Mirka

I got my three day foraging pass at the Penn State border without any problems. In those days, soon after the war, the locals numbly accepted the terms of the treaty. There had been some incidences of retaliation against lone Coasters but these had been dealt with and their Manners Police kept things pretty well under control.

Even so, we only went on these foraging trips in large high-sided rigs with plenty of protection on the outside and in the cab. At the border, they slapped da-glo identification stickers, colour coded for the period of the permit, all along the bodywork and on the back doors. There was also a special panel in front of the grille with a place for a sticker there. It made us as conspicuous as hell and the rigs were pigs to drive down some of the country roads but it kept their Road Police at a respectful distance and allowed us to ignore their local speed limits on the highways.

Don't get me wrong. When I say I felt a certain pity for the Staters, this has got nothing to do with them losing the war. I just don't know how they can live in those small one street towns or out on those farms. The silence deafens me. It's pretty, sure enough, but so's the city at night, or a lit-up cracker plant, and I know which brand of prettiness I prefer.

On this trip I'd parked the rig on the forecourt of the gas station where the interstate comes into J....ville. It's a town I usually avoid; it's very provinciality - prissy correctness straight from some out-of-date tourist brochure - gives me the willies. We meet hostility everywhere we go in the State and we are trained and prepared for that, but in J...ville, even the modest small town architecture accuses. I let Jumbo out of his hutch behind the cab, gave him a bit of a fuss and made sure the pump boys got a good look at him before he crept back into the shade under the front train. I left him on a nice long chain, buckled on my mace stick holster and went on down the main street to see what the farm produce market had got. I quite like to walk down these streets and let the hostility bounce back off the sidewalks; it sets things up nicely for the business end. The locals, mainly fair-skinned, light-eyed Dutch look at me from under their peaked caps and I don't need to know Dutch to know what some of those looks are saying... but they wouldn't dare; I know it, and they know I know it.

As I say, most of the locals thereabouts are fair or of a nondescript mousy colour and the women keep their hair pretty well out of sight. Lord knows why - with all that sunlight and fresh air, even straight blond flax should get a shine to it. Maybe they just don't like to attract attention when the foragers are in town. So that's why it was quite a shock to see her behind the market stall. She was as pale skinned as the rest with grey or green eyes - I couldn't make them out in the poor light of the market. - but she had a head of tumbling black curls that would have graced one of my own race. It fell down behind her ears onto good strong shoulders. The upper part of her body - all I could see above the table behind which she was standing -was neatly, demurely even, encased in starched white linen in stark contrast to that wonderful crop of curls. As neat and proper as her dress was, it was clear to me that under that blouse, dwelt a bosom of magic proportions.

I don't allow myself to get distracted by these things so I spent the usual two or three hours extracting from the unwilling provisioners the best of their meat and vegetables. When I'd had it all packed away in the rig, given Jumbo his food and a bit of a run, I walked back down to the paging office, described the girl to the clerk and told him where to send her. He looked hard at me but didn't say anything. I didn't expect him to. In the meantime I put the rig at the back of the motel alongside

Lorna's and a new natty black job I didn't recognize, and got myself up to my room to wait for her to arrive.

I was in the kitchenette so I didn't hear the door open or close. When I looked up from the drink I was mixing she was already standing there, framed in the doorway. She had a simple way of standing, legs slightly apart, toe pointing outwards, hands held in front of her lap. The chitty was lightly held between forefinger and thumb, as if it attached no great importance.

"You wanted me?" she said, devoid of inflection or expression.

"That is the way of it," I replied guardedly. "Give me that. I'll sign it now."

It was then I noticed the name. "You're not Dutch, then. What are you, Polack ?"

"Czech," she replied (and proud of it said the grey-green eyes).

Although she had give me the chitty, she hadn't stirred so we now faced

each other in the kitchenette doorway.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

Without touching or getting near, I motioned her back into the sitting room where she occupied the centre of the floor with that same patient stance. I moved around and past her and sat back on the settle with my back to the window so the late afternoon sun caught her as in a floodlight. She was a beauty, alright, but images came to me of trains of cattle trucks and other Mirkas who stood in line waiting for the grey soldiers to make up their minds.

"Have you ever been paged before, Mirka ?" I asked.

"No."

"You know what paging is about?'

"Of course. Everybody does."

" So why haven't ... "

"Because, until yesterday, I was too young."

