I shudder to think of the cost of such a spectacle when walking through the outlying areas of Módekó and seeing the dilapidated homes and run down streets. These communities, which often ring C'estia’s larger cities and towns, are known colloquially as Boxvilles. The homes occupied by the residents of these neighborhoods are often abandoned warehouse buildings, shacks, or sometimes makeshift homes put together from plywood, crates, or whatever building materials are at hand. Vandalism is not uncommon, and some residents have been known to cover broken windows with cellophane or plastic wrap when wood is not available. Animals run wild and children roam the streets unattended, left largely to fend for themselves. Why do such conditions exist in a nation with such a high standard of living? Why are these people left to live in such squalor and neglect when over 95% of other C'estians live in comparative comfort?


CASE ONE: The Heffermans

“Stupid goddamned C'estians,” Bert fumes one night as I join the family for dinner. The dinner is served on paper plates and plastic utensils, the family’s “good” silverware and dishes having been sold at the marketplace long ago. Tonight’s specialty is makeshift pitál, made from rice, bread, tomatoes, and crushed pepper. Ordinarily, this C'estian dish is made with a mixture of spices, tomatoes, and vegetables on fresh bread and baked; budget limitations require some innovation on Beth’s part. I note that the tomatoes are only just mashed, instead of pulped as is usual, while the pepper has a gravelly texture to it (evidently ground by hand) and is far from the fine powder the dish usually calls for. The bread is ordinary sandwich bread, toasted over a small fire to keep it from going stale.

“Stupid goddamned C'estians,” Bert fumes again. He takes a bite out of his pitál, chews, and swallows. “Don’t like to help no one but their own.”

“Bert,” Beth admonishes, “you know I don’t like it when you speak that way. C'estia is really a nice place to live. You just had a few bad experiences, that’s all.”

“A few bad experiences? I’ll say I did. A decent, hardworking person can’t get along for anything in this godforsaken iceberg of a place!”

“Look at me!” he says, turning to me, “I trained as an industrial engineer. I have skills, damn it, skills that are supposedly in demand here. I come and bust my ass working for these people, and then they decide to hire some C'estian whatsisname to come in and take over my job. I didn’t do a damn thing that I wasn’t supposed to do, they just didn’t want an outsider in a position where he could tell C'estian workers what to do! It’s racism, pure and simple!”

I see Beth wince, but she manages a smile and tries to calm Bert in a sweet, imploring voice: “But, honey, maybe you were just a little - what is the term – ‘heavy handed’ - with some of the other people at the firm. You have always been capable, but you may have seemed overconfident with your level of training. And since you came from outside the islands, your colleagues may just have mistaken that confidence for racism.”

“Me? Me, racist?! I treated them just like I treated people back home! I never acted like I was better than any of them just because! It was them - they - who treated ME shabbily! They looked at me, and thought, ‘oh yeah, look at the Outlander! He thinks he’s something special!’”

“That’s just the way it’s been out here, you know,” he continues, turning to me again. “There aren’t many of us in this country, so you know they think they can treat us like shit. Just look around out here. Nearly half of the people here in Boxville are from outside the islands, or from Tritonia. Together our two groups make up just over ten percent of the total population, yet almost fifty percent of the residents of Boxville. I think that says something about the attitudes here. We starve to death eating shit (he directs my attention to the slice of pitál in his hand) while in downtown X'Lαd some jackass throws a two million dollar extravaganza to show off his wealth, and the Prince and Prime Minister make appearances. We’ve got people down here living out of cardboard boxes, picking the dirt out of their food, sleeping on wooden slats and making blankets out of newspapers, and some wealthy playboy and playgirl blow a million dollars apiece to entertain a bunch of wealthy high society fucks for just one night! What does the Crown care about people like us, people who bust their asses just to get from one day to the next in a shabby little shit hole like this?!”

I wonder myself about royalty’s appearances at some of these expensive extravaganzas, but decide to say nothing about it. Now Beth speaks up:

“Bert, you do the Crown an injustice. It’s considered a great honor for royalty to attend a private gathering. Prince Tór must be careful not to give the appearance that he cares little for such events, lest he be seen as a hermit who refuses to move about among the people.”

