The Ally, page 12
“I know it’s been difficult,” he begins. “Everything that happened to us before the Truce, the fights, the injuries, the scars…We’re still recovering, and there are some things we’ll never get over. We’ve left behind our lives, our families, our jobs. We live in a shitty apartment. We barely have any money coming in. I know it hurts not to see your children, Aguirre, and Donovan, I know you miss your parents. I also know that all of you are nervous about the future: I’ve divided up the tasks individually, without giving you much information, demanding your complicity and your silence, and right now none of you know what the others are working on, or whether your efforts will pay off. Forgive me. I didn’t do it this way because I don’t trust you, but just to keep us all safe. I trust each and every one of you. But I wanted to protect the information so that, if anybody got found out, or—in the worst-case scenario—captured by the enemy and interrogated, our plan could still continue. And I say “our” plan because it’s not my plan, I’m just its architect. It’s ours because we share a common idea, a vision of the world. It’s ours because we are going to put our lives in service to a cause that’s bigger than us.”
Ramos is about to start crying. The others stifle their emotion as best they can.
“So, all this, this apartment, this living like pariahs, this constant fear of being ourselves, of going out on the street, is there any point to it? Is there any future?”
Vergo smiles. He’s missing a tooth. Two.
“Of course. I promise we’ll get back what belongs to us. Because it’s ours. Because it will always be ours. Because if we can’t have it, no one can.”
27
NAJWA ENTERS the office confidently. She isn’t intimidated by the portraits hanging on the walls, or the ornate wooden desk, or the immaculate Persian carpet that muffles the sound of her steps. Her colleagues are waiting in the next room, with the ministers and the delegates, because this meeting must be private. Just her and the president, no one else. All the groundwork is done, and now all that’s left is to look into each other’s eyes, confirm the commitments with a handshake, and make the appropriate documents public. Set the scene, because theater is politics too.
“Coffee?”
“I prefer Red Bull. If you have it. It’s hard for me to get moving in the morning.”
“It’s hard for all of us.”
The president is a professional politician, a chess player toiling away at the calculation of possibilities and anticipating moves, and although he has to admit that initially he made the mistake of underestimating the scope of the conflict, and that he acted precipitously, perhaps poorly advised by his counselors, right now the meeting with Najwa seems like an extraordinary opportunity to remain in power, win the admiration of a good number of voters, and increase his popularity. Even beyond borders: he will lead the first Western government that advocates a policy of indisputable, revolutionary equality; it’ll be studied in the history books of the future. However, in his opinion, there are still a few loose ends that need to be dealt with to make the blueprint as perfect as possible. That’s why he’s called this meeting.
“According to the press, we are still in a truce.”
“I know.”
Beyond the office, and the other offices, and past all the people waiting expectantly for the meeting to end, some three or four kilometers away from Najwa and the president, the first vans filled with men are arriving at an old building that once—in a bygone time, when paper was still important—housed one of the largest presses in the country.
“We’ve introduced practically all the demands presented to us, and some of the ones proposed by the parliamentary groups themselves, into the new constitution. The Royal Academy of Language has modified the ideologically outdated terms. Just yesterday I saw a first-division match with a female referee, which is starting to be normal for fans, if you’ll permit me a frivolous example. It’s true that some of the more complex topics, the economic ones, are slower in coming, but by the end of the year all the companies will have adopted the new model. You already know all this, of course. What I mean is that the government has a firm commitment to continued progress, working together to establish a lasting framework of coexistence. Are you, and the other women, satisfied?”
Are they satisfied? Najwa mentally reviews the microvictories they’ve won recently: reports of abuse, sexual violence, and stalking have decreased by six points and counting, thanks to the radical policies that make visible the consequences of the culture of contempt and other symbolic injustices. Now no one dares to justify or publicly minimize any aggression toward women, and doing so is a crime. People have begun to understand that gender-based violence is not a consequence of inequality, but a structural pillar of a world we’d created. And a certain normality has settled in the streets, with women walking home alone and unafraid without changing their route to avoid particular areas. There is a strong feeling of belonging and solidarity, supported by the many men who now understand the extent to which they’d excluded women, discriminated against them, and deprived them of their rights, giving them the status of an unequal subject. Harassment has basically disappeared from bars, nightclubs, public spaces; in fact, there have been some creative approaches: there are more and more places that clearly indicate whether flirting is allowed; there’s a new trend of colored bracelets to reveal one’s sexual preference, relationship status, and openness (or lack thereof) to establishing contact, and “no means no” has been taken to heart to a large extent. Respect has become a mantra, because many men have accepted the conflict they felt around women’s autonomy and have done some soul-searching; the idea of “consent” has been reformulated, including the consideration of essential parameters such as need and social disadvantage. The salary gap has been reduced, sometimes entirely, in the administration and in small- and medium-sized businesses; mandatory quotas have modified discourse in the media, and at conferences and festivals; housework has been added to taxable economic activities and is renumerated with a minimum wage. Gender blindness has led to an—albeit still meager—awakening of men committed to the revolution. Women have more money, spend more, and dress however they want: the economy is more buoyant, and fashion is going through a transformation unseen since the advent of jeans. Yes: they are moderately satisfied.
