795 to concoct and distill agave wine, better known for the namesake town whence it was frst produced: tequila. Before the Campe y Cos extended a vast wasteland under pufy clouds in an agave blue sky. Ana Maria played her role of 38 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

matriarch splendidly. She was a strong, bull-headed woman who turned the wasteland into a heartland, as much getting her hands dirty as cracking her whip and bossing around the poor mestizos who found themselves her subjects. Since then and all the way to date, the Campe y Cos were synonymous with producing quality tequila. My mother, Ignatia Campe y Cos, was bestowed with the title of Countess by her father Simon (Grandpa Simon), and expected to marry a friendly family to secure interests. Ignatia, the sixth Countess of Valparaiso, was alternatively known as the Pearl of the Pacifc, the Terror of Tequila, Lady Maguey, the par excellence socialite of mid-century Guadalajara, the dread of the wed. Ignatia was a handful from an early age. Ignatia absorbed the sort of education that will be quite impossible ever again; a tutelage measured by the number of things and people one could be contemptuous of and charming about… an educational extravagance that in her youth was only for the daughters of the exceptionally wealthy. Simon Campe y Cos had deposited great hopes and expectations on Ignatia since he renounced the title of Count in her favor. And like every father, he expected her to follow his every step, regardless of changes in time and diferences in nature. But it was always in the Countess’ nature to follow none but her own whim. Simon did not mind that Ignatia told of members of government or the clergy, or that her sharp tongue undiplomatically whipped plebeians and members of nobility alike. But he could not tolerate that she would not obey in the most basic thing expected of her: an arranged marriage, much less, that she would marry an American Jew. To his credit, Grandpa Simon recognized the strength, the fervor, the indomitable nature of the Countess. He was gracious enough to work around it and took the trouble to fnd a man of good family who could be manipulated by her without too QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 39 much trouble. So the prospect husband would be a façade, a front man, a mere puppet she would throw around while she made the real business and family decisions. The man chosen was Pedro Gomez. His meekness was legendary. His alias was “Agony.” His face seemed to be perpetually troubled by something and reminded one of a painful death. Were it not for his frightful expression, he was not too repulsive looking. But the Countess was obstinate. She was never one to be toyed with. And few things could upset her more than plans being laid out for her to follow. Ignatia tried to reason with her father. She told him a noble family, a lineage so proud and persistent that traced its roots to King Philip the Fifth, had no need to follow obsolete paradigms. Simon, alas, was as obstinate as her. Agony did not have bad intentions. But he became the object of her abuse. Ignatia took out all her spite on him from the very frst moment he was invited to the family estate for an introductory dinner. Agony managed to hint a smile at the start. After all, Ignatia was quite a catch and not hard on the eyes, but it went downhill from there. She zoomed in on his ash-colored skin, his nerdy hairdo, his nervous stuttering. Without paying attention to the pheasant on her plate, she got out one slim cigarette and a long mouthpiece. Though Simon frowned and protested, she lit the cigarette and remained there quiet, staring intensely at Agony. The poor lad began sweating, intimidated, not knowing what to do or say. “So, Pedro, how is your mother and father?” asked Grandpa Simon in an attempt to calm him and engage in conversation. “They are fne… fne, sir, thank you. They send their warmest,” then he smiled his pathetic smile to Ignatia, which he erased a millisecond later with her unforgiving gaze. “The Gomez have been some of the fnest cattle breeders in the land for generations,” said Simon, trying to fatter. “Yes, thank you, sir.” 40 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

“How are your riding abilities, boy?” “They are fne,” he said, almost spilling the food from his fork. “My uncles think I’m ready for colts now.” He was the epitome of anguish, a sinking ship in a dinner table. Then he began choking, literally, as Ignatia blew her smoke directly to him. “So, is that the best you can do?” she interjected, “Is that what men talk about when they’re alone?” “Ignatia!” Simon tried to stop her. She ignored him and continued. “Seems rather harmless if you ask me. Why I had heard rumors that men talked about brothels and sizes of women’s breasts.” “Ignatia! That language is unbecoming of a lady,” Simon said louder. Agony blushed as a sun-ripened tomato. “Well, am I not speaking the truth? Don’t act like my good aunts, now, you know well it doesn’t ft you, dear father. I’m merely trying to assess the character of our distinguished guest. But he seems to be scared-y as a mouse. What kind of husband can I expect if he cannot even hear a word he undoubtedly thinks about twenty times a day without blushing. And if he doesn’t think about that, then what kind of man is he to begin with?” Simon’s eyes were popping out in anger, toad like, and it is a miracle that Agony had not fainted by that point, but Ignatia continued smoking peacefully. “Well, carry on, if you will. I’ll keep quiet. I’m obviously too much to handle for either of you. This has been most illustrating.” Then she got up and left. Simon was crossed, and he was not one to be crossed. He calmed Agony down and apologized on her behalf. “She really is a wonderful girl. I don’t know what got into her. She must have been impressed by your personality, your charisma and QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 41 your looks. Please, I’ll arrange something.” And Agony, like a retard, swallowed the spoonful of lies Simon force-fed him and smiled through his frown, agreeing to begin the courting process. At least once, as Agony walked over to the estate with fowers, he was greeted by a bucketful of ice-cold water, quickly followed by a bucketful of four. The anguished human batter fed as if he had received a death threat. After making many excuses, Ignatia actually decided to go out with him, with her baby sister Rosaline faithfully fulflling the honorable duties of a chaperone. Ignatia did not let up. She bombarded Agony with questions like, “Pedro, is that really what your face looks like? Because I think the Guadalajara water is doing you wrong. Ever since I laid eyes on you, you look like you have a catarrh and are trying your darndest not to sneeze. Really it’s alright. Everybody sneezes. Let it out. Maybe if you do I will be able to see the handsome man behind that frown.” Statements like that of course only tormented him and perpetuated his frown. Money was not an issue with Agony. He came from a wealthy family. So the strategy of riding him for all he was worth was out of the question. Rather, she would neglect any indulgence he ofered. “Ignatia, do you want to get some ice-cream? It sure is hot.” “I most certainly do not. I do not intend to become a fat matron from a Velasquez painting. You should know better than to ask a lady that, you frivolous tempting devil.” Agony, scolded, retracted. Then, as they strolled through the downtown streets, she went over to a shop window to look at some bracelet or another, looking at it as if it meant the world to her. In his most reverential sweet tone he would ask, “Ignatia, with you ingratiate me with the opportunity of buying you that?” 42 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

“How dare you?! I come from a good family. You cannot buy me with presents. Do you take me for a common street walker?” “No, of course not, Ignatia. I apologize, I did not mean anything like that,” he said fushed. “The nerve of you! I should ask my brothers to run you out of town, tie you to a truck and drag you around for a while.” Then at the kiosk Ignatia looked intensely at the newspaper headlines, as if the events of the world were of particular relevance to her. “I’ll get a copy,” ofered Agony. “And soil my hands with the ink and my mind with the flth that is printed?” Agony again desisted. When he walked her back home, an obstinately hopeful Simon greeted them at the door. “So how was it?” he asked. “Pedro is the cheapest man in the world. If I didn’t know any better I’d say that he is a penny pinching street beggar. I would look into his family fnances better if I were you, father. If a man cannot oblige to a little caprice, a small, delicate whim of a woman, what kind of a provider can we expect him to be. And if he doesn’t know that women need convincing and is not even willing to try, then be gone with him at once!” Agony’s face turned every color in the visible spectrum and perhaps even ultraviolet, but dared not contradict her. Simon just shook his head exasperated and invited Agony out. After a month or so of this, it fnally ended when, during a chaperoned promenade Agony fell to his knee and asked Ignatia to marry him. In his mens parva he actually thought he was making progress with her. And he would not have been wrong if it was another woman. He could have wearied any other woman’s defenses; but not the Countess’. As he did his best efort to clear his expression from every possible cloud, there on his knee, Ignatia cracked out, sincerely. That was, for her, the QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 43 pièce de résistance. After a month of treating him like a gooey substance stuck to the bottom of her sole, he still produced a ring with a sapphire—diamonds were not customary for Mexican engagements at the time. Tears rolled down her cheeks from her ladylike gufaws. The Campe y Cos cannot tell a joke without drowning in laughter before they even remotely approach the punch line. When she could fnally control her laughter, she said, “Dear boy, you can get up now. That was really sweet of you. But in a million years I would not marry you if my life, if my family’s honor, if my baby sisters’ future depended on it. You have been played by the Campe y Cos. I’m sorry you are a casualty in the war between my dad’s obstinacy and mine. Besides, I must say that your grim face reminds me too much of the sufering in this world and the poor children who starve, so I would say ‘no’ to you even if I had met you by chance, not through the machinations of my father. Now, you’d better stop wasting your time with me because, baby, you have no time to waste. If you add the mark of time to your face of anguish, then you should become a priest because you will have no ofspring and no woman will ever go near you even if there was money involved. So run along, boy. It’s been nice to know you.” Agony left crying. A month later Simon received a note, formally an estrangement from the Gomez who expressed “their deepest concern and disgust” for the way their son was treated. Simon lost money on the issue, and an ally. He was irate, but that was just the beginning. He was in for a ride of wrath, because a comet passed.

WHILE SHOPPING for expensive dresses in the choicest 44 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

department store in the city on one late summer afternoon, for the strangest reasons, Ignatia Campe y Cos found herself in an elevator with a man. Something in his Jewish expression appealed to her; the thin, long nose, the thick underlip, the blue Sinatra eyes, the dark skin, and hair in which ash and smoke fought for chromatic supremacy. He was unlike anyone she had ever met. He was unlike anyone in Guadalajara. A traveling American salesman pushing the Latin American market for a thread company, Sal was merely hours away from leaving town when his sight came across a pretentious, undeniably beautiful young member of the extant Mexican nobility. He was twelve years her senior and several million dollars her junior. Call it fate. Or as the Hebrews, call it mazaal. Sal did not catch his ride out of town. They had dinner. Contrary to family tradition, contrary to all good virtues to be upheld by mid-century noblesse, they went unchaperoned. Sal was not fresh. He had his very peculiar good looks, but he was not a player. And his family was certainly not the most orthodox, but before that road trip south of the border it was pretty safe to assume that he would fnd himself a nice Sephardim wife that would engender a nice Jewish American family. But the attraction between Sal and Ignatia altered the previously expected orbits of both. In spite of his bad Spanish and her bad English, they started seeing each other. One could argue that it was just dinner, that it was just cofee, that it was just a walk in the park; but as innocuous as it may sound, it’s never just dinner, it’s never just cofee, and it’s never just a walk in the park. The most prominent bachelorette in town could not remain anonymous for too long in 1960’s Guadalajara. Not that she was even trying to conceal her steps, to take precautions or keep forms. But word leaked from someone who knew someone who employed someone who was cousin with someone who served QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 45

Ms. Ignatia Campe y Cos and an American, a Jew, alone, in a dark table of a restaurant.

PERHAPS WHAT FOLLOWED WAS ENTIRELY the whim of the Countess. But there remains a slight possibility that the mysterious, quiet, distant foreigner gave her something that nobody else could. Perhaps Dad was destined for Mom, period. When rumor fnally reached him, Grandpa Simon just thought it was a bad joke. As a matter of fact, that month, he was closer and more loving to Ignatia than practically ever before. He called her his countess, his heir, his pride, the Sor Juana of her times. He even dared to joke about her unmarried state. Perhaps it was just denial. Perhaps it was the receding water before a tsunami. Ignatia appreciated the attention but took it with a grain of salt. When Sal came back from the United States some weeks later, he asked the Countess to marry him. And oh mystery of mysteries, she said yes. That night she broke the news to Grandpa Simon. “Father, it gives me great pleasure to inform you that I have fnally accepted a marriage proposal?” Simon was cautiously optimistic but perplexed. “But I have not introduced you to anyone. Have you come to your senses and given Agony the honor?” Even Simon called Pedro “Agony.” “No father. I thank you for lining up that fne specimen for me. You must surely have gone through some troubles to convince the Gomez to forgive you, given what I did to Pedro.” “Anything for my countess,” he smiled, nervous. “Yes, well, save it, father. I’m marrying a man named Sal Goldstein.” “I don’t know him. He is not from Mexico City, is he? You 46 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

know chilangos cannot be trusted,” he winked. Then it hit him. As rich and powerful as he was, it would be an overstatement to suggest he knew everything that happened in Guadalajara. But he did know there had been a salesman from the United States trying to conduct business in town. “It’s not the American, is it?” he fnally said as his eyes slowly popped out of their orbits and he began the process of bloating like a toad. “It is.” “The Jew?” “I wonder why all of a sudden you are so interested in religion. But yes, father, he is Jewish.” “Are you crazy? Do you plan to move to the United States and renounce the holy mother church?” “We have not yet decided on every detail.” “How dare you? How can you talk so freshly? How can you display so much disrespect for the whole family?” “You can hardly call this disrespect, father. I want you to partake in my joy.” Simon took a bottle of tequila he had nearby in his library, chugged some and then threw it against the wall. “No, and a million times no.” “Are you done throwing tantrums, father? I thought I was the expert at that. I’m not asking for your permission, dear father. I’m just telling you. Your blessing would be nice. You must know that there is nothing personal in my decision against you. It is simply my choice. You know that in matters of the heart, reasons are blind, mute and deaf.” “Dammit! How could it not be personal? You are renouncing everything I ever hoped to build. You are renouncing my love for you. You are renouncing everything we ever taught you; your faith; your family history.” “You are being melodramatic,” she said with calm that QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 47 bordered on aloofness. “I hardly see how I could be renouncing all those things. And as for what you taught me, you must not be too worried about that. I’m living proof that you taught me well. I will never let you, or Sal, or anyone determine my lot.” “Chingados! I’d rather you marry a pinchi chilango than an American Jew!” “And I’m sure you’d rather have me be a tequila drinking, bastard-littering man like my brothers than the woman I am.” “You will not marry him. You know Americans have made a wasteland out of what used to be part of the Campe y Cos property? It’s an insult to me, to your mother, to your faith, to Ana Maria Campe y Cos our matriarch and to King Philip the Fifth, our benefactor,” he always made a small reverence every time he spoke Ana Maria’s name and touched his own left temple in honor of her chiquiador. “Father, I will marry Salomon. Make peace with that. Make peace with the fact that your grudge against the United States stems from things that happened way before your time. In fact, if you pushed to exploit your contacts to export there, I am positive your revenues would increase enough for you to forgive them. As for the matter of faith, I don’t think your hint of anti- Semitism is very Christian.” “Americans banned alcohol! True, they later abolished prohibition, but what kind of a twisted puritan mind could ban something as precious, as sacred, as labor intensive as liquor?! And what kind of people refrains from drinking alcohol? God knows what that man wants to do to you? You don’t even know if he is married. For all you know he is jerking your chain and wants to involve you in twisted plots and abominable actions!” “Father, Jews do drink wine and spirits. You might be thinking Arabs. Besides, those who hold such specifc suspicions know all too well the ways of the wicked.” 48 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

“Quiet, you!” he roared, “I will not be analyzed by someone who is turning her back to the family.” “I’m sorry you think that way.” “No I’m sorry, because if you do marry him, then you can forget about everything. You will be good as dead to me. You will be stripped of your inheritance, your place in this family, everything that makes you who you are.” “Father, if you keep going I’ll even throw in my title of Countess for the same price.” Grandpa Simon was about to burst, literally burst, his toad- like face grew sweaty and his arteries pumped goo and blood to his every pore. The only reason why he did not sufer a heart attack or a stroke was that his arteries were clean on account of his constant tequila intake. “No, you can keep that one,” he said. “It will be the mark of your shame. See what you can do with it without the protection of the Campe y Cos. Without us it’s just an alias, a cruel mockery. So, keep it, Countess, if you will.” “I’m sorry you think that way.” “You are dead to me. You will never again spend another night in this noble house. I am feeling a little bit generous, so you are free to stay at any of the guest houses throughout the city. Pick up your things and leave tomorrow. This will be your last night here.” In spite of herself, Ignatia did have feelings, and being banished by his father was defnitely more than she bargained for. But she was an expert at hiding her pain with pique. “As long as it’s a game, dad, let’s see who blinks frst. Let’s see whose heart falters frst. And keep drinking tequila. With your blood pressure you need as much of a break as you can get.” Simon stormed out of the room, grabbed another bottle of QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 49 tequila, and got the matriarch Ana Maria’s beauty mark out of its reliquary to ask his ancestor for forgiveness and guidance. And so, the Countess fell out of grace with her father and was banished. At that moment, damask curtains in the house were torn and the maids threw themselves on the foor weeping, and her mother rolled her eyes up as if in mystical trance, not knowing whose side to take, and the dogs howled and the tequila in the house suddenly acquired the cheap scent of rum. Never was there so much gossip and commotion in the estate as when Ignatia was evicted. When the maids recovered from the initial shock, they ran to every nook and corner to share impressions and, naturally, bedeck the story with fancier adjectives every time. Aunt Rosaline, who was just a little girl but loved her sister tenderly and with a child sincerity, went along with the Countess as she was driven to another house. “Why do you have to leave, Ignatia?” “Sweetie, because dad cannot see beyond his prejudices.” “What is prejudices?” “Don’t you worry about it, sweetie. Don’t you worry about a thing. I love you and that is all that matters,” said Ignatia kissing Rosaline’s rosy cheeks. Sal and Ignatia decided to marry promptly; the date was set just over four months ahead. Ignatia, wanting to renounce even the Leo sign that marked the Campe y Cos, chose September. And she would move with Sal to Chicago. All her siblings were upset about “losing” their sister to a complete stranger who, for all practical purposes, was abducting her. But at the same time, something else happened. There was an upside to the schism and some of them began taking it to heart: Ignatia had challenged the patriarch and thus stepped out of the only universe they knew or conceived. She had taken a leap of blind faith into the 50 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

abyss, away from the Campe y Cos. She was going away from the not insignifcant and very cozy microcosm that they all knew to be the world, the haven that for over two centuries had become home of the Campe y Cos. But most surprising, most gratifying, was that with the passing of the years it became evident that she landed on her feet and proved that there was life in the abyss. That breeze of liberty would shake things up a bit at the Campe y Cos household, and though still a child, would mark Rosaline, ultimately leading her to take her own leap, dispossess herself of her inheritance and leave for California. But that was still vintages of agave wine ahead in the horizon. Narrow-minded priests refused to wed the exiled Countess and the Jew, as Sal would respect the tradition by which the wife, the mother, would determine the faith of the children. But they found a Jesuit who saw beyond conventional prejudice and feared not the wrath of the powerful Simon Campe y Cos. There was naturally another side to the story. But the resolution was quieter, more elegant, more sober. When Sal announced to his mother back in Chicago his intention to marry a genteel but not yentl gentile, she arched her eyebrows like two moons, sighed and left the room. The next morning she embraced him and told him that all she wanted was for him to be happy. His father was also disquieted at frst, but hinting at the glitter in Sal’s eye, he knew it was useless to argue. Besides, he deeply believed in gmilud hasadim. So they both gave them their bibracha and agreed to make the trip to Mexico for the wedding. Grandpa Simon followed the developments from a distance. The only positive aspect of the episode, he thought, was that he would not spend half a peso on his daughter’s wedding. For that reason, the ceremony was very modest for a Countess. Simon was absent, remaining in his lugubrious chambers, clad in mourning attire and badmouthing the city and the times. QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 51

In spite of feeling that she was going to be torn in two, Ignatia pulled herself together, kept her cool and made a lovely bride. The occasion was bittersweet, but judging by the pictures, Sal and Ignatia at least had the lovely naiveté of enjoying the leap into the abyss. After dancing and drinking and dining and cheering it was time to move. In the weeks prior to the wedding, a small army of employees had been busy packing and forwarding Ignatia’s possessions to an address that meant nothing to them in Chicago. The few things that remained were already packed in Sal’s Buick. Goodbye was never easy. But when little Rosaline begged Ignatia to “please write,” Ignatia lost her balance and broke down in tears. It was then, right after her wedding party that the weight of her decisions fell down upon her, feeling like the world. She was happy to leave. That was part of the great appeal that Sal represented. But never did she lionize the small universe around her until she was about to leave it for good, with a slim chance of ever returning. Grandpa Simon, though absent from the ceremony, did come to see Ignatia of. He did not kiss his daughter, nor told her he loved her, nor asked her to stay in touch. He simply presented her with a small, undeniably elegant, unquestionably lethal revolver, and an equally elegant, equally lethal dagger—the dagger of ignominy. The revolver was Simon’s way of saying “take care.” But the dagger of ignominy represented his confrmation that she had brought great dishonor to the family and ratifed the banishment. “Lovely, Dad,” was her response. And so, in a Buick laden with what remained of her most prized possessions, entrusting her life to the American Jew she had just married, the Countess left Guadalajara, and the tequila-infused, boastful, patronizing, spectacular roof of the Campe y Cos. 52 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

GRANDPA SIMON WAS NOT pure evil and he would have forgiven the Countess immediately had she produced him a legitimate grandson. But a year passed; then two; then fve, and yet nothing. In subsequent conversations he would sulk, “You would have been ground for fertile love and prosperous ofspring had you listened to me, but no! You had to go and get yourself a circumcised man whose rabbi might have cut too much for all I know and care. Your brothers, whose decency you are so keen on criticizing, at least try a hand with the maids before they go of to make a mockery of the family by leaving their wives fat as a brick, barren as the desert.” So the ban continued on her sleeping at the family estate in the rare instances when she visited. As time went by, her siblings continued getting married and producing legitimate ofspring. Yet Ignatia remained childless for almost two decades. Sal loved Ignatia but was particularly devastated at nearing his older age without an heir. He was over ffty, while Ignatia was well into her forties. Two decades of being strangers, becoming familiar, estranging from each other, reconciliation and the usual waltz and bedroom farce of married life passed. There’s no other way of saying it: Sal felt disappointed at his wife. For a long period he left the Countess in Chicago while taking selling road trips to the Midwest that were longer and longer. Then, in a moment of enlightenment, he looked at her and recalled the sophisticated blasé beauty he had met in an elevator in Guadalajara decades ago and made peace with his choice, even if that meant that children would never run around his house, tug at his sleeve or ask him “uppie.” He abandoned the past of possibilities and the future of uncertainties and embraced the moment and the Countess along with it. And as suddenly, as capriciously, as ominously as they met, twenty two years after their marriage, under the vanilla skies of Chicago in October 1981, a miracle occurred. George Halas hired Mike QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 53

Ditka as head coach of the Bears. But also, Adonai answered Sal’s prayers and the Countess conceived. Enter: Jacob Goldstein Campe y Cos. Yours truly. Like Abraham, Sal would have descendants and joy in his old age. Perhaps twenty two years of banishment with only a couple of sporadic visits softened Ignatia and made her a fantastic mother. Maybe I’m just a regular Oedipus. Sal was in rapture. Sour Grandpa Simon and other bitter tongues suggested that perhaps given the age of Sal and the Countess the ofspring would be born a retard. And, true, I’ve had my moments…but Adonai did not let Sal down. When I moved to the District of Columbia to study and work for the government, Abba and the Countess moved to California, where her sister Rosaline, in an epic saga of her own, had illegally migrated in the mid-nineties along with her husband Jim and her children—my cousins Jaime and Diego. TEN

