Free Saffire by Sigmund Brouwer Page A

for long.
    “You hungry?” I asked Harry. “I need something to eat, and I have some coupons.”
    “Always hungry. Especially on someone else’s coupons.”

    “You probably heard of my book,” Harry said. “
A Vagabond Journey Around the World.
The subtitle says it all:
A Narrative of Personal Experience.
It’s got my stowaway stories, how I survived crossing India during the famine, amazing stuff all through. Bet you’re surprised to be sitting right here, with a real published author.”
    We sat just outside the YMCA building, in a screened-in room beneath a large overhang. At the YMCA commissary, I’d traded coupons for sandwiches of thick fresh bread, crisp lettuce, and ham so tender that chewing was a mere formality.
    “It’s been a day of surprises,” I said.
    “I’m only here to write another book, this one about my time at the canal. Back in the United States, people are crazy about the canal. But all they get is the official line. About how wonderful it is. I’m going to give them the inside view. I’m calling it
Zone Policeman 88: A Close Study of the Canal and Its Workers.
It’s going to give readers an entirely different view of the canal, I promise. My view. What we’ve got here is a kind of socialism with a twist to it. People don’t understand. You a socialist?”
    “Catchy title. I’ll look for the book when it’s out.”
    “Book’s nearly finished. So am I as a Zone policeman. Don’t worry though; I’ll show you the ropes just like I was making this my career. I’m the best, so you’re in good hands.
¿Prefiere hablar en inglés o español?
”
    “Little dusty in Spanish. Might need help with what you just asked.”
    He frowned. “We can get around that, I guess. Have you seen the dig? Thousands of men, hundreds of machines. Controlled chaos. They were in the wrong place, wrong time, as far as anyone can tell. Dynamite went off before the signal. Hill tumbled down.”
    “They?”
    “Two policemen. Five workers.”
    “Seven all told?”
    “Seven. Took awhile to find them. Only because the two of ours were gold men, not silver. Had all seven been silver they would have stayed part of the dig for eternity. Nobody wasting time to help the silvers more than necessary.”
    “Gold? Silver?” I remembered Cromwell making disdainful reference to silver-dollar people. And Mrs. Penny doing the same.
    “Tell me,” Harry said, “would you find it offensive if areas of the Zone stores and restaurants were clearly marked with ‘white’ for men like you and me and ‘black’ for men like the policemen back at the station?”
    “Labels of any kind don’t seem like a good idea,” I said. “Anyway, I haven’t seen any such signs since my arrival.”
    “Dexterously,” Harry said. “Like that word? The colonel—and I’m sure you know who I mean—has very dexterously dodged the necessity of lining the Zone with those types of offensive signs that I’ve seen in the Deep South of the United States. This is supposed to be a place where men are equal.”
    I had my own agenda, but Harry would not be distracted by direct questions unless it suited him. So I sipped water. With ice in it. Amazing. In the tropics, yet ice was served at no charge. Americans changed the world to suit themselves.
    “Let me tell you about a Jamaican woman and her trip to a Zone dentist.”
    I nodded, being patient.
    “Inside, the first sign said, ‘Crown work, gold and silver fillings.’ ”
    Harry watched my face, as if trying to see if I could guess where this was headed. I had no idea.
    “What she said when she saw the sign was”—he switched to a decent imitation of a Jamaican accent—“ ‘Oh, doctah, does I
have
to have silver fillings?’ ”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “You don’t understand yet. She assumed she had to have silver, not gold, because she was a darker shade than you and me.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “If you are a Zone employee, you get paid in gold or silver,” Harry said.