The Living (7 page)

And finally – if I can dream a little bit? – extra-
social
curiosity might reopen the Living’s path to the stars. Before the Nativity ancient man was actively pursuing expansion into space; it is very regrettable that this sphere remains
absolutely
undeveloped in our time. Who knows? Maybe the Living is not alone in the Universe…

…But I’ve got sidetracked.

I will strive to have Zero included in the list of correctees taking part in our experiment. In his case incarnational retrospection using the Leo-Lot ray may give tremendous results. I suggest that we simply must do this. To figure out what he means for us: ‘harm’ or ‘benefit’. I really do hope that the boy has come to us bearing gifts.

As far as I can tell, this Ef, the SPO officer looking after Zero, is prepared to be of assistance to us in this endeavour. He was very impressed by our report about the visit to the Farm, and is petitioning for his charge to be included on the list.

I was eleven when the dog at the Farm licked my hand. The scientist who was there at the time said that there had never been anything like this anywhere. The scientist was called Leo. He was glowing with pleasure all over.

He seemed to be disappointed by my reaction: I was not happy.

He tried to gee me up a bit; I probably seemed a bit slow to him. ‘Animals are afraid of the Living,’ he explained slowly, as if I was mentally retarded. ‘We are trying to change that situation, but so far without success. That dog… she went up to you on her own. A unique case. Do you realise? Your case is unique!’

I realised that my case was unique. I’d realised that long before my conversation with Leo, long before the Farm. But there, at the Farm, I realised that I was screwed. That dog: it was like it had marked me. Left the sticky mark of death on my hand.

Animals are afraid of The Living: it’s always been that way. Since the Nativity, That’s what our elderly teacher said in the natural development group. I remembered that lesson well.

‘…Nine months before the Nativity, at the beginning of the Great Reduction, all over the world the human population fell into headlong decline. Epidemics, wars and natural disasters ended thousands of lives every day. A panic began: people did not understand that… the Reduction did not mean their destruction at all, but… the opposite, it heralded the birth of Eternal… the Living. Everyone was still mortal, they didn’t know that soon… they would become part of Him…’

I noticed that she was having some difficulty talking: she was short of breath. It was like she didn’t have enough air, as if she was talking on the run:

‘…And we all know don’t we – all together now! – the number of the Living…is unchanging, the Living…is…three billion livings, and neither by one…’

She was constantly quietly clearing her throat. She was nervy, although she tried not to show it. It was her last day before a compulsory pause.

‘…shall it be diminished, nor by one shall it… be increased, for… eternal rebirth is… the secret of life…’

She could have taken a day off, but she came in anyway. She told us it was a farewell lesson. That she was being
transferred
to a different region.

She did not tell her pupils about the pause: she was ashamed to have lasted right up to a compulsory, and didn’t want to be a bad example. But we knew. In the last month her health had deteriorated a lot, it was as if she had suddenly got old and started mixing up her layers. It looked like she had the
beginnings
of introverbalia: at break times a few times we heard her talking out loud in deep layers. That’s how we found out about her pause. She sat at her desk, hunched over, resting her head on the glass table top. Her face was reflected palely in the glass and it was like she was talking to her reflection.

‘…Before the pause you have the right to take a holiday of one to seven days in duration. Do you want to take a holiday? Yes. No,’ she said in a metallic voice that was not her own. ‘No,’ now in her own, ordinary voice. ‘Are you sure? Yes. No.’ ‘Yes. I don’t need a holiday. It’s only a pause, right?’ ‘Correct. It is only a pause. But any living has the right to take a holiday in order to get their affairs in order at this stage in their life.’ ‘I prefer to go to work. It’s easier that way. It takes my mind off it.’ ‘Takes your mind off what? Are you experiencing unpleasant emotions regarding the pause? Yes. No.’

She fell silent. Then started rapping her words out
metallically
again: ‘Are you experiencing fear regarding the pause? Yes. No.’

