Swimmer Among the Stars

by Kanishk Tharoor

  Later, in the small solitude of his bunk, the Secretary-General stares at a photograph of the New York headquarters taped to his wall. The Secretariat gleams aquamarine in the sunshine, the General Assembly curves alien and gold, Queens hangs in moth-eaten silhouette behind. All staff had been evacuated by the time the waters came. Swollen, the East River heaved up and pitched over the FDR Drive. It ripped chunks out of the cafeteria and swamped the library, flushing the archives out to the bay. The General Assembly hall and all its chambers remain an aquarium, fish peering at the grand Portinari murals, civilizations of algae sprouting from the Norwegian wood of the Security Council. In the Secretariat, however, the water never got any higher than the twelfth floor. A recovery team sent him reports of the surviving stories, their windows often blown out, mold and rust running through their veins, but otherwise the desks and offices in perfect order. The mysterious internal circuitry whirred in places. Engineers reported lights flickering and air coursing through the vents, the hum of a copy machine warming up. There was still breath in the building, stirring the beams as they leaned back and forth with the tides.

  One treasure he was able to salvage before the catastrophe is a bust of the astronomer Copernicus, a gift from the Communist government of Poland in 1970, nearly a century ago. It is a bludgeoning work, the sullen face of the astronomer hewed from granite, emerging like a Neolithic god from its halo of rock. The Secretary-General keeps the bust in his room. He brings his fingers to his lips and then touches the monumental brow. Goodnight, Copernicus, he says.

  Elsewhere on the MaidenX Orbital Hotel, diplomatic aides wait their turn to use the hotel’s communications equipment. When MaidenX launched this facility into orbit, the company didn’t want guests to spend time messaging home. Why be distracted from the luxury of the finest extraterrestrial cruise? Why trouble yourself with earthly matters when wined and dined among the stars? Nobody ever imagined that one day the hotel might host a global governing body, a guest that needed to be in touch with the earth in order to be in touch with itself. Its officers gather updates from ground staff; its mission representatives send cables to their capitals several times a day.

  The business of running the world must carry on. There are frequent committee meetings and votes on the MaidenX. Recently, the council agreed unanimously to issue a decree urging all member states to fund desalination projects. This abundance of seawater must be turned into something usable. Other votes are more contentious. Norway complains about the raids of privateers from the Baltic Sea on its offshore oil rigs. She demands that sanctions be imposed upon the Baltic states. Only Latvia made it up to the MaidenX. What do you expect us to do, he says, we have no control over these pirates … we’re just a small state, and in these times, the small state is even smaller than the non-state.

  Queues snake down the hall from the cafeteria to the single computer lab, where Paraguay and Bolivia quietly catch up on their local football scores—the ball rolls on in the mountains. Kazakhstan leaves his screen, dejected. He hasn’t received any message from his government. Maybe they’ve just forgotten about me, he thinks optimistically. France and the United Kingdom have long given up hope of hearing from their foreign ministries, if such things still exist. They play table tennis in the rec room. Sometimes, they ask for the 1g to be dialed down toward 0g. The amused MaidenX staff are happy to oblige. Every touch of the paddle on the ball sends France and the United Kingdom hurtling about the room. The weightless air becomes their surface, the memory of the floor their net; they execute backflips and cartwheels, plunging like seals for the irresistible ball.

  In the bar, Mexico pours Luxembourg another whiskey. My government approves the Botswana proposal, he says. So would mine, I think. Were it all signed and sealed, would you want to stay in Gaborone or would you ask for a new post? I’m not sure there are other posts on offer! I’m going to be honest with you and say this: it would make me happy if you chose to stay on, if we could discover Gaborone together just as we have discovered life in space together. You are too sweet.

  Mexico leans forward in his seat and clears his throat. Has anyone told you, he begins to say but stops, realizing that she is not paying attention. What is he doing? she asks. Mexico follows her gaze to Kiribati, pressing his head against a window, mouthing words, and counting on his fingers. I hope he’s all right. Poor guy, Mexico says generously, he’s got every reason to go mad. He walks over to Kiribati with his own whiskey outstretched. No thanks, Kiribati says with a smile before looking out again, we’re facing Uranus, it’s that blue dot, see? Uranus has twenty-seven moons. Yes, I know, Luxembourg says. She has joined them by the window. You can’t see the moons, Kiribati continues, not with the naked eye of course, but you can imagine them there … They’re named after Shakespearean spirits of the air … Titania, Oberon. Yes, Luxembourg says, also Puck, Ariel, Caliban … isn’t that splendid? Splendid, Mexico says, splendid, splendid.

