Rubik

by Elizabeth Tan

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘Far from home.’

  Tim Spiegel stares at Jules. He has a furry brow, which makes him look perpetually worried. He glances at April, but Jules doesn’t introduce you, and Tim doesn’t ask. Ulysses yawns, baring tiny white teeth. ‘Did Seed send you here?’ Tim asks.

  ‘No,’ Jules says.

  ‘How can I know for sure?’

  ‘Know what for sure?’

  ‘How do I know if I can trust you?’

  ‘How do I know if I can trust you?’ Jules says. ‘You’ve worked for Seed too.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘How?’

  Tim Spiegel’s frown deepens. He returns his gaze to the string quartet. The cellist draws the bow across her strings. You’re feeling pretty left out again. Tim Spiegel pinches his closed eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Jules. I shouldn’t say those things to you.’

  Jules studies him. Her Aviators are emoting again. Finally, she says, ‘It’s okay. Really. I understand.’

  ‘Thank you for finding Ulysses.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ Jules says, even though—as you recall the memory, bleeding in another time, of gunshots, of Peter’s collapsing body—it really wasn’t nothing.

  The musicians fall silent. The second violinist steps forward. The pause is too long to signal the initiation of a new section, but not long enough to signal the beginning of a new work entirely. The violinist rests her chin on her instrument and commences a solo. It starts with a motif that she plucks instead of bows. You’ve heard it somewhere before. A TV advertisement, perhaps.

  ‘April.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘May I please borrow your dictaphone?’

  ‘Sure.’ You surrender the dictaphone.

  Jules removes a white piece of paper from her jacket pocket, folded into quarters. She hands both the dictaphone and the piece of paper to Tim Spiegel. ‘Read this out, please.’

  Tim unfolds the piece of paper. He scans what is written there, his lips moving slightly. Ulysses watches the proceedings. Tim activates the dictaphone. He draws a silent breath: ‘In the current crisis, our situation will utterly transform.’

  He’s speaking softly enough so that he will not be heard over the music, but you can hear him clearly. Like the violinist’s solo, you’re sure you’ve heard Tim’s voice before, but in a different context.

  ‘Reality is a stand-alone document; there can be no true maps.’

  It was somewhere outdoors. You remember the sky being solid blue, completely lacking in gradient, like the T-shirt you’re wearing now.

  ‘When you weigh up the benefits, the document is relatively worthless.’

  Why would you hear a voice like this, outdoors?

  ‘Rethink your monuments, your map-making instruments.’

  You don’t know why you feel sick right now.

  ‘The sky is a tender vacuum; the compass turns the traveller.’

  Squash the beginnings of the memory.

  ‘Accept the unresolvable loss.’

  Ulysses flicks an ear.

  ‘There is no better way.’

  Jules half-turns in her seat.

  ‘We regret that you no longer exist.’

  Tim gently folds the page back into quarters.

  ‘Kindly surrender.’

  The violinist lets the last note of her solo disappear into nothing.

  ‘They’re here,’ Jules says.

  Jules drags you to the floor. Your head bashes the seat on the way down but it’s cushiony so it doesn’t hurt. You look around for Ulysses but he has already deftly flattened himself underneath the row of seats. Tim crouches on the floor too.

  You hear the inhale of heavy wooden doors opening, admitting a wedge of light into the auditorium, a different shaft of foyer air, and then footfalls on the carpet. The door wafts back on its hinges. ‘Move,’ Jules whispers, and Tim crawls into the thoroughfare and makes a break for the emergency exit next to the stage. The quartet briskly launches into a new movement. Getaway music. Jules prods you. You squint into the darkness at the back of the auditorium but you can’t see anybody. Ulysses has already made his escape. You stay low and run.

  You bust through the emergency exit, Jules a second behind you. You’re in a concrete parking lot, lit green like the Matrix. ‘Come on.’ Jules brushes past you, and Ulysses and Tim follow her down the stairs. You take a step in the right direction. Pause. The Canon weighs on your chest.

  You slip back into the auditorium, throw a flash of light into the darkness, and duck back out to the car park, tumbling down the stairs until you’ve caught up with Jules outside in the courtyard. Ulysses and Tim have already disappeared. Jules drags you across the street and packages you into her car. Snaps the boomgate in half on the way out.