“When will he meet with those people who aren’t filthy rich? When will he come out here to our little neck of the woods?! He moves about around big, expensive extravaganzas like that one in X'Lαd, but he doesn’t come out here, he doesn’t come out to Módekó where the so-called Box people live!”

“Prince Tór makes the rounds of his people. He visits each province during The Month of Alsàlez, and he stops to talk to the people who live there.”

“I bet he does - to the rich, and those people who put millions of dollars into the royal coffers every year!”

I can see Beth getting angrier. “Everyone pays taxes, Bert, even in Boxville! The more money one makes and spends, the more one pays in taxes. The Crown does not keep that money - it is used for the good of the country, for funding social programs and running the government, and for supporting trade, research and development, and. . .”

“Like industrial development?! See what that investment got for me? For us?!”

“Yes, I see what it ‘got’ for us!” Beth interrupts, furious now. “It ‘got’ us a great place to stay in a nice, safe, clean neighborhood close to downtown, near one of the best schools in the province, where our children could have learned math and engineering and computer design or whatever else they wanted from some of the best teachers in the islands! We had the potential for a great life here, and you had to go throw it all away with that attitude of yours! Do you think that you are the only Outlander in this country, and therefore you must ‘show’ everyone else how great and self sufficient you are?! That because you came here from the outside that you are therefore something higher and better than all the C'estians in whose home you have come to live?!”

“Are you saying that this is all my fault?!” Barry accuses, tensing in his seat.

“It certainly isn’t my fault! I. . .”

“You had a job, too! You could’ve kept on with your design work! I never stopped you! You stopped yourself! You don’t even design clothes for the children any more! Look at Elizabeth, and Billy, going around in clothes picked up out of the charity bins! Why don’t you go back to work?! I bust my ass to make money for this family to live off of, and you don’t do a goddamned thing! Why don’t. . .”

“Bert!” she snaps, acknowledging my presence at the table. “We have a guest!”

Bert sits down gruffly, and resumes nibbling away at his food. I look at Beth, and feel for her. She returns my look, but only for a moment, and begins to tell me about her family’s history in the islands.

“I was born here 28 years ago, to Jacob and Linda Moseby. Both of my parents were second-generation immigrants, my maternal grandmother having arrived from Eastern Europe 50 years ago as a member of a group of refugees. Ethel was an outsider in an alien culture, didn’t speak the language, and had no real skills that could be used in conquering the wilderness. She met and fell in with Michael Burke, a North American who had been hired by the Crown to help survey the northern territories preparatory to settlement. Ethel and Michael had three children together, of which my mother was the oldest. Helsë, my paternal grandmother, met and married Juan Hector Garcia, whose parents had fought in the Foreign Legion during the Tritonian War for Independence and who had decided to settle in the islands. Hector and Helsë moved across the water to C'estia during the big construction boom. In keeping with tradition, my parents adopted a new family name, deciding upon Moseby after an earlier Moseby who helped open up the northern territories for colonization.

“I made my decision to study outside the islands against the wishes of my parents, who were convinced that the Continents were dangerous places. However, despite my parents’ concerns, I decided to apply when the student exchange program began. I had read so much about the Continents, about the many languages and cultures, and about the cradles of civilization, that I couldn’t resist the chance to experience some of those wonders for myself. And so I made arrangements to spend three years studying at Oxford University in England.

“Upon my arrival I learned that my presence had caused something of a stir among the student body. Many were surprised but pleased to find that I was of Continental descent, like themselves. I was quickly bombarded with questions about C'estia - about what it is like to live here, about speaking the language and interacting with other C'estians and Tritonians, and other things of that nature. I learned that many were ignorant of the customs and practices here, that many were the prey of ignorant gossip and speculation. After my first year of studies were completed, I met Bert. He had just arrived in London and was seeking employment at the newly opened Bishop-Ayres plant as an industrial engineer. Two years later, toward the end of my last semester at Oxford, we were married. Our prospects seemed unlimited, especially here in the islands where there was so much more opportunity for someone with Bert’s skills than there was in England. We moved here, and the next year our son Billy was born.”

