The 2084 Precept

by Anthony D. Thompson

  She had some very classy gift vouchers and I told her I would like one made out for a return flight to Ajaccio and two weeks in whichever fine Corsican hotel she cared to recommend—in the name of Frau Müller. The dates and the bookings would be confirmed at some point in the future but I would pay an estimated amount in advance right now. If she wondered why I was giving such a gift to Monika Müller, whom she knew, she didn't show it. She never raised an eyebrow, a very professional lady our Frau Mayer.

  And Frau Müller it was whose doorbell I rang before going up to my apartment. Being seriously squashed up against those breasts again was as arousing as it usually was and needed as much male self-control as it usually did. In fact more than it usually did, it not being a healthy thing to have spent several weeks in near-celibacy mode, irrespective of Catholic priests' opinions, honest or otherwise, with regard to the subject. Mr. Brown's violent welcome attack resolved the dilemma as it always did, his slobbering dog-kisses easily annihilating my neurons' attempts to maintain the erotic fire, and I accepted Monika's offer of a coffee. I gave Mr. Brown half of his chocolate, thanked her for keeping him until after the chess, and went upstairs for a quick snooze.

  My alarm woke me at a quarter past one—or a quarter after one over the pond—and after a shave and a shower I was off down the road to the technical college, only five minutes away.

  The parents were there, some of them anyway, the mayor and a couple of his officials were there, the headmaster of the college and three of his teachers were there and the chess players and some of their pals were there. The sun was shining, the mayor made his little speech, he presented me with a bottle of Rheingau Riesling, and he wished me and all the players an enjoyable and successful afternoon.

  Which they wouldn't have, at least not the latter. There were twenty pupils, nineteen young guys and one girl and two teachers who also wanted to play. Now if these had been good club players, there was no way I would have been able to avoid losing a game or two. But they weren't, and so I was going to have a fairly easy time. And how it works is this: I have the white pieces on all of the boards, and I walk around making the first move. And when I arrive back at the first board again, that player then makes his move (they all have to wait until I get there each time before making their move) and I reply to it and move on again to the next board. This goes very fast initially, as I know the openings—the best possible moves—and I don't have to think about anything. And after about an hour, we are into the middle game and on a few of the boards I begin to need a few seconds, occasionally a minute, to make my move. But then the players who are in hopeless positions start resigning, and the final game is usually over after about three hours, maybe a little more. Except that on this occasion there was a small, wiry, red-haired young fellow who was playing very well, added to which I had missed the best move on a couple of occasions, and after nearly four hours I offered him a draw. Which it was, and which he accepted and which he had deservedly earned.

  After that, there were sausages, cakes and drinks. The red-haired student enjoyed some well-earned friendly mobbing by his fellow-students and I had a chat with the mayor and some of the other adults, including the wives. And two of the younger ones were really something, let me tell you. I had to activate the neuron quarantine law to keep my eyes off their breasts and legs and, yes, their asses (no, I have no intention of being the first male in the world to announce the truth—the whole truth and nothing but the truth—about why we inspect their asses). But the neuron quarantine law, as with a variety of laws, is a difficult one to abide by and of course they noticed my non-compliance.

  But there you go, there they are, locked into the consequences of the reproductive trade, thinking about cooking dinner for four tonight, dealing with four people's dirty washing tomorrow, cleaning the family nest on Monday, and all the rest of what they call life. Playing their role in the planet's cycle of birth and death, happy with their bourgeois lot—well, some of them are and some of them aren't—but both kinds lost forever to the single person's world of unfettered existence on life's ocean waves, a memory they have swapped for a roof over their heads, the use of a car, the need to comply with their biological requisites, and the desire not to be alone and without offspring when Dr. Death comes tapping on their door, as of course one day he will.

  I smoked a cigarette as I walked back home in the early evening sunshine, I collected Mr. Brown and the basics for my fridge from Monika, and went upstairs. Mr. Brown settled down to resume his pondering of intricate canine metaphysics and I settled down to my newspaper.

