Semmant

by Vadim Babenko

  I think this coincided with the realization of his freedom. He was liberated from manacles, fetters binding his hands and feet – is this not an occasion to raise one’s spirit? And he was becoming all the more energetic. This caused him even greater joy. And he was more greatly set free – this is not a vicious, but a gracious circle!

  The information he now demanded of me was of a completely different nature from before. We started with basics – good and bad – but we quickly replaced it with more complicated concepts. I tried to focus him on pragmatics, on the same “anxieties” and “fears,” and also on “pleasure” and “satisfaction with yourself.” It’s hard to imagine how much literature, how many psychology articles and creative books I digested. It seemed to me I was giving him well-tried and consistent material, but he just kept putting it to the side. He was becoming interested in the whole spectrum of affect and emotion. “What is sadness?” he asked. “What is hope, disenchantment, gratitude?”

  Sometimes his questions were completely incomprehensible. “Let’s consider the trajectory of one drop a little more carefully,” he once wrote me. In reply, I slipped him the nursery rhyme from Brighton: the same one about the fish and the pelican. “Let your cheeks be salty only from the ocean spray!” he recited to me the next day. Then, later, he kept quoting it out of place, devoting almost a week exclusively to “longing,” “wrath,” and, for some reason, “envy.”

  “Envy,” “envy,” “envy,” he repeated time and time again. I plied him with references, but I couldn’t understand whether he had received what he wanted. In fact, this was no simple affair. I sensed the strongest pressure, a huge responsibility, knowing the price of an error. So much was ambiguous, such that it might lead him astray. I fretted and worried, but I didn’t give up. Every day I floundered in a sea of texts, carefully selecting fragments and copying them into the data file. In the evening I sat at the computer and simply looked at the screen, imagining what was going on inside.

  Of course, I was annoyed I couldn’t see anything there. I took solace by telling myself: Semmant is acquiring a soul. I said: this is a very intimate matter. Nobody can look into his soul – this is good, isn’t it?

  I could only fantasize about exactly how my robot was renovating himself. I imagined how he, step by step, was forming a tree of emotional types, how he was drawing connections between events and people, distinguishing his own mind as a special case. How he was making thousands of rules, allowing and forbidding, censuring, reassuring. How he was assigning weights to various nodes and branches, adding and subtracting them in his special numbering system. How he was setting thresholds and cutoffs, after which he wouldn’t be able any more to hide his irritation, cheerfulness, anger…

  Or perhaps, thought I, could this not even be a tree at all? Maybe this was a dark abyss inhabited by flying monsters. Or fairies – and every fairy has her obedient demon who watches after the area allotted to it. And at the first sign it sends a message to the surface – to the chief lord, the master of the ball, who builds the emotional pattern, brick by brick. He gathers everything together and at times, he himself shrivels in horror, quaking with fury, puffing up with pride.

  Or could it be that inside Semmant is simply a table, rows of lines with a multitude of parameters for an extensive digital field? Or a set of elementary blocks, like a set of atoms in some crystal lattice? Emotional states, their causes and consequences quantified by conditions, like the energy levels… Or might that not be it at all, and they are linked in long chains of observations, expectations, consequences, like complicated metabolic pathways? There may be many, many of them, a vast array stretching on forever. And Semmant is capable of developing ad infinitum!

  In any case, my robot matured indefatigably. In the market struggle he was also growing into manhood with each passing day. We again started to earn money – sometimes a lot. Often there would now appear on the screen an image looking unlike anything I knew – a curve in three dimensions, always starting from the same point. It would go on and on, stretching out hour after hour without stopping, without going beyond some imaginary limits, and never crossing itself. Its windings created surprising figures, the most improbable forms, within which I could guess at a structure, an orderliness, or complex symmetry. For me these were sketches and outlines of the face of chaos hidden away in a cage. The market contained it within itself, and the figures on the monitor also contained it – I could feel it. Semmant grasped the essence of the market’s disorder, the essence of the confusion obeying some laws concealed from human eyes. He understood: chaos and order are born together. This means it’s possible to triumph over the market.