  ‘Hold on to this,’ Jules says, dropping the dictaphone in your lap.

  APRIL KUAN HAS RECEIVED TIM SPIEGEL’S KOOKY VOICE RECORDING.

  ‘Where’s Ulysses and Tim?’

  ‘Gone.’

  Out over the Swan River, a coral-red hot-air balloon bobs in the sky. The sun is white. But then the weight of the Canon reminds you. You thumb the power button. Waiting for the screen to light up is kind of like waiting for a Polaroid picture to develop. The screen brightens, and offers up your last wild shot into the auditorium.

  It’s ghostly, barely substantial. But you can see them. A procession of who are they, ever, making their way, through the dark hills of the seats, toward you.

  They are not typical people. They are dressed in brown suits; some of them wear hats. They are, each of them, tall and armed. Cufflinks and buttons bright with menace. Faces pale, almost to the point of luminescence. Smooth white moonfaces. Not one of them has eyes.

  Who are they, ever.

  Your Nexus buzzes. Another screen, another message:

  ARCH.

  Hey April, how did the Brad Ruffalo interview go? Let me know if you want to discuss, otherwise see you at the next meeting. Arch.

  Arch.

  A thought rolls into your head like a marble.

  IF YOU SEE SOMETHING SAY SOMETHING.

  ‘Jules.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wasn’t meant to be at HarvestTime.’

  Jules stops at a red light. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Arch was meant to be there. So wouldn’t that mean... those people shooting...’

  Jules casually flips her indicator. She looks at you.

  ‘Wouldn’t that mean they’d have been there for Arch?’

  ‘I suppose that’s possible.’

  ‘But you said they were there for me.’

  Jules says nothing. She guides the car around the corner.

  ‘Jules,’ you say. ‘Are you just telling me whatever will get me to follow you?’

  Jules makes another left turn. You could be driving in circles for all you know. You grip the Canon. You wonder if it’s heavy enough to knock someone out. Whether you can get enough of a handhold.

  ‘Jules. Jules. Why won’t you answer my questions?’

  ‘Rule number three.’

  ‘#@$^ rule number three! Answer my #%$^&%@ questions!’

  Well, that escalated quickly. Jules changes gear. ‘You want to know what I know?’

  ‘Yeah,’ you say, even though you don’t actually know for sure. Jules’s tone has changed. Tinted with something. Not quite wisdom. Not quite glee.

  ‘Your name’s not April,’ Jules says. ‘It’s Audrey. You were named for your mother’s favorite character Audrey Kwai from a book called Seeds of Time by H.R. Kwai, a character who herself was named after H.R. Kwai’s deceased daughter. You re-christened yourself April six years ago when your family relocated from Carlisle to Bull Creek, after the incident.’

  Sweat on your palms. The Canon slides a little from your grasp, and the movement is enough for the screen to revive the picture of the eyeless suits in the auditorium. You feel like reality is sliding around you, like clothes that no longer f
it, like a slackened elastic waist. What? Like reality’s pants are falling down? You let out a giggle that actually sounds like a sob. A giggle-sob. Jules keeps on driving and driving. She could be driving you both into the Swan River for all you know. She could be driving to the moon. ‘Oh, yeah?’ You’re trying to be mad, but honestly, you’re just scared. ‘Oh yeah? So... so what was the incident six years ago, Jules? If you know so #$%@&$* much?’

  ‘You were waiting at the train station,’ Jules says, as if she is telling a fairytale. ‘You were thirteen and dressed for school. You were a loner, but you were okay with it. You were doing your usual thing. You know. Talking to yourself. There were a few people around, but really, it was kind of like being by yourself, on this particular side of the platform. It was a beautiful day. A lovely voice was saying, The Next Train To Perth Will Arrive In Two Minutes.

  ‘Then some boys joined you on the platform. They were about your age, maybe younger. They were also dressed for school. They were sloppy and happy. They were eating chips. Their shirts were falling out of their trousers. You moved a little further down the platform, whispering to yourself. It was a beautiful day. You had a pie packed for lunch. You had a juicebox. Your homework was finished. Your head was full of ideas and sunshine.

