Chapter Fifteen

 

 

 

Our activism quickly transformed the African Women's Congress from an ambitious startup into a dangerous player. International foundations were the first to sound the alarm; they saw our voluntary repatriation programs as a competitor siphoning off grants.

Clergymen then took up arms. An influential Pentecostal pastor, Reverend Kesey, saw his flock dwindle and declared full-blown war on Vera. He publicly accused her of secretly promoting a voodoo cult—one that was allegedly officially banned in the EU.

But Vera refused to compromise. Instead, she attacked the major geopolitical predators, harshly criticizing China for draining the continent's resources and openly condemning Russia for fueling military conflicts in the Sahel and Mali. We were making far too many enemies.

One day, we decided to take a short break and headed to the famous Dutch Afsluitdijk dam. It was a beautiful Saturday. A steady, iodine-infused wind blew in from the North Sea, and cumulus clouds floated like caravels across the pale blue sky. The landscape practically begged for a canvas, and once again I regretted not becoming an artist. Leaving Amsterdam through the IJ tunnel, we found ourselves in a touristy, almost fairytale Netherlands. The pavement on the A7 highway was flawless. Familiar windmills, the neat, toy-like houses of local farmers, and green meadows dotted with grazing cows flashed past on either side of the road. We popped into Zaanstad to buy some real Dutch cheese—the famous Catharina Hoeve cheese farm is located right next to the town, where tourists can watch the cheesemaking process for free. And then we continued on.

Vera was at the wheel today. She drove our Cadillac with the ease and grace of the famous French racing driver Michèle Mouton, overtaking heavy Volvo, Scania, MAN, and Mercedes-Benz trucks on the curves. I remembered how some hapless race director—probably a misogynist and a fool—saw Michèle in her brand-new Antonelli overalls and declared, "The only helmet a woman should wear is a salon hair dryer."

"Well, yes, of course, you're lying, Lyonya, as always, just to sound clever," my Brain immediately signaled sarcastically. He had no mouth, but he synchronized directly with the AI reality generator through his quantum channels. "Toto Roche blurted out that nonsense back in 1958, addressing Maria Teresa de Filippis. And 'Antonelli' is actually the helmet and gear of a young Italian from modern Formula 1 that you looked up online! But go ahead, keep making things up—Vera likes the mess inside your head..."

But what the hell does it matter? The main thing is that Michèle went on to win four World Rally Championship rounds with the Audi team, finished as runner-up for the 1982 season, and in 1985 won the grueling Pikes Peak Hill Climb, among many other victories...When you love a woman, you see only the best in her and embrace her entirely with your heart—her face, her body, her scent—as absolute perfection.

Knowing that I can't stand it when a woman smells like a perfume hell, Vera used exclusively natural cleansers: strawberry or mint soaps, alongside gels and creams made solely from herbs and royal jelly. They don't emit the foul odor produced in chemical labs at the same factories that synthesize isoprene and sarin. Moreover, all Vera had to do in the morning was wash her face with clean, cold water, and it would immediately become as youthful as that of a fourteen-year-old nymph.

"Oh, here comes the heavy artillery," Brain buzzed in the back of my mind again, sending a sarcastic impulse into the higher realms. "He brought up Nabokov, lumped rubber isoprene and combat-grade sarin into the same bottle with Chanel... Lyonya, sarin doesn't actually have a smell in its pure form; any military man will tell you that! And as for the fourteen-year-old nymphet—be careful on the curves, or Vera might just yank the Cadillac's steering wheel, and your nymphet will turn into your own nurse in the trauma unit!"

Meanwhile, Vera once again deployed her ability to fold and unfold space like a household rug. Instead of taking just over an hour, we spent only thirty minutes on the road to the famous Dutch Afsluitdijk dam.

The car slowed to a smooth halt. We stepped onto the dam's crest and stood transfixed, captivated by the vast freshwater lake Ijsselmeer.

Vera was momentarily speechless upon seeing this grand structure, reclaimed from the stormy, salty bay. She recalled a recent dinner with Lucas van Janson, the captain and innkeeper of an Amsterdam schooner-hotel, and their conversation about the courageous people who had been at war with the ocean for centuries. Having now seen the scale of it with her own eyes, she felt an even deeper respect for the Dutch.

"You know, Vera, around the same time they were building this dam, in my former homeland, the Soviet Union, they were undertaking a massive construction project—the White Sea-Baltic Canal," I said, peering into the bluish distance. "And that two-hundred-twenty-seven-kilometer route was built in just one year and nine months, if the official figures are to be believed..."

“Impressive,” she said, surprised by the pace of the construction.

“Yes, but to be fair, out of the canal’s entire length, only forty-eight kilometers were man-made. The rest consisted of natural lakes and rivers.”

“But still, it’s a monumental project, and the timeframe seems incredible.”

“Especially when you consider that it was built by about a hundred thousand Soviet prisoners,” I added.

“And with practically no heavy machinery.”

“Why prisoners?” Vera frowned.

“Because political prisoners were the cheapest slave labor in the USSR.”

