"Mother Poland, So Freshly Entombed" [19/21]
anonymous
February 21 2011, 14:28:29 UTC
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The flight should have taken twenty-two hours; it took two days. They sat on the tarmac in Baghdad while mechanics replaced a fuel pump and Mirosław fiddled with his phone, wondering if he should turn it on, wondering what he would say if someone called. By the time they reached Mumbai their two-hour layover had turned into twenty, from missing their flight, the next two being full. They left the airport and wandered the streets. The heat beat through their thick jackets. A man with a pedal-cart sold them fried vegtables on a stick, happily taking the Euros that were the only cash they had. "Wonderful spice, is it not?" he declared, in odd-accented English. "My older brother's recipe. He is a wonderful cook."
It was at this point Mirosław broke down crying, with the realization he would probably never see his brother again.
In Singapore they stared at the murals on the airport walls. "We could walk out," Grażyna said. "We could just walk away. Find work here, or walk into Malaysia, or Thailand, or Laos, find something there. Nobody could find us or follow us, if we took a little care."
"We could," Mirosław answered. They kept walking down the terminal halls.
By the time they disembarked in Canberra, it was Easter morning, technically. The man who met them had the same air of manic cheer as Poland in his cups. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and sandals, and assured them immediately that it had all been taken care of, he had their residency papers, that Grażyna's father had left them a bit of cash, to tide them over. "Gotta say, though," he added, as they climbed into the back of his battered Kia, "you picked the wrong season to emigrate. Just had winter in Poland, and now you're getting another one. You'll be fine, though. It might not even snow."
Mirosław finally turned his phone on, while Grażyna talked to the cheerful man - if he was a man; he hadn't introduced himself, and somehow Mirosław suspected that whatever strings Poland gad pulled, they ended on the necks only of others of 'our kind'. No messages from friends, yet; they must assume he'd only gone home for Easter.
His breath caught. He hastily pulled up the news. It informed him that the Northern Lights and Druzhba pipelines had been turned on again. The crisis was over. In late megotiations, the Union State had revealed - he read that over, but it said Union State, not 'Gazprom' or 'Union State's government', and he wondered how attuned these journalists had been to the nuance - had revealed that their own fields were running dry. Promising drilling locations had failed, time and again. They had natural gas enough, but they were running out of oil.
In the interest of pan-Slavic unity, of helping their neighbors adjust, of good stewardship of the remnants - for all those high-minded reasons, they were offering Poland domestic prices for five years. Still higher than the old price. They would all freeze together. The Baltic States and Ukraine were being offered similar deals.
Five years, Mirosław thought. He wondered if, after all, they had bought some time for their country, and bought it cheaply, considering. He turned his phone off, and looked out the window at the pinkening sunrise.
The flight should have taken twenty-two hours; it took two days. They sat on the tarmac in Baghdad while mechanics replaced a fuel pump and Mirosław fiddled with his phone, wondering if he should turn it on, wondering what he would say if someone called. By the time they reached Mumbai their two-hour layover had turned into twenty, from missing their flight, the next two being full. They left the airport and wandered the streets. The heat beat through their thick jackets. A man with a pedal-cart sold them fried vegtables on a stick, happily taking the Euros that were the only cash they had. "Wonderful spice, is it not?" he declared, in odd-accented English. "My older brother's recipe. He is a wonderful cook."
It was at this point Mirosław broke down crying, with the realization he would probably never see his brother again.
In Singapore they stared at the murals on the airport walls. "We could walk out," Grażyna said. "We could just walk away. Find work here, or walk into Malaysia, or Thailand, or Laos, find something there. Nobody could find us or follow us, if we took a little care."
"We could," Mirosław answered. They kept walking down the terminal halls.
By the time they disembarked in Canberra, it was Easter morning, technically. The man who met them had the same air of manic cheer as Poland in his cups. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and sandals, and assured them immediately that it had all been taken care of, he had their residency papers, that Grażyna's father had left them a bit of cash, to tide them over. "Gotta say, though," he added, as they climbed into the back of his battered Kia, "you picked the wrong season to emigrate. Just had winter in Poland, and now you're getting another one. You'll be fine, though. It might not even snow."
Mirosław finally turned his phone on, while Grażyna talked to the cheerful man - if he was a man; he hadn't introduced himself, and somehow Mirosław suspected that whatever strings Poland gad pulled, they ended on the necks only of others of 'our kind'. No messages from friends, yet; they must assume he'd only gone home for Easter.
His breath caught. He hastily pulled up the news. It informed him that the Northern Lights and Druzhba pipelines had been turned on again. The crisis was over. In late megotiations, the Union State had revealed - he read that over, but it said Union State, not 'Gazprom' or 'Union State's government', and he wondered how attuned these journalists had been to the nuance - had revealed that their own fields were running dry. Promising drilling locations had failed, time and again. They had natural gas enough, but they were running out of oil.
In the interest of pan-Slavic unity, of helping their neighbors adjust, of good stewardship of the remnants - for all those high-minded reasons, they were offering Poland domestic prices for five years. Still higher than the old price. They would all freeze together. The Baltic States and Ukraine were being offered similar deals.
Five years, Mirosław thought. He wondered if, after all, they had bought some time for their country, and bought it cheaply, considering. He turned his phone off, and looked out the window at the pinkening sunrise.
--
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