"Our bad reputation is well deserved. One of the things we do is extort from people who work at the company in charge of running Playground, get them to tell us how to obtain valuable objects like extra lives, magic cards."
Rafael stands up and places his hands against the wall behind him. Flavia can sense the exhaustion in his gestures. She is trying to understand, but something about his explanation does not quite fit.
"So that's how it goes," Rafael continues. "The truth is that later, when the Resistance began to operate in the real world, I wanted to meet Kandinsky in person. I couldn't. I realized that not one of the main hackers—the inner circle, if you will—had met him in person. It was a justified tactic to avoid being turned in, and, of course, so that the myth could grow. No one knew the great hacker but everyone had a story about him. So the myth that started in Playground about the avatar named BoVe made its way into the real world about the person known as Kandinsky, who was in charge of the avatar BoVe. Sound complicated? It isn't."
"And what's my role in all this?"
Rafael sits back down. Restless, he bounces his legs. He rubs his chin.
"The media, even the most critical ones, have surrounded Kandinsky with this aura. Here's someone from the third world who has managed to bring big corporations to their knees. He's the most vivid expression of resistance against a government that has savage neoliberal policies. And yes, Kandinsky is all of that. But he is not a god." He pauses, clearing his throat.
"He's just as fallible as the rest of us," he continues, his voice booming even though he's speaking quietly. "He got to the top not only because he's able to manipulate technology or because of his charisma but also because he's ruthless, crushing any dissent in the organization. The Resistance doesn't tolerate internal resistance. The power behind his struggle against the government and corporations is based on a fundamentalist approach that doesn't allow internal debate. Through my avatar, Ridley, I began to suspect something in Playground. It all became clear to me when a couple of members of the Restoration turned up dead and they wanted us to believe the government was responsible. But it was way too much of a coincidence that it was exactly the two people who had opposed BoVe at an earlier meeting."
He is speaking quickly, as if he has only a few minutes to make his case.
"Something similar happened in the real world a little while ago. Two hackers wound up dead."
"Vivas and Padilla."
"Right. Both of them belonged to the Resistance. And, not being ready to accuse Kandinsky, I decided that you were the person to make the accusation public. Your site is about hackers, so I decided to tell you everything I knew. Of course, I had to pretend that I was warning you about the danger you were in if you continued investigating Kandinsky's identity. They were watching, and one wrong step could mean the end of me."
"So then it was you..."
"Yep. And I was impressed by your courage, publishing everything. Well, almost everything. You didn't mention that it was Kandinsky..."
"I needed more concrete proof. I insinuated that it was. A word to the wise..."
"I'm not reproaching you at all. I felt bad, like a coward, because I had put your life in danger. That's why I was following you. I felt responsible for you and wanted to protect you."
Flavia looks at him with astonished eyes. She doesn't know what to say.
"Ridley contacted Erin in Playground," Rafael says, "because he was afraid for her life. I'm doing the same thing with you right now. Maybe they'll get rid of me, but at least you know the story and you'll take care of making it public."
"There's not much I can do if I don't know who Kandinsky is."
"Not even we Rats can help you with that."
Rafael kissed her on the lips. It was a kiss that began sweetly, then turned passionate. Flavia put on a surprised expression; what really surprised her was how long it had taken. She had thought their meeting would be a purely romantic one; she hadn't suspected the complicated plot that would unfold in her presence.
"I'll stay in touch, either here or in Playground," Rafael said. "You leave first. Don't turn around for any reason. As soon as you're on the street, I'll leave the cubicle."
They kissed again. Flavia left the cubicle, walked quickly down the stairs, and went up to the counter. She gave the number back to the redhead, saying that she hadn't used the computer. The girl looked at her strangely and checked her screen to verify that fact.
As Flavia left, she saw two men in dark glasses get out of a dilapidated red Honda Accord. It seemed strange to her that the Honda remained next to the sidewalk in front of the café with the motor running. By the time she realized what was happening, it was too late. She turned back into the café just as shots were being fired. Rafael, who had started down the stairs, fell face down and rolled until his body was stopped by the metal handrail. As the men in dark glasses ran out of the café and disappeared in the car, Flavia, immune to the panic around her—students screaming under tables, clamoring in search of nonexistent emergency-exits—ran to where the body lay, the blood soaking his white shirt, his heart beating, beating, no longer beating.
Chapter 25
RUTH STOPS IN FRONT of the door to her office, on which there is a photo of Bletchley Park and Mafalda and The Far Side comic strips. Her feet hurt; her high heels have become intolerable. She takes them off and leaves them in the hallway next to a garbage can. The soldier looks at her curiously, expectantly. He has buttoned his jacket, making him appear more formal. Ruth feels that she is a little calmer. Her nose has stopped bleeding. Can veins burst like a stream when it floods during the rainy season? And can they then return to their course just as unexpectedly? What geological faults are opening up day after day in her aging body? What will her tired cells reveal in future endoscopies, colposcopies, laparascopies?
She takes out her keys. Whatever might be happening inside her, she will try not to be overcome by panic. She will not be like her mother, who in the face of the inexorable deterioration of her body decided to end her life in the blink of an eye, imposing the horror of the spectacle on Ruth.
