The Cairo Pulse

by B. B. Kindred

  I rested for a moment before heaving the plank over the brow. Sitting down next to it, I wiped my face with my forearm and looked at the calves revealed by cut-off jeans, noting that my leg muscles had doubled in size. I’d previously considered a range of options for easing my path when transporting the wood. The sand behaved the same way as soft, powdery snow, which led to visions of sledges and sand shoes, but in the end I decided to remain dedicated to the purity of bare hands and feet. Hence the raging calves. I gazed upon my glorious works. The rectangular deck was braced and framed by substantial baulks of timber held together with my dad’s exquisite tenon and mortice joints, all worked by hand, owing to the lack of power tools and steel fixings. The whole structure was supported on log piles dug into the sand, dovetailed into the ring beam. It was a thing of beauty.

  Deep in the throes of an architect’s life, I used to wonder how my dad did what he did, how he coped with the endless drudgery of it all. But as I watched his patient craft, I saw a man at one with himself. He didn’t act upon the wood as such, but danced with a lifelong partner whose every nuance was as familiar as his own reflection. His work was a meditation; he was at peace. At the end of the day, he’d lift his head with a smile and say, “That’ll do, Monkey.” I emulated his example, and only when I woke, or returned to the tent at night was I once again plagued by the seeping darkness of my thoughts.

  Gizmo’s head appeared, whistling as she looked at the platform.

  “How did you get it all so perfect? It looks like...”

  I winked. “Like an architect designed it?”

  “What are you building?”

  In the absence of an answer, she wandered over to my driftwood sculpture resting a little way from the structure.

  “Oh, that’s lovely. It’s an angel, isn’t it?”

  “Sort of, that’s my goddess, I think the statues must have inspired me. So, what are you studying?”

  “Oh, the length of days. Not exactly taxing, but at least it gives us a clock of sorts.”

  “Well, that’s what we need, isn’t it? A clock.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, now. Do you believe in God, Gabriel? I’m only asking because…”

  She tilted her head in the angel’s direction.

  I’d forgotten all about God. Goddess had just been a word that popped out. The notion of God was a punch in the chest. “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure, I’d have to mull it over. Do you?”

  “I don’t know. I seem to remember Cairo thinks we’re God’s experiment or processors.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Hang on a minute. Right, remember computers? I’m really starting to miss computers, Gabriel. It’s like I’ve lost my arms and half of my brain. I’m just stating that for the record – so don’t get pissed off, right? Anyway, computers, right. Why do we have them?”

  “To make calculations, process certain kinds of information.”

  “So why don’t we do that ourselves?”

  “Because they can do it a lot faster than we can.”

  “But are they more advanced than a human being?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Do they have any sense of who’s programming and operating them?”

  “No. Well, we can only assume.”

  “Well, that’s kind of what Cairo said to me, I think.”

  “You need to go now.” I said.

  “We’re meeting up later, to compare results. Will you be coming?”

  I was in a kitchen with Gizmo once, my heart hurt and I wanted to tell her everything would be okay, but I didn’t. I wrapped her in my arms.

  “I take it that’s a yes.” She said.

  “Everything will be okay.”

  “I sort of trust you. It’s painful.” She cried in my arms for a minute or two before pushing me away and heading back to the camp.

  Cairo was flirting with the waves at the shoreline. I knew what she was up to, all that studying and measuring was just a cover for the true purpose of the notebooks.

  *

  “Perfect consistency – the same amount of daylight, sun, moon, cloud, tide and flora.” Said Cairo. She’d rediscovered make-up and hair products, reporting a lipstick had been spoiled by the culprit’s attempts to eat it. She wore her clothes with more style now, sometimes wearing dresses, but generally fond of shirts tied in at the waist with Capri pants. As stunning as she looked, I longed to see her wild again. We’d all developed attachments to different forms of dress; I always wore sun-bleached, raggedy cut-offs until the evening air turned cool, when I’d grab a t-shirt. Vik had opted for long, white or cream-coloured baggy shirts and crop trousers, while Gizmo generally wore tight jeans with equally close fitting T’s or tops. Bentley wandered around in half-mast baggy trousers and check shirts. We men had disposed of our beards as soon as the function of razors had been recollected, except for Bentley, who’d chosen to keep the wispy fronds that waggled apathetically as he spoke.

  “Perfect consistency isn’t really possible, is it?”

  Gizmo tapped her coffee cup. Gizmo was a dedicated tapper. “Well, clearly it is possible, because that’s what’s happening, isn’t it?”

  “Theories?” Said Cairo.

  No one volunteered to speak the unanimous thought. We were dead and there was an afterlife where we were being held in a halcyon waiting room until we were called to the final destination. I wondered if that was why Gizmo had started prattling on about God.

  “I have one.” Said Cairo. “If you think about it, everything’s nicely taken care of. Food, shelter, clothes, good weather, etcetera…”

  “Gizmo finished the sentence. “Like we’re being taken care of, like we’re being kept safe and secure.”