She sat up straight and covered her face with her hands. She sat there a little while in silence, then opened her hands slightly and then slapped them back, as if she were trying
to hide. As if she thought that she would become invisible if she couldn’t see. But the thing she was trying to protect herself from was inside her. Barely audibly, her face nestled in her hands, she replied, ‘No. Of course not. It’s only a pause.’

…At that goodbye lesson she was telling us about animals. She snatched at the air with her mouth. Her every word was seared on my memory.

‘Nine months before the Great Reduction mankind
exterminated
practically all of its livestock and pets, as well as a large number of wild animals and birds. Scientists of the time based their argument on the mistaken hypothesis that animals were carrying deadly viruses, leading to human pandemics… By the time of the Nativity of the Living many breeds of animals and birds had disappeared forever from the face of the Earth. The numbers of those still left were reduced to critical levels. Surviving individuals migrated to mountainous and forested zones, uninhabited by man. They were pursued and there… The new-born Living stopped the senseless process of the extermination of innocents as soon as He became conscious, as soon as it became clear that the number of the Living was henceforth unchanging forever. Now the Living is the friend and protector of the animals. But He is forced to pay for other people’s mistakes, mistakes made when He did not yet exist. Animals’ fear of the people that exterminated them was too strong; this fear is passed down at the level of genetic memory. Unfortunately animals are not capable of realising that the all-merciful Living has come to replace prehistoric man. Unfortunately, animals are afraid of the Living. Afraid of you and me. But in time the Living will probably manage to tame them and win their trust…’

I remember after the lesson I went over to her just to say ‘no death’.

‘No death,’ the teacher nodded and closed her eyes, and I noticed how limp her eyelids were and how they shivered
weakly. Like moths. Like the crumpled wings of a butterfly that lives only for a day. I should have just gone, but I suddenly got the urge to cheer her up, to say something life-affirming, something reassuring.

‘The Pause – it’s great,’ I informed her. ‘The old and weak acquire new life. You will become young and strong again…’

She suddenly burst out laughing, so unexpectedly and shrilly that I got goose bumps. Through her laughter she said, ‘Do you know why animals are afraid of the Living?’

I thought she had probably decided to give me a follow-up test and I answered: yes, I know. It’s because animals are simply incapable of understanding that ancient man has been replaced by the all-merciful Living…

‘Lies,’ she said. ‘It’s because they do understand. Animals can see the Living. A three-billion-headed monster, eternally young and strong. Killing its old so that the young can grow up in their place…’

She sniggered again and I noticed that there was something wrong with her eyes. Her pupils narrowed and then widened – not simultaneously, but one after the other.

‘…And insects?’ She raised her voice. ‘Bees, wasps, ants and termites – why aren’t they afraid of us?’

‘Because ancient man did not exterminate insects…’

‘No, that’s not why…!’ Her pupils suddenly froze, with one big and the other small, and she calmly and gently said, ‘It looks like you are trying to do something slightly incorrect. Do you want to switch to sleep mode? Yes. No… Automatic transfer to sleep mode is underway…’

I watched her sleeping peacefully, her head lolling to one side. Then Hanna came and took me away, saying ‘Teacher’s just tired.’

I remembered that lesson well. Animals are afraid of the Living.

There, at the Farm, the dog licked my hand, but I wasn’t happy about it. I had gone up so close to the cage because I wanted them to be scared of me. I wanted them all to be scared of me. Because animals are afraid of the Living.

‘…Because there are no criminals in the world of the Living!’

‘…Because they keep us in a House of Correction!’

‘…Because each one of us can be corrected!’

Three ‘becauses’. Every day, morning and evening, in unison. I fell asleep and woke up to this refrain. And I was myself a part of that choir: I shouted out the answers to the questions
resounding
in their heads. Cracker said the questions out loud for me. I never asked him to, he just liked doing it.

