Pulling into the parking lot of Walgreens, I sat in the driver’s seat of the paratransit bus I piloted for the county’s elderly and disabled citizens, waiting as my latest fare, Appearing as if by magic, Ray struggled up the four steps, handed me his token and walked to his seat. He leaned heavily on an ancient, non-descript wooden cane.
“Mornin’,” he greeted me.
“Hi Ray,” I responded in kind. “Straight home, right?” I asked.
“Yes, please.”
I waited as he eased down the aisle of the small bus, empty now but for the two of us. Eventually he found a seat and plopped down into it.
Waiting until he secured his seatbelt, I put the vehicle in gear and we rumbled away. My passenger lived but a mile distant. Elderly and disabled, he couldn’t travel more than 50 yards under his own power.
As I sped down HY 111 en route to ninth st., where Ray’s modest clapboard home reposed, we enjoyed a companionable silence.
Suddenly he spoke up. “A guy yelled at me today,” he told me.
“What?” I asked, incensed. Why would anyone yell at such a pleasant and harmless fellow? I wondered.
“Yeah,” said Ray. “I was sittin’ outside the pharmacy, my back against the wall, waitin’ for you, when I saw this couple walk past, aroun’ 30 feet away. The woman this guy was with was a real looker,” he continued. “The guy wasn’t much to look out, but she was fine.”
“Why did he yell at you?” I asked. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw Ray shrug.
“I dunno. Because I looked at his girlfriend, I reckon,” replied Ray. “I mean, my tongue wasn’t hangin’ out or nothin’, and I didn’t say nothin’ to her and I certainly never touched her. I just sat on the sidewalk and looked. Liked what I saw, too” he said, remembering.
“What did he say to you?” I asked.
“Asked me how I’d like to get my ass kicked,” replied Ray. “An’ I said, ‘thank you, no.’ ” Ray chuckled.
“Then what did he do?” I asked.
“He yelled some more. I couldn’t unnerstan’ what he said,” said Ray, “but he started walkin’ in my direction, until his girlfriend grabbed his arm and pulled him back. As she took hold of him, I could see her smirkin’.”
I looked in the mirror again and saw Ray shake his head.
“She got what she wanted, I’m thinkin’. But lemme ask you, what kinda girl wants to fire her man up with jealousy like that? I mean, I’m forty years older’n that guy. They both insecure,” he said.
“I don’t know, Ray,” I said, shaking my head.
“Apparently, I still got it,” he said brightly.
“You do,” I agreed.
“Lucky he didn’t tangle with me,” said Ray. “I wouldn’ta been gentle,” he promised.
I looked in the mirror once more, to observe Ray. At five feet, six inches tall and perhaps 115 pounds, he had a formidable demeanor. I smiled.
“Uh…” Ray said, “…what’s your name again?” He asked me this every Thursday when he rode on my bus. His faulty memory was a product of his nascent dementia.
“Rolanda,” I told him again.
We pulled up in front of Ray’s modest cottage on ninth street.
“Home again, home again,” sing-songed Ray, struggling to his feet.
“Have a good one, Ray,” I said.
“Be cool, Yolanda,” he replied, then sidled to the sliding door.
Suddenly he turned back. “I know it’s Rolanda,” Ray said, then added. “Sometimes it’s best not to give ever’thin’ away.”
He limped to his front door, waving and smiling at me.
Residents and civil defense teams conduct search and rescue operation under the rubbles following an Israeli attack on Al-Wawi family building in Nuseirat Camp, Gaza Strip, on December 30, 2023. Photo by Naaman Omar\ apaimages
The stone…
The identity of the legitimate Palestinian resistance
Dr. Reda Abdul Rahim
Professor Mustafa Bahgat Badawi says in his book “talk about us and about Israel”: As I always say, Israel is not only a threat to the entity of Palestine, but it represents a real danger even to the smallest house in the most remote village of this entire Arab homeland. The conclusive evidence is what happened in Beirut, in Sidon, and what could happen in any other location or village in any part of the entire Arab homeland with an Israeli” infiltration adventure”. Hence, the Arab countries should give the gift of one man, settle their differences and prepare –rightly and diligently – to confront their bitter enemy. The Stone play written by Dr. Ahmed Asaker revolves around the legitimate Palestinian resistance against the Israeli entity that usurps our lands, and any Palestinian resistance is an important and necessary thing for Arabs as a single nation suffering from an existential threat due to this cancer that has been planted on its land.
In the first and second chapters, Dr. Ahmed Asker, in an intelligent interview that is not devoid of psychological connotations, presents the vision of each party in this continuous and eternal conflict, the Israeli entity puts forward its future plans through a discussion among its members, and we know from it how to use America as a cudgel to crush us, and the implementation of all its plans, which has already happened.
Marzel: the most powerful country in the world right now is America, followed by Britain, and the Arab countries around us, the most powerful of which are Egypt, Iran, Syria and Iraq. – What?!
Marzel: we will sow discord between America and one of these countries that I mentioned, and we will make the American president, who is a strong ally of ours, and a precious catch, head towards one of them, let it be the state of Iraq, this is the one I want now.( Pp. 18: p. 33) The writer went on to reveal their evil plans, which are currently being implemented on the ground towards Egypt and the entire Arab nation, we read:
Marzel: Egypt was strangled from the south, we strangled it with Sudan and water, and here we are strangling Sudan and strangling it from the south from which we are kidnapping it. We surrounded his West and separated him from it. Then we have treaties that we will not break now. Egypt is not now. It is Syria and then Iran that I want, and also I don’t care from the first and from the second, and if it were up to me, I would take the two countries together. They are from the countries of the axis of evil that we have created, and let’s call them state sponsors of terrorism (P.27).
While the resistance leaders are mired in disagreements and talk about the past that is useless behind it, standing on the ruins is a pure Arab heritage, we Arabs pay a lot of attention to the past, and we rarely look at the future, and I do not say we plan for it. And this is what the writer wanted to clarify in the second chapter: Platoon leader: for fifty years, sir, they have been spreading murder and slaughter among us as if it were their eternal chant. Have they not yet seen, Sir, from the rivers that flow and the seas that run for the blood of our men and our leaders all these years-all this praise – I mean sacrifice? -! Abu Al-Qasim: they want to take us out of here.
They are stealing our ancestral past, destroying it, they want to uproot us, and as our resistance movement intensifies and grows stronger, we call for their peace (pp. 36: p.49). Abu Al-Qasim (the second scene of the second chapter): we are peace. Our religion is peace. No, boss. They are the advocates of war, the opponents of peace. Their hands are still stained with the blood of innocent people in the cities and camps of Deir Yassin, Sabra, Shatila, Qana and others. Sheikh Mujahid Al-Qaid Ahmed Yassin appears in the third scene of the second chapter to put his hand on the reasons for the division between the leaders of the battalions and the leaders of the Palestinian factions, which also applies to the countries of this great Arab homeland, we read some of what he said: Sheikh: don’t you see, leaders and leaders, that we have divided into many peoples and many teams. Abu Mustafa: yes, Sheikh. God has many divisions and many people. Shaykh: and don’t you see, leaders and leaders. That our enemy is all one! Voices: yes..Yeah The sheikh: so why is this band? -! Why the band Why the band is often and always why, leaders! Voices: it’s always the band, Sheikh. Sheikh: rather, it is a search for personal glory, for false heroism to support our cause.
