This development, it had just been revealed, was the personal flourish of President Gustave de Bourcey. Credit for the revelation that de Bourcey had concocted the scheme went to the celebrated mediaman Wolfgang Frankel; de Bourcey himself had disclosed the truth to him in an unguarded and boastful moment over brandy during the wedding celebrations.
Supervisors had been appointed to check that families — or at least one member of each family — read the quarterly book and, if possible, enjoyed it. They were downloaded from the ambient, and the first was a harmless old tale by Saint-Exupery. It was fairly well received. Second choice, however, was Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species, and third Nietzsche’s Also Sprach Zarathustra. Both these books aroused outrage among the religious, whose faith flourished in direct proportion to the number of goats in their herds.
Nor were troubles smoothed over by an innocuous fourth choice, the Swedish novel (for it was Sweden’s turn to speak up for culture) Gösta Berlings Saga, by the Nobel Prize-winner Selma Lagerlöf. The anger of the religious protesters was merely fuelled by a book from such a remote northern region.
David Bargane was among the most furious of the protesters. He set up a local group dedicated to burning all SAC books. He spoke at rallies. His message was always the same: that de Bourcey was trying to turn their superstate into a heathen state, as Adolf Hitler had done with Nazi Germany. He denounced de Bourceys name with hatred and venom.
De Bourceys permitting the substitution of an android in place of a woman at his son’s wedding ceremony was all the proof David Bargane needed that he was in the right, and de Bourcey was wrong — and was promoting licentiousness.
‘All right-thinking men and women can now see clearly, if they did not do so before, that the aim is to turn us all to the paths of godlessness and wickedness, and to pervert all our long-held beliefs. No longer can we doubt that Satan himself sits at the head of our superstate. Who will rid us of this Antichrist?’
Hardly surprisingly, two policemen led him away from this rally. David was proud to go. After a night in the cells, he was let off with a caution and told not to speak again in public. So far, he had obeyed.
But his silence had deepened, his looks of hatred had intensified, his gaze had become darker and more downcast.
He met his followers in the fields at dusk and preached a gospel of hatred. Even those who felt as he did became alarmed by his venom.
On the evening Wayne returned to Slobozia, he glanced out of the window and saw David ranting to a small crowd of villagers. He went and stood outside the door to listen. For the first time, he entertained the thought that perhaps his uncle had become insane.
The meeting broke up. David came back, fists clenched, muttering to himself.
‘Uncle David, I worry for you.’ Wayne laid a hand on his uncle’s arm.
‘Worry for yourself, for your own soul, for you are contaminated by those you traffic with!’ David gave his nephew a burning look like a blow.
‘Uncle, please calm down. The SAC books are well intentioned. So, as far as I know, is the President. You may not like the selection of books, but they do no harm. You will get yourself into trouble by speaking as you do.’
‘They do great harm. They kill the soul of our people. Leave me, Wayne. You have been perverted by Satan’s values. Look at that effigy yonder!’ He pointed to Alfie, stock-still amid the vines. ’Isn’t that a graven image there, intended to mock God? Oh, the world has grown impure! Poor little Maddie, your sister’s daughter, thinking and talking of copulation already, at her age. Already her mind has been poisoned. A fish stinks from the head. De Bourcey should meet his death, and then we might all purify ourselves again.’
Wayne could not think what to say. He saw the mad gleam in his uncle’s eye, and was frightened. The older man passed into the house.
Later into the grey of night, David went out to the back of the house where their cow was tethered. Claudine, having settled Maddie to sleep, went to take the cow water and saw David with a bottle of strong liquor tilted at his lips.
She called to him in alarm.
‘Go away, woman!’ he said in a low, choking voice. ‘You have sinned and brought forth evil.’
‘You cheeky bugger!’ she exclaimed.
Worried, she told Wayne what she had seen and heard. ‘It puts the whole family in bad odour. We are not native to these parts. I’m afraid of what may happen to us.’
‘Perhaps we should send Uncle David back to France. He’s ill. He never used to be like this.’
‘Oh, he was. I was always afraid of him. I wouldn’t trust him with Maddie.’
Wayne stroked his sister’s cheek, uttering soothing noises. He promised to speak to Delphine about her brother in the morning.
But when morning came, the family was woken by Claudine’s anguished screams. Startled, they came from their beds to find her running wildly about, the bloody body of Maddie in her arms.
‘David did this! I know it! I know it! Who else would be so cruel? Oh, my darling Maddie, dead, dead! Murdered! Dear child! Murdered! He did it, the bastard!’
Even as she spoke, tears burst from her eyes in a shower.
Delphine came forward, stern and collected. ‘David has saved poor little Maddie from the sins of the flesh, that’s all. It’s a warning to everyone here.’
Wayne struck her across the face.
He ran downstairs. David was nowhere about. He rushed outside. The android stood among the vines, unmoving. And Wayne’s car was gone.
