Tears in Rain

by Rosa Montero

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Merlín was a really good chess player. He was a calculation rep and had a formidable mind: mathematical, musical, a precise labyrinth of sparkling thoughts.

  “I sometimes think about the wild little animal you’d be without me and I shudder in horror,” he’d say to her occasionally, grabbing her by the scruff of the neck like someone handling an overly nervous young filly.

  Merlín was joking, but he was in fact quite close to the mark. Bruna believed that the two years she’d lived with him, together with subsequent learning from her friend Yiannis, had made her into what she was—a combat rep unlike any other. Life was an unfathomable and mysterious thing, even the brief and preset life of reps. In fact, those genetic engineers who thought they were gods had no idea what they were doing. Yes, they could boost certain abilities in technohumans depending on the function for which were produced, but after that each rep was different, and developed capabilities and defects that no engineer had known how to anticipate in the lab as he cut up and mixed helixes of cloned DNA. Merlín was special, too: creative, imaginative, with a playful temperament that predisposed him toward happiness.

  They met when she’d just been granted her license from the military and the settlement allowance was warming her pocket. So Bruna was still young, while Merlín was already 8/33. But he lived with no fear of death, as if he were eternal. Or as if he were human, because humans had the capacity to forget they were mortal. That was something Bruna failed to learn from her lover.

  “Husky! Are you with me? You’re not listening to me at all.”

  Habib’s distorted face reflected weariness and impatience.

  “Sorry. I was distracted for a few moments, thinking about—”

  “Well, do your thinking on your own time. Given the expenses you’re running up, you could try not to make me waste my time.”

  Habib had been like this all morning—extremely nervous, combustible, with an aggression Bruna had never seen in him before.

  “You gave me carte blanche with expenses.”

  “And if you were offering some results, I’d consider it money well spent. But so far...” he grumbled.

  And the worst of it was that he was right.

  They were in the apartment Myriam Chi and Nabokov had shared. A spacious, comfortable, but coldly functional apartment, as if radical ideology did not encourage too many decorative refinements. Or as if they didn’t want to become too attached to things. There was only one personal touch: a photo of Myriam and Valo embracing each other, affectionate and smiling. It was laser-cut in 3-D, inside a block of glass. The photo was the typical souvenir done on the spot in many holiday destinations. Bruna and Merlín had had a similar portrait done in Venice Park during a wet tourism weekend they had given themselves as a present not long after their relationship began. After her lover died, Bruna threw out the glass block; she couldn’t bear that picture of happiness. But now, coming across the picture of Nabokov and Chi, it had triggered something in her mind and she had started thinking about Merlín. Something she generally preferred to avoid.

  Apart from that conventional glass souvenir, the room could have been the bland lounge room of any apartment. Compared with these surroundings, Bruna’s apartment seemed even cozy. The rep reflected with a certain pride on her copies of two works of art: Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man and Jan Vermeer’s Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid. They were very good reproductions, not holographs but superrealistic, and they had been quite expensive.

  “There’s nothing here. I told you so,” growled Habib, closing the drawers in the kitchen.

  The police had just unsealed the apartment after searching it thoroughly. Bruna pictured the huge Lizard sniffing around and found the idea unpleasant, even offensive, and a bit obscene. Myriam and Valo wouldn’t have liked having a human rummaging through their things, though they probably wouldn’t have liked her and Habib being there either. When Habib had found out that Bruna wanted to inspect the apartment, he insisted on accompanying her, and now he was displaying a frenzy of totally useless activity, as he could have no idea what the rep was looking for. In point of fact, neither did she, but experience had taught her that her unconscious being was much wiser than her conscious equivalent. And simply by looking, she often saw things that others missed. Evidence that jumped out before her eyes as if it were calling to her. So Bruna walked along behind Habib, reopening and checking all the drawers and cupboards that he had dismissively just closed. Although it was true that so far they had found nothing revealing.