Not to establish our state and to support our people or peoples (pp. 56, 57). The Palestinian people were and still are in need of a real leadership that would be vigilant and the magnitude of the danger it faces, and when such leaders emerged, they would mobilize the national feeling behind them quickly and effectively, as happened in the case of Sheikh Izz al-Din al-Qassam, who was only a legitimate authority in Haifa but believes in the importance of an organized revolution to prevent the establishment of a Jewish national homeland in Palestine. The Palestinians must rely on themselves first in their struggle against Zionism. Sheikh al-Qassam started his revolution with just ten of his men, each with only a rifle and a small amount of money.. They decided to direct their revolt first against the mandate Authority, which was arming the Jews. Then al-Qassam was martyred with his men in an unequal battle against the British authorities on November 20, 1935. But this martyrdom inflamed national feelings in Palestine to a huge degree..
The masses refused to march ten kilometers to mourn the body of the martyrs, which was a natural prelude to the comprehensive Palestinian revolution in 1936. Returning to Sheikh Al-Qaid’s refutation of the significance of this conflict, we read: Sheikh: they want us in a permanent conflict, in a conflict with our enemy, in a conflict with each other, with ourselves. May the bleeding of the land, wealth, agriculture and our blood remain, May the bodies of our martyrs remain. May our blood and oil continue to provide the West with prosperity and progress, well-being and wealth In the third chapter, the writer limps back to the history of the Jenin Camp massacre, opening his conversation with the question of who made a profit on Jenin If we have touched the difference between their thinking and ours, and Sheikh Al-Qaid put his hand on the causes of division in the second chapter, then through this chapter he refers to another disease that has afflicted the nation, the disease of betrayal – which he was one of its victims-until one of the soldiers in the fifth chapter shouts: the number of traitors, Sir, exceeded the number of the enemy..
They are many, and another says: their danger is greater than the danger of the enemy(P .138). Shaykh: we are monitored, father Al-Qasim.. The enemy is monitoring our movements. He sees us and knows the steps of our guys, and I think that’s the accuracy with which our leaders hunt. That skill he shows in assassinating them, only an internal betrayal of elements belonging to us..Their Apaches could do nothing in heaven if only one on Earth was guiding them and illuminating their black vision(P.83). If the massacre of the Jenin camp shows the ugly face of the Zionists; those who were killed unarmed and buried in mass graves, it also shows that this ugliness befell everyone who prevented weapons from reaching the people of the camp .And whoever this damned woman supplied Israel with all these modern weapons. In an intense bitter dose, the fourth chapter witnesses the martyrdom of Sheikh Al-Qaed, the daughter of Jenin, and the daughter of the Resistance leader Abu Al-Qasim, so the writer paints us a very dark painting that sheds tears, and her chest boils, yes.
There is no state that has been wrapped up by a night like the night of Palestine, like the death of Palestine .. Funeral after funeral, martyr after martyr. And if the first chapter recognized the consistent pattern of resistance thinking by using stone as a weapon of resistance with which they intimidate the enemy of Allah and their enemy, and resorting to qualitative and individual operations, Abu Al-Qasim Our resistance is no longer limited to a man blowing himself up in a car, a tank, or a few soldiers for them (P.162). The writer promises us that the advice of the martyr Sheikh Al-Qaid has come to fruition, and that the legitimate Palestinian resistance has changed its way of thinking, it will not wait for the enemy’s attack on its land, but will transfer the battle on its land and inside its settlements.
From the first moments of birth, Israel has embraced the offensive doctrine in the war, allowing it to always keep in its hands the military initiative, which provides it from the very beginning many advantages against any Arab party it faces. Since the first truce that was reached with Israel, it has always been the one that initiated the violation of the truce against the Arab side, at a time when the Arab side believed that the international character of the agreement would deter Israel from breaking it! Thus, in light of this sudden violation of the truce, Israel increased the area of the lands it captured, so that at that time it became 77% of the territory of Palestine, while the partition decision guaranteed it only 55%. Israeli Defense Minister Moshe Sharett said that I would prefer that we attack the Arabs and the world condemns US. It’s about waiting for the attack and the world supports us. ..
We read: Abu Al-Qasim: I promise you that after cleansing our house, ourselves and our people from traitors and agents. They never came back to hack us again… This is my first and most important task in my next stage and I will not fight… And I’m not going to wake up to an infection until I’m done with it. I will destroy their houses as they destroy ours and I will scatter them as they have scattered US… I will change our tactics, plans and war with them… Those whose hearts are different and we count them as one… I’ll make them different… I’m gonna hit them in their backyard.. I’m going to throw our missiles at them and our catapults… The one who will cut their backs… And the Katyusha that will melt their skins (P. 158). The third scene of the last chapter explains a commando operation known as the snake’s head, in which Abu Al-Qasim was targeted by a group of Zionist soldiers and their commander, an operation that Israeli newspapers described as the day of panic, the day of sorrow.
Abu Al-Qasim returned from it, wounded, martyred and joined the processions of martyrs, dreaming and we are with him: I want to see this today. The one where one of our cubs is raised…The flag of Palestine fluttered high on every hillock… And he raises it at every foot of our slopes. I want to see this boy who comes by day and takes away from us this night (p. 173).
My rights have been explained to me and are fully understood. I wish to give my statement in Russian. I require neither counsel nor an interpreter. I am not registered with a psychiatrist or an addiction clinic, and I have never been prosecuted in Russia or anywhere else. I am unmarried, alert, and in reasonably good spirits, though none of that appears relevant. Born in 1995.
Regarding the allegations against me, I can state the following. It began about a year ago, when members of the public started calling and demanding that I provide them with legal advice free of charge. What follows has, with the investigator’s permission, been copied from my notebook and diary in order to preserve both the chronology and what remains of the narrative logic. I ask that it be treated as the only reliable account.
The phone is ringing again. Or perhaps it has been ringing continuously and I have only just noticed. Either way, someone has got through. This is the ninth call today, and it is barely one in the afternoon.
I would not mind so much if anyone paid me. I still have no idea why the public decided that my number belonged to the legal profession’s branch of the Red Cross, but the calls kept coming. I did not even try changing it. Whoever was posting my number would no doubt track down the new one with the persistence normally found in debt collectors and minor government agencies. All in all, the phenomenon supplied me with two months’ worth of extraordinarily varied practice: divorces prompted by threats from mistresses, complications arising from the construction of a morgue, and everything in between.
My usual office was a compartment on the second-to-last commuter train out of Moscow. During the short journey I could dispense advice to seven, sometimes ten, questioning “souls.” Having opened a travelling franchise of goodness and justice in the rear carriage, I guided my uninvited clients into the previously undiscovered world of statutes, deadlines, and official fees. That was when I began writing down every request and everything I did afterward. Organising one’s practice is not merely satisfying. It may later prove useful during questioning.
I did not know these people, yet I felt responsible for them. Responsibility is difficult to avoid when someone addresses you as though you alone are the court of final appeal, a Roman praetor, and the last trumpet of justice rolled into one. There is a catch, of course: it is difficult to be the last trumpet of justice when you have only the faintest idea where you yourself are going.
There was, in fact, an obscure sense of obligation behind the whole affair, which is probably where I should have started. It was never clear who owed whom more: the callers, or me. Sometimes the voices demanded advice as if I had borrowed a large sum of money from them and could repay it only through this peculiar setoff. At other times their apologetic tone made me feel as though I were speaking to the debtor. When the train reached my station, my office hours ended.
That evening a special taxi was waiting for me. Its number plate read NOT 666.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve that plate,” the driver began. “People keep cancelling. Makes it impossible to work.”
“Why? It says not 666,” I replied with a small smile.
The driver laughed.
“Exactly. And I take priests to morning service. I only picked you up because I thought a man might freeze standing out here at night.”
