Saving Chairman Mao

William Highsmith

February, 2050, Boston

Marisa's ansible rang around two-thirty. It was St. Bernadette. She had received her last rites, again, but was was feeling better. She wanted to warn Marisa about some miscreants who were out to get her, gun-toting types. Though she spoke the simple Gascon Occitan of Lourdes and Marisa did not, and had died two centuries before Marisa was born, they communicated remarkably well.

"If they come, I'll know about it soon enough," said Marisa. "I'm mildly telepathic."

"Not these men, Marisa," said Bernadette. "They're brutal killers from another time."

"Time-travelers? Why are they after me?"

"I do not comprehend their ideas, mind you, and they speak of events beyond my time, but I can parrot their words, mon amie. They are anarchists who would reverse their failures by manipulating the growing disaster of your time, the European and Asian wars. We must redo what they have undone."

"World War II?" said Marisa. "That's a century ago. How do you know of these time warriors?"

Bernadette was silent for a moment. "I do not know the name or time of the war, but I learned of it through my other ansible, the God Ansible, so I know it is true."

"God uses gadgets?"

Bernadette nearly laughed at Marisa, humble as she was. She peeped an amusing little sound that would preface a laugh. "Marisa, I suppose Moses' staff was a gadget, but God's Ansible is a vision. You could have the visions too, mon amie, if only you would—"

"Um, I'm lapsed, sweetie. I understand none of this plan of yours."

"I know only that there are some who build roads, and others who make inroads for builders. One is paved with earth and stone, the other with grace. I'm sorry, mon amie. I've lived a simple life. I do not understand your world."

"What am I to do? About the time warriors, I mean? And by the way, I have no pickaxes, sadly, and I sunburn easily."

"There is a young boy," said Bernadette, fighting back a laugh, "a prodigy …"

June, 389, Tagaste, North Africa

"Hippo? Please, Bishop, a priest in Hippo Regius? Home is for me, and not as a priest. I do not wish to break bread with parishioners, guide their lives, bless their babies and bury their dead. I am not wise enough. I wish only to search out the Gospel at home."

"They've called you for their priest."

"And I can not refuse …"

"No," said Bishop Valerius, emphatically. "You may continue your studies while a parish priest, of course. Already, your rhetoric on weighty doctrinal matters reaches throughout the empire and persuades even the old and wizened. My head still spins over your doctrine of unmerited grace."

Augustine collapsed into the bishop's visitor's chair, and at once his lives as Roman magistrate, teacher, philosopher and now, priest, clambered for his attention. All had their merits, but semi-retirement at home had a monastic appeal—peace, quiet, study and a bit of teaching now and then for income. Augustine looked up at the bishop with glazed eyes and emitted a tortured sigh.

The bishop laughed congenially. "When did you first imagine that you were in charge of your life … Father Augustine? If it is the operation of grace that brings man to God as you say, then you must transmit that idea forward for all to see on a road paved wide with works and deeds; only philosophers will be persuaded by sublime rhetoric on a narrow scroll."

June, 1942, Fort Ord

"Burma? Did Roosevelt put you up to this, General Marshall? Good one, Sir." General 'Vinegar Joe' Stilwell laughed. He knew he was screwed royally, but hoped to waltz out of it. He wanted a theater command, not a rescue operation at the edge of the war.

"If we don't reopen a supply line into China, the Japanese will control the air even west of the Chunking Mountains, and permanent presence in the Indian Ocean."

"Sir, the Chinese are engaged in an civil war while being invaded by the Japanese. How can we hope to rely on an ally like that?"

"My point is, what are we going to do about it? My answer is to send a man I trust. Perhaps the only one with a chance of understanding the complexities of it, Chiang Kai-shek's Allied Chief of Staff. It's right up your ally, Stillwell, building a supply line through a forest with pickaxes, green soldiers and few supplies, while bombs rain down on your head."

"And then what … General … Sir?"

July, 1944, Assam, India

Mrs. Choudhuri had received a foreign letter every week for three weeks, beginning in June. They were always a letter from a woman in Boston, postmarked for the year 2050.

The postal carrier would shrug and say "foreign calendar." The postmark aside, the letter was difficult to believe.

Dear Mrs. Choudhuri,

I send you blessings of grace from Our Lady of Lourdes. On September tenth, your son will defeat Mr. Gribic, a master chess player soundly at his chess club. You must intervene. Otherwise, the man will vent his anger on his wife with violence, which will pave inroads to unimaginable destruction a few years later. A terrible decade of war will breed a century of war. As a sign that this is true, your son will arrive at the chess club with stigmata on his palms that only you can see, and which will disappear when you remove your son from the match.

