Romance Novella 7

With a contented sigh, Gerald finished his personal bank reconciliation. Another month, credit cards would be down to zero. The difference? The original Gerald had had two serious flaws - drinking and gambling. Other than that, he'd been mostly sensible with personal funds.
Due to the religious views of the original Amanda (and the terrible one-time hangover), these two flaws were no more.
At work, things were much better. See the travel claims had not really needed hyperalertness. There was no fraud, just some honest mistakes.
The same could not be said of suppliers invoicing Revenue for goods and services. Gerald nailed a number in quasi-fraud, saved a lot of money.
The Division Chief went from enemy to friend. Assured Gerald any reference would be most glowing - bygones would be bygones - only the present would be looked at.

Tasma too had made progess. Long since left behind children's books. Now she could read and understand serious library books and serious newspapers.
As well, the student loan was paid off, a savings account slowly accumulating.

With funds better, Tasma did not hesitate to eat at the student food court, when she stayed for something like a public lecture at the university. Her favorite was the eat-in pizza restaurant.
At the next table sat Gerald. Good grief, he thought, talk about your typical uptight Afghan. Nice knowing all that nonsense was past history, him now a mainstream Canadian.
The counterwoman called "Number 38" and Tasma rose to pick up her order.
In the space of a heartbeat, everything changed. Tasma looked remarkably similar to someone in the past.
Amanda hadn't always been a cynical bitten type in AAW. In her early and more idealistic years, she'd had a girl-girl fling with someone similar to the woman at the next table.
He knew she worked in the education library, struck up a conversation.
It would be hard to imagine a more frosty response. Tasma was perfectly capable of recognizing the moron with the pellet pistol. And no, not afraid of him, with the amount of unarmed combat training M/Cpl Boisvert had had.
Her Arctic response only inflamed his desire, now he was determined.
He devised a plan to wear down her resistance. She worked in a public area. Each day after work, he'd come, stand near her and talk quietly. If he actually followed her after work, she could claim he was a stalker. But just standing there in the library, no problem.
Tasma could have called security, but didn't want to make a scene. After all, it wasn't like he was creating noise to annoy students studying nearby.
At first, he tried typical consumer complaints as a topic, such as insurance or car repair ripoffs. He could soon see that was pointless. She gave zero sympathy, her attitude being, you have lotsa money anyway.
Purely by accident, he tripped over her Achilles heel, humorous bureaucratic stories.
He had no way of knowing her real background. M/Cpl Boisvert, in common with a lot of Canadian servicemen, had an appetite for the bizarre, loved the dark humor and irony of such stories.
In no time, he got her laughing regularly. Soon things were sufficiently relaxed, he suggested a coffee date.
This went so well, he suggested a second. She countered by saying, only if she bought, keep it even. Fair enough, he reasoned, don't want her to feel put upon.
As they left after the first date, he pondered, gotta be honest. Before we do anything serious, must tell her the background story, AAW. Bet she has a dark secret or two of her own.
By the third coffee date, there was sufficient relaxed trust, that he took the plunge. He was absolutely astounded by her reply. So she was a kindred soul, also trapped in time.
A week later, they were engaged.

Romance Novella 6

Tasma finished the Deborah Ellis trilogy, "The Breadwinner," "Parvana's Journey" and "Mud City." Then moved along to Norma Klein, Anne Fine and Barbara Corcoran. Her reading skills in English were improving rapidly and she was learning and having fun. Back in days of M/Cpl Boisvert, hadn't even bothered with the sports section, though it was available in the mess for free.
Doing the math, only three more student loan payments.

Gerald swore aloud as he tore open the envelope from the insurance company. $3,500 for a year? Obscene, that's seven times what a Captain in AAW got for yearly salary. Still, what choice? Life in the metro area was tough without wheels. They held you hostage, as did the oil companies, as did the dealerships, with all the repair of that computerized hoohaw.
Next day, all four tires were slashed. Revenue people seeking revenge? Or random vandals? No one else's car was touched so he suspected the former.
They refused his credit card for the tires, said it was maxed out. Humiliated, he'd phoned the banker about an overdraft. This worthy had made him sweat before granting it. He didn't miss the sly smile of the cashier, she'd been enjoying that. B****!

Tasma didn't have cable TV. All she watched was hockey every Saturday evening on the French channel of CBC, Canadian Broadcasting Corporation.
As she watched Montreal steam roller their way to victory over arch rival Toronto, she loved every minute.