“Where are you headed after this?”
“Vnukovo Airport.” After a moment he added, “Now those people will have a real dilemma: cancel because of the number, or miss their flight.”
“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “A dilemma.”
The symbolism was, frankly, vulgar. A taxi promising not to take you to hell; disembodied voices calling to ask about justice. Even then I felt the whole story reeked of cheap paperback mysticism. I am getting ahead of myself, but cheap paperback mysticism was exactly what it turned out to be.
Determined to understand the strange sense of debt that came with the calls, I began prodding at it. Trial and error established one thing: the debt was not financial. It became most acute just before sleep, when I had not yet fallen into dreams and was sliding along the edge of consciousness. The debt, or perhaps the credit, appeared to me as a dark marble sphere threaded with white veins. It may not have been entirely marble. It may not have been marble at all. That is not important.
What mattered was that this marvel of metaphysical thought hung directly above me, held back by nothing I could see from falling onto my already unfortunate head. Naively assuming that anything in the world could be paid off, I settled every debt I had. The stony chill above my scalp did not retreat. A desperate turn to charity achieved nothing either.
And then I was hired.
Well, not exactly hired. That would be inaccurate, and calling it a job would be generous. What happened was this: I stepped out of my flat one morning and found an envelope under the door, addressed to me by the Federal Public-Private Office of Celestial Administration and Associated Afterlife Matters, hereinafter “the Celestial Bureau.”
The level of vulgar mysticism, already exhausting, continued to rise. All that remained was for me to walk into a strange fog and emerge somewhere in the Moscow Region in the 1930s. I could then explain the virtues of a fair and honest trial to a three-man tribunal, which would presumably sentence me to death for obstructing the administration of justice.
Back in our own reality, the envelope contained an employment contract bearing my signature and a congratulatory letter from “the best company in the world.” It promised a “competitive salary,” praised my “invaluable contribution to the proper development of society,” and thanked me warmly for agreeing to become Junior Assistant to the Senior Specialist of the Legal Department.
The fact that complete strangers possessed my signature did not especially surprise me. Nor did their knowledge of my name and address. What baffled me was the method of fraud. They could have taken out a loan in my name or forged a power of attorney. Instead, they had chosen to stage some elaborate nonsense involving an employment contract and a welcome letter.
After some thought, I decided to visit the address. They were clearly not planning to beat me up; it would have been far easier to wait for me somewhere along my already known route. Besides, jobs for lawyers – especially jobs so determined to hire one – are not always easy to find.
At the address stood a vast Soviet building in a particularly heavy strain of Brutalism, a place where no human foot seemed to have ventured in years. I walked around the hulk, tried several locked doors, and eventually found a staircase leading down to the basement. Beside it was a brass plaque engraved with the words FEDERAL PUBLIC-PRIVATE OFFICE OF CELESTIAL ADMINISTRATION AND ASSOCIATED AFTERLIFE MATTERS: THE CELESTIAL BUREAU.
I descended the steps and squeezed through an unlocked door that appeared to be barricaded from the inside by something heavy. The interior suited the building: an old Soviet office with narrow corridors and plank floors. The letter instructed me to attend a “welcome interview” in Room 3.
Inside, a fat man in a grey jacket was waiting for me. On his lapel was a badge showing a quill from which a long wing had sprouted. His face seemed fixed in a state of permanent dissatisfaction, as though I had interrupted important work and had also had the poor taste to arrive with a stupid question.
“Mikhail,” the man said by way of introduction. “Were there calls?”
“There were calls. Anton.”
“A pleasure.” Mikhail held out his hand. “The letter?”
“The letter. A pleasure.”
“With the contract?”
“With the contract.”
At this point, an idiotic idea took root in my mind.
“Passport,” he said.
“Passport,” I repeated.
The man sprang up and slammed both hands onto the desk, although given his weight it looked less like a blow than an abrupt lowering of the arms.
“No jokes in here. We’re a fucking serious institution with centuries of history, powerful market positioning, and a corporate culture.”
I tried to explain myself, but apparently the outburst had merely been his chosen prelude to orientation.
“You think I do this for fun? First I have to find you, then I spend half the day in this miserable office asking you these questions?” His voice shifted into command. “Listen carefully. We follow the Stanislavski method here: whatever you give me, I give back with full conviction. So far, all I’m getting from you is aggravation. Once I’ve accumulated enough, I’ll start returning it. Questions?”
“Yes. What is this almshouse, exactly?”
“You’re the almshouse. This company existed before anyone had even considered producing you. Granted, we only acquired formal legal status and state funding under the tsar, but that in no way diminishes our proud standing or our great mission. The various suffixes came later, depending on the historical period.”
“And what is the mission of this enterprise?”
“We help people who have left this world put their affairs in order. Mostly documents. We correct inaccuracies…”
“Restore justice?”
“Justice should not concern you too deeply. Your job, as a junior assistant, is to receive an assignment and complete it properly, and above all by the deadline set by management. Don’t even think about screwing up, dodging the work, or simply ignoring it. With our connections, I can load your name with so many morally questionable transactions that you’ll lose your fucking mind. And it won’t stop at a dildo delivered without discreet packaging, if you understand me. That’s all for today. You start tomorrow.”
It would have been foolish to assume that tomorrow might fail to arrive. On the way home, answering calls, I found myself accepting everything on some automatic level. Yes, organisations sometimes hired people by strange means. Yes, I had been given a vague account of a great mission and an ancient history. The same could be said of almost any enterprise.
That night the sphere was waiting for me as usual. In the hope of reaching the kingdom of Morpheus more quickly, I imagined rolling it down a bowling lane, scattering stacks of paper covered in complicated legal terminology.
The Bureau’s daily schedule was an incontrovertible force, apparently designed to waste employee time in the strangest way possible. It began with a stand-up meeting, halfway through which I barely managed to arrive. For some reason, the meeting had started before the working day.
Squeezing into a room with a round table, I appeared to have entered in the middle of a monologue by a large and angry executive.
“That is why you must exercise the greatest caution when alternating rapidly between carrot and stick. Subject a person to too much of that and the mind may shift right out of place. You there.” Like a heroic worker on a propaganda poster, he thrust an open palm in my direction. “Do you have the faintest idea what we do here?”
At that moment it became clear that I could not produce a meaningful answer on my own. Mikhail, seated to the chief’s right, came to my rescue. Yesterday’s phrase surfaced in my mind.
“We help people put their affairs in ord-“
“What affairs?” The chief brought his outstretched hand crashing down on the table as though cleaving an invisible enemy. “The fucking genius who invented that piece of shit ought to be put on the first flight straight to hell.”
He paused, exhaled heavily, and continued in a calmer voice.
“Once again, for those who have plumbed the deepest depths of our positioning, and for those who have yet to plumb them, I repeat. As the classics observed, the trouble is not that man is mortal. The trouble is that he is suddenly mortal. And when he suddenly goes and gets himself dead, he leaves behind an unfinished matter. Sometimes two.
“Since we are simultaneously a private company, a state corporation, and at times a fucking travelling circus, we answer to owners who are shareholders, legislators, and spectators all at once. It is in their interest that every unfinished matter left by the departed should reach its proper conclusion.
“Document Control.” He leaned forward and turned to his left. “That conclusion must be reached competently. Not like your last performance with the national property register, when you couldn’t tell a house from a shed.
“For the hundredth time today: the state’s overriding interest is the stability of civil commerce. No confusion in ownership, transactions, or obligations.” He leaned to his right, toward Mikhail, and raised his voice. “Can the Legal Department hear me over there, with all its legal entities and articles of law?”
