Читать книгу The Terrible Twos - Ishmael Reed - Страница 16

Winter is the mummer’s season because it covers the earth with a mask. Twenty-five miles from one of Alaska’s most populous cities lies a complex of buildings forming a small village. The headquarters of Oswald Zumwalt’s North Pole Development Corporation. Soon, these buildings will be sold and the whole company will move its headquarters to the North Pole. That is, if Congressman Kroske can gather the necessary votes to get it out of his committee—he has assured Zumwalt that it is a cinch. Inside one of the artless, faceless buildings Vixen sits in a Danish chair. On her desk are a pile of papers, a pastry on a paper plate, and a coffee in a paper cup. Vixen’s staff is putting the last touches on Santa Claus, who stands there like a mute human doll. She looks into his whipped eyes, which have so captured the heart of America. She examines his ermine jacket and his shiny black boots. Santa and his entourage are about to leave for New York via Seattle, where they will rendezvous with Oswald Zumwalt and some of the staff already there. Vixen was tired. She’d gotten into an argument with her boyfriend the night before. They were always arguing.

“Everything looks ready,” Vixen said to her staff. They were all bundled up for the trip. “Are there any questions?” Vixen asked. There were none. Vixen was a pro. She had caught Oswald Zumwalt’s eye when she first came to work for North Pole Development Corporation, shortly after arriving in Alaska from New York.

Outside, Santa rode with his German helper, Blitz, in the lead limousine which was followed by campers and a bus carrying some of the Alaska press people. The winter sun was up and shining. It was a radiant day, the last Saturday in November. A charter flight would take him and his party to New York. They would spend the rest of the day greeting department store executives, toy manufacturers, before their grand welcome to New York City, marking the official beginning of the Christmas season. The van moved towards the airport. The bars along the street were empty. Some of the store windows had been smashed.

“Where are the Indians, Blitz?”

“O, didn’t you hear, sir?”

“No, what happened?”

“The Indians tore the place up last night. Something about a sacred spruce they wanted to save. The government wants to take it. Some old chief is keeping the lumberjacks away from it. He’s placed himself between the tree and the authorities. Imagine these Indians, getting worked up over some tree.” S.C. pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey from his bag and took an ample swig. Wild Turkey, a precious, silky ointment for the soul, so precious that in Kentucky the Wild Turkey distilleries are guarded by dogs and guns.

“Would you like a taste, Blitz?” Blitz answered by reaching his hand into the back seat. Blitz loved Santa. So human. So down-to-earth despite his reputation for scaling rooftops. Everybody loved Santa.