The Living (13 page)

Even before Ef manages to finish his sentence, I see myself: ‘…at the age of thirty numerous errors were discovered in the program. Diagnosis: inoperable system failure.
Socio
cannot be reinstalled due to organic violations in the brain…’

‘Which is why Matthew is not able to send and receive messages,’ Ef says.

‘But… I can see he’s got activity in fourth layer. Right now!’

‘In fourth?’ Ef smiles. ‘This fellow can’t even hold second! Phantom activity flashes… They don’t have any meaningful content. You will have to write the message out yourself, by hand. And give it to the recipient – if, of course, he remembers who he wants to send it to.’

The compulsory continues to bang up against the wall of the booth like a moth.

‘Matthew,’ I say as gently as possible, ‘everything’s going to be alright. Now I’m going to write down your message. You read it out and I’ll write it down, OK?’

His eyes roll up into his head, he presses his cheek and the corner of his slobbering mouth against the booth and begins to slide down slowly. I catch sight of two long, dirty teeth beneath his top lip as it is pulled back. Ef catches Matthew
before he falls and takes him in his arms like a little Darling. I look at his limp body: the tranqvitamins have finally done their job… Then something happens which cannot happen. I still hear – we both hear – Matthew speaking, dour and dispassionate:

‘Write down this message. Subject of message. To the saviour from the apostle. Beginning of text. You have come to save the world. The monster must die at your hands…’

Ef’s mirrored mask wrinkles with lines of surprise on his forehead. He leans his head over Matthew and the old man’s face is reflected in his. His rolled eyes reveal a stripe of white and an inflamed hatchwork of blood vessels. His parted lips have yellowish drops of drool in the corners. It is just
unthinkable
that this man can talk right now, but still he is
talking
, dragging the words out of his recalcitrant mouth:

‘…You will be a captive, but the servant will elevate you, if you serve him. End of text.’

‘Everything’s alright,’ I say to myself, ‘everything’s going to be alright. Even if your client is ranting away, just do your job. Carry out your duties, and that’s all.’

‘Who should I give the message to?’

‘The Saviour,’ Matthew replies.

‘There is no one with that nickname on the
socio
base,’ I say. ‘But everything’s alright. There’s a Saver, a Saver1, a Saver33… Shall I pass your message on to one of those?’

‘To the Saviour. His name is Zero.’

         
just do your job…

‘Unfortunately, we cannot carry out your request. The person who you are talking about, Zero, he… is no longer living. He was not reproduced.’

‘Everything is going to be alright,’ Matthew says in a singsong voice. ‘Yes, he died for our sins. But give him the message when he rises again.’

We wait for him to continue, but Matthew does not say
another word. For some reason Ef rocks him gently in his arms, as if he were singing a lullaby to a Darling.

The loudspeaker plays an announcement:

‘The next pause will begin in one minute. We would like to encourage all guests to make their way into the Pause Zone! Dear guests! We would like to remind you that the same hygiene code applies in the Pause Zone as in the Reproduction Zone. Before the Pause guests are obliged to take a disinfecting shower. The shower booths are exactly the same as those in the Reproduction Zone, so we hope that there will be no
difficulties
. Could all those who have come to say goodbye to their friends please leave the foyer. Thank you for assisting nature. Until we meet again. There is no death!’

‘You have to leave, officer,’ I say to Ef, trying to hide the gloating note in my voice.

‘Matthew can’t walk. I’ll carry him into the Pause Zone.’

In first layer I say:

‘Unfortunately, that is not possible. There is no provision in the Festival programme for those coming to say goodbye to Pausers to enter the Pause Zone. You are saying goodbye to him, right?’

‘Yes…’

‘Don’t worry, everything’s going to be alright with your charge. I have already called for a wonder-trolley…’

…He lays Matthew on his back on the wonder-trolley. Matthew opens his eyes. His pupils are not so enormous
anymore
and you can see what colour his eyes are. Blue. Murky blue, like a new-born Darling.

‘Everything’s going to be alright,’ I say to him. ‘The
wonder-trolley
is fitted with the latest navigation systems. It will deliver
you to the shower room quickly and directly.’

‘My present…’ Matthew whimpers quietly. ‘Birthday… my present… present…’

‘Here’s your present.’ Ef ties the bunch of balloons to one of the wonder-straps.

Matthew obediently immerses himself in observing the balloons. He doesn’t even notice the wonder-trolley moving off. Ef, stooping over, watches him go. Something’s wrong with him, with Ef. The Living is, without doubt, full of love, but I’ve never seen a planetman being so kind to a compulsory.

‘Will someone help him get changed and leave the shower?’ he asks out loud.

Only now do I finally realise that there’s something not right about him.

‘Everything’s going to be alright,’ I say.

Then I turn off the light, switch off the audio and video recording, clamber out of the booth into the empty foyer and, my lips almost touching his lifeless mirror neck, I whisper: ‘They don’t leave the shower.’

