Transition: Chapter 37 (SMU)

Jillian walks at least 50 feet past the makeshift display before it all clicks into place.

She’s strolling through Hughes-Trigg with Kimberly Overdorf, recounting her adventure in the spa two nights ago. Kimberly is suitably attentive and appropriately impressed. She giggles at Jillian’s recounting of Scott Marcus’ lewd suggestions, and she even blushes a little when Jillian describes how she had pulled off her T-shirt – but maybe that’s only a trick of the light, because it’s hard to imagine Kimberly being genuinely embarrassed about anything.

“Oh, Jill, you must have been simply mortified,” Kimberly gushes, when Jillian reaches the part about her father walking up behind her. Her eyes flutter with distress; she touches Jillian’s arm lightly; as if consoling her. “I would have just died right there on the spot, just up and died. I’ll bet he was furious.”

By this time, they’ve actually walked out the doors and passed between the columns, and they’ve already started on their way down the steps. “Oh, he was pissed off, alright.” Jillian winces as she recalls her horror, the humiliation. “But you know Daddy; he got over it pretty quick. But, God, I can imagine what he must have thought when...”

And then it hits her.

She stops in her tracks. She actually says it out loud: “Qen Phon.”

Kimberly is puzzled. “Ken who? Jill, what...”

“Qen Phon,” Jillian repeats. She seems to be slightly dazed. “Kim,” she says, “I gotta go back and check something out. I’ll be along in a couple of minutes.” She pivots sharply and begins to walk briskly back into the student center.

“Jill,” Kimberly calls up the steps after her. “Do you want me to wait for you?”

“Nah, you go on,” Jillian says, looking back over her shoulder. “I’ll be along in a little bit.”

“What should I tell Dr. Schuster?” Kimberly is clearly concerned. “You know how he is when people are late. Especially for tests.”

But Jillian is either out of hearing range or she’s decided to let Kimberly worry about handling Dr. Schuster.

Kimberly watches Jillian walk away for a few seconds. Glancing at her watch, she clucks her tongue in annoyance. Then she whirls around and heads for class.

§ § § § § § § § § §

Jillian now realizes that she has seen the crude, obviously homemade display dozens, or maybe even hundreds of times, it simply has never registered on her consciousness. The hand-lettered signs and the stacks of literature are stuck off in a corner of the student lounge, where they seem out of place and even a little forlorn. But the table is there so often – two, maybe three times a week, every week – that it’s become part of the scenery.

A student – the same guy, Jillian’s pretty sure, who’s been there every time – sits hunched over the table, his head buried in a book. His features are unidentifiably foreign, vaguely Oriental – or Indian, perhaps? Or could he be a Chicano? Maybe an Arab?

Although stacks of pamphlets and fliers litter the table, Jillian gets the feeling that he doesn’t really expect anyone to approach him. In fact, as she thinks about it, Jillian can’t remember if she’s ever seen anyone else at the table.

Taped to the front edge of the table top, hanging down to the floor, a hand-lettered poster asks, “WHEN WILL IT END?” As Jillian approaches, she can see a collage of horrifying snippets of photographs beneath the lettering. About half of the photos involve confrontations between young people (students?) and black-dressed riot police (soldiers?). A terrified young girl kneels in the street, her hands clasped in the universal sign of pleading; a laughing soldier points a rifle at her chest, while another holds a small but deadly-looking pistol to her head. Three policemen viciously club a cowering and dazed young man, as blood streams down both of his cheeks. A soldier points a rifle directly at the camera lens; behind him, two other laughing soldiers have ripped nearly all the clothes off a woman, who covers her face with her hands in terror. Similar gruesome scenes are repeated over and over again. The poster is awash with miniature horrors.

Not all of the photos involve students and soldiers. In one, tears stain the dirty cheeks of a old woman who kneels next to the inert, blood-spattered body of a child. In another, perhaps a dozen mangled, contorted bodies lie heaped in a shallow pit.