I glanced at the chitty again and saw what I should have noticed before. She was one day over legal availability.

"Did you go with a boy, yesterday?" I probed.

A little bead of sweat had formed on her upper lip, which she licked at

minutely; the expression in green grey eyes turned a duller pewter.

"Perhaps."

"All the way?" I asked as kindly as I could. The quirk of smile played with the idea at the corner of her mouth and the eyes went off down a little tunnel of memory.

" Not ... all the way." Then after a pause that was neither

theatrical nor rehearsed - a simple statement of fact, " I wasn't ... ready."

"Then we must be careful, mustn't we?"

I could, of course, have sent her back to the paging office with an "exonerated" note but I doubted the wisdom of that in this tight hostile community and only two other foragers to hand. We have learnt to our cost that taking from a defeated people is one thing - the protocol allows and expects that. But to return requisitioned goods unused is a provocation that no protocol or local provost can guard fully against. Besides, this odd quiet patient Czech girl was wondrously attractive to me.

I told her what I wanted and told her she could use the bathroom if she cared to. When she came back undressed into the room and took up her same stance, I had a feeling of unwrapping a much awaited birthday gift - not daring to believe - only to find precisely what I had asked for. She wasn't pale rosebud pink like the Dutch, but alabaster white. The top of her shoulders were lightly dappled with the tiniest of pinprick freckles as were her lower legs. The profusion of her curls was repeated where I would have expected and her breasts ... I am not unfortunate in that department. myself - far from it as many a lewd glance from these dull Dutch tells me - but Mirka was fashioned in a way that went beyond the erotic to a sublimity in a white woman I had not minimally conceived possible.

I repeated my instructions which she performed prettily without fuss and when I had finished doing the things that I like to do, I lay back, holding her head to my stomach. Slowly, as if coming to the end of a long swim, she changed position and started things of her own initiative, tentative at first and, meeting no resistance from me, with greater authority and skill. She opened my door and found me at home in a way I didn't think whites capable of. Later, just before the chitty ran out, she did it again and there was the hint of smile as Mirka tucked herself back into the neat constraints of her blouse and skirt.

J ... ville wasn't on any of my quotas for the next three months but just as soon as it came up, I was over the border and on the gas station forecourt not long after the markets had opened. I didn't bother with the paging office but went straight down to her stall. At my voice, she stopped what she was doing and followed me at a sensible distance back to the rig.

I should have known better, of course. And so should she. You cannot truck with anything as sensitive as the protocol and expect to come away unharmed. We were lucky in a way. We had settled down in the back part of the cab for a little early exploration when Jumbo started to beat his hutch door down. I covered myself up a bit and raised my head above the level of the glass when it was hit by a volley of tomatoes and eggs and the cab started rocking. Now there is no way even twenty very strong and determined farm-workers can tip over a forager's rig but they can make it uncomfortable for the occupant. I sat up which gave one or two of the more intrepidate a sight of my bare top, dived into a tee-shirt and scrambled over into the driving seat, my uniform trousers still uncomfortably round my thighs. The first thing I did was to slip the catch on Jumbo's hutch. He still had his safety harness on but that allowed him enough play to move people back five yards or so. There were attackers on both side of the rig so he had to dart back under the train and I could see, sooner or later, his harness was going to get caught up under one of the wheels and then he'd be at the mercy of the baseball bats and fencing mallets the local vigilantes had provided themselves with. I hadn't spared a thought for Mirka but she'd tidied herself and was in the seat alongside, strapping herself in.

"The mace is there," I said pointing to the stick clipped to the door on her side. "Fire it through those vents. I'm going to start this thing up."

I doubt very much whether Mirka had ever seen a mace stick before, except hooked onto a forager's belt but she cottoned onto the procedure and was soon poking the stick through the variously directed defence nozzles sending puffs of the nasty stuff out into the faces of those who still thought they might be able to get the door open.

