Wretched - Offer Reish (love story novels in english txt) 📗

And even before her eyes met Leonardo's (which they did, taking him by surprise) the air suddenly refused to enter his lungs. He tried to breathe in, but there was nothing to make his lungs expand. This woman on stage wasn't just a radical fallen from grace. In spite of the acute opposition around her, the unquestionable defeat her cause had suffered, and the obvious emotional turbulence she was in, she was still charged with something that set her apart now from the man with the big nose and all of his followers just as it had then. And it made her still beautiful in a way that suddenly struck Leonardo as obvious. She was beautiful, perhaps now more than ever before because of the plight she was in and the unfavorable chain of events that had transpired, and not despite them. The thing that made her beautiful still and set her eyes aglow, despite her physical deterioration in every other aspect, was that unwavering belief in something she knew to be far greater than she; something made all the more significant since she could derive no personal benefit from it. Its significance to her lay in the fact that someone else would derive a great benefit if she were to prevail and perhaps never be able to thank her for it.

Not the man with the big nose, not the woman with the wide back and not any of the thousands of supporters could diminish the halo - was it nobility? Martyrdom? Clairvoyance? Or maybe just dull, simple tenacity- that seemed to glow from her. Through the force of this halo she continued to challenge the man with the big nose with a final test:

"Why is their justice any different to ours?" She demanded. She no longer had to yell now that she had the attention and not the derision of the crowd (or at least not outspoken derision), but she didn't lower her voice from before. "Because they are hairy? Because they're ugly? Because they smell? Because they limp? Or is it because of their size, their limited vocabulary, their bleakness, their sharp nails or their strange eyes? Or because they are weaker than we are? Which of these things makes them less worthy of being done justice?"

Leonardo felt every one of Jessica's words sting him inside. They made it so difficult to turn his back on her.

Everyone was waiting for the man with the big nose to respond. This was the height of the face-off between them, the height of the demonstration and perhaps the height of any action done by The People. And like a true leader, the man with the big nose rose to the occasion when the time was most critical. His nose flared wider than ever before; wider than Leonardo had ever seen a nose flare before, and he said five words that secured forever the victory of The People in the pages of history of the city and the perpetual servitude of the Wretches:

"Because they are not us."

This sufficed for the crowd, and it sufficed for Leonardo. Justice belonged to The People and the people.

Six

6

 

Things became simpler after The People's formal inauguration. It was surprising, in fact, how easy it was to live out their principles, which the people were so eager to accept. Habits that had once been practiced frequently but not invariably had become unwritten rules that if anyone broke they would be considered strange and unreasonable, and maybe even unjust. And now that it was firmly established that justice was such a great thing (belonging to the people, it accommodated them quite well), and that being just and being reasonable went hand in hand, to be considered unreasonable or unjust was quite deterring and very undesirable.

These unwritten rules generally revolved around the interface between people and Wretches. The demarcation that separated one from the other was clearer than ever before, as was the line between the just and the unjust. People didn't speak to Wretches when doing so wasn't absolutely necessary; they didn't look at them; they didn't offer them food or drink; they forbade them making any unnecessary sounds; they didn't befriend them (if one could ever befriend such an inferior being); and they didn't accord them any respect. And the two newest rules: people didn't speak or think about Wretches. Nobody could be heard mentioning Wretches or referring to them in any way, and thinking about them was considered a sign of weakness that any man with self-respect would strive to avoid. The Wretches were there to serve the people- this was a fact that need not be dwelt upon. Why complicate what is simple and obvious? Why risk being embroiled into senseless confusion again by some heretic instigators such as had happened with The Existents?

In fact, justice wasn't that clouded, divine thing that required a great deal of compromise and sacrifice which some had claimed it to be. It wasn't the evasive value that was to be tracked down and followed persistently. It was a great thing that was always at the people's disposal and was the shortest and easiest route to happiness and prosperity.

These rules were gladly followed by the family without exception. And nothing was detracted from this by what Dr. Joshua, who had been promoted to chief advisor to the Industry (nobody knew what this meant) two days after The People's demonstration said in the hallway on the same day of his promotion.

"Everything The Existents have said is true. Everything. But who wants to listen to someone that only tells the truth?"