Gerald's Saturday movie went less well, died half way through. When he phoned the cable company to complain, he was informed it was not a system problem, but non payment of bill.
A few minutes later, his brother called, asked if he'd received an invitation to the family reunion.
"Yes."
Hesistant, embarassed manner, "Ma insisted it be sent to everyone. But I'm telling you, for your own good, don't go. Ma will be the only one giving you a friendly reception."
Too stunned to argue, he hung up.
Angrily, he clicked the remote onto English CBC. Swore aloud. Montreal was clobbering Toronto 8 to 1. What a day!
There was an almost full bottle of vodka in the fridge, untouched since the change of ownership of the body. But now it was too much to ask to leave it untouched. With orange juice, it slid down smoothly.
We-ell, Gerald's body was out of practice. As for Amanda it was first time ever. The hangover defied all belief, unable to hold down food for two days.
A shaken Gerald showed for work Monday, vowing never again for booze.

Tasma showed for work looking better than ever. She'd gotten into the habit of long walks on Saturdays and Sundays, lost some weight, her skin glowed. Yes things were going just fine. Thank heavens Father Henri had been kind.

By now Gerald was starting to experience fear. The AAW crowd had been vocal, but never physical. Revenooers were a tad different. One whole audit team, on a business trip in a small town, ended up in a bar rumble. One collector assaulted another on a road trip. A collections team leader ended up in hospital after being assaulted in the parking lot by ruffians unknown.
Gerald bought a pellet pistol. Would not actually do much, just give some getaway time, but at least it was legal. Carried it everywhere.
Management figured a way to deal with Gerald. His job description was generic at the AS1 Administrator rank. They simply rotated him to accounts payable, gave travel to a more laidback person. Gradually the temperature cooled, but Gerald continued to carry the pistol out of fear of the city crime level.

The first time Tasma saw Gerald was an auspicious event. Education Curriculum books are in the basement. That is, material that College of Education students, future teachers, will use on their future pupils. Other areas held things like education psychology. Some of these were massively thick tomes.
Tasma was reshelving, when she heard a loud noise. Peering through a gap in the books, it seems a man two aisles over had had one of these land on his toe.
Swearing furiously but quietly, Gerald drew his pellet pistol. In a fury, shot it at a book. Missed, hit a metal divider, bounced back zinging his hand. After a moment of sucking his hand, he decided it might be wise to leave for now.
It was all Tasma could do to not laugh, so ridiculous was he. Yet something jabbed the back of her mind. Said there was an Afghan connection there, hmm wonder how.
After a coffee in the student lounge, he was cooled off. Realized it would be best to avoid that library for a bit. After all, he could see the same book in Humanities and Social Sciences library. Thank heavens no one had seen him, he chuckled.

Romance Novella 5

The arrival of Gerald Smith, employee of Revenue Canada, did not go unnoticed. The body language would really have been more suitable upon the commandant of Dachau.
The Finance Division Chief groaned inwardly, nothing but trouble with that clown. Today, looks more bitten than I've ever seen him. Lord help us once he does whatever he does today.
Gerald's job was travel claims for employees. The other two finance people, accounts payable and financial statements also shuddered inwardly. They too would live with the fallout. When Gerald was away on breaks they would hear about his sins.
On the very first claim, the claimant had multiplied kilometers by the 49.5 cent rate and had the temerity to round up half a penny. With a wicked smile, Gerald rounded down, reducing the claim by one cent.
When an individual who pays for monthly parking for his own car must use this on business, the monthly rate is divided. Next claim divided by the conventional rounded 20. Wrong, 21 business days in that month, Gerald reduced the claim accordingly, 13 cents.
Every week, you must send out pre printed round trip memos to those people who are late clearing their travel advance after a trip; get it in in 5 days. This time, Gerald's signature was sharp, stark, thrice as large as usual.
Then he reduced someone's personal phone call allowable on a trip by 4 cents.
After work, he felt so good he went for an espresso to celebrate. Four angry visitors already, this was going to be every bit as much fun as AAW.
Word was the original Gerald was a hawk, good, let them see an ultrahawk.
Tuesday morning brought the tidal wave, there being a time delay in interoffice mail being distributed. By lunch, Gerald was in seventh heaven. This beat the crap outa those wimpy AAW people by a long shot.
That afternoon the Division Chief called him in for a little chat on the merits of moderation. When he stopped for breath, Gerald demanded, "Chief, am I actually breaking any rules?"
Blushing, the Chief replied, "well ah no."
"Then I suggest you mind your own business," got up and left.
The Chief stared out the window, lost in thought. This guy just keeps on getting worse. With any luck, pawn him off on HQ, he'd be perfect there.