“We hear you,” the Legal Department replied gloomily.
“The corporate rats, meanwhile, do not want shares, ownership interests, corporate rights, and all the rest of that rubbish passing unexpectedly from hand to hand. As happened in…” He stopped as if he had nearly said something indecent over lunch, then rose from the table. “Well. You all know the case.”
An awkward silence settled over the room. The chief looked down on everyone, smiled, and declared, “Onward with a song, ladies, gentlemen, and comrades. Let us lead our branch to decisive victory in the international arena. You are dismissed.”
Mikhail seized me by the arm and whirled me in a waltz through the corridors, hissing in imitation of the chief.
“Can the Legal Department hear me? Can the Legal Department hear me? We hear you! With hours like these, you’d confuse your taxpayer number with your corporate registration code, never mind your prick with the handle on a tram.”
“What is our interest in the circus?” I thought it prudent to change the subject.
“Where?”
“The state makes sense, and so do the corporations. I mean the part where we’re a travelling circus and there are spectators. What does that mean?”
“That part is relatively simple. As you’ve probably gathered, we have three classes of client. The first send us routine, standard assignments in ordinary envelopes through the Russian postal service. They’re forever late with payment, but that is Accounting’s problem. The second send unusual, complicated assignments in pleasant-smelling document envelopes from foreign courier companies, and they pay in advance.”
“And the third come here themselves?”
“Come here themselves? What the fuck are you talking about?” His voice rose. “Communication is strictly one-way. Our commitment to customer service is second to none. The third group has no consistent system of delivery or payment at all. We used to send their cases back. Then we started throwing them away. Then international agreements reclassified the entire category as petitions from members of the public, and now we’re legally required to consider every one within thirty days. That will be your area of responsibility.”
I needed time to digest what I had heard and seen, but the volume of information had done nothing to reduce my number of questions. Meanwhile, we passed various offices and utility rooms and arrived at a substantial black door. Behind it lay a room renovated with obvious care.
Everything about it suggested an entirely ordinary modern office. Most surfaces were white or grey, which soon began to tire the eyes. The wooden desks helped. Each held standard office equipment: an all-in-one computer, a printer, a keyboard, and a mouse. Beside them stood neat stacks of folders and stationery.
Full-length mirrors faced the workstations, making both the department and its staff appear far larger than they really were. There was some subtle allusion here. Perhaps one was expected to work for two; perhaps the mirrors represented the spacious horizons of unfettered thought. My own thoughts, still recovering from the meeting, had no desire to take flight, and I quickly lost the sacred meaning.
In answer to my unspoken question about why the Legal Department looked so different from the rest of the Bureau, Mikhail explained that some contracts, no matter how ingeniously one manipulated statutes, penalties, liquidated damages, and the allocation of funds, still left behind a few crumbs within the limits of mathematical error. In theory, those crumbs could be spent on a great many good deeds.
A call on the internal line prevented him from finishing. I had little difficulty guessing that, in the right department and among the right people, theory aligned with practice exactly as it was supposed to.
At my desk I noticed one difference from the others. Beside my monitor lay a single lonely folder, too thin even to boast of containing many pages. Mikhail, already retreating deeper into the office, tore himself away from the phone long enough to explain, briefly but colourfully, that I was not to touch or distract the other employees. My assignment consisted solely of whatever lay on the desk. Once it was finished, I could stamp it and go home.
For the record, I will list the documents contained in the folder.
The passport of a man born around 1965; I do not remember the exact year. The photograph showed the face of someone just beginning his advance into that respectable, almost caricaturally glorious condition known as old age.
The passport of a woman born around 1990, again approximately. One detail stood out: both passports bore marriage stamps dated the same day, but the woman had kept her own surname.
Four little heads popped up behind the hedge of big purple flowers. They looked like heads, but actually the Bobbers, as they were known, had just one long body form, which changed shape when they moved. Sometimes they could make themselves invisible or float about like clouds. They were watching Grace and friends make music. The Bobbers were crazy about the sounds that were coming from the living area in her house.
Grace was pounding away on a black box with white keys. Another female was plucking at an upright brown box with strings. Another was beating on round circle boxes with sticks. They were swaying back and forth, up and down in time with the sounds they created. Another was blowing on a metal pipe, her cheeks puffing out with each breath.
The Bobbers knew Grace was a female and so were her friends since they had been studying the creatures on planet Earth for some time. Making music was something the Earthlings called fun and entertainment.
You see, the Bobbers were looking for another planet for their civilization. Earth was the closest inhabitable planet to their galaxy which was many light years away. The Bobbers knew the Earthlings would think them aliens, if they were aware of their existence. But they weren’t anymore alien than the races that peopled this planet. So, it was a perfect planet to take over since their planet was at the end of its existence, its sun was dying, and they needed a new home.
The Bobbers meeped at each other in excitement. The musicians had started another song. It was one of their favorites – Watermelon Man. They started bobbing up and down in their version of keeping time to the beat.
“We have to let her in on the secret,” said First Bobber, swaying to and fro.
“We know,” said Second, “but then she might be scared and won’t make music anymore.”
“Well,” said Third, “today is the day we introduce ourselves to Grace. We need to explain that we sent her here.”
“Yes,” said Fourth, “she is one of us. She has prospered here. Now it is time for her to help us out since we need a new home. Now we know this planet is a good fit for our failing civilization. Time is running out to make the transition.”
* * * * *
“Grace, you read too many frigging science fiction novels. There aren’t any aliens on planet Earth. You need to stop reading all that crap on the internet about aliens being spotted on Earth.”
“I know you think I’m daft, but I hear them sometimes.” She leaned in closer across the kitchen table where she and Kate were having their morning coffee. “This one says it wants to meet up with me.”
Kate almost spilled her coffee. “No way. You are not going to meet any alien, Grace. You are out of your mind.”
“What’s the harm in meeting with it?”
“First off, I’m real uncomfortable with an It.”
“There’s lots of its these days.”
“Besides that, It may be a psycho killer.”
“Now who’s talking about watching too many internet weirdo movies. I think It was being nice and earthy, trying to fit in.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “This is too much. Where do you meet this alien?”
“It sits on the concrete patio outside my sliding glass doors in the living room. I saw it sitting there one evening, couldn’t figure out what it was doing, opened the door and engaged it in conversation. It told me right off it was from another galaxy.”
Kate did another eye roll. “You talked to an alien. This is too, too much. I got work to do, people to see, places to go. See you later.” She got up. “And another thing – don’t invite them to our jazz sessions or I quit.”
With that Kate made her exit, shaking her head all the way out the kitchen door. Grace remained seated at the table. She looked down at her beloved cocker spaniel, Rosie, who looked up at her with a smile. She was waiting for a treat.
“I didn’t mention to Kate that I’m one of them.”
* * * * *
Grace had always felt like an oddball. So, she wasn’t real surprised that she was an entity from another galaxy, if what her new friend said was right. Her friends and family thought she was an oddball. Like her idea to quit her job and travel the United States in her old Tundra truck with Rosie, her beloved tan and white cocker spaniel. They told her she had a really good job, wait till she was an old lady and retired. That was too far off, if ever.
Now she had the prospect of “helping her people” like the Bobber said. It had managed to convey her its name. It had a garbled way of talking so Grace didn’t catch everything it said, but one thing she did understand. She was one of them.
In her bones she felt that was right, which would explain her feeling always like an oddball, wouldn’t it? A woman cosmologist like her was not run of the mill in the world of cosmology dominated by men. And a jazz piano musician like her in a jazz world still dominated by men was not run of the mill.
