Reset

by Sarina Dahlan

  “Another dangerous addict,” Apollina says. “We should bring him in.”

  “Are you any closer to the supplier?” Professor Jacob asks.

  Thane shakes his head. “I haven’t seen Benja with anyone.”

  He lied. He sees Benja often with Aris. But there is no need for the Interpreter Center to know about her. She has nothing to do with this; Thane is sure of it. Aris does not like what Benja is doing. She would never be a part of it.

  “You need to get closer,” Professor Jacob says.

  “Follow him and report back,” Apollina says.

  Thane nods.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll start a case on him. We may need to act on this one before he makes any more trouble,” she says.

  Thane will be happy once the Interpreter Center erases Benja’s dreams and he doesn’t have to follow him anymore. Benja has been a source of annoyance ever since Thane laid eyes on him in the park with Aris.

  Nothing but a handsome face. There’s probably no substance there.

  Benja does little during the day but visit coffee shops and libraries. At night he frequents bars. He does not go to work. He does not contribute to society. He said he’s a writer, but Thane has yet to see him do that in all the time he’s followed him. All Benja does is drink and read. Sometimes he stares at the wall or the trees or the people walking by. Benja is the most boring human being Thane has ever known, and he knows a lot of scientists.

  Writer. Yeah, right.

  When Thane thinks of writers, he thinks of someone like Professor Jacob, who has produced a book of significance supported by facts and knowledge. Hard work was put into it. References cross-checked and substantiated. Results mind-shattering and socially relevant. A work of fiction like Benja’s, while perhaps entertaining, could never measure up to the Manual of the Four Cities.

  “Thane?” Professor Jacob’s voice brings him back.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think you’ll have the report done by next week?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. I look forward to reading it,” the Professor says.

  Thane feels a warmth around his heart. Although the work the Interpreter Center gave him is mind numbing, Professor Jacob’s appreciation makes him feel better than he could ever imagine.

  Metis’s fingers travel fluidly over the piano keys. The melancholic moodiness of the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata matches his state of mind. He thought it an appropriate piece considering the master often pined after unattainable women.

  A month had passed since the day he kissed Aris. He has tried countless times to reach her. But each time, he was transferred to her databank. He must have left twenty messages, each one more pathetic than the last. She has yet to return one. She is erasing him from memory. Again.

  He looks at the blue-and-green pot on top of his piano. It reminds him of the day they met at the gift market. The time they spent together here. Her sitting next to him on a piano bench. The kiss.

  A sigh escapes. He cannot figure out how to categorize his relationship with Aris. He still loves her; they are not divorced. Although sometimes it feels like they are. He is not a widower; his wife is not dead. Although it sometimes feels like she is. A marriage is an agreement between two people to be monogamous. He does not know if she is. Can it be a marriage if it’s one-sided?

  She cannot remember him. Their life together has been wiped from her memory as if it had never existed. He is married to a ghost. Perhaps that is how he should think of it.

  The sound of a door closing comes from behind him, waking him from his thoughts. He turns around.

  “Hey, Argus,” Metis says to his friend.

  Argus comes to stand next to the piano. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you stop playing.”

  “Nah. I’m just tinkering.”

  Metis gently runs his fingers over the piano keys in a complicated arrangement.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Argus says.

  “I don’t know either. Some things are just the way they are.”

  “Remember when we first met? I was at a pretty low point in my music study, but you told me I could be a musician.”

  “You can.”

  “Not like you.”

  “And I couldn’t be like you. Everyone’s different.”

  “But I still get to work at the coolest place in the Four Cities,” Argus says. “Did I ever thank you for getting me a job here?”

  Metis smiles. “I’m happy you’re here. Are you still happy?”

  “Yeah, it fits. I never thought I’d ever find something that suits me.” “People keep telling you to find your passion. Thought I was missing a part.”

  “Passion is overrated,” Metis says, “Happiness, on the other hand, is undervalued.”

  “You should try it sometime. It’ll be good for you.”

  Metis continues to play on the keys, running through the scales.

  “If only human emotions were as easily manipulated.”

  “What I can never figure out is why someone like you has no one.”

  “Are you hitting on me, Argus?”

  He bursts out laughing. “Not today. I have a date.”

  “Who’s the lucky person?”

  “Someone I met at a coffee shop.”

  “Do people still meet each other that way? I thought everyone’s using the app to find a match.”

  “Love is not predictable, man. You need a bit of fate.”

  Fate. Something Metis is losing faith in. Sometimes when he feels optimistic, he tells himself that if he and Aris were meant to be together, things will fall into place. She will remember and resume her place beside him. He was so close. But it slipped away. It seems fate is making itself scarce lately.

  “She has a friend,” Argus says.

  “Good for her.”

  “No, for you.”

  “I know what you meant. I was just being obnoxious,” Metis says.

  “So, are you interested? She’s cute.”

  It would make life so much easier to have someone to spend the rest of this cycle with, Metis thinks. But Aris’s face appears in front of him like a phantom, chasing away any thought of straying.