Consider this: when the laity stumbles, it is the operation of grace that brings man to God, so let the ministers increase their efforts, but take heart that they are not alone.

This is a true prophecy, delivered to my ears from the mouth of Bernadette, of the Sisters in Nevers.

Yours truly,
Miss Marisa Roosevelt
(no relation to the President)
Boston, Mass.

After the third letter, Mrs. Choudhuri asked her son, "Vijay, are you a good chess player? Tell me the truth, son."

"I am not weak, Mommy."

August, 1944, Assam

Father Wibert was working on his letter of resignation when a lady came to his office. He had accepted the parish position knowing he would inherit a troubled congregation, with much bickering and division. Tomorrow, he would explain that he had stumbled and failed to end the strife. He would accept all blame, of course, and express unwavering hopes that his successor would succeed.

"Father Wibert, may I speak with you?"

"Yes, but I'm so sorry. I don't recognize you. Strange … I pride myself in knowing all the parishioners by name."

"I've not been to mass or confession in four years," said Mrs. Choudhuri.

"That explains it. I've been in this parish only three years now. Why have you been away, Mrs … ?"

"Choudhuri. I do not feel welcome here, Father."

"What especially was at issue when you first decided to leave us?" said the priest.

"My son, Vijay, was born well before we were married. He is such a sweet little boy, and cares only for chess, but we were not accepted here—"

"I understand completely, Mrs. Choudhuri. My predecessor finds me a bit, um, radical, but in my parish, you are welcome to join us at mass and communion, as long as you are repentant."

Mrs. Choudhuri's throat tightened. "Thank you so much, Father. However, I came for another matter that burdens me."

"What is it, Mrs. Choudhuri?"

"Is it possible that a saint would use one such as me for good?"

"A canonized saint?" said Father Wibert. "Surely you don't mean that."

"St. Bernadette, Father."

Father Wibert's eyes widened. "If one uses you at all, it will be for good … of that I am certain."

"What I mean is—"

"I know what you mean, Mrs. Choudhuri. Do you want a bald answer? Surely there is more to this story."

Mrs. Choudhuri took her three letters from her purse and pressed them into the priest's hands. "I nearly discarded these letters as a cruel prank, but my heart told me to see you, Father."

Father Wibert examined the letters with their strange stamps and his hands began to tremble. He read one of the letters three times.

"I understand the first part of the letter completely," said Mrs. Choudhuri. "I'm asked to stop my son's chess match. But what does the second part mean … the part about the laity and the operation of grace?"

"That part does not speak to you at all?"

"Not one word of it, Father. What does it mean?"

"It speaks to me, Mrs. Choudhuri," said Father Wibert, as he crumbled his resignation letter. "It means, God is great. You must prevent the chess match from completing."

"I will," she said as she rose from her seat.

"May I keep one of the letters? I would mean a great deal to me."

"Of course, Father. I receive one every week."

August, 1944, Assam

Mrs. Gribic smiled as Vijay Choudhuri approached her at the registration desk of her hotel. "Good morning, Vijay. So good to see you."

"Good morning, Mrs. Gribic. Do you have any chores for me today?"

"None today, but come back in a few days. I'll have plenty then. Woodwork, cleaning and landscaping. In the meantime, you can practice for the club chess tournament. Give my husband a good scare, okay?"

"Sure, Mrs. Gribic," he said, with an ambiguous expression. "Thank you."

"I have something for you." Mrs. Gribic took a bag from under the counter. "This food is fine, but it's a day or two too old to serve to my customers."

Vijay took the bag and saw that a third of it was uncooked rice which would be good for a year. "You're so kind, Mrs. Gribic."

Mrs. Gribic waved him off and went to the second floor. She looked both ways and knocked on room 221. Major General Barton opened the door and whisked her in. She had put him in an unbooked room, without registering him into the hotel. So far, she had only met him at obscure parks, or a café when shopping for groceries. She knew little about him, other than he organized Allied air deliveries of military supplies out of India, and was secretive.

These dalliances were difficult to arrange. Mrs. Gribic lived at the hotel with her jealous husband and spinster aunt. Barton's time was unpredictable due to his military duties. This was a difficult step, meeting him in private in a hotel room. She felt like an unpaid prostitute, even though her husband was moody and often cruel. She deserved better.

At times, though, her husband could be extravagantly sweet to her, especially after he had won an important chess match. Chess was a mixed blessing for her, though. He was more cruel with losses—which were rare—than he was sweet with a win.

"I'm not sure about this—"

Barton paid no attention. He had her cloak off her and settled her on a couch before she could say another word. She did not say 'no', nor did she say 'yes'.