  ‘“Hey,” one of the boys said.

  ‘“Hey,” you said.

  ‘“What’s that all about?” he said.

  ‘“Huh?” you said.

  ‘He pointed at the badge pinned to your school uniform. REPORTER, the badge said. “Oh,” you said. You’d forgotten you were wearing it. “I’m a reporter.”

  ‘“A reporter for what?”

  ‘“What?”

  ‘“What?”

  ‘“Um,” you said. “At the moment I’m writing a newsletter.”

  ‘“What’s it called?” another boy said. They were all looking at you now.

  ‘“Um. The Society of Consumers Against Fraud.”

  ‘“That’s not real.”

  ‘“Of course it’s not real,” you said. “It’s just pretend. It’s just for fun.”

  ‘“That’s stupid,’ a boy said.

  ‘“Um,” you said. “I think I’d like to wait for my train now.” You shuffled a few steps over.

  ‘“Um,” the boy said. “I think I’d like to wait for my train now.”

  ‘“What kind of stuff’s in your newsletter?” another boy asked.

  ‘“Um,” you said. “It’s a parody.”

  ‘“A what?”

  ‘“Um. It’s all made up.”

  ‘“That’s not what a parody is.”

  ‘“OMG I DON’T HAVE TIME TO EXPLAIN EVERYTHING TO YOU OKAY,” you said. You shuffled a few steps over. Your face was red. The whole interaction was getting freaking weird. You felt like they were coming closer and closer.

  ‘On the other side of the platform, a commuter looked at you, and looked away.

  ‘“Why do you have a pencil behind your ear?” one of the boys asked.

  ‘You put your hand up to your ear and felt a sharpened HB pencil tucked there. You’d forgotten you were wearing that today, too. “It’s just part of my outfit,” you said.

  ‘“It’s just part of my outfit,” a boy said.

  ‘“Oh, I know who you are,” another boy said. He stepped closer to you. “You’re that girl that runs everywhere.”

  ‘“YOU KNOW,” you said. “I’VE NEVER SEEN YOU GUYS AROUND HERE BEFORE WHY ARE YOU HERE I MEAN I WAIT HERE EVERY SINGLE MORNING AND I’VE NEVER SEEN YOU GUYS BEFORE STOP HARASSING ME PLEASE.”

  ‘“Stop harassing me please,” a boy said.

  ‘“Stop harassing me please,” another boy said.

  ‘Nobody came to help you. You might as well have been alone. The train was coming. You could hear the klaxons. The boomgate descending. The train’s whistle. You were ready to explode.

  ‘And then, something did. There was another whistle. A grinding noise, a long screech, every onomatopoeia in existence going off at once. The train skidded into the station. Literally. It jumped about three meters off the tracks. Cables snapped and sparked. One of the boys actually screamed. He got crushed. They all got crushed. All the boys got crushed by this train that flipped off the tracks.’

  You are silent. Everything vibrates. The rush of traffic outside Jules’s car sounds like a jet engine. Jules nudges her Aviators further up the bridge of her nose. ‘And you were the only survivor,’ she concludes.

  You’re all red. The jet engine noise builds and builds. ‘And then what happened?’ you ask in a small voice.

  Jules sighs. ‘Well, that’s the tricky part, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well. You felt guilty about what happened. You didn’t feel guilty about what happened. You felt guilty for not feeling more guilty. You barely gave the event a second thought. You went to a counsellor. You didn’t go to a counsellor. You told the police everything that happened. You didn’t tell the police everything that happened. You requested the CCTV footage. You didn’t request the CCTV footage. You couldn’t bring yourself to work on your fake newsletter again. You continued to write your fake newsletter as if nothing happened. You went to school. You didn’t go to school. You became depressed. You didn’t become depressed. You couldn’t take that train line again. You continued to take that train line every day. You left a suicide note that said only the word RESPAWN. You didn’t leave a suicide note. They found your body. They didn’t find your body. You went on to become a successful reporter. You didn’t want to become a reporter after that. You changed your name. You didn’t change your name. Who can say, April, Audrey, what really happened?’