Romance Novella 4

The tired, sleepless, assaulted-feeling Afghan woman rose at ten next morning. Why? Too darn stiff to stay in bed any longer. We-ell she reflected, made the right choice, no matter how bad this is. Can't imagine 100 years in a wheelchair.
There was no coffee in the kitchen, green tea. Felt nice, soothed her parched throat.
Not hungry, just curious, she set out with a variety of coins in search of a newspaper, returned a few minutes later with an English-language one proclaiming today to be Saturday.
Almost none of it was readable. First, written English had not been M/Cpl Boisvert's longsuit. Second, even if it had been in French, it was dodgy, as he had left school at age 14.
Still, it yielded a tiny concept of circa 2000 Canadian politics, the coming weather and the knowledge that tonight the Montreal Canadiens would play on TV.
Casting the paper aside, she searched for clues. An ID card proclaimed Tasma Aziza to be an employee of the university library. As she fingered this, the vision came. She knew what she'd be doing, putting books back on shelves. Hours of work, where to show. Monday morning, gotta pull things together fast.
The statement from the student loan authority made her gasp. Between the monthly payment, the rent receipt and what she could decipher from cash register tapes from the supermarket, she would barely balance her books.
Further sifting led to the discovery the degree had been in history. What a useless degree, unless you got really lucky! Which apparently Tasma was not.
The absence of any form of personal correspondence puzzled her. Weren't women into letters? Weren't Afghans family oriented? Did this imply she was an outcast?
The hockey game was as good as ever. Sadly Montreal lost, but hey it was still a great game. For the first time she actually felt optimism. Yes indeed, there would be another game next Saturday, something to look forward to.
Out on a walk Sunday, she discovered the nearby supermarket. Funds were limited so all she bought was French bread, beef pastrami, cream and French Roast coffee.
The pure pleasure of it warmed her. Good as ever. Maybe things will be ok.
She showed at work Monday in a cheerful mood. As she pushed her cart out to the aisle where she would work, she reflected on her good luck. Far better than a people job with all its complications. This gave her the chance to observe quietly, learn, with no real pressure.
Morning coffee, she said nothing as usual. The rest spoke of boyfriends, dope, term papers and thesis.
A few minutes after coffee she overheard two talking.
"Tasma looks different this morning."
"Yeah actually cheerful for a change. Maybe she'll shake that depression after all."
"Must be awful, her whole family is outcast to the rest of the Afs. The she doesn't get along with her family."
"And look at her, not like boyfriends will be lining up to pick her up."
Later, in the bathroom, Tasma looked in the mirror. True, not ugly, but below average. In the days of M/Cpl Boisvert, no way he'd have picked up someone like that.
Then she chuckled, made it easier. If you're a knockout, they climb all over you, harder to adjust to this new world.
She shrugged, back to work. By now it was automatic, accustomed to the Library of Congress codings. Easy, hypnotic tranquility.
Gradually the realization formed, she could read summaries on the back of education curriculum books. She spotted an Afghan story for children, "Parvana's Journey". Curious, she stayed after work to read a few chapters.
First surprise was she could. Second, it was fun, a good learning experience. She resolved to stay every day, finish this book, move on to others by the same author.
As she walked home, she realized she was very fortunate. This gig was doable, so many weren't. Yes, things will be just fine.