  A little later, Botswana makes her way from the computer lab to the bunk of the Secretary-General. My government approves, she says to the blinking man in pajamas. We can settle down in Gaborone as soon as two weeks. What did they say about thirty-three percent? It’ll be no more than twelve. Twelve. Yes. Okay, that will have to do, thank you. I’ll make the announcement at the morning session.

  The news comes as a relief to everybody, especially the owner of the MaidenX. His voice is projected into the council hall. Congratulations, he tells the ambassadors, best of luck in your new home. I hope you remember your time in the Orbital Hotel fondly. In a private phone call with the Secretary-General, he is less warm. I’m afraid your bills are grossly in arrears. The Secretary-General apologizes. As you can imagine, this is not the best time for our accounting people … we’re a bit stretched, what with so many peacekeeping missions, innumerable refugee crises, famines, droughts, floods. We will give you a fortnight, but that is it, this jamboree has to come down to earth. It’s not confirmed yet, Gaborone may not be ready in two weeks. Please appreciate that our hospitality is much sought after; there are organizations willing to remunerate us for the privilege and safety of near-earth orbit. Ours isn’t just any old organization, you know, we carry the aspirations of the world. The world is down there, the owner says; on the MaidenX, you’re just taking up space.

  They hang up. The Secretary-General rubs the blunt nose of Copernicus. I shouldn’t be so surprised, he says to the bust, nothing revolves around us anymore.

  * * *

  In the viewing vestibule, Kiribati plays with the imaging overlays on the windows. He zooms toward the star Rigel. The pixels resolve into the distant Witch Head nebula, a cloud of gas that looks like a sorceress mid-incantation. He delights in tracing its uncanny shape: the long devilish chin, the smoky tip of its nose, the recess of its eyes and pinched cheeks, its open mouth where other stars and other worlds are constantly being born.

  A moaning from the opposite side of the vestibule distracts him. Kazakhstan is pulling at his hair. The lights have gone out in Astana. He pounds the unbreakable glass, made with such intelligent polymers that it doesn’t even shiver at his anguish. The tears spill down his cheeks. If the room was taken down to 0g, they would lift off his face and he could bat them away, or he could surround himself in a cloud, make a fog out of his misery. There is no MaidenX staffer in sight, so Kazakhstan’s tears fall at the same speed they would fall on the surface of the earth.

  Kiribati puts an arm around his shoulders. There, there, he says, don’t rush to conclusions. It could just be a power cut, a momentary thing … you can’t surrender so easily. I haven’t been able to get through to anybody at home. An electrical storm, a broken satellite, there are plenty of possible explanations. Look, Kazakhstan says, just look. The MaidenX bends toward the sun. A line of blue swells, then burns orange and red. Sunrise. Light sweeps over Eurasia and reveals a glittering silver stain. The ambassadors reckon with the tall cloud, distended by the wind, hanging over the irradiated silence of the steppes.

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nbsp; Astana has been bombed, Luxembourg tells Mexico in the cafeteria as he squeezes extra mustard on his hamburger. Another month, another bombing. Poor Kazakhstan … Who would have done it? I don’t know, those bloody non-state actors are impossible to understand. It makes you wonder what the point is. Atrocity for the sake of atrocity, that kind of logic is always inscrutable. No, I mean, what the point is of grief. Of grief? If everybody is grieving, then grief loses its distinction, it just becomes a shared, permanent state. I suppose. So why do it? Because grieving is helpless, because how else do you respond to loss? I don’t see Kiribati grieving. Kiribati is going insane. No, I disagree … his country literally no longer exists, so it makes sense that all he can do is look at the stars, the planets, the depths of space. You think that’s healthy? I’d rather explore the cosmos than feel sorry for myself. There are other things we can do to hide from our losses. You’re going to suggest that we go dancing. Correct, Mexico says. Luxembourg laughs. I’m a terrible dancer. That’s okay … in zero G, there’s no such thing as bad dancing.