  More trouble in the Middle East, I noted, and (great news!) more peace talks planned. Most people alive have been inundated with news items on the Middle East conflicts and their thousands of accompanying peace conferences since the day they were born, and that is no exaggeration—O.K., not since they were born, an unworkable expression; but since they reached the stage of being able to absorb world news. Unfortunately most of the countries involved in this mess operate on belief-based systems, so there won't be any peace for centuries to come or, more realistically, ever. They all hate each other too much.

  Of mild interest was another article on government corruption. Nothing new about that either, corruption being as much a part of the human character as the killing skills are. But I was amused by one of the examples used to demonstrate how corruption can be practiced (and also tolerated—and therefore approved—and sometimes participated in—by the boss birdbrains).

  There are 30,000 civil servants working for the European Commission. Last year, 22,329 of these people were ill. At least once. That was an increase of 0.6% over the prior year. They were ill for a total of 433,808 working days, which means an average of nearly 3 weeks for each one, an increase of 2.5% over the prior year. This article pointed out that not all of the illness was fraudulent but that an awful lot of it was. No normal private organization could survive with those kinds of numbers. And normal organizations would almost certainly do something about it. But these chronically sick people are their own bosses, they do nothing to change things, the abuse increases each year, and then they are allowed to retire in their mid-fifties and take home a pension of between €4,300 and €10,000 per month (all decided and approved by themselves, needless to say). Not bad, eh?

  And what exactly do these people do or achieve anyway, when not ill or on vacation or whatever? What is the difference between them being ill and them being not ill? And if some of them occasionally die, how can you tell they’re dead? Don't ask me folks, just keep on voting.

  I switched to the Sudoko, more interesting. Then I gave Mr. Brown his evening meal and, replete with college sausages and beer, prepared myself for a long, long sleep.

  DAY 24

  Mr. Brown woke me up. It was time for his morning constitutional and I took him down to the river for an hour. When we returned I wrote 'For a very special friend' in Monika's birthday card and took it together with the gift voucher down to her apartment.

  She was still wearing one of the long T-shirts she used for sleeping, and she had no make-up on—on my account, probably, despite her explanation of a long Sunday and a birthday lie-in. She knew I generally disliked the taste of lipstick and the chemical smells of powders and other female painting products. Not of course, that we men don't regularly sacrifice ourselves in this regard in the name of luuuuv. Or sex.

  When she opened up the card and the present, she burst into tears. And then she hugged me and gave me a long kiss, for the first time ever on the lips.

  Erotic was not the word for it, her body caused my neurons to disintegrate into a morass of raving lust and when she felt my reaction, she pressed herself up against me even harder. But, cynic though I may be, I am not a bastard. My entire nervous system, except for that section responsible for moral control, erupted into volcanic rage as I separated myself from her embrace. I mean, this was a woman who would be reaching retirement age before I was fifty; that would never work, not with me, and not with man
y others either. And no way was I going to cause her the programmed heartbreak. I liked her too much for that.

  She became her cheerful self again before long and my neurons also took a grip on themselves. The electrical impulses resumed their normal traffic flow, and other parts of myself, aching a bit though they may have been, started on their dejected and unwilling return to standby mode. She made me some poached eggs, we talked about my upcoming trip to Spain, and I invited her to dinner that night in her favorite restaurant in Wiesbaden.

  Delsey, that indefatigable weekend worker, called me during the afternoon. The meeting was confirmed for Wednesday at 5 p.m., on the condition that tomorrow's forecast event did indeed occur. Mr. Parker and myself should please be at 10, Downing Street at around 4.45 p.m. The Downing Street venue was preferable for security reasons, already in place you understand, no need for additional measures, ha, ha. If the event did not occur, however, the meeting would not be taking place and I should present myself instead at nine o'clock on Tuesday morning at New Scotland Yard and ask for him. Without fail, please, to preempt any need for otherwise unavoidable steps and inconveniences, you understand.