“There’s still a lot to be done,” she responds.
The president nods calmly and circumspectly.
“Of course. And I would like for us to do it together.”
Cars arrive, along with the vans. They park where they can, because the lot beside the building is full. When they turn off the motor, they wait. The instructions are clear: no more than two men can congregate around the printing press building at the same time. The occupants of the vehicles get out one by one, looking at the ground, distracted, as if thinking about something insignificant. If they see another man, they dawdle to give him time: tying a shoe, playing with their phone, lighting a cigarette. Above all, serenity.
“In any case,” continues the president, “there are two or three matters I’d like to clear up with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. That’s why we’re here. What is it?”
The president likes that she is direct. She doesn’t like that he is so dripping with honey, but ever since she took off her mask and her identity became public, ever since she accepted the challenge of being the spokesperson for the movement she had helped create, she was used to the pomp and circumstance, to extended hands, to theatrical smiles. If only it would all end soon and she could delegate, and return to her thesis, which she can barely recall at this point, and stop giving interviews and listening to all the stories of women who come up to her on the street, and at cafés, and online. But she doubts that will happen.
“First of all, I would like the Truce to become a definitive end to hostilities. Agreed to in writing.”
“We haven’t employed violence in a long while. Unless Phallic State does something, in which case the women simply respond. Until they stop.”
“That’s true, of course. But society needs to know that the Truce is over, and not because, how can I put this…we haven’t reached an agreement, but because there is no longer any need for conflict. We want a peaceful, solid country. Phallic State has become anecdotal, in general terms. And I believe it is fundamental to declare that we are united. That we are changing. That we are going to change even more.”
“OK. Everyone is waiting for something, some action, I’m not sure what. Since our teams began to meet, that’s all people talk about. What do you have in mind? A press conference?”
“Maybe something a bit more festive. A celebration. The polls show that people want a historic day, and that the media are counting on that. There are parades scheduled for next weekend already, and we should take advantage of the opportunity, for them to celebrate with us. You know what I mean. Not exactly with us. We would be on a stage, someplace special.”
“That sounds fine to me.”
“There’s a ‘but.’ ”
“I suppose there must be. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be choosing your words so carefully.”
The president smiles for half a second.
“The masks,” he says.
“What about the masks?”
“We’d like you to set them aside. There are still women using them. My niece had a birthday party the other day, and all her friends were wearing them. It has us concerned.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“Because they represent a time, a…an activism, let’s say, linked to violence. If we are entering a new phase, we should leave behind the formulas that remind us of what we did wrong.”
Najwa is silent, thinking. She insinuates with a gesture that she wants to smoke, even though she knows it’s not allowed. The president gets up and opens a window.
“If you give me one, I won’t say a word,” he whispers.
Najwa takes a first drag. “Listen. As is often said, I understand your position, but I don’t share it. The answer is no. A firm no.”
The president smokes too. She continues.
“Societies are constructed around symbols that mark the collective imagination, and those symbols are, simultaneously, both memory and commitment. Memory of the achievements made and commitment to maintaining the ideals that brought them about. If you, or your government, are made uncomfortable by the masks, you’ll have to live with that. Catholics wear chains with a guy nailed to a cross and his head run through with thorns, for fuck’s sake. Excuse my bluntness. These masks aren’t swastikas, they don’t represent a totalitarian principle, but rather its opposite: a radically democratic aspiration. We never wanted to invert the power structure, we want to end power relationships. And don’t worry, if we do it correctly, gradually we’ll see fewer and fewer girls in masks on the street. Time passes and people forget. But they won’t disappear, I can promise you that: they’ll be in the homes of all the women who fought to earn a space they never let us occupy. They’ll be on doors, in museums, and in universities. They’ll be embroidered on your niece’s wedding dress. They’ll be sold as brooches for elegant ladies. That is what it means to leave a record of what we achieved, Mr. President, what it means to never forget.”
The president stubs out his cigarette.
“So I shouldn’t even ask about the flags hanging in windows, right?” He smiles.
Najwa bursts into laughter, so hearty it can be heard in the room next door, and in the next one over, and in the next one after that, and all the people inside those rooms sigh with relief, and hug each other, and shout, and someone opens a drawer and uncorks a bottle that’s passed from hand to hand and from mouth to mouth, because there aren’t enough cups.
And several kilometers from there, an identical—although uneven—scene is taking place.
