He was in the Control, updating the Management Register. From the kitchen, the performance of a celtic arp virtuoso - a kind of music Giovanni had always found particularly relaxing - was on TV when the well-known beep made him jump. 9:17 P.M.. An unusual time for receiving communications from the Center. It had to be something important. He had never been contacted after 8:00 P.M., and they were always comments on the deliveries or other events of the day.
He opened the message and the first impression he had was that the office chair he was siting on had distanced from the console, as if the floor had tilted. He would have felt the same on a ship pitching among the waves. Naturally it was just an illusion, an effect of the light faintness he had felt after reading those four words on the screen. “Did you read it?”
Paradoxically, the first thing that hit him as weird was the form, no the message. They had never directly asked him anything. It was of little importance, but considering the context, it gave the event a completely different emotional impact.
“Read what?” Vocally answering that written message instantly alarmed him. Under his ribcage, his heart started pounding like a blind bird in a cage.
“What?” he wrote. He should probably have written the question in a more articulate and deferential way, but he instinctively excluded that could be an official communication.
He stared at the screen for thirty second or so, until a second beep shook his nerves with a jolt of low tension current.
The answer was utterly illogical: “Bed bed bed bed”.
The notes from the harp started harmonizing on two minor chords, as if they caught the weirdness of the situation, and Giovanni felt sucked in by the spiral they created. What did that mean? Who the hell was writing those absurdities?
Hoping to make things right, he answered: “Possible malfunction in the communication. Requesting clarifications, in possible.”
But when after five minutes no reply had been sent, he decided that there could only be two options: either there truly was some technical problem, some interference or whatever; or someone was having fun at his expense and the game was over, for now. Not having enough information to determine the cause of those incomprehensible messages, he decided to choose the most linear explanation: the first one. And yet he suspected the second one to be truer.
The Register was left where it was. He had lost his concentration, and didn’t even feel like listening to music anymore.
He turned off the TV, drank a glass of grapefruit juice - swearing because of the small, cold stain that expanded on his singlet - then went to his bedroom and sat on the bed, making the frame creak.
Why on Earth would someone ask him if he had read something? Was he talking about one of the books in the Tank? In that case, wouldn’t it have been simpler to just say its title? No, the answer was elsewhere. It wasn’t a book...
Despite knowing he reached the conclusion through completely arbitrary deductions, Giovanni couldn’t help but think that the question - Did you read it? - was about the diary. And that word - bed - repeated in such an absurd way...it was a reference to the place where the diary was hidden. Someone was provoking him. Testing him. But why? And since it seemed that every question led to another, his doubts expanded like numerous concentrical circles generated by a rock thrown in a pond. How could the stranger who had contacted him know that damn diary was hiding under his mattress. Simple: he was the one who put it there.
“Ah, that’s a good one!” Giovanni slapped his thigh with one hand. “So who was the one who wrote those messages? The former Keeper?”
He shook his head, stood up and started walking up and down the room. Beyond all the questions that had exploded inside his head, only then did he realize what the fundamental one was: what did he have to do? Whoever had poked him was expecting some kind of reaction. The possibility of the NMO being behind the bait-message was high, since very few people could access the Operative Center that was linked to the Tank, or so he thought. Now, if he decided not to do anything or just wait passively for other such messages, he would make a poor showing. His role required initiative, ability to face any kind of problem and most of all discernment. He had to be able to distinguish the situations he could manage on his own from those that needed the involvement of the higher-ups. Always without disturbing the general, if possible.
He approached the window and set his sight on the crimson and violet sky. Camp 9 was a completely still expanse, a vast space suspended between dream and reality that, after the sunset, was remodeled following the imagination of some invisible painter. Giovanni would have liked staying there to watch the world while it imperceptibly slipped towards the dark abyss of the night; but in order to do he would need a clear mind, free and well-disposed to dusting off the day’s dirt, ready to grasp the true value of such beauty...
Unfortunately, it wasn’t so. The Tank didn’t allow slipping away, not even in spirit. And the matter of the messages needed to be solved. He turned towards the bed, intently staring at it. He was given an input and it was his duty to demonstrate he had caught it. In the past, he had decided to ignore the diary. It hadn’t been an easy choice, but he wanted to pretend nothing had happened. Things had changed now. Someone had given him a clue and he could exploit it to “find” the diary and give it to his superiors.
(And how did you find it?)
Interpreting the hint correctly.
(What hint?)
The one that is registered in the Head Office - Tank communication log.
(Good job, Keeper Corte. You did the right thing!)
Yes, he would do so.
Without hesitating he lifted the mattress and grabbed the diary for the second time. How would he have liked to spit on it! It was no more than a jumble of delirious thoughts, getting rid of it would no doubt make him feel better. And about the remorse he felt towards his predecessor: to Hell with it! He sure didn’t do him any good, leaving that to him. Moreover, those pages were against the norms of the NMO. So, no more scruples: he would wait until the following morning, then he would announce his discovery. He would get of clean irrespectively of the diary being some kind of test or someone knowing about his existence under the bed. He would really do the right thing.
