The 2084 Precept (75 page)

Well…now how about that? Oh yes indeed, Mr.
Jeremy Parker, you are going to have to create some more of your
astounding delusions the next time we meet in order to explain away
the bewildering connections between Céline, Amélie, United
Fasteners, Naviera Pujol, and myself and yourself. There is more to
this than meets the eye. I am truly and truthfully agog—or
en
gogues
as the Middle French, whence we stole the word, would
have it. It will, no doubt about it, be another fascinating
experience for me to hear what he comes up with this time.

* * * * *

I watched Céline for a while, her adorable
face lying on the pillow, her ponytail flopped out behind her,
snoring ever so quietly and with that overpoweringly defenseless
look which spectacle-wearers can exhibit when not wearing
spectacles. The blinking red lights were gone, there would be no
more timely Xmas cards or birthday cards to keep them blinking
until they break up with their boyfriends, no more adding to the
list, just let me be able to keep Céline for as long the ocean’s
waves will allow.

I went into the bathroom and called Pedro in
the office. I told him I wouldn't be in this morning, I had an
important meeting (not a lie). But I would pop in for the
afternoon’s staff meeting. No problem, he said, everything had gone
well with the
Gerona Sol
and it will be departing for
Morocco at around midday. The
Mahon Star
would be leaving
for Palma as usual this evening and would be loaded to full
capacity or very close to it.

I went down to the terrace to have
breakfast. I took my laptop with me and I typed out that poem to
give later to Céline. She could include this one also in her
class's offbeat poetry critique program. It was entitled 'Faith'
and it went like this:

I trod on an anthill yesterday,

Down in the field by the lake,

And hundreds of innocent creatures died

Because of my dumb mistake.

And I thought I would hear the survivors

Cursing their stars and their fate,

And wondering why their deities

Were always too lazy or late.

But no, not at all, they had gathered around

And were debating in moderation

What intentions their gods might possibly have

Toward their civilization.

And I heard them discussing the meanings of
life,

And how faith was belief without proof.

And the next thing I knew, along came a cow

And flattened them all with her hoof.

And then I ruminated a little about my life.
First of all, I would not be mentioning a single word about Jeremy
Parker to Céline. She would think I was nuts and take the next
plane back to Paris and Rouen and maybe her fiancé. Or ex- cum
future fiancé I should say. And we definitely do not want that.

I would carry on here as boss of the
Naviera. I would quit Germany and its ghastly climate, central
heating for eight months of the year, and buy a house with a pool
on Mallorca, on the cliffs somewhere, see how Mr. Brown likes it
here.

And there is a two-week chess tournament in
Mallorca in October. It starts at around the time of the annual
Palma marathon race, and I'll take vacation for that. And my friend
Steve will have finished his project in China and be back in Europe
in a few weeks' time and he can come visit. And Monika can come
visit also, she'll be sad and happy at the same time about Céline
and me. Ah, and that reminds me, I will have to drive her car back
and return with my Audi. Céline can use the Audi, I'll use my
company car. No. I will swap the Audi for some car of her
preference. Mallorca is not the place for a machine like the R8.
Its only purpose would be to show off. Pomp and ceremony, a vehicle
for use by posers and assholes. And I can enjoy playing some
slightly risky games on the stock market with part of that money
I've got, and…

Some hands were lightly massaging my
shoulders. And even without the feel of those beautiful soft
breasts pressing into my back, I didn't need to be told whose hands
they were. Her way of massaging was a very distinctive one. And if
she didn't stop quickly, she would have to wait a little longer for
her breakfast. There were certain parts of me, aching or not, which
would not survive more than a couple of minutes of this and she
knew it; and I knew she knew it, the craven little torturer.

And yes, I am going to put the events of the
past few weeks into writing. Every single day of them. Sitting by
the pool. And knowing full well that if anyone ever comes across
this rambling tale, they are not going to believe a single word of
it. Which would make them cynics, at least in this regard, and they
would be classifying me as a liar. But there is nothing wrong with
that, I am not offended. There is nothing wrong at all, as I have
attempted to make clear, in being a cynic. Quite the contrary.

However. However…there are
some
things they are not allowed to be cynical about. And one of them is
their planet and the species to which they belong.

While you have been reading this today,
another 1,300 humans were individually murdered by other humans,
360 humans were slaughtered in conflicts (a slack period for
conflicts at the moment, and way down on the 40,000 per day in
World War II), and 1,000 humans were killed just travelling around
their planet. There have been 123,000 abortions, there have been
27,000 divorces, 22,000 women have been raped, we have killed 160
million land animals (plus 270 million marine animals) and 2,700 of
us have gone the suicide route and killed ourselves (thereby
helping to make up today's total of 150,000 deaths). And plenty of
other things have happened today of course, including items of
minor import such as 4,500 human females have had their breasts
enlarged and another 1,500 have had theirs diminished. Go
figure.

