Next morning Tobias is late for breakfast. She senses this lateness, then confirms it with the talking clock in the kitchen, another gift from Alyson: you hit the button – if you can find the button – and it tells you the time in the voice of a condescending grade two arithmetic teacher. “It is eight thirty-two. Eight thirty-two.” Then it’s eight thirty-three, then eight thirty-four, and with every minute Wilma can feel her blood pressure shooting up. Maybe something has happened to him? A stroke, a heart attack? Such things occur in Ambrosia Manor every week: a high net worth is no defence against them.
Finally, here he is. “There is news,” he tells her, almost before he’s inside the door. “I have been to the Dawn Yoga Class.”
Wilma laughs. She can’t help herself. It’s the idea of Tobias doing yoga, or even being in the same room with yoga. What had he chosen to wear for this event? Tobias and sweatpants don’t compute. “I understand your mirth, dear lady,” says Tobias. “This yoga business is not what I would choose, given other pathways. But I have made a sacrifice of myself in the interests of obtaining information. In any case there was no class, because there was no instructor. So the ladies and I – we could chat.”
Wilma sobers up. “Why wasn’t there any instructor?” she asks.
“They have blockaded the gate,” Tobias announces. “They refuse to let anyone in.”
“What’s happened to the police? And the Manor security?” Blockaded: this is not frivolous. Blockades require heavy lifting.
“They are nowhere in sight,” says Tobias.
“Come in and sit down,” says Wilma. “Let’s have some coffee.”
“You are right,” says Tobias. “We must think.”
They sit at the little table and drink their coffee and eat their oat cereal; there’s no more bran, and – Wilma realizes – scant hope of getting any. I must appreciate this cereal, she thinks as it crunches inside her head. I must savour this moment. The little people are agitated today, they’re whirling around in a fast waltz, they sparkle all over with silver and gold sequins, they’re putting on a grand show for her; but she can’t attend to them right now because there are more serious matters to be considered.
“Are they letting anyone out?” she asks Tobias. “Through the blockade.” What was that book she read about the French Revolution? Versailles blockaded, with the royal family stewing and fretting inside.
“Only the staff,” says Tobias. “They are more or less ordering them to go. Not the inhabitants. We have to stay. So they appear to have decreed.”
Wilma thinks about this. So the staff are allowed to leave, but once out, they won’t be readmitted. “And no delivery vans,” she says, a statement rather than a question. “Such as chickens.”
“Naturally not,” says Tobias.
“They want to starve us to death,” she says. “In that case.”
“It would appear so,” says Tobias.
“We could disguise ourselves,” says Wilma. “To get out. As, well, as cleaners. Muslim cleaners, with our heads covered up. Or something.”
“I doubt very much that we would pass unchallenged, dear lady,” Tobias says. “It is a question of the generations. Time leaves its markings.”
“There can be some quite old cleaners,” Wilma says hopefully.
“It is a matter of degree,” says Tobias. He sighs, or is it a wheeze? “But do not despair. I am not without resources.”
Wilma wants to say that she is not despairing, but she refrains because it could get too complicated. She can’t pinpoint exactly what it is that she’s feeling. Not despair, not at all. And not hope. She only wants to see what will happen next. It certainly won’t be the daily routine.
Before doing anything else, Tobias insists that they fill up Wilma’s bathtub, as a provision for the future. His own bathtub is already filled. Sooner or later the electricity will be cut, he says, and then the water will cease to flow; it is only a matter of time.
Then he makes an inventory of the supplies in Wilma’s kitchen and mini-fridge. There isn’t much because she keeps no lunch or dinner staples on hand. Why would she, why would any of them? They never cook those meals.
“I’ve got some yogourt raisins,” says Wilma. “I think. And a jar of olives.”
Tobias makes a scoffing sound. “We cannot live on these things,” he says, shaking a cardboard box of something or other as if scolding it. Yesterday, he tells her, he took the precaution of visiting the snack shop on the ground floor and making a discreet purchase of energy bars, caramel popcorn, and salted nuts.
“How clever of you!” Wilma exclaims.
Yes, Tobias admits. It was clever. But these emergency rations will not hold them for long.
