The 14th Day

By K.C. Frederick

A Kafkaesque novel set in an unnamed Eastern European country, centers around Petir, a clerk in a state-run banking/insurance business, whose job it is to prevent handicapped people from collecting disability or insurance payments by tying them up in bureaucratic doubletalk and red tape. One of his claimants, a psychotic dwarf who Petir uncharacteristically tries to help, sees him, unfairly, as an enemy and begins to stalk him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504023948

K.C. Frederick

K.C. Frederick lives in the Boston area with his wife. Born in Detroit, he's taught at Michigan, Cornell, and the University of Massachusettes at Boston. His novel, Inland, won the L.L. Winship PEN New England Prize for Fiction in 2007.

Book preview

Toni

Later, in all those places that weren’t the homeland, people would remember that the Thirteen Days began with a thunderstorm. Lights were turned on early in the capital that afternoon; rain pelted the city. Even as coffee drinkers in smoky cafes argued about the railroad bill, their excited voices betrayed a fear that terrible things were already underway. Inside the parliament building a speaker occasionally stopped for a moment and watched lightning trace spidery lines across the domed ceiling; still, what else was there to do but to return to the deliberations about the country’s railroads? On the broad avenue in front of Parliament the policeman pulled his wet slicker up around his ears, the trolley conductor rang her bell more insistently than she had to, the cabby at the curb searched the radio for music—all of them were waiting for something. Gutters gurgled, water poured into the street unremittingly. Later, in other places, it was difficult not to think the storm itself had been planned by the men in gray uniforms.

As distant thunder punctuated the debates about transportation policy, whispering aides gave legislators the latest news from the North, where a paratroop unit had refused to carry out its orders. In the back rooms of the legislative building, plans were hastily devised to send a group of lawmakers to negotiate with the rebellious troops. By now, hardly anyone believed that reason could prevent the calamity so many had dreaded for so long; still, a half dozen representatives agreed to pursue this unpromising mission.

In the region of the Deep Lakes, young birches bent under the wind that roughened waters famous for pike and bass. Men in outdoor gear looked gloomily into the rain; they passed bottles around and smoked. What they thought about as they watched raindrops make their way down window screens they kept to themselves. Some of those silent drinkers had already noticed that guns and ammunition were no longer available in the local sporting goods stores. Government workers who had left the capital for a week of fishing wondered whether they should return; others were already contemplating more distant journeys.

The storm caused a power outage in the port city, but in a warehouse near the docks a generator provided light and men worked diligently, readying signs for the strike the stevedores would declare the next day in support of the rebellious troops. We Need Order, some of the signs read. Purify the Nation, others declared. It’s Time To Restore Our Glory. Though dressed in civilian clothes, the men in the warehouse attacked their job with the discipline of a trained military unit. Elsewhere in the city, householders sat nervously at tables where candles flickered. The lights would return soon, they assured their families, once the utility company located the source of the problem. By now, though, everyone had heard the rumor that the power had been cut by the government in a desperate attempt to thwart the men in gray uniforms.

A priest in a small village in the Borderlands had acquired celebrity relating his terrifying visions. God had told him the streets of the capital would be drenched in blood, a crimson river that would pour irresistibly into every corner of the land, even the village in which he preached. Brother will turn his hand against brother, fathers will train their weapons on their children. God had foretold these things, he related to the throngs packed into the tiny church who sang the old hymns with a despairing fervor. Can it be prevented, all of them wanted to know. When the question was asked the priest’s face turned grave and he said nothing. Some left the church in a fury: this wasn’t what they’d come to hear.

God will strike like a whirlwind, the priest was quoted in the newspapers. Why do they print this kind of thing, skeptics asked. But they watched their windows too.

When it happened it did come like a wind, though it was hard to find God anywhere in the sudden gusts that ripped the nation apart. Everything the priest predicted came true, and more besides, in the Thirteen Days. The woods of the Deep Lakes region rang with gunshots, but these were no hunters. On country roads the sound of a helicopter made drivers look for cover. In the port city the facades of grand old apartment buildings from the previous century were pocked with bullet holes; French windows were shattered. Armored vehicles moved ponderously down the streets of the capital. Their vibrations rattled shopwindows; the harsh clanking of the treads could be heard even in the recesses of the old cathedral. The word traitors was painted on the walls of churches and schools throughout the land; everywhere there were slogans calling for the death of those who were named as the enemy. People who received phone calls from friends or relatives would suddenly turn careful about what they were saying, since arguments that had been conducted over kitchen tables were now being fought with automatic weapons. Ordinary citizens saw and did things in those thirteen days they hadn’t imagined possible.