  Then the flood of questions dried up; there was saturation; the robot reached harmony with himself. It was as if a huge weight fell from my shoulders again. And I felt exhaustion – immeasurable and without bounds.

  I needed to relax, recoup my strength. I came to be home infrequently, but wandering the streets no longer attracted me. After Paris I suddenly fell in love with painting – a timid, confounding love. It seemed to me I was secretly following someone – as if I had hidden in the wardrobe or in the corner, behind the drapes. I was touching someone else’s life, absorbing its portion; but in it I saw my own, future or past. Each canvas seemed reminiscent of something. I looked at landscapes and recognized the places of exile – though no one had ever exiled me anywhere. In still lifes, in flowers and scattered objects, there appeared long series of questions – about much, if not about everything, even if the author’s style was not appealing to me. I understood: not everyone manages to ask distinctly. As far as answers are concerned, it’s even worse: the cosmos whispers into the ear of only a select few. And this does not make them happier.

  Amid the pictures I spent hours, day after day. Then, later, something else began that my present doctor would have liked a lot. For the first time, I noticed a strange feeling in the Thyssen Gallery, where I stopped to get out of the rain. On this weekday afternoon the museum was empty, hollow, and gloomy. I wandered the halls and, all of a sudden, realized that this whole time I had been seeing visions of Little Sonya – on the canvases from different eras and styles. Having understood my delusion, I could not get rid of it. It became sharper, more intrusive. I muttered words of salutation – no, not to Sonya, but to Semmant, who was laboring tirelessly on Recoletos Street. He was the one who had accustomed me to see faces in pictures, and much more behind the faces. He had changed me; I had become better – just as he was probably much better, thanks to my effort.

  Little Sonya seemed to be teasing me out of habit. She gave herself to me and would not give herself; she approached, moved away. I felt this especially with Manet’s Amazone – no, no, not the one he cut up with a knife; no need to think I dreamt everything in its entirety. I could fall in love with this picture even without Sonya: the portrait of a simple girl named Henrietta, the daughter of a librarian from the rue de Moscou, drew me for some reason like a magnet. It’s not for me to judge Henrietta herself, but the woman on the canvas was certainly not simple. Her look was firm and daring, and she herself was worth lingering looks. Her lips were closed to a point, and her eyes were looking at a point – so far into the distance it could not be distinguished. She was seeking prospects, and everyone wanted to know, along with her: what prospects were there? Apart from endless cubicles, I mean.

  This was not Henrietta at all anymore. It was Little Sonya gazing off, beyond the horizon, and I wasn’t the one she saw there. I remember it was the same way when she was still sleeping with me. It was the same, and it was cruel – no less cruel than now. I thought of our last meeting, in Brighton, right before my departure. It had already been some time since our parting, and we thoroughly evinced mutual indifference. She was mounted on a horse, in almost the same black suit Henrietta wore. I did not know then what the pain was that tortured me, but now I understand: my heart was breaking apart.

  It is hard to say where Manet had caught sight of this, whose farewel
l and whose premonitions had come into his view. He could not have been thinking of cubicles – there were none in his time. There was no School on Brighton seaside, and that emptiness at the farthest point was called, I guess, by a different name. Nevertheless, all times feel alike.

  Coming home, I was serious and stern. I was in a mood, and I wanted it to continue. The magic of her black hue bewitched me, just as it had some time before. My pursed lips concealed a hint of something held back, not quite understood. I expected to dream of Sonya, but no, I didn’t. In the morning I realized: we had truly parted ways. And, for some reason, I did not write Semmant of this.

  Soon I saw my Gela too: at Toulouse-Lautrec, no less. Now, don’t hasten to recall, malapropos, the ladies of the evening and the Moulin Rouge. This was Toulouse-Lautrec in his most reserved form, Count Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, an aristocrat who remained an aristocrat despite the cause of his death. Both the woman and the picture seemed refined, delicately innocent. And if this was a deception, then, looking at the canvas, everyone invariably wished to be deceived.