  In the room that they share with Kenya and Jordan, Kiribati gives Kazakhstan a cup of tea. The ambassador tries to take a sip but puts the mug aside. No more, no more, he says, my country is no more. From the cubby by his bed, Kiribati removes an old coffee tin. Close your eyes and hold this, he says. Kazakhstan does as he is told. Jordan puts a consoling hand on Kazakhstan’s wrist while Kenya sits cross-legged on the floor, listening to Kiribati.

  We knew for many years that our islands were doomed, that the ocean would take them … but we thought it would happen gradually: an atoll here and there, a beach eaten away, until the sea seeped into our groundwater and made life impossible. Then the day came … I was already up in the MaidenX so I’ve only heard the stories and seen some of the videos … They say it was difficult to know what was what, to tell the tsunami from the storm, that it seemed like an unbroken mass of water and wind rising to the roof of the sky. Dreadful, Kenya shakes his head. Jordan says something grave, one assumes along the same lines. Only with satellite imaging, Kiribati says, can you see the outlines of my underwater islands, faint like a footprint, the suggestion of a country no longer there.

  He opens the tin in Kazakhstan’s lap. I collected this several years ago and I’m blessed for my foresight … This is what I have left of my home. Into an empty mug he pours out half of the fine white sand. Keep it, he tells Kazakhstan, let it help you be at home as it helps me.

  Kazakhstan stares for a while into the depths of the mug and then looks wordlessly at Kiribati. The four ambassadors share a communicative kind of silence, where each feels somehow yoked to the others, as if they were melting together in this floating oven in the void, before Jordan breaks the quiet with loud sobs and a speech, spluttering in untranslated sound what they had already felt in its absence.

  * * *

  In the following days, Mexico and Luxembourg make it a habit of slipping away to the dance studio when nobody else is there. They have the room sealed and the artificial gravity turned off. Mexico allows Luxembourg to choose the music that plays on their headphones. He finds that her tastes are eclectic to the point of incoherence. She pulls up old swing albums followed by Indonesian gamelan. They fumble from wall to wall, unable to find a beat. She puts on French techno and they split apart, shaking about on their own. When he intervenes and tries to control them into the movements of a pop ballad, she grows impatient. She switches to a Balkan Gypsy dance, all bellowing brass and soaring vocals, which she sings herself. The lyrics, she tells him as they spin around and around, are about the power of moonlight.

  On one occasion, they find France and the United Kingdom already inside. The older men float serenely in a waltz. They are only too happy for Mexico and Luxembourg to join. The four ambassadors wheel around the room in alternating pairs, trying to imitate the waltz’s drifting grace without the counterpoint of the floor. Mexico is grateful for the change of pace. When he waltzes with Luxembourg, they tether their hips together, and she lets him lead her. They spin slowly, revolving on an easy axis that he maintains with effort, at times parallel, at times perpendicular to the ground. Mexico searches for Luxembourg’s eyes, tries to hold their gaze, but she is smiling at him, away from him, over his shoulder and out of the room, into empty regions beyond.

  The last time they dance together, he floats her to the wall during a reggaeton song. He holds her there, too purposefully perhaps, but she does not resist. When they kiss, the tiny force of their lips pushes them away from each other and he must grab hold of her belt. They do not kiss again. Luxembourg asks for the gravity to be restored and they slide down to the floor. I’m sorry, she tells him, I can’t—no part of me can … even my desires feel weightless.

  In a private council, Botswana meets with the Secretary-General to deliver updates about progress in Gaborone. Suitable workspaces have been made for all the officers of the Secretariat. Temporary accommodation is being built, with long-term plans for permanent structures. As far as the missions are concerned, it’s unclear how many countries will be able to maintain delegations, but for the time being there is enough office space to fit—in close quarters—nearly a hundred embassies. Gloomily, the Secretary-General admits that number should be more than enough. Offices and residences will be so close that no mission will need to keep a car; everything will be walking distance. We’ll have finally gone green, the Secretary-General says. Food trucks and soup kitchens will roll in during lunch and dinner times. I must tell Kazakhstan, Botswana says, that we’ve even found a chef who can make Adana kebabs. She laughs, but then realizes her mistake. The Secretary-General corrects her anyway. If Kazakhstan chooses to join us in Gaborone—and he may not—it will probably be as an observer and a friend, not a member.