All of this had been coming for some time, whether or not anyone chose to acknowledge it; and long before the first of it happened, countless people had been jolted awake from prophetic nightmares. Nobody could have been surprised when those days finally arrived and for some, the beginning of the fighting brought a sense of relief that uncertainties were over at last. Still, the succession of shocks was unrelenting: there was the bomb that went off in the market square in the port city, killing nuns and children there for an outing; when the universities were shut down, the television news showed a group of professors in academic robes being led down Gothic corridors in handcuffs; everyone read about the mayor in the Borderlands who leapt to his death rather than wait to be arrested. They heard the stories about the noted judge who fled the country disguised as a woman. And there was the unforgettable picture of the soccer stadium where the national team had once been cheered, now become the country’s largest prison. With each new report those who had to listen felt they’d endured one more unthinkable outrage, and still they woke up the next morning. Surely it would have to end. Yet how many of them could have guessed that they might actually survive all these things and much more, only to find they could no longer live there, that they would have to spend the rest of their lives in other places, remembering what they always referred to as the homeland?

Is that the man? Vaniok is ready to duck behind the row of boxes nearby and watch without being seen, but he checks himself. After all, he’s not a fugitive, he’s not back there. Still, even after three years certain habits die hard. When he realizes his fists are clenched he lets them go loose, stands there a moment, feels the blood move through his fingers. Calmer now, he steps forward, looks down the corridor: the person who’s just come into the warehouse is some university official he’s seen before. Vaniok is relieved. Of course, the other man will be here soon enough.

Vaniok already has a grievance against the new arrival from the homeland whose name he knows to be Jory. What else but the prospect of his coming could have caused the restless night he spent, the dream from which he lurched awake? He knows he can’t blame the man for that, though, he isn’t going to let himself jump to conclusions. Who knows? The newcomer might be a big-shouldered guy who laughs easily and has a story for every occasion, jokes that make the work day go by faster, somebody who’ll understand the black moods that can overtake Vaniok in spite of all his efforts to be cheerful, someone who’ll listen—better still, someone who’ll nod sympathetically without Vaniok’s having to say anything. It’s possible he and the man will get to be good friends and one day Vaniok will tell him over a beer about the dream, the terror, and they’ll laugh about it. I don’t want you bringing me any more dreams like that, he’ll say in the language of the host country and this Jory will answer, O.K., sure thing. No problem.

At the loading dock, Vaniok breathes in the familiar scent of wood and dust, the aroma of freshly made coffee. A forklift whines nearby, moving down the corridors of stacked boxes. Somewhere among the ducts and vents high above him a pigeon beats its wings, then falls silent. Vaniok looks into the bright square of green before him: a few trees, unruly grass bordering the railroad tracks, backyards glimpsed through fences—there’s nothing out of the ordinary; but the sweet, sharp smell of some growing thing carries a haunting excitement and all at once he’s alert, as if someone has asked him a question. Without knowing what that question could be, he’s suddenly happy. Damn this stranger, Vaniok is happy. He wishes his cousin Ila were here. Maybe he’ll see her after work, he’ll tell her about the dream. He can imagine her listening attentively, nodding, her green eyes full of understanding. Vaniok, she’ll say, that’s all over. That’s past. We’re here now. He reaches out to the steel column nearby and puts his hand against it, resting his open palm on its smooth, cool surface. Yes, he tells himself, this is the real world. And it’s big enough to accommodate this other man. He realizes he’s humming something cheerful.

He’s still humming a few minutes later when Royall, his supervisor, calls out, Say, Van, I’ve got somebody here you should meet.

The man walking a step behind Royall doesn’t look like any of the imagined versions Vaniok has conjured. Jory must be near thirty, two or three years older than Vaniok. He’s tall and thin, with a wide brow and a long, straight nose. There’s a watchfulness to his eyes and mouth—he has an indoor face; though he’s wearing ordinary work clothes somehow his outfit looks formal. Noting the crease in his pants, Vaniok thinks with satisfaction that this will soon be gone, and he recognizes that in spite of all his efforts to be fair his first impression isn’t favorable. Once again he reminds himself he can’t blame the man for his dream. Vaniok extends his hand. Hi, he says, using the language of the host country.

The stranger’s hand comes toward him slowly, as though he had to decide whether he wanted to respond or not, and he answers in the language of the homeland. Vaniok is aware of Royall standing there. He knows the native workers don’t like to feel excluded and suggests to his countryman that they speak in the other tongue.