‘Why are there no crimes in the world of the Living?’ he would whisper animatedly.

…Because there are no criminals in the world of the Living…

‘Why are there no criminals in the world of the Living?’ he flashes his eyes in surprise.

Because they keep us in a House of Correction…

‘Why is a destructively criminal incode vector not a
sentence
?’ he giggled ticklishly in my ear.

…Because each of us can be corrected…

He liked it. He liked the questions themselves. But his responses were different. Like the other correctees he hadn’t had the Living Fingers educational program installed, but he had learned to write with his hands in first layer and scrawled out his answers on scraps of paper:

‘Because in the world of the Living crimes are referred to as “maintaining harmony”.’

‘Because in the world of the Living the criminals are in power.’

‘Because the day will come when we break free.’

Cracker was two years older than me. A big forehead and small, dull eyes. Slender limbs, sharp at the joints like a spider. His right eyelid twitched like he was winking all the time. No one ever went up close to him. Everyone knew that he was crazy. I knew too, but it didn’t put me off.

In fact they recoiled from him for another reason. They were afraid. They were almost as afraid of him as they were of me. Everyone knew why Cracker was there in the House of Correction. Everyone knew what it was he’d done a long time ago, many pauses back. I also knew, but that didn’t put me off. I was the only one who would talk to him and listen to him. He didn’t present the slightest threat to me. Nor I to him.

This sense of mutual harmlessness – that’s what united us. During the day we usually stuck together. At night we slept in neighbouring beds and the two other beds – on both sides of us – were empty. We were not friends because we were both outcasts. We were friends because we weren’t afraid of each other.

To start with it was difficult for me to sleep next to Cracker. He would lie on his back, pass out almost immediately and start snoring loudly straightaway. I needed a lot more time to fall asleep and I never managed to switch off before the noise started. Sometimes I lay for hours without sleeping and in the morning I would be exhausted and unrested. Later I learned to get into the rhythm of his breathing. Rumbling was replaced with silence at even intervals. I would pretend that his snoring was a piston moving up and down, blocking and then freeing up my way through to sleep. I learned to scurry forward until the piston came down for the next time. I loved this nightly game and got used to it, like it was a lullaby.

Once I started telling him about Hanna. About how we lived together, how she sang, and how she left. He didn’t ask me to say anything – I just got the urge to get it off my chest, and I would never have found someone else to listen to me. My mother probably meant nothing to him, but Cracker listened very attentively and didn’t interrupt me once. He quietly scratched the red patches on his neck with his slender fingers and occasionally gave a barely perceptible nod. When I had finished, he didn’t tell me – he was the only person to hear
Hanna’s story who didn’t – that there was no reason to be sad, that she was alive and healthy, that there is no death… he didn’t say anything at all. But from that time on he started showing me the forbidden notes with his responses.

He would only show them to me. Then he would hide them. He rolled them up with his spidery fingers into tiny little tubes and jammed them into different cracks. He set up hidey-holes everywhere – he even hid them in the terrariums with the pets: he would push the little tubes into the dried out wood and bury them in the wet sand.

Sometimes – rarely – Cracker would discover ‘other people’s’ hidey-holes: with a faint smile he would pull a stiff tube of paper from some dusty hole, hurriedly unroll it and show it to me: ‘Because in the world of the Living crimes are called the maintenance of harmony… Because in the world of the Living the criminals are in power… Because the day will come when we break free…’ I would ask, ‘So what? Wasn’t it you who wrote that?’

Cracker would nod his big head and smile enigmatically:

‘Let’s go and see the Butcher’s Son!’

The Butcher’s Son was on the Blacklist. He was kept in the Secure Unit, on the minus second floor, in a transparent conical correction chamber. The chamber was exhibited for all to see in the centre of a brightly lit oval hall. Cracker and I sat right on the floor, facing the Son. The floor was clean and white. And so were the rounded, sparkling mica walls. The oval of the ceiling was one huge flat lamp. No windows, no corners, no shadows – nothing to hide, nowhere to hide away. Artificial midday. Direct, honest, correcting light.

