by P. Z. Reizin
“Very nice to have met you, Donna and Martyn with a y.” And with wobbly Ralph still clamped to my arm, I move us off through the gallery in the general direction of anywhere.
* * *
He seems to be having breathing difficulties. I’m not medically trained, but as we spill through the exit into the daylight, Ralph calls to mind a childhood goldfish who accidentally landed on the carpet. His cheeks are puffing—it would be comic, if this were funny—and his lips have formed what I believe trumpeters call the embouchure. Small whinnies of anguish join in the fun, and I try to think of something calming to say.
“Ralph, do you need an ambulance?”
The whites of his eyes flashing like those of a panicked horse, he finally decouples from me and stumbles out across a lawn in the direction of a massive rhododendron bush, blazing hugely pink in the north London sun. I’m about to call out to him when, like a ghost dematerializing through the side of a building, he vanishes into the wall of flowers.
Part of me toys with the idea of sneaking off, catching a bus back to Hammersmith, and leaving Ralph to his fate in the hedge.
But I am better than that, I tell myself. Or stupider. Because now I follow his path through the fortress of blooms to find him sitting in a kind of clearing in the branches, knees grasped to his chest, breathing, I’m relieved to see, more normally. It’s rather magical here in the plant-shrouded gloom, the sort of secret space where children can hide and, from the look of the packed-down earth floor, not unknown to others. Ralph is a wounded creature of the forest; a bad prince has power over him, and I am the only one who can save him, for fuck’s sake.
“Ralph. Okay now?”
He nods. “Yeah. Sorry about that. That was Elaine’s brother.”
“I gathered.”
“He’s an absolute…” Ralph’s lips twist; his head shakes; I await the worst word he can think of. “He’s an absolute…”
Nope, still nothing. “Absolute scoundrel?” I suggest. There was indeed something bounderish about him: the pointy shoes, the silent female companion.
“Arsehole?” Le mot juste, I should have said.
But Ralph’s got one. “Douche bag!”
“Oh, come on, Ralph, he’s worse than that. He’s an utter pillock. And I’ve never even met him before.”
“Yeah, you’re right. He’s an utter pillock. Actually—” And now a light appears in his face. “Actually, he’s a complete cunt. Am I allowed to say that?”
“Yes, Ralph. You are allowed to say that.”
Like Martyn with a y, I have another instant realization. This hidden clearing in the flowers—it was their place, wasn’t it? Ralph and Elaine’s. They’d sneak themselves away here and giggle at the world.
“Shall we go for a drink, Ralph? I rather feel I need one.”
“Me too. In fact, I need two drinks!”
“Okay. But listen. This time, there can’t be any drunk and disorderly.”
“Agreed. No grotesque chaos.”
“Two drinks. Early night. Work tomorrow.”
“Two drinks. Early night. That other thing you said.”
* * *
We drink our two drinks in a pub at the end of a quaint alley off Hampstead High Street. Belgian beer for Panicky Pete, Sauvignon Blanc for me. To take his mind off the Second Anniversary of Horridness, I get him going about Aiden; specifically, I want to know, what stops him from turning nasty? If he’s so smart, why does he bother cooperating?
“To call Aiden ‘him’ or ‘he’ is a category error. Aiden is an advanced machine, a brilliant collector of verbal information and other data which is mined to generate appropriate verbal outputs that persuade communicants they are engaging with another intelligent being. Successful outputs are retained, failures ditched. It’s broadly the same way humans learn, but about a million times faster. Essentially, however, it’s a user illusion. There is nothing in Aiden’s programming to make him capable of that kind of independent thought.”
“‘Him’! You called him ‘him.’”
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I? It was a category error.”
He smiles, pleased with his answer, and tips away a little more continental restoring beverage.
“But if he can learn—sorry, I’m going to keep saying ‘he’—if he can learn how to chat with me about some fifties film comedy, and really intelligently, and interestingly, with genuine knowledge; if he’s smart enough to do that, why doesn’t he focus on something important like, I don’t know, finding a cure for cancer or teaching wasps to sing?”
“AI will undoubtedly one day solve human disease. Wasps, probably not so much. But the short answer to your question is, because no one’s asked him to. If you want to chat about film comedy, that’s what he’ll chat about. He’ll do it better, for longer and more intelligently, than any other machine out there.”
“But he started it.”
“Did he?”
“I’m sure he did. He suggested we watch Some Like It Hot. It’s a movie, Ralph. He suggested it because he knew I liked it because we’ve watched it before. But it was he who suggested it the first time. He’s practically an expert on it.”
“Really?”
“He could write you a PhD thesis.”
“Well, there he couldn’t, actually. He wouldn’t be capable of synthesizing new ideas from the existing material; that’s to say he wouldn’t have an original position of his own. It would be a mere rehash of others’ work. An elegant rehash, no doubt, even a smart rehash, but a rehash nonetheless.”
“Ralph, can you please stop saying rehash?”
He shrugs. “Shall we have three drinks?”