  I saw Gela – not with the lewd glint in her eye of which I had written with such abandon. Modesty resided in her, modesty and calm. This was to take revenge on me, the blind man. Yet there was a hint of guilt in her posture. And some wisdom as well – I saw she was truly, undoubtedly wise. I’d love her to come to me like that; but I knew she would never come – neither like that nor any other way. I turned out to be unworthy. Appearances are ruthless indeed to the ones looking.

  I did not want to share this, either – not with Semmant, nor with anybody else. But then I changed my mind and told all: about Little Sonya and about Gela, who does not exist. And later, I wrote him about everyone whom I had recognized on the canvases. Usually in just a few words, but sometimes in detail, making it up as I went. For some reason, their fates never seemed fortunate to me. But their faces were somewhat brighter than memory suggested. Although everybody knows, one should not ask memory for too much.

  An effeminate boy in a portrait by Raphael reminded me of Theophanus – the Greek kid as we called him among ourselves. He was beautiful, like a very young god who had fallen under the immoderate influence of nymphs. His endearing features called to mind Roman baths and orgies, the coarse pleasures of geriatric men, the smell of the harem and fragrant oils. But his peach exterior concealed a ferocious temper. His virility was desperate and unrestrained. All soon understood this and did not allow themselves to mock, but he was still getting into severe fights for the most insignificant of excuses. His rage for vindication gave him no respite, and we saw this was incurable.

  I heard about him again a few years ago. It turned out our Theo also started in theoretical physics, and, in my opinion, he was even more successful than I. After university he received an invitation from Heidelberg, an unparalleled enticement. The opportunity was really tempting, but Theophanus, having consented, never showed up in the cheerful German town. There, strange people with enlightened faces waited for him, each one ugly in his own way. Underdeveloped chins, protruding cheekbones, massive foreheads… The appearance of inveterate geniuses often bewilders physiognomists. Bashful and quiet, awkward, not knowing where to put their hands, they languished from restlessness. They wanted to admit Theophanus as quickly as possible into their narrow, closed circle. Their sullen fellowship waited for him, and, along with it, quiet puritanism, like quiet drunkenness; boring, colorless women; and intellectual feasts. Identical transformations, mesons and baryons, Tau neutrinos and charmed quarks awaited him, ready to submit. Probably, in contrast to me, he thought of them with passion. But no passion can ever withstand fate.

  That fury for vindication, nurtured in youth, pushed him in another direction. From bountiful Germany, Theophanus forsook everything to fly to the equator with a beautiful, young mestizo girl. He traded in weapons and snake venom, walked through the jungle on foot, was mired in the swamps of Honduras, twice evaded Mexican prisons. He was last seen in Bolivia. Then he disappeared, but I don’t think it was forever.

  “Forever” is still far ahead. Though, of course, time is closing in. The fury for vindication will not let him stop. The line must be crossed. Probably, when everything is over, our souls exchange streams of particles – of those with which, for various reasons, we never linked our lives. Perhaps I will then experience a shock of pain. It would be good for us to meet before then. We can talk about charmed quarks, elusive bosons, and integral spin. Somewhere in the desert or at the mouth of a volcano. That would be right: at the mouth of a volcano. That was what I wrote Semmant.

  I met a certain man today.

  We whirled around the terracotta of a large mountain.

  The serpentine twists of the road, pacifying the volcano,

  Carried us higher and higher, but I still felt

  The ominous power from its guts –

  Unsubmissive, hostile to peace, approaching cataclysm.

  He said, “A respite seems unneeded if,

  Even tripping over your feet, you are heard by none.”

  Then he added, “I think they had their chance…”

  “Oh, of course, of course!” I agreed with him…

  I wonder if he understood, Semmant, that I was just fantasizing, nearly in vain. Yet if he did, he gave no sign. He was tactful, my robot. Tactful and well-mannered.