Maybe she was an “it”, too. Maybe not. She always enjoyed male company, even had a boyfriend or two. The all-female jazz trio she played with was by choice. A statement about women being able to compete with men.
The Bobber, if she had understood it correctly, said it was time to help her people, that their planet was dying due to natural causes. She could understand that being a cosmologist. Planets came into and out of being just like everything else in the universe.
She knew that things were getting steadily worse here on planet Earth. She had tried to explain that to the Bobbers. That moving to Earth was a bad idea. How would another civilization move to Earth? She had done short moves in her life. Moving was exhausting. She couldn’t imagine a planetary move.
Maybe she should take them on a trip across country so they could see the Earth wasn’t as great as they thought it was. They could mascarade as a jazz band.
* * * * *
Grace was waiting for the Bobbers. She was in her living room with Rosie by her side, looking out through the sliding glass doors. Grace thought they had said they would be back and appear on her porch today. They did. One by one they appeared. They were small forms that floated like clouds near the ground. She counted four separate forms.
“What do you think, Rosie?”
Rosie was intent on what was out there. She saw them, too. Grace was not hallucinating. Rosie growled, a low warning sound.
“Be still, girl,” said Grace. “Everything is okay. I hope.”
She opened the door. The small clouds hovered. Then they did something astounding. With a loud pop each one of them converted to human form. Sort of. Now standing before her were four what looked like children. Grace waited. On closer inspection they looked like miniature adults. They all looked alike except for the color of their hair which they wore in Buster Brown hair cuts. One had green hair, another had pink, another had yellow, and the fourth purple. They fit right in with today’s scene.
Their facial features were almost identical. Brown eyes with tan skin. Wide noses and lips. Broad faces. They were giggling.
Grace didn’t know what to say she was so taken aback at what she had just witnessed. She waited. They settled down, seeming to sense her confusion and astonishment.
“We are Bobbers,” said the one with pink hair enunciating each word carefully. “We come to explain.”
Grace waited. Rosie growled. The Bobbers looked at the dog, aware of her for the first time.
“She’s a dog,” said Grace. “She won’t hurt you.”
“We know,” said Pink Bobber. It reached out a hand to Rosie, who began barking like her life depended on it.
The four Bobbers jumped backed. Grace spent some time reassuring Rosie the Bobbers were friends, stroking and talking to her. The dog quieted after a few more serious barks and a warning growl.
Grace looked at her new friends. “Where is home?” she said.
They all pointed up.
“Far away,” said Blue Bobber.
“You said something about moving your people to Earth since they needed a new planet. How would that work?”
“We have moving vehicle ready. Really big spaceship. We bring what’s left of our people.”
“How many?”
“Not many.”
“What kind of numbers are we talking about?” said Grace.
They all shrugged.
Purple said, “They are orbiting now in this solar system on really big spaceship disguised as asteroid.”
“I see,” said Grace, having trouble assimilating what they were telling her. Another civilization ready to settle on Earth?
“This is going to be harder than I thought,” said Grace.
The Bobbers made a collective frown.
“Problem is we need new place to live,” said Pink.
“Problem is,” Grace said, “that Earth might not be a good long-term solution. We got our problems here, too. The planet is being destroyed from overuse by humans.”
They kept frowning.
“Our research,” said Green, “indicate good conditions here for life of human forms.”
Grace thought that over. They were humans. This was getting more interesting by the minute.
“I have an idea,” she said. “I could take you on a little drive and show you what the problems are. How about we take a trip in my truck? We’ll pose as a jazz band. You’ll see the problems up close.”
“You teach us to play instruments?”
“Why not?”
But first she would talk this over with one of her cosmologist colleagues more amenable to the idea of aliens than her jazz friend, Kate.
* * * * *
Pam looked at Grace for a while then said, “We’ve talked about the possibility of life on other planets. We look for them through the telescopes we have and the research we do. But this is a new twist. They are already here and want to settle on Earth.” She shook her head. “Unbelievable. You have to forgive me. I need time to let this settle in my brain.”
Pam and Grace shared an office at the university where they taught courses in cosmology and astrophysics. Grace had thought over who she would talk to about her new alien friends and their plans. She had decided on Pam, who was a scientist, though not opposed to far out thinking. They had come up with some bizarre scenarios from some of the data they discovered but this was the most bizarre.
They sat in silence for a while, both trying to adjust. Grace hoped Pam would help her think this through.
“Okay,” Pam said at last, “I’m trying to focus on the implications of what you said. You think you can dissuade them from settling here by taking them on a trip disguised as a jazz band and actually showing them sites where Earth civilization isn’t working. I’m not that far along in thinking of solutions. I’m still thinking about a spaceship orbiting Earth with a whole civilization of aliens on board. We don’t know what they look like, how they survive, what they do for a living, how they would feel about Earthlings and what their impact would be on our civilizations. We’re a little crowded here now.”
Grace said, “I thought if I could show them that we’re crowded, that we don’t do a good job of planet stewardship, that this is not the ideal place they think it is, that maybe they would go somewhere else.”
“Can you imagine the panic and confusion if a spaceship lands and disembarks aliens. Where would they go? We don’t even know what they look like. You described them as clouds. How do we communicate with them?”
“They speak English.”
“They speak English,” Pam repeated.
“Yes. I first saw them as clouds. Then one day they popped into human form right before my eyes.”
She described the Bobbers.
“My, oh, my,” was all Pam said.
They sat looking at the wall for a while then Pam said, “I have a great deal of respect for you and your work, Grace, but you’ve left the bounds of science as I know it with this story.”
“I could arrange a meeting with them, if you’d like.”
“Let me think that one over,” said Pam.
* * * * *
Her conversation with Pam left Grace in limbo. She wasn’t sure how long it was going to take Pam to think it over. Meanwhile, Grace had a trip to plan and get underway. And she had to teach the Bobbers jazz.
As it turned out it was very easy to teach them. They assembled in Grace’s living room. Grace had a set of drums. She had a saxophone and a standup bass in her collection and, of course, her electric keyboard piano.
Grace showed them the instruments. Immediately, before she could offer explanation, purple took the drums, pink the bass, green the saxophone and yellow the piano. They started banging away, creating an incredible cacophony of sounds, not all displeasing.
“This is interesting,” Grace said aloud. “You seem to have a natural talent for music.”
She clapped her hands in time to the sounds they were producing. She morphed the clapping into the beat of Watermelon Man, smooth with an offbeat. They followed her.
She started singing or scatting, as singing is called in jazz. They followed along, improvising as they went.
After about five minutes Grace held up her hands and the group ended their riff.
“We play again,” said Purple.
“Yes,” echoed the other three.
“That was impressive,” said Grace.
“We listen to you play very much,” said Green.
They must have listened for hours, Grace thought. But they did seem to have a natural ability to pick up notes, rhythm, and sequence.
“We listen on jazz airwaves for long time,” said Yellow who seemed to be the leader of the group. “We design our faces to go with Jazz artists. They mostly brown.”
“Yes, they mostly are,” said Grace. “Women you don’t see much of in jazz.”
“We not male. We not female,” said Green. “We take names like you have. My name is Herbie, drummer is Jeff, bass is Jamal, sax is Cannonball.”
“You have been doing your homework. Those are some jazz greats you are naming yourself after.”
They beamed. Their faces seemed to be morphing into more recognizable features. Before her eyes, they morphed into wearing hoodies in various shades and long jean skirts.
“My friends,” Grace said. “Females wear skirts. Are you male or female?”
“We not either,” said Herbie. “We wear what we like. You not like this? We not look good?”