Jillian shudders, and looks up. The guardian of the booth has not yet noticed her presence. Two posters hang on the wall behind him; to Jillian’s relief, both contain only text. One simply proclaims, in large, block letters, “U.S. OUT OF QEN PHON!” The other, scrawled in a more hasty script, says, “Over Ten Thousand Killed, Many Thousands More Injured Or Mutilated,” and then repeats, in larger print, the perhaps rhetorical question, “WHEN WILL IT END?”

Various types of literature cover the table. A stack of handwritten, photocopied fliers urges SMU students to attend a weekend rally to display their solidarity with the oppressed people of Qen Phon; “You CAN Make A Difference!”, it proclaims. Other fliers, professionally produced but poorly photocopied, contain small, horrific photographs similar to the ones on the poster; they feature several paragraphs of typed text, punctuated profusely with exclamation points and lots of words entirely in uppercase letters. A pile of slim, yellow folders urges “DEATH To Tanami, Enemy Of The People, Puppet Of U.S. Imperialists!”

In a corner of the table, the glossy covers of three colorful paperback books feature the same man in various poses, in each photo, he is simply dressed in what appears to be some kind of drab uniform. He wears a warm smile, but his eyes betray a deep sadness. On one cover, he extends his hands toward the reader in a mute, impassioned invitation. One book is entitled “Qen Phon: Land of Joy, Land of Tears.” Another is called, “The Murder of Mantu Siko.” The third title is the increasingly familiar refrain, “When Will It End?”

The young man sitting at the table says something unintelligible without looking up from his book. For a moment, Jillian isn’t certain that he’s talking to her – but, of course, there’s no one else around. Could he have been talking to himself?

“I’m sorry?” she says, tentatively.

He looks up from his book and stares at her, impassively, expressionlessly. “I said that he was a great man, a very great man.” He nods at the glossy paperbacks. “I noticed that you were inspecting the Mantu Siko collection.” He speaks in deep, rich tones, with a noticeably foreign accent that Jillian can’t quite place; like his features, it’s vaguely Oriental... or, perhaps, Arabian?

“Well, I wasn’t exactly inspecting them, or anything,” Jillian admits. “I really was just trying to see if you had any information about Qen Phon.”

“Mantu Siko was guilty of nothing other than harboring a passionate yearning for the freedom of his people,” he continues, as if she hadn’t even spoken. “For this, he was tortured and brutally murdered by the minions of Tanami, The Butcher. Before he died, both of his eyes were put out with hot pokers, and his tongue was cut off as well. Even in death, The Butcher feared the power of Mantu Siko to see the truth and to report it faithfully to the world.”

Tanami, Jillian thinks. Tanami. Where has she heard... “Isn’t Tanami the name of the capital of Qen Phon?” she asks, hoping that an interruption might distract the intense young man from his diatribe.

But he continues as if he hasn’t heard her. “Tanami’s storm troopers also mutilated his testicles with an electric cattle prod,” he adds, his eyes boring into hers. “I suppose that, symbolically, you might say that they feared that he would reproduce. But they were too late. The seeds of his heroic struggle had already been firmly implanted in the hearts and minds of the oppressed people of Qen Phon, and those seeds have proven to be exceptionally fertile.”

Oh Jesus, Jillian thinks, I don’t want to hear this. I’ve got to get out of here. But all she actually does is stand there, her mouth open in disbelief.

“And, of course,” he continues, “he had reproduced in the literal sense as well. I am his son.” He rises and extends his hand. “Akaso Siko, at your service.”

Reluctantly, she takes his hand. It’s excessively damp, clammy; she feels repulsed, defiled. His appearance does nothing to lessen her discomfort – he wears faded, ragged jeans and an old work shirt, and he has obviously not shaved for several days. And he doesn’t so much shake her hand as just hold it as he continues to stare intently, almost rudely, into her eyes.

