The Living (5 page)

NB! This entry should not be read by those under the age of 12.

Dog
freezes with an expression of shocked reproach on her face. But then she disappears, and at the same time all her accessories are deleted from the cell: bowls, bones, toys, little rugs, a medal, her lead and her collar… It’s like she was never even here. I tell myself: as soon as he leaves, I’ll reconnect with saved settings.
Dog
won’t understand anything, she’ll think she just fell asleep then woke up. But all the same I feel bad. She’d already got used to it here. It’s like I’ve kicked her out…

But I’ve got to be easy-going. Especially now. Ef is losing interest in me. He never responds to my approaches, doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t trust me anymore.

They say that there’s no better way of getting close to
someone
than in
luxury
mode.

They say that there’s no better way of getting to know someone.

His fantasies are usually as simplistic as he is. In the early stages he liked chasing me, he liked to feel like he was pursuing me. He
creates
something like a jungle for the chase, with long, moist inviz-coloured plants. He puts me in a tacky short ‘busy’-coloured dress. I agree to be the victim, to be pursued, and run from him through the ‘jungle’. I part the grey stalks with my hands, they’re slippery and cold and dead – but I breathe life into them. I paint his dull jungle in the brightest shades of ‘I’m feeling lucky’. I fill his plants with warm, sticky moisture, I make them move, make them wind round my naked legs and creep up under my dress.

The slippery stalks stroke me as I run… Ef is getting closer, I can hear him breathing hoarsely, he shoves me and I fall down face first. He turns me onto my back and tries to push my legs apart but I squeeze them tightly together. So tightly that
the stalks crawling between my legs snap – they’re filled with sticky moisture. He leans over me and I look into his mirrored mask…

I never see his face. Not just in
luxury
– never at all. In first layer he has to wear the mask the whole time, but that doesn’t really matter, we hardly ever meet in first layer. What matters is that he doesn’t have a face in any layer. He has that same mirrored mask in
socio
. It’s a mystery. Even if you assume that his face is deformed, in
socio
he could choose any user pic.

What would you have to be like to wear a mirror mask in all layers? What would you have to be like to dress strictly in inviz not only in first layer, but in
socio
too? What would you have to be like to turn your
socio
cell into this copy of a standard first-layer living quarters? I’ve been to his cell a few times. A bleak place. So bleak it’s as if there’s no
socio
at all… The first time I even tried to drink water from the tap. To check. Ef watched me and seemed flattered. He said, ‘This is my living quarters in first layer – an exact copy.’

He said, ‘A real planetman’s cell should be strictly functional.’

What must you be like to drag all the poverty and simplicity of first layer into a world where nothing is impossible?

You probably have to be obsessed.

…I never see his face, but in
luxury
, glap, I can choose what I see for myself. I can make a face for him…

Luxury
is one of the Living’s greatest
socio
-sacraments. A garden of delights in which the fantasies of every participant in the
act
let out shoots and blossom. They get woven together these fantasies, they grow into each other, become one… ‘Absolute unity – that’s what brings us joy,’ as it says in the
socio
settings. ‘In
luxury
mode you share all of the five senses you have access to with your friends.’

It doesn’t say in the settings that
luxury
mode activates the part of the brain known as the nucleus accumbens. But I know something about it. As long as the
act
is going on, everything
you see, hear, smell or touch with your tongue or skin, excites your pleasure centre.

…I make a face for him. It’s different every time, once I even tried my own. He doesn’t see himself, but he can feel the
transformation
, he can feel that he is losing control over what is happening. Then he shakes off the face I’ve made, and takes me to a different location with a jerk. Normally it’s something like an abandoned building site or warehouses in some
wasteland
. Bits of stones, the rusted skeletons of cars, concrete blocks… Solitude. I’ve named this place the Wastes of Solitude. He leaves me there alone – to wait until he appears.

In first layer (after the
act
I always check the chronometer in the settings) only a couple of minutes pass, but here in
luxury
it lasts a thousand days – that’s what his fantasy is, that’s his move, and whatever I do, however much I try, I’m not able to reduce this period. Maybe it’s all because of the depression which takes hold of me in the Wastes, or something else, I don’t know – but here he’s always stronger than me. If I make any attempt to leave, to change the setting or wind time forward he responds the same way – he puts me back in the Wastes of Solitude. And starts the count again from zero.

I wait for a thousand days. There’s nowhere for me to go, nothing to think about and no one to talk to. I can’t invite any of my other real friends to visit me in the Wastes – Ef only likes
luxury
for two, and group
acts
are blocked in his settings. Sometimes I
create
phantom friends for myself in the Wastes. Ef doesn’t touch them, doesn’t react, but I soon cancel them myself anyway. They always end up somehow flat and boring, with indistinct narrow faces, with movements that aren’t quite right and a wooden gait. They give voice to my thoughts with my words, they seem to me like hungry ghosts, heralds of my madness. I
cancel
them and wait for Ef. I’m powerless. I only have one way out – leaving
luxury
mode, one-sided
termination
of the
act
.