At this point Billy turns to me with a grin, and announces, “That’s me. I’m Billy!” I smile and nod. Beth continues:

“The following year, Elizabeth was born. We were joyously happy. My family loved Bert, we were making very good money, I had several apprentice designers in my employ, and everything generally went well. When Bert lost his job, I didn’t worry. I knew that we could easily continue to support ourselves. It’s so easy to make a life here that there was hardly any cause to worry. But. . .” Beth trails off, melancholic.

Bert glares at her, and says nothing. We finish the dinner in an uneasy silence.

At five the next morning, Bert gathers his wares and sets off for the marketplace. Beth does not see him off. The children are fed a breakfast of makeshift mesakà, a C'estian hot cereal which normally consists of grains, rice, and oats, topped with fruit and mixed with milk, but which this time consists of mashed rice from the previous night, bread crumbs, and water along with some powdered milk, topped with tomatoes. Billy, who turns six years old next week, scowls at the offering, remembering better days, but Elizabeth devours it with relish. After breakfast both children run out to play while Beth clears up the dishes. I watch her as she works and wonder to myself how such poverty can be allowed to exist here, in a place said to have one of the highest qualities of life to be found anywhere. Life in the islands is a mostly stable, peaceful, and idyllic existence, with good educational opportunities, a strong, healthy social system and high standard of living, and where poverty is almost nonexistent. Or so I once believed.

Beth finishes her chores, and sits down at the makeshift table opposite me. Two of the table legs are propped up with crates. She looks down for a few moments, and then faces me.

“Don, I hate it here. This is no kind of life. It’s so humiliating - living like vermin, watching my children grow up without the things that others take for granted, things to which they are entitled but do not receive, such as a good education, good food, a clean place to stay, access to the libraries, to everything. Elizabeth hardly speaks a word of English. I try to teach it to her, since she doesn’t go to school, but she leaves me and communicates with her friends in C'estian. Billy should be in school, but he doesn’t go because he tells me that the other children always ask him why he dresses the way he does, and eats the way he does, and he doesn’t want to tell them where he lives, and how he lives. Bert refuses to accept what he calls “charity” from anyone, even from our own families, and because of his attitude our family is isolated from the rest of the larger community. He insists that our family have what everyone else has, but ‘on our own terms,’ and ‘by our own hands.’ He insists that we not accept help.”

She lays her face in her hands, and reflects for a moment before continuing, bitterly:

“It pains me to reflect on what has happened to me these last few years. I have gone from happy and prosperous to this - living in squalid conditions in the midst of criminals!” She shakes her head. “My best friend always told me to be careful of people from the Continents! I never listened! I should have listened to her!”

I inquire whether her best friend was C'estian. She answers in the affirmative.

“Yes, she was! ‘Be careful of Outlanders, Bethany!,’ she said to me. ‘I know that they aren’t all bad, but those who are will ruin your life if you let them! Be careful of Outlanders!’ I often wish I had been more careful. But everything just seemed so right.” She turns to me. “Do you know what I mean?”

I nod, having myself been in an unsuccessful relationship or two.

She watches me and sighs. “Maybe you do know, but maybe not. I was so convinced that I had met the right person when I consented to marry him. It all fit together so well - Bert was so enthusiastic, and kind, and had such potential; he embodied so much of what I admired in a person, and he was ‘crazy about me’ - of that I have no doubt. We were about to make a life together in a land of great opportunity for him, where the living was good and the future seemingly unbounded. And we were really happy, for a time. I was a great success in my work, and Bert was an important man in his. . .and then he lost his job, and his attitude began to sour. He blamed racism for his loss. Oh, I’m not so naïve as to think that there is no racism in this country. There are always some Traditionalists out there who believe in an all-C'estian C'estia, who want all the Outlanders and Tritonians to leave, but I don’t believe that Bert was fired simply because he is an Outlander.