  Then they went into the bedroom, and Bruna felt embarrassed but moved. This was a private room, a nest, a den, a sacred sanctum in which mortals took refuge believing they would be able to protect themselves from the desolation of the world. The enormous bed was covered with exquisite, brilliantly colored silk cushions, and along the wall facing the bed there were at least fifteen white orchids planted in gold baroque flowerpots and arranged in two groups. Lilac-colored strips of chiffon hung from the ceiling like banners, and the floor was covered with a glorious, soft, deep red Omaá carpet.

  “Wow! Oh, my! Impressive,” said Habib.

  Bruna wondered which of the two, Myriam or Valo, was responsible for such a feminine and opulent decor: Chi with her painted fingernails, or Nabokov with her huge breasts and impossible bun? Although it was probably the two of them: an intimate, excessively ornate and secret world they shared. That was love, in reality: having someone with whom to share your quirks.

  “I’ve been in this apartment before, naturally, but not in this room,” murmured Habib.

  On top of the bedside table there were traces of a living hell: countless bottles, subcutaneous injectors, patches, pills, disinfectants, dressings, ointments. All the medical paraphernalia, that foul flood of useless remedies, that illness leaves in its wake. When Merlín died, the room was full of all that miserable rubbish, too: double-strength painkillers; medication to treat the psychotic delirium, agitation, and violence caused by TTT; sedatives for anxiety. After he’d gone, there were still remnants of his suffering attached to those drugs, in the same way that you could follow the trail of Nabokov’s death throes in that jumble of pills. Bruna felt a pinch of dread. The usual, ancient, and well-known dread snaking its way around her insides. Four years, three months, and seventeen days. Seventeen days. Seventeen days.

  Habib was down on the floor on all fours, running his finger along the thin strip between the carpet and the wall. He’s taking it very seriously, the rep said to herself half-jokingly. If truth be told, he’s taking it too seriously, she thought right after that, somewhat surprised. In fact, he didn’t seem to be searching the apartment as such but looking for something specific. That meticulous inspection, that acute agitation...

  “Revenge!” she exclaimed.

  “What?” asked Habib, turning toward her.

  The detective had spoken on impulse, a sudden intuition, as if testing the waters. She looked Habib in the eye.

  “Revenge. Does the word mean anything to you?”

  The man frowned.

  “Hmmm...not a lot. What should it be telling me, Bruna?”

  He looked absurd, still on all fours with his head turned over his shoulder so that he could look at her. It suddenly seemed to her that he was being too pleasant. He had used her first name, and on top of that, his tone was too friendly, whereas he’d behaved obnoxiously all morning. Bruna was suspicious. She often was; she’d suddenly feel the cold wind of suspicion pass through her. She decided not to tell him about the tattoos. That was a secret she shared with Lizard.

  “No. Nothing. It was something Nabokov said that last time I saw her. Revenge. And then she marched off to kill and to die.”

  Habib stood up and shook his head.

  “She was delirious. Listen, Bruna, I don’t know what we’re searching for here. I don’t think they inserted a memory in Valo. She was just very ill and mad with grief over Myriam’s death.”

  The d
etective nodded in agreement. The man was probably right.

  “And another thing, Bruna. Forgive me if I’m a little...tense. In two days’ time, we’re holding the RRM assembly to elect the movement’s new leader. I thought it would be a given for me, but two other androids have turned up who are vying for the position, and they’re mounting the dirtiest of campaigns against me. They’re accusing me of not being sufficiently diligent in my attempts to clear up Myriam’s death; they’re even accusing me of being glad she’s gone, as it allows me to take her position. That’s why I need results as soon as possible—do you understand? As soon as possible!”

  “I get it now. Especially the electoral results,” said the rep somewhat sarcastically.

  Habib looked at her angrily.

