MONA STOOD BEFORE her bedroom window. It was the night before the performance, and she looked out into the darkness. Her reflection was suspended between herself and the world. It was the time of the day when one is able to see the window, the world outside, and oneself in the reflection, and all three images were part of the moment, none more real or false than the other. It’s partly how Mona felt about life, so far—that it was a matter of the self reflected in the world and the world reflected in the self, and often she could not discern what was imposed upon what and if any of it made any difference at all. Since Clarice had gone, Mona had dedicated herself to the dance, spring was readying itself for summer. Diogen was home a lot, and he made her listen to the opera; she enjoyed it, she loved Puccini and Mozart, though she tried to stop Diogen singing over it, but she liked it, and with the music she tried to exorcise the sadness of Clarice not being there, of that possibility of love gone. There was no one remotely close to how interesting she had been, the others at school were boring, she thought, there’d never be anyone like Clarice again, that was sure, and so she tried to keep her mind on other things, like the dance, and she was trying to compose a letter to Clarice that would reveal her feelings and be literary and poetic, and deep, and it was taking forever and Mona decided that she’d finish it when she was ready.
She was wearing a red leotard and a shiny white skirt for tomorrow’s dance. On her feet she had plimsolls, white and light; all the participating dancers had them. They had signed each others’ shoes, to mark their friendship as a group, but Mrs. Grebenc saw it and told them off, so they had to get new clean white shoes for the performance. She felt ready. She felt calm. In the morning, she walked out of her room; Diogen was already waiting for her. Her mother gave her a packed lunch and a Tetra Pak of apple juice, and she walked down the stairs.
Ruben, wearing a pin in the shape of the President’s signature on his jacket collar, said, “See you there.”
The town stadium was decorated with blue, white, and red, stars and banners, as well as several pictures of the President. National songs blasted out of the speakers, promising to not stray off the President’s path, telling the President he was the Nation’s flowering rose. Rosa, Ruben, and Diogen had seats in the front area. Robinson had said he was too frail to come; he remained on the sofa in a supine state, letting out small sighs. When Rosa had offered to stay with him he quickly responded, “No, no, no, please go, this is too important for you to miss. I’m just an old ass, who cares if I die?” and laughed. So they left Robinson there. He, of course, had been waiting for the battery to be charged, and today was the day it was ready. He waited for them to leave and picked up the big black box and rushed down the stairs into the shelter.
Ruben wept quietly in his seat. It was awful to know the President was not there, not anywhere in the world except as a decomposing body in the ground. Rosa took Ruben’s hand. Seeing the President’s picture and the symbols of the Nation, Ruben felt as if it was all a big joke, it had all been a big joke, and wondered how long they could keep it up.
“What will become of us Rosa, dear?”
“It’ll all be okay, don’t worry.”
Some weeks earlier, there had been a national scandal over the controversial design of that year’s Youth Day poster. The poster was always produced by those who won the national competition, and this year it was a group of young designers from the very region that had started the protests. They produced a picture of a young muscular man holding the five-pointed star in his right hand. However, the design was almost identical to the one used in Germany, back in the 1940s, to promote the National Socialist Party. There was an uproar. Ruben was incensed, as were most people. All this, and so soon after the President’s death. The Nation saw it as a direct provocation against everything it stood for. But there were those who agreed with the poster’s symbolism. “It’s a tyrannical state,” some said. “It needs to come to an end.” The posters were changed. The new poster, with five harmless red stars in a circle, hung among the rest of the decorations at the stadium.
The music started. The dancers came out in a long single-file, light of step. Diogen saw Mona. A white skirt, a red leotard, her auburn hair pulled back, her body lean and quick. Diogen and Rosa and Ruben all sighed. Rosa smiled and Ruben, upon seeing Mona, burst out into a fresh round of tears. Diogen put his arm around Ruben’s shoulder. The three watched the Youth of the Nation form shapes with their bodies, perfectly timed to the rhythm of each other and the music; they lifted and moved and created beautiful waves of color, the red, blue, white of the flag, ran around each other and produced a red star, which to Diogen appeared like a starfish, a living organism, made out of the young unified bodies, and it spoke to the sky, sent some secret signals to it. A long column of young men came out carrying dozens of red flags, the fabric licking the air like a long fiery tongue, and they separated and white-clad dancers appeared in the parted red river, and they made formations that resulted in WE LOVE YOU PRESIDENT, spelled out in large white letters made out of human bodies. There was a great round of applause.
Rosa, Ruben, and Diogen sat, mesmerized, watching the performance, the swirling colors, the changing formations that evoked tightly sewed up sequins pushed this way and that to reveal hidden shapes and patterns. Diogen saw the emptiness of the adoration of symbols, but he was moved by this optimism for the first time, perhaps because he sensed that it was too easy to replace the optimism with a great nothingness. Perhaps, he thought, this love and idea of unity, even though it’s odd for me, perhaps it’s the only way. Look at how nice it is that all these young people have come to dance together, he thought, and surprised himself with the sentimentality that he suddenly felt for the spectacle. Rosa watched and admired the organization, loved the firm bodies, their energy, their vitality. Ruben felt as if a plug had been pulled out at the center of his being, yet he was proud of his daughter. To him, the spectacle seemed empty, strange, devoid of meaning. At the end a young woman, a local sports champion, delivered a speech that promised that the Nation’s Youth would carry on the President’s message. There was another roaring applause.
After meeting with other families and congratulating each other on the children’s performances, the family went for lunch at the National Restaurant where the terrace was shaded by linden and almond trees. The almond blossoms perfumed everything. Spring was at its late afternoon best; the dappled light, the sweet fragrances, the warm air. They ate well: river carp and greens and, for dessert, a wobbly sour cherry gelatin treat. There was wine and beer and for Mona, rose water juice. The company was good. They spoke of this and that, things not related to the spectacle, to the President. Mona wondered if she should quit smoking and wished Clarice had seen her dance. Diogen sang a song. He remembered Ivan’s soft hands. Ruben, Rosa, and Mona all listened and clapped. The air was as gentle as a newborn’s skin, and there was a sense of a new energy being pulled up from the earth.
Rosa said, “Spring is the hardest season. Earth and all the creatures upon it require a great deal of energy for the rebirth, the renewal, to work upward from the scarce winter resources.”
It was not often that Rosa spoke like this, so there was a hush as she delivered her words.
“The secret is to preserve energy, to organize resources wisely, to use autumn’s storages patiently over the winter period. It’s why bears hibernate. They, like us, are too tied to their locations and too heavy to move to warmer climes with the seasons. Only birds can do that, with their beautifully ordered flocks, collaboration, shared resources, and determination. They use each other’s air current to rest their wings, mid-flight, and each bird gets a go at resting and working for the flock.”
Ruben felt like crying again. He loved Rosa so. He loved his whole family. The day sparkled with the afternoon sun.
“We must learn from birds. We must always work together,” Rosa concluded, “and cultivate love and friendship to make life as beautiful as possible. Without this, all of life’s hardships are impossible to bear.”
Mona breathed in the fragrance of the air, looked up at the clear sky.