I ARRIVED in LAX on a Saturday morning. It was as golden as I ever hoped it could be. I put on the pair of Ray Ban’s that I had not been able to use since last summer. Jaime and Diego were waiting for me, just as I had pictured it—in bright Hawaiian shirts, Oakleys and shorts. They were chewing gum and leaning in a godawful nineties Plymouth whose maroon paint job was clearly not galvanized. They nodded and said, “cuz!” After a heartfelt embrace, Diego helped me with my luggage, suggested I ride shotgun and we rolled. Jaime drove away, fast as if the Border Patrol was behind our backs, fast as Dean Moriarty trying to fnish a shift in the parking lot to hook up with some broad. Diego told me they had bought trunks for me. It was both an initiation and an act of hasing: the trunks had the most efeminate pink fower pattern. “Nice,” I said. Before meeting the Countess and Abba, before meeting Uncle Jim or Aunt Rosaline, before unpacking even, our destination was Newport Beach, where I was to parade around in my pink trunks. From that day on, at least fve days a week I would walk barefoot, with the sand beneath my toes, the sea breeze rejuvenating my lungs from all the contaminants HAARP sprayed over D.C., and the chilly Pacifc water tinging my skin, rendering it a rosy hue. Who cared about John Bureau when there was California? He could have the world. I wanted a real job, a job I had to do with my hands. All that investigative analysis had been a dead end, a mind game. Poetic justice and family came to the rescue. A quick call to the headquarters of Tequila Campe y Cos landed me a job as a QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 55 tequila delivery truck driver, a 7 to 4 job delivering my mom’s family elixir to the good folk of southern California. What a blow it must have been for Grandpa Simon to know that now Americans drank more tequila than Mexicans. After a few months I rented a condo near my parents. However, contrary to my hopes, they were less than happy to see me. The Countess was so indignant about me leaving the government that she left. Poof. Vanished. She went, we so heard, to Guadalajara, then to Europe to revisit the cities where she had received her impossible education. Abba was distressed on both accounts, me leaving the government and the Countess leaving him. He blamed me for both. It couldn’t be helped. Away from government, away from the realm of John Bureau, I settled into a lovely routine which included my delivery route, the beach, and setting up a garage band with Jaime and Diego. I was my teenage dreams come true. Three years passed. Life was almost perfect. I was almost alive. But no one is truly alive, agonizingly and blissfully alive, there cannot be any perfection, until true love. ELEVEN

IT MADE me so happy to think that my dad was fnally taking it easy. After spending his whole life as a travelling salesman, Sal was fnally allowing himself time to enjoy life. Undoubtedly much of the time he spent on the road was just to be away from my mother. Maybe he was not lucky enough to ever feel at home in our house. But he had agreed to retire to southern California with her when I went to school and later work in Washington. Being closer to my parents instead of fghting John Bureau, or much worse, being part of his system, was part of the reason why I walked away from the District of Columbia and became a very happy delivery truck driver in the sunshine state. It was not without irony, for the Countess stopped talking to me and left the city when I announced her my plans. She had her reasons for believing it unbecoming of me to work a seven-to- four shift, delivering tequila—her family’s tequila—to establishments of fne repute and otherwise. After vanishing, and her short stays in Guadalajara and Europe we learned that she went to do missionary. Perhaps with her gone Dad truly felt at home. He was a great father. I lamented that he was not a great husband. I was always terribly fond of him and mom, but as much as it pained me, except for magical moments, they weren’t terribly fond of each other. Be that as it may, I was sure glad he was taking it easy. He went into the pool almost every day. It was weird seeing him in his long, old-school bathing suit of red and white stripes. It gave me the kind of self-consciousness, shame-mixed-with- tenderness that only family gives. He was coming out of the pool just as I had fnished my delivery route and planned to QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 57 lounge in the pool until Jaime and Diego got out of work so we could jam. Dad tapped my head as if I were still twelve and told me he was going grocery shopping to prepare his hallah for Shabbat. It was an afternoon that would change my life. It was not unlike other southern California afternoons in terms of weather conditions, deep cerulean sky, balmy weather; typical except for one little detail. I was foating in the water watching the clouds roll by; spinning lyric ideas in my mind that I could later work into songs with my cousins. At least once a month we played in one of the many establishments where I delivered booze. Like Glenn Miller, like any musician or creator with any self-respect, we wanted a sound of our own. But for a long time we had had to comfort ourselves with playing covers and being the sonic equivalent of a golem; shapeless, immature, artifcial. We were about to catch a break. I was about to fnd my muse. I turned my head and my soul jumped inside me. I saw her; heavenly, patrician, fair. Eve. The girl from Ipanema and Helen of Troy combined, with a splash of Audrey Hepburn. There was no shortness of gorgeous babes in the pool, or in southern California for that matter. But Eve, she was poetry incarnate. She had a tender, high-pitched, slightly orgasmic laugh. Oh what a beautiful thing. I was mesmerized by a tattoo of a small Totoro on her left wrist. She also had a burn scar. Her delicate arm bedecked by the tattoo and the burn scar just emphasized the fact that she was so frail, so strong, so delicate, so resilient. My heart burst into a million freworks. Had I only known that, literally, it would all end in freworks. My soul admitted that before me was a goddess which had come to rule over it. Ecce deus fortiori me, quie veniens dominabitur mihi. I praised God in every language I know. And without knowing how, I got the nerve to approach. “Hi.” 58 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

“Hi,” the beauty replied in an irresistible eastern European accent. We smiled at each other. “I haven’t seen you around.” Fate had something to do with it, because in spite of how idiotic I must have sounded, she responded. “I am sort of new here. I just moved here with my mom. Just fnished unpacking.” “If you need anyone to show you around, I’ll be glad to.” A face like that must have never been short of men lining up to dazzle her. And with her blue blood…but I had not learned about her blood yet. Blissfully ignorant of the fact that she was way out of my league, I continued talking, firting. The time would come when I would pray all my mother’s family ramblings about nobility were true so I could at least qualify in some distant, creative way. But I’m getting ahead of myself. “So what’s your name?” she said. “Jacob.” “Jacob,” she repeated with such sweetness it seemed she was caressing every later in her tongue. Then she said it again, just as sweetly, just as intensely, but pronounced it in Hebrew: “Iacov.” And when she spoke my name, she owned me. A brief dissertation on the power of names. For almost eight centuries since anno Domini, there are only a handful of pictures of the Tower of Babel. After the seventh century, however, a plethora of artists began making their own renditions of it. Scholars agree this coincides with an interest in the search for the perfect language—the Adamic tongue, the language in which God (baruch hashem) spoke to Adam; a language that contained the essence of the things named. God created the Universe through an act of speech. And Umberto Eco is quick to add that, “it is only by giving things their names that He created them and gave them an ontological status.” Genesis also QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 59 reminds us that God (baruch hashem) presented to Adam the animals of creation so that he would name them “according to their nature.” Adam, the frst namer, the nomothete, thus gave each creature a name that refected that creature’s very essence. The rich inter-faith debates of the Middle Ages made it virtually impossible for any one side to concede anything to the other. That made most Christian thinkers believe it was some language other than Hebrew that possessed this life-giving perfection. That is why fat lux is better known than ihi or. But beyond which side is right, there is a belief that learning the true name of things—their essential name, their name in the perfect language—gives us control over them. Many look for the Highest One’s Name believing it is the key to unlock the most formidable power. Names are more than just names. Names contain universes and fates within them. In the beginning was the Word, wrote John evangelist. And the Word was God. Eve pronounced my name unlike anyone had ever before. She pronounced it in just the right, perfect pitch and intonation that it unlocked my heart, body and soul and I became hers for eternity. Others may talk of love at frst sight. And she certainly was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. Others may talk of fate. And really, for her to have that power it had to be. But what tipped me over for good was how she spoke my name. Now I had to learn her name, and pronounce it in just the right way. I was not naïve. I had had my heart broken many a time. But everything about her encouraged me to think that she could be, could be, could be the one right that mended all wrongs. Perhaps I was naïve. And yet. And yet. We remained in the pool for a while longer, talking. I learned that she liked the colors purple and pink, that she intermittently played the cello and danced, and that since she was a child she had been constantly on the move, not always to 60 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

her liking. I also learned the curvature of her lips—and of her hips—and the way the sun highlighted her hair and made a beautiful contrast with her eyes which were like maple pools that refected all constellations. She told me she lost her dad and missed him sorely, but that she had an excellent relationship with her mom. I wanted to memorize every last detail of her. In my life, romantic encounters that bordered on the magical had been a matter of literary fancy. Romantic magic was like a comet promised to come sometime in a lifetime. All previous romantic encounters had been a bust where I had either been blindly led astray or I had chosen to blind and undersell myself. Yet now, in my naïve heart I believed frmly that the previous occasions, and that in fact everything in my life, had been preparing me for this, for her. Sometimes, in the world of adults, in a world where even romantic pursuits are governed by John Bureau, we become too wise for our own good. The fact that at thirty plus this could still happen and I could believe in it meant I had not gone too astray. John Bureau had not conquered my soul, even when I had worked for him for so long unknowingly. Meeting her was the kind of thing that doesn’t happen, except it did. I have no better way of describing it than this: it was magic leaking into the realm of the “real.” It had the uncanny divine feeling of a prayer being answered. And now, out of the blue, it fnally seemed that life would blossom to its full potential. Now everything in my life, good and bad, earned a meaning. As they say in Latin, nunc coepi—now I began… life, love, and (had I only known!) the fght against John Bureau. TWELVE

I OFFERED HER ROOT BEER. She said yes and we toasted to that perfect summer day. Then, in that lovely, polite, orgasmic accent she said the words that made my soul quake: “I’m really glad I found you.” “Me too.” Everything was so sincere. We weren’t following dating, courting, firting protocols. We were just enjoying each other’s company, and being honest about liking each other—but there was an underlying feeling of destiny. Dynasties have been formed for a lot less. I was fnally before someone naïve enough to bring out, to inspire, to deserve the very best version of me. Time contracts and expands when it’s touched by magic. Even a single drop of magic will knock any old clock out of shape by making it stand still and then try to catch up for it at full steam, then going back to the past. And we had so much more than a single drop of magic, so you can imagine what happened with time. Almost without noticing, we were holding each other’s hand. She looked at the horizon, smiled a Miss Sarajevo smile then turned to me. She had made a decision. She asked, “Do you want to see where I live?” I nodded with a smile. My only concern was that I didn’t yet know her name, so she owned me but I had nothing on her. It didn’t matter. The chance was worth my life. A princess of mythical beauty was guiding me to her freda stanza to guardare le stelle, chi fremano d’amore e di speranza. If I had only known that she, my Turandot, was in fact a princess. Her mythical beauty had a very actual royalty; her royalty had a very mythical background; 62 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ and as I would soon learn, her very existence had a very real enemy—John Bureau.

HER HOUSE WAS LIKE MINE, except larger. It had the same clam chowder-colored façade that turned salmon pink with the dipping sun in long summer California afternoons. It had a wooden deck in the front overlooking a lush display of local forae. “I have seen some of the most amazing sunsets from this deck,” she said, “and I think today we’ll be as lucky. We have been so far.” She skipped gracefully over the pebbles that lined the walk to her house. She held the house keys in her right hand, my hand tightly in her left. She turned the key and opened. We were immediately greeted by the refreshing AC inside her house. A strange feeling came over me, a déjà vu I could not understand. The apartment was modestly but elegantly decorated. One of the frst things that caught my attention was a handsome portrait of her late father. It was a black and white print of him standing tall and proud in military regalia in front of a really old building. He must have been a general from all those stars, I thought. I didn’t say anything, but she noticed me staring and said, “Oh, that’s Daddy. I sure miss him.” She showed me the kitchen, which overlooked the street outside, and the living room, which overlooked the condo garden. It really was an interesting duality: the reality, the danger of the street and the city on one side, the magic and comfort of the garden on the other. She ofered me some lemonade. I accepted and ofered to help. She handed me some lemons to wash and slice while she produced honey and brewed tea. “It’s a family recipe. I hope you like it.” I nodded. The sun had begun to sink lazily over the Pacifc. Nothing else mattered. QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 63

Nothing was real except her royal, pink, delicate hands squeezing the lemons adroitly, the zest exploding into a thousand particles, suspended in the air for a moment and refracting the light in citric hues for a moment, until, attracted by her grace, they landed on her hands again, rendering them even softer. She was giving this her full attention. Then she turned to me to smile that smile I didn’t even know existed. Her straight blonde hair falling over her shoulders, a lock tucked behind her ear. My kids had to have her face. After all the lemons had been squeezed into the black tea, she added the honey, a pinch of ground cinnamon, and a dash of vodka, “just for fun,” she said. We went back into the front porch and sat on a swing and talked. That was the best drink I ever had. “I’d teach you the secret, but you’d have to be part of my family.” “That could be arranged,” I said. She rested her head on my shoulder. We were holding hands again. She had had a tough childhood, but she did not share any specifc details to shed light on exactly how so. Master story teller that she was, versed in the arts of extending, untangling, re-tangling and contracting a story for a thousand and one nights, she concealed as much as she revealed. And she left me wanting more. By the time the frst star came out, we kissed, embraced by the holy darkness that announced the beginning of Shabbat—the time for the union of the woman and the man. “Shabbat Shalom,” I whispered in her ear. After sitting for a while in silence, she said with a twinkle in her eye, “Would you like to go for a ride?” “What kind of ride?” “Do you have a bike?” “Yes.” 64 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

“Go get it and meet me back here in fve minutes. Unless you want to use my mom’s. I love bike riding, just haven’t been able to that much in recent years.” “I’ll be back in fve.” “Don’t be late.” Within four minutes I was back with my dad’s beach cruiser. I hadn’t even bothered to put on anything else except a t-shirt over my dry bathing suit. She was wearing a pink skirt and a white blouse. “I may be new in town, but if there’s an area I excel in, it’s exploring. I had to. Anyway, I found this great route. I love the way nature and civilization converge and clash here in Orange County. Follow me.” I would. Wherever she may lead me. Forevermore.

THE NIGHT BREEZE in my eyes, the full moon rising over the mountains, the sight of her riding next to me, was almost too much. It was nothing short of intoxicating. And the stars made their appearance in huge numbers. It was like a dream. The celestial bodies gave everything the mystic cover of indigo so distinctive of reverie. It was a good thing that riding a bicycle is the kind of thing you supposedly never forget, because I hadn’t ridden in years, and I wasn’t paying attention to the road but to the way her hair blew back and how stars appeared in its mist. Ah, the glorious duality: the woman, the girl. The moon gave new life to her tattoo as well. It seemed to come alive. Either of us pointed out some natural wonder here and there, but otherwise, the only sound we heard was the tires biting the gravel and the earth, and the distant whistle of a train. At a clearing we stopped to look at the moon. She sat there QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 65 lovely and I lied down, my head resting on her lap, caressing her soft, almost perfectly-round cheek. Then we danced barefoot under the moon. “What is this? “What is this wonderful thing?” she said, becoming aware that, while this was an everyday happenstance in fairy tales, it never happened in real life. Except when it did. I kissed her gummy-bear nose and told her the truth: “I have no clue. But it sure feels like a miracle. It’s the stuf poems are made out of. And I’m in it entirely.” We got back to her house and said good night. “Can I see you tomorrow?” I pleaded. “Of course. But what is going to happen?” she asked. “We are going to take this,” I said signaling us, “whatever this is, this miracle, this glorious act of serendipity, and we are going to make beautiful things happen. We are going to consummate this golden opportunity. A great day has just begun. This is the break of dawn.” She kissed me and ran back inside, looking back once more before shutting the door… and winking. THIRTEEN

THE NEXT DAY I woke up early to do my delivery route—as intoxicated by love as my product would leave its users. My mind, so enthralled by her, played unsavory tricks on me and at times made it difcult to remember her face, oh cruel, cruel mind. But then her image came back by an act of grace and restored peace. When I saw her again later in the day I could not decide if she was more beautiful under the sun or under the moon. The verdict would take years. We dove into the pool and swam and played volleyball. Then I chased her around the pool, only half- pretending my goal was to bite her thigh, and made her laugh. We talked of places we would like to visit, and she told me all the places she had been to. She was quite a globe trekker, I felt a bit embarrassed at my small universe. She promised she’d go back to all those places with me. “Want some more of that family-secret lemonade?” she asked. When we got to her house an impulse took over and I said, “Your room. I want to see your room.” Sacred ground for me. She led me there. Her bed had white linen sheets and a cotton- candy pink duvet. There was her dad again in a close up portrait, revealing that he was also a polo player, and a distinguished one at that. And there was another picture, much less formal of her and her mom and dad when she was just a kid as well as several other pictures she had taken from her many travels around the world, evidencing that photography was among her many talents. But the univocal sign of her brilliance came in the form of a picture not taken by her. She said her QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 67 mom had taken the photograph of her without she even knowing. It was taken in a 35 millimeter Pentax refex camera that also adorned her room. I love that people still use flm in the digital age. Analogue photos are clad by an aura aforded by the knowledge, the certainty that the image is indeed an index of reality, a footprint of light. In other words, this photograph bespoke of light refected in her—and was a confrmation that this universe contained her. It was not just a series of fortunate binary accidents, not just a possibility that the universe might contain her. I had suspected that I might have a soulmate all my life. Now here she was in front of me. And yet the picture didn’t even show her face. The image was taken from behind. She was sitting in a weather-worn dock on a lake, one of her arms enveloped her knees while the other was slanted back for balance, her sweet fngers caressing the wood, her golden eternity hair like a crown. She was wearing a red sweater. Beyond her rose a powerful mountain, like an island in the lake. The waters were calm, yet deep and wise. And there was mist creeping down from the thick green of the mountain, making its way over the waters and fnally reaching the dock and her. In the image, you could only see the back of her head, but she was a second away from turning and facing the beholder. Like a promise about to be fulflled, like a prayer about to be answered, like all the potential winding down about to reach the pinnacle of consummation. That image was like Gerhard Richter’s Beatrice, like the materialization of an Emiliana Torrini song from Fisherman’s Woman. Then I lifted my gaze and saw her in front of me. Not the rendition of reality, not the footprint of light, not the possibility of a soulmate; but reality itself, beauteous light, luminous benediction incarnate. “You are amazing,” I said. “You are the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.” 68 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

“Would you still want to go ahead with me if you knew it all?” she asked. I could not fathom the depth of her question. How could I? How could anyone? I kissed her and drowned in her eyes. “I’ve had my share of heartbreaks, but you restored my faith in love. This doesn’t happen, except it did. Everything else is dust in the wind. So if God put us in each other’s path, I’ll do whatever it takes. I know what awaits me if I don’t fght for this come what may.” She looked at me, the girl from Ipanema and Helen of Troy with a dash of Audrey Hepburn, and envy me poets, for she smiled at me, the half-blood, took my hand, and said, “I’d like to show you something.” She led me by the hand to a door next to her room. “Get ready, eh?” “What’s this?” I asked. “This is the jewel of the crown.” She opened the door, and lo and behold: the light. That part of the house, a bathroom, was interred in the capricious hills. The window, which was about fve feet from the foor, was actually on the ground level outside, and was positioned in a way that at that hour in that time of the year, all the power of the sun fooded the bathroom. It was like a receptacle, a spring of light. No doubt could ever survive in such clarity. The gates of my heart, already won over by her, were overrun. No words were needed. The moment was sublime. I basked in the glory arms spread. Then I sat down. She went into the shower. I noticed she was still barefoot. She ran the water and I rushed to her. And in the interred purifying chamber of clarity, fooded by light, purifed by the cool water that could have very well come from a mystic lake, and with the breeze of the Pacifc, we made love. We were made one, blended, dissolved into one another, QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 69 like the four elements around us, the princess and the half blood. As they say in Hebrew, “Todah Lael!” Thanks be to God! In the end it was the two of us giggling, sitting under the shower that pushed all our soaked hair over our foreheads and made us blink. As I stood up I looked out the window at the blooming jacaranda trees. I saw a very elegant woman walk across the garden. “Say, is your mom a very elegant woman, short dark hair wearing a blue dress?” “Yep, fts the description. That’s sounds like Queen Margot alright.” I thought that was only a term of endearment. And I was panicking on account of her heading in our direction. “Oh my! I think she is coming in our direction! I want to meet her. But I want to at least be wearing a jacket to look her in the eye and tell her that I want to marry you. That my promise for her grandkids is to pass on my hair and keep the rest of my genes out of the way, everything else has got to be you. You will marry me, right?” “Yes,” she replied blushing. “But you have got to add more than your hair to the mix.” “I love you,” I said before kissing her and running out the window, like a thief, like a forbidden lover, like an adolescent. “Come to dinner Monday night. You can bring your Dad.” Her duality was contagious. I too felt at once the virtuous commander of the Army and a vulnerable, clueless kid. I think He, God, Adonai, was there, in the clash of the burning light and purifying water, in her luscious legs and innocent eyes, in my curious hands and receptive chest. FOURTEEN

SUNDAY MORNING. It felt like a dream, except it was not. A cocktail of adrenalin and endorphins dilated my pupils, and increased my heart and breathing rates, leaving that sweet tingling sensation in my chest. That could explain it, except it didn’t. The sun shone grand as it only does in California. I smiled as my head bumped against the passenger window I was leaning on. We were taking another steep curve in the up and down hills of Mulholand en route to Newport Beach. I was the prudent one, the boring one, the let’s-go-back-home-it’s- close-to-midnight-on-a-school-night one. That was a long time ago. Now I didn’t even care that my cousin was, as usual, speeding; doing seventy in a forty-fve mile-per-hour zone. I just smiled as I saw the marina, the bikers, everyone’s perfect tan, the afternoon parties about to start, and felt that sweet tingling something in my chest. Another sharp turn that hit my head against the window made me suddenly wonder why Jaime had never had his license suspended. I was about to spill the beans, to ’fess up, but I had to grab hold of something as Jaime made another physics-defying twist. He asked me to wait until we got to Newport Beach before I told him. It’s our place, our hideout, where we tell each other what no one else should know, “the secrets of the cousinhood.” Afterward we would go to the Wing Stop and treat ourselves to a dozen Bufalo wings each with a helping of atomic sauce and make fun of our uncles and recall summers long gone. But what I had to say was so juicy that I couldn’t contain myself. “Shut up, Jacob. Don’t even think about opening your QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 71 mouth and spilling it out in here. You know we have a proper place for that. It’s tradition.” Indeed it was. Southern California, Cali, really is a paradise. It didn’t seize to amaze me, even after a couple of years, how every other car had a surfoard rack. I rolled down the window to take it all in, but that just increased the tingling in my chest. I was trying to stay in the present, in the here-and-now, hic et nunc, in the curves, the speed, the hills, the sports cars that were so much better than Jimmy’s God-forsaken maroon Plymouth, so as not to think of the last couple of days and the infnite happiness they brought; how everything had changed. What was I going to do? I didn’t even know how far we were from our destination— in every sense of the way. I was trying to fght the words back, or to delay them at least. But they were stronger than me. I just turned to Jimmy and said it: “Cuz, I met someone.” FIFTEEN