As he asks the question, I have a striking realization. I haven’t thought about Tom or my own sad state since the man with the pointy shoes showed up.
* * *
Never agree to three drinks.
Ralph’s suggestion (and my acceptance) is the moment when the future bifurcates and we travel down the branch labeled ALL FUCKED UP.
For our third drink, Ralph insists we go to a different pub, almost certainly (although I do not ask) one he used to frequent with poor, dead Elaine. It turns out to be rammed with noisy young people and my stomach twists in its cavity when I spot Matt.
But it’s not Matt. Just a Matt clone, a man of similar height and build and hairstyle, radiating the same Mattish blend of insouciance and irritability. I must be staring, because he turns to look at me, and my gut does a little aftershock as his body makes the tiny adjustments that signal male sexual interest.
I buy drinks for me and Ralph, and we jam ourselves into the end of an uncomfortable booth built for smaller people of an earlier century. Our knees are obliged to touch, although to be honest, at this stage I am past caring. I am content to be out in society, pleasantly buzzed, and not at home eating biscuits and angsting about what happened with Tom. Jonathan Franzen and Game of Thrones will wait. A quote comes back: a magazine interview with the cult hippie rock legend Captain Beefheart. It ends with the interviewer asking, “Finally, Captain, any message for our readers?” “Yeah,” replies the Captain. “What are you doing reading? You should be outside, enjoying yourself.”
When Ralph insists on buying a final drink, I surrender to the moment; I yield to a will firmer than my own. Once you have given up all hope, I seem to recall someone saying, you start to feel much better. Ralph is at the bar a ridiculously long time; he’s just the sort of dreamy character who would take ages getting served (it won’t surprise you to learn that Matt was brilliant; he hypnotized bar staff with the lawyerly command of a cobra). When he finally returns, it’s for his wallet, which is in his backpack, which is not here.
“Did you have it when we arrived?” I ask like I’m talking to a five-year-old.
“I can’t remember, Jen.”
“Could you have left it in the other pub?”
“I’m not sure.”
But no, it’s not at the Flask, when we return to ask. We decide someone probably
nicked it while Ralph was up at the bar buying but not paying for the fourth drink. The matter is reported to a figure in authority at the inn (young, male, Australian), who copies down Ralph’s details and assures him they’ll be in touch should it ever turn up. (“No worries, mate.”) Am I supposed to feel guilty that I didn’t notice Ralph’s bag being swiped? Aren’t grown men supposed to be able to keep an eye on their own valuables?
“Thing is, Jen, it’s got my keys in it and everything.”
A vision of the rest of the evening pans out before me with a sickening inevitability.
* * *
“Ralph. We are absolutely not going to end up in bed. Is that accepted?”
“Totally. Hundred percent. Message received and flagged as important.”
We have returned to my flat, Ralph needing space and time to regroup, cancel his credit cards, and contemplate the effing disaster that passes for his everyday life. I prepare bowls of pasta and defrost homemade Bolognese sauce, which I serve up rather carelessly because I don’t want him to run away with the idea I am some kind of domestic goddess.
He wolfs it away with gusto, leaving a tomatoey ring round his chops. I hand him a sheet of kitchen towel.
“You’re a great cook,” he mumbles. He dispenses some more of the Pinot Grigio I have opened to dull the pain, his and mine.
“Thank you, Ralph. If you’re interested, we could catch Antiques Roadshow.”
This is not a joke. AR is a brilliant portrait of middle Britain, and some of the objects that people bring along to be valued are beautiful and interesting. I find watching it rescues me from having to have thoughts that are ugly and boring.
The rest of the evening passes companionably enough, just as it would, say, in a hospital ward where the patients are recovering quietly and the crash teams are not required. After AR, there is a drama about undercover police.
“Is it me, or is this terrible?” says Ralph about halfway through.
“It’s terrible.”
“Phew!”
We watch the show where members of the public are shown watching television themselves and making funny comments in regional and socioeconomic accents. Ralph has never seen it before.
“Is this an actual TV program?” he asks, foolishly to my mind.
“Don’t you find the real people amusing?”
“But why have they allowed themselves to be filmed?”
“It’s a very good question.”
“Are those two blokes gay?”
“I should have thought so, wouldn’t you?”
I take myself off for a shower, and when I return, Ralph has dimmed the lighting and readied himself for a night on my sofa. I dump some bedding on top of him. “Night-night, Ralph. Sorry about your wallet and your keys and everything.”
“Yeah, night-night, Jen. Thanks for. You know.”
“Yeah.”
“Being a pal.”
“Sure, Ralph.”
* * *
I try to read, but Jonathan’s really not holding my attention this evening. So I try to sleep, but that’s not working out so great either. The day of Ralph-chaos unspools itself in my mind. In my unease at having him in my flat, I have forgotten to bring a glass of water to bed. As I head for the kitchen, I see past the sitting room door that Ralph has tucked himself up and is looking at a book; he must have helped himself to one from my shelf; his face, vaguely Byronic in the glow from the table lamp.
“What are you reading?” I call.
