Desolation Road

37

A reminiscent weakness she had been unable to break brought her back time and time again to Raano Thurinnen’s Seafood Diner on Ocean Boulevard. It was not the quality of the chowder, indisputable though that was. It was not the cheery countenance of Raano Thurinnen, rosy from Stahler’s beer, even though he called her “Miss Quinsana” now. It was, she thought, that the three years she had worked here could not be washed away into forgetfulness.

“Usual, Miss Quinsana?”

“Thanks, Raani.”

The bowl of steaming fresh chowder was served by a dull-eyed paanchewing teenage girl.

—Kid won’t last three months, let alone three years, Marya Quinsana thought. But the chowder was very good. Strange that in all the years of working here when she could have had the stuff for nothing she’d never once tasted it.

The energy she’d possessed then amazed her still. Sixteen to midnight serving chowder, bouillabaisse and gumbo, then up at eight in the morning and off to the Party offices on Kayanga Prospect to fill envelopes and canvas down on Pier 66. Party supporter, party member, party worker, then the time had come to decide between party candidate and fish chowder. No choice, really, but she was still thankful for Raano and his dollars. She had learned a lot from the chowder-stuffed mouths of his clients, enough to rewrite the party manifesto for the Syrtia Regional Assembly Elections and sweep the party onto victory balconies all across the continent. She’d been there on the balcony with the other loyal party workers, applauding the successful candidates, but the thought in her heart had been “poor puppets, poor puppets.” She had manipulated them into power by telling them to listen to the people.

Listen, she’d said, listen to the people, listen to what they like, what they hate, what makes them angry, what makes them happy, what they care about and what they don’t care about. The party that listens is the party that wins. But what she’d really wanted them to listen to was Marya Quinsana telling them to listen.

“You should run for office yourself,” Mohandas Gee had suggested, “you who know so much about what the people want.” She had declined. Then. It had looked like dedication. It was ambition. Her time would come with the world elections in two years. In the intervening years she was the hammer and her manifesto the anvil upon which the New Party was forged. A zealous mood of reform swept the cadres. A new Electoral College was adopted and many an old reactionary ("the professional politicians” Marya Quinsana denounced them) found himself without nomination when the regional ballots came around again. Yet Marya Quinsana trod carefully. Her essential hypocrisy must never be disclosed: that she, the decrier of professionalism, sought to bring a whole new dimension of professionalism to the political arena. There were still too many political luminaries who possessed the power to destroy her.

She dipped her bread into the chowder and watched the fishing fleet busy with nets and sails at the piers across Ocean Boulevard. Years and decades. This election, she would be content with a counsel post. Three years after that would be the time when she would sweep to glory as party leader. Gulls squabbled and wheeled over the open hatches of the fishing boats. Years and decades. Politics was like a sea. The manifesto was the net, the populace the catch, and she the trawlerman.

Raano Thurinnen sat himself down heavily across the table from her.

“How goes the dinner, Miss Q.?”

“Your usual estimable quality, Raani.”

“Grand. You’re on the radio in five minutes if you want to listen.”

“Can’t stand election broadcasts. I sound like a llama on them. Only spoil the folks’ appetites. You voting tomorrow?”

“Of course. For you, Miss Q.”

“Hush now, Raani. Privacy of ballot is a man’s constitutional right.”

“I’m not ashamed for everyone to know. Why, anyone disagrees with me, he can get out of my restaurant.”

“Now, Raani, democratic rights, remember? A man can hold any opinion he chooses.”

“Not in my restaurant. Why, today two punks came wandering in wearing Whole Earth Army badges, started handing out flyers, they did. Well, I’m not having that in my restaurant, so I threw them out. Got quite nasty, they did, had to butt a couple of heads for them. That girl they had with them, she tried to scratch my eyes, imagine that? I don’t know about that Whole Earth Army, Miss Q., I mean, opinions is one thing, but killings and bombings, well, something’s got to be done, hasn’t it? You will do something about that Whole Earth Army, won’t you, Miss Quinsana? Why, I’m half scared they’ll come and burn this place down: I’ve heard they’ve done that. You will do something about them, Miss Q.? You’ve got to stop them, they’re all mad, and that music they play, it isn’t good for the kids. Drives them wild. I won’t have it in here… when you get elected, I know you’ll stop it.”

“I will,” said Marya Quinsana. “You have my word on that.” Then the radio announced that there was going to be a party political broadcast on behalf of the New Party by Miss Marya Quinsana and she wondered as the music played just how many of her other election promises she would keep as surely as her promise to break the Whole Earth Army.