22 November 2020 --- 6:54 PM --- A bus stop outside Tibor Tower, KherhorodSvatopluk Yaroshovo took another sip from his flask. He didn’t mean to do it, but then again, he hadn’t meant the last sixteen sips either. Where was that damned bus?
If his
last article had any insights to offer, it would probably suggest that civil unrest had delayed it, possibly blocking the roads, or even, God forbid, overturning it, for no reason besides the will of the mob. He bit his lip. No reason to think about that, now. What’s done is done. He looked at his watch.
He heard footsteps behind him. He didn’t bother to look. He stared down the road again, compulsively taking a look at his watch again, before taking a sip. He didn’t see Amalie Tsitrova, his editor, heading to her car.
Amalie heard the quiet twisting of the cap on the flask, and, looking toward the bus shelter, noticed Svatopluk checking his watch again. That was odd, she thought. Didn’t he leave about thirty minutes ago? She decided to walk over.
Svatopluk felt warmth coming from the seat beside him and noticed that it had now been claimed by his editor. “Leaving work early, Amalie?”
“Well, your article was the last thing we needed for tomorrow’s edition, so I decided to give myself a little break.”
“You know you’ve got to stop working here so late. It’s not good for you.”
“You mean like gin isn’t good for you?”
Svatopluk hadn’t noticed that he’d taken a sip. He decided to set the flask back on his hip. “Point taken.” He frowned. “I thought you took your car today.”
“And I thought you’d have gotten on the bus by now.”
“I’d thought that too.”
“And, there was something else.” Amalie coughed. “Mr. Otsel asked me to talk to you about your article.”
Here we go. That so-called political officer had been a thorn in his side ever since the communists had sent him over. “What about it?”
“I’d like you to guess.”
Svatopluk sighed. He knew exactly what he was talking about. “Oh, I don’t know. Too much information? Too little glorification of the Party? A rude smudge mark?”
“You wrote ‘Mr. Otsel is a wanker’ twenty-four times in the middle of the article.”
Svatopluk smiled. “I never write anything that isn’t true.”
“Svatopluk, you realise that that man has the power to go to Izhitska Ednota and have us shut down?”
He chuckled. “I’d like to see him try. No one would stand for it. Izhitsa’s greatest newspaper? Even the Devil himself couldn’t do it. But I repeat myself.”
“Or worse, he can turn us into an actual party mouthpiece.” Amalie looked him straight in the eyes. “Svatopluk, listen to me. I’m going to say this in words of one syllable so you can understand. You can’t fight this. If they think they don’t have us in their control, they will shut us down, you will have no job. Is that clear?”
Svatopluk sighed, then stared again down the road. “
Sway, not con
trol. Two syllables.”
“Svatopluk, this is serious!”
He frowned. “And you know what else is serious? Yulia!
We haven’t seen or heard from her since Kamil Yanoshek’s sorry excuse for a coronation, yet every time we ask Mr. Otsel—and what is that man’s first name, anyway?—every time we ask that man if the police know anything new, he just says ‘that investigation is still ongoing.’ And that man insists on butchering my words, me beautiful words, and calls it ‘proletarian’. It’s Orwellian, more like.”
“Svatopluk, Yulia’s dead. There’s no way she can’t be by now.”
“But
why? I just need to know why, don’t you understand? There’s something here, and just like in everything else, Mr. Otsel doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”
“Svato—”
“You know I interviewed twenty-four people for that article? Mr. Otsel told me I couldn’t use any of the material.”
“Svatopluk, seriously—”
“You know the article says we couldn’t get confirmation of the Inquirer article? That’s because Mr. Otsel wouldn’t let me.”
“Svatopluk, I know, but—”
“The official killed in Dozortse? He’d ordered his men to fire on peaceful protestors. They fired on him instead.”
“Svatopluk, listen to me—”
“You know, I bet that fire in the former king’s palace was set by someone inside, too. It doesn’t make sense any other way.”
“Svatopluk—”
He let out a shriek of anger. “What?”
“Svatopluk, you just missed your bus.”
“Damn.”
Amalie sighed. “You know what, if you want, I can drive you home. No use sitting around all night like this anyway.”
Svatopluk accepted her invitation. His mood brightened as he approached his apartment. They talked about small things. Amalie raved about the latest history book out from some Shtan aristocrat, he complained about his feeble attempts at growing carrots in his back garden, and they both made guesses about Mr. Otsel’s first name. Svatopluk was pretty sure it had to be something like 'Anna' for it to be such an important secret.
It got worse when he got to the door. He remembered the article again. And then he remembered all the people he failed in writing it. I never write anything that isn't true, he thought, but that sure doesn’t stop me from lying.