AFTER “THE DRIVE,” where I told my cousin Jim everything that had happened, we returned to fetch Diego to jam. I felt like we had not jammed in ages. And in a way it was the frst time, for in my heart I repeated the words that rendered all existence pristine: I met someone. I met her. I made love to her. I was going to marry her. I was always thrilled to jam with my cousins and cover our favorite songs from The Cure or U2 or Smashing Pumpkins, or to wail away complaining of a love gone awry, a potential sweetheart gone astray. But for many reasons there was something so diferent about this night. I drank cool fresh water on this warm night, but could still feel her soft, moist lips in mine, the water of the shower all over our bodies. Jaime went over to plug the amplifer while Diego inspected the drum kit they had bought long ago. I helped straighten some cables. I sat down on a stool, grabbed a piece of paper that was lying about and started scribbling something with a pencil I had. It was as if someone had opened a faucet and ideas came pouring, no holds barred. Well, not just anyone, of course. I had to incur in palimpsest over a poem that was printed on the scrap piece of paper. I just couldn’t stop. A few minutes later Jaime announced he was ready and that all the plugging and technical issues were solved. He walked over to the keyboards. Diego was already safely buckled behind the drum kit. I put on my sunglasses and said, “Jaime, cuz, why don’t you…” whatever I meant he understood, and he started playing something in C, a simple C, C, A tune and Diego followed with an up-tempo beat. I got behind the microphone and tapped it. QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 73

“Yes. That’s exactly it!” I started moaning and wailing, ftting the words I had just written to the tune being played. And it was amazingly simple. It just ft. I hummed my way through the refrain and continued singing the next stanza until something became clear. We had found our sound. I looked at Diego and Jaime, whose eyes were shining in awe and nodded. We had suddenly crossed a threshold we had never managed to cross before. We had torn down a wall and were now prancing our way to the other side. “From the top, boys,” I said with authority. They began again: C-C-A. And my voice was unlike it had ever been before. The wails gained strength, the words gave it meaning, purpose. Suddenly they were not wails anymore. The voice was potent, booming. When we got to the refrain again I took it head on, no falsettos, and it was big, hymnal, but also fun, so fun I laughed entering the second stanza. We simply clicked. It was so good, we did not stop playing when the song ended, Jaime went full speed into a new iteration of it and I cleaned up a couple of the lyrics along the way. An hour later we stopped. We were all soaked with sweat. I took of the shades because they were fogging up. I was sitting on the foor with my legs extended. Jaime, his arms crossed was nodding approvingly at Diego, who held the drumsticks under his left armpit and sipped chlorophyll infused water from a bottle of Aquafna. We talked about it, but there was nothing to say except that we had done it. Now we knew how Glenn Miller had felt. The song, of course, was about her. Jaime made some very sound suggestions on the lyrics and I opined on how Jaime should approach the stanzas. Diego had some ideas of his own, but everything was compatible. We jumped into it again. It was about two in the morning when we came out. Jaime drove us and treated us to In N Out burgers. I was starving. It is as if we had been in a diferent time zone, a diferent dimension 74 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

altogether, and coming back the body manifested its needs. “Clearly she makes you a better person,” said Jaime when we were eating. “We have to go back and record it,” said Diego. Until now we had not even thought about it, but now that Diego said it, it seemed obvious. And all the hope in the world seemed to emanate from the warm glow of the In N Out neon sign. I slept for two hours and woke up to do my delivery route. Between stops I jotted down more lyric ideas. Everything I ever wanted to say in a song fooded from me to the cheap notebook. The fve diferent lyrics I wrote had great musical potential, all across the spectrum. There was a slow song, a sad song, a happy song, and a song about longing. I had all-too often heard a song and wished I had written that lyric. Now I had. I fnished my delivery route with that under my belt. And I was having dinner with her. I was going to meet her mother. But I was in for a surprise.

IT TURNS out that my father had met my beloved’s mother, Queen Margot. And she had reiterated the invitation to have dinner. And he had a key piece of information which I had to learn at that precise moment. After my delivery route, I went to buy fowers for her. My dad told me he had bought wine. I had by now grown used to, and in fact fond of his denture smile. It had seemed too big at frst, over-the-top fashy, but it forced him to smile more often. I liked that. I don’t want to say he was grim as I was growing up, but his good mood, his high spirits were more scant when he was not watching the Bears, the Cubs or the Fighting Illini. I hear it was even gloomier before I was born. Even so, he was grinning this time, his frontal rabbit teeth sticking out. His thick, white overgrown eyebrows—that QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 75 would get trimmed if he had a daughter or if mom was not so much mom—were arched with delight. “What a classy woman!” he said referring to my beloved’s mom. “Don’t tell the Countess, mind you. But what a woman! That’s real blue blood, with more than a millennium of ancestry. What King Phillip nonsense? What seventeenth century diatribes? What mixed nobility? I’m really amazed and humbled by their story. And I thought I had it hard.” “What do you mean, Abba?” “Well she told me why they are here. Margot told me that when her husband was killed, oh and I remember I read about it a few years back, she was away from her daughter and could not meet her until both were in exile. How they kept on moving with a low profle to avoid their pursuers who to date want her and her daughter dead.” “What are you talking about, Abba?” “Your mother is going to be so jealous. I’m glad she’s out. You know, when I frst met her, she…,” I interjected abruptly. “Abba, what were you saying about Margot and her daughter?” “Margot is a queen in exile. And her daughter is the former princess. Their lives are still at risk. Can you believe it? Can you believe we are neighbors, and tonight, actually guests of royalty? That fascinating and sophisticated lady with a beautiful daughter you should ask out is none other than Queen Margot and her daughter, the Princess of Zhizn.” Perhaps I had been blinded by love. She never tried to hide it from me. She was just tacit, revealing as much as she left concealed, modest about it. But it all made sense. But, their lives were in danger? Pursuers were still after them? They found themselves forced to live in exile like erring, well, Jews? Yes, I have a paternal protective instinct. I’ve always had it with anyone who has meant anything to me. How could I not 76 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ have it with her? I rushed out of my dad’s apartment, charged full speed to see her. So she was everything I had made her out to be. And more. Alas, time was not on my side. I was a little late. There would be no dinner that night. When I got to her front porch I knew something was of, something was diferent. Don’t ask me how I knew. It simply wasn’t as bright as when she was there; a grace lost, a levity displaced; eternity not as golden. That hurt. And trying to imagine all the places I wanted to share with her was even worse if there was no certainty of where she was. I knocked on the door and rang the bell, albeit I knew there would be no answer. I turned the knob and opened the door. The picture of her father in military attire was gone. They had left in a hurry. The house seemed intact. They had not packed properly. I guess by now they were used to traveling light and leaving things behind; except, I’m sure that was not their intention this time. They just took what was most dear to them—the portrait of the king, a few family heirlooms, barely enough for a daytrip. There was still food on the fridge, and lemonade. I wondered how many times they had done this. How many times they had had to leave the place they were beginning to call home to evade their pursuers. And who were they? I walked to her room and sat on the bed, buried my head deep in her pillow and breathed in her rosy scent, which still bode. I looked around. The room was in slight disarray, the kind that only someone who was once used to servants and had to learn to make do without is capable of. There were a few books minus. Then the idea came to me. I opened her drawer and I found it: a letter from her to me. Enclosed within it was the picture of her on the deck. QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 77

MY DEAR JACOB, For my protection, I have been trained to reveal as much as I conceal. For years it’s been an instrument of survival. And it has worked. I’m still alive. But for once I regret having held something, anything back. Because I want to tell you every little detail of my life, every little secret, reveal every nook and corner of my soul, and hope that you will still take it. Jake, you must believe me when I say that what happened the last few days with you has been the most wonderful experience I have ever lived. It made everything else worthwhile, because it drove me to you. There is nothing more I want than to be with you and be under your gaze and meet your dad and make breakfast together and eat it under sheets in winter and in the patio in the summer, until our hair is white and the lines in our faces evidence our smiles even when we are not smiling. But I am afraid the culprits of my father’s premature death are still behind us, all these years later, and they are closing in. Somehow they learned of our whereabouts and our position is compromised. Time is of the essence. Being with you will only put your life at risk. I want to say forget me and move on, but I can’t, because in a way, you have a part of me. They have taken so much already, I don’t want them to take you or the promise of what we could have. I cannot tell you where I am going, because I know not for certain. I don’t know what to ask of you that is not overwhelmingly superhuman and unfair. I just pray there’s a way.

THE INK in the following part had run, but the writing was univocal. 78 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

LOVE,

NOW, say it. Only you could say it. I want to hear it like nothing else…

YOURS ETERNALLY, Eve, Daughter of King Franz (requiescat in pacem) and Queen Margot of Zhizn. SIXTEEN

WHAT WAS I TO DO? I held on to Eve’s letter for a long time. I dug my head deep into her pillow once more. When I came to, I told my father that dinner was cancelled. I called Jaime and told him I needed to talk, urgently. I drove to his ofce. He was wearing his green dental hygienist scrubs and chewing gum. But when he saw my expression he spit it out. When I was certain no one else could hear us—I even made him turn on the X ray machine to kill of any bugs—I told him everything. He made up some lame excuse to get out of work, grabbed a scalpel, and we went to fetch Diego. I needed guidance. I needed to know what to do. My instinct was to take of after her, but where? This was Los Angeles. They could have taken a train, a plane a bus to practically anywhere else in the world. We reread the letter looking for clues. The idea that she had somehow managed to build a codex into a letter she wrote in a rush did occur to me. Thinking back at how she did not lie once and yet managed not to tell me she was a princess in exile bespoke of the brilliance of her mind. But if there was a codex, cracking it was beyond me. Yet we did get the frst clues right there. She said her pursuers were “closing in,” that her whereabouts had been “compromised.” That meant that while the threat was imminent and they did not have time to pack, she had time to write me a letter. “Do you honestly think it is wise to take the time to write such a beautiful letter when she is in a hurry to get out?” asked Jaime. “Man, she must really love you. Wasting precious seconds, well, not wasting, but employing precious seconds to 80 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

pack and get away in leaving something behind for you. That’s got to mean something.” It hurt to think that my Eve, the wonderful, beautiful woman I loved was at risk. Jaime looked at me from the corner of his eyes, like he was coming to a conclusion. He frowned, making his blonde eyebrows curly as his hair. “What if,” Jaime continued, “what if they didn’t pack for a reason? They must have somehow learned that the people after them were close. But what if they wanted to give the impression that they were still here? What if they were not that pressed for time? What if they decided to pack light on purpose?” “Come on, there was no way they could have done a formal pack out.” “No, but what I’m saying is, instead of packing more carefully to get rid of any evidence they were living here, she chose to write you a letter.” “Nothing makes sense,” I said. “I think Jimmy has a point,” intervened Diego. “Maybe, your best chance at knowing where they are going, where to fnd her, is to sit tight in her house and wait for them. That way you can get a clear picture of what you’re up against. You know, size up the adversary.” “We have every reason to believe that if they fed this place,” added Jaime, “then their enemies will come by looking for them here. And, taking advantage of the fact that they left most of their stuf here, we can act like they are still around. We can ambush them. Force them to talk.” “If they’re regicides, they’re not our cousins’ kids we can just squeeze between two mattresses until we force them to talk, you know? But still.” Regicide is not the work of ordinary citizens or petty criminals. It takes plans, networks, resources to kill a king and then follow his wife and daughter halfway around the world. So QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 81 as much as our cousins’ kids were a pain in the ass, they were nothing when compared to what we were going up against. The mere idea of ambushing regicides was beyond naïve. It was suicidal. So, naturally, we went ahead with it.

IF YOU STAND on the edge looking at an infnite abyss you will eventually get cold feet. The only way to explore an abyss is to leap into it. Without even questioning my feelings for Eve, or the security precautions we should take, Jaime, Diego and I decided to stage an ambush on her pursuers. We were counting on the premise that they did not know Eve and Margot had left. That’s how I soon found myself waiting, crouching in the dark with a baseball bat in my hands, a dentist’s scalpel concealed in my sock, her picture on the Guatemalan dock and her letter in my pocket. When we realized the gravity of what we were doing it was too late to back down, we were already in the free-fall plunge into the abyss. Beads of sweat appeared in our foreheads until they became a constant stream. Uncle Jim, who despite protesting and urging us to call the police decided to join us, paced the foor of Margot’s and Eve’s apartment quietly but impatiently. Jaime approached me with an interesting word choice to remind me, “Don’t sweat it. We are here by our own choosing. It’ll all be good.” If only. When it started, it would all be over in a moment. The waiting part was killing me. Always had. That was one of the things I hated so much about my old job at the government. The premise behind everything seemed to be “hurry up and wait.” And that’s what I had to do when they took me of investigation duty and put me in the advance teams of top ofcials “to make the right connections.” Like I said, it was actually punishment for digging up too much into 82 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ alleys with the serious stench of wrongdoing. Before Jameston saved me and put me back in investigation if you will recall. But time spent on advance teams was among the prime examples of waste of taxpayer money—for the greater glory of John Bureau. Here’s what it comprised: it was a contest of ugly Jos.A.Bank suits (notice the J and B again?) writing back and forth teenage drivel but redressing it as smart government talk. It was asinine! Young men and women trying to sound professional, trying to convince what remained of their souls that their service to the nation was to stand guard and count how many fagpoles there were in a street so that when the top ofcial arrived they could say, “Sir, there are precisely twenty four poles, as you may have read in your briefng books.” But to reach that conclusion, the bureaucrat had not only to count them, but to send and receive ffty electronic mails with peers to determine whether his arithmetic was accurate and whether it matched the city blueprints and the latest census and the projections for the next fscal year’s budget. And the reason? To prevent the principal ofcer from tripping as he tried to ascertain how many poles there were on a street as he or she walked from the motorcade to the Department of X for a meeting with another top ofcial who was being briefed in equally minute detail whether the visiting ofcial liked pinstriped suits or not. That old memory of youth wasting their lives and energy for the futility of government brought a smile to my mouth. Sure, I hated waiting, but at least here, waiting for Eve’s pursuers would result in an actual moment of truth. Here things mattered. The chain of events that unfolded would either miraculously crown me with triumph or honor with death— blood, after all, cleanses dishonor. Here it was not a matter of a top ofcial asking or not asking about the quantity of poles; noticing or not noticing the pinstripes. Here the question was the cold, crisp: will I live or will I die? QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 83

I thought of what my father said about the Campe y Cos’ tracing their origins to King Phillip the Fifth. Perhaps fghting for a queen and her daughter can earn the whole family a full- blooded noblesse d’esprit if not d’epée. And I also hoped all bureaucrats and top ofcials tripped, wherever they were. SEVENTEEN

“I MET SOMEONE,” I just couldn’t stop tonguing those palatable words in my mouth. Even as I stood in the darkness feeling the danger lurking nearby; waiting for Eve’s pursuers to appear and make a move; knowing they have greater frepower; hoping against hope that the element of surprise gave us enough of an edge to live. I did feel guilty about having dragged my cousins Jimmy and Diego into this. Fuck, even my Uncle Jim was here, and if anything happened to any of them, any of us for that matter, my beloved aunt would kill me, even if I was dead. But it was not all my fault. They volunteered. Nay, they insisted I should not fght alone. That’s what family is for, they said. I didn’t know how efective a thirty-six inch baseball bat, a scalpel or my uncle’s revolver would be against their automatic weapons, or if the police would get here in time: precisely after we got what we wanted and just before they blasted us to kingdom come or sent for reinforcements or whatnot. Who could I trust besides the three next-of-kin risking their lives for me, for Eve ultimately? “Should we turn of the light?” Diego asked naively. Sweet Diego who took too long to learn to talk as a kid because he didn’t have anything to say. “No use. We want them to think that there’s someone in here. And if they have night vision goggles, we lose yet another advantage.” My heart was pumping blood madly all about my body. That sweet tingling sensation was still there, at the core of it all, but I was growing tenser by the minute. I had to breathe, to relax. I remembered I once read that in most fghts the loser is QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 85 the one who cannot control the adrenalin rush, which leads the body to exhaustion and ultimate surrender within just a few minutes. The victors are the ones who keep control of their breathing. “And we do have the element of surprise,” I thought, “Unless they have thermal scanners, that is.” I was going insane with all these questions. But I focused and concerned myself with my breathing and remembering why I was there, why I got my family involved in that life-risking business. There it was. I managed to control my breathing. Long, deep breaths. I said to myself softly, “Everything happens for a reason. I met someone. I met Eve. And my God, yes, she is worth this. I’m such a cry baby. She went through much worse than this since tender age. My resolve can’t be undone. It feels so good to say it. I met someone. I met Eve.” At long last, I had met the one. Waiting for the assault on Eve’s pursuers, Diego approached me. “Wow cuz! So you really found the one? Well, like your dad would say, mazel tov!” Mazaal tov, accent on the last syllable with an “a” sound, I said to myself, correcting, like Abba did, anyone who Americanized the Hebrew. That was Diego all over, breaking the tension with a sweet remark. Diego was the one cousin on my mother’s side who never made fun of me for being a half-blood. So, while my other cousins teased me for the fne specimen of Semitic nose Adonai blessed me with, Diego did not hesitate to play with me and talk to me about girls he liked—even though it took him a while longer than usual to learn to talk. Perhaps that was our element of kinship. We were both diferent from the lot of Raphaelite cherubim my aunts produced like well-lubricated reproduction machines, each one blonder, rosier, cuter and more perfect than the one before. But Diego and I were dark skinned and diferent. Diego was taciturn, I read backwards; he was “the mute,” I was “the half blood.” We were the outsiders, the unhip. But skin color and blood purity were the least of my 86 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ concerns for we saw headlights approaching. A black SUV pulled up and turned of the engine. It was happening. I felt like I was in the border between worlds, hoping desperately not to get trapped in the middle. It would all be over in a second. I turned to look at Diego and Jaime and Uncle Jim, all sweating profusely. We all nodded at each other. A man stepped out of the car, followed by a second one. We took our positions. Someone started turning the doorknob from the outside, but the bolt was on. More dark silhouettes continued getting out of the vehicle, making their way. Four? Six? It might have been unwise to wait too long, but it would have been lethal if we jumped too early. I turned to look at Jaime, who was now down the hall, crouching and looking from a window. He signaled fve. From my vantage point I concurred. They inserted a card to force the bolt without leaving marks of breaking an entry. They knew what they were doing. I crouched in the kitchen, well-hidden from view. Jaime and Uncle Jim were in the corridor, the latter inside the washing machine closet. Diego was in the living room. We did not have much of a strategy, but one must never underestimate a simple ambush. The door opened. I tried not to hold my breath as I often do when I am nervous. It’s critical to keep breathing, I reminded myself. Losing control of your breathing rhythm is a sure recipe for tragedy. I breathed deeply, hoping like hell that nobody jumped ahead of time. Being called out in a false start would mean getting killed. The frst of them came in, clad in a black jumpsuit, holding a high-caliber weapon. The fucking prick looked every bit like a mercenary in an operation. The second, third came in, wearing suits, typical government employees, typical bureaucrats; then the fourth, wearing khakis and sunglasses. From my vantage point I could see the jumpsuit guy had almost reached the point where Jaime was. The ffth one at QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 87 the door was not moving. His immobility would undermine our whole modest strategy. I wished I had said goodbye to Abba. Again I prayed that Jaime could wait. I was supposed to give the signal. I was supposed to make the frst move. Seconds felt like hours. Finally, thank God, the man at the door took some steps ahead and the one at the vanguard slowed down. I just needed the last man to take one more step. Still, he refused to walk in. He took half a step. His position was not ideal but I had to make do, because he suddenly turned back to close the door. One… two…three! My mind emptied, completely focused. I saw everything in slow motion. It’s amazing what adrenalin can do. I sprang forward, swinging away and during those infnitesimal seconds wondered if the guy had a family, then I buried that thought. I hit him in the side of the head, right above the ear. I did good; managed to do it silently. His minions barely had time to react. Uncle Jim and Jaime attacked and disarmed the most dangerous of the lot, the black ops guy with the assault rife taking advantage of the split second he turned hearing his mate fall. Diego neutralized a third man. Three of them down and out, two left to go. Now it was a fair fght. As one of the men in suits tried to draw his gun, Jaime jumped him. They wrestled some before I used a heavy skillet to render him useless. The other man in a suit did manage to draw. Diego was all over the man with inexorable force, like a juggernaut taking out all his frustrations, all the abuse, on that man. He forced the assailant’s arm to point up. Uncle Jim aided him. The man managed to shoot, but hit the ceiling. Jaime slugged him good. I hit his hands. He dropped the gun. As I suspected, it was all over in a very long second. EIGHTEEN

THE ADRENALIN RUSH was still not over as we bound them. We frisked them to make sure they were completely disarmed. Only then, did we let Diego call 911. That gave us a small window, but a window nonetheless, to question the only one of them who had regained consciousness. “Who are you?” I yelled, trying to sound convincing. I must have sounded too polite, because Jaime pushed me over violently and yelled the same question, the way one ought to in those situations. I regained my poise and continued, “Who are you after?” “Are you the idealists who want to restore the monarchy in Zhizn?” he said in a foreign accent, like Eve’s but evil. “Answer the question!” I said as Jaime put the revolver on the side of the man’s head. “We are in pursuit of Margot and Eve of Zhizn because they represent a threat to the State. They are to be killed for crimes of treason, for compromising national security and economic integrity, and for challenging the status quo.” My blood boiled when I heard the government speak, but especially when I heard the with-us-or-against-us language that Freedom Fries bureaucrats loved so much to justify the life—fancy or petty— that taxpayer coin aforded them. The killer actually spoke like a bureaucrat. “What kind of threat, exactly?” “The fact that they belong to royalty is a threat to the State of Zhizn and a threat and an insult to its democratic peoples.” “You son of a bitch. How many of you are there?” “Enough. A whole country. It only takes one. It is every QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 89 patriot’s obligation.” Again, the hideous presumption of bureaucrats with misplaced idealism making themselves a synecdoche for the whole country, and vice versa. “Some sort of hero you think you are, going after two harmless women half around the world.” “As long as they live, they remain a threat to the motherland and a reminder of the years of tyranny and oppression imposed by the monarchy. And anyone who aids them will be considered a threat. So you too are now an enemy of the State of Zhizn.” I tried to think of something smart to ask. Just as you would do in a lucid dream to gain precious insight into yourself, but nothing particularly bright popped up. I momentarily blamed my parents for having me so late in life. “How did you fnd her here?” “Electronic mail. We tracked down the IP address from her e-mail account.” “You listen to me, and listen to me good. Whenever you get your phone call, you call of any further attempts against them. If you continue going after them, you will fail, time and again, so long as we are in the map.” The second I shut up, I thought I had overplayed my hand with too much bravado. But the truth was I would commit my life to protecting Eve, so it was partly truth. And perhaps if they believed they were going up against a formidable adversary, they would think twice before attempting against my beloved’s life ever again. The assailant managed to provide one more clue. Just when we saw the red and blue lights of the police cruisers, he said, “So the Scribes exist?” I urged my cousins and uncle to leave. I did not want to get them into trouble with the law. Maybe my former government connections would work. Of course, the days when they were really worried about having any contact with law enforcement 90 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