“I noticed something in his attitude after we had lived here for a few months, something I couldn’t quite account for at first, but which I now recognize to have been a sense of isolation and annoyance. Bert felt, and still feels himself to be, a stranger in a land of strange people. The language is different, and so many of the customs are different, and there aren’t very many other Continentals around us. He felt ill-at-ease, and was headstrong to begin with, and I guess that everything about him drove him to be protective, to be on the defensive against anything he might perceive as a threat. His attitude is what got him fired, I’m sure of it.

“He’s so defensive now that he refuses to allow us to accept help. Everyone seems to be a stranger to him, because most people here are C'estians and because he can’t speak the language very well. Before we moved here I began teaching it to him, so that he would be able to get along and be able to read the newspapers and the job applications. He learned quickly enough to land the job he wanted, and the man who hired him had attended school at Tritonia University and spoke English. Bert doesn’t even try to speak much C'estian now, only enough to get by at the marketplace. And he becomes so hostile now when people can’t speak English to him.” She reflects for a moment, bitterly. “Maybe there’s something to that idea of making fluency in C'estian a prerequisite for immigration!”

We sit and talk for a half hour or so, at which point Beth’s friend from three units down pays us a visit. Audrey is an attractive young lady of 19, with dark hair and a fairly delicate complexion. Her boyfriend is 17 year old Brock Sóberon, who lives with her in a run down old shack three units down. Audrey is a C'estian, and Brock is Tritonian. Beth introduces us, and we all sit down and talk around the table. For my benefit, the conversation is in English. Audrey speaks with a pronounced C'estian accent, and Brock looks to her or to Beth for help in translation during our talk.

Audrey comes from a family which, though not expressly Traditionalist in its attitudes, nevertheless strongly opposed her relationship with Brock. Brock’s parents serve as swimming instructors in T'pαu, some eighty miles away. The two decided to run away together, and pooled their savings so as to set up a household in Módekó while attending the local University. Brock studied painting and ceramics, and planned to work with clay and canvas. Audrey studied literature and language, and looked forward to working as a freelance writer and critic for Torpólis, Módekó’s local newspaper and entertainment guide, and eventually to move on to a journalistic career as a foreign affairs correspondent. Neither ambition worked out as planned, and after six months the couple found themselves out of work and out of a home. Audrey’s parents offered to take her back if she and Brock separated, but she indignantly declined the offer. I wonder aloud why they don’t go to live with Brock’s family.

“They don’t like our being together, either,” Audrey answers. “They received some hate mail from a Traditionalist group once about a year ago, letters of a threatening nature. The police found the people responsible, but the Sóberons never got over the fear that our relationship would lead to trouble. They have offered to take us, but we don’t want them on those terms. And we’re too proud to give in to people who can’t accept us, even if our plans did go a bit awry.”

After Audrey and Brock leave, Beth confides her belief that Audrey is at the root of most of the couple’s problems. “She’s proud, and obstinate, like Bert. She’s so determined to ‘show everyone’ that she doesn’t need their approval of her relationship with Brock that she makes a point of ‘going her own way,’ and living in squalor in these wretched conditions. With her talents, she could easily find a position at a newspaper or fiction weekly, or she could work as a correspondent for a Tritonian newspaper. I’ve seen some of her work - it’s excellent. She doesn’t realize it herself, but I think she secretly enjoys living in Boxville. By managing to ‘make it’ here, she feels she is ‘showing the world’ that she doesn’t give a damn about it or its attitudes. She’s in rebellion against her parents.”

I note that Brock had remained fairly silent during much of our talk. Perhaps he was uncomfortable expressing himself in English?

Beth nods agreement. “But don’t think that’s the whole of it. I think he is intimidated by Audrey and the strength of her attitudes. Brock has always been shy and not very assertive. How he and Audrey ever got together is a mystery to me. But I sense gloom in him. He tries to cover it up, but occasionally I feel that he isn’t quite happy in Boxville. Of course, who would be, who really would be? Brock would really like to go home, back to his family who love him and want him back. But he’s too afraid of Audrey to accept his family’s offer. Audrey would have a fit.”

“Do you think he really loves her?” I inquire.