And everybody laughed carelessly. Everybody, including the boy who never lied.

Several weeks of this peaceful bliss had gone by in the city and in the family's apartment, when Leonardo was attacked unawares by another cause for confusion. It happened during a very mundane activity that had little to do with anything as simple as justice or Wretches, but it struck him the moment it happened and it struck hard. He was playing chess with his father, thoroughly concentrated on the game for a change, when suddenly, from out of the blue, an astounding thing happened: he won!

His victory was sudden and astounding not according to the proceedings of the game, which he had dominated from the start, but in the realization that he actually succeeded in doing something he'd never done before and defeated a player he thought far superior to himself. Steve, it appeared, was not only more surprised by the occasion but more thrilled than Leonardo by the result of the match. Leonardo found it quite ironic that the first time his father had ever seemed to truly enjoy a chess game between the two was the only time he'd lost. He'd beaten Leonardo so many times in the past and had been so indifferent, sometimes even disappointed or angry, and now when he'd lost he was beaming! If Leonardo weren't so taken aback he would've laughed unstoppably. But something came to his mind, some mysterious and fascinating thought that engrossed him to the point where even his father's rare words of accolade were drowned out like some insignificant background noise.

He'd beaten his father justly, without the help of luck or some unexpected blunder or unusual circumstances. He'd simply played a better game of chess. This meant that he was a much better player than he thought he was, and certainly much better than he'd been a few months earlier. And the only possible logical explanation to his improvement was his frequent matches against 462. Then, for their matches to have such a significant positive effect on him must mean that 462 wasn't the kind of terrible player that always- always- made a fatal blunder that gifted his opponent victory.

In this intense burst of clairvoyance Leonardo realized that something in this sequence didn't add up. A chill shook his entire little body, and his heart pounded as he contrived the following day's venturous- almost dangerous- stratagem to make sense of this puzzle.

He came out of his reverie to hear his father still exclaiming excitedly: "How did you do that? You played wonderfully! I had no idea…"

Then, to Hailey: "Come here, honey! Look at this! He was amazing!"

And now Leonardo began to laugh, letting out a mix of joy for making his father so happy and curious anticipation for the discoveries that tomorrow would bring. He laughed and he didn't stop.

Nothing remained in his memory from the time between that moment his laughter had finally died down and the next afternoon when he came out of the opening of his game against 462- there was no way to change it- down two pawns and in a position so passive that his glorious white queen had no one at her side but black enemies watching her closely, like Jessica on The People's stage. He put his everything into that game from the very first move; he never let his thoughts wander and he checked and rechecked every move before making it. He looked three and four moves ahead before touching any of his pieces- it was more than he'd ever done before, even in his last game against his father- and tried to calculate every reasonable outcome. And he felt that he was playing well, never detecting a mistake or a weak move that ought to have been replaced by another. And still he was in a significant disadvantage. It couldn't be doubted: 462 was the better chess player of the two.

So Leonardo waited. He continued to play the best game he was capable of and waited for that moment- that moment when he would be given the opportunity to undo everything 462 had achieved in the game and snatch the victory. He was patient, employing wisdom that far surpassed that of a 9-year-old's to suppress his burning anticipation and maintain the (insufficient) level of his game. His condition continued to deteriorate, and he continued to fight, to slowly get back into the game, but his opponent was simply too strong.

And then it came. In a seemingly reckless and obvious blunder, 462 opened his 8th row, where his king was standing behind the untouched three-pawn castle formation that was supposed to protect it but at the same time posed a risk of becoming a death trap, to Leonardo's white A-file rook. All that was needed was for Leonardo to move his rook down the A-file, from the down-left corner of the board to the up-left corner, and the game would be over. This was what he'd been waiting for. He slowly, thoughtfully, pressed his right hand thumb, index finger and middle finger around the cold glass castle at the top of the rook like a three-headed vice, lifted it and carried it forward. It seemed to weigh as much as a thousand rooks combined, and his arm trembled as it hovered over the board. And he put it down heavily- not on the 8th row, where it would've checkmated the black king and afforded the white side a 'surprise' victory, but in the middle of the A-file, where it made contact with its brother rook, protecting it from the harassment of the black queen (a productive move in and of itself). The vice was lifted from the rook's