(on account of their immigration status) were far gone. But still, I did not want them to face any problem on my behalf. They would not leave my side

IT WAS uneventful for the most part. The usual in these cases. The police took our statements, confscated the weapons of the fve men, and led them safely to the cruisers. A paramedic gave us electrolytes and blankets for the shock. There was no telling what would happen next. There was no point in lying. If anything, I had rather chance it with the police than be left subject to another attack. I felt that post-adrenalin fear of having gone too far. We went over the events again. Then they took us to the station, because they fgured out we were not defending our home. For a moment they thought it was a gang fght. I was a bit nervous. I’ve never had the stomach for police stations, and after I walked out of the District of Columbia I wanted no part in any brushing with the government, local, state or federal. Jaime was joking with his dad and teasing Diego. I loved that he could be so calm. I also hated it. They were about to get our statement again when a lieutenant interjected. He said something, I couldn’t hear what, to the sergeant. Then he turned to us. “Apparently your case just got escalated,” he said. “Someone from the Bureau wants to talk to you,” and then to Diego, Jaime and Uncle Jim, “you guys are free to go. We have your statements and we know where to contact you if we need you.” That was a bit disheartening, but fair, because now I was going to face the music alone. Uncle Jim said, “We’ll wait for you. Gonna get a Starbucks or something. Call us as soon as you’re done and we’ll pick you up.” I thanked them and followed the lieutenant to an ofce belonging to someone who had an early morning shift. “Wait here,” he said. He did not say QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 91 how long. If it wasn’t for her, I would have had a pretty uneasy wait. I could feel the inhuman walls of the State closing down on me. After three years of paradise in southern California, after three years of jamming, doing my delivery route and surfng, I suddenly felt the metallic taste of blood in my mouth as I felt enclosed within the cold walls and fuorescent lights of the government. I felt my mouth bitter as I recalled the story of John Bureau. Suddenly it dawned on me how it was all connected. It became clear now that the legend of John Bureau was more than just a legend. As much as it scared me, I had to think back on the book How John Bureau Conquered the World… to try to fgure out the second question… And How We Plan to Overthrow Him. Could John Bureau be defeated? NINETEEN

THE MARCH of the stars turned John Bureau’s depression into fury until he made up his mind to have his vengeance… After recomposing his physique with powerful potions, John Bureau returned to Princess Naiveté’s Kingdom of Haiim to carry out his revenge. By now she was queen, her father had passed. And she was a mother. She had borne Prince Elegance a lovely baby girl, in every respect the spitting image of Naiveté. Bureau requested a hearing with the monarch. The queen was avid to make amends, sincerely happy about the prospect of seeing him, and naïve enough to believe that things could be as they had once been. When he saw her again, in spite of his potions, his heart betrayed him. He looked ill-at-ease, feeble, even vulnerable. But the bitterness soon anesthetized him, even to her golden beauty, her honey eyes and her desert night voice. If there could have been any chance of him abandoning his hateful revenge it was undermined by Naiveté’s child. The mere thought that another man’s seed had entered her and that a child had blossomed from it sealed the wrath within Bureau. If his heart, if his dreams had burned, then so would Naiveté’s kingdom. She apologized with tears, explaining her motives, admitting her foolishness, assuring that Prince Elegance was seldom, if ever, around. She stated in every possible indirectness that the road was paved for them to resume the ardors of their passion. But Bureau heard nothing but fury’s wings futtering nearby, and said in a cryptic tone that he wanted nothing except to serve her and the Kingdom of Haiim, and begged her in the name of the love she had once had for him, to be admitted as a trusted advisor QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 93 and faithful servant. Something in her warned her of the danger, but true to her name and knowing she had hurt him, she thought the very least she could do was comply and give him time. In the matter of a year, John Bureau had become knowledgeable in all matters of the State and had fully schemed and concocted his revenge to its bitterest consequence. He convinced Naiveté that a single concept could revolutionize the realm: strategic efciency. Still unsuspecting of his ulterior motives, and hoping it could in some way bring him back to her, she yielded. And with that, Naiveté opened the doors to the Bureau Reforms in the Kingdom of Haiim. The reforms would slowly but ultimately kill the kingdom’s soul, Naiveté herself, and any livable future for Naiveté’s child. To begin with, all windows were walled up in the palace and the city by order of John, now named court minister counselor. In their stead were placed lamps of Greek fre that shone in silvery hues. Bureau established schedules, enforced strictly, for beginning a work day, eating, leisure and attending the calls of nature. At frst, Bureau was brutal and demanded ffteen-hour workdays. But after several fatalities, he discovered that an eight hour shift was ideal. Bureau reformed the taxing system to make it impossible for anyone to understand. It used to be that citizens of Haiim had to yield ten percent of their earnings, in gold or in kind, to the kingdom. Bureau perverted the sacred art of mathematics and the sacred act of tithing and introduced an algebraic formula that dictated everyone must pay thirty percent of surplus of a fxed income or harvest, multiplied by the percentage of the gross national product and divided by the amount of days of drought and full moons in the past thirty days and children or relatives enrolled in the kingdom’s militia. The result would be multiplied by phi, the golden number. If the income came from a trade that was critical to the welfare of the kingdom, they could further 94 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

deduct one point seven percent of one ffth of their total taxable sum. If, in contrast, their trade was considered as burdensome or superfuous to state matters—namely the arts or anything that did not serve a strategic efciency purpose—there was an additional tax proportional to the individual’s weigh (to determine how well fed they were) and payable only in solid silver pieces. However, the list of who worked in a deductible trade and who in one that was further taxed was in constant rotation and published every Tuesday after a major astronomical event, including a comet, an eclipse, a meteor shower, a full moon, a new moon, a blue moon, a blood moon or a honey moon (of any court advisor). Not even the tax collectors understood the system. But they knew John Bureau was the de facto governor, as the queen had fallen ill witnessing the horrors of the system. They complied as best as they could. Bureau had the queen pass regulations as to the use of land. Agricultural lands were decommissioned and reassigned as residential zones. Residential zones would be torn down and toiled until they were good for agricultural production. The measure would lead to famine, but Bureau ordered to import food from neighboring countries. The imports took a toll on the kingdom’s fnances, consequently leading Bureau to reform the tax system with new exceptions and even more complicated formulae. Soon all happiness and peace of mind and even the light and merry spirit of Naiveté vanished from the Kingdom of Haiim, with everyone preoccupied about compliance with what began to be called “Bureau-cracy.” John Bureau, now prime minister of Haiim pushed next for the industrialization of the realm. His edicts noted that agriculture was a thing of the primitives. He sent half of agricultural workers and half of the standing army to work in blandness, sadness and settling-for-less factories, which Bureau said were critical for the well-being of the State and a pillar of strategic efciency. QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 95

On the topic of welfare, Bureau decided to employ the poor and the derelict to oversee social programs. Used to scantiness and suddenly fnding themselves in a position to have and to hold, they naturally hogged as much as they could for themselves and left the treasury in dire straits, leading to yet another tax reform. Bureau came up with his proposal to serve justice in the kingdom. The truth would no longer stick its ugly face in justice hearings. John Bureau established that only what could be proved —regardless of verisimilitude, regardless of truth—would determine the innocence or guilt of a party. He then created a special corps who would help both plaintifs and defendants dress up their proofs and evidences to make them more appealing to judges. The idea was like a wild fre in a drought-aficted steppe, providing immediate employment for thousands of agricultural workers—those who had not been reassigned to the factories at least—having trouble toiling felds that still had architectural foundations. This new caste was indebted and grateful to Bureau and began reproducing at an alarming rate. Bureau then reformed the health sector, dismissing the best Hebrew and Arab physicians and in their stead industrializing the feld. Health would no longer be the focus, for Bureau argued, that was also primitive and savage and not strategically efcient. Sickness and remedies was the brand of a truly modern State. The institutions of sickness and remedies, under penalty of decapitation, had the mandate of maintaining the sick perpetually dependent on the remedies, and making healthy people sick so that remedies could be applied. After this, John Bureau reformed the tax system yet again, to cover the expenses the state had to incur in to pay for the best health system in the world. Naiveté had waned and withered. She was still very young but the horrors had cast a shadow upon her otherwise 96 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ unconquerable beauty, and it was evident that her passing was a matter of days. Her only consolation, the promenade around the emerald pool in the balcony where she and Bureau used to walk hand in hand overlooking the once lovely Haiim in another lifetime, was littered with copies of the taxing system. The institutions of sickness and remedies could not keep Naiveté alive for long. They came up with a long, fancy, impressive- sounding name for her cause of death. But in truth, she died of a broken heart. She had lost herself, knowing she had pushed away the one man who would have flled her heart and bearing the child of a man she did not love. When she died, the water of the terrace pool became murky. Naiveté’s child was never seen again in the kingdom, for she was smuggled out and spirited away to safety by copyists and scribes from the Library of Haiim who had silently begun planning an escape from the kingdom. The boldest among them even harbored the thoughts of a counter assault on Bureau, a revolt, and anti-Bureau-cracy revolution. With the Queen dead and no heir in sight, no one could understand how exactly the State functioned, so John Bureau became indispensable. He knew this, but his revenge upon the Naiveté—even after death—was not yet accomplished. He had claimed her body. He was going after her very soul. He would vanish all hope from Haiim. John Bureau, now ruler of every afair of the State, wanted to eradicate the spirit of Naiveté. She had been joyful, fun-loving, carefree and beautiful. John Bureau wanted to do away with anything that resembled her and make things further complicated, tiring, inhuman. And it was not enough to accomplish it within the boundaries of the realm. He wanted everyone to adopt the senseless system of strategic efciency and make them believe that it was the only thing sensible to do. Bureau understood the power of the extensions of the body. If individuals became as dependent on extensions of the body as the QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 97

State had become reliant on him, his victory would be near complete. He commissioned the brightest, most creative minds to begin designing devices to replace those that worked perfectly well. He ordered them, for example, to come up with a replacement for Greek fre. He did not listen to the pleas of the bright minds who argued it was impossible. He wanted people to be dissatisfed with everything they had and expect constant renovations. Bureau ordered his engineers to perfect the wheel, recast silver and come up with several shades of black yarn. Bureau then left the kingdom temporarily, heading east, leaving behind a parliament chosen through elections that were as complex as the taxing system. In the east, he made a pact with the Han and shared with them many secrets of his sorcery. The Han were grateful. But Bureau was not one for charity. The secrets he gave them would lead the Han to be able to mass produce anything. When he returned, Bureau ordered his engineers to ship the Han their ideas so that they could mass produce the perfected inventions alongside the new body extensions. Bureau then headed west, where, using his hypnotic voice and his thorn-apple potions, he excogitated a new breed of humans that would prove as critical to his success as the new cast of the justice sector. He convinced westerners that happiness lie in personal gain. He convinced them that governments could not and should not be trusted, and he used as evidence the wasteland that the Kingdom of Haiim was becoming. He soon had them marching to his orders, preaching the idea that pursuing individual lucre meant welfare for all. And he infected them with a craving; the same senseless concept that was rendered dangerous by his mouth: strategic efciency. He thus created a breed that lacked the bare minimum of shame and sense of responsibility that the bewildered public servants in the kingdom he usurped had once had. But Bureau was not fnished. He then 98 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ travelled to the periphery of the world to convince the derelict that their lot in life had been established by the Bureau-crats in his kingdom, the every-man-for-himself revenue seeking men of the west, and the factory workers of the east. Some he convinced that the best course of action was fghting for common poverty; others that self-immolation was the path to fght back honorably. Then Bureau went back home and reformed the tax system. In one of his trademark moments, John Bureau enacted the Topsy-Turvy Act which provided that for the beneft of the dim witted, the village idiots, and all the intellectually challenged, they would be appointed to the very highest echelons of governance. Contrariwise, the best, brightest, most committed among the populace in government service would be demoted to the lower rungs. Bureau’s rationale: that the bright would be able to perfectly carry out the everyday operations, get their hands dirty and shine in their anonymity for the glory of the State. They would become the true pillars sustaining the empire, while the airheaded, boneheaded, blockheaded, dopey, gormless, oafsh, obtuse, fatuous, cretinous, feebleminded, tomfool, zany, half- backed, illiterate morons on top would only have to smile and wave and take credit for what happened and what was accomplished by those below them. Immediately after, Bureau contaminated speech with the Political Correctness Act, which forbade the use of half of the words in the language. The idiots recently appointed to the top celebrated because half of the banned words were often used against them. Then came the moment of truth: The inventions and body extensions designed by the engineering commission and manufactured by the Han arrived. Soon, westerners arrived in the land to buy all the merchandise and resell it for considerable proft. The people had been promised that the inventions and body extensions would change their lives and give them a happiness never tasted during Naiveté’s reign. They were in such QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 99 state of angst that no one could help celebrating the arrival of merchandise. Everyone reached deep into their pockets and began buying the extensions of the body which the westerners scalped. The foreigners, both from the east and the west, were so impressed by the “efciency” of the kingdom that they begged Bureau to come to their realms and provinces and reform statesmanship: Bureau-cratize it. Bureau accepted and continued his conquests. His new implementations in the host kingdoms included the establishment of worker organizations that operated with an identical structure to the governments (blockheads on top), and under the premise of quality control and efciency, delayed every single process that came their way while leaving individual workers completely unprotected. The other major item of relevance was the introduction both in statesmanship and in every other cast of continuous meetings that served to discuss results of previous meetings, and plan for future ones. Everyone at meetings, thanks at frst to one of Bureau’s potions, and later to Pavlovian conditioning, became bobble heads who nodded thirty times per minute and erupted periodically praising, “Yes, sir. That idea is brilliant, sir!” And then, after more nods continued, “Excellent, sir! Of course, sir! Whatever you think best, sir. Yes, SIR. Oh no, sir, we would never believe you were wrong. Certainly, sir…” ad nauseam. Bureau was this “sir” but as in other spheres of government, unthinking simpletons were later appointed to lead meetings. Later, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place when the residents of the periphery of the world, the pro-poor and the self-immolators attacked Bureau’s realms. Bureau redrafted members of the military who had been sent to factories to fght back and announced to the world that there were savages who lurked and wanted to end the Bureau way of life with their abominable primitive ways that jeopardized the freedom and strategic efciency that denizens of Bureau so graciously enjoyed. With 100 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ this, John successfully channeled all the anger, angst and agony of citizens against a common enemy: common povertyists and self-immolators. However, little did the denizens of the formerly glorious realm of Haiim know that those who advocated for common poverty and the self-immolators had a system in place that was also Bureau-cratic. They were fed the same arguments backwards by the great impostor that was JB. Finally, when Bureau felt that his time was near, for even someone born in the Land of Time has an end, he made his fnal bid at conquering the world. He had left the darkest for last. Four were his fnal concoctions. He set up a commission to perfect his extensions of the body project to include an extension of the central nervous system. Yes, Bureau had envisioned the digital era. And in it he sought to perpetuate the longing for things that could not fll the vacuum of the soul. Bureau convinced almost everyone that magic was not real. Through systematic infltration, he Bureau-cratized religions. Once gatherings of people that praised the higher spheres and the Creator in communion, religions became stale, still-life paradigms, because Bureau convinced the abbots of each denomination and persuasion that for reasons of strategic efciency that would greatly please the Heavenly Father, they should expand to dominate every aspect of human interaction, and they should hold frm monopoly over the divine. “Imagine,” said Bureau, “how uncomely to God (and State) that people think they can just access what is good and holy by themselves and not through the proper, mediated channels, as God intended.” If all abbots were not convinced, Bureau soon appointed the cretins who saw things his way on top. Bureau convinced each profession of faith that the others were a disgrace and an aberration to God and that it was God’s will to, in the name of love, destroy or conquer all others. Then he convinced them that QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 101

God was an aberration and that the abbots themselves were divine. Bureau ultimately convinced the people and spiritual leaders, overwhelmed with Bureau-cracy, to abandon the old ways. And he made certain people could not return to them. John did the unthinkable: he destroyed the space-time oracular mechanism that linked all places and all times on earth so that sacred geography became plain geography, and no one else could ever access the Land of Time. Before records were kept, before they even mattered, continents foated on ether. And the streams that fowed form the Land of Time made chronological precision tricky, if not impossible. The Mesopotamia where the story began is not the same as the Mesopotamia of today— because it fowed and was at once closer to every other corner of the world. When the evil impostor John Bureau destroyed the space-time oracular mechanism that linked all places and all times, continents fell into what is now known as continental platforms and strict, unnegotiable distances were established; and a strict, unnegotiable fow of time also was set. In all fairness, the set time and distances were very strategically efcient. But not magical. How could people ever hope to return to the old ways? How could they if religions were self-serving and if time was linear and distances rigid? How could they when they were overwhelmed with concern and they were constantly reminded that they needed to fll the vacuum of the soul with extensions of the body? How could they if blandness, sadness and settling-for- less factories were a well-oiled machine pumping their products? And fnally, Bureau overhauled the taxing system and installed a new market. Whereas the Market of Haiim was once a merry place of fresh gossip and fresh produce, Bureau instituted a Great Market. Nobody knew what was sold within it. Only that it was critical to buy or sell. For strategic efciency depended upon it. And if those invisible, non-existent goods were not bought and sold, then the whole system would collapse. Some 102 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ said that what was sold was the value of things. Others argued that it was the soul of things. The copyists and the scribes from the Library of Haiim knew it mattered little what in fact was sold. The lie had been set in place and in motion. The true entropy, they saw, was that it would not relent on its own. John died as bitter and broken as the night Princess Naiveté failed to meet him. After John Bureau’s death, Bureau-cracy was thriving and expanding to fulfll the needs of the thriving, expanding Bureau-cracy. In mourning, many of the morons he appointed as chiefs named their children after the evil magus and named him “Person of the Year” and “Man of the Century.” In fact, since all connection to the Land of Time had been lost, the dimwits named Bureau the “Man of All Times.” TWENTY

THAT WAS how John Bureau had conquered the world and banished naiveté from public service, and slowly, from everyday life. And now that he was after my Eve, it was critical to answer the question of whether he could be defeated. Even if he could not be defeated I would fght the good fght. But human nature being what it is, I needed to know I stood a fghting chance. How could I, the half-blood, the almost retard, the former unsuspecting bureaucrat hope to overthrow the system put in place by an evil wizard millennia ago and save my Eve? My questions were suddenly cut short as the door of the ofce opened. “Good evening,” said a big, tall agent. He could be an ex- Marine, or a linebacker, wearing at least a ffty long suit. And yet something about him was univocally approachable. He was not intimidating; although I’m sure he could intimidate if he so chose. He was the most polite person I had ever met in my dealings with law enforcement. I had no idea I would come to regard him with respect, let alone afability, because to my surprise, Detective Lawrence knew about my Eve, and he, like me, would cross the line to protect her. “Can I get you some cofee? I cannot live without my own,” he said. “It’s way past my bedtime, ofcer. I’ll pass,” I said. He was carrying a mug with some wise crack about Colombian cofee being the country’s second fnest export. That gave away the fact that, though he was on the government dime, he was no bureaucrat. You see, bureaucrats don’t joke. They 104 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ believe they are carrying out the sacred duty of the evil magus. They believe that Freedom Fries really mean freedom and should be sold all around the world. They take everything in their job as serious as a heart attack, and hail the party, hail the leader, hail the institution. So a law enforcement agent who did not believe he was in Miami Vice was as welcome as a breeze on a stufy day. “Geez, it doesn’t take a genius to brew cofee, but they cannot do it in Orange County,” he complained. He extended his arm, revealing a badge from the Federal Bureau of Investigation and a gun concealed in a “bra” under his suit. “Lawrence Doerfer, special agent.” “Jacob Goldstein. Nice meeting you, agent Doerfer.” “Please, Lawrence. Call me Lawrence.” I thanked him. Just about now, my head started to hurt, as the adrenalin slowly waned. He took a sip of his cofee, remained quiet for a second and then looked at me. I didn’t know what to expect. I suspected it was some method of interrogation he was using, trying to size me, measure my responses, read my body language. But then he looked beyond me, fxing his gaze in some random point of the window, maybe beyond. The silence seemed long but not unpleasant. Then, he fnally looked at me again and spoke. “So you met Princess Eve.” I was fabbergasted. But hearing her name made me smile. “I did.” Then I mumbled a little bit and asked, “But how do you know?” “Well, you just confrmed what I suspected,” he said laughing, “I just had to size up how well you knew her.” I smiled again. “By the way, relax,” he added, “You are not in trouble. Not in my book, not in my watch. If anything, thank you. I have been QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 105 hunting that squad down for some time. We got intelligence reports suggesting they could be stateside, but I got stuck in red tape because my principal ofcer didn’t believe them. You know how bureaucracy is. Says here you were with the Ofce of the Inspector General. So you know. Bureaucracy takes something beautiful and makes it cheap and fimsy. But I was beyond doubt that there would be an attempt to strike when I got her message.” The faintest spasm of jealousy passed through my body. Eve contacted him? He continued, “In these cases, time is of the essence. I knew Eve and Margot had left the house, but still. Pretty brave of you to take on that group with pots and pans.” Special agent Lawrence saw I was starving for clarity. He added, “I should explain.” He handed me a dossier that read, “Queen Margot and Princess Eve, deposed heads of state of Zhizn.” TWENTY—ONE