And assuming that today has been an average
day, that is.

And now you will have to excuse me, I am
going to have to forcibly take Céline back up to our room, she will
be required to pay the penalty for her nefarious deeds. Except that
I know she won't see it that way. It will not be forcibly. She has
hungry eyes.

And I would like to leave with a rumination
or two.

As a Frenchman once said, or maybe he wrote
it: 'Never take life too seriously; in any case you are not going
to get out of it alive'.

So don't worry, I tell you. Keep on voting
if that's what you like. And why not try Mallorca as a place to
live? It is a nice place, a very nice place indeed, and still not
completely smothered in concrete, despite their birdbrains' best
efforts, flap, flap, to achieve it. And one day they will of
course, because, as we know, 'more is better' and they are never
going to stop. But they probably won't achieve it before you have
finished your voyage to death and all points beyond.

So don't be sad about it. There is
absolutely no point.

Just forget everything.

Forget the fact that the human race is so
stupid that it thinks it’s intelligent.

Do what I am doing.

Enjoy your time.

Time, after all, is all you've got.

It was in the International Herald Tribune a
few days after I returned from signing the legal documents in
London.

A minor article of minor interest:

London Businessman Killed

Mr. Jeremy Parker, well-known Chairman and CEO of
the internationally renowned Obrix group of companies, was shot and
killed yesterday morning outside his company's Strand headquarters
in central London. Witnesses state there were two killers who fled
together on a motorcycle which was subsequently found abandoned
close to the Charing Cross underground station and later identified
as stolen. Mr. Parker was famous for the rapidity with which he
created a thriving global financial and investment empire which has
become a powerful and eminent force within its field. Motives for
this cold-blooded killing remain a mystery at this stage.

That's all there was. I suppose there was
nothing else to report. And considering the nature of the
organization which must have done it, and irrespective of the
country to which it belonged, there would probably
never
be
anything else to report.

I suppose that Jeremy could have prevented
it, but he would have needed to recognize the danger in the first
place. And maybe he hadn't. Or maybe he had, but he just didn't
care.

Whatever the case, Jeremy Parker had
achieved what no man before him had ever achieved. He had
engineered a meeting of the leaders of our species to discuss
whether it was at all possible for us to stop killing ourselves.
And whether there was a way to eradicate our genetic antagonism and
belligerence for the long-term. And that, in my book, deserves a
gigantic monument. A metaphorical one of course. We cynics regard
physical monuments with considerable disdain.

* * * * *

So I had known poor Jeremy for less than two
months and now he was gone.

Murdered. A consequence of suspicion and
fear.

And whether you are a Christian, a Muslim, a
Hindu, an agnostic, an atheist, or one of the many other
alternatives open to you, it is a proven fact that Jesus Christ
existed and that he was doing his best to try and help us.

And so was Jeremy Parker.

And it is a proven fact that we killed them
both, and for the very same reasons.

And, as we also know, Jesus is supposed to
have hopped off back home after that and—if we choose to believe
our friend Jeremy Parker—that is precisely what he has gone and
done as well.

But in my view we should in no way attempt
to compare the two events. There are far too many differences. Even
small ones, such as Jeremy Parker not having had the opportunity to
ask the Christian Bible question (Matthew 27-46): “My God, My God,
why hast thou forsaken me?” An opportunity also not made available
to those millions of rhesus monkeys as they perished, and continue
to perish, in their neck-vices on those cleverly designed human
restaurant tables.

And I will never get to learn about the
perplexing entanglement of connective events in which I have been
so strangely implicated.

I will never even know whether it was simply
Jeremy—for reasons unknown—trying to help me with my private life,
lots of money and a great girl.

Unless…unless of course…my alien phone were
to ring again one day.

And if it
were
to ring again one day,
would it be to tell me that we were to be eradicated, annihilated,
that same evening perhaps, or possibly the following morning? Or
would it be to re-assert the validity and irrevocability of the
2084 precept and its terms? Another 70 years to go?

Now just a moment there, say my neurons,
just hang on a minute, will you?
We
refuse point blank to
contemplate a comparison of the two events. And, in addition, no
phone is ever going to ring to inform you about anything at all,
not even tomorrow’s weather forecast.

Jeremy Parker's delusions and his
extraordinary fantasy world had simply perished at the identical
point in time that he himself had. The poor guy had simply been an
outrageously deranged lunatic. With certain skills and knowledge,
sure enough. And seemingly no longer a danger to himself or to
others. But insane nevertheless. Demented. Crazy.

That is what my neurons tell me.

It would be interesting to know what yours
tell you.

END