Certainly, Jory says, I understand. His wintry blue eyes narrow, as if he’s joining Vaniok in some kind of conspiracy and their use of the host country’s language is a subversive gesture. All at once Vaniok is curious about what secrets this man harbors. All of them have secrets.

Welcome, Vaniok says, I’m sure you’ll like it here. Under the other man’s watchful gaze the words of the host country’s language feel strange and unwieldy.

I’ll let you two guys talk about old times for a while, Royall says. But you let him know we expect people to work.

Sure thing, Vaniok says. No problem.

When Royall is gone the two men face each other silently and all at once the encounter has the uneasy feel of a chance meeting in the homeland during the Thirteen Days. Vaniok reminds himself that this man isn’t the enemy, the troubles of their country are irrelevant here. He welcomes Jory again, this time in their language. The other man responds with the crisp consonants and flat vowels of the capital area, imitated by schoolteachers throughout the homeland, and Vaniok can’t help feeling disappointed. Why couldn’t Jory have come from the Deep Lakes, like himself and Ila? Still, even as the man talks about the cold country to the north, his last place of exile before coming here, the rich flow of the old language calls up images from the land they both know: ancient towns with narrow streets, long deep lakes and forests of white-barked trees where witches were said to live, all so vividly present that Vaniok and this stranger might have been transported into a waking dream. When Jory stops speaking he looks away, as if he’s seeing the same scenes. We’ll both be home one day soon, he says.

Vaniok brushes past the declaration. What did you do back there? he asks.

Jory answers that he worked in a library and Vaniok is seized by an unaccountable anger. He wants to tell him, That’s all over, we’re here now, you and I are going to be moving boxes and crates, we’ll work with rakes and shovels. Instead, he says once more, I think you’ll like this place.

Jory glances dismissively at the scene that brought so much emotion to Vaniok moments ago. In exile, he says, every place looks the same.

Edward, another of the native workers, comes by and Vaniok introduces him to Jory, who nods curtly and shakes the man’s hand. As Edward is leaving he asks Vaniok if he saw the basketball game last night. Sure thing, Vaniok says. Great game. That Johnson was something.

Edward laughs. That Johnson was something, he repeats. The words sound different when he says them. After he’s gone Jory looks at Vaniok. He thinks it’s funny the way you speak their language, he says.

Vaniok shrugs, a man shaking snow from his shoulders.

Games, Jory says. All they’re interested in is games. He frowns. What do these people understand?

Vaniok turns away and looks again at the rectangle of green outside the building: the trees, the grass and earth seem to be illuminated from the inside. Time slows like melting wax, the sweet moment thickens. I don’t know, he says. Don’t you wish sometimes that you could come home after a day’s work looking forward to nothing more than a hearty meal, a drink or two, a wife and a good night’s sleep, with nothing to remember?

Jory’s smile is sad and reproachful. We can’t let these things distract us. We’ve lost our country, after all. He stands there in his work clothes that look so stiff and clean, as if he isn’t even willing to surrender wrinkles to the surroundings he regards as temporary. Vaniok feels accused. He remembers the jokes people from the Deep Lakes used to tell about visitors from the capital, dressed for fishing in evening wear.

Still, he won’t let himself feel bad. Wait, he says mildly, knowing that this man, like himself, has suffered losses. Things will get better. Everything heals with time.

Jory’s brow wrinkles. Are you saying we should forget, then? Where we came from? What happened?

No, Vaniok says, How can any of us forget the Thirteen Days? He feels the familiar knot in his stomach, he remembers the early days of his exile. It seems an age ago.

Vaniok’s heart is suddenly full. How have the two of them come to this spot so far from where they once lived, a place where the nights are warm and full of the smells of growing things, where the roofs outlined against the evening sky are less steep than they are back home and where even the red earth crumbles differently between the fingers than the rich black soil of their country? All at once he feels the full weight of his displacement. Their language, he confesses, it’s dry in my throat. I speak three sentences and I’m thirsty. Even the few trivial words about basketball were an effort.

Jory nods, his eyes soften, icy skies hazed by the smoke of wood fires. When he begins speaking again it’s in an entirely different tone of voice and Vaniok is transported to another place:

Blue snow on black limbs,

Icy brook whispering secrets:

The smell of mushrooms hidden in the earth.

The words from another century transform Jory’s face, he looks older. After he’s recited the lines of poetry he says nothing, but Vaniok is still seeing that wintry scene. Then Jory turns his head toward the sunny area beyond the loading dock where the raised door frames a stalky, large-leaved tree on a patch of grassless red earth. Clay, he says. It can’t absorb water. Can you imagine yourself being buried in it? He stands there a moment silently, then resumes, as if speaking to himself. Before I left I was given a jar of soil from the homeland. In everything that’s happened since, that jar has been with me. One day when I’m back there I’m going to empty that jar and return the soil to our country.