For the next hour, the Bargane family was in trauma, screaming, arguing, crying. The blood-soaked body of little Maddie lay on the table. All kissed her in turn and cried, all became smeared with her blood. All gave themselves over to despair.
It was old crippled Jean-Paul who finally suggested they should call the local police. They did so. It was after midday before the police arrived. For a crime as serious as murder, they had sent a man from Bucharest.
They checked with the airport and discovered that David Bargane had left the country on a direct flight to Brussels. He would be somewhere in Belgium by now.
* * * *
Politicians, in fact, fall into a disturbed category. They are able to order their lives so that every waking hour is busy, so that self-enquiry or self-doubt need never intrude. There are always committees to attend, societies to be addressed, constituents to be consulted or placated, Extroverted activity replaces self-knowledge and inner insecurities are repressed. Large political parties, particularly those of extreme right or extreme left, partake of many of the characteristics of mob rule, where individuality is repressed.>
‘And now for our weekly horoscope. Here’s Mystic Molly.’
‘Hello. We have friends nearing Jupiter; so what do their horoscopes say?
‘Gemini—if you need to get away from people who are driving you crazy, just get up and leave. Someone in a position of authority will give you a hard time about it next week, but next week is months away.
‘Leo—work more closely with those who share your aims. If you want something badly enough, it will come your way this week or maybe next. Dreaming will make it come true. But be warned—having got what you want, you may find you don’t want it after all, and then how are you going to get rid of it?
‘Virgo—as Mars, your ruler; is moving against you this week, assume that what other people say is not the truth at all. Do what your instincts say is right, even if the world is against you. Don’t go against that inner voice.’
* * * *
Barnard Cleeping was Director of the Philosophy Institute at the University of Utrecht. Every Tuesday evening, he visited the Young Offenders Institution some ten kilometres from the unive
rsity. Not only did he consider that this kept him in contact with real life; he was of a genuinely benevolent disposition and maintained a compassionate relationship with one of the young offenders, Imran Chokar.
On this evening, as his hydrogen-powered Slo-Mo was about to pull into the Institution grounds, a woman ran forward in front of his car. He braked. She came to his window.
‘I nearly ran you down, girl!’
You are Professor Cleeping? I need to speak with you, if you please. It’s about Imran — Imran Chokar. I am his friend.’
Barnard, realising that she was distraught said, ‘Get in beside me.’
She did so. She was a thin, bedraggled girl with part-dyed brown hair. Her left nostril was punctured by three small silver rings.
He showed his pass at the gate and entered the car park. The girl was Dutch, Martitia Deneke by name.
She was in love with Imran. They had met at a dance. He was shy and reserved, and keen to learn. He was seventeen, a year younger than Martitia, and an illegal immigrant. Imran had had little education, but was nevertheless of a scholarly turn of mind.
Martitia was scared of visiting the prison. She had sent Imran a book on the philosophies of the West, based on the ambient series of programmes, but the book had been stolen by another inmate.
Barnard listened patiently to her account, without comment.
Martitia knew that Imran was innocent of the crime for which he had been incarcerated. She had herself witnessed that crime. She had been going to meet Imran outside a supermarket. She saw him emerging from the supermarket with a carrier bag in his hand. A woman coming out behind him, with a child following her, was set upon by a man — ‘a dark man,’ said Martitia — who emerged suddenly from the shadows.
The dark man grabbed the woman’s carrier bags. In so doing, he barged the woman over. She fell backwards into the doorway. The child ran away screaming. Imran managed to catch hold of the little girl before she ran into the traffic flow. He then went to aid the prostrate woman. The dark man ran off with her groceries.
Other people were pouring out of the supermarket. One man grabbed hold of Imran, wrenching his arm behind his back. The police arrived. Imran was immediately arrested. Having seen all that had ensued, Martitia protested and tried to explain to the police officer in charge. She was roughly brushed aside.
‘You have told the lawyer all this?’ Barnard asked.
‘Over and over.’
Imran Chokar was charged with attacking the woman shopper and trying to abduct her child. Martitia had never been able to make her voice heard. She was so young. She was female. She had had a relationship with two men in her life. She had taken drugs. She was on someone’s black list. An officer at the police station told her that her family were known troublemakers.
The woman who had been attacked remained in a coma in a local hospital. She had sustained a serious head injury. The child was being looked after by her grandmother in the south of the country.
Meanwhile, Imran was being held in the Young Offenders Institution. He suffered systematic racial abuse from the staff.
Barnard asked Martitia, ‘You are sure of your facts?’
She sat nervously beside him, staring ahead at the grey prison block.
‘I do not lie, sir. My drug incident was long ago, when I was a schoolgirl. The family had drugs. All the authorities have against me is that I am female and in love with a man of another race.’
