Ways & Means-2
The day of Leon’s trial arrived.
As another passenger got off the crowded subway, Nate and Quentin insisted Mrs. Woods take the free seat. They continued to hold on to their straps as, one seat ahead, a vagrant vomited, while beside them, a young woman hit her daughter.
“What a world,” Nate said.
Quentin looked at them with bemused indifference and shrugged. “Merely further victims of late monopoly capitalism. Just like you and Mrs. Woods.”
“Oh?” said Nate, unconvinced.
The Court, an imposing room of marble, draped in patriotic homilies
“All rise!” said the bailiff.
The Judge, short, pasty and pudgy
“Be seated,” he said, with a thin, quavering voice.
Leon, stooped, shrunken, eyes dead
“We’re here,” whispered Mrs. Woods. Leon turned and looked straight at them, no sign of recognition.
The verdict
“Guilty.”
Quentin looked at the judge, wiping the sweat off his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a paperback copy of Capital, ragged at the edges, and crammed with tiny pieces of paper marking spots. Quentin leafed through the book, came to what he was looking for, read through it quickly, then stuffed the book back into his pocket. He leaned over to Nate. “He’s going to prove he’s a liberal,” he whispered.
“Five years,” said the judge.
“He’ll die!” Mrs. Woods, said standing up.
“Order in the Court!” the judge said, rapping his gavel.
“By all means,” said Quentin, smiling. “Order.”
They agreed to meet again later in Mrs. Woods’s apartment.
Meanwhile, in a lavish penthouse…
The young white man lay on a gurney, dressed only in a towel, draped loosely over his body. He wore sunglasses to protect him from a sunlamp perched over head. Four young women (one white, one black, one brown, one yellow) trimmed the cuticles of his hand and toe nails. “Hey Hirosh,” he said, calling to his servant, who glided silently out of the corners of the marble-tiled room. “Get me a chocolate, would you?” Hiroshi disappeared, only to reappear instantly, brandishing a box of chocolates wrapped in golden foil. “Yeah, one a those,” said the young white man as Hiroshi took one of the bon-bons and put it in the young man’s mouth. He chewed on it loudly. “Life is sweet, ain’t it?” he said, smiling again.
Mrs. Woods put out a dinner for her guests
She placed each plate with obvious care and pride.
“These are beautiful,” said Nate, at something of a loss.
Quentin picked up one of the plates and held it to the light. He examined it thoroughly. “Yes, quite pretty,” he said finally, putting the plate back on the table. “Meissen, I believe.”
Mrs. Woods carried a hot and heavy pot towards the table. Nate got up quickly to help her. “Been in the family for years. My grannie used to say went back ’fore the Civil War.”
“The last great bourgeois revolution,” said Quentin, musingly. Nate was startled, but Mrs. Woods didn’t seem to hear.
“What I don’t understand,” said Nate, “was why the thief left this and took only your TV.”
“Yes,” said Quentin, still thinking. “And the bigger mystery of how they got in with the apartment locked.”
“I’m just grateful they left it behind,” she said, ladling out an ample stew. She looked at it forlornly. “I just ain’t hungry, whenever I think of Leon.”
The two men looked at each other silently.
In a room of marble and glass…
The young man, dressed for tennis, returned to his penthouse, a little sweaty, but all the more handsome for it. “Where the girls?” he asked Hiroshi, giving him his tennis racket.
“They’re waiting for you in the bedroom,” Hiroshi answered, bowing.
The young man started to undress, giving his clothes to Hiroshi. Unconsciously, his servant cleared his throat.
“Somethin’ bothering you, Hirosh?” asked the young man, tossing his jock strap at his servant. Hiroshi caught it nimbly, then helped the young man put on a silk dressing gown. But he remained silent. “Come on, Hirosh, not good to hold things back,” he said, putting his arm on his servant’s shoulder.
“I was wondering,” said Hiroshi, “if you could pay me some of the money you owe me.”
The young man took his arm away and tied the belt of his gown. “Money’s no problem,” he said flatly. He paused in front of a mirror, noticing the beginnings of a wrinkle. He observed it from every angle, moving his head about. Then he stepped away from the mirror and started heading towards a blank spot in the wall, framed by two niches, each with reproductions of classical sculpture. He twisted the head of a Venus di Milo, and the wall moved aside.
A room of glass and steel, with a huge, pulsing ray gun in the middle, twinkling with colored lights—a Transmuter!
“Neat, huh?” said the young man, beaming. “Charged it on my Amex.”
Hiroshi’s eyes widened. “Wow!” he said, at a loss for words.
The young man stepped towards a leather seat at one end of the Transmuter. In front of him was a bank of controls, lights and monitors. “How much I owe you?” the young man asked his servant.
Hiroshi took a calculator out of his pocket, punched a few numbers. “Let’s see. Not including interest…” he did some rapid calculations. “Three or four trillion, give or take a hundred billion.”
The young man fiddled with some dials. On the monitor in the center of the control panel, an image started to fade in. “Let’s see what’s doing in Nightville,” he said, flicking switches, turning dials, pushing buttons with the panache of a virtuoso. The image sharpened.