She hands a few peso notes to the soldier. He seems dissatisfied, holding the bills up to the light as if to confirm that they are real. In the soldier's suspicious gaze and coppery complexion, in his defiant stance, legs spread apart, body leaning forward, Ruth perceives the social distance that separates them. But what can she do? It's not her fault; she will not fall into that trap. She has fallen into it many times before—when she saw the varicose veins on her maid Rosa's legs and made her go to the doctor, paying for the treatment, or when Rosa told her that she was saving to buy a television and Ruth helped her with a few extra pesos, only to find out later that Rosa had given the money to her ex-husband. She has learned that no well-intentioned action will fix the unfixable. Everything she does simply clears her conscience for a few minutes, an afternoon, at best a whole day.
Ruth hands him another few pesos and goes into her office. The soldier remains outside, watching her out of the corner of his eye through the half-open door, his hand to his cap in a frozen gesture, as if posing for a photograph.
The office smells of jasmine and black tobacco. She lights a cigarette, looks absently at the papers on her desk—lecture notes, others for an article on the role of the NSA in the Falklands War (the NSA had managed to decipher the Argentine army's codes; it contributed 98 percent of the information that the English had at their disposal during the war); the books on the shelves—histories of cryptanalysis by Kahn, Singh, Kippenham; videos of movies relating to cryptanalysis for her class next semester— U-571, Windtalkers, A Beautiful Mind, Enigma; the Degas prints on the wall.
She unlocks the bottom right-hand drawer of her desk and takes out the manuscript. She used so many different codes in it. The one she is proudest of is a polyalphabetic substitution code she herself created based on Vigenère, which had not been deciphered for centuries. Even the title and her name on the cover page are in code. People m
ight say hers was a sick obsession. That was normal; it was the only way of relating to the codes. At least she had turned her dedication into an inoffensive curiosity. At least she had had the necessary integrity to realize where her work at the Black Chamber was heading and to resign in time.
"May I make a phone call? To my doctor. You can dial if you like."
"Go ahead. Just hurry."
Ruth dials the number. The secretary tells her that the doctor hasn't come in because of the blockades. Ruth asks for her test results. The secretary replies that the lab is closed, so please call again tomorrow.
She leaves the office pressing the manuscript against her chest. She and the soldier walk through the deserted patio on their way to the main entrance. They can hear shouts and explosions; the soldier, however, walks as if he is in no hurry. Ruth matches his stride. At last, she thinks: She will hand the manuscript over to Cardona, and that will be the end of Miguel. She will go home to pack her bags and tell him that her lawyer will soon be filing for divorce. She will take a taxi to her dad's house in the northern part of the city. Perhaps she will look for an apartment or, better yet, decide to leap into the abyss, resign from her job and move to La Paz. She is worried about Flavia. Will she go with Ruth or stay with Miguel? Perhaps neither of those two options. She is so independent.
"What's in those papers that's so urgent?" the soldier asks without looking at her.
"It's part of some research I'm doing. I'm a historian. I didn't want to be without it in case this goes on for a while. Now at least I can work at home."
"Me, it'll be a long time before I get back home. We're confined to barracks when there's a state of emergency."
"Where do you live?"
"In Tarata. Uh, that's where I'm stationed. But I'm not complaining. They gave me a new rifle. I didn't even have a revolver before."
"What happened to yours?"
"It was stolen a month ago."
"And they didn't give you another one?"
"They have to take it out of my paycheck. They only give me a new one when it's paid off. But that can take months. And thieves don't wait. Luckily, nothing happens in Tarata. Sometimes drunks get into fights—that's about it. And you can earn a bit in tips from the tourists who visit President Melgarejo's house. It's really ugly and small. They used this horrible cement during the restoration. Students who come always feel let down."
Such a normal conversation is out of place amid the shouts and explosions that are increasingly closer, flames and columns of smoke rising up from the McDonald's. Maybe there is nothing normal about that conversation. After all, when would she have another opportunity to converse with a soldier?
"It's not an easy job," he says. "When they send us to remove the blockades, sometimes I see people I know on the other side. They insult me and call me a traitor. Uh, maybe they're right. But unless they can get me another job, a decent one that I like, I'll stick with this. It's all I've got. What am I gonna do? We all do what we like. Or what we can."
They reach the entrance. The other soldiers haven't moved, and five more have come as reinforcements, along with two German shepherds straining at their chains as if trying to break them. Ruth stops, uncertain. She does not know what to do, where to go, what route to take. To the left are the main door and the McDonald's that is on fire; to the right, blockaded streets and a group of demonstrators marching, chanting a chorus of antigovernment slogans. An end, an end to this globalizing trend ... Two police cars with their sirens screeching block the way. She stands looking at one of the German shepherds, his shiny black coat, the saliva dripping from his vicious canines. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to come to the university. Perhaps she should have gone home.