The brilliant sand crunches under my feet. Unlike most people I like going on walks: walking in first layer helps keep you fit. At least I don’t weigh eighty kilos like the majority of women that come to the festival to shake their flabby bodies…

He follows me out of the festival complex. Golden Mean Square is empty – there is no one here but us and that stupid fist… I don’t like concrete art.

He replies out loud, with the chatterbox switched off – when it’s not distorted by the device, his voice sounds unpleasantly animated:

‘I want to know how sincere your answer is.’

He says nothing. I can’t tell anything from his face, that’s for sure. I am so envious of his mask.

‘Do you know the formula for the injection? The one used in the experiment with the directed Leo-Lot ray?’

‘Is this an interrogation?’

‘No. You can see. The conversation device is switched off.’

‘Then gopz. Why do you think I’m going to answer your question?’

‘Because I have a couple of documents in my memory. And if I forward them to my bosses, then you’re going to be put under investigation.’

‘Only now I’ll put the question differently,’ he adds out loud.

‘The formula for the injection?’

He brings his mirrored face up to mine so that I see my reflection.

‘You have very expressive features, Cleo.’

He turns away and walks off through the square, the golden sand rustling under his feet.

Not turning back, he waves at me.

‘I’m cold,’ Ef says, ‘I shouldn’t sleep on the snow anymore.’

He doesn’t look good. Worse than two days ago. Back then it had even seemed to me like the swelling had started to go down slightly but I probably just didn’t notice it in the bad light: all I had was some smelly wax candles which I’d got from Megalopolis. Now that I’ve finally fixed a Nativity garland to the bars with tiny wonder-sunshines and the cage is awash with golden light, it’s horrible to even look at him.

His right eye has closed up almost entirely, the left is a bloodshot crack glinting in the folds of his livid eyelids, like the shell of a mollusc just opening in the heat. His hair is sticky with sweat, blood and pus and is standing up in a funny tuft, his lips have become dry and cracked. He hasn’t eaten and hasn’t drunk the vitacomplex that I left him: the white bottle and packet of dry food are untouched. The haematoma sprawls over his face in an uneven patch: it is like the juice of crushed blackberries has soaked through his skin. The wound itself – at the top of the forehead, right in the middle – doesn’t look so bad now and is kind of
healing
… But it’s giving off a bad smell. The smell of rotten cheese.

‘Let’s redo this wound,’ I say, opening the first aid kit.

‘No need. Just put a bit of snow on it.’

‘It’s summer now, Ef.’

His dry lips give a weak smile:

‘Who are you trying to fool, Cerberus? The whole place is covered in snow. You’re standing up to your knees in a snow drift.’

For the first couple of days he just whimpered in pain and kept losing consciousness, but the rest of the time he was able to think more or less clearly. Now he is almost permanently delirious. He thinks I am Cerberus. In his rare moments
of insight he asks who I am and where we are, but he can’t concentrate on the reply.

‘Request to TSS, check my connection to
socio
… I can’t see my friend list…’

I inject him with something to reduce his fever. I pour a few thick mouthfuls of vitacomplex into his mouth. I look over the wound and change the bandage. Ef does not resist and doesn’t even groan, as if he isn’t in pain anymore.

‘Cold,’ he repeats.

I cover him with another rug. It’s twenty-five degrees outside and here in the cage it must be as high as thirty, but Ef really is shivering from the cold.

‘Did he really leave us here to freeze?’ I can hear despair and hurt in his voice.

‘Who is “he”?’ I am curious.

‘The Living, who else. It was him who sent us here to look for the antivirus… No connection to
socio
… But he is right. We are now infected and we are a threat. We should stay away until the pause… I can’t see my friend list… The crystalline structure of the snowflake is the source of infection. It’s no surprise that there is no antivirus yet. That’s what harmony is like: any snowman can become a traitor…’

I figure that there is more going on here than just the wound and the fever. He’s going mad because he’s got no connection. Like a warrior termite that’s been moved to a separate container.

Ef’s face is covered in a beaded film of sweat. The beads are slowly swelling… I touch his forehead with my hand – not so hot any more, the jab is starting to work – and look at my wet hand. The skin on his forehead is so purple that it’s amazing that something clear can ooze out of it.

‘Where am I?’ Ef asks me. I reply:

‘In the old zoo. You’re sitting in a cage which used to house a pair of orang-utans.’

This is the absolute truth. That’s what it says on the sign.

‘Who are you?’ Ef asks me.

I reply:

‘A friend.’

That’s a lie.

‘I can’t see my friend list,’ he says in despair. ‘Where’s my friend list gone? I can’t remember their names… who did you say used to live here…?’

‘Orang-utans.’

‘I don’t remember what orang-utans are…’

‘Tree-dwelling apes,’ I swiftly open
Wikipedia
in second layer. ‘Until the beginning of our era they lived in the rainforest of the islands of Borneo and Sumatra, in what is now region A3 6. The majority of the population was exterminated during the Great Reduction; the remainder died out as a result of migration into regions with an unsuitable climate…’

He listens to me so attentively, his mouth hanging open, that I feel ashamed. I shouldn’t have made fun of him.