Vaniok shakes his head; he doesn’t know what to say. Yes, he answers stupidly.

I want you to see it, Jory says. We’ll have a drink after work, we’ll toast the homeland.

Yes, Vaniok nods. That would be good. All he wants to do is to get back to work.

After Royall returns to take Jory back to his station, though, Vaniok finds it hard to concentrate on the job. He can sympathize with the stranger, he isn’t cold-hearted, after all; but this man hangs onto his memories so fiercely, his brow creased and his eyes narrowed, as if he’s trying to make himself blind to what he sees here, a soft landscape where trees and bushes flower overnight, filling the air with a rich perfume. Are you saying we should forget? he asked. No, Vaniok should have answered, remember forever for all I care. But keep it to yourself. And how was he supposed to respond to that question about being buried in the red earth? What he should have said was that the important thing is how a person lives on it. But once again he realizes what he should have said only after the opportunity’s passed. Why did he admit his trouble speaking the language of the host country? Especially to someone from the capital: sometimes back there it was hard to keep from feeling that all the inhabitants of the capital were slick talkers who couldn’t be bothered to take Lakers seriously. The desolation of the morning’s dream has returned.

In that dream he was back there, at some kind of celebration—was it Constitution Day? He was in a room with a shiny wooden floor, the tables piled with hard-crusted bread, smoked fish, sausages, and a half-dozen kinds of cheese. Everybody was speaking the old language, shouting toasts; a circle had formed around a pair of white-haired ladies dancing with each other, their arms held out stiffly as the violin sighed over the wheezing accordion. There was even a baby-faced priest whose name Vaniok can’t remember, standing by himself in a corner, energetically singing a patriotic song. But what made the dream terrible was that only Vaniok could see, just outside the window, a huge gray cloud, massive as an iceberg, bearing down on the revelers, an avalanche in the sky. Stop! he wanted to shout. Look! But the revelry just got more frantic and Vaniok’s cries were buried in his throat.

His first emotion on awakening was gratitude that he was here and not back there. He even went to the window to assure himself that what lay behind the early morning darkness outside his apartment was this landscape he’s come to know, dipping and swelling gently, with clusters of thin, resilient pines growing out of red soil; and not the ghostly birches that ringed the lakes in the region where he grew up, those lakes whose deep blue waters mirrored exactly the color of the late autumn sky—the most fleeting memories of that place could bring a heavy sense of dread. Yet at the same time that his eyes confirmed his being here, a huge sorrow welled up inside as he recognized again that he might have to live out the rest of his life in a place where few people have even heard of his country, where they spell its name differently when they spell it at all. I’ll die among strangers. The unspoken words lay like stones in his throat. And still his heart was pounding with terror at the thought of how easily he’d been transported back there. Looking into the darkness of early morning, Vaniok fervently prayed for the daylight, when it would be easier to believe in the truth he’s taught himself since leaving: that the past is dead, that the people he left three years ago no longer exist, his country no longer exists. He has no choice but to look forward, not backward.

Vaniok takes a deep breath. He looks around: gradually, his world is returned to him. He can even smile at the thought that Jory’s coming here caused his dream. Though you could just as easily turn it around and say the dream was a harbinger of the man who was coming. A man with creased pants who ignores the sunlight and talks about where you’re going to be buried! Vaniok bends down to lift a box, grateful for its satisfying heft. He settles it on a dolly. He’s glad to be by himself again; it’s time to get to work. Pushing the dolly, he already feels better. He gives a cheerful wave to one of the native workers as he passes him. He’s survived worse things than this; he can put up with Jory. Though one meeting a day is plenty for now. He wishes he hadn’t agreed to have a drink with him after work.

When the time comes, he encounters Jory in the street in front of the warehouse as they’d arranged it. How did the first day go? he asks. Though the man has obviously been working, his pants are still unwrinkled.

Jory shrugs. Unremarkable, he says and offers Vaniok a cigarette. He lights one for himself, his head bent toward his cupped hand as if he doesn’t want the fire to be seen, though the day is sunny and the tiny spurt of flame would be lost in the brightness. He exhales and begins walking away from the building, refusing to acknowledge the site of his first day of work here by looking back.

Vaniok falls into step. The sun is warm on his arms. I can only stay a short while, he says.

It’s good of you to come, Jory says. I appreciate it. As they move along the streets of this university town where Vaniok has lived for more than a year, he tries to remember what it looked like to him when it was still as strange and unknown to him as it is to Jory; but the other man walks briskly toward his apartment, apparently uninterested in the sights around him.