  “Thanks, Argus. Not today.”

  “Will there ever be a day?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You know, there’s no perfect person. You just have to find happiness wherever it exists.”

  “I’m not waiting for a perfect person.” Just one particular person.

  “Then who are you waiting for?”

  He says nothing back.

  “Well, I hope whoever the person is, they’re worth waiting for.”

  “I hope so too.”

  His friend shakes his head. “You know, you can talk about it with me when you’re ready to share.”

  “I know. I appreciate that.”

  “Oh, by the way, someone asked me to give you this.” Argus pulls something out of his pocket and places it in front of Metis next to the blue-and-green pot.

  The blue origami crane sits innocuously against the shiny black top of the piano. At first, Metis does not register it. Then his breathing stops. He feels his insides rearranging to make room for the pending explosion of his heart.

  “Who gave it to you?” he whispers.

  “I’m guessing a fan. A handsome fellow. Very tall. He was waiting outside in the morning. Looked like he hadn’t slept. He must really like you.”

  Metis reaches for the bird with quivering hand. He tries to steady it. He has never been on the receiving end of this.

  Benja.

  But why? And how? And what message does it carry?

  Aris listens to the messages from Metis with a heavy heart. There is no denying the physical attraction she feels toward him. Her
body reacts to his—a little too much for her comfort, in fact. It’s as if she has no control over it.

  The kiss was unexpected. The feeling it stirred inside her was even more startling. It rolled over her like a tidal wave, making her feel as if she was drowning. Yet it somehow felt familiar.

  It was the heat. The warmth of him was like a place she had visited. The feel of his lips . . . Even with space and time between them, the memory of that kiss still makes her hands tremble.

  But there is no point. It’s mid-December. There are only a few months left before Tabula Rasa. Forming a bond with someone she will soon say goodbye to is ridiculous. Look at the mess she already got herself into with Benja, and she has only known him for a couple of months longer. There are some people in life you develop strong feelings for in an instinctual, irrational way. She is afraid Metis is one of those for her.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers and erases his voice from her databank.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Benja is a tough man to follow. The man is erratic. One moment he would walk aimlessly, pausing here and there to look up at a tree or passing clouds. The next he would dart into a coffee shop or a bar.

  What are you doing? Metis wonders.

  The moon is a sliver against the dark indigo sky. It is so cold he can see puffs of vapor coming out with each exhale. Metis turns up the heat inside his jacket and hugs it tight. He finds a spot on a bench across the street from the coffee shop Benja went into. Here, he would wait.

  Argus was right. By the look of Benja, it’s apparent he has not slept in days. His face is haggard. His hair is unkempt. His clothes are crumpled as if he has been living in them for longer than he should. He looks the way Metis feels inside. Wretched and throbbing with longing. He wants his lover.

  Metis understands. He knows what it feels like to be singular in one’s desire. Seeing Benja in this state is like looking at his own past and future at the same time. Is he really that different from Benja? He stalks his old lover, follows her to where she lives, and leaves her desperate messages. He is a bottle of wine away from breaking into her house and sleeping on her bed naked.

  He shakes off his empathy. It would only complicate matters. He thinks of the paper crane in his pocket. In it is an address. For whatever reason, Benja wants to speak to the Sandman in private, outside the confines of the meeting. But how does Benja know that he is the Sandman? And if he knows, who else does?

  The last time Metis saw him was after the last meeting. He was vibrating with nervous energy. They usually are after taking Absinthe.

  “Uh, Sandman? Do I call you Sandman?”

  Metis said nothing.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you. How does one get their lover to remember them?” Benja asked.

  If only he knew, Metis thought.

  “The past and the present cannot coexist. That’s the rule.”

  “But what’s the point? I mean, no offense, but if you can remember and the other person can’t, isn’t it torture?” Benja said.

  “Look around. Do you see a happy face here?” Metis’s voice was terse. “The purpose for all of us being here is to remember. That’s all. To remember our past and remind ourselves how it feels to love and be loved.”

  “But wouldn’t you want to make that into reality?”

  More than anything, Metis thought.

  Instead, he said, “Let me be clear. The moment you try to force someone into remembering, you risk exposing us. Not to discount the moral aspect of it. Everyone has the right to author their own life.”

  Benja scoffed. “You sound like the Planner’s propaganda.”

  Metis stiffened. “Just because Tabula Rasa took our past from us doesn’t mean we can thrust our vision of the future on another. We’d be no different than the system we’re trying to resist.”

  “But you have this powerful gift in your hands. What if we can make our world into the one where we don’t have to compromise? We could have everything.” Benja’s eyes danced with fervor.

  What Benja had said sounded so simple and enticing. What is the harm in making this world a place where both peace and the past can coexist? In that world, he would have Aris. Or would he? Metis shakes his head. It is a dangerous path to venture. It would expose Absinthe.

