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I, Tania
A Novel
By Brian Joseph Davis, Michael Holmes ECW PRESS
Copyright © 2007 Brian Joseph Davis
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55490-294-1
CHAPTER 1
My father, the rich man with a name of American nobility. Cold, he was a mystery to me and perhaps the reason I sought love from overbearing m —
"No! Wait! YuyuuytyyuiuHhhfgffkl;svbbbvvbvb"
I apologize for the ghostwriter's head slumping to the keyboard but I do abhor cheap psychological insight. Didn't that go out of fashion with the '70s? I suppose if I make any more ghosts of the writers the publisher sends, they will need to reconsider my substantial advance against insurance payouts. This writer was the best so far. His credits included Will by G. Gordon Liddy, Suzanne Somers's Slim and Sexy Forever and his own little novel, London Fields.
Let that be a lesson to all aspiring writers: don't turn down the "as told to" opportunity. Other industries are much more relaxed about these things. If you recall, during the recording of Donna Summer's concept album I Remember Yesterday, producer Giorgio Moroder responded to critics who claimed his work was vapid and escapist by publicly commissioning anti-psychiatrist R.D. Laing to compose words for "I Feel Love."
It's so good for them
They are good
I want it to be so good for me
They are not so good
They feel love
They are feeling like feeling love
I must feel their feeling of love
They are not feeling love
I can't feel love if they don't
If I get them to feel love, then I can feel love with them
Getting them to feel love, is not feeling love
It is hard work
They fall free
I must fall like they are falling free
They are not falling free
I can't fall free if they don't
If I get them to fall free, then I can fall free with them
Getting them to fall free, is not falling free
It is hard work
Moroder, unfortunately, went with a much simpler lyric. But even in the world of print, we all know that Ice T's The Ice Opinion was ghosted by William Gibson, that Klaus Kinski's All I Need Is Love was given a touch-up by Alice Walker, and that Reed All About Me by Oliver Reed was — perversely — composed by Michael Caine, author of What's It All About? Michael Caine's story as told to Michael Caine.
But to pick up my narrative again. Yes, my father was a corporate pig newspaper baron liar — but he was my corporate pig newspaper baron liar. He was a pig second, but a father first, who always had the time for my sisters or myself. He taught me how to fire a gun. If you're looking for a cheap psychological device, I did move out of the estate at age seventeen to live with a much older man named Donald Barthelme.
"So the French invent revolution," Donald would say to me in his drawl, "but they can't play rock and roll to save their baguettes. And that don't make you the least bit suspicious about their philosophers?"
"The French don't need our st-st-stupid rock and roll," I sniffed, choking back tears. "They're better than us. Better than us."
But let me go back farther than that, so you can understand why my eventual leadership of the SLA makes sense. My early actions consisted of pranks. Base anarchy. Nothing more than experiments in testing boundaries: nuns suddenly coming down with amoebic dysentery, ski chalets flooded, and cotillions trip-wired.
Then a copy of For the Liberation of Brazil by Carlos Marighela was given to me when I was a teen by the exchange student staying with us. I would occasionally have flirtatious political debates with Guillermo. Nothing serious, just a little wink and a cute comment on how the transition to collectivization could be made easier for rural workers. One morning the Marighela book, slipped inside a copy of Oui, was slid under my door with a note attached that simply read, "Party?"
The chapter titled The Mini-manual for the Urban Guerilla reads:
Within the framework of the class struggle [are] two essential objectives:
— The physical liquidation of the chiefs and assistants.
— The expropriation of government resources.
The most popular models are the bank assault (serving as a sort of preliminary examination for the urban guerrilla in her apprenticeship) and the political kidnapping.
The highest display of ostentatious wealth and avarice most socialists get to witness is the lineup at the Olive Garden. Being raised in a media baron's household provided a view into a world only dreamed of in the frothiest, most paranoid nightmares.
One day while I was playing with my cats (Pufnstuf and Tapestry, if you must know) I overheard a conversation in the next room between my father and the head of his publishing division.
"Sir, you're going to love what marketing has come up with. As you know, the most popular paperbacks are the hospital romances and the soldier-of-fortune series. Combined, they're 60% of the market. Marketing thinks they can grab the other 40% by literally combining the two —"
"Keep talking," my father replied.
"— into an atrocity-romance series. The gist would be: soldiers, mercenaries, national guardsmen, etc., wreak havoc, Doctor A treats victims — passionately, altruistically — Nurse B falls in love with Doctor A, convinces him to enjoy life. We can mix it up, too. Sometimes it could be Stasi Agent A who tortures student leaders — passionately, altruistically — who then has to convince Nurse B that dissent must be crushed. And, here's the cost-saving measure: real historical atrocity settings that can cut editorial time in half. We'll just rewrite newspaper reports from archives we already own. In thirty years, they'll call it synergy."
"Real-life atrocities? Can you do that?"
"Try me."
"Hmm, okay, the U.S. firebombing of Tokyo."
"In a city of ash," the executive intoned as he pantomimed batting flames out, "her heart smoldered while his went out to a hundred thousand dead. Could she steal the flame of his passion?"