Let me know if I can help in any way, Vaniok offers. Do you have everything you need?

Yes, the refugee organization took care of those things. There’s a tone of finality to the statement. He isn’t encouraging further discussion of this subject.

The shrubs and bushes are already green though it wouldn’t be spring yet where the two of them come from. This must be a change for you, Vaniok says. After the last place. After all, they’re now more than a thousand miles south of where Jory came from.

Yes, Jory answers simply.

I’ve never been there, Vaniok says, thinking of snow, of winter sports. Some people I know went there. I’ve heard some good things about it.

It’s no better or worse than any other place, Jory says and continues walking. Once again Vaniok is at a loss for something to talk about. They’ve now come to a neighborhood of old houses where students live. Vaniok, who prefers more modern accommodations, feels a heaviness setting in though he isn’t sure it’s caused by the surroundings as much as it is by Jory’s lack of communication. Did you ever visit the Deep Lakes? he asks at last. Only after he’s said it does he realize he’s doing the one thing he was determined not to do: talking about the other place.

Yes, Jory says. I have some very pleasant memories of that region. He mentions the names of several towns, places Vaniok knows well, names that sound strange on this quiet street in another country. He thinks of screened porches, rowboats bumping against the pilings of a dock, mayflies gathered thickly around streetlamps, the fishy smell of the air in the evening. He has only himself to blame for the pang he feels.

For some time neither of them says anything and Vaniok looks intently at the street, the houses around them, trying to re-establish the authority of this place. An old brown station wagon goes by slowly, a nearby tree rustles in the breeze, a sweet smell rises from the hedges: they’re not in the Deep Lakes. All at once Jory declares, The situation in the homeland won’t go on forever, you know. We’ll all be back some day soon. Vaniok nods noncommittally and they walk on. At last Jory stops. Here we are, he says.

It’s a big dark house no different from a dozen others in the neighborhood and when Jory points it out, they stop for a moment and look at it. Vaniok is glad he doesn’t live here. He hopes the other man’s rooms aren’t on the top floor, where the window set into the angle of the roof looks like a peephole. They cross the weedy sidewalk and climb to the porch. Please, Jory holds open the door and Vaniok enters, then follows Jory up a flight of stairs. The air inside is stale and musty; it’s even more so on the second floor. Vaniok is relieved when he sees they’re not going all the way to the top. Nevertheless, the apartment into which Jory leads him is dim and cramped. Vaniok wishes he were back in his own place with its large windows. He could be drinking a cold beer by himself, watching TV without paying attention—the fantasy sharpens his sense of discomfort. There’s something oppressive about this place, it makes him uneasy: he’s on his guard, he feels the need for vigilance, as if he’s in the presence of danger. The room smells dry, there’s a hint of something herbal. His nostrils twitch with recognition and he realizes that if he closed his eyes he could convince himself he was a boy again, in his grandmother’s house.

When Jory leads him further into the apartment that’s filled with dark wood and heavy furniture, Vaniok can make out pictures of notable people from the old country, a map with the nation’s territory colored purple. On a desk against the wall he can pick out magazines and books that even from this distance he recognizes to be written in the language he learned as a child.

This is my little corner of our country, Jory laughs softly. Wherever I travel, I take it with me. Vaniok’s heart is suddenly beating faster, his breath comes quickly; the sense of danger he felt earlier has accelerated. He feels like a criminal who’s been brought back to the scene of the crime. But I’m not guilty of anything, he protests. Trying to recover his composure, he coughs loudly into his hand, then clears his throat. There’s something in the air, he says. I may have caught a cold.

Jory smiles. It looks like you need that drink. He goes into the small kitchen and Vaniok hears the sound of running water in the sink. Alone in the room, he studies some of the pictures on the wall: the last prime minister as a younger man, with a full black mustache and a chest full of medals; the crafty cardinal, hiding his thoughts even from the camera; a husky-voiced cafe singer from the capital, her large, shadowed eyes foretelling her early death. Everywhere Vaniok looks is some memento of the lost place.

Here we are, Jory says brightly when he returns with a bottle and two small glasses, still beaded with water. In the bottle is the famous amber-colored liquor so beloved in the homeland. This is good for coughs and sniffles, Jory says. Insomnia, indigestion—and if you’re in good health this will preserve it. His speech is accompanied by sudden, emphatic gestures, unlike his reserve of this morning—it’s clear he’s at home here. But Vaniok is still trying to get control of his own reactions to this room. Maybe he actually has caught a cold: his hands are trembling