  “Exactly.”

  Vik, who could no longer resist the lingering crumbs, swiped the counter with a cloth, causing everyone to lift their cups in turn. “Yes, Mrs Cairo, but what does it all mean?”

  “Absolutely no idea, Vik.”

  Gizmo slapped Cairo on the back. “Well, if it turns out we have to restart the human race, you’re going to be awfully busy. No offence, guys, but you just don’t do it for me.”

  “Personal preference wouldn’t come into it.” Said Bentley. “It’s a question of having the right equipment.”

  “Hey.” Said Gizmo. “We change, don’t we? –how we look changes through time, so if we think about when we last remember seeing each other before we got here, we might get an idea how long it’s been.”

  “Maybe we don’t want to remember.” Said Cairo. “Humans have the capacity to bury things if they’re too traumatic.”

  “Well, thanks for that cheery thought. Anyway, it might give us a clue.” She scrutinised Cairo. “You look the same as I remember, so does Vik and Bentley, apart from that stupid beard. I don’t remember Joe or Gabriel, but they seem familiar. That means it can’t have been that long, surely.”

  My dad stared at me. “You were younger, Gabriel, you were definitely younger. What does that mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything, Dad.”

  “Wow.” Said Gizmo. “This girl is on a roll. We haven’t tried to find out what’s at the end of this beach, or beyond the dunes. Shouldn’t it have been the first bloody thing we thought of? Has anybody walked up the beach further than the campsite, or looked what’s at the back of the dunes?”

  “I’m sick of telling you.” Cairo said. “We can’t possibly know what hasn’t occurred to us.”

  The light dawned in Bentley’s eyes. He bounced into action, shaking his fists. “Let’s get to it, then.”

  Chairs scraped across the floor while Cairo shrieked like a schoolteacher trying to keep the class after the bell had rung. “Wait a minute; I wanted to discuss the notebooks – the dreams and stuff. Oh, never mind, I’ll go through them, we can talk about it another time. Ga
briel – I don’t seem to have yours.”

  “Sorry, forgot. I’ll start doing it today.”

  “Yeah, right.” She said, under her breath.

  I let it pass.

  They decided to walk the beach beyond the campsite, no more than a couple of hours before they’d turn back. My dad and I chose to stay behind. There were a lot of jokes about things like us being part of an experiment, or how bloody stupid we were going to feel if they found a luxury hotel a few minutes away.

  *

  “Right then, I think you’ve some explaining to do.”

  He had that ‘now, monkey’ tone in his voice.

  Lounging on the plank I’d just finished setting into place, it occurred to me that it wouldn’t be long before the foundations were finished. “You had dementia, Dad.” My dad’s pauses were always lengthy, often to the point where you wondered if he hadn’t heard you.

  “How long?”

  “About five years, give or take. Three in a nursing home, after things got... difficult, assuming there isn’t too much time I’ve forgotten.”

  “I wondered why I kept remembering a hotel, foggy like.”

  “I’m pleased you thought it was a hotel.”

  “So why haven’t I got it now?”

  “I don’t know, Dad, but I’m glad you haven’t.”

  “And what happens if we go back? Wherever back is.”

  “I don’t know, Dad.”

  “Don’t know much, do you, son?”

  He squeezed my hand. I couldn’t remember him ever doing that before.

  “How’s Cathy?”

  “I think we got divorced. We weren’t suited, you tried to warn me in your own way, I know.”

  “No grandchildren, then?”

  The taste of bitter ice, if we didn’t know how long we’d been here, there might be forgotten, fretting children, another wife crying herself to sleep every night. The others might be haunted by similar thoughts. “No Dad, sorry.”

  “Still time, Monkey, still time. You could do a lot worse than that Cairo, lad. Made for each other, you were.”

  I doubted I’d hunger for Cairo if I loved someone else.

  He got to his feet, dropping the tool belt from his waist. “I keep getting a hankering – meat, I think it comes out of a tin.”

  “Do you mean Spam, Dad? I think we used to make fried Spam butties.”

  “Aye, that’s it, Spam. I need a kip. I’ll see you later.”

  I slipped into the tent when he’d gone and tried to stem the tide of emotion that threatened to have its way with me.

  Subsiding sun had baked the sand when I woke. I was desperate to pee, but equally desperate to nestle in the throes of relaxation. In the end, I grudged to my feet, slipping outside to the pungent scent of bucket and spade holidays. Once in full flow, I was assaulted by warning prickles on the back of my neck, certain an unfamiliar presence was behind me. My face met the back of its head as I whipped around. It took a moment to register it was one of the statues from the beach, its weathered metal advertising hues of copper, brown and gold, left hand pointing out towards the beach. It was so alien and yet utterly human, as if at any moment, it would start talking about the weather.

  “So, how’s it going?” The statue wasn’t inclined to small talk. “Cat got your tongue, eh?”