“Lenya, you’re talking about sheer savagery!” she said indignantly.

“It is savagery, Vera. Especially when you consider that in less than two years, twelve thousand people perished or died of disease during the construction of the White Sea – Baltic Canal,” I said crisply, citing official statistics.  “That’s how cheaply the Bolsheviks paid for their first ‘construction project of the century.’”

“Okay, I’m tired of this talk,” Vera said, her irritation clearly growing.

“After all, we came here to relax, not to debate politics. And you know, I want to take a boat ride on this lake.”

We made the rest of the journey in silence, frustrated with each other. Arriving at the resort town of Makkum, a popular hub for windsurfers, we easily rented a small motor-sailor. However, before we could even leave the dock, the air shook with a sharp, unnatural bang. Our Yamaha outboard motor instantly turned into a pile of smoking scrap metal. Then, with a loud crack, the rigging snapped, the steering jammed, and the falling mast, tearing the sails to shreds, nearly crushed us.

The boat lost all headway, throwing us hard onto the deck. Instinctively, I managed to grab Vera and shield her with my own body. Luckily, we escaped with only bruises and a good scare, but the icy wind blowing from the North Sea brought a chillingly clear understanding: this was no coincidence. It was a warning.

However, we didn’t linger on the sinking boat to wait for the police. Vera merely squeezed her eyes shut, once again folding space, and in that same instant, we found ourselves inside the dry cabin of our Cadillac.

“Well, at least in Amsterdam we planted a seed of doubt in the minds of the migrants and refugees from Africa,” I said, coming to my senses.

“Let them think about it, let them decide for themselves where the cheese tastes better: in their homeland or in a Dutch mousetrap.”

Vera silently turned the wheel, smiling softly at the road that our Cadillac was now devouring kilometer after kilometer. Outside, summer was melting. At the gas stations where we stopped, tourists squeezed past us, having doused themselves with half a bucket of deodorant in the heat. The air around them turned into that very perfume cesspool, capable of suffocating an entire regiment. I gasped for air, quickly retreated to the car, and buried my nose in Vera's shoulder—she smelled of clean grass, morning coolness, and mint. It was pure salvation.

“Well, Lyonya,” Vera adjusted the rearview mirror. “To Brussels?”

“Step on it, Verochka. Great things await us there.”

Arriving at Brussels' Place du Trône, Vera drove straight up to the pedestal of the monument to the bloody king. She got out of the car and stepped onto the lawn, parched by the summer heat but still springy.

Speakers were already standing there, addressing the assembled crowd. Each received their share of applause from a populace determined to tear down and obliterate a monument that shamed not just one nation, but all of Western civilization. The crowd shifted impatiently, clutching picks and crowbars, their fists clenched. They awaited the signal to unleash their energy on the destruction of sculptor Thomas Vinçotte's creation.

The final speaker, a leftist Maoist, was unleashing all his revolutionary fervor upon the bronze head of King Leopold, his hand raised to initiate the righteous vandalism.

At that exact moment, Vera stepped forward swiftly, like the heroine from Eugène Delacroix's painting Liberty Leading the People. Her eyes exuded a soft power; the left strap of her dress slipped down her shoulder, revealing a rounded breast of a rich, dark eggplant hue, while her right hand was raised upward, palm open.

Stopping the crowd in their tracks with a classic gesture, she demanded their attention, her voice calm but firm: "Madmen, what has clouded your minds? Who drove you to this futile act—to destroy a worthless monument to a worthless ruler! It's not just the Congo that demands revenge; all of Africa demands revenge, from Cape Ben Sekka in the north to Cape Agulhas in the south. And this revenge must be expressed not in the destruction of metal idols or symbols of inordinate pride, but in demands for reparations and indemnities for all the years of colonial oppression!"

Her words hit the mark. Realizing the futility of their half-baked vandalism, several men—both young and old—threw down their tools and began to disperse.

Suddenly, a group of weed-addled thugs in torn jeans, leather vests, and heavy chains separated from the crowd and advanced on Vera. One of the leaders, swinging a chain over his head, shouted, "Zionist whore, don't interfere with retribution!"

"Attention, Lenya! Quantum radar is detecting an act of vandalism!" my Brain screamed shrilly. "Leopold was certainly a despot in the Congo, but if they tear down this historical monument, Belgium will lose some of its charm. Save the monument, you misfits!"

I didn't waste a second. Jumping out of the Cadillac with a heavy adjustable wrench at the ready, I launched into a tirade, mixing choice curses, broken French, and Frisian, instantly paralyzing the crowd.

While they were trying to figure out who this madman was and why he was defending their late king in an incomprehensible dialect, Vera got behind the wheel and abruptly turned the Cadillac, causing the tires to squeal deafeningly. The element of surprise worked perfectly: the activists scattered in terror, convinced that a Russian intervention had begun. Leopold remained standing on his pedestal, looking down at us with mild surprise.

Leaving the surprised Leopold behind, our Cadillac rolled onto the Place Royale, where the equestrian monument to Godfrey of Bouillon dominated the square.

