The Star - XVII

Slice of the novella from Tarot Blanco

12 January, 2025. In some forgotten British town with a supplice of bricked roads

Anno nastiness Never ending

Anno persuaded postulance leveled ever beneath and under me

She went the road more traveled by and that made none of the difference. She looked out on the bookstore floor and saw 50 people here to hear her say what she had said in the book. She glanced at the window out over the square where the name stood backward under seven stars. And then she composed herself to dip into the pond to pictures into which she would pour the knowledge that she had gained. The window tilted in and gave a claustrophobic view as if it were barbed wire and would that was old and decayed.

But her memory lifted back to a singular moment in one thousand nine hundred and eighty-nine of what was once called Anno Domini. Because in the moment it was like but in her remembrance, she was looking outside with spotlights hitting the walls and flooding the Wall. She remembered it quite vividly and would report in great detail, greater than would be published, about the sights and sounds and the reverberations of a crumbling of a symbol. It was hard to push her way through the fast conglomeration of people who were chanting and pumping and pounding. A few minutes before she had seen people coming from the East and alighting onto Western soil with no checkpoint, no papers, and no questions asked Comrade.

Stretching over a burly man sat in front of her, she could see the gates were completely open, and people were flooding through the zone.

With her beret in a wobbly balance, she pushed her left hand up to flatten her hair in a sharp point. Then at last she could see people flooding through the street and at one point she saw a young girl, perhaps 20 years of age, only a bit younger than she was. And on her face, she saw a feast of delight. And in that moment she saw that the young girl with her drab jacket and woolen blank sweater had never believed that this moment this instant was even remotely possible. And yet it was.

It was the moment when she truly understood what it was to be free from your lords and masters and free to be anything you wanted. Off in the distance, there was the beating of drums and the wail of a bird. And the thrush of the drums cleaned her soul as much as the crowded cluster of coats. It was at that point that she truly felt free in the harsh lights and confused glances as to what would happen next.

But then the present scrolled in. She had actually been talking for some moments: the reflex was automatic as the tanks were automatic in their rolling thunder.

But she focused and looked at her audience: there were several differences, in the past she saw people who were young, and in the present day were dilapidated in their chairs. So many differences because the dark wind on that dark night blew freedom across the faces and each one partook of that cleansing. Here fear was rapt attention to gather some small bit that they could take home and feast their ears upon. On to this, she poured her knowledge.

After the talk was over, after the questions were asked and answered, one young lady came up and asked her to sign an old volume that she had written. Of the gulag and its history. She saw that the outside was ripened and clearly read. But she signed it anyway because she saw in that young one's face that moment that had been captured before. The block letters of GULAG were a reminder that an entire country had let itself go and reached for the other side. She then looked into the eyes of the young ones with the black here and simple dress. “What college do you go to?” She got an answer and it was not the best but there was an excitement that presaged a different ending than the beginning.

Later, she had to perform the ritual of talking to the store owner. Some things were required, though not written into the contract. He talked incessantly as if he were trying to prove that his life was as good as hers. She ignored it; it was just another mansplaining confession that she had to endure. But then he asked a question, which was a fault because then she had an answer and could go on as long as she wanted, which, in this case, was not long.

“So, how do you feel this book is going to do?”

“Not as well as Gulag, but very few books do. The course of autocracy is its grandeur which puts many people off.” It immediately shut him up because nothing he would ever do could possibly match her first book. But then she added “I just hope to unleash a star in my readers to make them dream that freedom is worth the price. And that is why I describe the origins that go back before the Russian Revolution.”

Somehow the conversation was at an end and she saw him walk away from the back, almost defeated as if he were a horse shot from the watchtower that guarded the weak and sickly in that cold barbed wire and structure of wood.