  “Well, yes, that too. Does it surprise you? We’re at a critical moment in the history of replicants and I know that I can help to improve the situation, that I can lead the RRM with a firm hand during this critical stage. I didn’t welcome Myriam’s death as those wretches suggest—of course not—but in a certain sense maybe it was fortunate. Because I know what needs to be done. And I think I even know better than she did. Is it a crime to aspire to leadership when you know it will enable you to have a positive influence on society?”

  He’d ended up holding forth in a grandiose tone. So that’s what he was doing down on all fours, poking his nose into the corners: looking for votes. Even if it was at the expense of Nabokov’s madness, Chi’s blood, the horror, the fire, and the violence. Disappointing. She looked at the angry Habib with indifference. As Yiannis often used to say, People’s true nature comes to the fore as soon as things start to go wrong.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bruna got off the travelator, turned cautiously into the avenue and scanned from afar the area surrounding her apartment building as she clung to a faint hope. But no, there was the Omaá, with his translucent body and his ridiculous T-shirt. The bicho’s patient siege was turning her exits and entrances into a martyrdom. The night before, as she was approaching her building with adrenaline still pumping after her encounter with the thugs, Bruna mistook his huge shadow for that of an assailant and nearly gave him a kick in the groin. Or in the place where Earthlings have their groin. But the Omaá dodged it easily, as if he had predicted her movement.

  “It’s Maio, it’s Maio. Sorry if I startled you,” he had said with his murmuring voice.

  And the rep had almost regretted that he wasn’t an anonymous assailant. The alien was driving her mad. He was making her feel absurdly guilty and becoming an obsession to the point where the discomfort was making her think twice about going home. Right now, after completing her search of Chi’s apartment, she would have preferred not to go home. But not daring to confront him seemed shameful to her. And then there was Bartolo, whom she didn’t want to leave on his own for too long. So she had no alternative now but to start running, and race through the main entrance so as to avoid that persistent wretch Maio. The alien was turning into a problem.

  Having successfully dealt with the first Omaá, she now had to confront the second one. The android opened the door to her apartment fearful of what she might find. How the devil had she managed to complicate her life in this way? Once again, she decided to get hold of an animal shelter right away and free herself of the bubi. She cautiously stuck her head inside; the place seemed to be in order. No half-chewed clothes on the floor. Relieved, she stepped inside and closed the door, at which point she caught sight of the greedy-guts glued to the far wall, very nervous, and with his head hanging down—the absolute picture of guilt. The rep’s spirits plummeted.

  “What have you done? You’ve been naughty, haven’t you?”

  Bartolo was wringing his gray little hands, desperately contrite. Bruna had a sudden terrible intuition and ran toward the table with the jigsaw puzzle. She gave a sigh of relief; everything seemed to be fine. But hold on a minute...There was one piece missing that had been extracted from what she’d already done. The hole was like a gaping wound in the middle of the picture.

  “I told you not to touch the puzzle!”

  The bubi whimpered.

  “What have you done with the piece? Have you eaten it, you stupid animal?”

  “Bartolo good,” blubbered the creature.

  And he started to run toward the bedroom. Bruna followed him and, to her relief, found the small piece of cardboard on top of her pillow, meticulously placed right in the center of it. The rep seized the piece—it was intact and didn’t even seem to have been chewed. It’s undoubtedly a message, a warning, perhaps even a threat, thought Bruna. It’s saying: I don’t like being abandoned and I could have taken my revenge by destroying the entire jigsaw puzzle, but I’ve been generous and haven’t done so. It was a very sophisticated message, not that different from the just-decapitated heads of dogs that the Chinese mafia used to leave behind. The android tried to hide the smile lurking on her lips and turned toward the bubi, forcing herself to look stern.

  “Bartolo alone,” muttered the greedy-guts, twisting his fingers.

  “I know. I know you were left alone and you don’t like it. Okay, fine. This time, you’re forgiven. But don’t do it again.”