After several noncommittal hmms and clucks my father threw out "The Pinochet coup?"
"She was a Marxist nurse who wanted a new world. He was a CIA agent who wanted to overthrow her heart. Will Cupid get these two in his crosshairs?"
"The Spanish Civil War."
"She was a Catalonian communist republican with centrist leanings towards liberal democracy. He was a legitimist monarchist who wanted to break free of his ruffian Falangist friends. But in a country with 6000 dead priests, could they even find an altar?"
"The Russian Civil War."
"She was damaged goods. He was a doctor in a country of 15 million dead, but poetry calmed his soul. It was a love caught in the fire of revolution and —"
"— in a land of guns and ice, there is the great sound of battle and the greater silence of lovers. Blah blah blah. Cue 'Laura's Theme.' Already done."
I went to my room to practice bayonet moves with a pen, striking out the pig eyes of the David Cassidy poster above my bed. I would have much to teach my brothers and sisters when they came to rescue me several years later.
Meeting Minutes of the Symbionese Liberation Army War Council (February 1974; Berkeley, California)
Present: Subcommittee on the Choosing of Codenames for Taking of Prisoner of War Operation Combat Cell.
General Field Marshall Cinque opened the meeting by passing around The Definitive Book of Revolutionary Names.
"I'll take Fahiza, in honor of the Symbionese warrior who lobbied for the national anthem to be Cinderella's 'Don't Know What You Got 'Til It's Gone,' and when Skid Row's 'I Remember You' was chosen instead, hurled herself off her high school roof rather than face defeat, only to have her story told in 'Fly to the Angels,' by Slaughter."
"I'm Cujo, which other than being a notoriously shoddy novel, even within the lax standards of the Stephen King canon, is Spanish, I think, for hombre."
"That means I'm Yolanda, named in honor of the first Canadian who did not mention insulin, Rush, or the space arm within seconds of meeting an American."
Cinque questioned whether the references so far were revolutionary enough, or even temporally valid.
"What if I'm Zoya? She fought in the French Resistance ... of 1901! In a world of garters! And high stepping ooh-la-la's and anything goes where it cancan joie de vivre!"
"I — am — Teko," Teko said with rigid arms extended and rhythmically moving up and down, "named after a shy but kind-hearted prole-bot working in the U.S.S.R.'s office of zero gravity transportation in 2350."
"I take the name Gelina, in honor of the Gelini, the harmonious hunter/gatherer society living in Grosse Point, Michigan. Food is scavenged from bistros, wealth is scrounged from relatives, while Frank Lloyd Wright homes — considered common property — are traded as needed. Evenings are given over to lascivious waltzes and drunken religious throat chanting of hymns written by Boz Skaggs. Strange to our eyes, but in their simple world, guileless and innocent."
"I'll be Gabi, the feminine of Gabby, in tribute to Gabby Hayes, the famous western actor who was blacklisted after translating The Communist Manifesto into cowboy gibberish — A specter is a hauntin' Europe, a sidewindin', bushwackin',hornswaglin' specter, th' specter of Communism, an' dad gum it, all them powers of ole Europe entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this hyar specter: Pope an' Czar, Metternich an' Guizot, French Raddy-cals an' sheriff spies. All them pious candy-ass sidewinders!"
CHAPTER 2
The kidnapping: late-night knock, door kicked, rifle butt to Donald's head.
Donald ducking, running yellow. Take his billfold. Blindfold. Over shoulder. Into car.
Reader, you were read that part of the story every night of your childhood, to warn you away from strangers bearing petitions and organic couscous, but what you need to know is how I went from captive to General. It was easy. I'm rich (and descended from the Gelini, you know).
In the back seat of the car, I asked, "Where are you taking me?"
Without turning around, a man spoke with soldier cadence, "You have been taken prisoner by the Symbionese Liberation Army! We will use you to force your corporate pig newspaper-baron liar father to feed every poor person in California! You will be treated in accordance with the Geneva Conventions and guarded by a police informant, six academics, and an ex–homecoming queen! You will be taken to 1827 Golden Gate Avenue, apartment six, with a bright and sunny lounge that looks out over the street! Our neighbor is Rhonda, a pottery instructor! She watches our cat when we're gone! It is only five blocks away from FBI headquarters! You are being driven there in a tan Chevrolet Impala! We will be taking the I-580 exit and turning left on the I-80 westbound for twenty minutes!"
"How long will you keep me?"
"I can't tell you that! It's classified!"
Into closet. You heard that my captors were Marxist brainwashers. The reality was closer to a conversation I overheard between three woman talking outside the door.
"Gabi, Zoya, make sure she doesn't leave this room until I come and get her."
"Don't leave the room even if you come and get her. Yes!"
"No, no. Until I come and get her."
"Until you come and get her, we're not to enter the room."
"No, no, no. You stay in the room and make sure she doesn't leave."
"And you'll come and get her."
"Right."
"So Zoya and I don't need to do anything, apart from just stop her entering the room."
"No, no. Leaving the room."
"Right, we'll stay here until you get back."
"And, uh, make sure she doesn't leave."
"What?"
"Make sure she doesn't leave."
"The prisoner?"