LIKE THE MYTHICAL Brigadoon of Broadway, the land that appears for a day every one hundred years, so did Zhizn seem to remain hidden and untouched by the events that scarred and shattered Europe in the twentieth century. Zhizn was a land of naiveté, a land with no central banking system, a land where trade did not rely on circulating currency. It was a land with an army more ft for decorating a Playmobil play set than for actually engaging in acts of war. Zhizn was a land where many things did not make sense—from our point of view, so tainted by the strategic efciency that the evil wizard John Bureau had for long sold as fool’s gold and which had become second nature to us. Zhizn had failed to adopt the Gregorian calendar well into the twentieth century. Their dates were of from the rest of Europe. They lived twelve days behind the rest of the continent. They attempted to transition from the Julian calendar, but discussions of how to celebrate those twelve days-worth of birthdates kept them procrastinating on the decision. Some argued that a national celebration in the main square would more than make up for it. Others suggested that the “victims” should be celebrated twice the following year. In the end they never did, until after the coup. Zhizn’s public transportation system was very organic. There were no schedules for the trams and later for the buses, but somehow, anytime one was needed, no matter the weather, no matter how late people were to their appointments (and recall that they could not be so late because they lived twelve days in the past) there was that familiar clank announcing the arrival. Children were encouraged to miss school whenever they QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 107 felt like learning from life or other sources. In fact teachers quite often missed school when they determined they either had much to learn themselves or nothing to teach. The industry was paused several times a day for dancing breaks and songs were composed for diferent hours and diferent days of the week. Sundays it was customary for people, rich and poor alike, to gather in parks with picnic baskets and walk in circles greeting each other for a few minutes until hunger got the better of them. The wealth disparity was not huge, and in fact many of the noble houses were not counted among the most afuent. Lounging and relaxing, philosophizing and crooning were considered of higher value than seeking improvement of one’s economic condition. Zhiznians seemed more concerned with the blowing wind than with the advances of the isms to the east and to the west. The most pressing or urgent matters of statesmanship were determined by engaging in practices such as lucid dreaming, consulting the pendulum or their own version of the Tarot (known as the lateral arcana), or by entering a sort of trance from the constant dance breaks they took, a condition which they called the Saint Vitus-Frau Trofea Spectacular Oracular Dance. The small Kingdom of Zhizn lived in what could readily be described as a State (capital “s”) of chaos, or tochu vavochu, as the Hebrews say in Aramaic. Except that chaos was not quite it. It could more aptly be described as harmonic anarchy. It bordered on the miraculous. But though it had been unscarred and untouched by John Bureau’s legacy for so long, when it fnally fell it was targeted with relentless brutality by the evil magus’ cohorts. Thus was the state of things when King Franz, betrothed to Margot, took power from Queen Anya. And thus was the state of afairs when my Eve was born. So what changed it? It began simply with hothead 108 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ bureaucrats in King Franz’s courts accusing the head of state of inefciency. They believed that nothing was reliable or dependable. They argued that complete disregard for predictability was an unpardonable shortcoming, meriting the comparison of the kingdom to a realm of barbarians and the king to a baboon. King Franz was no saint and few into a rage. “How dare they speak in such terms of their ruler? Bloody ingrates! I should serve their heads to baboons at the Royal Zoo!” General Provost, senior military advisor, often disagreed with his king. But his loyalty was beyond question. He urged his king against this measure. “Better not make martyrs out of them,” he suggested. “Perhaps you’d like your head to take the place of theirs?” In the end, however, King Franz yielded and opted to suspend those bureaucrats’ dessert privileges for a week. This afected them more than they cared to admit and, spurred them to continue in their eforts. King Franz tried to take the demonstrations with a bit more levity and grace, retorting that only fools pretend to exert full control over nature and subjects. “The key,” he said, “is to go with the fow. Ergo, the kingdom will continue operating organically.” Organically. That is precisely how Zhizn worked. After relationships with the west were bolstered, international observers and the diplomatic corps in their cables and correspondence univocally referred to Zhizn as “The country that should not work, except it does. Somehow.” Organically is also how the bureaucrats’ revolution was sabotaged. When they believed they had enough support for a rally, they scheduled one in the city’s main square. And as a few hundred demonstrators tried to gather the support of passers-by, an unseasonable rain unleashed the waters of the heavens upon the bureaucrats with such precipitation as had not been QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 109 recorded for an hundred years. A week later, the soaked bureaucrats attempted another rally, preparing themselves with catchy anti-regime chants. But ten minutes after the scheduled beginning of the demonstration—the demonstration, unlike statesmanship in Zhizn, was planned minutely and to the last detail with strict times—an accident occurred in a nearby ice- cream factory, distracting citizens frst and then sending them in hoards to both assist in the rescue eforts and eat the ice-cream that would melt otherwise. Some of the demonstrators went to assist, and those who did not were labeled in the press as “self- centered demagogues who believed an idea was more important than an ice-cream or helping out an ice-creamer in distress.” Even the few occasions when they did manage to pull of demonstrations, the good people of Zhizn thought it was a joke, a parade of sorts. All ilk of salespeople gathered around to push sweetmeats, cigars, cookies, churros and bear paws. In the end it was these salespeople who attracted most of the visitors. The visitors, treats in mouth, looked at the demonstrating bureaucrats like they were circus freaks and while the anti- regime chants were catchy, they were grossly distorted by the common devil-may-care Zhiznians who sought fun, not political rallies. General Provno remained uneasy. He did not fear an uprising, for Zhiznians were simple folk. He feared the potential for havoc that one man or one miniscule group can have. And alas he was right. For sanity seems to be sustained at times by nothing more than rusty needles. All it takes is one man to turn the world upside down. There was one bureaucrat with access to the palace—one fervent follower of the evil magus that made it possible for the coup to succeed. King Franz could still be enthroned and I might have never met my Eve had it not been for the man inside the court. This monkey, this golem, this 110 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ ill-born abomination was nothing more than a pent-up bureaucrat. One, however, who had the means to open three sets of doors to the palace and provide a map to the other bureaucrats showing where the armory and their majesties’ and the princess’ chambers were. And, after leaving the strategic doors open and providing the strategic map to the rest, like cowards are wont to do, he just stepped sideways and was swallowed up in the annals of shame and in the anonymity of the bureaucrats’ revolt; for one was all and all was one. It was, and it was not so. It happened, and it never did that on August 23 (I bother not to write the year, as discrepancies between the Julian and Gregorian calendar would be cause for further, yet unnecessary controversy), the palace gates were breached. King Franz was killed. Queen Margot and Princess Eve were forced into exile. After twelve months or so of trying to navigate the back alleys of diplomacy, they lost all hope to go back to their country and continue ruling. Their country was not a priority for the international community. It is a cliché, a sad cliché, but clichés are born of reality: since their country did not produce hydrocarbons or diamonds, it had no strategic efciency value and no international knight in shining armor sped to the rescue. There were some cockamamie pronouncements at the United Nations, bland and useless as they often are, where diplomats lamented the coup in ready-made and vacuous language, called for a peaceful resolution, condemned the loss of life, sent their sympathies, and quickly turned the page to focus on a diferent region of the world, a region where there was gas and petrol and diamonds. It became clear that they were not going to be safe in public. In spite of trying to keep a low profle, the murderous bureaucrats managed to get frighteningly close, once in Austria, prompting Eve and Margot to begin their wanderings; once QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 111 more in France where Eve’s forearm was brushed by a bullet. As the hitman confessed, Queen Margot and Princess Eve, because of their very blood, were considered a risk so long as they were alive—a risk to their grey, soulless bureaucracy. After almost a decade and a half of wandering Europe with the shadow of a protection detail and an even darker shadow of murderous bureaucrats, they sailed to the New World—sailed, because not many airliners wanted to fy them—and landed in fair Veracruz. They went to Guatemala at frst, where they had two quiet years. And fnally, thanks to some unusually skillful intervention by the State Department, they came to America. They were not assigned a protection detail but were introduced to Special Agent Lawrence Doerfer of the Bureau and his team. Margot and Eve cruised through the United States for maybe a year until they thought they could permanently settle down in Orange County. There, under the coast starlight, our lives crashed into each other. Two households, both alike in dignity. Or sort of. TWENTY-TWO

I LEFT the precinct feeling dazed, disoriented, and yet with a sense of pride. A woman of her stature, a princess in exile, a member of royalty, had looked of all people at me, the half- blood, the sort-of-anarchist. She had my heart completely, and I would fnd her at any cost. Detective Lawrence Doerfer gave me a calling card, in case I came upon any information. He said I was not to take on the murdering bureaucrats on my own again, but to give him a holler instead. I did not call my cousins. I walked those long Orange County blocks back home in the wee hours of the morning. I tossed and turned in bed, musing over how I would fnd her. You’d think in this day and age we would have exchanged cell phone numbers or e-mail addresses, but everything was so real, so personal, that it would have been pert to get into that. The following morning I went directly to see Abba. I regretted not having talked to him before I had embarked on my bravado of the night before. I shuddered to think what it would have been for him to learn of my fate if things had gone awry. It was luckily my day of. He had made himself pancakes, always too watery and with odd shapes made by his constant struggle to keep the mix from reaching the edge of the pan. He sat placidly, already bathed and well perfumed but unshaved, reading his Los Angeles Times. He had already spilled some maple syrup on his neatly pressed shirt. His otherwise fawless shirts were always stained after breakfast, lunch or dinner. “Hey, son!” he greeted me warmly. I kissed his forehead and padded his cheek, upholstered in two-day long beard. “Hey, Abba.” The morning sun came in through a window, QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 113 rendering Abba’s cotton-white hair golden. He smiled, and without looking down cut himself a piece of the pancake with his fork and gulped another piece, chewing the way old men do, thoroughly, kind of sideways and sustaining a grin all the way. I sat right in front of him, but not before padding his knee. “I’m glad to see you, Dad.” “Do you want to have breakfast?” For a second I sighed, wondering if Eve could, at this moment, have breakfast or was on the run, then I saw my Dad’s big, honest denture smile. “Of course. Don’t get up, I’ll get it.” I walked over to the kitchen and poured myself some of the lavender tea Abba always over-boiled, and grabbed a couple of pancakes. I went back to the living room, turned on the radio to jazz, and sat opposite him in his green leather couch. Abba only used the dining room when the Countess was around, and with her self-imposed exile—spawned by her disappointment in me for leaving the government—it was not very often those days. The maple syrup was very comforting, as were my Dad’s abundant cheeks. “What’s on your mind, son?” he said, knowing the way a father does. “Dad,” I said, hesitated for a second, and then repeated the powerful words that changed my life, the words whose hermeneutic repercussions were equal to the discovery of a new continent: “I met someone.” His grin only grew, thinking about grandchildren to come, no doubt. “Last night we were supposed to have dinner with two fne ladies whose blood and credentials could make the Countess and all the Campe y Cos shiver and quake.” He nodded. “Well, it’s her. It’s Eve of Zhizn that I met.” His mirth lighted the room. He slapped his leg and said “Baruch Hashem, my boy, you hit the jackpot!” ecstatic. “Yes, I know, Dad. I know. She is more beautiful and kind 114 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ and smart than you can imagine. And yet, after all she’s gone through, she still has the naiveté to believe in love.” “Ah, your Campe y Cos cousins are going to be green with envy! The Countess is going to faint.” Honoring him thus made my spirit all the lighter. “Yes, she is everything I could have hoped for and more. But there is a small issue.” I told my Dad the petit complications of our love, about her unannounced, unforeseeable departure, the dangers of the fundamentalist bureaucrats who still wanted her and her mother dead—and very much against my will because I did not want to trouble him—about our little stunt the night before. My dad listened attentively as if I were describing some new interpretation of the Pentateuch, nodding, adjusting his spectacles and at times holding the edge of his lip with his index fnger, the way I have recently noticed I do too when I awake. But not once did discouragement cross his face; quite the contrary. He seemed to gain confdence with every new episode I described to him. “And the thing is, Dad, that even though I quit the government and left Washington to be closer to you and the Countess, now I am ready to leave you and everything behind, to risk it all, like I did last night, to fnd her, and love her. Now this may be a childish illusion, an invisible castle, but it is as real to me as the sun that heats us. I will not ever again be as negligent as to involve my cousins or anyone else in this. But it is something I must do, even if I come up empty handed. It is like a bet, I know, but the wager is insignifcant in contrast with the booty.” I smiled, not being able to keep the image of Eve’s fne butt at bay. “I cannot live with myself if I don’t do everything and anything to be with her,” I concluded gravely. When I fnished he looked at me with what I can describe as nothing else than paternal pride. “My son, of course as your father it pains me to see you go, and even more so if it implies a risk for you. But something in your passion reminds me of my QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 115 own, many years ago, when I against all odds, married the Countess of Valparadiso, in spite of everything the Campe y Cos threw our way. And it has given me insurmountable joy and abysmal pain. It has given me life when I would have withered and grown gray without the Countess. And it has given me you, my boy. Above all other joys, it has given me you. So I bless Adonai for your passion. I give you my blessing, merrily.” He got up, patted my cheek and stepped into his room. He came back with something in his hand. “I want you to have this. Not for you, naturally, but for her.” He sat again and leaned forward, very gently caressing what was in his hand. “The only reason why I didn’t use it myself is because it was meant for this moment, for you. Especially because for a while, for a long while, it seemed like you would never come at all. I’m sure you were prancing merrily in Gan Eden, but you are a fulflled promise, baruch Hashem. So have it. It belonged to my mother. You never met your Savta, but she was very sweet, and she never lost faith that you would come one day. She rooted for you. And she would love you to have it.” His eyes grew misty as he said this, but his joy was untarnished. He handed me over a small satin satchel, navy blue. I loosened the cords that kept it closed and saw a rose gold ring with a small but handsome diamond. The diameter of the ring was so small I barely got it halfway through my pinky fnger. But clearly, it would ft her. “Thanks Abba, and thanks, Savta. I’m all set. Now all I need is a miracle. But that’s not too much to ask.” We hugged. I knew well the trail of Eve could run colder as time passed. But knowing I was going to embark on an adventure that implied danger, I decided to spend the day with my dad. I cooked for him, heard his stories, we watched a baseball game on television. Then I called my cousins and asked them to come over with their mom and dad to have a farewell outing. Aunt Rosaline was as loving as ever, smothering me with kisses and 116 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ telling me she was very glad I was safe. “Ay mi muchachito, are you alright? Your cousins told me everything.” Bless their hearts, they had actually told her a much diluted version of what actually transcended the night before. Uncle Jim, who winked at me as the accomplice of mine he had become, had brought tortas ahogadas, something that might be described as a beef Panini drowned in hot sauce. They had just received a fresh shipment of birote, Guadalajara’s version of sourdough bread. After dinner I told my cousins what the federal agent had told me, and added that I was to leave promptly the next morning to follow her. Diego looked at me attentively; his eyes begged me to either not leave or to take him along. But he knew it was something I would have to do alone. They reminded me, however, to take her a copy of the jam we had recorded two nights before. “When you fnd her, you let Eve know,” said Jaime, “That she helped us fnd our sound. And that we are eternally grateful. We wholeheartedly want her to be our cousin.” Rosaline, Jim, Jaime, Diego, Abba and I drove to Long Beach. Aunt Rosaline had always been very fond of Sal Goldstein. Now that the Countess was constantly travelling, they often invited him over to family picnics. We strolled on the pier and bought pretzels and bear’s paws. It was a glorious afternoon and I felt suddenly sad. Sad to think I had no idea what I was going to do the following day. Sure I had a plan, but it was self-didactic, and in the end it is a pretty big deal to trust one’s self. I was sad about the uncertainty of where and when I would fnd Eve, how I would measure my progress and why she had disappeared just as our romance was starting. When we were away from the lights, walking in darkness under the stars, I felt overwhelmed by the beauty, the poetry, the uncertainty, and let myself cry. I tried to hide it, and I hid it well, but I cried all the way back. It was time for me to leave home once again, once QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 117 and for all—for the right reasons—and leap into the dark, mysterious, luring abyss. It was time to put it all in and hope not to lose myself in the wager. When I walked my father home at the end of the evening, he said, “Nesia tova,” bon voyage. Then he added, revealing an Italian connection, “Ritorna vincitore!” I bowed and promised to comply. There was some poetic echo to his word choice. It made me feel like Turandot’s lover. Perhaps, just perhaps, poetic justice was on our side. The next morning I went to take an extended leave of absence from my delivery route duties, started the car and drove away with nothing but a few clothes, a CD and a ring for Eve. The open California road reassured me. If I had just plunged into an abyss, it certainly was a beautiful one. TWENTY-THREE

VAN NUYS, Simi Valley, Oxnard, Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, Paso Robles, and Salinas rolled by in the following days. If nothing else, it was one glorious road trip. In a gas station near San Jose, a nice gentleman told me he had seen a woman of extraordinary beauty and her daughter, both with a Eastern European accent a couple of days back. I was ecstatic. It was the frst clue that I was on the right track. I was so happy I wrote Abba a postcard telling him I had made some progress. After the merry happenstance in San Jose I lost the trail for a couple of days. In the lonely road I thought of mom, of her reaction to my leaving the government and moving from D.C. to California. Like I said before, Sal loved her, but he started turning bitter toward her after twenty plus years of not producing an heir. He felt disappointed in her, and his road trips in the Midwest became longer and oftener. When I was born, I was obviously the delight of Abba and the Countess. But as I grew, I realized that his love for her was fawed. I started resenting him for not loving her as much as he loved me. And I knew he could, I knew he had it in him to love her, because when he did, our little kitchen in Chicago resembled Eden. He just chose not to, most of the time. How hard it must have been for her before I came, a disowned heiress, an exiled Countess—whether the Campe y Cos nobility was spurious or not—fnding rejection and bitterness in the man for whom she left everything. I was refecting on this when I checked into a small hotel. It was a Friday. I always stayed home on Fridays. The world QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 119 around me went crazy, craving parties and bars and later exhibit openings and trendy nightclubs with government interns. But I was fne at home. Friday nights have always been a sacred moment for me. Seeing the sun dive down on the West, the sky become excited with the color of fre, and the expectation in the air was enough for me. Instead of going out and living it up, I stayed home, digging it, becoming or trying to become one with the afternoon, dusk, night. Naturally, a part of me longed to get out there and live, firt, drink, but I felt it was my sacred oath to remain at home in adoration. It was a tradition that started before I left for Washington. Abba would go to the beit cneset and I would keep the Countess company. Respecting her motherhood, I was spared from going to the synagogue if I went to Mass with the Countess. So since I was a child, on Fridays, when Abba left for the synagogue, or when he was away on his road trips (they really don’t make salesmen like him anymore), the Countess would treat me to lunch in a nice restaurant after school. That’s when she would tell me her stories. But after lunch, the Countess would sit in the living room and look vulnerable. Her sharp tongue remained enclosed and she lowered her guard. That’s when she missed the Campe y Cos the most, I think. That’s when she missed having the world at her feet—no matter how small a world Guadalajara and Tequila were. She had left it all for one man and that man had too often been out and about working instead of by her side. The Countess sat watching Telemundo soaps, slowly sipping a shot of Campe y Cos tequila. I would sit down with her, have a shot myself, and laugh at the stupid jokes in Latino television while playing with her gold cigarette mouthpiece. “You silly thing, don’t you ever pick up that nasty habit,” she would tell me. She was never really a smoker since I was born. She just smoked when she was exasperated. When she was comfortable again, when the shot of Latino culture and the shot of the family elixir 120 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ made the homesickness go, I would kiss her cheek and leave her to Don Francisco or El Gordo y la Flaca, or Primer Impacto or whatever was on. Then I would just step out on the balcony and spread my arms and long that somewhere out there my dream girl was waiting for me, and that we would someday meet. I would whisper, “I love you. Who are you and what is your name?” I’d stand in the balcony until slumber got the best of me and I called it a day. When I left for Washington the Countess and Abba moved to California. I had the peace of mind that my mother would be reunited with her kid sister Rosaline. But even when I left the government and joined them in California, I still skipped Friday parties. I would go with Diego to the Anaheim Mall where we would lean on a rail and watch future X gamers practice to perfection in a track sponsored by Vans. We would stand there in quiet awe, and perhaps later go get tacos or a salad, maybe even go to the movies or catch some MLS with Uncle Jaime. But the truth is that I was not trying to be an outsider, I wasn’t playing hard to get. The truth is I did not want to waste a single moment not being ready for the love of my life. I did not want to be caught of guard firting with some random chick just because I was too lonely or too horny. I did not want to create expectation with someone with whom I knew there was no chance. I did not want to be reckless with anyone else or with myself; to go through the whole romantic experience if it was not with her. It was absolutely insane, naive. I had no certainty she even existed. (How could I know she was in Europe, running for her life?). My project amounted to building invisible castles. But I knew. Something within me knew that it would happen. Even when, especially when I let my guard down and let myself get involved in petty romances and got my heart broken. I always went back to my quiet Fridays, because I QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 121 recognized them as the launching pad for the future. I knew the power of potential. Go out, would say Aunt Rosaline or the Countess with the best intentions. Diego, bless him, just smiled and shook his head. He understood something. He understood I was pursuing perfection in the great indoors, training myself to be better, to be perfect for her. And then the impossible happened. Eve came to my life. It turns out the invisible castles were not any less real just because I could not see them—or because they were halfway around the world. They were always there. And our few nights together proved it. TWENTY-FOUR

BEING on the road I thought of Uncle Jaime’s epic saga of his own to migrate to the United States. Rosaline Campe y Cos, her husband Jaime and their children Jaime and Diego moved to the United States in the late nineteen nineties. Her decision to migrate was spurred by need. Rosaline’s marriage to Jaime did not wreak havoc the way Ignatia’s marriage to Sal did years before. Still, it meant subversion. Grandpa Simon had successfully arranged marriages for his daughters after the so-called Countess’ fall. Twenty years later, however, Rosaline took the road less travelled—Ignatia’s road—and fell in love with a man not sanctioned by her father. Jaime’s dark skin was just the starting point of the Campe y Cos’s complaints. He did not come from a wealthy family, let alone a noble family. He was not born in the state of Jalisco. And he worked for a bank that had once denied the Campe y Cos family credit. It didn’t matter to them that Jaime had had nothing to do with that decision. Simon grumbled and moaned and fussed and bitched as if he had eaten too many spicy enchiladas. But in the end, he swallowed his bitter pill, attended the ceremony and was munifcent in his present, giving Rosaline and Jaime a small but enviable house. Two years later, Simon ofered a job to Jaime in Tequila Campe y Cos. Rosaline urged Jaime not to take it for the sake of his sanity and the welfare of their household. The tantrum Simon would make at the rejection would be much less than the crisis it would ignite between the couple. And as predicted, Simon wailed about how the ingrate rejected his undeserved but nonetheless granted benedictions. QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 123

Jaime Junior and Diego were born three years apart. When Jaime Jr. was ten, Rosaline and Jaime found themselves in dire fnancial straits. Jaime Sr. had been laid of and Rosaline was tempted to go back to the support of the family, but remained away. First they moved their children out of private schools. Jaime tried to make ends meet by working as a handy man, but a major fnancial crisis was afecting everyone who did not partake of a tequila emporium or a bank. Then Rosaline was laid of too. She had a not insignifcant collection of family heirlooms and began selling the precious knickknacks. Then they tried selling snacks outside their home. They sold fried pork skin, lemonade, fries. I helped them one summer. But I ended up being bad for business because I ate more than what I helped sell (though the Countess bailed me out and saved the day). But while the activity seemed fun and reminiscent of suburban Americana, it was not yielding the economic return they expected. Abba and the Countess wired them money to help them remain afoat—an unrequested favor that forever earned Sal the gratitude of Rosaline. But that was not a permanent solution. At long and painful last the family came to a point of no return. A decision needed to be made. The house had been remortgaged, and a week had gone by without a proper meal at the table. They could either: go to Grandpa Simon, pray for his indulgence, request a job and be at his mercy forevermore, or they could do what any other decent, hard-working Mexican without connections would: try their luck in the land of opportunity, cross the border “to the other side” and migrate to the United States. They were tempted to choose the former, knowing that Simon loved to make grand, munifcent gestures. But they were perfectly aware that Simon’s favors came with a host of strings attached, not the least of which was the seemingly endless litany of sarcasm, catcalls and barb, including the pointing out that no one could survive 124 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ outside the blessing of the Campe y Cos family. Yes, Grandpa Simon used the fact that Ignatia had taken so long to conceive as an example that only freaks of nature removed themselves from the protection of the noble household. So Rosaline and Jaime chose a route that was by far more dangerous, but kept their dignity intact. They chose to migrate. When Simon learned this, he was furious, swollen like a toad, his eyes almost popping out. “You mean to say that they would rather go to that God-forsaken country established by Freemasons to be the pillar of enslavement like that ingrate Ignatia did years before?” He was reminded quickly that the United States now represented a major source of revenue for tequila, to which he spat out, “I cannot be responsible for who drinks our fne beverage. Winos and princes taste it all the same! But my youngest daughter having to succumb to migration as if she was the daughter of a poor agricultural worker? Even our servants’ children are fat as cows and would never think about leaving this good land in search of opportunity. If she would only ask, I would end all her debts. All her troubles gone! A good job for Jaime, and a bigger house for them, I would give. I would enroll the children in the private school of their choosing or hire a tutor. But no! She has to migrate. She does not migrate for culture to Europe. No, she has to migrate to the United States in poverty and desperation to become another vulgar wetback. Ah, me! I had to have not one but two ingrates for daughters that dishonor this family! If they were not blood of my blood I would say they are foul hags who deserve their lot in life.” Then Grandpa Simon stormed out of the room, grabbed a bottle of tequila, and got the matriarch Ana Maria’s beauty mark out of its reliquary to ask his ancestor for forgiveness and guidance in those trying times. If Rosaline had any doubts, her father’s reaction paved her way to migrate. QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 125