‘I will see what I can do. Give me your address. And your lawyer’s.’
She gave him two ambient addresses. She handed him a paperback book on meditation, to be passed to Imran. Planting a brief kiss on Barnard’s cheek, she opened the car door and fled.
* * * *
Barnard sat where he was for a while. He made a note on the Slo-Mo recorder. Only then did he get out, book in hand, and proceed to the guard house.
Escorted into the prison, he inhaled again its nauseating smell, which permeated even the staff quarters. A stench of sweat, old boots, disinfectant, excreta, and generalised despair. The sergeant on the counter took the book of meditation from him. After giving his credentials, he was escorted into the visitors’ room. He waited.
Imran Chokar appeared and took the seat on the opposite side of the wire mesh. His left eye was partly closed by a dark bruise. He waited for Barnard to speak.
‘I have been talking to Martitia. She will be a valuable witness when your case comes to court.’
‘It will never come to court. I shall die here.’
‘I shall see that it comes to court.’
A silence of disbelief settled on Imran. Barnard knew better than to enquire about his wounded eye. A warden was standing behind him.
‘You will eventually get the book on meditation Martitia wants you to have.’
‘They take incoming books apart in case they contain drugs.’ Said with the hint of a wry smile.
‘You’ll get the pages.’
Silence again. Imran began speaking in a rush. ‘Why does the world have to be the way it is? Who put it together this way? It does not make sense. I read a book on philosophy. The author does not speak about the construction of the world’s society. What is the use of such a book? Who can tell? I burn with anger.’
‘The world’s society? Yes, it does seem unfair. How did things come to be as they are? It’s a matter of history, climate, geography — a combination, perhaps, of accidents.’
‘No. Not that. I think I mean — something more — more metaphysical. I can’t talk about it. I don’t have the words. I shall die in here.’
‘Imran, I promise you I will do all in my power to get you out.’
‘Is Martitia pregnant?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
Another pause.
‘Is there to be war against this foreign place? Tebarous?’
‘Tebarou. I don’t know.’
‘Here, in the prison, all the whites want war. They seem to like the idea of war and killing . . .The people are of Muslim faith, yes, in Tebarou?’
‘With a large Christian minority. Some Buddhists.’
‘A chance to kill off Muslims, yes? Mr Barnard, I tell you. I escaped from a Muslim community in Africa. I wish with all my heart for European culture. More open. More scientific. More humane. I wish to learn your enlightened philosophy. I am three months in your superstate and then I find myself locked here, in prison. Here is cruelty. Terrible racism. What do you say? “Institutional racism” . . . Yet the Dutch are most enlightened people. Why does it have to be this way? I burn with anger. So I become a brute. I shall die here.’
‘Imran, do not despair. It’s only temporary.’
‘What is temporary? Is racism temporary? Is this prison temporary? Only me — I am temporary.’ He sat rigidly in his chair. Only a tic high in his left cheek revealed his tension.
‘I will get you out of here. My university will help. I occupy a strong position there.’
‘Of course you do!’ There was real hatred in his expression. ‘Of course you do. You are a white! This is your country!’
The warden said, ‘Er, time’s up, sir, if you don’t mind.’
* * * *
Love was not far from the mind of the novelist Rose Baywater, born Doris Waterstein. As far as her books were concerned, she was, as one reviewer had phrased it, ‘to love as diuretics are to bladders’.
She wore a patterned dress with a pashima draped loosely round her neck. A glass of mineral water stood by her side; it had long ago lost its sparkle. She sat in her garden by the fountain, under a sun umbrella, working at her laptop. She was excited. She had just reached chapter fifteen, the penultimate chapter, of her new novel, Fragments of a Dream.
Her partner, dapper Jack Harrington, sat nearby, his impeccable feet propped on a terracotta urn. Jack was naturally an idle man, and had recently refined the habit; his art galleries helped him to maintain that idleness which only wealth can bring. At present he was watching the world news on the a
mbient with half an eye. Two coaches had crashed on a mountain road in Turkey, fifteen kilometres from Ankara. Seventeen people were reported to be badly injured and two people had died. Jack remained unperturbed.
Rose was typing busily.
I skipped from my bed, to find the sun peeping in through the leaded panes of the window. Looking out, I could see a glorious view down the crooked street to where waves beat idly against the shore. The street was as fresh and clean as in a postcard view. On the beach, fishermen were busy with their nets, glorying in the taste of the newborn day. I walked naked into the shower; to soap my body voluptuously, humming a little tune to myself, so intense was my happiness.
As I dressed in my deLaurianne underwear; I became aware of a delicious smell which seemed to me, in my innocence, to encapsulate all the joys of childhood, of mother beaming at the breakfast table, of father coming in from having fed the nanny goat, and of a little girl with pigtails, dressed in a frilly dress, appearing to receive a morning kiss! Guess who that was, reader!
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