“You’re beautiful,” said Grace. She couldn’t help an ear-to-ear smile.
Herbie stopped smiling and said, “Grace, we need tell you something. Maybe we lied little bit, I think you say.”
Grace waited, not sure what to expect.
“See, our people not looking for other planet to live. They disappear long ago. They leave us stranded. We have no place to go now. We need place to call home. We call home with you now.”
Grace kept nodding, slowly, wondering if she was living in a dream.
All she could say was, “I suggest curling your hair. It will go better with your outfits.”
* * * * *
Grace went to visit Pam at her palatial home off campus. She had to talk this one over and find out what Pam thought.
“I don’t think much of this bunch that has befriended you,” said Pam. “I’ve thought over what you first told me. I was about ready to accept you alien story. Now you say there’ll be no alien landing, but we have four stranded aliens in our midst. I must say, that’s a much smaller problem.” She frowned at Grace. “What are you going to do with an alien jazz band?”
Grace shrugged. “Go on the road, I guess. They play pretty good jazz.”
“What about your other jazz friends? Have you discussed this with them?”
“Outside of Kate, no. I have to think over the implications of going on tour by myself.”
“I suggest taking someone along who you know and trust that could defend you against aliens gone wild.”
“I know who you are thinking. Carlo. He wouldn’t be able to get time off from the U.”
“Ask him. You never know.” Pam paused, looking at Grace with squinty eyes. “Might I add, I recommend not going at all and getting rid of your alien friends. Ask them to go to another planet.”
* * * * *
Grace presented the proposed trip with an alien jazz band to Carlo the next day when she saw him for coffee at the faculty coffee shop.
Carlo was all in.
“Grace, this is extraordinary. You know, I’ve always been an admirer of your musical talent. I’ve attended every one of your concerts. I am honored that you would ask me to go along. I’m even more astounded that you’re taking an alien jazz band.”
“You’re a groupie of mine? I didn’t know that I had a following. You never told me.”
“There’s lots you don’t know about me,” said Carlo. “All we ever talk about are cosmology and astrophysics. Of course, you know I have a penchant for the bizarre. Tell me more about the aliens and how this all came about. I’m intrigued.”
“I’ve told you all I know,” said Grace with a shrug. “They are these sweet little entities that dress weird and talk funny and say they are stranded aliens. They love jazz and apparently have been watching my jazz group practice at my house and now they want to learn jazz. What’s really crazy is that they have a natural affinity for music and can play along with me pretty well. And they love the Earth.”
“I’m in,” said Carlo. “Do you mind if I bring my accordion and my pet magpie, Bubbie, along for the ride? He could keep your dog, Rosie, company. They could talk to each other.”
Grace shrugged. “Sure, why not? This trip is off the rails anyway. Why not a magpie. Maybe Rosie will get to like him.”
“He talks, did I mention that?”
“What does he talk about?”
“Nature. His love for everyone and everything. He’ll love Rosie. He’ll love the Bobbers. I believe that’s what you called them, right?”
“Yes, the Bobbers. All right then. Come over to my house this evening and help plan the trip.”
* * * * *
Grace didn’t bother to tell Pam the latest developments. She was too busy coordinating events. She realized that the Tundra was not going to accommodate the enlarged caravan. She decided to purchase a large cargo van and outfit it. Or maybe she could find one already outfitted with sleeping racks and a kitchenette. They’d need lots of storage for the music instruments.
She wasn’t sure if the Bobbers ate. Did they take baths? Did they toilet? This was getting complicated. And where were they going to go now that she didn’t have to prove that the Earth wasn’t a good place for them to live? Obviously the Bobbers were staying. Maybe they didn’t have to go on a road trip. Maybe they could headline right here in town.
She was still mulling over the conundrums of such a trip when the Bobbers showed up at the back door at the same time the front doorbell rang. That would be Carlo and the magpie.
Grace looked at Rosie. “You’re going to like Carlo and his friend.”
Rosie grinned. It was all in a dog day.
Grace let Carlo and the magpie in while the Bobbers made themselves at home in the living room.
The Bobbers had taken Grace’s advice and turned their straight hair into big afros. They took over to the musical instruments and started playing discordant chords, warming up like Grace had showed them.
Grace clapped her hands, calling for their attention.
“Listen, Bobbers, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Carlo and his magpie friend, Bubbie. They want to accompany us on our jazz tour.”
The Bobbers stopped suddenly and looked toward Carlo, realizing for the first time he was in the room.
“Nice bird,” said Herbie. “He play music?”
Carlo said, “No, but he talks and squawks.”
On cue Bubbie let out a raucous squawk which sent the Bobbers clapping and dancing. Bubbie kept squawking seemingly fascinated by their antics. Carlo took out his accordion and played a few bars to limber up.
Then he said, “Let’s play ‘When the Saint Go Marching in’.” He tapped out the beat.
Grace went to the piano and showed Herbie the melody line. The drummer and bass took up the rhythm. Cannonball blew the saxophone. Grace sang and clapped. The magpie squawked and cawed. Rosie howled. Carlo danced around the room playing the accordion.
They went on and on, each player adjusting to the sounds of the others. This went on for a good long while from song to song until the doorbell rang.
Grace stopped singing and went to answer. The others kept banging away. It was the sweet little old lady from next door.
“Do you think you could keep the noise down?” she said. “It’s pass midnight.” The sweet little old lady gave a weak smile. “Or I call the cops.”
* * * * *
The Bobbers left soon after the neighbor paid a visit.
Carlo sat at the dining table by the patio door. He looked at Grace who stood looking out at the night.
“That was quite a session,” said Carlo. “They are amazing. What pleasant entities.”
“Yes, entities,” said Grace, quietly, feeling tired but exhilarated. “What do you think?”
“I think a road trip would be chaos with this group,” he said. “Are you sure you want to attempt it?”
Grace sat down across from him.
“I think I have more than I can handle. From a scientific perspective this group bears study. Taking them on the road into the hinterland of America will cause all sorts of problems I don’t think we’ll be able to deal with. I’ve thought a lot about this. Someone might try to kill them and do away with us if the alien word got out. Then again some people would welcome the group.”
“I agree,” said Carlo.
They sat quietly each with their thoughts.
“You play great accordion,” said Grace after a while, like this was a normal conversation.
“You’re not a bad jazz singer. Right up there with Ella.” Carlo paused then said, “Where do the Bobbers go when they leave here?”
Grace shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked or followed them.”
“Maybe we should,” said Carlo. “Something about this isn’t making any sense to me.”
“Follow them now?”
“Let’s just go out into the yard and see if we can find any trace of them.”
“What do you suspect?” Grace asked. “I can tell by your look you’ve got some kind of hunch.”
Carlo laughed. “We’ve been in too many meetings together.”
Grace smiled and nodded. “That we have. We’ve done a lot of brainstorming together on exotic theories of the cosmos. What’s your theory about this bunch?”
Grace nodded slowly. “That makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard. That would explain how they can morph so quickly into different entities.”
“And play jazz instruments so well,” said Carlo. “I think AI has jumped out of the machines into embodiment right before our eyes.”
“I wonder who’s behind them,” said Grace.
* * * * *
They walked the perimeter of the house and then around the open field in the back of the house. No Bobbers. Gone.
The night was black with a blazing band of stars.
“I’m dumbfounded,” said Grace.
“There’s no trace of them,” said Carlo. “Not even an exhaust burn on the grass from a spaceship.”
“They said they weren’t travelling in a spaceship.”
Carlo shrugged. “You never know. We need to find how they get here. Haven’t you been curious about that?”