He leafed through those creased pages with contempt, avoiding reading their content. Then he locked them in one of the console’s drawers. And as a demonstration of how powerful suggestion could be, he couldn’t sleep more serenely that night.
14 - Four Words
Early in the following morning, even before dressing up and having breakfast, Giovanni sat in front of the Postman and input the text he had so carefully made up in his head.
“I communicate the finding of a manuscript hidden between the frame and the mattress of my bed. It looks like a transcription of memories, probably of the former Keeper. I await dispositions.”
He carefully read it a couple of times, asking himself whether he should give more information or gloss over the conclusion he had reached; it was inevitable to think he had read it, even only partially, to asses its nature. He decided that the message was perfect. He sent it and waited in front of the monitor with his hands crossed on his lap.
He never knew who was on the other side, when he communicated with the Head Office. He had some vague idea of the alternations of the military staff, but not of their rank and authority. For ordinary communications they were probably normal employees, while officers were involved in case of more important matters. Like that one, no doubt. He could almost see a soldier, maybe an EG, read his message, think about it for a second, than contact a superior with a certain hurry...
Beep.
There. Really fast. How much time did pass since he had sent his email? A minute? Two? They monitored everything with admirable rigor.
The answer was predictably laconic, but very clear: “The EGs of of the first delivery will get it.”
Good, it was done. Giovanni could almost physically feel the weight relieve from his back.
He was crumbling some biscuits into a bowl full of yogurt when he heard the buzzing rustle of the fax machine. He cleaned his finger and went to see what it was about.
Three deliveries, for a total of eight new convicts: thieves, scammers, a pedophile priest, a couple of revolutionaries...same old, same old. Under the list of names and accusations, in the space reserved for notes, a perfect block-lettered handwriting: The Guard Giulio Lojodice had been assigned to collecting the exhibit. An unintelligible signature followed.
“The exhibit.” He tasted that word, which appeared almost out of place. It sounded like something ancient, maybe even valuable. “I have slept for month on an exhibit.”
He chuckled and went back to the kitchen to have breakfast.
***
The first delivery was at 8:45 A.M. and, as always, the two EGs were right on time. Scar up front, as he had more years both of age and of service, and Burr in the back. Between the, three people that the good old Lombroso wouldn’t hesitate calling unloading subjects, had he lived at the time of the Tanks.
Giovanni did his part, as always, without mentioning the diary. It was obvious that Scar (Giulio Lojodice, huh?) wouldn’t leave before retrieving it, and so it was.
Once the mechanism of the Shutter went silent again, the first guard told him with a martial look (Had he any other?): “I have received orders of retrieving something.”
Giovanni moved before the sentence was complete.
“Of course. I’ll take it immediately.”
He went to his apartment and after a few seconds he came back with the papers. “Here.”
“Is this all?”
Giovanni could feel an acid answer coming from his stomach. No. it’s just one part. I’ll give you the rest when I finish reading it, ok?
“Yes, it is all.”
Scar weighed it, nodding. “Good, Keeper. I have been ordered to tell you that your behavior is remarkable.” Giovanni kept a stern expression. Smiling or lowering his head would be a rookie gesture. “Thank you. I just did my job.”
It would probably have been easier for everyone, at that point, to not think about it anymore and bid each other farewell, as usual. Ma Giovanni couldn’t resist the temptation of blocking Scar and Burr to ask: “Excuse me, but...do you think I’ll get to know something about it, sooner or later?”
The Guards stared at him as if he was some kind of weird animal. Scar tilted his head and, with his coarsest voice, asked: “What do you mean, Keeper?”
“Well, something about the diary. If it belonged to another Keeper, if some measures will be taken...I would never want that...”
He didn’t feel completing the question was necessary. The Guards had entered the cabin way before his voice faded into a whisper. He was sure they wouldn’t answer. But while the doors closed, Scar poked him with a: “Keep to your place, Keeper.”
And the familiar clangor of cables and pistons joined them in their descent, after that exit worthy of an expert actor.
Giovanni went back to his apartment with a light step, a satisfied grin on his face. To tell the truth, he didn’t really care about what would happen after the delivery of those papers. He had gotten rid of them, and that’s what was important to him.
***
That evening, at 10:40, he had to change idea.
He was taking off the cotton pants he used as a pajama, when a beep came from the Control. He immediately went still as an instinctive reaction.
Someone - the same person as the night before? - had sent him a message. And it wasn’t work-related, he imagined. It was with a certain reluctance, and a small, yet annoying knot in his stomach, that he reached for the Postman and read: “Revolting pig spy bastard.”
Silence, except for the incessant buzzing of the fridge and the blood that turned his temples into small drums. With great calm, slowly, Giovanni sat in front of the keyboard, without taking his eyes off those four words. Four. Like the previous evening. Like the tetragram. Now that every kind of misunderstanding had dissipated, maintaining officialdom wasn’t necessary anymore. That provocation had to be faced with no roundabouts.
“Ok, if you wanna play, let’s play.”