Romance Novella 3

On the other side of the world, a similar choice would be made, but in much more civilized manner. No battlefield Hobson's Choice under impossible time constraint with zero information. This one would proceed at leisure, with a multitude of reading material and a smorgasbord of choice.
At AAW (Association of Afghan Women) HQ in Peshawar, Amanda exited the Medical Officer's office. Stopped at the mess, got a pot of green tea, adjourned to her office, hung a sign "don't interrupt except in case of fire."
Staring out at the refugee schoolgirls playing in the compound yard, she saw nothing, so lost in thought.
Cancer. Inoperable. Dead in 6 months. Little pain for the first 3, then a nightmare.
A history buff herself, she reflected this wouldn't be like the American exit from Saigon, helicopter on the Embassy roof; but more like the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan.
She laughed in derision as she thought of the superstition-ridden western world. Christianity, not just Catholicism, had reacted to the rites by a total taboo on any public discussion, hence no research.
In their world, it was a naughty little secret you weren't supposed to know. God barely tolerated the White Rite, that is total randomness, no choice. Practice of the Black Rite was viewed as tantamount to eternity in hell.
And yet, every other religion had embraced the concept of choice. According to Muslims, Jews, Hindus and Buddhists, you were not usurping God's authority. Your requests were mere suggestions, not orders, and God was perfectly free to make the final choice. Though being a tolerant Being, he usually honored your choices unless there was some compelling reason not to.
There were endless media articles on this very topic, the key was balance. No rational person asked to be a 6'4" 34 year old white dentist in Sacramento. Paint God into too tight a corner where he can't provide and he'll make the choice.
So, down to serious work, Amanda decided. First absolutely must be male. They get all the fun, the fun jobs, anywhere in the world.
Second, must be western world. Despite their closed-mindedness on this and several other issues, by and large they were more tolerant of individual difference and preference. That and lots richer.
Make that English-speaking western world. First, she knew excellent English. Second, Canada, USA and Britain had smoother economies than hidebound France and Germany.
Must be professional, sub-professional or administrative. No way she wanted the lack of dignity of unskilled laborer or skilled technician.
Must be a job with authority, clout. Her mind wandered to AAW. As a Captain in Finance and Admin, she definitely had the ability to tell these clowns what to do and what not to. (Mostly what not to, as AAW funds were limited.) She imagined herself in the western world responsible for a budget 10 times higher, or 100 or 1000. Boardroom meetings, her with the financial clout, how sweet life would be!
Coming back to Earth, she realized it might be wise to be a little more subtle in future. For whatever obscure reason she could never understand, all other department heads hated her. Absurd! Surely they knew squeezing rupees was the key to success. Why didn't they just accept that?
Age meant little, she would take luck of the draw.
Ditto race. She did not need to be white. Any westerner with that clout, Black, East Indian or Chinese would be just fine.
Actual rank and salary was unimportant. To paraphrase the Navy saying, she'd rather be Captain of a rowboat than Exec Officer of a battleship. Anything providing average western world salary would be ok, she had no expensive habits.
Family status, no way she wanted to take over for a married man, especially with kids, too many complications. Nor a guy with tons of child support to pay. Lifelong single, widower or divorced without alimony or kids.
Religion was immaterial, even an atheist. After all, she could change that.
Satisfied with her choices, she set aside the pad of paper, got on with financial reports.
In the days to come, she pondered much, but changed very little, just minor detail.
She set a date, day after the big quarterly meeting, one last chance to lord it over everyone.
Basking in the afterglow of meeting, she read the chant thrice, which she had downloaded from the internet.
In her case the vomiting was over in a couple minutes. She practised facial expressions in front of the mirror. Icy smiles, sneers, this guy was good, perfect as a concentration camp commandant.
Exiting the bathroom, she spotted his ID card on the night table. Wow! Revenue Canada! God had indeed been in an excessively generous mood, she reflected as she headed for the kitchen. French Roast coffee - all right - this guy knows how to live.

Romance Novella 2

As Father Henri discovered the injury was M/Cpl Boisvert, his voluminous but not perfect memory spun. One of the good lads, never in trouble with the military justice system, never showing for one-on-one priestly counselling. All he knew for sure, was M/Cpl Boisvert was living common law with a Universite du Quebec history professor, as he served at CFB (Canadian Forces Base) Valcartier, where the Royal 22nd Regiment was stationed.
Darned if Father Henri could even remember whether the common law thing was current or past history. "Tell me my son, did you and your wife ever have children?"
"No Father."
Inwardly Father Henri smiled, made it easier. "Your mother and father still alive?"
"No Father, railway accident."
All right! Now the $64 question, "my son, how will your wife take this? What is the current relationship between you?"
Gallic shrug, "you know how it goes Father, only interested in the one thing."
"Could you be a little more specific?"
"Father she was ashamed of me, didn't fit with her snooty coffee house friends. Only reason we sort of stayed together was the Club Echangiste."
"Do you still live together?"
"No Father, I have a room on base. Only place we show up together is Club Echangiste. Must show as a couple, singles not allowed."
Father Henri had now decided, but let him sweat. He'll appreciate it more, be less ticked if he gets lousy luck of the draw, "I really don't know my son, you are very marginal. Risky proposition, could be man,woman; old, young; rich, poor; any race or religion. Only guarantee is reasonable physical health. Think you could cope with that?"
"Yes Father, please do it."
Cpl Leblanc interjected, "two minutes ETA for air ambulance."
It was now or never. Once air ambulance took custody the rite was forbidden, hurt their survival statistics. Laying his hands on M/Cpl Boisvert's head, Father Henri spoke in Latin.
Outside, the whoosh of the air ambulance.
Step on it, you old fart, M/Cpl Boisvert thought. Whew! Just in time!
The violent sickness in stomach sent him crawling in search of somewhere to unload. For most of an hour, he alternated between actual vomiting into the toilet and the dry heaves, sweating like a pig throughout.
Then, washing his face after, he groaned. A woman, even an Afghan to boot! Did it get any worse than that??? Sick at heart she headed back to bed, lay unable to sleep, feeling assaulted.