When you start up a forager's rig, various things happen. Acoustic signals go off to alert two and four-legged crew members of the imminent "off", lights flash on and off, the rig lifts and, if you haven't closed the vents, the gas from the freezing plants sprays an area round the wheel base, giving nasty ammonia burns to anybody caught in the jet. My attackers had read their newspapers or had, at any rate, learned from the unfortunate experiences of other over-jealous or over-zealous Staters who'd tried to attack a rig. At the first sound of the acoustic signal, they backed well away; giving Jumbo time to jump back onto the train and get back in his hutch which immediately clicked shut on him and withdrew him and his hutch into the protective cowling behind the cab. Keeping the ammonia hissing at intervals, I edged the rig out of its slot and nosed it toward the exit onto the main road. Here Dutch providence and obstinacy had been at work. Instead of blocking the way out with trucks, cars or tractors - obstacles my rig would have shrugged aside - they'd parked the gasoline tanker right in my path. I had no way of know if it was empty, half-full or bursting at the seams. What I did know was, that if any spark from lacerated bodywork found a drop of the stuff, tanker, rig and half the township would go up in one great bonfire. Cursing my own stupidity, and patting Mirka reassuringly on the knee, I fired off the rescue signal and waited for the local gendarmerie to come and escort us to a place of safety.

When a rescue signal goes off, other rigs within a radius of a hundred miles, register it and get co-ordinates; so does our Rapid Action Force at the border crossings. Depending on how deep we are into the State, we usually have company within a few hours. That hasn't always been soon enough, so the protocol has been amended so that State Gendarmes have to provide cover (like it, or not) until sufficient of our people arrive. So that is what happened. A Gendarmerie helicopter hovered closely overhead while the tanker was backed out of the way and a phalanx of ranger cars escorted the rig back to the motel. Here, there was a wait while staff and management were read the riot act and guests packed off to alternative and probably less comfortable accommodation. When there was no obvious threat to Mirka or myself, we walked back through the rig and dropped down onto the steps outside the bungalow that'd been set aside for such occasions. I had to tug Jumbo off the tailgate; his training told him to stay with the rig but when I gave him the hand-sign "no immediate danger" he relented.

Unlike the other rooms in the motel that opened out onto verandahs and balconies, this formed the two sides of an internal courtyard with no architectural feature to betray its presence other than a flush electronically opened door which Jumbo immediately stationed himself behind once he'd made sure there were no other ways in or out.

The Commandant had come in with us and was eyeing Jumbo nervously. "You'll stay here until your escort arrives." he announced. Your RAF should be here in the early morning. Two other rigs are in the vicinity. I don't expect any more trouble."

"Then you can go." I answered evenly in the voice of Occupying Power.

"Madam. You can dismiss me. That is your privilege. My duties end here. You have - forgive me because I know I speak out of turn - committed a grave indiscretion. This incident will not close with simple forgiveness. I fear - not for your safety; that is not at risk and it concerns me no more than the protocol demands - but for her and the temper of this community. She is not one of them. There is no family or brother to quiet the harsh words she will hear or to quell the insolent looks. She faces great difficulty."

"I can relocate her; import her if necessary. She has nothing to fear from me."

"I fear not, Madam. There is no quota for relocation or absorption from this area of non-Dutch. She is here by chance and here she stays until this ..." he struggled briefly for the right word. "Until this administration is changed." He lifted his shoulders in an unhappy, futile gesture, an honest policeman unable to do what he knew would be for the best.

"I know what I must do." said Mirka quietly. "How long will it before Madam has to leave ? An hour, two?"

"More than that, child. Four at least. What is it you think you can do that I cannot do for you?" I think he realized the crassness of this, no sooner had he spoken because he looked long and hard at me with grey Nordic eyes that did not like what they saw.

"Send us the Manner Police, meinheer, to keep us company until Madam leaves. I will arrange it that no further harm comes from this ... affair" Her grey eyes met his and I don't know whose had a greater depth of understanding, sorrow or determination. "In an hour's time. Please." "If I am to do that, Madam, you will have to keep your animal under strict control."

"Jumbo can go back in the rig," I replied.

The honest Commandant had no more to say to either of us and left with the minimum courtesy that my rank required and I had no sooner settled Jumbo into his hutch and shot the last electronic stud home before Mirka leapt at me tearing her own clothes and mine. "We have an hour."

It was an hour that raced by, made up of seconds so filled with pleasure that each one itself seemed an eternity.

We were still earnestly engaged with each other when the three Manner Police let themselves in. If you have seen those old North American films where the County Sheriff is the local bully boy, backed up by a bulging belt, a bristling arsenal and a bevy of sycophantic sidekicks, you will not be much surprised by my description of these three. Like many police forces throughout the world, their name belies their function. The Manner Police are not on the streets of Penn State to educate. They establish a rude balance between excess and lawlessness on the one hand and their excessive zeal on the other. They are the instruments of a defeated people's self-inflicted martyrdom.

