said.
Dagmar didn’t answer.
“We’re professionals,” Zan said. “All our people have been soldiers. We understand the risks we take.”
“ I’m not a soldier,” Dagmar said. “Nothing’s prepared me for this.”
“We’re coming to get you,” said Zan. “That’s what you need to think about.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
“We’re coming soon.”
After the phone call came to an end, Dagmar closed her eyes and fell into a dark, liquid sorrow, a grief the temperature of blood.
FROM: Joe Clever
I’ve found a boat and a captain. He’s a fisherman named Widjihartani, and he operates from a port in West Java called Pelabuhan Ratu. It’s something like five or six hours from Jakarta by sea.
He’s willing to take a passenger anywhere, provided his fuel and time are paid for. All the way to Singapore, if we want.
He says that Jakarta is technically under a blockade by the navy, but they let fishermen through because they are too necessary to the economy to let them go under.
FROM: Corporal Carrot
FROM: LadyDayFan
Is Widjihartani his first name or his last name? Are you sure he’s reliable?
FROM: Corporal Carrot
What do they call him for short?
FROM: Joe Clever
Widjihartani is the only name he’s got. Lots of Indonesians have only one name.
I spoke to him on the phone. His English is pretty good, he takes tourists out for fishing and sightseeing.
He seemed pretty clearheaded, really. But he didn’t know how he could afford the fuel, and with the banks in the state they are, it’s unclear how we can get money to him.
FROM: Hippolyte
I found Pelabuhan Ratu on Google Earth!
FROM: LadyDayFan
Can we set him up with a PayPal account? Then we could put money into it, and he could withdraw it whenever the bank lets him.
FROM: Joe Clever
I’ll check.
From the restaurant, Dagmar could see the Indian nationals evacuating, the line of helicopters parading neatly across the horizon.
The Chinese were going out in the morning, by sea, and the Singaporeans the next day. Even little Singapore could stage a proper evacuation, complete with a landing by their elite Gurkha troops.
The only nationality that wasn’t evacuating, besides the Americans, was the Australians. The Indonesians were still angry at the Australians over Timor and weren’t letting Australian ships into their waters.
For a moment, watching the Indians go, Dagmar felt a spasm of pure hatred for her own nation. Her country had lost the ability to do anything but make fast food and bad Hollywood blockbusters. Every city would have its very own Katrina, and the United States of America in its greatness and piety would do nothing before or after. At the embassy they handed out lies as if they were the White House budget office.
Even the saving of human life had been privatized. If you could afford your own security outfit to rescue you with its helicopters, then you were granted life; if you couldn’t, you were beneath your nation’s notice.
For a brief, fierce instant she wanted to see her own country burn, just as the Palms had burned.
Then the anger faded, and she looked down at the fried rice that was her supper.
Dutifully, she ate it to the last grain.
FROM: Simone
LadyDayFan, can you set up a fanfic topic?
FROM: LadyDayFan
Fanfic? You want to write fan fiction about Dagmar?
FROM: Simone
Yeah. She’s cool.
FROM: Hanseatic
FROM: LadyDayFan
Well. This is against my better judgment, but here you go .
“Where are you from?” asked the young man with the halberd.
“Los Angeles.”
“That is near Hollywood?”
“Yes.”
“That must be very interesting.”
Dagmar understood that in the Q-and-A conversations favored by the Indonesians, both sides were supposed to ask questions.
“Are you from Jakarta?” she asked.
Paying her ritual morning visit to the concierge—which, following Zan’s advice, she did at a different hour each
Dagmar didn’t answer.
“We’re professionals,” Zan said. “All our people have been soldiers. We understand the risks we take.”
“ I’m not a soldier,” Dagmar said. “Nothing’s prepared me for this.”
“We’re coming to get you,” said Zan. “That’s what you need to think about.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
“We’re coming soon.”
After the phone call came to an end, Dagmar closed her eyes and fell into a dark, liquid sorrow, a grief the temperature of blood.
FROM: Joe Clever
I’ve found a boat and a captain. He’s a fisherman named Widjihartani, and he operates from a port in West Java called Pelabuhan Ratu. It’s something like five or six hours from Jakarta by sea.
He’s willing to take a passenger anywhere, provided his fuel and time are paid for. All the way to Singapore, if we want.
He says that Jakarta is technically under a blockade by the navy, but they let fishermen through because they are too necessary to the economy to let them go under.
FROM: Corporal Carrot
FROM: LadyDayFan
Is Widjihartani his first name or his last name? Are you sure he’s reliable?
FROM: Corporal Carrot
What do they call him for short?
FROM: Joe Clever
Widjihartani is the only name he’s got. Lots of Indonesians have only one name.
I spoke to him on the phone. His English is pretty good, he takes tourists out for fishing and sightseeing.
He seemed pretty clearheaded, really. But he didn’t know how he could afford the fuel, and with the banks in the state they are, it’s unclear how we can get money to him.
FROM: Hippolyte
I found Pelabuhan Ratu on Google Earth!
FROM: LadyDayFan
Can we set him up with a PayPal account? Then we could put money into it, and he could withdraw it whenever the bank lets him.
FROM: Joe Clever
I’ll check.
From the restaurant, Dagmar could see the Indian nationals evacuating, the line of helicopters parading neatly across the horizon.
The Chinese were going out in the morning, by sea, and the Singaporeans the next day. Even little Singapore could stage a proper evacuation, complete with a landing by their elite Gurkha troops.
The only nationality that wasn’t evacuating, besides the Americans, was the Australians. The Indonesians were still angry at the Australians over Timor and weren’t letting Australian ships into their waters.
For a moment, watching the Indians go, Dagmar felt a spasm of pure hatred for her own nation. Her country had lost the ability to do anything but make fast food and bad Hollywood blockbusters. Every city would have its very own Katrina, and the United States of America in its greatness and piety would do nothing before or after. At the embassy they handed out lies as if they were the White House budget office.
Even the saving of human life had been privatized. If you could afford your own security outfit to rescue you with its helicopters, then you were granted life; if you couldn’t, you were beneath your nation’s notice.
For a brief, fierce instant she wanted to see her own country burn, just as the Palms had burned.
Then the anger faded, and she looked down at the fried rice that was her supper.
Dutifully, she ate it to the last grain.
FROM: Simone
LadyDayFan, can you set up a fanfic topic?
FROM: LadyDayFan
Fanfic? You want to write fan fiction about Dagmar?
FROM: Simone
Yeah. She’s cool.
FROM: Hanseatic
FROM: LadyDayFan
Well. This is against my better judgment, but here you go .
“Where are you from?” asked the young man with the halberd.
“Los Angeles.”
“That is near Hollywood?”
“Yes.”
“That must be very interesting.”
Dagmar understood that in the Q-and-A conversations favored by the Indonesians, both sides were supposed to ask questions.
“Are you from Jakarta?” she asked.
Paying her ritual morning visit to the concierge—which, following Zan’s advice, she did at a different hour each
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