“I think he did, once. But I’m not so sure about now. He believes that he does, but I daresay the flame has burned itself out.”

That afternoon I take a walk in the direction of the marketplace. I want to meet up with Bert and see how he is making out at his booth. Beth had told me that the merchandise on display there was of an increasingly inferior quality, with the most desirable items having been sold long ago. Having focused all his ambitions elsewhere, Bert had failed to develop a well-rounded pallette of skills, and, as a result, his talents lay primarily in industrial engineering and computer science. It was his lack of training in the domestic arts that impelled, or rather forced, Beth to take on all the household responsibilities following Elizabeth’s birth. After the family’s relocation to Boxville, Beth became the sole care giver for the entire family. Her marriage to Bert was subsequently strained, but in their current situation neither partner earns enough money for the family to move out of Boxville. Because Bert’s booth and odd jobs bring home the family’s only source of income, and a very meager one at that, the family’s expenses for food and the rarer article of clothing or book do not leave enough money behind for a relocation. And Bert refuses to leave Boxville until the family can do it without any help from without.

I often wondered why Beth didn’t leave Bert and seek help from the Mosebys. It would make sense to do so, and all the financial problems would be solved. Or, as an alternative, she could go back to work as a fashion designer and leave Boxville for a flat in the city. As a designer, Beth earned upwards of 10,000$ per article of clothing designed. Where did all this money go? These questions circle about my head as I approach the marketplace and Bert’s booth.

I find Bert displaying a homemade friendship bracelet to a customer. The customer has gray hair and a stately white beard, and is clad in an North American-style business suit. He is a very distinguished-looking gentleman, from South America, I decide, and obviously very successful. At his side stands a rather attractive young lady, possibly his wife but presumably his girlfriend or daughter. He and Bert shake hands, the man slips Bert half a stone (50$), and the girl slips the bracelet onto her wrist as the two walk on to the next booth. Bert turns to me and remarks wistfully, “I should have been that man.”

“It’s these damned C'estians,” Bert tells me. “They’re responsible for this. I could have been somebody. I have the know-how, the skills, the drive, the ambition to succeed. The possibilities for success here are supposedly boundless. They say that the only way to end up in poverty here is to want to be poor. They say that there’s no reason at all why a person shouldn’t live the good life here. Well, that’s all well and good, as long as you’re a C'estian.

“You know something? I came here ready and willing to succeed, ready to do my part and ready to be a part of the community. I never did or said anything to anyone to suggest that I was better than them. Maybe I did think of myself as a little better than everyone else here, but I never talked down to anybody unless they deserved to be talked down to. I admit that I was probably a little prejudiced. It’s just the way things are, you know? We don’t get too many C'estians or Tritonians back home, so we don’t know exactly what it’s like out here. All the news you hear back home about the goings-on out here concerns the Traditionalists and their talk about making up an all-C'estian country. Beth says that the outside media is sensationalist, and since most of the time it’s nice out here the only stories that get reported are the worst ones. I don’t deny there’s something to that. In fact, I know that most people here are friendly and not racist. I myself know several C'estians I admire greatly, C'estians who are my best friends. But that didn’t keep me from getting shafted like I’ve been.”

A customer walks up and inquires about the quarter sitting on the table. Bert tells her that it comes from a place called Rhode Island, in the United States of America, and that it was one of the last to be minted with the image of the Reliance on the reverse. The customer looks at the quarter, compares its size with the shilling coin she brought back from a recent visit to Tritonia, and asks how much it costs. Bert tells her to make him an offer. She offers Bert half a baron (500$). Bert hesitates, then accepts the offer. He wraps the coin in foil for her and she hands him a few pieces of silver. After the customer has left, Bert continues:

“I expected there to be more of us here, Don. They say that 7% of this country’s population is of foreign descent, so that means there’s some 130,000 so called-Continentals out here somewhere. I can’t remember ever having seen more than a few at a time. Most of them live in little pockets of towns here and there, and around the big cities. I wish I knew more of them. I always thought that with Beth and the kids we were going to have, and with a good job, that everything would be all right, that everything would be great. But that’s not how it all worked out. Maybe I should’ve done some research. Maybe I should’ve found out where a lot of other Outlanders lived and had the family move there. Beth wanted to be near her family in Tolero [the main township in the Módekó parish], and I had just come to the islands and didn’t know much about them, so I just trusted to her judgment. After we lost everything, we had to move out here in the sticks. I didn’t know anything about keeping house, so Beth took that over. She stopped her designing work. She didn’t have to stop her designing work! She could’ve taken the train up to Tolero and displayed her designs, like she used to. She could’ve gotten her assistants to come to us after she started staying at home full-time, like they used to come back in the day!”

I get the uncomfortable impression that Bert prefers Beth’s assistants not visit her in Boxville, because they would offer help, and that would be intolerable.

“The big difference is, I guess, that Beth is used to doing things with other people around, and I’m not. I don’t like to depend on everyone else to get things done. I don’t like to have to go to my mother- and father-in-law and say that we’ve fucked up, can you help us?”

“Do you like your in-laws?” I ask him.

“Yeah, they’re great. When I first arrived here with Beth, they welcomed me into the family with a big dinner party. I met Beth’s friends, and they told to me how happy they all were to meet me, having heard so much about me from Beth’s letters.” He pauses and reflects for a moment. “I guess,” he continues, a little brokenly, “I guess I never really thought enough about how all this would affect her. I mean, being cut away from her family and friends and all that, having married me and lost everything. I guess we looked like a model family for a while there, when we were doing good, doing well, that is. She was so proud of us, and so were they - her family. Then all this shit happened. I get so ashamed of it all. Beth doesn’t realize how much I hate myself for what’s happened. I know how disappointed she is, and how disappointed her family must be.

“Beth broke with precedent by marrying me, you know. She did something that isn’t usually done out here, marrying an outsider. Marrying me at all, hell. Usually people who get married to C'estians have lived here a while, and become acculturated. I wasn’t. I married her in my home, and then she brought me here. I think she regrets doing that, though she doesn’t say so. She feels like she made a mistake, that she should’ve tried to arrange to bring me here for a while, to see how well things worked out with me and the whole cultural thing first. She could have petitioned the immigration board to recommend residency status with eventual naturalized citizenship for me, and I’m sure she could have gotten it. But we were both swept off our feet, and in love, and when I proposed that she marry me she agreed. She’d been living off the islands for nearly three years by that time. We were both so giddy that I guess we didn’t think enough about our plans for the future, except for the immediate future. If she hadn’t been away so long, I doubt she ever would have agreed to a marriage at all. I don’t know how familiar you are with the laws here - I guess you must know something about them since you’re working for the Crown - but in C'estia, unlike most other places, it’s possible to get immediate citizenship through marriage with a native citizen. I don’t suppose it happens much; anyhow the law is still on the books, and the Crown has never rescinded it since it’s not often invoked, and. . .” He pauses for a moment.

“In Tritonia, you know, things are different,” Bert continues, changing the subject. “Maybe we should’ve gone to Tritonia. At least there, everything’s not all about money like it is here. You don’t have to bust your ass and stretch your budget so much. If I had gone there, things would’ve been different. We could have made it so much easier, and I could have studied art and philosophy and all that stuff that I couldn’t study much here because I can’t speak the language so well. And Tritonia Universities - man, talk about par excellence! We visited there [Tritonia] once, just after Elizabeth was born. I saw immediately why Tritonia is such a hot spot for the fabulously wealthy to visit. And everything was so cheap compared to here! Almost the only things we had to pay for were room and board at our hotel, and we paid only eighty shillings per night!”

After pausing for a few moments, Bert becomes somber again. “You know, Don, if we’d gone to Tritonia, things probably would’ve been different,” he continues, wistfully. “But I’m just talking like a fool. We never would have gone there, not with Beth’s family here. And I wanted to go wherever she went. And we probably couldn’t have gotten in anyway. I guess Beth could have gotten in, being from the islands and speaking the language, but I was an outsider, and anyway the laws regarding immigration are more strict in Tritonia. What the hell!”