  I understood alright, some kind of charge for infiltrating and willfully obstructing government functionality or whatever. I told him O.K., but that I might not be present, Mr. Parker would be deciding on the need for that. He asked what my movements were going to be in the coming week and I told him I didn't know.

  I called Jeremy and let him know about the meeting. No, it would not be necessary for me to be there, he said. He could handle the meeting himself, he would let me know how it went. I sent a text message to Delsey confirming that Mr. Parker would be there on Wednesday, and that I would not be there. He shouldn’t worry however; I would fly over tomorrow night to comply with his alternative meeting requirement in the case of a non-occurrence of the forecast event.

  I called the restaurant and reserved a window table for two and ordered a small birthday cake with just one candle, gave them my credit card details. I went out for a long, fast bike ride with Mr. Brown. We exhausted ourselves nicely, and then I gave him his dinner, smoked a cigarette on the balcony, had a shower, put on some fresh clothes, and went downstairs to collect Monika for dinner. She was wearing a simple black dress and a small necklace and she looked, yes it is the correct word for it, fantastic. She had done something to her hair and she looked very young.

  It took us about half an hour to get to the restaurant which is on the town end of Wiesbaden's main park, in one of those fine buildings housing the city's main theater and the casino. As we walked away from the car park, Monika took my hand. She had never done that before, but it felt O.K., it felt good. It wasn't of course, it was as wrong as sleeping together would be. And maybe she was thinking the same thing because she let go again before we went inside.

  The dining area was fairly large and fairly full. It was all dark paneling and the walls were hung with photographs and sketches from a fun-loving but bygone era. The lighting was low and relaxed, there were candles on the tables, and there was a piano player and a guitarist. We ordered some red wine. Monika liked Rioja and so I ordered a 2005 Murillo while we looked over the menu.

  "Oh, Peter," she said.

  "Happy birthday," I said.

  "Too many of them," she said with a smile.

  "Not the way you look."

  "I'm sorry about this morning," she said.

  "Don't worry, Monika," I said. "There's nothing to worry about. Just relax."

  "I know, but I shouldn't have…"

  "Perhaps not," I said with a smile. "But living dangerously is not without its benefits."

  She reached across the table and took hold of my hand again. "I've been having bad thoughts about you all afternoon," she said.

  "Bad thoughts?"

  "Yes. Very selfish thoughts. I have been hoping that you will never, ever, find the right woman. And then you will have to stay with me."

  "Now that's not what I call a bad thought, Monika," I said. "But even if I find what you call the right woman, you and I will always be very special friends. And the right woman would have to agree to that in advance."

  She started dabbing at her eyes again but she was very happy, you could tell, she was enjoying her birthday. And so was I, just watching this woman, her deep brown eyes, her soft brown hair, her slightly crooked nose and, yes, her nice round breasts, neatly tucked away and nestling in that little black dress of hers. And after dessert, the restaurant manager and two of his waiters brought the birthday cake and she blew out the candle and the waiters and the tables around us applauded and I asked for her favorite piece of music, San Salvador, and while it was being played she burst into tears again. And then we drank a lot more red wine, and a coffee, and a cognac, and I asked for some more old pieces of music, including ones that I like, such as Walkin' in Memphis and Streets of London, and we were one of the last ones to leave.

  We went into the casino where we ordered more cognac, and I gave her €100 and I told her to double it or lose it and of course she lost it all, and of course I lost my €100 as well. Monika was drunk and I was also fairly sozzled, but I still drive well—and slowly—when under the influence, not that the police would see it that way of course. Nor should they, don't get me wrong. But life is a risk, and it was a Sunday night and there were no police around and we drove happily back to Okriftel, luck favors the brave. Sometimes.

  I put Monika to bed, no undressing her, I won the battle again with my neurons on that one, and I gave Mr. Brown five minutes around the block and then I put myself to bed as well.