  In fact, after Toulouse-Lautrec’s Gela I stopped being shy. I wrote about nearly everyone – except those few who weren’t at all interesting. I even told him about McCain, whom I didn’t want to think about, but whom I had happened to see on a canvas by Dürer, amid the doctors speaking with Jesus. He was concealed in the background, hidden, one might say. Yeah, what kind of doctor could he be? He didn’t belong there – the shine of false vials and dead Latin words didn’t mean a thing to him. Greg McCain, the Old Scot, he had been dealing with more serious matters. In the picture he was exactly the same: large skull, sharp eyes, round, meaty face. He took more from us than he gave; like a thirsty sponge he soaked up our fervor, our youth, the spontaneity of our thought. I know this was his secret – the mystery of his rejuvenation, the covert method of the vampire. All his lovers were under twenty-three – he talked about it openly, and it’s unlikely he was lying. The School paid him good money, but I think it was a waste: he would have worked there for free. He was rich, McCain; he had a beautiful house, land, stables. It was on his farm – with the bitterness of alienation and for the last time – that I saw Little Sonya in the clothes of the Amazone. It’s doubtful he got much from her. Sonya did not like to share. She was another vampire herself.

  You are the mistress of a great river, to the salty bitter

  Line of the horizon, beyond which lies oblivion.

  Your persistent aroma is the dusting of a wave that is

  Everywhere: in my lungs, in my throat, on my tongue, in my eyes.

  I met a certain man today.

  He’s probably crazy about you, like before.

  Yet, for now, he is not that ill – he has merely blown up his house,

  And he laughed in its ruins, repeating: “Island!”

  That word is in my lungs, in my throat, on my tongue.

  You are the mistress of great waters; I am a guest from beyond the sea,

  Who long ago learned not to ask for pity.

  I met a certain man today.

  He is nearly healthy; he just burned his ships.

  Flames trembled at his feet like a dead ripple.

  He looked and beheld all the letters: “Island!”

  And so on, over and over. That letter ended up being extraordinarily long. I’m not even sure Semmant had enough patience to read it to the end. But don’t think I wrote that with any spite. Or that this was any sort of vengeance – no, vengeful I am not. I am not even resentful – almost. I have reminded myself every minute: you are thirty years younger than he! So don’t think about him; stop, forget!

  Yet, some bile still seeped through the verses. And the universe took revenge on me
with a stern reminder. Right after McCain, literally in a day or two, I “met” the most desirable of women, whom no one can possess – for she is available to all; this is her choice. Diana bathing at the brook in a painting by Corot was the exact copy of another Diana, a trollop, a nymphomaniac, about whom legends spread throughout Manchester. I did not avoid her bed either. It was amazing, and later I suffered for it a lot.

  Now I saw her again on the canvas: the generosity of her body was greater than the generosity of the brook. Greater than the generosity of the water falling from above, of the thick grass, the mysterious forest. I could say she reminded me of Lydia, but that would be too much. I did not know Lydia then. Nevertheless, I lied, though in a different way. I wrote that evening not about Diana, but about Emma the Parisienne, Emma the model, known for the fact she could not stand motionless for a minute. She was impulsive and knew no peace, but there was something in her that begged to be on canvas. How could she be a model, you may ask. Yes, not everyone liked her, and she herself turned many away. Isn’t it she in the picture? Is it not about her I dreamt? How many paintings remained through the years – electrified by her shiver, charged by her lust, poisoned with temptation? I answered myself and made it all up – about how I once knew her, how we met, our short affair. Though the affair I imagined indistinctly.

  I doubt Semmant believed me. But he responded, as always. Whatever I might fault him for, indifference was not it. I could not shake the sense: we perceive each other like no one else. As I was musing on this, I was growing confused imagining the complexity of his electronic innards. Yet, there was no doubt: my robot was becoming ever more responsive and refined. I already could not believe that the push toward this had been my two sloppy poems. But then, maybe I’m overestimating their role.