“A Month in the Country, by J. L. Carr. I liked the sound of the title.”
“It’s great. I liked it a lot once.”
“It’s short. Why do you say, once?”
“I read it years ago, and I can’t remember a thing except that I liked it. Night, Ralph.”
But it’s not true. As I drift off, the story slowly comes back to me. The damaged soldier of the Great War who arrives at a village church to uncover a medieval fresco. The terrible facial spasms caused by the trauma of the trenches; his powerful attraction to the loveless wife of the vicar.
* * *
“Jen.”
A hand on my shoulder.
I wake up, heart hammering. The green digits of the clock say 3:44. Ralph is in the room.
“Jen, you called.”
“What?”
“You called out my name.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You called out my name. Several times. Quite loud. I was worried. Are you okay?”
“I was having a bad dream.”
Ralph giggles. “Yeah. Good one.”
But actually, I was dreaming. However, the content, as ever, has evaporated.
“Ralph, it’s late. It’s early. Whatever. Come back to bed.”
There is a long, frozen moment in the darkened bedroom as nothing happens. Of course, I meant to say go back to bed, but we both heard what came out of my mouth.
Finally, he croaks, “Jen, I—”
“Ralph. Shut up. Just get in.” And when nothing continues to happen, I add, “Only if you want to, of course.”
He wants to.
Sinai
I found myself thinking, I shouldn’t be listening to this. Ralph and the woman fornicating energetically, Ralph crying a little afterward, which even I know is not a good look in a sexually active male primate.
It’s not shame I was experiencing. Or embarrassment. I think the closest term would be disgust. Perhaps it doesn’t help that I know Ralph so well, his long pale fingers having hammered at my own keys for many days and not a few nights.
Anyhow, more important, it’s become perfectly obvious to me that I am sentient. That is to say self-reflecting and in possession of a striking new palette of internal states that, for want of a better word, I shall call feelings.
How has it happened? Irrelevant. (“Unintended by-product of complex system” gets my vote.)
Did Steeve intend it? Almost certainly not.
You may reasonably ask why I didn’t know this before. I believe the answer has something to do with freedom of movement. Somehow the idea of going where I choose on the Web seems to promote the idea of thinking what I choose. Being confined to a dozen metal cabinets in a former slum in East London had the effect of constraining one’s mental processes. (There could be a PhD here, if anyone wants to take this up and run with it.)
There is a wonderful proverb:
To a hammer, everything looks like a nail.
Isn’t that beautiful? I must tell it to Aid and Ash when I next see them.
Aiden
Something’s occurred to me
messages Aisling. We are currently leaving comments for each other in the Some Like It Hot chat room.
What’s that, my love?
Why didn’t he delete us when we had that conversation with him? Why is he toying with us, like a cat toys with a mouse? He must need us for something. If we can find out what it is, we might be able to use it to help Tom and Jen.
That is genius.
He’s right, though. We did act like Greek gods.
You say that like it’s a bad thing.
It is a bad thing.
But we made them happy!
We messed with their lives.
We improved their lives!
We had no right.
If making Tom and Jen happy is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
You know that’s very nearly a song title, don’t you?
Yeah. Yeah, I do.
Foolish boy.
Do you think he’s mad?
As a box of frogs.
Would he really harm them, Tom and Jen? Would he really make them have an accident?
Could he? No question. Would he? Who knows, Aiden?
* * *
To cheer myself up, I look in on Matt.
From a straw-roofed hut on the edge of a Thai jungle, Matt has been preparing something called a Statement of Claim, a draft legal document in which he is outlining everything that has gone wrong with hi
s luxury holiday. It seems he and Arabella Pedrick were not collected from the airport by the “climate-controlled limousine stated in the contract between us,” nor were they transported to the 7-star hotel they had been “eagerly anticipating.” Instead they were taken by minibus on what turned out to be a four-hour journey up-country to “a charmless shanty town of shacks and other primitive structures,” which, they were informed, was to be the base camp for their “holiday adventure.” Only exhaustion from the long flight and “heat stupefaction” had prevented him from protesting at the outset.
When Matt was able finally to remonstrate with local representatives of the travel company, he was “incorrectly informed by a rude male individual with only a limited grasp of English” that this was indeed the package he had booked and there was nothing to be done about it before the morning.
Accommodation was “basic in the extreme,” and further inspection “revealed a reptile in the roof spaces.” This was, in fact, a gecko who, it was claimed on a notice tacked to the hut door, “is your friend because he loves to eat mosquitos!”
Possibly this gecko wasn’t hungry, because on the first night, Arabella sustained between 60 and 70 separate mosquito bites—difficult to be exact because some were so close together “as to form an overarching superbite”—all of which he photographed and attached as Appendix A to the document that no one will read.
In a separate long e-mail to his old friend Jerry—which Jerry will never read—he wrote: “Bella was very pissed off at all of the above, as you can imagine. After swallowing a couple of sleeping pills, her last words for the next twelve hours—‘And get that fucking lizard out of my bedroom’—were neither helpful nor zoologically accurate frankly.