Fall Revolution 4: The Sky Road

debates on SU etc. Depressing thought ‘Marxism is a load of
crap’ kept coming to mind. Then Unity Books on W 23d.
Couldn’t bear going to Pathfinder. After my little
adventure, not sure I want to face the Fourth International cdes
either. Or they me. Agh.
     
    Fri Jul 17 98. Hot humid afternoon, rainstorm later. Met M on
Staten Isl ferry. Leaned on the rail and looked at old Liberty
thro near fog. M seems to know I’m telling the old gang
about his approaches. Thing is he doesn’t seem to mind.
(Girl with pink hair on the ferry. Swear same girl was in
Boston. Am I being followed or getting paranoid?)
     
    I couldn’t make head nor tail of this, and turned over
to the last of the entries.
     
    Thurs Dec 17 98. Almaty again. Hotel lounge TV tuned
permanently to CNN. Green light of city falling in the night.
Hospital filling up. Fucking Yanks. Here I am trying to help
development, there they are trying to roll it back.
     
    After that, nothing but a stain and an angry scribble, where
the pen had dug into and torn the page. Perhaps she’d
reached the end of that notebook, or stopped keeping a diary. I
leafed through the rest of the papers, with an oppressive feeling
that seeing through their present opacity would take even longer
than I’d thought. Then an idly turned page brought me to a
stop.
    It was a photocopy of an old article she’d written,but
it was a small advertisement accidentally included at its margin
that caught my eye. It was for a public meeting on ‘Fifty
Years of the Fourth International’ and it had in one corner
a symbol which was identical to the monogram on Menial’s
pendant. It was all I could do not to knock my forehead or cry
out at my own stupidity. What I’d thought were the letters
‘G’ and ‘T’ were in fact the hammer and
sickle of the communist symbol, and the meaning of the
‘4’ was self-evident. I’d missed the connection
just because the symbol faced in the opposite direction to the
one on the Soviet flag.
    The sinister significance of the hammer and sickle made me
feel slightly nauseous; the implication of that same symbol
appearing across such a gulf of time induced a certain
giddiness.
    I closed the file and looked up, and found myself meeting
Menial’s equally baffled eyes.
    ‘It’s all either not very interesting, or
completely fucking incomprehensible,’ she said.
    ‘Same here,’ I said. ‘Let’s leave
it’
    All that long afternoon, we talked about other things.
    Batdes, mostly, as I recall. The train pulled into the station
at Carron Town on the dot of six. The sun was still high, the
late afternoon still warm. Once again tired and jaded by our
journey, Menial and I left the train with an access of energy and
a surge of hunger. Menial led the way straight to The Carronade,
and we settled into a dark corner of the strangely
polished-smelling bar with plates of farmed trout and
fresh-picked peas and new potatoes, accompanied with a shared jug
of beer.
    ‘I can’t wait to get back to your place,’ I
said, ‘get a bit of privacy, and get my face right down
into… the files.’
    She laughed. ‘Aye, it’ll be great to get a good
look at them at last, without having to look over our
shoulders.’
    But as she said it she was looking over my shoulder, as she
had done every minute or so all through the meal. She had her
back to the wall, I had my back to the bar. The pub was beginning
to fill up with people from the project, in for a quick drink on
their way home or to their lodgings. As yet I’d heard no
voices I recognised.
    ‘You seem a wee bit on edge,’ I said.
    ‘Aye, well, like I said on the train…’
    Tergal?’
    Tes.’
    ‘You’re expecting to meet him here?’ I
asked, remembering that we were in this bar on her – albeit
welcome – suggestion.
    She opened her hands. ‘Maybe. Depends.’
    ‘On what?’ I piled up our empty plates and lit a
cigarette.
    ‘Och, on how they want to play it,’ she said,
sounding unaccustomedly bitter.
    ‘Secrets or no secrets,’ I said, trying to keep my
tone light, ‘you’re going to have to let me in on
this, sooner or later. I’m getting thoroughly tired of
seeing you looking worried.’
    ‘I don’t have to do anything!’ she
flared. ‘And you don’t have to see me looking
like anything!’
    I said nothing, staring at her, shocked and annoyed but
already forgiving her; she’d been under a lot of tension,
for reasons I knew