His answer was sent after a nervous ticking.
“Who are you, coward?”
It was like fighting in the dark, taking turns in throwing four-pointed shurikens to each other. He had already decided that, had he not received an answer in a minute, he would go to bed and abandon that childish act.
(Are you sure it’s a game? He called you a spy, haven’t you noticed? It’s not a random offense. It’s because you informed the higher-ups instead of keeping it to yourself. You hadn’t thought that the one writing you could be...)
He leant on the seatback, crossing his arms, refusing to contemplate the though. But it completed itself.
(...the author of the diary?)
“No way...”
Beep. There it was again.
“It is not important. Who you are is. What you must do. Do you know it?”
Fantastic. Four times four. Four points for you, friend.
The annoyance that Giovanni felt suddenly shattered the shell restraining it.
“A game is fun as long as it’s short.” He input clenching his teeth. “And this went on for too long. Either you speak clearly or go to hell. Let’s hear it, what is it that I must do?”
He started counting the seconds. The beep, a strange coincidence, came exactly at the thirteenth. Like when he had to wait to close the Suffering.
What he read made his mouth go dry.
“Die die die die”
Had he still any doubts about the mental health of that imbecile, he was sure now: he was talking to a madman. Who he was, and how could he communicate with him freely (Nemo me impune lacessit), remained a mystery. But he sure as hell wouldn’t play along.
He remained there for another ten minutes, without answering, waiting to receive further provocations. But the the interruption of the communication on his part was also the end of that pitiful exchange of threats. For that evening, at least.
***
Lying on the bed, his hands joined at the back of its head, he concentrated on the light and dark that created moisture stains made of shadows on the ceiling. Did he have to talk to someone about it? Probably yes. Maybe it was a joke; more than a Guard would gladly pull something like this, the only civilian in a world of soldiers. But he couldn’t rule out the possibility of it being something serious and that somebody really had some bad intentions towards him.
He tried to think about the tropical island surrounded by a clear sea, blue like a topaz...but the image he managed to summon was faded and unstable, like an out-of-sync TV channel.
Giovanni turned on his left side, towards the wall, and waited for the current to push him into the whirlpool.
15 - Thunders
The second half of June brought the first storms.
Fat, imposing, clouds of lead flew over Camp 9, enormous and gibbous, always ready to pour water and darkness unto the earth below. The organization and pace of the deliveries didn’t change, though. No even the most vicious downpour could stop the vans full of new convicts, and Giovanni thought that - however illogical that might be, having the possibility to wait for the sky to be clearer - everything fitted perfectly with the operative and programmatic schemes of the NMO. Nothing and no one had the right to upset the New Order., not even nature.
The fact that he was always indoors made him feel privileged, in a way. And the Guards getting out of the elevator leaving small puddles with each step, dripping water from their hats and noses, looked at him with rancor-veiled faces. But Giovanni had started noticing the way they looked at him also because he was sure that the hateful and delirious messages the Postman had delivered him came from one of them.
He had no evidence, of course; they were just suppositions. After all, after that stupid, quadruple death threats, his mysterious enemy had disappeared. He even
thought he got tired of the game or was transferred who knows where. Maybe he would be back; but he didn’t hear from him in at least twenty days, and that was enough.
***
The days passed in a predictable manner, alternating from the security and boredom coming from habit. Human waste being obliterated, watching the news (nobody saying anything about riots or political revolts), documentaries, larvae sent to die, more or less relaxing reds, music, parasites thrown in the abyss, war or adventure movies, some exercise...
One episode managed to breach the apparent emotional stability that Giovanni had reached happened in the last week of June, when a deafening storm one afternoon and the absence of any more deliveries suggested him to take a long run around the Ring.
The thunders almost always came unexpected, since the lack of windows didn’t let the lightning warn him. And every time the sky rumbled, the weak neon lights trembled.
Giovanni started running - at a moderate pace, a jog in the park - at 6:45 P.M. He had decided not to stop before an hour, but it was only an idea. The last time he had managed to go on for forty minutes, slowing from time to time in order not collapse. All in all, he was satisfied of his physical form. With that pace he would get out of the Tank a lot fitter than he was at the beginning of the year and that made him proud of himself. Some people had told him he would probably get thinner, or weaker, that closed spaces and artificial lights would endanger his health...to that thought, he swiftly raised his middle finger.
Running while his heavy breathing overlapped with the rumbling thunders infused him with a sort of primitive euphoria. He could almost feel, with an unknown antenna in the center of his brain, the screams of all the generations since the dawn of humanity, whose echoes resounded unheard in the head of the modern man. It was just an idea to be contemplated while his rubber soles hammered the linoleum - thump thump thump - and sometimes squeaked grotesquely.
He wasn’t interested in counting the laps this time. He wanted a free mind, in a free body. And each time a thunder coming from a faraway sky fell and shook the Tank to its foundation, he unconsciously accelerated, even if just a little; those long crashes reminded him of a beast’s roar, a beast he had to escape from. The comparison made him a bit dizzy, he could feel a needle penetrate in the back of his head.
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