‘And my praying mantis…?’

‘I’m feeding your mantis.’

‘You are Cerberus, right? There’s something up with my memory,’ he says. ‘I’ve got no access. I can’t get into my memory.’

So many times over these days while I have been keeping him here an almost irresistible desire has risen up inside me to give back to him that which I have taken from him and which I have no need for. His friends, his shows, his pleasures, his games, his circulars. The magic box containing his memory and his reason. But it’s too late. It’s all gone too far.

I’ve gone too far…

‘I understand,’ Ef looks me right in the eye with his murky, bloodshot eye. ‘Finish me off.’

His voice sounds calm, almost matter-of-fact, and for the first time for many days his face looks aware.

‘Just finish me off. One more blow to the head.’

A horrible feeling rises up inside me, as if someone is digging through my hair. And crawling up my back. At that moment the
autodoctor
bursts into my skull with helpful comments

Piloerection…?
Wikipedia
obediently pops up with a definition: a basic reflex, the contraction of the muscles of the hair follicles, resulting in the hair being raised. In response to danger raised fur makes animals seem larger and more
frightening
…
Descriptive Illustration
flashes up: some little animal looking like an angry ball of fur…

All this noise. All these flashes, bubbles, voices, windows, boxes. An endless party inside my head. A crowd of
well-intentioned
strangers, they reply and ask questions, talk and demonstrate, interrupt and cajole, they ask me out for a walk, they force me to be friends. Fofs, they’ve exhausted me! But there, sitting opposite me, is a man who cannot live without them… Danger? How can this castrated cripple be a threat to me: even if his mind has cleared for a moment…? So, no: my piloerection does not come from fear. Tell me, autodoctor, can you get piloerection from shame? From regret? From guilt and self-disgust?

Well then, what we have here is a very rare case. Extremely rare. I would even say unique.

Ef looks up at me, tilting his head strangely, as if he was planning to charge at me and gore me.

‘I’m wounded,’ he states with inexplicable joy.

I suddenly realise what this look of concentration of his means: he’s not looking at me at all, he’s examining his
reflection
in my mirrored face. His bruise, his swollen eye and the bandage on his head…

He feels his wound through the bandage, presses it a few times with two fingers, somehow too roughly and sharply, and every time he gasps in amazement, as if he’s surprised that it might hurt.

‘…I’m wounded right in the
socio
slot. Did you do this to me?’

I look at his unavailable watering eye, I look for a long time, trying to figure out why there is this strange exhilaration in his voice again, but his eye doesn’t express anything except patient expectation of an answer and I reply, ‘Yes, Ef, I did that to you.’

What now? He will ask why, he will promise that I’ll be put on the Blacklist, he will go crazy, he will try to mutilate me in return, he will demand a connection, a doctor and details. I will say that it’s his own fault, I’ll say that I’m sorry, that I’m really sorry, but I had no other choice, I will say ‘forgive me’, and then, probably, I will do what he asks. I will finish him off. One more blow to the head. Or maybe two or three. I can’t keep him here forever.

Instead of that he says, ‘You’re awesome. You’re a total legend!’

He says:

‘This new game is just mind-blowing! “The Mean Streets of First Layer”, right? Isn’t that what it’s called? A proper no deather!’

He says, ‘I’ve got to send my thanks to the Association of Game Raters right away! Those guys have done a great job! At first I didn’t even realise that I’m in fifth layer… Total illusion of first! Visually, and with sensations of pain, and… Cerberus, have you given it a rating? The sensory stimulation
is better than in
luxury
, no? And especially this whole thing with the broken
socio
slot,’ he pokes his fingers right into the wound again, wrinkling his forehead with pain and pleasure. ‘Smin, I was completely convinced that I had actually been disconnected from
socio
! I only guessed when I saw my
reflection
…’ He laughs and then is overcome with wheezy coughing. ‘…At this beaten meat in the place of my face and no mask, hardly realistic is it? And that’s when it hit me: if my
socio
slot has blacked out, why is the cerebron not backing it up…? And this snow… it’s also a sort of signal… of alarm… I’ve sort of… lost track… what was I just saying?’

He looks around embarrassed. Licks his dry lips. Gawps at me with his mollusc-eye, trustingly, waiting for a hint.

Who am I to take away his final consolation? To explain to the termite that he’s now in a separate container. The termite really wants to believe that he is still building the mound along with everyone else, like before. So I give him a hint.

‘You were saying that you like this game. “The Mean Streets of First Layer.” Everything’s really realistic.’

‘Right, exactly!’ He’s happy again. ‘The game. Well, I,
basically
, give up. One–nil to you. I can’t for the life of me figure out where the escape is here… Everything’s done so cleverly… So finish me off. Looks like that’s the only way out of here.’

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘There’s no other way out. Everything is done so cleverly.’