  Not that there were any cats, or animals of any kind. I looked out in the direction of the pointing hand. The other sculptures had clustered, arms in various positions like they were practising semaphore. It was a couple of minutes before I noticed they formed words.

  ‘Hear my song.’

  I heard before I saw and found the others rooted to the spot as I appeared over the crest of the dune. Even though they were all talking over each other, I got the gist, they’d thought the statues were people and it had given them a fright. “Guys, what happened?” I said. “Why have you come back from this side of the beach? Did you double back over the dunes?”

  The suspicion in Cairo’s eyes bored through me. “No, we didn’t.”

  “What do you mean? You must have. This is not an island.”

  “No, it’s not.” Said Cairo. “We can’t have walked more than six or seven miles so if it were an island the beach would have to curve. I’m not going to bother asking how you know that.”

  Despite the heat, Bentley’s lips were pale. “What the hell happened? Have you done this, Gabriel?”

  “Behave, Bentley, how the hell could I have done that?”

  As the sullen procession meandered back to the site, Bentley’s accusation had me sniggering until it burrowed into the cavern of self-doubt. Knocked off balance, I considered testing the water. A roulette wheel of reluctance, absurdity, embarrassment and curiosity eventually settled on project Spam, mainly because it was only a matter of time before the challenge came. The stage where instincts proved more powerful than thoughts and a game of cricket was more compelling than a game of speculation had passed. The results of Cairo’s experiments would lead to memories about things like food not magically replacing itself, followed by a rock fall of restlessness heading in my direction. How did one conjure up something from nothing? It wasn’t like I’d been provided with a manual. Eyes closed, I amassed recollection of eating Spam butties with my dad infused with the pleasure it would bring to him. My dad and Vik understood that I wasn’t ready even though none of us knew what I wasn’t ready for. Bentley and Gizmo could spat, but were unlikely to mount an offensive, so when it came to confrontation, I was confident that Cairo would be the first one to draw her sword.

  My dad appeared at the site entrance, waving and shouting.

  “Gabriel, Gabriel, we’ve got Spam.”

  Indeed, I thought with a capsizing heart. I waved back and gave him the thumbs up.

  Gabriel’s Notebook

  This must be what she meant by a dream.

  I’m trying to contact my service provider to find out when my contract ends. When I’m giving them money, I don’t have any trouble getting through to them, but when I want money from them, it seems quite impossible. No matter where I look, the information isn’t available. The screen says ‘contact us’, so I click on it, but every time I try to connect, they say they’re busy and I should try again. I try to phone them, but I have to choose a number, then another number and another number, then I’m through to the wrong department. When they transfer me, the line goes dead. I experience a sort of impotence that fills me with rage and frustration. Dreams are weird, weirder than where we are.

  Writing is like having a conversation with yourself, I might do more of it.

  I’m watching Cairo Shore. She’s in her bedroom. She keeps going to the wardrobe and putting on different outfits. Every time she pulls the clothes over her head, her hair gets wilder. She settles on a long, green velvet dress. She looks great. Before knowing Cairo Shore, my life was a hot, still day. I thought I should be enjoying it and maybe I did at first, but in the end, it stifled and sweltered me. Then the breeze came.

  I won’t be showing that to Cairo Shore.

  This time I know what having an online presence is – it’s like people are companies who market themselves without mentioning the vicious redundancies and the state of the staff canteen. There’s a photo of me with a man called Arlo. I feel like he’s my brother, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have a brother. We have an architecture practice together. I’m worried about Arlo, about what’s happening to our business.

  I don’t even understand half of what I’ve written. How can that happen?

  It seems like there were two worlds. One of them was more like where we are now. I think it was called pre-digital. Maybe this thing has happened before, I was in a pre-digital reality and then in a post-digital reality and now I’m back in a pre-digital reality. I don’t think I like technology, whatever it is, although it must have been importan
t. The dreams are like balloons that pop if I squeeze them too hard; pining for a drawing board, phones that can reach you anytime, a kind of mad rugby scrum when catching a train and yet I miss an essential comprehension. The impression is that everything was moving faster and faster and nobody had time to really think about what it all meant because they were too busy trying to survive the tidal wave. There’s a feeling like people were getting angry, but they didn’t quite know why.

  Writing is losing its appeal.

  I’m in the sea, wading to the shore. There are millions of people on the beach and a figure in the foreground whose face I can’t see.

  “Who are all these people?” I say to him.

  “Why everyone, Gabriel.” He replies.

  I’m not going to write in this notebook anymore.

  Eighteen

  It transpired there’d been discussion about the absence of televisions and radios, which led to speculation about the TV that appeared soon after we’d arrived in Another Place, as it had come to be called. Odd that there’d just been the one and that it was a modern flat screen version, the only item ever seen in camp that belonged to the digital age. Nothing I hadn’t thought about myself, but it apparently provoked curiosity followed by a sweep of campsite dwellings. Gizmo found one at the back of the site in an old caravan nestling amongst the trees like a burly egg. In her excitement, she forgot what happened the first time and switched it on.