“I must go down and explore the kitchen,” he says. “Before any of the others might have that idea. They are likely to raid the stores, and trample one another. I have seen such a thing.” Wilma wants to come with him – she might act as a buffer against trampling, for who would consider her a threat? And if they have indeed beat out the raiding hordes, she could carry some of the supplies back up to her apartment in her purse. But she does not suggest this, because she would of course get in the way: he’ll have enough to do without shepherding her hither and thither.
Tobias seems to know of her wish to be of use. He has considerately thought of a role for her: she is to remain in her apartment and listen to the news. Intelligence gathering, he calls it.
Once he’s gone, Wilma turns on her kitchenette radio and prepares to gather intelligence. A news report adds little to what they already know: Our Turn is a movement, it’s international, it appears aimed at clearing away what one of the demonstrators refers to as “the parasitic dead wood at the top” and another one terms “the dustballs under the bed.”
The authorities are acting sporadically, if at all. They do have more important things to attend to: more floods, more runaway forest fires, more tornadoes, all of which are keeping them on the hop. Sound bites from various head honchos are played. Those in the targeted retirement institutions should not succumb to panic, and they should not attempt to wander out onto the streets where their safety cannot be guaranteed. Several who rashly decided to brave the mobs did not survive the attempt, one of these having been manually torn apart. The blockaded ones should stay where they are, as everything would soon be under control. Helicopters may be deployed. The relatives of those under siege should not attempt any interventions on their own, as the situation is unstable. Everyone should obey the police, or the troops, or the special forces. The ones with megaphones. Above all, they must remember that help is on the way.
Wilma doubts this, but she stays tuned for the panel discussion that follows. The host first suggests that each one of the panellists state his or her age and position, which is done: academic, thirty-five, social anthropologist; energy-sector engineer, forty-two; financial expert, fifty-six. Then they quibble to and fro about whether this thing that’s going on is an outbreak of thuggery, an assault on the whole notion of elders and civility and families, or is on the other hand understandable, considering the challenges and provocations and, to speak quite frankly, the shambles, both economic and environmental, that those under, say, twenty-five have been saddled with.
There is rage out there, and yes, it’s sad that some of the most vulnerable in society are being scapegoated, but this turn of affairs is not without precedent in history, and in many societies – says the anthropologist – the elderly used to bow out gracefully to make room for young mouths by walking into the snow or being carried up mountainsides and left there. But that was when there were fewer material resources, says the economist: older demographics are actually big job creators. Yes, but they are eating up the health-care dollars, most of which are spent on those in the last stages of … yes, that is all very well, but innocent lives are being lost, if I may interrupt, that depends on what you call innocent, some of these people … surely you are not defending, of course not, but you have to admit …
The host announces that they will now take calls from their listeners.
“Don’t trust anyone under sixty,” says the first caller. They all laugh.
The second caller says he does not understand how they can be making light of this. The people of a certain age have worked hard all their lives, they’ve been taxpayers for decades and most likely still are, and where is the government in all of this, and don’t they realize the young never vote? Revenge will be taken at the polls on the elected representatives if they don’t snap to it and get this thing cleaned up right now. More jails, that’s what is needed.
The third caller begins by saying that he does vote, but it’s never done him any good. Then he says, “Torch the dusties.”
“I didn’t catch that,” says the host. The third caller begins screaming, “You heard me! Torch the dusties! You heard me!” and is cut off. Upbeat radio music.
Wilma switches off: that’s enough intelligence for today.
As she’s rummaging around for a teabag – risky, making tea, she might scald herself, but she’ll be very careful – her big-numbers phone rings. It’s the old kind of phone, with a receiver; she can’t manage a cellphone any more. She locates the phone in her peripheral vision, ignores the ten or twelve little people who are skating on the kitchen counter in long fur-bordered velvet cloaks and silver muffs, and picks it up.
“Oh, thank god,” says Alyson. “I’ve seen what’s going on, they showed your building on TV with all those people outside and the overturned laundry van, I’ve been so worried! I’m getting on a plane right now, and …”
“No,” says Wilma. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s under control. Stay where you …” Then the line goes dead.
So now they’re cutting the wires. Any minute now the electricity will go off. But Ambrosia Manor has a generator, so that will hold things in place for a while.