August, 1944, Northern Burmese Wilderness

To: Army Chief of Staff George Marshall

From: Joe Stilwell

Subject: Ledo Road Construction Report, 2 Aug 1944

General Marshall, two more bulldozers are bleating like sheep because of minor damage from Japanese bombers. There are no spare parts within eight hundred miles. If I may be blunt, Sir, I thought you were joking when you said the road would be built with pickaxes. I have a question for Major General Barton: "Where the hell are you, and where are my parts and equipment?" All he has to do is shove them out the plane as he flies over from Assam, for God's sake. My troops are sick, and they know that if next month is like the last, another fifteen percent of them will be dead.

As for Chiang Kai-shek, who needs enemies when we've got friends like him? Chiang hoards half the Land-Lease material for his own ambitions against Mao Ze-dong before he even thinks about theater matters. He's robbing us blind, General.

Lieutenant Powers just entered my tent with a message from Assam. Now I know why messengers hate their jobs; I might owe that young fellow a field promotion. Damn! Has Barton retired? The message said he hasn't been seen in a week, and my equipment is stacked in a hanger.

Regards,
Joe Stilwell, retired?

February, 2050, Boston

Marisa couldn't help herself. She called Bernadette, to confirm yet again what she had said.

"Bernadette, you are sure? The men must come to my home, and I must be here when they arrive?"

"Yes," said Bernadette. "If you are not there, chatting with me on the ansible, the whole fabric of the plan will be rent."

"But—"

"You will be safe if you are there; I do not know what will happen if you are elsewhere."

"You're sure? I'm not really the heroine type."

"I do not need to be sure, or doubtful. I spoke God's Ansible."

Bernadette went silent for a moment but did not seem angered.

"Bernadette?"

"I'm so disappointed," said Bernadette, with trembling voice.

"I'm sorry," said Marisa. "I have jelly where my spine should be."

"No!" said Bernadette. "I am disappointed in myself, mon amie. I was given such a simple message to deliver and I've failed, once again—"

"Bernadette, your message was clear as a bell. I didn't wish to hear it. As well as I am able, I will carry out the plan. But I'll feel … silly … mailing letters to a woman long dead."

"Mon amie … ?"

"I didn't say I wouldn't do it, did I? Jeez—"

"Mon amie!"

March, 2050, Boston

Marisa's sister had called the other day and beat on her for not having a will. She used words that were new even to Marisa, a junior high school teacher. She sent a package containing her signed and notarized signature to be attached to a will that Marisa had better write straight away. She was not supposed to do that.

Marisa sat with chin on hands, gazing at the will on the kitchen table. This would be a good day to sign it, she thought, with assassins from the future due that afternoon. A fine day.

She figured the letters she would send to the lady in the past really pissed off someone in the future. That made her brain hurt.

Marisa pressed the pen's nib to the paper, making one round mark. She then thought again of her friend in Nevers, racked with pain, and yet so pleasant when they chatted. She had looked up Bernadette on the Internet. Bernadette had a tubercular tumor in her knee.

She remembered her first ansible call to Bernadette and smiled. She was trying to call her sister, and Bernadette answered. Marisa nearly hung up after realizing she'd misdialed.

But Bernadette said, "Please don't hang up on me. I'm so lonely. Have mercy on me."

Her voice broke Marisa's heart. It took a fair amount of conversation to discover they were a century and a half and thousands of miles apart … and to believe it.

Marisa pushed the will to the side. She'd sign it tomorrow. Then, the signing would show no lack of trust in her dear friend and her insane plan.

September, 1944, Assam

Vijay Choudhuri rested his chin on his knees. He asked for a pillow to better view the chessboard. His opponent, Mr. Gribic, was the champion of their strong chess club in Assam. Vijay had a pair of backwards pawns and was down a rook for a bishop, but he knew Gribic would pay a dear price for grabbing poisoned material four moves earlier.

Vijay's hesitation about his line of play had little to do with chess. Gribic had a reputation in the community for punishing his wife, Sabina, for his loses—the same foreign woman who had been so generous to his family.

Gribic looked up from the board and glared at Vijay. "Are you going to move today?" he said. Vijay ignored him and continued staring at the board, considering his options. Gribic shrugged and continued studying the board.

Vijay was confident about his line of play. The more difficult decision that he'd taken twenty precious game clock minutes to consider was whether to follow through with it. He then noticed panic crossing Gribic's face. He's finally noticed the forced checkmate in six moves, thought Vijay.

Vijay reached for a knight, trying to suppress an upturn of the corners of his mouth, but hesitated when he thought again of Sabina Gribic. Then a familiar hand took hold of Vijay's wrist, his mother's hand. She startled Vijay because he had not seen her enter the club. She turned her son's palms upwards and examined them. She then kissed his palms thrice and led him out of the club without explanation.