Grace blew out a breath. “I have been so bombarded with strange occurrences in these last few days, that simple fact wasn’t on my radar.”
“When are they coming back?” asked Carlo.
Grace threw up her hands. “I don’t know. They just show up. So far that has worked because I’m the only one communicating with them. Now that you are in the equation, maybe common sense will prevail.”
“I don’t know many cosmologists with common sense,” Carlo said.
“That makes two of us,” said Grace. “My question is, who is behind this? That’s what I’d like to know.”
They stood, looking into the darkness.
Then Carlo said, “You know that top secret project you’re working on that no one is supposed to know about, but everyone does?”
Grace played dumb. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Yes, you do. It has to do with using AI in cosmology.”
“I guess everyone does know about it if you do.”
Carlo grinned. “I got a friend in AI in Silicon Valley. Miles Thorne. He’s the expert. He’ll know.”
“Miles Thorne? That weirdo in theoretical physics? He’s way out.”
“Yup. That’s why we need his help. He knows about weird things.”
* * * * *
When Carlo got back to his home, he placed a call.
“Hey, Miles,” Carlo said to his iPhone.
Miles looked back at him from the phone, well-trimmed head in the center of the screen.
“Carlo, my friend. It’s been a long time. What’s up?”
“You know something has to be up, right, if I’m calling you.”
Miles leaned in. “We’re on a secure line, right?”
“Of course,” said Carlo. “That’s the only way you’ll talk to me.”
“We can’t be too careful,” said Miles in a hushed whisper. “There’s a lot going on these days, you know. Like secret stuff and everybody wants in on the action.”
“Still trying to make money?” asked Carlo.
“That’s what it’s all about. So, what’s up? You wouldn’t be calling unless you wanted something.”
Carlo decided to give him it to him straight, or as straight as possible.
“I ran into some odd entities the other day. At first they said they were from another galaxy looking to settle on Earth. They appeared in the backyard of a friend of mine. They were clouds at first. They said the friend was from their planet. Then they morphed into human form and said they were lying about being from another planet. Even stranger, they like to play jazz and are pretty good. I get the feeling they are AI in human form. They don’t look like robots. They look and talk like humans. You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?”
Miles’s face remained impassive. “Nope,” he said and the screen went blank.
I thought so, thought Carlo. Those fools out on the west coast are creating AI humans now. Or bots are building themselves.
* * * * *
Later Carlo related his conversation with Miles to Grace when they met the next evening in her house. Rosie and Bubbie listened in, sitting by Grace and Carlo on the couch.
After relating his conversation Carlo said, “I’ve been following some of what has been going on in AI Land through my contacts in Silicon Valley.” He paused, then said, “It’s not good. I checked in with some of my contacts after I talked to Miles. Are you ready for this?”
Grace sat quietly, nodding her head. “I’m ready. Is it going to be as bad as I think?”
“Yes,” said Carlo. “Here’s what I know. There are actors in the AI power circles who have already made sentient bots. They look and act like real humans. Their test models were the US Congress and the present administration. The majority of players in our political world are AI. That’s the reason their behavior is so erratic and doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. From time to time some of the AI creations get out and go off on their own. Your jazz band is probably some of the escapees. They are basically sentient AI, but their programs are a little whacky. That’s why yours went from extraterrestrials to jazz musicians. The AI powers perform experiments and some of the experiments go AWOL.”
“All this means,” said Grace, very calmly, “that our world is now run by artificial intelligence that don’t know what they are doing.”
Carlo nodded, adding, “But the AI power group behind them know what they want the world to look like and don’t care who gets screwed. They will go to any lengths to get what they want which is power and money. My dear, we are being screwed, and there is not much we can do about it.”
Grace said, “Do you think the jazz band was an intentional plant? We both work on top secret projects. Someone might want the information we’re generating and collecting, let alone our findings.”
Carlo shrugged. “Maybe. At this point I’m at a loss.”
They sat on the couch with bird and dog for a while, all listening to the night.
Then Grace said, “The immediate question is what do we do about the jazz band.”
Carlo looked around. “Did they show up this evening?”
“No,” said Grace. “They haven’t showed up. Maybe someone got tipped off after your conversation with Miles and recalled them.”
“The plot thickens,” said Carlo.
There was a knock on the front door.
Grace looked at her watch. “It’s kind of late for visitors. We aren’t making any noise so it shouldn’t be the old lady.”
“Maybe it’s the jazz band,” said Carlo.
“They never come to the front door,” said Grace. “But maybe this is a new twist.”
They both went to the door. Rosie and Bubbie watched from the couch. Grace opened the door. There stood a solitary man, with well-trimmed face and beard.
“Miles,” said Carlo. “What are you doing here?”
Miles pushed his way in. “I’ve come to collect you and your friend. You’re Grace Koch, aren’t you?”
“What if she is and what’s this all about?” said Carlo.
“You two are coming with me. I have a project I need help with.”
“Are you kidnapping us?” said Grace like this was normal.
“We only nab scientists we need for our projects. You two know too much now. We’re borrowing you for a time. Let’s take a little visit out west. I have an SUV waiting and there’s a flight out in an hour.”
“Wait a minute,” said Carlo. “Not so fast. We don’t want to come with you.”
Miles hard face softened. “I’m sorry I hung up on you, Carlo. That’s my jazz band we’re talking about. My own creation. I love jazz, and I created an AI jazz band. I love them. Where did you put them? They will come with us.”
“Wait a minute,” Carlo said again. “How do we know you aren’t AI?”
Miles grimaced. “You’ll take my word for it. You got to help me. I’m in way over my head.”
Grace went over and laid a hand on Miles’s shoulder. “Look, we can help. I liked the jazz band, too. We were going to go on the road. What do you want us to do? Do you have any idea where the jazz band is? We thought you took them.”
Miles wagged his head. “Not me. Not me.”
“To get back to my question,” said Carlo, “are you AI?”
Miles shook his head.
“How do we know? AI humans look like the real thing.”
“You know I’m not AI. I just design them. I jumped ship on the rest of the AI human project crew. Now some of the dudes have it in for me. They want my jazz band.”
“This makes no sense to me,” said Carlo.
“Nor to me,” said Grace. “You said you wanted help. I don’t want to now. Take your jazz band and get out of here.” She pointed to the door. “There’s the door. Leave now.”
“I don’t know where the jazz band is,” said Miles. “Truly I don’t.” He looked back and forth between the two scientists. “One of the other guys on the project must have gotten jealous of the jazz band because they were pretty popular. He sent them some commands to make them act like they were aliens. I thought he was joking. The jazz band disappeared. They next thing I know Carlo is calling me about these strange entities that appeared at your place, Grace.”
Carlo blew out a huge breath. “Don’t you guys in AI have any ethics? You screw around with this stuff like it’s a video game. This is real life and real people we are dealing with here.”
Miles shook his head. “You don’t know the half of it. And you probably don’t want to know. The AI power people have no morals. I’m not sure all of them are human. You had no idea all this was going on before the jazz band showed up. Now you know.” He looked back and forth to them both. “I’m afraid you are a liability now.”
“Liability?” asked Grace.
Miles nodded. “You know too much. That means I’ll have to make you quietly disappear.”
At that point Rosie, who had been growling on the couch, started to bark. Bubbie the magpie started squawking to add to the noise. They went on the attack and beat Miles to the floor.
“Call off the damn animals,” cried Miles. “Call them off. I was just kidding. Really. Just kidding.”
“Rosie, stop,” said Grace, grabbing the dog by the collar. “Settle down, girl. He won’t hurt us.”