On spotting Mirka and myself on the bed through the half open door, the Sergeant called to his henchman in a thick, joyful voice. "Look here, boys. Have we struck gold this time." His eyes on our two naked forms on partly released from great pleasure led to only one scenario in his mind.

Mirka rolled off the bed away from the and slipped into her shirt and when she turned back to face them, they were left with fleeting memories of her glorious outline. I, caught by surprise by her deft movements, was left fully displayed for these three wheat-haired oafs to ogle and clearly this was the first time that they had sighted a tall, well endowed black woman, naked on her back, her breasts alert and her sex open. The effect on their trousers was immediate and my hand reached under the pillow.

"Your job is to is provide us safe-keeping until Madam's people arrive."

Mirka intoned. "Do more or less than that, and grave, grave consequences

will apply. Is that not so, Madam?" The quiet authority of her tone had brought me marginally to my senses and the shredder was firmly in both hands and aimed at the large one's crotch, even if this meant they were able to see more of my naked body in motion than I might have wanted "Grave, ... or worse," I managed, waggling the shredder towards the Sergeant's manhood.

"You two, keep watch in the yard, please. You, " pointing at the youngest whose distended blue eyes were fighting a battle all of their own to find a safe point to rest their gaze on, "You can stay."

She was very gentle with him, eased him out of his uniform and helped him overcome both embarrassment and urgency. I frightened him I think, but he did his best with me, poor under-equipped white lad that he was. Mirka got the best out of him ' though and before long, I'd dressed, gone into the kitchenette, made a drink for the slobs outside and sat in the cool garden smoking, shredder in hand, listening to Hans' (that was his name, it turned out from the other two) occasional shouts of pleasure. There was no more pleasure for me that night and when the RAF turned up, I was in the rig on the road without a further look at Mirka.

My supervisors saw to it that J...ville didn't show up on my quotas and I got involved in runs further to the north into orchard country. Here I formed a very pleasant dalliance with a large redheaded girl from Apeldoorn. Collecting her crop and tumbling with her in her hay became my chief sources of pleasure until the troubles in South State led to open rebellion.

I did manage just one more trip to that area before that happened and persuaded my section chief that no harm would come if we went into J..ville on a simple revittal and drive-through mission. We are good friends back in the city so, reluctantly, she agreed. I went into the market shed flanked by Elaine and one of our male troopers and spotted the old Dutch who worked at the stall next to Mirka's.

"Mirka? She's OK. Lives in the Manner Police House. Married the young one. You know the youngster, Hans. She's OK." He might have said more, but Elaine guided me away and made sure our convoy did not pass the MP House on our way out. We don't go foraging into Penn State any more. Far too dangerous. We use boats - ex-Coast Guard frigates - and fast motor boats for runs into the Georgia and Carolina coastline. Everything is much more organized now - foragers don't travel alone but in well co-ordinated boarding parties - and so the opportunities for getting myself into the sort of mess I got into back in J...ville doesn't crop up. We get what we are told to get and are rewarded accordingly; a fair crop, I must say, some fair, some dark and some of the traitor black but none as white skinned and dark haired as Mirka, none with that marvelous helmet of dark curls, with pin-point freckles on the top of her shoulders and none with that simple way of standing, legs slightly apart, toe pointing outwards, hands held in front of her lap.

Our forces raised J...ville to the ground in a reprisal raid, yesterday.

Survivors? Too early to say and my boat leaves in an hour.

John Blackwood is a, British, ex-Civil Servant, ex-Architectural Draughtsman, Interior Designer, Graphic Designer and Furniture Maker, currently resident in South East Italy, as far down on the right hand side as you can go. Look for Lecce on the map. He moved back here in '98 after spells back in the UK, Czech Republic and Turkey. Prior to that there had been 11 years here in the 80s and early 90s and, back in the 70s, 6 years in Franco's Spain. How come? English Language teaching is the day job. Now. So from writing role plays, simulations, comprehensions texts and stories for classroom use, a bit of creative writing isn't a huge leap. Other short fiction is in the pipeline. The big one - a 500 page noir set in Southern Italy - is two chapters short of completion. Other interests include the obvious British ballsports - Football, Rugby and Cricket - Architecture and Heraldry. Eating out and travel are not interests; they are the sine qua non of life.

Via San Francesco d'Assisi, 40 I-73047

Monteroni di Lecce, Italy

Email: John Blackwood

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