The day of Leon’s trial arrived.
As another passenger got off the crowded subway, Nate and Quentin insisted Mrs. Woods take the free seat. They continued to hold on to their straps as, one seat ahead, a vagrant vomited, while beside them, a young woman hit her daughter.
“What a world,” Nate said.
Quentin looked at them with bemused indifference and shrugged. “Merely further victims of late monopoly capitalism. Just like you and Mrs. Woods.”
“Oh?” said Nate, unconvinced.
The Court, an imposing room of marble, draped in patriotic homilies
“All rise!” said the bailiff.
The Judge, short, pasty and pudgy
“Be seated,” he said, with a thin, quavering voice.
Leon, stooped, shrunken, eyes dead
“We’re here,” whispered Mrs. Woods. Leon turned and looked straight at them, no sign of recognition.
The verdict
“Guilty.”
Quentin looked at the judge, wiping the sweat off his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a paperback copy of Capital, ragged at the edges, and crammed with tiny pieces of paper marking spots. Quentin leafed through the book, came to what he was looking for, read through it quickly, then stuffed the book back into his pocket. He leaned over to Nate. “He’s going to prove he’s a liberal,” he whispered.
“Five years,” said the judge.
“He’ll die!” Mrs. Woods, said standing up.
“Order in the Court!” the judge said, rapping his gavel.
“By all means,” said Quentin, smiling. “Order.”
They agreed to meet again later in Mrs. Woods’s apartment.
Meanwhile, in a lavish penthouse…
The young white man lay on a gurney, dressed only in a towel, draped loosely over his body. He wore sunglasses to protect him from a sunlamp perched over head. Four young women (one white, one black, one brown, one yellow) trimmed the cuticles of his hand and toe nails. “Hey Hirosh,” he said, calling to his servant, who glided silently out of the corners of the marble-tiled room. “Get me a chocolate, would you?” Hiroshi disappeared, only to reappear instantly, brandishing a box of chocolates wrapped in golden foil. “Yeah, one a those,” said the young white man as Hiroshi took one of the bon-bons and put it in the young man’s mouth. He chewed on it loudly. “Life is sweet, ain’t it?” he said, smiling again.
Mrs. Woods put out a dinner for her guests
She placed each plate with obvious care and pride.
“These are beautiful,” said Nate, at something of a loss.
Quentin picked up one of the plates and held it to the light. He examined it thoroughly. “Yes, quite pretty,” he said finally, putting the plate back on the table. “Meissen, I believe.”
Mrs. Woods carried a hot and heavy pot towards the table. Nate got up quickly to help her. “Been in the family for years. My grannie used to say went back ’fore the Civil War.”
“The last great bourgeois revolution,” said Quentin, musingly. Nate was startled, but Mrs. Woods didn’t seem to hear.
“What I don’t understand,” said Nate, “was why the thief left this and took only your TV.”
“Yes,” said Quentin, still thinking. “And the bigger mystery of how they got in with the apartment locked.”
“I’m just grateful they left it behind,” she said, ladling out an ample stew. She looked at it forlornly. “I just ain’t hungry, whenever I think of Leon.”
The two men looked at each other silently.
In a room of marble and glass…
The young man, dressed for tennis, returned to his penthouse, a little sweaty, but all the more handsome for it. “Where the girls?” he asked Hiroshi, giving him his tennis racket.
“They’re waiting for you in the bedroom,” Hiroshi answered, bowing.
The young man started to undress, giving his clothes to Hiroshi. Unconsciously, his servant cleared his throat.
“Somethin’ bothering you, Hirosh?” asked the young man, tossing his jock strap at his servant. Hiroshi caught it nimbly, then helped the young man put on a silk dressing gown. But he remained silent. “Come on, Hirosh, not good to hold things back,” he said, putting his arm on his servant’s shoulder.
“I was wondering,” said Hiroshi, “if you could pay me some of the money you owe me.”
The young man took his arm away and tied the belt of his gown. “Money’s no problem,” he said flatly. He paused in front of a mirror, noticing the beginnings of a wrinkle. He observed it from every angle, moving his head about. Then he stepped away from the mirror and started heading towards a blank spot in the wall, framed by two niches, each with reproductions of classical sculpture. He twisted the head of a Venus di Milo, and the wall moved aside.
A room of glass and steel, with a huge, pulsing ray gun in the middle, twinkling with colored lights—a Transmuter!
“Neat, huh?” said the young man, beaming. “Charged it on my Amex.”
Hiroshi’s eyes widened. “Wow!” he said, at a loss for words.
The young man stepped towards a leather seat at one end of the Transmuter. In front of him was a bank of controls, lights and monitors. “How much I owe you?” the young man asked his servant.
Hiroshi took a calculator out of his pocket, punched a few numbers. “Let’s see. Not including interest…” he did some rapid calculations. “Three or four trillion, give or take a hundred billion.”
The young man fiddled with some dials. On the monitor in the center of the control panel, an image started to fade in. “Let’s see what’s doing in Nightville,” he said, flicking switches, turning dials, pushing buttons with the panache of a virtuoso. The image sharpened.