Uncle Jaime went frst. He went the hardest way, through the Tucson sector of the Arizona desert. Back then it was uncommon for migrants to use that route. Most would employ simpler routes through Texas or California. But those routes were covered by small-time human smuggling rackets that charged migrants anywhere from a hundred to seven thousand dollars. Everybody knew this because everybody in Mexico— even the Campe y Cos now—had a relative that had fed the country in pursuit of the American dream. Jaime had under a hundred dollars when he left. When he did, many in the family insinuated that he would never return, that he had walked out on Rosaline and his children as from a sinking ship, and that he would probably coax a rich American widow to sustain him or marry a “blonde whore” and forget about his obligations as a husband and father, and that Rosaline would have to crawl back and beg the forgiveness and protection of the family. As days became weeks with no word from Jaime, Rosaline worried that the inhuman heat, the human and animal predators and the impossible prospect of starting a new life with less than a hundred dollars had gotten the best of Jaime. She prayed constantly, spent a good few hours in church every day, lighting candles, hearing Mass, and doing whatever she could to request heavenly advocacy for Jaime’s safekeeping. And yet it was a not an uncommon exodus that Jaime and millions of Mexicans undertook to look for a better life. Along the way Jaime found himself in the company of fellow migrants whose stories made him shiver with fear and hope. Everyone who had been in the United States before agreed that it was the land of opportunity and had found a job within the fortnight. Some had previously crossed hidden in trailer containers where the temperature rose to 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Some who had paid the services of professional human smugglers had been involved in car wrecks when Border Patrol agents started 126 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ chasing them and the uneven terrain of the American southwest made the unprofessional driver lose control and end up topsy- turvy with some injuries and a few fatalities among his passengers. Some had just swum for it across the Rio Grande and had relatives drown. Creativity was at its grandest. Every option was conceivable. Nothing was too far-fetched. And Mexicans had it easier being immediate neighbors to the United States; Central Americans (or “other than Mexicans” as government speak dictates) are a brand all their own with the risks for them increasing tenfold. In the company of intrepid, brave and resilient people, Jaime stepped across the imaginary line in the desert, a line that separated the “developing world” from the “developed one” searching for a dignifed job, knowing that in doing so, he was breaking a law and would be forced to live in the shadows. But the prize was worth the risk; not only the risk of the desert which was temporary, but the more permanent risk of having to look behind his back in fear of immigration enforcement raids. And still he went hopeful and merry. After arriving on the outskirts of a small town, Jaime knew he had cleared the hardest part. His funds were low and his English rudimentary at best, and he looked every bit like he had illegally entered the country through the desert. But he risked it nonetheless and went to get something to eat. The quarter- pounder burger combo he ordered tasted like ambrosia to him. By dusk, he relaxed and slept in a municipal golf course. As he was a persona non grata among the Campe y Cos, his presence had never been requested at their golf tournament invitational. He had never ever been close to a golf course, which in the old country (he began to think in those terms) were strictly reserved for the higher casts. The sprinkler system eased the heat and seemed like the grandest of luxuries. Spasms of doubts and second-guessing assaulted him. For all he knew, he would never QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 127 again taste tortas ahogadas, or authentic pozole, or decent birote, and he might never again see his beloved Chivas and his family. But the golden dawn in the municipal golf course in Arizona eased his pain, and though there was yet a long way to go, he felt the strength to push forward. Staying in the shadows, traveling through rural roads, walking superhumanly and hitching some rides, he arrived in southern California a few weeks later. Like everyone, he knew someone, say a distant cousin, who gave him temporary shelter. There he found that his fear of never again tasting tortas ahogadas, pozole, or birote was unfounded as he was treated to Mexican cuisine that was as authentic as a thousand miles south. Then he made a call that answered the constant prayers of Rosaline, to tell her he was safe. For the frst time in weeks, Jaime slept in a real bed. It took him a couple of months to get settled, but the land of opportunity lived up to its reputation and he found a job in a local garage that made custom vans for the physically impaired. The owner of the garage knew Mexican workmanship and work ethic were world class and gave Jaime a decent salary. When he made the conversion of what he earned to pesos, he realized he was earning more than he would have anywhere except in close proximity of the Campe y Cos back home. He also quickly discovered that the cost of living was signifcantly higher. He cut as many corners as he could, and contrary to the saying of bad tongues, he sent substantial remittances to Rosaline back in Guadalajara. It took Jaime another two months to move out of his distant cousin’s place and rent a small one bedroom. But once that was settled, he told Rosaline he could no longer live apart from her and urged her to follow. He would not have his wife and sons undergo the perils he went through. Since she was a Campe y Cos, he fgured rightly that she would have no problem getting a tourist visa. He sent her enough money for plane tickets and helped her fabricate a story of “taking the 128 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ children to Disneyland.” And with every intention to overstay their visa permits, Rosaline and her children arrived in California less than nine months after Jaime crossed the desert. The Countess was a little in shock that her baby sister had not asked for her assistance. Rosaline, when she phoned from California for the frst time, explained that it was a journey they had to undergo as family alone. Once that small dispute was out of the way, the Countess took the frst fight out of Chicago. With me gone to D.C., Sal and the Countess moved west. TWENTY-FIVE

I HAD BEEN for months on the road, following Eve’s trail. It was subtle and sweet, like the glamour of a fairy. As I arrived in San Francisco in mid-October, I regretted in all these years, never having taken a road trip with my cousins upstate. There was a reason, of course, which was they kept a low profle until their migration situation could be “legalized.” But since they had become Dreamers, the road was open for us. Yet it was only me, in search of Eve that entered the bay area in search of a princess in exile. I was just settling in when I got a call from Agent Doerfer on my cell. I didn’t recognize the voice at frst. I expected to hear from Diego, but got a strange, formal voice instead. “Jacob Goldstein?” “Who is this please?” “Agent Lawrence Doerfer, Special Protection Unit.” “Larry, I didn’t expect to hear from you.” “I tried to contact you at your home address but got word you were on a road trip.” “I am.” “Thought I told you not to go on wild goose chases,” he said with irony. “Actually, you told me not to get into fstfghts with regicide bureaucrats, and so far, I have encountered none, so I am clean.” “That you are, Jacob.” “What can I do for you, Agent Doerfer?” “I have an address for you; A little hotel in Commerce Street, near China Town.” “Alright.” 130 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

“Do you have pen and paper ready?” I scrambled to get a pen out of the glove compartment and used a map to write on. I heard and nodded, repeating everything I heard, “Four, one, six, Commerce Street. Is Eve there?” “Not at the moment.” “Then what am I looking for, Lawrence?” “A clue. Stay safe, Jake. Call me when you get a chance.” And that was it. I was starving and planning on eating before the call, but I laid my plans aside and headed straight for the location. I left the car in a lot not too far from Fisherman’s Wharf, pretended not to care about the smell of clam chowder and walked with my hands in the pockets of my sky blue windbreak jacket as a slight drizzle began falling. I was nervous and excited. The place was next to a tattoo parlor that seemed to have replaced an old barber shop. It was nice in a drunken Kerouac beat kind of way, like all San Francisco. A nice lady in her forties with a German accent and a pink shirt welcomed me. “Hello,” I said unzipping my jacket. “I’m looking for someone.” She nodded and handed me the key to a room. My heart raced, firting with the notion that Eve could be there. I almost snatched the key from her. She smiled and pointed upwards. I ran up, the wooden and carpeted stairs creaking under my weigh. I opened the door but the nice little hotel room was empty, the bed done. Everything was neatly in place and the window curtains were half drawn, as if room service had just done it. I opened the closet door and it was empty. Then I turned my attention to the bathroom, but it was as empty and neat as the rest of the room. I let out a small sigh of disappointment, thought about going down, handing the key to the nice German lady and calling Agent Doerfer congratulating him on his practical joke, telling him to piss of because he had just made me skip lunch for nothing. I fetched a glass of water QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 131 from the bathroom and put it on the night table. I was exhausted and fell on the bed, and within minutes I was asleep. I dreamed of Eve. We were window shopping in a nice boulevard at dusk. She spoke Spanish in my dream. When I woke up, the sky was turning dark. It was a Friday, and out of tradition, I did not want to go out, but knew I had to because I was starving and had to make a decision on whether to keep the hotel room for the night or move on. I turned on the bed and lay prone when I noticed that the pillow had the lingering scent of Eve. I inhaled deeply and stood and turned to look. I was beginning to struggle just to picture her lovely face, her voice—since the only picture I had of her, showed her looking away in a dock. But my memory was immediately unlocked by her essence, and I could see her again right before me, hear her golden, mellifuous, orgasmic voice, see her hands squeeze the lemon of that family secret lemonade. Trying to get up I clumsily knocked over my glass of water on the bedside table. I cursed a little and got up to fetch tissue paper to dry it. I realized it had leaked inside the drawer. I cursed some more. Then I opened the drawer and my heart jumped. There was something underneath the Gideon Bible. It was a letter in her cute, formal handwriting, addressed to me. I took it out as carefully and patiently as my klutzy, impatient hands could. I passed my hand through the paper, snifed, and smiled. My sweet Jake, I’m sorry it has to be this way. But I thank you for what you are doing. I feel you close, and that keeps me going, the hope that our two life lines will clash and merge. Never until now have I wished to bring everything to a stop. After my Dad was killed, moving was the only thing that made things tolerable. But now I want to face it all, by your side. Love, Eve 132 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

The letter vindicated every step of my trip, my choices. And though I had no guarantee that it would reach her (is there ever one?), I wrote a small note back. If I do nothing else than look for you, and follow in the trail where your feet touched the ground, then I will have led a fruitful life. But rest assured that yes, our life lines will merge. I am close. And I will always guard you. Love, Yours forever. J.G. C&C. TWENTY-SIX

I SPENT most of Saturday walking. There was a light drizzle and it felt cold. But in the evening I had a moment of satori, an epiphany. It was simple: how I came to love my father. High school was a very difcult time in our relationship. Nothing either of us did seemed right for the other. I hated his guts for the way he could not show love to my mother. I hated the way he told me to do things that, based on his experience, were for my greater good. I hated how he reminisced about the “good old days” when I was a kid, and referred to them as “golden years,” and had his ofce covered in pictures of me when I was a kid— getting awards at school, in family vacations with the Campe y Cos, in games. I hated the way he seemed to want me around all the time, how he would express exasperation every time I booked a trip to Guadalajara or announced that I was leaving for Washington. Slowly I realized how much I meant to him. I was his only child and born when he was not a young man anymore, I was the miraculous reason why he was still with the Countess. Slowly it dawned on me how much he missed my childhood, when I was, like all kids, in complete awe of him. His tradition abhorred barrenness. Suddenly an Abrahamic miracle knocked on his door when I came and he wanted nothing more than to keep me for himself. And then I remembered how much I appreciated hanging out with him as a kid, when he was in town, on Saturday afternoons. We used to go out to the street or a nearby park if it was not too late and play catch. He would toss me a football, I would run some routes. He would coach me and teach me about the Papa Bear George Halas and legends like Bronko Nagurski and “Red” Grange, but most of all Sid 134 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

Luckman. “A quarterback like me, like us. A Jew,” he said, “and the best there has been!” Abba would ramble about the glorious decade of the forties when he was in his early teens and got to see (or listen to) Luckman win again and again. He told me how he worked since he was still very young and gave most of his earnings to Savta but saved as much as he could so he could see the Monsters of the Midway at Wrigley Field once a year. He said, “Oh, and 1941 was a glorious year. Not only did we win the championship, and Coach Halas commission our fght song, but your mother was born!” He also told me how he had missed the wedding of his frst cousin because he went to see the 1950 Notre Dame-Navy game which the Irish took 19-10. And he told me these stories as we played catch and we would stay out until it was dark. Then, to stay with me longer, he got me a glow in the dark football. And I realized he was right. Those were golden years. I guess it’s a coming of age prerequisite to forgive your parents for “messing up your life” while trying to do what’s best for you. He just loved me very much in his own way. And a funny thing happened. The second I stepped down in my demands for what he should be, he did the same for me. We embraced and came to regard each other with respect, acknowledging the man. And when I left Washington and caught up with them in California, nobody could be happier. I called him that afternoon to tell him I had found Eve’s letter and to talk about the wonder years. TWENTY-SEVEN

I CONTINUED MY QUEST. A couple of days later, in a small bed and breakfast in Berkeley, I found another letter from Eve. My Jake, I’m so sorry I did not tell you everything. And now our catch- up is an epistolary relationship. But I don’t want you to guess. I want you to know. I want to reveal everything. My father was king of Zhizn. It is a small country, just south of Zembla. Though we share much, culturally, my country had not partaken in Zembla’s rich tradition of regicide…until a few years ago. My father was the hapless inaugurator of such tradition. Talk about negative infuences from abroad! Ironically, my dad, the last king of Zhizn shared an alias with Zembla’s last ruler: “the Beloved.” The title did not amount to much when the extremist bureaucrats jumped from the shadows of speculation and into the real world and into our home, the royal palace. Some hotheads within government in my country accused my father of inefciency in the kingdom. Our statesmanship may not have been the most efcient, but it certainly was very human. People were happy and life was pleasant. But the extremist bureaucrats blamed my father for every calamity that ever befell our country—manmade or acts of God—and said that a form of mega-government bureaucracy was the way of prosperity and what they called strategic efciency. My father didn’t think they represented a threat. And he was right. Beyond their anachronism, their ideas were not widely shared among the populace. But there was a traitor. That is the only reason why they succeeded in storming the royal palace and killing the king. The history of my country 136 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ changed because someone let them into the palace on one accursed August 23. It was a very dark night. I was dreaming of a faraway land, of an amusement park, of all places. Then my father woke me up. He looked scared. I had never seen him scared before. His expression sent a chill down my spine. It was univocally saying goodbye. “Daddy, what is wrong?” I said. “Eve, you need to get up, quickly.” “Daddy, you’re scaring me.” “Eve, please do as I say.” Mother was not with us. The queen was making an overnight visit to the eastern part of the country. I heard gunfre and things break. I wanted to scream but my dad placed his hand over my mouth. “Be quiet, Eve dear. We don’t have much time. You have to promise me you’ll be a brave girl, can you do that?” I nodded. I didn’t want to promise anything, especially because I knew I could not keep that promise. He told me to change. I only had my favorite dress handy. He opened a full body portrait of some dignifed ancestor that hung in the wall of my room. I hated the portrait. It scared me because the ancestor was ugly and wore a haughty expression and a horrible and unnatural beauty mark. But it saved me. Dad took a golden key that hung from a chain in his chest and used it to unlock a hidden door. I thought we were going to fee together, but instead of following the long, dark, damp underground corridor, he took a left turn at some point. In the meantime, the gunfre was getting closer and more frequent, accompanied by screams. Though the sound of a voice is distorted by the quality of a scream, I began recognizing the people behind the screams. Dad opened a door and found General Provno, a man from our secret service who quite often disagreed and sometimes even quarreled with dad over security measures. The general had quarters in the palace. QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 137

Dad trusted him deeply. Not blindly. Deeply. Dad was fond of him but rarely showed it; he was very tough on the good general. General Provno was readying his gun to defend the castle, but he jumped, startled when he saw another full-body portrait swing open. He aimed, and thank God he did not fre. “Your Majesty!” He said, “Are you alright?” In his last ofcial act as king, my dad ordered General Provno to escort me to the border with the west and protect me beyond. This surprised the general even more. “But sir,” he protested. “Do you disobey the king?” “No, Your Majesty, but my duty is to protect you.” “Your duty is to Zhizn. Ensure it survives. Protect Zhizn’s daughter.” General Provno was like a rebel son being owned by his father. Still fabbergasted, he breathed in and realized what was being entrusted to him. He realized that despite their disagreements, the king respected and trusted him. “With my life, Your Majesty,” he said and extended his arm to me. I did not want to leave my daddy. The screams and havoc were approaching. The king kneeled, handed me the golden key and said, “I love you, Eve. As long as you live, Zhizn lives.” Then he said to the General, “Go on down the passage. Keep going straight. You’ll be safe.” General Provno took me away, kicking and screaming, and led me down the dark corridor. We were about two hundred meters down the corridor when I heard another gunshot. I don’t know how, but I knew it had landed in my father’s heart. I cried. And General Provno, a man of arms, tried to be as tender as he could when he said, “The king is dead. Long live the king.” We moved for yet another two hundred meters underground. Then we reached a fork in the road. We could follow the sewage system or go back above ground. General Provno had his very peculiar ways and he chose to go above 138 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

ground. He said it would be a lot safer to cross the woods than to take the city route. He was right. We slipped out thanks to the shadows of the grottoes flled with mythological fgures, mechanical fountains and pneumatically controlled speaking statues that Father had commissioned to the exact specifcations of those Salomon de Caus had erected at Heidelberg Castle. I don’t know how I found the energy to run. We rested every hour or so for fve minutes, but the general insisted we should not stop moving. I had played many times in those woods. But now, when everything had turned topsy-turvy, when my sleep had been interrupted by the sudden and fatal farewell of my father, it seemed spooky. I remembered Snow White and I thought for a moment that General Provno was the hunter who would slay me. But far from it, he took me in his arms and carried me when I could not take another step. By dawn he was exhausted and we slept for about thirty minutes. When I woke up I was freezing, even though the general had given me his coat, but we were surrounded by mist. Then we heard something and sprinted. I tripped and tore my dress. General Provno helped me up. I worried about my mother. What would she do? As if guessing my thoughts, General Provno told me, “Don’t worry about the Queen. By now someone else in the Service must have contacted them. She will take the longer route, but she will be safe and taken abroad.” When I became too much of a burden on the poor general he asked me to run. But after a while I could not take another step. I fell on my knees and decided to give up. But suddenly I opened my eyes and saw a hummingbird before me. If that little creature could keep fying in the inhospitable chill, so maybe could I. I jumped to my feet and kept on running. Then, when I thought it would never come, General Provno told me the border was nigh. When he saw a post, already militarized, the General produced the royal seal from his coat, waved it and yelled, “In the name of honor, QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 139 sanctuary for Zhizn’s daughter.” The agents were fabbergasted. I collapsed.

THEN, in Emeryville I found this. My Jake, I feel a sense of fate on account of having witnessed the end of a dynasty, of an era—perhaps the last of its kind in the world. You must excuse me for rambling on about this, but it was my life, and the end of that dynasty has since then dictated everything I do. General Provno and other royalists did manage to get in touch with the protective detail assigned to my mother. The Romanian government granted her a safe conduct and she was fown over to Austria. A week or so later we were reunited. Thanks to the magic of twenty four hour news networks, we could see our country ravaged and pillaged; our home, the palace, burned. That’s when I realized how little it takes to turn reality upside down. The extreme bureaucrats wreaking havoc were not a majority by a long shot. But a series of unfortunate events helped them. Our people were confused, hysterical and in anguish. And they were being bombarded with propaganda about how it was about time for the country to abandon monarchy and give power back to the people—leaving out the fact that the only people who would hold power were the extreme bureaucrats. It was amazing but we were contacted by newscasts before we were contacted by the United Nations. The Foreign Ministry issued us visas to remain in Austria. They said we could bring any surviving relatives. They even gave a visa to General Provno, and they provided us lodgings. But my mother, who still thought of herself as the queen, said we were not beggars or refugees, but temporary guests. I learned she had access to considerable sums in several Swiss accounts. She rented a very nice house, got a tutor for me and made it seem like we were on an exotic leave of 140 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

absence in the West. Perhaps I would have never met you and we would still be in that nice house that aforded us a ffteen minute walk to the Danube among derelict poets had it not been for the threat. Then, at a Holiday Inn Express of Highway 5 in Richmond I found this. My Sweet Jake, I’m so happy to be telling you my story. I feel like I am getting a terrible secret of my chest. It is relieving me of a burden. Writing these words is liberating. Rereading them makes it seem like this happened to someone else. I can therefore distance myself from my past and make peace with it. When my mother and I were debriefed by each host country, and Agent Doerfer here, I felt at frst like it was a great intrusion upon us. And my mother did most of the talking. But then I experienced the liberation. (And then I met you.) We had been living in Austria for some years. I was devastated about my father. I dreamed of him. I dreamed that he came with me in the dark secret passage that saved me. Mother still harbored the hope that we could go back to Zhizn in the near future; maybe in six months, maybe in a year. Back home, however, the political situation was dire and getting worse. After the consummation of the most symbolic act of violence against a regime—regicide—the extreme bureaucrats quickly moved to control the media and started disseminating their propaganda. “The King kept his foot at the nation’s throat, resisting the zeitgeist of our neighbors who opted for the most sensible road that benefts the people. So while he stufed himself and his fat wife and his brat with veal, he left spoils for the lot of us—that part really hurt—It is time to take as a nation what is rightfully ours. It is time to choose as a nation, no longer under the paternal shadow of a despotic king whose legitimacy was self-proclaimed. It is time for our citizenship to rise and make our way. It is time QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 141 for democracy and strategic efciency.” The bureaucrats they were, they played their cards right because by using key power words like “legitimacy,” “democracy,” “strategic efciency,” “citizenship,” they knew they would seduce the international community like a pimp sweet talking a young, inexperienced, virginal schoolgirl to give it all up. Their ruse worked. It gave them a valuable asset: time. The international community took the bait of the key words and decided to sit back and witness the democratic transformation of my country. They even issued a statement that empowered the extreme bureaucrats even more. It went something like, “We celebrate the democratic process begun in Zhizn. We stand ready to support fair elections, institution building and strategic efciency. We regret the loss of life.” A lie repeated a million times permeated domestically and abroad. Left-leaning media began fling features contrasting the hardships back home—hardships, mind you, caused in no small way by the havoc caused by the extreme bureaucrats including the disruption of services and the messy reorganization they made of almost every social sector—with the undoubtedly elegant, arguably lavish townhouse mother had rented in Vienna. Without even knowing how, we began losing the public relations battle. The stories were promptly followed by increasingly vehement opinion editorials by Marxist scholars who saluted “the beginning of the end of royalty, and the dawn of the age of equality. Let us only hope this continues in those Western European nations where the old ways remain.” It was no surprise when a prominent writer suggested that if our lives were the price to pay for the recovery of our nation, then “it is an afordable sacrifce.” I wanted mother to do something. I wanted to come out in public and defend our honor and my father’s honor. But mother would have none of it. She said the media and the international community did not care about the truth, and that at any rate the truth only beneftted us while the collective 142 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ lie beneftted millions. I thought she was giving up. I was tremendously disappointed. I hated her. I later realized she was right. I later learned that the media was merely ormolu of free speech, bowing not to the nineteenth article of the Declaration of Human rights, but to more pecuniary interests. Besides, with every passing day, royalists lost support. I don’t blame them. It became harder every day to sustain a dream of the past. Out of a need to survive, they simply adapted to the new cruel way of life. It’s amazing how people can get used to underselling themselves and settling. Then, one day General Provno came to the house looking rather pale. He lived with us, in charge of our security, but aside from his routine inspections, plans and analyses, he kept pretty much to himself. He said there was a rumor that a death squad was being put together back home among the extreme bureaucrats to eliminate all possible legitimate claimants to the vacant and tarnished throne of the “Beloved” king. He said he had heard similar rumors in the beginning of our exile but dismissed them because there was no evidence. Now he had heard new iterations from the intelligence community. I always fnd it fascinating how the intelligence community makes friends with each other and do all their cloak-and-dagger dealings in old bars and love hotels. If they got smart or greedy, they too could probably take over and establish an intelligentocracy. Anyway, General Provno had confrmation that a cousin of mine, with claims to the throne if mom or I were gone, had been killed. That is when it got real. Again. General Provno urged us to leave Vienna at once. After all, if the left-leaning media had located us, it was only a matter of time until paparazzi or political assassins came around trick-or-treating. Mother was in denial. She said she would not move. Since the good general was so insistent, and since he had proved his honest concern for our security, mother asked him to accompany her to the Foreign Ministry and set things straight. They were received cordially, as ever. But though QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 143 the diplomats expected a frolicsome reunion where they were congratulated for their hospitality, they soon found themselves beleaguered when the motive for the meeting was cited. They rung up several levels of superiors until someone had the good sense to call diplomatic security. Diplomatic security confrmed that there were reasons to believe that our lives could be in danger. Soon representatives of the Interior Ministry were called in. The meeting went on. Though they wished us the best and in no way wanted us to die in their country, they could not spend money on a security detail for us, especially when public opinion and frankly the opinion of foreign governments was swaying in favor of the bureaucrats. We were invited to stay in the country and to exert every amount of precaution possible to ensure our safety. When I heard that, I wanted to stage a red-tape-cutting revolution. Mother and General Provno came back home defeated. Though we were not fnancially unsound, it was becoming slowly, painfully clear that our situation would be permanent. We would not return to our fair country; not in a long time. We could hire a protective detail, but that would take its economic toll in the long run. So after much deliberation, we moved into a more modest house and tried to keep a lower profle. Two or three months later, General Provno looking even more uneasy, said he had heard that the death squad had left the country and was operational. The following night, hand grenades were thrown into the house we had left—the house whose location had been disclosed by the left-leaning media. Luckily nobody was injured. The media was appalled. But instead of solidifying a position against the extremists, right-wing politicians took advantage to gain politically and denounced that we were endangering the country. There were calls to surrender us. General Provno said we were no longer safe in Austria. In fact he said we were no longer safe being us. With his contacts in the intelligence community he got mother, me and himself false 144 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ documents claiming we were Spaniards. And once again, as if I were an illicit mistress, as if we were criminals taking to fight, we left our house in the dead of night, clad in dark surreptitiousness and pushed further west. A few weeks later we settled in Rome. TWENTY-EIGHT