  The powerful dream agent must be protected. It’s the only tool they have against Tabula Rasa. It was made for those who want to remember, for those who believe dreams are the window to the past. It is a direct assault on the Planner’s ideology. There are people seeking to destroy it, the Crone has warned.

  He wishes he had thrown Benja out of the group that day, before his recent trouble with the law could have threatened their anonymity. There are many who might suffer from his recklessness. Metis cannot have another situation like he did with Bodie.

  When Bodie got arrested, the Interpreter Center erased his dreams. He had since moved back to Elara. There was nothing left for him in Callisto. With no dreams, no memories, no past, Absinthe would have no effect on him.

  Metis begins to get restless. His fingertips and face are so cold he can no longer feel them. Benja has been inside the coffee shop a long time. Metis debates whether to get a closer look or continue waiting. He would have to be careful. Now that Benja knows his identity, it will not be as easy to follow him. When he decides to get up, he sees Benja emerging from the coffee shop. Metis pulls his jacket collar up higher to hide his face and follows.

  Benja is taking the path that runs alongside the main park in the middle of Callisto, toward the direction where tall buildings block out the sky. The streets are sparse of people. The citizens here are used to knowing the weather with precision, and most have chosen the warmth of their homes this evening.

  The cold wind whips Metis’s hair back. He is grateful for its sound, which masks the echo of his footsteps. As the Sandman, it is his responsibility to do reconnaissance on those Dreamers he thinks are in danger of violating the rules. Fortunately, most want to keep their place in the group and steer clear of trouble. But there are always a handful with strong wills. Metis never likes to cut anyone off Absinthe, and he has never done it without proof. Benja will be the first.

  They enter a residential neighborhood of skyscrapers. Benja crosses the street to a building with 2020 in large, modern type above the wide entrance. The address matches that on the crane in his pocket. Benja’s apartment.

  Instead of going inside, Benja stands in front of the building. Metis keeps his head down and walks past.

  What am I doing? he asks himself.

  Metis has come this far because he wants to know why Benja sent him the crane. More than that, he wants to find out how he knows his identity. He crosses the street on the next block and backtracks toward the building.

  Benja is standing ahead. He is so still he reminds Metis of a droid. Benja’s eyes are staring across the way, toward the darkness of the park. In it, naked-limbed trees stand tall and attenuated like Giacometti sculptures. Benja turns, sees Metis, and cracks a wide smile. He has been expecting him.

  “I’m glad you decided to come. Would you like to talk inside?” Benja says.

  “Tell me why I should.”

  “Because I’ll make it worth your time.”

  “There’s nothing you have that I want.”

  “I bet there is.”

  Metis narrows his eyes and studies the man in front of him. Despite his carefree facade, the look in Benja’s eyes is serious. He does not know what game Benja is playing, but he is intrigued.

  Metis looks through the window to the lobby. It’s empty. He nods his agreement. Benja leads him inside the building toward an express elevator that only goes to floors above the fortieth. He chooses an elevator car and pushes a button to a floor near the top. Metis walks to the back corner opposite him.

  “So, how was your stay at the police station?” Metis asks, breaking
the silence.

  Benja laughs. “You heard about that, huh?”

  “We watch all the Dreamers. I thought that was clear.”

  “Yeah. I got that from the first meeting.”

  “You know that’s reason for expulsion,” Metis says.

  “I know.”

  “Why did you do it then? I assume you like our little group,” Metis asks.

  Benja does not answer. Instead, he asks, “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  He shrugs. “I’m used to it. Men usually don’t. Unless they’re attracted to me. But your dislike for me was instant. Even before I opened my mouth.”

  Metis does not disagree.

  “I used to wonder why. Then I knew,” Benja says.

  The elevator door opens, and Benja steps off. Metis follows.

  After walking down a long corridor lined with identical doors, they stop at the last one on the left.

  “Let me in,” Benja says.

  The wide door swings open to reveal a large loft space. In the middle of it is a platform bed sitting low to the ground. Out the wall-to-wall window is the large black rectangle of the park outlined by dots of lights from the buildings that surround it.

  “It’s a bit dramatic having the bed in the middle, I know. But I like to think of dreaming as a play on a stage,” Benja says.

  He goes to the other side of the room, where an L-shaped couch faces the sweeping city view. He plops onto its cushy surface.

  Metis walks to the expansive glass window directly across from him and leans against it.

  “It looks much better in daylight, obviously,” Benja says.

  “As much as I’d like to admire your view, let’s cut the crap. I don’t have all night.”

  Benja laughs. “Of course. I know I’m not as gratifying to follow as Aris.”

  Metis’s breath catches in his throat. The windowpane behind him suddenly feels like a sheet of ice on his back.

  Benja says, “Don’t worry. She doesn’t know your other identity. I just figured it out recently.”

  “How?” Metis whispers.

  “The gift market on Fay Street. Aris and I had a fight, and I followed her to make sure she was okay. I noticed you shadowing her. Then you introduced yourself to her and left together. Afterward, I kept seeing you in various places we were at, just . . . lurking.”