“You know that man, the one who was looking at the friendship bracelet when you came?” Bert asks that evening as we make preparations to return to Boxville. “He came here on a tourist visa. He’s filthy rich, having made a killing in the energy business back home, and he’s visiting the islands for a month with his girlfriend. I don’t know if she loves him or not, or if he’s getting something for bringing her out here with him, or what’s going on. Whatever it is, there’s hardly a girl back home who wouldn’t jump at the chance to visit Tritonia, and that’s where they’re headed the day after tomorrow. I could have been just as comfortable as that guy, with the standard of living out here. I look at that guy, and think, ‘now why the hell am I living like shit?’ It doesn’t make sense that I should have been turned out the way I was, you know what I mean?” I agree that it doesn’t make sense for Bert to live in destitution, but choose not to voice the rest of my opinion, that there’s no reason why he shouldn’t rise up out of it.

Upon our arrival at the Hefferman home, Beth tells us that dinner is late. Elizabeth ate the last of the leftovers for lunch, and Billy made off with the remainder of the bread and peanut butter to treat his friends to a Continental snack, peanut butter sandwiches. Beth asks Bert what he brought home from the marketplace today. Ordinarily Bert skips lunch and makes the rounds of the food court to help build up stores for the following week. As a result, he often comes home without a dollar on his person. Today was an unusually prosperous day, however, thanks in large part to the money he received for the American quarter he found stuffed in an old pair of trousers last night. He was reluctant to part with it, as foreign money is difficult to come by in the islands, but the necessities of eating and living compelled him to offer it for sale. In all, Bert pocketed almost 900$ today, more than he has earned at the marketplace in months. Beth is pitifully ecstatic over the money. She would tell me later that this was because the family would at last have something to save for a leaner period. Bert has a different idea, however.

“We’re going to go out and eat a decent meal for a change!” he announces. “We’re heading out to Mac’s [a greasy-spoon diner 80 kilometers away that caters to tourists] for dinner!”

Billy scowls. Elizabeth jumps up and down, clapping her hands together with excitement. Beth is aghast.

“What do you mean, we’re going to Mac’s for dinner?! Do you know how much that will cost? After riding the train there and back and eating that disgusting food, we will have spent all our money! What will we eat between tomorrow and next week?!”

“I brought home the usual stuff from the food court, honey! We’ll have something to eat. Why not enjoy ourselves for once, since we can afford it?”

“We should save that money, for some time down the road when we may need it!” Beth argues. “It’s our safety net, something to catch us if we start to fall. It may be a long time before you make as much at your booth again, Bert.”

“Jesus Christ! You’d have me put all this in a bottle or something, and eat shit even though we can afford to eat well for once! What’s the matter with you? I haven’t had decent food to eat in ages! And. . .”

“Decent food?!” Beth sneers, cutting him off angrily. “You call that slop that is served at Mac’s decent food?! And you say that you have to ‘eat shit’ now! Hamburgers and french fries - that’s what you would have us eat! You want us to eat that disgusting Continental ‘fast food’!”

“You lived in the ‘Continents’ for three years, and it was good enough for you then!”

“I don’t want to eat that. . .‘fast food’ when we can eat good food instead!”

“You call that stuff you make good food?!”

“I do the best I can with what I have, damn it!” Beth yells, her anger erupting into fury. “I’m no cook, and I never was! If you’d let us go home, or come down off your high and mighty horse so someone could help us, we could do so much better!”

“Oh, so now everything’s all my fault again! Just because you won’t go to work, and I can’t get a real job around here. . .”

Beth, more calmly now, attempts to defuse Bert’s anger with an explanation: “Dear, I’ve told you why I can’t get much work done on my designs. You’ve trained as an industrial engineer, but you never received any exposure to the domestic arts. Your mother always did everything around the house for you. I. . .”

“Don’t blame my mother! You could work! What’s stopping you? You were making damn good money, and now it’s all gone! If we still had that money. . .”