There are also many people hugging and shouting, and sharing more than one bottle, and cigarettes, and they are also celebrating seeing each other after a long time apart. And the building they are in, the former printing press, turns into an impromptu party, with songs and laughter. And in the middle, like a totem that no one gets near, is a burning Princess flag. And when all that’s left of it is a little mound of dust, the men once again occupy the center of the space, the center of the room, and their boots get covered in ash, but nobody cares, because it’s just ash, and ash can easily be wiped off with a rag.
28
ONCE ALL THE PIECES are fit together, the plan makes sense. It’s complex, risky, and—for some—humiliating, but it makes sense.
Men have come from many different neighborhoods, from nearby cities, from other provinces. Vergo calculates more than a hundred, and he’s pleased, although he would have liked to have more, not only to increase the scope of the attack and the number of victims, but also just to give them all some proof that there is still hope. That they are not an island. That they can get back the things that’ve been taken from them.
There aren’t the big swinging dicks there used to be, he thinks when he counts them for the second time.
It’s six in the morning.
On October 26th. The day chosen to end the Truce.
Today the National Equality Declaration will be announced.
At one p.m., all the members of the government and the opposition, headed by the president, will accompany the leaders of the Princess movement on a stage set in the green heart of the city, a vast park, more than two hundred acres, designed and built in the 17th century, where both sides would make the peace accord official, using a text already leaked to the media, ushering in a new era of respect, parity, and justice.
“Justice, my big hairy ball sack,” says Hugo.
The act will be televised live, and as is to be expected, the site will be guarded by all the state security forces, in particular the Female Constitutional Guard, whose contributions on such a representative day will be especially important. Citizens are called to participate in a day that is projected to be widely attended and joyful. The streets have therefore been under surveillance since the night before, and no vehicles have been allowed into the park’s surrounding areas. A thousand porta-potties have been set up, and there is exclusive licensing for small vendors of food and drink in every neighborhood. From this day on, the 26th of October will be a national holiday.
Vergo has divided the men into two groups.
On one hand, the skinniest ones. Hairless, at least in visible parts, except on their heads. Relatively small, but muscly. They have to be able to run when necessary. They are called Princes.
On the other hand are all the rest. Approximately two for every Prince. These guys are called Dragons.
Aguirre was the only Prince who refused to accept his role.
“I got moral problems with this,” he said.
“Because of the outfit?” asked Ramos.
“No…the thing itself. I don’t think it’s right.”
Vergo interrupted them.
“Would you be more comfortable being a Dragon?”
“No.”
“So what the fuck do you want to do? Are you going to leave us hanging now? You miss your wife, or what?”
He seemed to be speaking without moving his lips, like a ventriloquist. Aguirre immediately crumbled.
“Sorry. I’ll be a Prince. Sorry.”
End of discussion.
Ramos looked good with the tits on. Aguirre didn’t. The group of Princes is made up of twenty-eight men. Bruno and Donovan, who are used to body beautification from their years of going to the gym, painstakingly supervise all the elements of the uniform.
Footwear: women’s sneakers. Meaning with sparkles and pastel-colored stripes. Pink or purple laces.
Costume: a skirt, culottes, or a dress. With the skirts, thick stockings and a sweater. With the culottes, wide T-shirts and blouses. With the dresses, a coat.
Accessories: bracelets, painted nails, necklaces, earrings. Wigs, of course.
Structure: sports bra with tits built in. The skinnier Princes were also forced to wear adult diapers padded with socks, so their hips will be reminiscent—given the limits of the imagination—of a woman’s.
“Should we put makeup on them?” asks Donovan.
“Yes,” replies Vergo.
“Fuck that,” says Ramos. “We’ll be wearing masks! Isn’t shaving enough?”
“We can’t be too careful, my friend. If you lose your mask, your best chance is to run and trust they don’t notice you’re a man. Donovan: distribute lipstick, blush, and eye shadow. Let’s forget about mascara, I don’t want them to have any trouble seeing.”
At eleven, all the Princes were ready.
Seen from a distance, as a group, without masks but already dressed and wearing wigs, with their fake boobs and their diapers, they look like dumpy musicians from an eighties New Romantic band who’d seen better days and were using makeup to hide the dark under-eye circles they’d gotten from lack of sleep or excessive drug use.
Vergo gives them the final instructions.
“Put on women’s deodorant, but not perfume. We don’t want you to attract too much attention. I’m leaving it in your hands. Don’t run, except when it’s all over. If you have to use the bathroom, do it now. Exit one by one, in five-minute intervals. Blend in with people, and don’t talk to each other, or anyone. Remember: you’re mute. Take advantage of groups in costume, with signs, where you can go unnoticed. Try to walk like women. Don’t scratch your balls. Don’t sit with your legs open. Got it?”
The answer is unanimous: yes.