A couple of video messages are waiting on her cell phone. One from Miguel, another from Flavia. She doesn't open them. She is tired of getting messages from Miguel, who, bored in the archives, calls without anything to say, just to waste time. As for Flavia, nothing she does seems urgent. For years now Ruth hasn't cared much about her. Perhaps ever since she found herself competing with Flavia for Miguel's meager time, for his diminishing affection, and soon discovered that she was losing.
A big-bellied sergeant holding a cap in his right hand approaches the soldier that accompanies Ruth. He asks him what the hell this woman is doing standing in the doorway.
"Can't you see that it's dangerous?" he shouts. "Didn't I tell you to evacuate all civilians? I don't want a single soul in the university."
"We did evacuate everyone, sir," the soldier replies, his tone frightened. "This lady came later. She's a professor. She wanted to go to her office to get a manuscript."
"And so what did you do, huh? Don't tell me you went with her."
"It's just that ... sir."
"It's just that nothing. Did you go with her?"
"She told me it was urgent. She needed to work at home."
"And since when did they hire you as secretary? Or office boy? If it's all right with you, then damn it, why not let everyone line up here to go in and get their papers? And let the world fall to pieces in the meantime. The only reason I don't lock you up right now is because we need people. But you'll hear from me later."
"Yes, sir." The soldier stands at attention.
The sergeant approaches Ruth. In ceremonious tones, he says to her, "Pardon me, ma'am. May I see what you're holding?"
"Nothing that would interest you, officer."
"Sergeant, please. And begging your pardon, I'll decide whether it interests me or not."
Ruth shows him the manuscript without letting go of it. The sergeant looks at the tide page.
"And what are these hieroglyphics?"
"It's a book I'm writing. About coded messages in Bolivia's history. I'm a historian."
The sergeant's eyes sparkle, the muscles in his face stretch as he grins: it is as if he has just discovered that his shrewdness has stood him in good stead once again. A book about secret messages can only be a secret message itself.
"Allow me," he says, and before Ruth can reply he has the manuscript in his hands. He opens it at random, reviews a few pages. Line after line of letters that do not form comprehensible words, that do not make up a coherent paragraph, a chapter that makes any sense.
"You'll have to excuse me, ma'am," he says emphatically, "but I'm going to have to hold on to your book. I'm going to have to review it calmly, just to be on the safe side."
"Sergeant, this is an affront!" Ruth shouts, reaching out for her manuscript with one hand. "I haven't got a minute to waste. I need to get to work immediately."
"I understand, I do. But you do see that the situation—"
"I have nothing to do with what's going on. What, do you think they're secret messages from the Coalition? A secret plan to get rid of GlobaLux? The addresses for members of the Resistance?"
"Calm down, ma'am. I'm the one who doesn't have a minute to waste. Don't make me arrest you. There's nothing to be afraid of if you've nothing to hide."
The sergeant turns his back on her. Ruth throws herself at and pushes him. He takes two steps forward, loses his balance, but manages not to fall. He turns around and orders his men to arrest her.
Ruth's nose begins to bleed again. Several explosions can be heard.
Chapter 26
I'M TIRED, SO TIRED. And the light still shines in my eyes.
There's nothing I can do ... But wait ... I will be reincarnated in a young body. There will be a period of hope. Of energy ... Of plans that can be brought to fruition. A young body. But never very young. I will be a parasite on another body. That has already been comfortably installed in life ... And I will help it to explore the multiple possibilities for its talents...
It has always been thus. I have no childhood. I never have. Some say it's the best time of life. I don't think so. But I really can't say...
Sometimes images of a playful child come to me. I don't know who he is ... I don't know where he came from. He's running through pastures on the outskirts
of a town ... He's taking apart and putting back together a typewriter that he found in a garbage dump. He's writing on it ... Words that make no sense. Secret codes.
I'd like to have a childhood. At least once in my life.
Tired body ... Sore stomach. Neck. Eyes that don't want to close. Phlegm in my throat ... The inevitable flowing of blood...
The machine that counts my heartbeats is still working.
I'd like ... At some point ... To die ... And not wake up. Perhaps it's too much to ask. Perhaps the being that is responsible for me ... The one that has given me this miracle and this misfortune. Will take pity on me and give me a definitive end. Meanwhile. I will continue to be many men.
I was Charles Babbage. Professor at Cambridge. Known for many things ... The most important of which was to announce. Circa 1820. The principles that would serve as the basis for computers ... I was obsessed with the idea of using machines to do mathematical calculations ... I dreamed about building an analytical engine and a differential engine ... I even resigned from my professorship at Cambridge for seven years. I died at the age of seventy-eight without having realized my plans. However. My ideas remained. Other men after me ... Made it possible for the logical structure of my analytical engine ... To serve as the basis for computers.
I was drawn to cryptology because of my interest in statistics ... I liked to count the frequency with which a letter was repeated in a text. That was the reason ... That I was one of the first to use mathematical formulas to solve problems of cryptanalysis. I was one of the first to use algebra ... It surprises me that there weren't many others before me.
One small step. At the time ... That would later have enormous consequences.
Like everything of mine.
Unfortunately. I didn't continue my research. The notes I'd been taking were left incomplete ... I became involved in other things. I became distracted ... What could I do? That's how I was.
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