  DAY 25

  The pain caused by Céline was slowly becoming a dull ache. An ache which still produced pangs of grief whenever she surfaced in my thoughts, but time's scabs were gradually forming over the wound, the healing process was under way. So it was Jeremy Parker who dominated my thoughts while I was shaving, and he continued to dominate them while I drank my coffee and smoked my cigarette. How on earth could he cause an asteroid to make an unforeseen and unplanned crash-landing onto one of our planets?

  I finally concluded that there were two possibilities, and only two. Number one: O.K., so he had chosen our largest planet, Jupiter, a gas giant with over sixty moons and which has over three hundred times the mass of the Earth and is four times bigger than that in terms of volume. And as such it has a massive gravitational pull and regularly drags comets and asteroids towards the inner part of our solar system, some of which end up from time to time crashing into its surface. What is left of them anyway, the gravitational forces tear them to pieces while they're on their way in.

  So he was not talking about an unusual event. Maybe, deranged though he is, he has—in addition to his astonishing and prodigious mind-bending abilities—outstanding talents as an amateur physicist and astronomer. Look at the skepticism with which Galileo was treated by the other scientists of his time, some of whom actually categorized him as insane. Perhaps Jeremy simply has knowledge of the fact that another asteroid is finally due to lose its orbital battle and perish in that gaseous spider's deadly embrace. Far-stretched, no doubt about it. But it couldn't be his computer-hacking; he had said so himself, he can't move physical objects.

  The second possibility was that no asteroid at all would crash into Jupiter today. This could therefore be the day when Jeremy's fantasy world would finally manifest itself to be exactly what it was, a fantasy, the proof of the pudding so to speak, the end of the line, a lunatic having to confront himself with the evidence of his own lunacy, and with whatever consequences that might turn out to have.

  And of course there would be the consequences for myself. I wouldn't think they could put me into jail, they had no real justification for that. And even if they did invent some nebulous reason for doing so, it wouldn't be for long. It would simply be another of life's experiences, like being washed gently onto some smooth rocks by a small ocean wave. So it would mean some embarrassment and it would mean some hassle, but who know
s, maybe Jeremy would still transfer the remaining money from our interview agreement. He might be hopelessly deranged, but he had proven himself to be a person of high integrity so far. And even if he didn't, the €300,000 I had already received compensated more than satisfactorily for the time and trouble of my involvement in this weird affair.

  Mr. Brown had—quite justifiably—begun to intensify his harassing strategy, and so off we went, down to the river, back to the petrol station for the newspaper, and back to base. Only 30 conflict deaths today, a nice round number. Are we pleased? Are we disappointed? Are 30 deaths enough to trigger our abhorrence and disgust? Or are 30 deaths too few, a miserable number, disdainful, not worth a moment’s thought? Or doesn’t it matter, do we not really care what the number is, or how many were women and children? Has it all been going on for too long, have we become totally blasé? To each his own. My own personal reaction, as you would naturally expect of a cynic, was a cynical one and it hasn't changed from day to day and it hasn't changed from year to year. Our small lump of rock continues to orbit its star, the human species continues to pursue its various activities—revolting, pathetic or otherwise, define them as you see fit—on its small lump of rock, and there is nothing I can do about it and there is nothing you can do about it (if you think you can, then your attempts and those of your predecessors have been extraordinarily ineffectual), and there is nothing anyone else can do about it either. So I personally am only mildly interested at best. And even then, only from a mathematical and statistical point of view.

  It was exactly 2 p.m. when I switched on the news channel. This was the time Jeremy had said we would be able to observe the asteroid collision. But I dozed off after about twenty minutes. I woke up again just after three o'clock but there was no asteroid news that I could see, the main item being another huge debate about the refinancing of yet more Greek and Spanish and Italian bonds. It was while I was watching the sports news that the sub-heading BREAKING NEWS started to flash across the bottom of the screen, followed by MASSIVE ASTEROID HITS JUPITER in non-stop repetition.