It would be hard to imagine a less secluded place, but
nonetheless
it was here that we normally used for our private chats. Every now and again tour groups or scientists would come in, and at those times there was no way of elbowing your way
through the crowd on minus two, but as for ordinary days, hardly any of the correctees came close to the Son’s chamber, apart from Cracker and me. They weren’t afraid of him: they were afraid of his smile.

A Blacklister’s smile was believed to be a bad omen or even a curse: it was like it was capable of ‘casting a spell’ on the correctee and stopping the correction process forever. But Cracker and I weren’t superstitious. What is more, the Butcher’s Son didn’t know how to smile. He was twenty-three. He spent most of the time sucking and gnawing at his fingers, picking his nose or watching the way his multi-coloured uniform glowed and flashed iridescent in the light. The Son had his clothes changed every day, a collection had been developed for him consisting of seven outfits in ‘feeling lucky’ style – with sequins, gold brocade, light-inserts and a full range of colours. This fancy dress of his seemed to be part of some
socio
advertising campaign. Be that as it may, his ‘feeling lucky’ clothes clashed with the stark, penetrating sterility of the place. In his garish suits, in his transparent house, the Butcher’s Son was like a pet. He was like a speckled butterfly in a sound-proof bell-jar.

…We sat on the white floor facing the Son. Cracker turned over the note from the hidey-hole in his spidery fingers. The Butcher’s Son was licking the pads of his fingers, then putting them up against the glass and looking at the marks they left.

‘So, you’re saying that it wasn’t you who wrote them?’

‘Look.’ Cracker pushed the note right up in my face with such a sharp movement that the Butcher’s Son shuddered and pulled his slobbery hand from the glass. ‘Look, it’s completely different handwriting. Not to mention the fact that it wasn’t my hidey-hole…’

He had already said that before. About the different
handwriting
and it being someone else’s hidey-hole. But I didn’t
find it very convincing. I didn’t see the difference in the
handwriting
(a scribble is a scribble), and Cracker had so many hidey-holes that he could have just forgotten.

‘You could’ve just forgotten.’

‘Of course,’ his eyelid twitched, or, perhaps, he really did wink at me. ‘Of course I could have forgotten. I must have forgotten. No one would be able to remember where he had stashed a scrap of paper before the pause…’

Cracker was convinced that he had hidden notes like this in all his previous reproductions. He first found a hidey-hole with a note in it when he was eight. He found it and started doing the same: continued his ‘project’…

‘Where do you get the idea that it was you who left the note? It would be too big a coincidence. That you were reproduced in the same region… And ended up in the same House of Correction…’

‘Nothing strange about it,’ Cracker snapped back. ‘At forty all correctees go to the Festival for Assisting Nature, right? To the Pause Zone, right? which gives a big chance of being reproduced there, at the festival, in the Reproduction Zone, right…?’

He was talking so quickly that he was tripping over his words. I watched his eye twitch. And red patches appear on his chalky-white skin, down by his throat. Whenever Cracker was telling me something he would pick at his neck the whole time; it was like he was coaxing out the ends of the phrases that had got stuck in his throat.

‘…So people like us often stay in the same region. And end up in the same House of Correction… Of course, it suits
him
that way! That way it’s easier for
him
to control us…’

‘Who’s “him”?’

‘The Living.’ Cracker winked again. ‘Right, little fellow?’ He drummed the knuckles of his fingers lightly against the Son’s transparent chamber, then pushed his face against
the glass. ‘…Right, little fellow? It suits you, doesn’t it, keeping us all in the same jar…?’