“Pleased to meet you,” Jillian says, politely, but without much feeling. “I’m Jillian Kendal.” She seldom uses her full Christian name when introducing herself; but, in this case, she hopes that the formality might help to keep some kind of distance between them.

“I know who you are,” Akaso Siko says. There’s an awkward silence. He continues to grasp her hand and stare at her.

Jillian is accustomed to being recognized, her Olympic gold medal having made her a minor celebrity. Generally, she enjoys the notoriety. Occasionally, it’s the cause of some regret.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Jillian finally says, realizing how inadequate it sounds, but feeling a pressing need to say something.

“He had the brazen audacity,” Akaso Siko says, “to believe that he could change the name of a city that had been known by the same name since long before the time of the Romans in Europe, a city that was engaged in orderly commerce long before civilization existed in Egypt.” It takes Jillian a few seconds to realize that Akaso is referring to Tanami, not to his father. “Of course, the people of Qen Phon always refer to the city by its real name,” Akaso explains, “Zabori Denegri – ‘the light of the jungle,’ in your language.”

Finally, he releases her hand from its damp prison, and sits down. “Now, what is it you wish to know about Qen Phon?” he asks.

“Oh, gee, probably not anything that you could help me with,” she responds, uneasily. “I was just looking for some kind of general information. You know, what it’s like, places to go, what to do, things to see... you know, tourist-type information.” She smiles weakly. “But I don’t guess that’s the kind of thing you have here.”

“Qen Phon is not a place for tourists,” Akaso says, gravely. “It is not a safe place. The wrath of the people can explode into righteous anger at any moment. It can become very unpleasant. Especially for Americans.” He leans back in his chair, locks his hands behind his neck, and regards her coolly. “I am certain that it would be less than an ideal place for a vacation.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking about a vacation,” Jillian says, hurriedly, defensively. “I was thinking about going over there for the Olympics. Maybe.”

“The Americans hope to use the Olympic Games to showcase what they like to refer to as the ‘democratic government’ of Qen Phon,” Akaso says, sarcastically. “Of course, no one is fooled. The entire world is aware of the brutal repression of the Tanami regime. If you participate in such a charade, you will do a great disservice to the people of Qen Phon.”

“I’m not really into politics,” Jillian admits. “And I know for a fact that most of the athletes in the Olympics feel the same way. The Olympics should be a time for people to forget their differences and compete with each other in the spirit of friendship.”

“I am not speaking of politics.” He waves away her objections. “I am speaking of reality. A handful of pampered athletes competing behind a facade of splendor cannot hide the despair that the people of Qen Phon face every day. The Olympics will not shelter the homeless. The Olympics will not feed the hungry or heal the sick. The Olympics will not free the thousands of political prisoners who rot in Tanami’s jails. The Olympics certainly will not resurrect the tens of thousands who have been slaughtered by Tanami’s death squads.”

“Look, I...”

“In fact,” Akaso continues, ignoring Jillian’s feeble attempt at an interruption, “the repression will be worse during the Olympics, because Tanami hopes to discourage any demonstration of the will of the people while the eyes of the world are upon him. He does not know that the resolve of the freedom-loving people of Qen Phon cannot be crushed with guns and bullets. He does not understand that the hopes of an entire generation of oppressed people cannot be so easily extinguished. But he will learn,” Akaso adds, ominously. “He most assuredly will learn.”

This guy is a raving lunatic, Jillian thinks. Could he really be an SMU student? He must be, or surely they would have kicked him out of Hughes-Trigg by now. She makes a show of glancing at her watch, and does an exaggerated double-take. “Oh, darn,” she says, “I’m late for class. Listen,” she lies, smiling weakly, “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, but I’m afraid that I’ve got to...”

“I will be happy to tell you anything that you wish to know about Qen Phon,” Akaso Siko says, and – for the first time – he smiles. The unexpected change in his demeanor alters his entire appearance; although he still projects a vague air of disreputability, he suddenly exudes a rough charm that has been well hidden until now.