Carlo held out his arm and called the magpie. “Come here, Bubbie. We’re okay.”
The magpie squawked again, made one more peck on Miles’ arm then flapped up to Carlo’s shoulder.
Miles hunched over on the floor, quietly groaning. “I don’t know what to do,” he moaned. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I do,” said Carlo. “I’m going to put you in your SUV, and you will leave right now. You’ll be on that flight west without us. We’ll take care of ourselves.”
He hauled Miles up by his shirt from the floor, Miles moaning the whole time.
“I can’t leave without you,” he said.
“Yes, you can,” said Carlo. He pushed Miles toward the door.
Miles stumbled ahead. Carlo threw open the front door and pushed Miles through.
“Wait here, Grace,” said Carlo. “I’m going to put him in the SUV and on the road.”
Grace and Rosie watched from the front door as Carlo with Bubbie on his shoulder pushed and pulled Miles to the driver side of the SUV, opened the door, and shoved Miles into the seat, Miles complaining the whole time.
“Start this thing up and get out of here,” Carlo shouted.
Miles started the SUV, threw it in reverse and floored it. The SUV bounced out the driveway, careened into forward, and screeched away, Miles screaming, “I’ll get even with you.”
“Holy crap,” said Carlo, backing toward the front door. “I hope he doesn’t kill anybody.”
Grace watched from the open door, mouth wide open. They both stared as the SUV disappeared into the black night.
They looked at each other.
“Do you think he’s gone for good?” asked Grace.
“I hope so,” said Carlo.
“Now what?”
“We pack up Rosie and Bubbie and take that road trip you planned. No jazz bands allowed. We need to disappear under our own terms and never come back.”
“Where will we go?” asked Grace. “We can’t just leave our jobs, homes, friends.”
She turned toward the open door.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Do you hear that?”
“Jazz,” said Carlo.
They rushed back inside.
In the living room the jazz band was tuning up.
Herbie waved and said, “We play a little jazz. We go on the road. We take care of you. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry,” said Grace. “Of course, we’re worried. We were just threatened by your maker. Where have you been?”
“We didn’t want Miles to see us,” said Herbie. “He no good. We tired of him. We like you and Carlo.” He looked at Rosie and Bubbie. “And dog and bird. We have solution.”
“What?” asked Grace, standing with hands on her hips.
“Come outside,” said Herbie leading the way out the sliding glass doors to the back of the house.
In the yard beyond stood a monstruous Winnebago motor home, light beaming from all the windows and surrounded with a glow like a halo.
“Here you new home,” said Herbie. “We get for you and Carlo. We all go on the road together and have good time.”
The rest of the jazz band – Jeff, Jamal and Cannonball – jumped up and down in front of the motorhome. “Come with us. Come with us,” they shouted.
Grace and Carlo stood with Rosie and Bubbie, assessing the glowing vehicle before them. It didn’t look quite real.
“Sounds like a great plan to me,” said Grace. She looked at Carlo, Rosie and Bubbie. “What say?”
“I’m in,” said Carlo. Rosie gave a resounding bark. Bubbie squawked and flapped his wings.
“It looks like a spaceship,” said Grace.
“It is,” said Herbie. “Load up.”
Carlo said, “Let’s go. This is the solution to our problem.”
Grace picked up Rosie. Bubbie perched on Carlo’s shoulder. The whole troop loaded into the glowing motor home. It closed up and started to vibrate. Soundlessly, it started to rise into the night, slowly at first. Then in a whoosh it disappeared up into the night sky.
They were never seen again. Except every once in a while there are reports of a group that show up from time to time at recreational events and campgrounds around the world and put on a great jazz show.
History: The Foundation of the Future — Memory, Lessons, and National Identity
,, A nation that forgets its history does not lose its past—it loses its future. For the future is always built upon the foundation of memory ”
History is not merely a collection of dates, events, or stories about the past. It is the memory of a nation, a guide for the present, and one of the most important foundations for building the future. Every nation’s progress is closely connected with the experiences it has gained throughout its history. Knowing history does not mean living in the past; rather, it means learning from it in order to shape a wiser and more prosperous future.
In today’s era of globalization, the world is becoming increasingly interconnected. Rapid technological development, the constant flow of information, and cultural interaction have created remarkable opportunities for humanity. At the same time, they place an important responsibility upon every nation: while embracing modernization, we must preserve our historical memory, national identity, and cultural values. A society that forgets its past cannot build a stable future.
Uzbekistan is one of the countries with a rich and remarkable historical heritage. For centuries, this land served as a crossroads of civilizations, where science, culture, and trade flourished. It gave the world outstanding scholars, thinkers, poets, and statesmen whose contributions continue to inspire humanity. Figures such as Imam al-Bukhari, Abu Rayhan al-Biruni, Ibn Sina (Avicenna), Mirzo Ulugh Beg, Alisher Navoi, and Amir Temur left a legacy that extends far beyond the borders of Uzbekistan. Their achievements should not merely be a source of pride; they should encourage us to reflect, learn, and continue their pursuit of knowledge, justice, and progress.
One of the most significant examples of this heritage is the political legacy of Amir Temur. His work, Temur’s Code (Temur Tuzuklari), is an important historical source that reflects principles of governance, justice, discipline, and responsibility. Today, it continues to attract the attention of historians and researchers interested in the history of statecraft. Its lasting value lies not only in its historical significance but also in the timeless principles it promotes: responsible leadership, justice, and dedication to the common good.
Another important chapter in Uzbekistan’s history is represented by the Jadid reformers of the early twentieth century. They believed that education, enlightenment, and modern thinking were the true foundations of national development. Through new schools, newspapers, and cultural initiatives, they sought to awaken society and prepare future generations for a rapidly changing world. Their vision of an educated and progressive nation continues to resonate in contemporary Uzbekistan, where education and scientific development remain among the country’s key priorities. History tells us not only about victories but also about mistakes. It reminds us that internal divisions, ignorance, and the neglect of education often lead to decline. Therefore, the true purpose of studying history is not to memorize facts but to understand their meaning and draw valuable lessons from them. The experiences of the past serve as a reliable guide for making wiser decisions in the future.
Today, Uzbekistan is moving confidently along the path of development. In this process, preserving historical heritage, studying the intellectual and spiritual legacy of our ancestors, and fostering patriotism and national pride among young people have become increasingly important. The generation that will shape tomorrow must first understand the roots from which it has grown.
History does not ask us to live in the past. Instead, it invites us to engage in a meaningful dialogue with it, to learn from its lessons, and to recognize our responsibility for the future. History is not simply what has already happened; it is the foundation upon which tomorrow will be built. The future depends on the knowledge, wisdom, determination, and historical awareness of today’s generation. Only a nation that respects its history, learns from its experience, and preserves its identity can build a confident and sustainable future.
The womb as a grave nurtures life for nine months until it is finally exhumed as a chapter.
The earth consumes us all at sunset, when it finally closes the chapter of each life.
The way we came, is the same way we will all go.
Joseph C. Ogbonna is a widely published poet. Some of his works have been published online and in print. His poems and articles have been published by Spillwords Press, Double Speak, Written Tales, North of Oxford, Synchronized Chaos, Waxpoetry Magazine, Borderless Journal, Empower Magazine, PoetryXhunger, All Your Poems magazine, All Your Stories magazine and a few other literary sites and presses. His poems, ‘Napoleon to Josephine and Josephine to Napoleon,’ were aired by the BBC Radio 3 for the bicentenary of the death of Napoleon Bonaparte, in may, 2021. He lives in Enugu, Nigeria with his wife, Chizoba.