The legendary leader of the First Crusade sat frozen in bronze, his banner raised high as if still rallying Western Christendom to march on Jerusalem.

"Look at him, Lenya," Vera said, slowing down near the cobblestone plaza. "The 'Defender of the Holy Sepulcher.' I wonder what he would say if his bronze ears could hear the modern streets of Brussels.

"Through the historical rear-view mirror of my mind—the same misty, warped glass where I once glimpsed my parents listening to Pope Urban II blessing the crusaders—Godfrey looked small. Back then, Ida of Austria and her steel-clad knights rode East with fire and sword, teaching the shores of the Mediterranean the heavy price of Western ambition. They sowed the wind of perpetual conflict, igniting a defensive jihad that burned for centuries. They truly believed they were shaping a world where the white man's sword dictated the terms of existence.

And now, the historical wheel had spun full circle, flattening their legacy with quiet, demographic precision. 

The descendants of those whom Godfrey had slaughtered did not need a crusade of their own. They didn't need trebuchets, heavy armor, or a single drop of spilled blood. They simply arrived. They packed their bags, boarded budget flights, crossed the Mediterranean l and walked right into the heart of the kingdom. They took over the shops, filled the markets, and reshaped the parliament, transforming the European capital from within while the old world watched in paralyzed, bureaucratic politeness.

Godfrey of Bouillon remained frozen on his horse, his bronze eyes staring blankly at the bustling, multicultural crowd below. He had spent his life fighting to conquer the East, entirely blind to the fact that nine centuries later, the East would simply move into his living room, sign the lease, and leave him with nothing to do but hold a useless flag.

 

We burst into the Belgian capital just in time. Local ecoactivists and anticolonial protesters had already swarmed the monument to King Leopold II, preparing to topple it from its pedestal. Vera stepped forward and addressed the assembled crowd with a fiery speech. In vain! And she gave the signal, waving her hand…

“Attention, Lyonya! Quantum radars are detecting an act of vandalism!” Brain screeched in the back of my mind. “Leopold was certainly a despot in the Congo, but if they tear down this piece of history, Belgium will lose some of its charm. Save the monument, you marginal!”

I didn’t waste a single second. Jumping out of the Cadillac with a heavy adjustable wrench at the ready, I launched into a tirade in a mixture of choice obscenities, broken French, and Frisian that instantly stunned the crowd. While they were trying to process who this madman was and why he was defending their late king in an incomprehensible dialect, Vera whipped the Cadillac around in a dramatic spin, causing the tires to squeal violently. The element of surprise worked perfectly: the activists scattered in terror, convinced that a Russian intervention had begun…

 

 

In Paris, everything was repeated, only on a much larger scale. But what struck me most was that I didn’t see a single white or even olive-skinned face among those chanting. It seems Raspail’s prophecy has partly come true, and the vast majority of refugees and migrants from Asia and Africa have indeed moved to Paris. People of all stripes stood in a dense wall along the route our Cadillac was taking, chanting deafeningly: “Mayson! Mayson! Mayson!” The Eiffel Tower was adorned with a giant banner featuring a girl's portrait and the caption: "Vera Mayson, welcome to Paris!"

"Wow, your connections in high places have excellent taste in outdoor advertising," Brain whistled respectfully in the back of my mind. "Quasimodo would burst into tears of envy. Look at those native Parisians, their mouths are wide open!"

The Parisians were truly stunned. And we, with no letup in the madness, flew at full speed onto the Champs-Élysées. Vera drove our huge, imposing American Cadillac as if it were a nimble go-kart. The French gendarmes on their ridiculous mopeds and the policemen in kepis literally dropped their baguettes and whistles. They tried to wave their traffic wands at us, but Vera only smiled dazzlingly at them through the open window, pressing even harder on the gas.

The heavy executive car carved such wild turns around the Arc de Triomphe that seasoned Parisian taxi drivers crossed themselves on the move. We left behind the bewildered police, the trail of cheap French perfume, and the admiring sighs of tourists. Ahead, in the very south, was waiting for us Marseille — a riotous city reeking of sea and crime.

My visit to the city of my dreams left me with a toxic-green souvenir. As we raced through the Bois de Boulogne before leaving Paris, leaving gendarmes and taxi drivers utterly dumbfounded, an unlucky wild pigeon—apparently out of sheer fright—dropped a massive load right onto the lapel of my chic white jacket. Judging by the size of the stain, it wasn’t a pigeon at all, but a whole condor!

On the outskirts, we finally swapped places. As our Cadillac broke free from the congested metropolis and merged into the dense traffic on the Paris-Marseille autoroute, Vera leaned back in her seat and asked: “Leo, where did you learn to drive so well?”

"I don't know," I admitted honestly, without taking my eyes off the road ahead. "I've never even had a license."

And Brain, with all his might resisting Vera's mental charms, droned monotonously in the back of my mind, reworking Chekhov's "Three Sisters": "To Marseille, to Marseille, to Marseille..." — as if on the foggy shores of the Mediterranean Sea, a long-awaited liberation and the end of all our ordeals in old Europe really awaited us…