  The animal leaped up into her arms; Bruna felt his warm breath on her neck. Embarrassed and annoyed, she removed the bubi and put him on the floor. All she needed was to become attached to a creature she was going to get rid of right away.

  “And don’t ever do that again either! No climbing up and giving hugs!”

  And, seeing the contrite face of the greedy-guts, she immediately added, “Come on, I’ll give you something to eat.”

  That information instantly raised the bubi’s spirits.

  Just then, a call came in from Mirari. The unusual face of the violinist appeared on the screen, her spiky white hair looking like a crown of thorns.

  “It’s done. I’m sending you a robot. Twenty minutes,” she said and cut off.

  Always so curt.

  The rep poured herself a glass of white wine and dropped onto the couch in front of the picture window, exhausted, while Bartolo ate his bowl of cereal with noisy enthusiasm. Four years, three months, and seventeen days. She took a sip of wine. The arm with which she was holding the glass bore the imprint of the blow from the hooligan’s chain, and the detective thought it was a symbolic mark. Events were leaving her bruised, wounded. For some reason, this case had stirred her up more than any other. It had become very personal.

  It started to rain. The sky was a changing swirl of gray clouds, and the raindrops, slanted by the wind, beat against the windowpane. Yiannis had once shown Bruna the old, mythical film from the twentieth century in which replicants first made an appearance. It was called Blade Runner. It was a strange, well-meaning film as far as the reps were concerned, although Bruna found it somewhat irritating. The androids bore little resemblance to real ones and on the whole, tended to be stupid, oversimplified, childish, and violent. Never mind the blonde techno who turned somersaults like an articulated doll. Even so, there was something profoundly moving about the film. Bruna had learned by heart the final words spoken by the main rep character on the rain-swept rooftop before he died: “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain. Time to die.” And then he lowered his head and died so easily. So easily. Like an electric machine that someone unplugs. Without suffering the nightmare of TTT. But his powerful words reflected wonderfully the inconsistency of life, of that subtle, beautiful insignificance which time was unraveling without leaving a trace. The rep in Blade Runner lowered his head and died while the rain ran down his cheeks, perhaps hiding his final tears.

  When he was close to the end of his 10/35 years, Merlín disappeared. He left. Bruna finally managed to locate him: he’d moved to a hotel. The detective, for whom eloquence had never been a strong point, nevertheless man
aged to make Merlín understand that watching him die from afar would be even more painful. So Merlín returned, and they were still able to enjoy a few months of serenity before his TTT manifested itself.

  When the illness appeared, they went to the Scottish Highlands. Bare, windswept land, with brooks like threads of mercury flowing through black banks. They both liked cold, remote, inhospitable places—one of those shared oddities that formed the basis of their love. That was why, when Merlín decided to withdraw into the dark like a wounded dog, he chose that distant corner. They installed themselves in a small, very old rented cottage, which they immediately filled with their pathetic cargo of medical equipment and medication. The smell of illness and poisoned time. The slow, oppressive time of dying. Death stalked them like a predator, tarnishing everything with suffering, but Bruna still remembered one night when it was raining, with raindrops drumming on the window just as they were now, and Merlín was dozing by her side in bed, momentarily relieved from his suffering while she, lying on top of the bedspread, read a novel by the yellow light of a small lamp. From time to time, she would glance over at her lover—his back, so familiar but now so bony; his emaciated features; the beard he had acquired. Because the nails and hair of the dying keep growing: while everything else is collapsing, those small cells continue to weave their substance with a blind and desperately tenacious vitality. A useless organic effort that cast a shadow over Merlín’s cheeks and made his beautiful face seem ever more gaunt. Bruna knew that, just before the end, the profile of sick people became sharper, as if to cleave the darkness, penetrate the shadows like the prow of a ship. Her lover’s face had already begun to sharpen. But they were together and they were still alive; and outside, the wind whistled and the rain whispered its desolate song, turning the bedroom into a refuge. That night, time stopped and there was a strange peace within the pain.