Romance Novella 1

Under any lighting conditions, Cape Morris Jesup is a beautiful sight. On one side, the ice-covered Arctic Ocean; the other, stunning snow- and ice-covered mountains. It stands proudly at the northern tip of Greenland, the furthest north solid land in the world.
Even by ordinary daylight, not direct sunlight, it is awe-inspiring. You need polarized and tinted goggles to cope with all the brilliant reflection.
Under direct sunlight, it is a billion glittering diamonds, scattered from here to infinity.
Even more breathtaking is under conditions of ice fog, ice crystals hanging in the air. The billion diamonds are now in your face, not spread out.
Even by moonlight, during the perpetual Arctic night of several months, it's beauty rivals most other landscapes as seen by day.
It would be almost impossible for an atheist to stand there for an hour, then afterwards be able to assert to his friends he was positive there was no God.
To the crew of the shot-down armored hover pod, the glittering full moon showing this went unnoticed. They had other concerns.
Pvt Tremblay had just taken away the blaster pistol from the holster of the seriously wounded laser-gunner M/Cpl Jean Boisvert. Voice thin with pain, he tried to keep a cheerful tone, "please, give it back."
Pvt Tremblay flashed a look at the pod commander Sgt Savard, 1/10 question, 9/10 pure defiance, just daring sarge to step out of line.
Sgt Savard knew that look well, groaned inwardly. Having a draftee in the crew was bad enough. When that draftee happened to be a second year seminary student, made it worse. When that seminary student happened to be an aspiring Jesuit-in-training, made life impossible.
It was a terrible decision for Sgt Savard to make. M/Cpl Boisvert was a lifelong friend, the two having grown up together in Magog, Quebec, having spent many a happy day at the Lac Memphramagog beach. Worked in the mill together until old enough to join.
What lay ahead for M/Cpl Boisvert? No walking, no sex, 3/4 of his body paralyzed. So pumped full of drugs he could not drink a single beer. Stuffed in a wheelchair doing Mickey Mouse paper at the Crystal Palace, slang for National Defence HQ.
There would be nothing to read. Everything published was for the university graduate set, some 94% of the adult population nowadays. Even TV was for the suits. The only program M/Cpl Boisvert liked (and could understand) was the Montreal Canadien hockey games.
With all the advances in modern medicine, he would live another 100 years, if that's what you called it.
Sgt Savard longed to give him the blaster back, but he couldn't. Pvt Tremblay was a right royal pain in the ass, as self-rightous as they come, dogmatic, viewed everything in stark black and white.
Though it broke his heart to say so, Sgt Savard asserted, "can't be done. Breaking three sets of law: Canadian military, Canadian civil and Church."
At this point, Cpl Leblanc quietly interjected, "just picked up the transmissions sarge. ETA for Father Henri is 4 minutes; for the air ambulance, 9."
Quietly Sgt Savard said, "resta you, back off, me and Jean gotta talk private."
They did.
"Now listen up Jean, I know you know the rite exists. But you hafta understand the tone of how it's done. All these centuries the Church has never publicly admitted it exists. Nowhere in Church doctrine is it either forbidden or permitted. So this means each individual priest gets to play God. Some utterly refuse to give the rite. Others, very open-handed. Father Henri, he'll give, but only if he's sure you deserve it."
"So what do I do?"
"Make the decision right now, whether you want it or not. If not, it's a long boring life. Yet if you do, it's a terrible chance, could end up in any body in history that has suicided. I mean any physically healthy body."
"So, sarge, you're telling me it's a hundred years of paralysis or a lifetime of insanity?"
"No Jean, see back in history, they didn't have all those mood-altering drugs. Lotta those suicides back then were people just temporarily down, temporary chemical imbalance. Not at all like nowadays, where the only suicides are the lifelong insane."
"Oh."
"So?"
"Yes, what else can I do? I'll take the rite if he allows."
"One word of advice Jean. Don't even hint you know that the heathens have a different rite or he'll get right uppity."

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