“Excuse me?” Jillian is caught completely off guard. Flustered, she’s not even sure that she’s heard him correctly.

“I have not returned to Qen Phon since my father’s funeral, last year,” Akaso Siko says. “Although the people would welcome my return, there are some who would, shall we say, strongly object to it.” His smile dazzles. “However,” he continues, “although I have not set foot in Qen Phon for nearly a year, I am certain that I know more about it than you are likely to be able to learn from any other source. And I will be pleased to share my knowledge with you – if you will give me the honor of accompanying me to dinner this evening.”

Dear God, thinks Jillian, I don’t believe it, this is too bizarre. This... this creep is asking me out to dinner. This Arab, or whatever he is, is actually asking me for a date.

While Akaso had been spouting his political rhetoric, Jillian had the uncomfortable feeling that he was somehow different, in an indefinable but very basic way, from the other men that she knew. But now she sees that she’s been wrong. He’s just like all the others. They’re all the same.

Men are such children.

She can see it in his eyes – disguised, but not quite fully hidden by the macho front that he’s putting on – that scared, little-boy look that all men have when they ask her for a date. He’s just like all the rest – his pride is on the line, and he’s terrified of being rejected. All the tough talk is just a facade. She is in control now. The ball’s in her court, and she holds the advantage.

“I’d love to,” she says, and she smiles, ever so sweetly. She sees the sudden flash of triumph in his eyes. “But I can’t,” she adds, with a twinge of regret. “I’m afraid that I have other plans for this evening.”

Distress. That’s what his eyes show: sudden emotional turmoil, instant panic. With just a few, well-chosen words, she’s taken him on a roller-coaster ride of hope and despair. And he doesn’t even know what hit him. Yet.

What fun.

“Tomorrow night, then,” he blurts. “What about tomorrow night?”

She smiles again; and even before she speaks, she can see the anger register in his eyes as he realizes what’s happening, how vulnerable he’s been, how exposed, and how expertly she’s exploited his weakness. His eyes narrow into slits and grow watchful, almost hooded, as he waits, fully aware of what’s coming.

“I don’t think so,” Jillian says, flatly. There’s no further need for pretense – the game is over, and she has scored a quick and decisive victory. His eyes tell her that he understands the situation perfectly: he won’t be taking her to dinner, not tonight, not tomorrow night, not any night.

She’s hurt him, she realizes, perhaps more than she intended to. The men that she rejects are always hurt, but they mostly suffer nothing worse than slightly bruised egos. They’re used to it, and they recover quickly. It’s all part of the game.

But this is different. Akaso recognizes that Jillian hasn’t turned him down because she doesn’t like him. She’s turned him down because of what he is, and because of the distance between them. As far as she’s concerned, he is, simply, foreign – and not just because he is, by definition, from another country, but because he is, in her eyes, something less than human, another species altogether.

His eyes blaze. “In my country,” he hisses, “I am a national hero. Women throw themselves at my feet. No woman would dare to treat me with such inexcusable rudeness.”

“Well, the women in my country,” she responds, coldly, “obviously have a great deal more sense than the women in your country. And the men,” she adds, “have considerably better manners.”

They stare at each other for a few, long seconds. Then, suddenly, Akaso blinks; his eyes soften a little and, to Jillian’s surprise, he smiles. “Then you must forgive me,” he says. “I meant no offense. I am farther from my home, in so many ways, than you can possibly imagine.” He speaks softly, but intensely. His eyes no longer blaze with anger, but they’ve turned as cold as ice. “At times, my behavior becomes, shall we say, inappropriate.”

“No offense taken,” Jillian says, and she returns his chilly smile. Suddenly, she’s tired of the game, it’s gone on long enough. “I must go,” she says, just as he starts to speak; “I’m late for a test.”

She whirls around and strides away. She can feel the fire of his steely gaze burning into the back of her head as she walks across the big room, out the doors, through the columns, down the stairs, and into the blazing Texas sun.