"Yes, make sure she doesn't leave."
"Oh, yes, of course. I thought you meant Zoya. You know, it seemed weird, having to guard her when she's a comrade and all."
After I was let out of the closet (they came asking for my help with the reel-to-reel tape machine — it wasn't plugged in), I saw how small and squalid the apartment was. On the wall, a large banner with the SLA's symbol. Insipid, but effective. My "captors" were no more than self-taught commies from suburbia. All buzzwords. Tired fatigues. Simple characters.
They were in terrible shape, my bears, with much starchy porridge in those early days. And vile, dumb, damaged Teko screaming, "Eating pork is, like, for pigs" as if it were a pleasant, smart, together thing to say. Taking over this unit would be easy.
As I was taught, the best way to network-up is to throw a party. The A-names came to that small apartment in the Mission District to revel, some for days, while the FBI searched for me.
Symbionese Liberation Army "Black and White Gala" Guest List (March 1974; San Francisco, California)
Charles Addams, Marella Agnelli, Edward Albee, Richard Avedon (took that horrendous photo of me with the gun in front of the flag, blech!), Lauren Bacall, Joan Baez, the Band, Tallulah Bankhead, Candice Bergen (who wore a fluffy, long-eared, $250 white mink bunny mask), Blood, Sweat & Tears, Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor (did not attend, will be shot as enemies of the people), Paul Butterfield Blues Band, Canned Heat, Joe Cocker, Claudette Colbert, Country Joe & the Fish, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Marlene Dietrich, Henry Fonda, Joan Fontaine, Henry Ford II, Grateful Dead, Greta Garbo, C.Z. Guest, Gloria Guinness, Arlo Guthrie, Keef Hartley Band, Richie Havens, Lillian Hellman, Jimi Hendrix (did not attend because he was dead — he will be shot as an enemy of the people), Audrey Hepburn, Incredible String Band, Christopher Isherwood, Jefferson Airplane, Lynda Bird Johnson, Garson Kanin and Ruth Gordon, Slim Keith, Jacqueline Kennedy, Harper Lee, Vivien Leigh, Jack Lemmon, Anita Loos, Robert Lowell, Clare Boothe Luce, Shirley MacLaine, Norman Mailer, Joseph L. Mankiewicz, Melanie, Country Joe McDonald, Roddy McDowall, David Merrick, James Michener, Arthur Miller, Vincente Minnelli, Marianne Moore, John O'Hara, Merle Oberon, Babe Paley, Gregory Peck, Cynthia Plaster Caster (did casts of Cinque, Truman Capote, and Fahiza), Katherine Anne Porter (badly wanted to come, but was ill and bedridden, will be held in the People's Prison for eight years), Lee Radziwill, Philip Roth, Santana, Ravi Shankar, Sha-Na-Na (attended; regardless, will be shot as enemies of the people), Sly & the Family Stone, Bert Sommer, John Steinbeck, Sweetwater, Ten Years After, Diana Vreeland, Walter Wanger, Andy Warhol, Robert Penn Warren, Leslie West, The Who, Tennessee Williams, Johnny Winter, Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (Stills did not attend; Crosby and Young will be forced to shoot him as an enemy of the people), Darryl F. Zanuck.
CHAPTER 3
The day after the party, while I dismantled a toaster (its elements are fantastic triggers for pipe bombs), Cinque came and asked, "What are you doing?"
"Making a bomb."
"A ba?" raising a shocked hand to his mouth.
"No, not a ba, a bomb."
Sitting down he said, "We are not one cell of hundreds. They," pointing to the slumped, passed-out soldiers of the people's army, "said they had friends who could help out — nutritional charts, taxes, book deals, some new uniforms, but I don't see them. I keep asking, 'Where are these friends?' and I don't see them." He was an embarrassed parent.
We went to the living room to talk to the rest. "And who is the SLA?" I asked Cinque.
"Refuse, found in waterfront communes."
"Shanghaied?"
"Just lost, drunken men," Cinque said, "who don't know where they are and no longer care."
There was a muffled exchange from among the passed-out bodies:
"Where are we?"
"I don't care!"
Interested, I moved along and asked Cinque, "And these?"
"These are lost, drunken women who don't know who they are, but do care. And these are women who know where they are and care, but don't drink."
Again, hungover croaks:
"I don't know who I am."
"And I don't drink!"
Cinque crouched down to Yolanda, "Do you care?"
"No."
Cinque looked up at me, "Put her on guard duty and give her a drink."
"What do you drink?" I asked her.
"I don't care."
Concerned, I asked, "How is their understanding of theory?"
"These men," Cinque said, "feel the pig emptiness of fascist America before they understand it."
Inevitably came the murmurs:
"I feel pig emptiness."
"I don't understand fascist America."
That night, Cinque made me second in command. We went to work on the announcement of my coming-out ball.
But first, like my comrades, a new name. It had to be chosen in honor of a woman who revolted before me, and, as the members of the heiress class who took up armed struggle is not as small a group as one would think, it wasn't easy to narrow down.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from I, Tania by Brian Joseph Davis, Michael Holmes. Copyright © 2007 Brian Joseph Davis. Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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