  Jules stops at a red light. You have no idea where she’s taking you. You’re stuck in a car with this person that you just met who possibly saved your life from you-don’t-know-who at HarvestTime and you don’t know what she’s going to do next and she seems to know everything in existence but she’s not explaining things to you, not the things you actually want explained anyway, and is any of what she’s saying even true? The Canon has gone cold in your hands. The photograph of the eyeless suits has, for now, gone away. Jules looks at you, and her Aviators are completely opaque. Reflective voids.

  You reach out and take her Aviators. It’s just one quick movement—there—and you’re holding the Aviators in your hand.

  Jules Valentine doesn’t have eyes. She has two shallow cavities smoothed over with skin. And she looks at you.

  And that’s it—you’re screaming. The traffic light stays red. Jules looks at you. The scene is jammed here just like one of those nightmares. You scream as if it’s going to wake you up. The light is stuck on red. You claw at the car door but you can’t open it. Jules looks at you. You scream and scream. The Canon and dictaphone fall off your lap. Jules looks at you. Jules looks at you.

  Escape.

  K X 01

  ‘In the current crisis, our situation will utterly transform.’

  And the breath you release is one you feel you’ve gripped there, in your lungs, for years. As the air exits, you fold your hands around each armrest, like an aeroplane passenger bracing herself for landing. You are landing.

  Ground yourself. There’s Tim Spiegel, murmuring into the dictaphone. There’s Jules Valentine, who is just now becoming alert to the auditorium. The eyeless suits will arrive any second now. The violinist plays her solo. You let your hands slide off the armrests, accidentally touching Ulysses’s tail, which darts softly away. You don’t know what precisely to do differently. You have only a few more seconds to decide. You turn on the Canon, shielding the screen with your hand. The shot of the eyeless suits is still there, gleaming bright as one of Ursula’s marbles.

  ‘Accept the unresolvable loss. There is no better way. We regret that you no longer exist. Kindly surrender.’

  ‘They’re here,’ Jules says. Dragging you to the floor again. The inhale of the swinging doors, the muted footsteps of the eyeless suits.

  How does Jul
es know what she knows?

  You follow the path left by Tim and Ulysses.

  Don’t bother to go back to snap the picture.

  Run down the Matrix staircase.

  Burst into the sunlight.

  Don’t even blink when Tim and Ulysses hop into a coral- red hot-air balloon and sail off.

  Bundle yourself into Jules’s car.

  Get your dictaphone back.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Jules asks as she snaps through the boomgate.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Your strategy this time around seems to be Keeping Quiet. It is very effective. You turn off the Canon. You peek at your dormant Nexus. The message from Arch is already there, marked read.

  IF YOU SEE SOMETHING CURL UP INTO A BALL OF DENIAL UNTIL YOU ACCEPT THAT THIS NEW REALITY IS IN FACT REALITY.

  You risk a question. ‘Where are we going now, Jules?’

  ‘We’re going to the Rube Goldberg machine.’

  ‘At Peric Chambers?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jules says. ‘We have everything necessary to begin.’

  April Kuan. Nineteen years old. Time mobilising around you, taking up arms, all the potentialities multiplying into infinity. Somewhere a train flips in the air, and keeps on somersaulting, like a fish thrashing out of water; sparks cut the sky to the bone. Survival is only a matter of inches and milliseconds. Of approximate coordinates. Trial and error.

  April Kuan. Nineteen years old.

  Peric Chambers has closed for the day. Jules picks the lock while you stand guard, reverberating not-so-privately with your own special collection of traumas. April Kuan, equipped with Nexus, Canon, and dictaphone, bright megabytes of data, an excess of surfaces for memory to grow on. Jules rustles the lock; the door yields. You climb the gallery stairs.

  The gallery is empty except for the artworks pinned to the walls. Like two-dimensional claw machines, in a way. You don’t have the heart to take field notes anymore, but you feel that that should be one. Field note the sixth: there are things that look like other things. That’s the premise of a metaphor. There are things that are entirely different from other things, but they can be alike in one specific and vivid way, and that’s how everyone makes sense of the world, comparing unlike things.