Two Peasants and a President by Frederick Aldrich

ambassador’s normally stony countenance had drained like melting mascara from his face.  His aide thought he detected a slight trembling in his hands. 
    It would not be necessary to transmit the file contained on the DVD to Beijing because they too made daily recordings of all major news broadcasts.  Based on what he had seen, the ambassador assumed his private phone would be ringing in a matter of seconds.  He was not disappointed.  After the usual procedures to ensure that the call was secure, he heard the familiar voice of the most senior aide to the Chinese president. 
    “Good evening, Mr. Ambassador.  I assume that you have already been informed of this evening’s American news broadcasts.”
    “I have,” replied the ambassador.
    “Then you know,” continued the aide, “that it casts us in a rather bad light.  Furthermore, it forces us to take additional measures, both here and in America.”  The aide obviously was not going to specify what those measures were.  “The President,” he continued, “has instructed me to advise you that a certain personnel will be in the air in approximately one hour.  You, yourself, will attend to formalities at the airport.”
    “I will see to it personally,” replied the ambassador.
    The secure link clicked off and the ambassador was again alone with his aide, who noted that the ambassador’s face was now a pale shade of gray.  Ambassador Li was a career diplomat, but he was also something of a hist o rian, and he knew well the risks involved in China’s gambit.  China was now employing its considerable leverage in a way it had never dared before.  It was also backing the young American president into a corner. 

 
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    About an hour after robo -doc visited her, the food came, that is, if you could call it food.  A plastic tray, a plastic bowl of rice, some veggies and meat she couldn’t identify.  And chopsticks.  Oh God, Not chopsticks , she thought.  What had been kind of romantic on the junk, now seemed like a cruel joke.  She left the meat, not wanting to know what it was, and ate the rice and veggies with her fingers. 
    A book had been delivered with her food.  Uncle Tom’s Cabin was printed on its binding.  She threw it at the wall.  The sons of bitches kidnap me, throw me i n a stinking cell and then try to feed me propaganda! The rest of the day was boring and lonely.  She thought about Ray and about home, wondering if their folks had realized they were missing yet. 
    But at least she knew it was day because when they opened the door, she could see narrow, horizontal windows along the top of the other side of the hall.  She marveled at how she had come to cherish such seemingly insi g nificant bits of information, but it was important to her because it provided a measure of time.  Here one grasped at any tiny piece of reality, any shred of humanity. 
    The next morning they brought her fruit, fruit she could recognize.  She didn’t want to give them the pleasure of seeing her en joy it, but the minute they closed the door, she devoured it hungrily.  An hour later, the lock turned again.  The same man came in and looked at her, this time his gaze lingering.  His eyes made a quick scan of the room, and then he ushered in the cleaning lady and took his perch across the hall. 
    The woman started her ritual.  Holly saw that there was a certain di g nity in this woman that she hadn’t noticed before.  Her stooped and tired body sheltered a strong spirit, a spirit that would not be quenched by hardship or oppression.  The woman sensed Holly staring at her and she paused and turned.  She seemed to want to say something, something that neither la n guage nor circumstance would allow her to voice.  Then she smiled, r e garding Holly for what seemed like a long time. 
    Five minutes later, the woman had pushed her bucket and mop out the door and was gone.
    On the third day, the suitcase appeared.  She had given up