The Butcher’s Son gazed spellbound at Cracker. For a second I even thought that he really had heard him… But no. As far as I could tell, it was Cracker’s nose, flattened against the glass that had caught his eye. A couple of times the Son poked his fingers against the glass, trying to touch this amazing ‘snout’, but then he got bored and started rocking from side to side…

The Butcher’s Son didn’t hear us, but we heard him. Sometimes we saw his lips moving as if he were talking, but I don’t think it was coherent speech. He hadn’t had a single educational program installed and no one ever communicated with him in first layer. Perhaps he was just humming
something
or repeating fragments of phrases he had heard in second layer… All the correctees had restricted access to
socio
, but the Butcher’s Son’s was minimal: only second layer, only music and entertainment programs. I don’t know if they cut him off from
socio
during showings of The Eternal Murderer out of ethical or educational considerations… I suspect not. He didn’t understand what it was about anyway. He didn’t understand that it was a series about him.

…I was not connected to
socio
and could not watch The Eternal Murderer, but Cracker always told me what happened. I liked following the story. But above all I liked the preamble, the short story which began every episode. Cracker said it was sort of flashes of scenes a second long, and a voiceover reading out a text. I asked Cracker to repeat that text again and again. I learned it off by heart:

‘This story takes place in the time of the Great Reduction, while epidemics were taking millions of lives every day. People did not know then that the birth of the Living was coming and mistakenly blamed their illnesses on their domestic animals. And at this time there lived a Butcher. When an
epidemic began in his village, he took his axe and in one day he killed all the cows, goats, sheep, rabbits, chickens, dogs and cats in the area. Then he threw his bloodied axe down onto the ground and, exhausted, went off to bed. While the Butcher slept, his son picked up the axe. At first he hacked his mother and father to death, then his sisters and brothers, and then set off to his neighbours. The Butcher’s Son spent all night killing people. He drenched the village in blood, left no one alive, and the next night he set off on a journey. The Butcher’s Son went through villages and cities: every night hundreds of people died under the blade of his axe. Only after the birth of the Living were they able to catch the madman. He was sentenced to a public pause by hanging, and after reproduction the infant was confined to a prison…’ At that moment, Cracker said, complete darkness fell, and there was a roll of thunder – kkrrboom! – and the voice came back: ‘… Our era: The Living is all-merciful, so there are no more prisons, there are only Houses of Correction. In one of these Houses lives the cruel Butcher’s Son. Until, one night, he manages to escape…’

That’s why I loved The Eternal Murderer. One night he managed to escape. Those words gave me hope. At the end of every episode they managed to catch up with him: but the hope… The hope stayed with me.

‘…Why is a destructively criminal incode vector not a sentence?’ Cracker finally unstuck himself from the glass and looked at me. ‘Have they explained to you why we have to answer that question every day?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They explained. To get a positive boost.’

Cracker giggled:

‘You could say that as well… But do you know why we don’t get full access to our cell in Renaissance? Why they only let us read letters from our immediate inc-predecessor?’

‘Ef says it’s because every earlier predecessor is a step closer to the original Criminal. Letters from early predecessors could harm the correction process…’

‘Your mate Ef is lying to you. They’re not planning on correcting anyone here. They don’t let us read letters from early predecessors so that we don’t go mad. Because all our predecessors rotted away in Houses of Correction. All of them, get it? I was here before the pause and I’ll come back here after…’

‘Stop it.’

‘There’s no escape from this place!’

As if to confirm what Cracker was saying the Butcher’s Son started banging his forehead against the see-through wall. It was one of his favourite pastimes.

‘I know a lot. I have a letter from my inc-predecessor,’ Cracker turned away from the Son; he was unnerved by the silent blows. ‘…Very boring. A run-through of the day,
retelling
of episodes, remarks about the weather, quotes from the Book of Life, “fifteen signs that I’m correcting my vector well” and stuff like that… But it’s a code. I immediately realised it was a code. And Cracker can always break a code – especially if he made it himself…’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘…Cracker can break any password. Cracker can break through any defence. Cracker can write any program. My monster must die…’