  Kiribati is eating dessert in the cafeteria. The surface of Saturn’s moon Titan, he tells Kazakhstan, is viscous with a paper-thin crust … if you took a spoon to it, it would crack just like this crème brûlée. They tap the surface of their puddings and watch the amber shards lift against each other like tectonic plates. Kiribati carries on. Titan’s lakes resemble tar pits, all great expanses of sludge … a boat trying to sail across would not get very far … near the equator, you would think that little changes, that wind is an unknown concept on Titan … but there is tremendous weather closer to the poles … cyclones stir the Kraken Sea into a whirlpool of methane, benzene falls like snow in blizzards. Have you ever seen snow? Kazakhstan asks. Yes, I have in fact. Where? In New York, my first and only year as head of mission. How was it? Lovely … I took so many pictures of snow falling in front of streetlamps, snow hanging in the trees, snow collected in the creases of jackets, snow on fire escapes … even after it all melted, little pyramids of snow survived on my balcony and I let them grow black. That must have all been such a strange sight for you, coming from your sunny paradise. Actually no, Kiribati says, it was exactly as I imagined.

  In his room, the Secretary-General reports to Copernicus. We have lost touch with five separate peacekeeping and peacemaking missions in the past week … they’ve been overrun, or obliterated, or bribed to disperse, or, worst of all, they’ve just given up and abandoned their positions. Copernicus grimaces. I’m told that there are refugee camps with no doctors, no medicines, no security, no tents … why even call them camps, they’re just collections of refugees festering in the sun. Where are we? Copernicus asks with dry lips. Too far away, much too far away from where we should be … we came up here for safety, but this remove is maddening … we need to be in the thick of things, to be seen, to be believed in. Earth, Copernicus says, that’s where it’s at. We’ll be set up in Gaborone in a matter of days. I’ve never been south of the equator before. You’ll be planted there soon and, who knows, maybe it will be for a long time, for the rest of time. What fun … just let me be in the sun. Goodnight, Copernicus. Goodnight.

  * * *

  The meteorologists begin sounding alarms the next day. Thanks to the warming of the southern Atlanti
c, large storms in the horse latitudes are increasingly common. One such depression brews near the battered coasts of South Africa. The ambassadors watch its formation from the viewing vestibule. It grows as it drifts east, the storm bands swollen, tufting like beaten egg whites. This is going to make for a tricky landing, Luxembourg says. Full of whiskey, Mexico shrugs. I’ve seen worse. But in the following hours, the storm gains the width of a country, the breadth of a continent. Meteorologists calculate that at its heart the wind churns at over 250 kilometers per hour. A ridge of high pressure from the north fixes the storm over Namibia and it grinds east over the desert, untamed by wind shear, monstrous in its ghostly scrawl.

  Botswana cannot bring herself to watch the eye of the storm pass over Gaborone. Lightning explodes in blue bursts through the clouds. Mexico feels Luxembourg’s fingers entwining his own. Don’t worry, he whispers, it will dissipate soon … no storm can last long overland. She shivers. That storm is a thousand times the size of my country … it looks like the end of the world. Not the world, Kiribati says, but the end of a world, just another such end. Mexico notices then that Luxembourg’s other hand is wrapped around Kiribati’s wrist. He lets her fingers drop.

  Eventually, after many attempts, a weak message gets through to the MaidenX. Gaborone is no longer in any shape to play host.

  The Secretary-General calls the owner of the MaidenX. Listen, what can we do, we’ve nowhere else to go. I, too, saw the storm. Please be reasonable, nobody could have predicted it. Indeed. We need to explore our options, just let us stay up here for a little longer. In that case, we have to make some overdue cuts, some necessary economizing. Like what? No more champagne. Fine. Hot water available only for half the day. I suppose we can get used to the occasional cold shower. And do you have any idea how expensive it is to generate artificial gravity? I imagine it’s quite costly … Do you know how expensive it is to generate peace on earth? There will have to be enforced periods of 0g on board … beginning in a few hours.