"Thank you, Mommy," said Vijay. "I was weak today."

November, 1944, Assam

Sabina Gribic placed a note on Major General Barton's side table while he was away from the hotel. Her husband seemed content lately, with a club chess championship under his belt and chances for a good showing in the national championship, if the war allowed the match. He was of a mood to make amends. She wanted to end her affair and try to repair her marriage from its present low state.

Robert,

I must ask you now to take leave of me. While your attention distracted me from my awful marriage, it did me little good. It only gave me something else of which to be ashamed. Should you not attend to your military matters? You can not have a stupid woman like me and a war to attend at the same time, can you? You will bore one and betray the other. I'm sure your commander would not want to hear from me, would he?

Please do not worry that this is a threat. Be certain of it.

Regards of a sort,
Sabina Gribic

April 16, 2050, Boston &

April 16, 1879, Sainte Croix Infirmary, Convent of Saint-Gildard, Nevers.

Eight French anarchists armed to the teeth with image-seeking smart weapons surrounded Marisa's meticulously kept Boston home. The neighbors distanced themselves from the guerrillas, diving into their cars or houses. The squad leader directed soldiers to the front and rear entrances and the others to various windows. Marisa Roosevelt paid no attention; she was on the ansible with Bernadette.

"They're here. Are you feeling better today?"

On a signal, the men crashed through the windows and doors and entered the home on the fly. There they found a frail woman in bed, barely able to raise her head.

"Marisa Roosevelt?" said the leader of the guerrillas, unsure of himself because of the surprisingly stark room. The walls were whitewashed plaster. The bed was an old iron design with one thin mattress, a straw-filled pillow and a ragged blanket. The room was wrong, and too small.

"Saludi, Marie, plée de gracie," chanted the woman, weakly.

"Marisa Roosevelt?" said the leader, more emphatically.

"Sante Maria, May de Diu—"

"Bonjour!" said the guerrilla leader.

The woman breathed weakly for a moment and dropped her ansible to the floor. She could not raise her head from her pillow. "Oui, Monsieur."

"Bernadette?" Marisa stared at the ansible while it bleeped at her like a sheep. She re-dialed Bernadette's number, but got a message informing her that the number she had dialed was not a working number. After dozens of attempts over the next two days, she entered the interminable customer-support queue at AnsiPhone. I'll bet this doesn't happen to God Ansibles, she thought.

November, 1944, Sichuan

Chiang Kai-shek's old friend, Lo, had led many confrontations with Mao's loyalists and knew his enemy well. He also knew Chiang well. He knew when Chiang was asking questions as a means to inform others of his decisions, and when he was genuinely asking for advice. Today, he was informing.

"If Mao met with an unfortunate death, how serious would the bloodletting be for China, old friend?"

"It would be painful, very painful in view of the foreign invaders … but acceptable."

"How painful?"

"The Maoists would wrongfully accuse us of the misdeed and draw attention to us rather than the Japanese. Chinese would fight Chinese, opening the gate wider for Japan. Then, after we have won the internal struggle, we would be faced with removing the entrenched invader. It would be very painful for China and the world."

"Never mind the world. The time is ripe for China. She is too large for any but the Chinese to occupy."

"Yes, the Japanese are learning even now how wide our countryside is."

"But?"

"A terrible river of blood will flow … an acceptable amount, though, if that is what it takes for China finally to have true leadership."

"Might the unfortunate death happen in a few days?"

"Did it not when you were a young man?"

A messenger entered with a note and fled.

"Stilwell!" said Chiang. "He will be here shortly with his advisors, demanding we join him in engaging the Japanese in Burma. He's opened Lido Road to India and thinks we owe him something for the supplies now flowing into China."

"Shall I—"

"No, not while Stilwell is here. Mao will have to wait. I will most certainly remove Stilwell as my allied chief-of-staff."

April, 2022, Boston

Something had changed. Marisa hadn't heard from Bernadette in a week and could not sleep.

She still got an obnoxious This is not a working number message. The guy at AnsiPhone said it could never have been a working number.

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir," said Marisa. "Never mind about the dialing plan in France, as there wasn't one when Bernadette was alive." She slammed the phone down out of grief.

She hadn't seen any time-traveling assassins, either, although several neighbors had, and had called the police. She could put it off no longer; she signed the will.

As Bernadette had said, there was a mailbox behind the dilapidated farm machinery store on County Road 5. Marisa mailed the first of four letters to a woman in India who had died eighty years ago, to preserve what already is, but might not be, later.

Marisa looked up into the sky. "This seems like an awfully convoluted plan, if I may say so … but for an omniscient, I guess it's as simple as any."