I quietly slip outside and head off toward my bungalow two kilometers away. I get the feeling that something significant, perhaps cataclysmic, is brewing, and that if I stay I may gain some insight into the apparent evaporation of Beth’s earnings as a clothing designer. But something else tells me that now is my time to exit.

Nearing the edge of Boxville, I run into Brock. We stop and talk for a few minutes, with a little difficulty due to the language barrier. Just then Elizabeth comes running up to us, breathless with exertion, and begins talking excitedly in rapid-fire C'estian. I implore her to slow down as I struggle to make sense of her words, and look entreatingly toward Brock, who nods his comprehension and begins talking to her. She pauses for a moment, then begins again in slow English. It appears that Bert has taken off for Mac’s Diner with Gjenó, a C'estian friend from four units down, and that Beth wants to see me right away. As soon as we arrive, she pulls me aside.

“I’ve reached my limit, Don. I’m going back to work tomorrow. To hell with Bert and his ideas about self-sufficiency. Our way isn’t his way, and since he can’t see that, I’m going to make him see it. I’m going to leave Boxville right now. I’m tired of spending the days sitting around the house, without any supplies for working on my designs, trying to make it on 1,000$ per week. I have made up my mind to return to my old life, the way things were before I ever met Bert. I’m going to file for divorce.”

I’m sure I look my surprise as she tells me this.

“You’re surprised. I can read it in your face. Well, the most surprising thing is that I’ve waited so long to do this. I know that my case will attract notice, but it’s worth it. I was such a fool ever to marry Bert! I should have have brought him here first, to see if everything would work out, but I didn’t. I should have. I don’t say that it’s all Bert’s fault - we just aren’t right for each other, at least not here in the islands. Maybe if we had stayed in the Continents - in London, or in the United States, we would have been happier.”

She looks me in the eye. “Don, you’ve been with us for only a week now, but I want to ask a favor of you. Will you speak on my behalf at the hearing? Under C'estian law you cannot be compelled to testify in a civil case without being formally served, but I would like your help. Will you give it to me?”

I hesitate. As much as I want to help Beth, I would be jeopardizing my position in the community. I know that Bert has many friends in Boxville, friends who would probably turn their backs on me were I to get involved. Already many are suspicious of my intentions here. Beth senses my reluctance.

“That’s okay, Don, I understand. Brock will speak for me, I’m sure. He doesn’t like Bert very much, and neither does Audrey. Brock will go with me back home to Tolero, I believe.” She turns and calls out to him. “Brock!”

Brock appears, and she asks him a question in C'estian. He nods agreement. “Brock will help me, Don. You needn’t worry. . .”

I feel crestfallen, but Beth comes to me and takes my hands in hers. “Don, it’s okay. I understand, I really do. One thing to remember about the people here is that we are empathetic. I understand your dilemma, and recognize the fact that you are here on a commission from the Crown to provide a service. Try not to let this bother you too much. I promise not to request your presence at the hearing unless absolutely necessary.” Having said this, Beth calls the children and Brock into the house to get ready for the next train trip to Tolero, and home.

Tomorrow afternoon she will make an appearance at the parish courthouse to speak to her local representative, who will put forth a motion for divorce in the House of Commons. Ultimate terms of the dissolution of the marriage, including and especially those related to Bert’s status as a C'estian resident, will have to be determined by the immigration committee and the courts. I don’t want to be around when Bert learns that Beth has made off for Tolero with Brock.

As I walk away in the direction of my bungalow, I turn back for one more look at the home shared by Beth and Bert as it disappears down the hilly slope of the street. I can’t shake off the feeling that I have betrayed a friend and failed to be there for her in a time of need. Although I have known her for only eight days, I am privy to many of her hopes and aspirations, I have shared many of her everyday experiences, sat at her family’s table as a guest and eaten the family’s food. I remind myself that I made my objectives clear to everyone in Boxville upon my arrival, and that at no time did I ever misrepresent my intentions as an information-gatherer for the Crown. Recognition of the tradition that, in C'estia, friends and family do not desert each other in times of need, haunts me, and as the community disappears into the distance behind me, I cannot help but feel that I have permanently lost a good friend.