I LOST Eve’s track for a while. It was almost a fortnight and I had not found any traces, any clues, but most importantly, any letters. Margot and Eve defnitely moved away from the main road. They were no longer moving through Highway 5. Ah the wild-goose chases of the lovelorn. I was disoriented. I could not see the sun. I called Agent Doerfer, but he had no new information. “If you can’t fnd them, and you’ve been on their track, then it means they are doing a very good job at hiding. Leave it at that as hard as it may be.” Of course I ignored Doerfer. I was not going to leave it at that. What drives us to love? Gabriela Mistral talked about the body betraying the soul with its longing for touch. My body certainly betrayed me. I could not stop in my fight after Eve. I missed Eve’s narrative. I lost the Rome episode. The next thing I found, however, confrmed that my instincts were right. Closer to the coast, in the border with Oregon, I found this: Jake, How I wish we could visit Paris together. I also wish we could visit my country. Who knows? Maybe one day. Paris is lovely, grand. I lived there happily until the story of my life caught up with me. Did you know that an architect called Guillaumot saved Paris in the late eighteenth century when the entire Latin Quarter threatened to, literally, go under? Over six million bodies were unearthed—a scene worthy of Dumas. And a whole underground city was built to support the one above— sometimes there were two or three levels supporting the rez-de- chaussee. Coexisting worlds. I got to see that up close because after a few merry years, the extremist bureaucrats sent another 146 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

team. Again I became a subterranean. It was there that General Provno ended his valiant service protecting us. And there that I got my memento mori. We got lazy. We believed we were safe. We abandoned the public eye. I went to the Sorbonne to study not humanities but art. Every now and then I picked up a copy of Le Monde and read the international section. Zhizn was unrecognizable. It was a well-hidden tragedy. Periodically it would get congratulatory notes for its eforts to urbanize and modernize services. And true, that was accomplished, but at a price too high. Zhizn lost its soul. Complicated systems ruled over all the afairs of the State. So of course I opted for the arts, leaving humanities and social sciences to run their futile, post mortem cause. Then one night going back home I saw two guys outside my house. Instead of following my instinct and walking on, I made the mistake of attempting to enter my house. This was a confrmation for them. They sprinted for me. One of them had a gun. At the last minute General Provno opened the door and shot, but was felled himself. He screamed, “Run! Long live Zhizn!”The emergency protocol he helped us establish—which had seemed a bit dramatic—called for immediate evacuation by means of the catacombs. There was an entrance not too far. I ran alone. Protocols did not allow mom and I to contact each other until we were safely out of the country. That trip through the catacombs, through the bones of French history chilled me. Before I entered a gunshot brushed my arm, burning it and giving me the scar I have. After that episode we sailed to America. We had a brief stay in Guatemala. Then we came to the United States where in spite of resistance from the State Department we were ultimately allowed to settle. We were put in contact with Agent Doerfer. And a few months later I found you. TWENTY-NINE

ALREADY IN OREGON I found this. It was unusual for it dwelt deeper into what had happened in her homeland. She said, “During his service to us, General Provno had an uncanny way of quoting Vladimir Nabokov in such a way that it refected exactly what happened to my country.” She wrote: General Provno said that Nabokov wrote about boys who put together a snowman, boys who worked ardently bedecking it with coals and a carrot and a scarf and a shovel until one fne day the snowman came to life and grandly beheaded them as his frst sentient act. That is what happened to my country. The bureaucrats who wanted efciency were soon overrun by bureaucracy. They turned my country into a landfll. I now believe that it was going to happen at some point or other. It had happened in every other country in the world. It was naïve to think it would not happen in ours. We simply had survived for longer. We were like the mythical Brigadoon of American musical theater. Zhizn had remained anonymous to the expanding bureaucracy. But it could not hide forever. You know what happened to me, but what you don’t know is what happened to my country. In Paris I started corresponding (by a complex system which involved three forwarding points, an employed scribe who could mimic several handwritings and a supply of various kinds of paper) with old friends and acquaintances back in Zhizn. Their testimonies were not subject of human interest stories by foreign correspondents. Or perhaps they were, but other interests kept the media from publishing them. Like General Provno said, again paraphrasing Nabokov, no 148 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

State will bother about the simple folk if it fnds some proft in dealing with the ruling government. And proft they found. The intellectuals of Zhizn who had enthusiastically discoursed about the benefts of abandoning the old ways and opting for a new course for the nation, about the freedom to choose, about the possibilities of taking the routes of east or west were duly shut up and shut in. Foreign contractors made a fortune building the infrastructure of the (political) prison system which was peopled daily by anyone who dared cross the regime with dangerous ideas, foreign tongues, inexact change, jay walking, walking after curfew, walking alone, loitering, reading anything that was not the constitution or the declaration of principles, having the wrong last name, using the party name and a curse word in the same sentence, and a long, nauseating etcetera. No, the advent of the twenty frst century meant nothing. Things like that still happen. Universities were closed, retooled and reopened for the study of the evils of the deposed regime. The taxing system was rendered hopelessly incomprehensible. Private means of transportation were nationalized and made a caricature. An “amusing new law” called for everyone to present valid proof of citizenship upon boarding public transportation. That proof of citizenship had to be verifed by the driver against a thick dossier. If the user did not have exact change, reimbursements were sent to random postal ofces and needed to be collected under penalty of a fne proportional to the excess payment. The system spawned an illegal network of youth who employed themselves assisting people in meeting the established requirements: downtown rides required travelling with companions, but trips back uptown required a party of three who would get of at equal intervals of one point six miles. Some State services were privatized to foreign companies with no scruples, while others became simply impossibly entropic QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 149 in their bureaucracy. Words were forbidden. Ideas were forbidden. Colors were forbidden. And everything was sold to the public, who wised up to the horror of strategic efciency for the greater good only too late. Dance breaks were forbidden. Bleak, grey, fuorescent lit shopping centers quickly took the place of parks. Gay, merry, purposeless promenades were forbidden, because they were considered acts of loitering. And loitering served no strategic efciency purpose and bordered on treason. People were only allowed to walk unmolested if they had a purpose: shopping to ignite the country’s economy. Mercenaries and military specialists from abroad were brought over to train Zhizn’s army and turn it into a truly lethal force. The library of Zhizn, once a proud temple of knowledge housing all sorts of opposing world views was shut down. Its literature was littered and replaced by fscal reform tomes and leafets of the glorious Democratic Bureaucracy of Zhizn. My exile was not exclusive. Like the song says, ‘misery loves company,’ and in the following months and years, Zhiznians who could aford it started paying increasing amounts of money to be smuggled like contraband into freedom. Individuals and families recurred to this forced migration. They left behind all their possessions, family heirlooms, photographic albums, coveted collections put together through years of hard, intense labor, sleuthing, bribing, a touch of luck here and there. They left Zhizn naked as earth worms, as if rehearsing their departure from this earth. And in time I got to meet with a few of them. Some still referred to mother as royal highness. By then we had gotten over the grief over our deposed titles. We had resigned ourselves to being just Margot and just Eve. It was a bit awkward being addressed to as “princess.” My faith in ever returning to Zhizn ran out fve years after the exile. Fellow castaways talked of how prisoners of conscience were sent to concentration camps where a sort of Keynesian system was put underway to undermine the 150 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

projects assigned to Western companies, whose governments kept quiet precisely because the system gave companies triple revenue after the fnished project was sabotaged and had to be rebuilt. Of course the Democratic Bureaucracy of Zhizn blamed this sabotage on royalists. They increased raids which gave them more manpower to continue sabotaging infrastructure projects and landing more “royalists” and “traitors” in prison. Yes. These things still happen. Why those extremist bureaucrats even bothered in trying to kill the deposed queen and princess when they had rendered the country a wasteland and had the support of bureaucracies from the rest of the world is beyond me. Oh beloved Eve! I thought what a poetic analogy her story was to Princess Naiveté’s. I should have known better. I should have suspected… THIRTY

ONE MORNING IN EUGENE, Oregon, Agent Doerfer called me. He said that according to his contacts in the intelligence community, there was an “unusual spike of communication trafc” among the Embassy of the Democratic Bureaucracy of Zhizn (as it was now called). “Something is about to happen,” said the Agent. “Unfortunately this is not a top administration priority. My supervisors will not give me any resources. Also, with the new trade talks on the table, they don’t want to piss of the Democratic Bureaucracy of Zhizn leadership. They said that as long as American lives are not in danger we cannot act preemptively. They said, ‘if we let other immigrants fght their turf wars here, why not the Zhiznians.’ In fact they want to reassign me, hand over the case to the Secret Service, but I am going to fght them. If they think I will go down quietly, they have got another thing coming. I have vast years of experience cultivating the right contacts for what I do. The bastards!” The bastards indeed. To State or not to State, that is the question. That is the ironic question that had been nabbing me for years, throughout the narrative of my adult life. The citizens of Zhizn, or a small bureaucratic extremist faction of them, evidently opted for not to State, so they killed the king and overthrew the monarchy. But in reality, they opted for a super State. I was a naïve political scientist once that wanted to serve this great country for its liberties, until I realized that the State had become too self-aware, too powerful, too self-serving to be of any good. “The life itself that has driven you mad is yet the same life we bedeck with maniacal enthusiasm and pretend to 152 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ enjoy,” as a playwright once said. And yet this State was refusing to protect the remnants of representation of that other State that was Zhizn. What is the purpose of the State? Theory of the State 101 will say that it is to guarantee security to citizens. Citizens yield a certain amount of liberty in exchange for security. Yet at some point a threshold was crossed where we get neither. At least in this once great country a date can be established for that. Bureaucrats on top salivated when the extremists of the periphery attacked this country because it meant they could justify and easily sell to the public the ultimate intrusion upon privacy. Liberty no more. And they could justify closing the borders so their minions controlling the illegal entries could hike up their prices and they could continue blaming all sorts of problems on those coming in from abroad. The social contract is outdated. Millions are born into a system they did not choose and cannot opt out of. Bureaucrats at the top have sold their product so well that voices of dissent are laughed of as anarchists, Trotskyists, anonymous or libertarians. And when a voice is raised to question the State, an overwhelming force of patriots cries foul. Patriots are nothing more than citizen bureaucrats. Pardon me for stating the obvious, but Umberto Eco is right: those who do not believe in God believe in everything else. And bureaucrats believe in the State. American bureaucracy is a force of some two point seven million employees. The system of checks and balances is intended to keep one branch of government from becoming too powerful. So what happened? At what point did the legislative begin passing laws that curve freedom? Why have media consolidated from ffty companies to six conglomerates? Why does the pharmaceutical industry keep on pushing products whose side efects are as dangerous as the disease they intend to cure with the blessing of the Food and Drug Administration? Why has it taken twenty years for a change of narrative QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 153 regarding “climate change”? Why does the concentration of power result in less people owning more? Why did Wall Street get to screw Main Street in 2008 like it did in the nineteen twenties? Why are large agricultural companies being allowed to control the food market with copyrighted and patented seed? Why is a voice that questions an invasion, a war, an ofcial report labeled as a traitor? Why does a Democrat President stifen Internal Revenue Service monitoring of accounts of known conservatives? I am done with scholarly answers so I will be blunt. Because the majority of that two point seven million members of bureaucracy have a blind faith in the system. The vast majority, though ultimately good people, fall in the Umberto Eco category. The majority will refuse to believe that the behemoth of an apparatus for which they work, is messed up. This is not because they are naïve, dimwitted or slow (unless they are on top) but because they believe in the system and they believe, for all practical purposes, that it is fawless, or that its faws are by far outweighed by its benefts. True, there are many merits in the government. But I saw too much. Every now and then I will be surprised for good (whenever a small producer wins a lawsuit against a conglomerate) and for bad (whenever a government spokesperson denies allegations lying through their teeth). But I simply stopped believing. Agent Doerfer had been a breath of fresh air, perhaps a small spark of hope. But in the end, his supervisors had stopped him. It seems that is the only job of supervisors in the government sector. The news Doerfer gave me were, as they say, another brick in the wall. I found myself in a curious dichotomy. I leaned more toward anarchy. Yet, my pursuit is the protection and the welfare and the love of a member of a foreign monarchy ousted by people who may have questioned the social contract but became a bureaucratic monster in the process. Oh love that makes us turn back on our tracks, renounce our beliefs. Love makes us bleed our true 154 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ colors. My disgust with the State was rekindled by its inability or unwillingness to protect precisely the former representative of State of another country. But I guess the allegiance of bureaucrats is ultimately to other bureaucrats. There was a knock at my door. I felt woebegone and sleepy. I had stayed up late debating with myself. I was wondering what my next step would be. The pounding at the door was polite but insistent. I looked at the clock and it was seven thirty. I normally wake up at fve. I took a sip of water on the night table and walked in my underpants to open the door. The idea that the extremist bureaucrats could have found me never crossed my mind, but I did look in the peep hole before I opened. It was agent Doerfer. I yawned involuntarily and scratched my eyes. I asked, “Who is it?” “It’s me, Jacob,” he replied. I opened. “Sorry about my appearance, agent. I was not expecting you. I was not expecting anyone.” I ofered the agent a chair, put on my jeans, sat on the bed, turned on the television to SportsCenter, took another sip of water and tapped my legs. “To what do I owe the honor?” “Screw them,” he said. “Who?” “Screw my supervisors. Screw the lot of them. Screw the Bureau. I joined the force to make a diference. And because my physical build came in handy. But here we have a clear cut case where we can make a diference, in fact, the diference and help someone who is in need and those bureaucrats make asinine decisions based on the whim of the director or I do not know what kind of twisted logic. So be it. I have had it up to here,” he said pointing to his forehead, “with them and their decisions. The gears of the system are jammed. I cannot live with myself knowing I could have done something and didn’t. I’ve done enough things I am not proud of as it is. I’m stepping away from the record. I took an indefnite unpaid leave of absence. I’m here QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 155 for you, and for Eve and her mom. So here comes the cavalry. That makes us two. What now?” Doerfer single-handedly restored my faith in the freedom of individuals within the system. Perhaps if we got enough of them, we could stage a counterrevolution. Then I realized again what he was saying and what he was risking. “Are you serious?” He extended his hand and said, “Absolutely.” We shook hands and went to have breakfast. I had the best pancakes I had ever eaten outside home. They did not have real maple syrup and still they were fufy like a cumulus cloud that melted in your mouth. If only Abba could taste them. Agent Doerfer had a mighty dish of eggs, bacon, sausage and pancakes. We both drank dark cofee. “Well, Agent Doerfer; Larry. You are the expert. I’m just a guy in love,” I said as I washed down the pancake with cofee. “What is the best course of action?” “Best thing to do is just to make them believe that she is going to be somewhere and ambush them. Sort of like the stunt you pulled of a few months ago. It will not guarantee that the risk will be permanently reduced to zero, but it will show them that she’s got people on her side. And it has been a while since her father was killed. Extremists and bureaucrats always get trigger happy near anniversaries. So we bait them, then we snap on them. I wouldn’t even think of saying this if I had not taken the leave of absence, but you might want to get your cousins involved. They were pretty efective last time around.” “They were. But I do not want to put Jaime and Diego in harm’s way.” “I can probably call in a few favors, but we need as many people as we can get.” “I’ll call them.” “We have to defne a spot for the faceof, preferably somewhere were casualties could be altogether avoided. And 156 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ then we have to make it seem like Eve is going to be there. That is no big deal. We can draft a fake e-mail. Everybody slips. No reason why Eve shouldn’t slip again. We simply have to make sure it is subtle enough that they don’t smell it is bait. But we do have that advantage. Every intelligence apparatus has a faw. I believe we have a chance, exploiting that. Let us not, however, commit the imprudence of underestimating them.” So I made the call to Jaime and Diego, explained the situation, detailed the danger and asked their help. But they interrupted me. “Yes, of course. Count on us. But Jake, the Countess is here. She demands to see you.” And suddenly I came face to face with a Freudian dilemma. The one person whose opinion could afect my course of action —mother dear—had all of a sudden decided to stop by, take a pause in self-exile and visit Abba and I, at just the moment when I was about to take a defnitive stand. “Do you know for how long she will be here?” “She will be a week. But she said she must talk to you.” “Did you tell her where I was?” “You know how she is. Even the bond of the cousinhood could not make me keep something hidden from the Countess. You know she can be extremely persuasive. Beg your forgiveness, but your mother has one sharp tongue.” THIRTY-ONE

THE UNIVERSE HAS a strange tendency of following patterns of deserts and oases. “A disarray that, repeated,” wrote Borges, “becomes an order. The order.” Deserts are long periods of “ordinariness,” where the hidden beauty of the day-to-day unfolds slowly, elegantly and patiently. But suddenly, events of extraordinary relevance cram together and succeed one another rapidly as a planet during perigee. That seemed to be the only explanation for mother’s arrival before we staged the ambush against the bureaucrats. I dreaded a faceof with the Countess. I understood her position, but did not honor it. The whole “issue” between us, her decision to leave and do missionary work around the world, started the moment I left what she called “my brilliant and rising career in the government.” When I arrived in California, aviators on and all, I expected a warm, motherly welcome from her. Instead, we had had a bitter argument. She accused me of giving up, of neglecting the education Sal had “so selfessly worked to give” me (suddenly she took his side). Ignatia accused me of repeating her mistake, which she quickly took back, noting that she had made no mistake. I tried to explain my exasperation with the system, my disgust with the way everything was becoming so dehumanized. She heard no reason. She said I was betraying America, “a country where everyone is equal, a beacon of democracy in the continent and the world,” she emphasized. Ignatia, like most émigrés, loved her adopted country more than many natives. I replied that that was exactly the way bureaucrats wanted her to think. She took a shot of her stash of Campe y Cos tequila and stormed out. 158 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

Since she left, we had talked courteously on the phone, but we had not had another face-to-face. Now that the opportunity was here, my instinct was to push it of, but I realized that if the universe was cramming so many signifcant landmarks it could only mean that ultimate resolution was nigh. I told agent Doerfer about it. He laughed politely, took a long puf of his cigarette and said it was not a bad idea for me to get my afairs in order. He said in the interim he would move ahead with the plan, fnd a venue and call in a former colleague or two. My drive back to Orange County was full of excitement and anticipation. I wondered about my future with Eve. I fnally admitted to myself that I was naïve enough to believe that the plan to save her could succeed and that we could succeed as a couple even if she was way out of my league. Sure, here were the facts: we had only known each other for less than a week. We had met, made lemonade, ridden a bike, made love and then she disappeared. And we were going against trained killing bureaucrats. “Yes, I am naïve,” I said out loud in the car. But this, far from discouraging became a war cry—a moment in which like Sisyphus, I chose to roll the boulder up the steep incline. “And the possibility, in fact probability that I may fail, will not deter me.” I wondered what Eve would think about where I stood as a man, a half-blood, a former bureaucrat, a happy delivery truck driver. I had hopes, frm hopes based on the few precious hours we had lived together, and the long precious hours I had been on her trail and reading her. Leaving everything to search for her had been a leap of faith to believe tangibly, consequentially, that two worlds could exist, and in fact, coexist. As is often the case, the road back was a lot shorter. Just as the confrontation with the assassin bureaucrats could not be further delayed, it was time to talk to the Countess. Jim and QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 159

Diego greeted me excitedly. They said they would be ready to leave when I was. I bid shalom to Abba and fnally, met the Countess who was cold, lean, mean, powerful, but undeniably motherly. “Hello, mother.” “On the road, Jake?” “Well,” I thought of diferent excuses, but fnally admitted, “Yes.” “And what is that about?” “If you must know, mother, and I know you must, because I did not come back to beat around the bushes, it is about love.” “Love?” “Love. The kind of thing that makes you question every single one of your choices and makes you want to be better. The kind of thing that makes you set your preconceived notions ablaze because you are willing to become new.” “And you just left everything for her.” “Exactly.” “Why could you never be motivated like that when you worked for the government?” “Because this is love mother. But in a way I was. I started out like a naïve idealist. But the reality of the day-to-day work stopped me like a brick wall. And then I realized an evil magus controlled it all. Why did you take such ofence when I left? Why was it such a big deal for you?” The Countess crossed the room, opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of Campe y Cos tequila. She poured herself a shot, then poured me one. Growing up, whenever we did not see eye to eye on something that mattered dearly to either, she always did this. It was her way of returning to the roots; of establishing that a tradition greater and older than us was our bond. The result was that during my late teens we drank a lot together. I half-smiled remembering how, just like Grandpa 160 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