Only once, on one of the first times, did I do it. I broke off the
act
. Ef was furious. He left and didn’t appear in my cell for a few months. He said that he couldn’t bear it when the
act
was broken off without his knowledge… With arguments, pleading and promises I tempted him back. I swore that I’d be a good girl from now on. That I’d never break off the
act
. That I’d wait for him in the Wastes of Solitude. What else did I have left?
Luxury
is the best way to get close to someone.
Luxury
is the best way to draw out someone’s secrets.

I wait for a thousand days. I sit on my haunches and I am filled with a sadness that’s so penetrating that it’s nice even. I am alone. My phantom friends tell me, ‘You’re alone here, Cleo.’ ‘You can’t carry on, Cleo.’ ‘You can’t stand this any longer.’ ‘This is torture.’ I close my eyes. I pray, I dream about this monster coming quicker. He is my saviour, my hope, my reward. I’m waiting for him. I can’t carry on without him. On the thousandth day he comes, and I let him do whatever he wants to me. He is my lover. My saviour. I am happy to do anything, as long as he stays with me.

And then, while we’re still in
luxury
, but after the
act
, when he’s knackered, happy and trusting, when he is in sleep mode, that’s when I ask him a couple of questions and he answers them. And I note down his answers in a file called ‘Nameless’.

…That’s what it’s normally like, but this time everything is different. There’s no jungle, no Wastes, no red dress. We stay in my cell and he hovers about stupidly then sits on the edge of the sofa. He’s completely passive, he is expecting something from me – I try to figure out what exactly. I ask him.

This is a new one. This puts me on my guard.

I make us some jungle with long, moist plants in all shades of ‘feeling lucky’. I put on a short, ‘busy’ dress… Something’s wrong with
luxury
. His reaction is paradoxical. I don’t feel any pleasure from his side. He carefully probes an oily liana, covered in sap, with his finger. He
cancels
it and pulls his hand away sharply when the plant disappears. He turns his face towards me, examines my dress. I can feel the hem creeping downward, the synthetic cloth catching on my uneven skin, tickling my legs. It’s nice… He laughs suddenly. He changes the cut and the colour and the material. Now I’m wearing a long black silk dress.

So we stand there. Among the lianas, in the bright jungle. He’s obviously not planning on chasing me. He grudgingly, lazily,
cancels
another couple of plants…

I say to him,

Finally I realise. He wants to swap roles: not be the torturer, but the victim. He wants to feel what it’s like for me, sick bastard.

I form the Wastes – I don’t manage to reproduce it absolutely accurately, I can see myself that certain details are missing, but overall it’s the same. He looks around with interest, he likes his new role. I say ‘wait’ and leave him there for a thousand days.

Where does he normally go when he leaves me here alone? I don’t know; personally, I
create
a fantastic little house for myself with a swimming pool on the roof. And there on the roof I install a telescope pointed at the Wastes of Solitude… I lie in the water, my arms and legs thrown out like a starfish. Hundreds of ticklish streams envelop me like cold, restless tentacles. I enjoy the touch of these tentacles. I enjoy the
sensation
of weightlessness. And I like the fact that I have a hostage. From time to time I get out of the water and observe him through the telescope.

He’s sitting on the ground, his head in his hands, rocking slightly from side to side. He looks despondent. He doesn’t try to change anything, or cancel it or reconfigure it… I enjoy the feeling of power. I like keeping him there. I say to myself: it’s not like I’ve got a cruel streak. Far from it. I’m full of mercy, like any part of the Living. It’s just that
luxury
is designed to excite my pleasure centres.

On day three I get bored and I just wind forward a couple of weeks – just for me – hoping to discover some interesting shifts in the Wastes. I look through the telescope: what I see exceeds my expectations. The Wastes are not there anymore; in their place is a river with muddy banks overgrown with brown shrubs. Ef is sitting by the river, leaning back on some sort of dark formless heap which I can’t make out. He holds his face in his hands, something about it has changed, but for the first few seconds I can’t figure out what. Then I realise – his pale skin is showing through his fingers. He’s taken off his mask. For the first time in all this time he’s taken off his bloody mask.

I cancel my little house with the swimming pool and the telescope. I delete the thousand-day waiting period. I can’t miss
this. I go up to him, squat down next him, and carefully take his hands from his face.

He doesn’t resist. His face is the face of a child, but it’s
changing
constantly. He seems like a twelve-year-old boy, then an eighteen-year-old girl, then a complete baby. He has full,
disconsolate
lips and eyes the colour of bitter chocolate. He’s crying.

I suddenly see what the shapeless heap he’s leaning against is. The body of an elephant. The elephant is not alive. The beads of tears have frozen in his dull amber eyes.

You get the feeling that Ef is weeping for this unliving elephant. You get the feeling that he can’t control his
metamorphoses
. The only thing which doesn’t change in his face is the expression of grief. He’s whimpering quietly and
inconsolably
, almost to the point of tears. His shoulders are shaking. They’re so broad, they don’t fit at all with his swollen,
fluctuating
child’s face.

Something’s wrong with
luxury
. I don’t feel any pleasure anymore. I feel like I’m hurting a child’s feelings.

I say to him,

His chocolate eyes open wide, and he looks at me in shock: it seems like he’s only just noticed that he’s not alone anymore. His face freezes – somewhere between eight and twelve, then rapidly starts to mature, simultaneously becoming overgrown with that familiar mirrored encrustation.