Simon, she cared not what the legal drinking age was, and dismissed my protests—which were only a mockery of false prudence—saying that she had been taught to discern white, premium white and aged tequila blindfolded from the moment she was ten. The Countess went over to the brown leather chair where I was sitting and handed me a shot. I inhaled and sipped. It burned through my throat in a deliciously familiar way. “No lime?” “How dare you!” she said owing to the fact that she had poured a three-year-old aged in white oak. “Listen mom, at least we can agree that your family makes the best tequila.” “And you gave up your government job, your career which was ascending steadily to drive a tequila delivery truck.” She pufed from her legendary cigarette mouth piece given to her half a century before. “How many times did you tell me not to pick up that nasty habit, mom?” “You’re not even a Campe y Cos employee, son. When I made a decision all those years ago, to leave everything for your father, and was ostracized by your Grandpa and some of your uncles I knew I would have to live with that. I had to live like an outcast, away from my country, away from my family and alone for all those years when I could not conceive. Your father was barely around. It nearly pushed me to the edge. I didn’t think I could live with myself. But I did. And when you came along you gave everything a reason. You turned things around. I was secretly happy about the hard time your cousins gave you because I knew the reason they picked on you was your brightness. They were too dumb, too inbred and too overprotected, and they knew it and resented you for it. You always had stellar grades and a promising future, great feedback from teachers and professors and deans. And then you started QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 161 living up to that promising future and made me the happiest mother in the world with your constant awards. You vindicated the decision I had made all those years ago and which cost me so dearly. But when you left your job so suddenly as if you were feeing, you broke my heart. You gave fuel to your uncles and to your Grandpa who were waiting, hoping, perhaps, for either of us to slip again.” “Mother, I did not leave the government as a personal statement against you or in favor of them. I hardly believe our elderly relatives really track our every movement so minutely or are as cold-blooded to root against us.” “I feel it. It’s something I cannot help. You may not believe but it comes up every now and then.” I sighed and took another sip. “They sure do know to make good tequila, though.” “They do. And now you deliver it. Or you delivered it. Because now you left that too. You exchanged your government career for your anarchist ideas, by God!” “Listen, mom, if you had seen what I saw, or if you had read what I found…I never meant to hurt you or to put you in an awkward spot with the Campe y Cos. Me leaving the government was a matter of honor. Perhaps I let pride get in the way, I’ll grant you that. But it was an honest decision. I was not fred. I did not negotiate an inconspicuous exit. They begged me to stay. To this day I still get e-mails from former colleagues or supervisors asking me to go back, pointing me to this vacancy or that. And I was really good at what I did; when they let me do it, that is. When they did not stop my research by calling me up to add to the pomp and vainglory of the chief, or derail my investigations to protect higher interests. I saw some pretty messed up things. I saw the gross squandering of taxpayer dollars with the closing of fscal years. I saw deals in the dark between sectors being investigated and people responsible for 162 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ publishing those investigations. I saw FDA approvals on drugs that they knew caused cancer. So, yes mother, delivering good tequila and being around Dad and Diego and Jaime and my uncle and aunt and you, as was the plan, fulflls me and flls my spirit in ways that the government job or any so-called white collar job could just not. And you know what the best thing in America is? You know what makes it truly great and me truly proud? The fact that in spite of everything, both the government job and the driver gig are equally dignifed and not abysmally diferent in their paid retribution. The glorious shame of the cast system simply does not exist here. It’s not the way it is in Guadalajara where both jobs should be dignifed but one is reserved for the happy few with connections and the other one is like a dropped crumb expected to be greedily divided among the hordes of Saltapatrás, Tente en el Aires and the poor Cambujos and the rest of the lower casts. And being a delivery truck driver I was happy. I am happy. But when I met Eve, even though we’ve only spent a short time together, she gave sense to my life. It’s not a fgure of speech. She gave meaning to everything. I realized that everything I had ever done happened for a reason that prepared me for her. And suddenly I found myself wondering if I could take my old job back so I could provide for her the extra revenues, or the added glamour that so enthralls you. I started wondering if a delivery truck driver was good enough for her. But we could not fgure that out because she happens to be on the run. So the joke is on me again. First, when I left the government to be closer to you, you left. Now I am again working for the government, or rather for two governments: I’m doing what our lovely federal government is unwilling to do and doing the job that a deposed foreign government is no longer capable of doing. And to top it all, I am doing both unpaid. But I have never felt so complete and yet so desperate as I do when on the trail of Eve. That, mother, that, is QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 163 the only thing I want you to understand. I am an idealist. And Eve is my ideal. Plus, I am your son, after all. I am more likely to throw a tantrum than a Molotov cocktail.” The Countess crushed my heart by shedding a tear. But then she lighted up. “Is she really a princess?” “Yes. Is that all you care about?” “No. My son is in love. I care about that. But I’ll tell the Campe y Cos that they can shove their titles of nobility up their rear ends. That ought to be like a cutlass in the hearts. My son is after true royalty. Not just made-up nobility.” “As you wish, mother,” I smiled and embraced her. “Do know that I love you. I adore you.” “I love you too, son. With all my heart. I want you to be happy.” THIRTY-TWO

I PONDERED on the climax and resolution to our story. I thought back to the last letter I got from Eve, before Agent Doerfer appeared in my hotel room in Eugene, Oregon. I felt like I had lost my train of thought. No. Here it was. The similarities between the story of my Eve and Princess Naiveté were uncanny. So again the question rose: could John Bureau be defeated? I went back to the book I had unearthed in the library —it now seemed eons ago. How John Bureau Conquered the World. Somewhere in those lines there had to be an answer as to how to defeat him. I had not read the book in three years. When I abandoned the District of Columbia I had decided to give up on the fght against John Bureau and let him have the world. That is until he brought the war to my doorstep when his heritage and minions threatened the love of my life. It amazes me how selective the nature of memory is. But I had to abandon my defeatism. Even if I had forgotten, the book must have said something about how to defeat the great impostor JB. I went into my apartment, feeling the strange familiarity with a space I had not inhabited for a few months now, and read. And like an old friend, the book spoke to me. Sure enough, all the answers were there. It changed everything. I read the whole night. The following morning the sun rose in the east and in my spirit and understanding. I had to make urgent revisions to Doerfer’s plan. I left with Diego and Jaime ready to stage our assault and start the coup against John Bureau. THIRTY-THREE

THE RAIN WAS FALLING SOFTLY but constantly. We were in the outskirts of Portland. I had never seen so much green and grey. The place looked like a fairy tale. It was the perfect setting for the standof between the two worlds: naiveté and bureaucracy. If the streets near the train station were mysteriously empty, here they were altogether deserted. I thought of that lovely neon sign urging travelers to “go by train.” I thought of how much I wanted to stop driving and return to southern California in a sleeper car with Eve. But that would have to wait until the resolution. The much expected, too often evasive climax was upon us. Agent Doerfer and I stood watchful outside a warehouse while Diego, Jaime and two of Doerfer’s old contacts—one a short but heavy agent, retired; the other a former Blackwater operative with a bad conscience and a bag full of gossip—were making fnal preparations inside. The plan was simple. We had contacted Eve. I had followed the protocols of our epistolary relationship and left her a short note: “Eve Dear, It is time. We must stop running. We need to take a stand. Send an e-mail accepting a television interview in Portland.” That was all it took on her part. Doerfer’s short and heavy friend did the necessary faux electronic trafc to make it seem like indeed Margot and Eve, deposed queen and princess of Zhizn, were being interviewed by a television station in Portland. It was mentioned in the faux digital trafc that for security reasons, the interview would take place in a warehouse, in lieu of the station. We rented several cars, including a van—to which we 166 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ afxed NBC logos—and a couple of nice town cars. Jaime’s jalopy was inside the warehouse. I looked at Doerfer who was smoking and drinking from his mug. I could tell he was running over the details of our plan in his head, cursing the moment I modifed the plans. He was like a soldier before battle, restless, eyes blood shot. “The one thing I hate about involvement with VIPs is the waiting. Whether you are on duty protecting a foreign ambassador or of duty protecting a deposed princess, it’s always about hurrying up and waiting.” “You can count the poles to give Princess Eve a briefng when she gets here if you want.” He caught my joke and threw his cofee mug with fury. “You would think this close to Seattle we could fnd better cofee.” I did not try to calm him down further. After a few minutes Agent Doerfer sighed and said in a stern, grave voice, “It worked.” When I looked at him he signaled with his eyes to the east. I could not tell at frst what it was, but then realized, after a more careful inspection, that an assault group of bureaucrats was trying to camoufage in the local fora. After rereading the book, it was clear now how incompetent they were. But an incompetent squad with high- caliber guns is no less dangerous than a very competent one. The next few minutes unfolded with an unreality characteristic of transcendental, life-determining events. A limousine drew up driven by another one of Doerfer’s contacts. Doerfer approached it, opened the door and out came the queen and her daughter. A date with fate, a brush with death was all it took for me to see Eve again after months of our evasive epistolary relationship up and down the coast starlight route. As she came out of the limo I looked deep into her eyes, at long last. Here was the half-blood staring straight at his princess, girl from Ipanema, Helen of Troy, dash of Audrey Hepburn. Yes. She was worth QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 167 my life. Eve looked scared but determined, and most importantly, oh petty me, pleased to see me. She gave me a faint smile that had just the right touch of fatality, hope and desire. She pressed my forearm in a warm, loving way that made every cell in my body soar. She was wearing a white skirt and a pearl- and-gold top. I was insane with longing, desire, worry, concern, love. That must have lasted four seconds, but they expanded inter-dimensionally. I remained looking at her as she passed and she turned to wink at me. This was it. We were putting all on the line. Seconds after she entered the warehouse we became aware of movement from the assault group. They were surrounding us little by little, closing in on us like a predator. I felt my rosary with the Jerusalem cross in my pocket—what better way to honor both Abba and the Countess, I thought. The team was upon us. Doerfer and I pretended to talk to each other, joke, act distracted. But our jokes were tense and we were not looking at each other but at the refection on each other’s shades which showed men with guns growing bigger. Doerfer hit send to a previously drafted message. When they were close they ordered us to put our hands up. “¿Qué?” I said in Spanish, playing the immigrant card. “Put your hands up!” “¿Qué quiere este pinche güero?,” I asked Doerfer. From inside the warehouse, our guys suddenly released hundreds, thousands of balloons, and in the distance Diego ignited a freworks show in orange and blue and purple and pink and green and gold that contrasted gloriously with the grey sky so characteristic of the Pacifc Northwest. It popped mightily like blithesome artillery, a mirthful shooting squadron, a merry bombardment, a jocose ambush. And to top it all, Jaime hit play to ABBA’s “Waterloo” on two dozen concert-quality speakers he had borrowed from one of his contacts who liked our song. The bureaucratic death squad did not know what hit them. Before 168 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

Frida and Agnetta promised to love me forevermore, Doerfer, his men and I had disarmed them, covered them with slime and pinned them to the ground. But the real cherry on top came when Eve and Margot lit as many sky lanterns as they could, further coloring the Portland sky with magic. The resolution, the secret, was so simple I could not help shedding a tear. Yes, in the process a single bullet was shot. I felt something warm at my side. I looked down and saw that yet another color joined the parade. I was leaking something red from my side. It was probably nothing, but I lied down. Eve rushed to me, fnally kissed me, called me her love, her only one, her soulmate and stayed with me. With a bit of efort, I asked Eve, “My love. I’ve been meaning to ask you, in your letters, you said you believe there was a traitor who let the extremist bureaucrats into the palace and kill your father.” “Rest now my love,” she said concerned, stroking me. “Will you stay with me?” “Of course.” “Forever?” “For the rest of eternity, my love.” “Let me just ask again.” “Yes. I believe there was a traitor.” “By any chance, was there someone at court named John Bureau?” Her eyes opened wide, answering for her. I stroked her cheek and kissed her passionately with my remaining strength. Then I let myself rest, seeing the freworks and fre lamps refected in her eyes. At long last, I could rediscover life through her eyes. It looked like a rain of Skittles, a burst of joy. THIRTY-FOUR

THE LEGACY of John Bureau lived on. Bureau-cracy spread to the entire world and prospered and expanded to meet the demands of the prospering, expanding Bureau-cracy. It killed the honor of public service, but also permeated and ultimately thrived in the spheres of public and private life. It made still-life out of life. In some of its manifestations, Bureau-cracy was adamant and merciless, imposing a totalitarian regime, cutting liberties to the bare minimum and proposing fnal solutions. In others it was lighter and opted for a more lenient control by ofering mirages of freedom through extensions of the body and altogether transferring Bureau-cracy to the private sector in the shape of the Market that sold smoke. Bureau-cracy also thrived through new developments like insurance frms and the always important workers of the justice system. John Bureau’s involvement of the derelict and the common poverty-ists was brilliant and helped perpetuate the system. For centuries Bureau has ruled the world. But since John Bureau’s bitter and vengeful return to the land of Naiveté, not everyone fell for his empty promises. Scribes, copyists and librarians of the Kingdom of Haiim had detected the danger of the evil magus. When Princess Naiveté died, they spirited her daughter away to safety. They moved away from the Kingdom of Haiim before everything, including the borders, were completely Bureau-cratized, and before the space-time oracular mechanism that linked all places and all times was destroyed. They remained watching from a safe distance, waiting patiently, taking notes, converting (or de- 170 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

Bureau-cratizing) those of noble spirit that came upon them. They called themselves “the Scribes.” The importance of their conversion eforts became evident when they realized Bureau and his legacy would outlive them. They protected Naiveté’s daughter, raised her as a queen in exile and hid her in a small settlement they founded and named, for no good reason, Zhizn. Perhaps just because it was the translation of Haiim into the local language. The Scribes thought at frst to live forever in Zhizn and leave the world to Bureau. But the sense of honor, the duty to preserve the best of humanity and the spirit of Naiveté, made them opt for a diferent course of action. They would fght, but not a head-on battle they would inevitably lose. The Scribes did stage a couple of attacks against factories, but soon realized that a diferent kind of warfare was needed to defeat John Bureau. The eforts to de-Bureau-cratize the world was a war that would ultimately take centuries to win. Every now and then, in history, members of the Scribes, like Lev Davidovich Bronshtein, lost patience and opted for rash acts of immediate violence against representatives of Bureau-cracy. But the true goal of every generation of Scribes was to reclaim happiness and restore the spirit of Naiveté—in other words to restore humanity and life by extending the area of sanity and happiness little by little. Every Scribe’s mission was to add a grain of salt to expand the island of naiveté. That way, even if it was eternal, the good fght would continue. Every convert, every new member of the brotherhood of Scribes could play a part—no matter how small and incidental—in the efort to end Bureau’s subtle reign of terror. Some of the Scribes stayed behind in the newly-founded kingdom of Zhizn, trying to give rebirth to the ways of old. It is no small miracle that Zhizn survived and remained true to the spirit of Naiveté for so long, even when it forgot the history of its founding fathers, well into the twentieth century. But even if it QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 171 fell, with Eve alive, a new Zhizn could be created. Somewhere. Even if only in our hearts. In the frst part of the book, the Scribes wrote the story of John Bureau and, titled it “How John Bureau Conquered the World.” In the second part, titled, “How We Plan to Overthrow Him” they compiled a brief list of small but tangible actions that every man, woman and child with scruples can take to help restore the old ways when Princess Naiveté exerted power with compassion, levity, and above all, glorious humanity.

YES, I survived. We won because the book described the kryptonite of John Bureau. Now I shared in the secret. And, along with Eve, it gave me a new purpose. The story of how John Bureau took over the world resonated deep within me. And the story of how to overthrow him was what helped us beat the death squadron of bureaucrats. Yes, Eve and I took the train back to Orange County and committed the gloriously naïve act of getting married. We did not get married under any bureaucracy—governmental or religious. We were married in a sacred ceremony in the dead of night, surrounded by candles, invoking the Holy Name of God. We exchanged vows under the sacred fre, mixed water and wine and broke the glass—for no one else will ever drink from our cup. I love her like mad, my sweet Eve, the queen’s daughter, the princess, the exile, the descendant of Naiveté. We have a small girl. Victoria. I may be completely unprepared to be a father, yet I’m elegantly so. Because my love for Eve inspires me to be my best, to reinvent myself; to bring forth all the creativity, all the hours working out, all the yoga, all I had learned through book or empiricism, to an actual purpose. One day she too will be 172 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

queen’s daughter. One day she will be the one fghting Bureau and spreading the spirit of naiveté, establishing a new Haiim, a new Zhizn. We walk often, Eve and I. When I hold her hand I feel blessed. Blessed like a starving man who receives manna miraculously from heaven. Blessed in the most biblical sense. I look into her eyes and feel all the thrill of being alive, of seeing my dreams fulflled before my eyes. Even when she is upset— because all women get upset (even Princess Eve, as I learned)—I gaze at her and think: “She’s so beautiful it’s simply unfair! I am helpless. I am at her mercy. I am completely done for. Eternally at her service and will forever strive to bring that smile back to her face.” And her smile returns. Every time. She makes the world a better place just by being. But when she smiles… When she smiles the Universe becomes lovely and full of magic. When she smiles the space-time oracular mechanism that linked all places and all times links all places and all times again and I can see the emerald pool on the terrace of Naiveté’s palace overlooking golden Haiim. When she smiles gone are the cold laws of physics, gone is the painful past, gone is John Bureau, and petals drift down from heaven. When she is happy the world is full of possibility, hope and meaning; it is rendered pristine and fresh, like it had been brought out of a heavenly washing machine and hung to dry in the aural sun. It is as if all your heart’s desires, known or unknown, were laid out before you for the taking. How on earth did I live thirty some-odd years without her, without being truly alive? The only reasonable answer I can come up with is that I lived waiting for her. I lived waiting for her since I gained consciousness. The time I did not spend with her did not fll me with jealousy for the reasons you might imagine. Yes, I had never felt jealousy until I met her. My blood boiled and I felt a part of me QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 173 that I didn’t know existed fare up. Now I understood the Augustinian apothegm: love without jealousy is not love. Now I understood so many things. Now I understood God. But the time I did not spend with her made me regret simply not having been by her side all those years, all those days, all the recollection of hours rendered sacred by her very being. Life and joy envelop her. Angels rejoice in her presence. I wish I had heard her orgasmic, high-pitched voice, all those days, all those hours. I wish my soul had been blessed and bathed in the sweetest elixir of her voice. But now we are together. There are no regrets. Because the rest of our life plus eternity still equals infnity. From a biological and anthropological standpoint, if everything we do seeks to attract a mate, then it had all worked. Because now I had the mate I had craved for. Yes, for if I praise divinity in her spirit, I profess my faith in the temple of her body. And crave for her I do, from her toenails to her hair that drifts everywhichaway like a suspended water nymph whenever I take her top of. The curve of her calf, her Totoro tattoo and the scar in her arm, the promise of her hip, the sacredness of her innermost, her perfect ass, the goddess-like breasts, her lush lips, the stars in her eyes. I would have to make my humanity divine to match how I feel about her, to correspond in kind to the happiness she gives me. She is my never-ending pursuit of perfection. And, there’s an added perc. Nobility in Mexico was abolished legally in the nineteenth century. Yet the Campe y Cos, opposed on principle to bureaucracy, sustained the illusion of nobility well into the twenty frst century and will continue for as long as my aunts and the Countess can complain. But even if all their airs of nobility were a phantasm, at least they can claim links through marriage—my marriage—to an exiled royalty. 174 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ

In case you were wondering, no I did not return to public service. I did not continue my delivery truck job either. We own a bake shop called Haiim and have a blast. Every day is an adventure. When Eve read the How John Bureau she learned the hidden history of Zhizn, understood what had happened to it, and joined the eforts of the Scribes, as I hope you will. And through little actions, small victories, tiny acts of rebellion, we will ultimately destroy bureaucracy. Eve and I may never see that day. Maybe Victoria. But the goal of every generation of Scribes is to help restore humanity; to “extend the area of sanity little by little.” Like I said, the secret is beautiful in its simplicity. And the actions we can take, the restoration of the old ways, are just a small act of defance away. This is how we overthrow John Bureau every day. This is our invitation for you to join us. This is all it takes: Break protocol. Take your time. Order only appetizers in restaurants. Opt for lo-tech, lo-f. Breathe. Deeply. Make funny faces. Make yourself unavailable. Play hooky. Disbelieve all seriousness. Roll the dice. Leave things to chance. Bounce a rubber ball on the wall while lying on your back, for hours. Get physical. Show some leg. Break the rules of board games. Invent your own board games. Play under the rain. Don’t fy if you can drive. Don’t drive if you can take the train. Don’t take the train if you can walk. Don’t walk if you can hopscotch your way. Invite your boss to join your barbershop quartet. Turn of the artifcial climate. Bask in the weather of the season. Talk to hobos. Break engagements. Draw serialized images in your country’s constitution, then fip the pages so you can see those images come alive. Engage in palimpsest of newspapers, laws, phone books. Substitute ballpoint pens for crayons. Hide in a nook (where you are certain your head fts). Make pillow forts. Make book forts. Use the wrong kind of glass for a specifc wine. Start QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 175 using your silverware form the inside. Lick your dish when you are done eating. Sneeze loudly. Play hide and seek. Wherever. In a shopping mall; in a bank; at home. At least once, touch a painting in a museum. Tell your supervisor’s supervisor to go fuck himself, even if only in the silence of your heart. Trust your intuition. Feel God’s grace. Dance like no one is looking. Tie your friend’s loose shoelace in the middle of the sidewalk. Dance in the middle of the street during red lights. Cut out pictures of people who believe they are important and paste them in embarrassing situations or draw moustaches on them. Bake. Paint. Draw. Especially if you can’t. Help your brother in need. Learn, cherish and live the Hebrew concept of Shalom. Paste Hello Kitty stickers in your job description. Invent a noble lineage. Call yourself a count or countess. Pretend you come from a low cast. Conjugate cuss words. Play until the score is tied and agree that both teams won. Perform random acts of kindness. Believe that there is something greater than this. Pick a book and never return it to a library. Tear of this page and make a paper plane, like so… 176 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 177 178 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 179 180 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 181 182 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ QUEEN’S DAUGHTER 183 184 DAVID SUÁREZ GÓMEZ ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Suarez Gomez, born July 4, 1982, is a fun-loving thought criminal. He longs for justice to be served. Like all men in a way, David is a bundle of paradoxes, a compilation of contradictions, a mélange of contrasts and jocular juxtapositions. He is author of Heaven Is Coming Home and A Partial History of Redemption. He lives with Princess Eve and with Victoria in an invisible castle.

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