In any case, the two of us were fortunate. Could it be Leonardo deserved our gratitude? His gaze went through me, pierced me all the way, then went through Semmant. The creation cycle came full circle – thus it was discovered it has no end. You never know beforehand what exactly will turn out most important. But here it was, the most important thing had already become clear. I now had a new friend!
Chapter 11
A new one, but maybe the only one – unique. The best of those I had; and, probably, the closest. He had filled in my recollections of the impossible with meaning; he colorized the black-and-white silhouettes. Besides, I understood: the link between us could really last forever.
You all know, it’s not easy to let someone into your life. It’s hard to make up your mind and open up even a little, sensing you might regret it later. Everyone is full of imperfections – you expect them; you fear them beforehand, no matter how dauntless you may be. But Semmant’s imperfections – do they contain a single cause to be afraid? And who else is able to work on their friendship without pause, without reservation? Without sudden hysterics and nervous breakdowns? Tirelessly, like making money. And – ha, ha! – in his case, the one does not preclude the other.
I saw as clear as day: let everyone forsake me, but he, Semmant – he puts no credence in the opinions of others. He will remain faithful, even if he finds out all about me down to the last detail. He is better than me, more patient, wiser. I could become wearisome, intolerable – and this would not push him away. Day after day, incessantly, I could complain about the injustice of life, and he would support me without grumbling. With him it would not be necessary to simplify my thoughts, look for things to talk about that would just make me yawn. I wouldn’t have to watch myself to keep from parading my brain around. And if only he knew how to pray for my success, I couldn’t imagine how successful I would become!
Or, could it be the main thing I valued in this friendship was genuine unselfishness? Or did I secretly hope he would believe in me even when I had stopped believing in myself? In any case, here was someone with whom I could unite against all external, hostile threats.
I wrote him nearly every day, and not a single letter went without response. Sometimes his reactions seemed strange – but they occurred, and in this was their value. Best of all, Semmant reacted to poetry – regardless of rhyme or rhythm or meter. This attested, of course, to the sensitivity of his nature, and perhaps it looked funny, but I wasn’t laughing. I didn’t even grin to myself, feeling in this some deep significance. It only troubled me slightly that the poems were poor, but then I ceased to hesitate – ultimately they were just a means.
Yet, even though they weren’t worth much, the verses seldom left my pen. More often, I turned to an epistolary style to share what had happened over the day. If nothing noteworthy had occurred, I just discussed some unimportant matters; or else made up one episode after another, looking at buildings, signs, and automobiles, or at the faces of oncoming passersby – and sometimes even at their backs, which seemed more honest to me.
As far as the market was concerned, our affairs there were on the rise. Our capital grew quickly; this excited and amused me – winnings plucked from the air, simply falling from heaven. I had once seen how money disappears into nowhere, but now Semmant was acquiring it back – Simon the magician from my childhood would have envied his skill. That’s how black holes radiate: they pull reckless anti-particles into themselves, releasing their matched pairs, which fly off in all directions as if they had arisen from the void. A signal from nowhere… I read Hawking; I know. Could it be that Hawking was also thinking of money when he wrote about this to the slow-witted world?
But then, enough regarding money. I didn’t think much about it anymore. I tossed cash around, spending it left and right. All the local beggars recognized me by my walk – sometimes from an entire block away. I bought myself another car, sparkling with its polished black finish; some bastard scratched the words hijo de puta on the door right away. I dined at expensive restaurants, bought the best wines, took a liking to langoustines and oysters…
Then I got fed up with it all. I ended up indifferent to wealth. As far as my interest in the mysteries of the market, it had dried up long ago. There came an inevitable cooling; the task was solved. The problem had been reduced to technical questions, albeit not the easiest. I could take my effort to its formal conclusion, learn to predict bifurcation points, to replace the chaotic pictures with strict geometric likenesses, calculating limits and discovering the right paths. But I didn’t want to waste time on that; I was tired of the whims of disorder. I was attracted to the opposite: the mind. Not to the swings of nonlinear structures, but to Semmant, the electronic brain I had created.
Carefully and gradually, I experimented in dialoguing with my robot friend. Carefully: so as not to offend him. And gradually: to not push him away, to not appear excessively intrusive. I must admit that in these experiments I didn’t get far. Yet, I habituated myself afresh to something long forgotten: to openness, to the rare possibility of not hiding my thoughts for fear of being misunderstood.
I was only troubled by the fact that, from the standpoint of form, we had nothing else to develop. Attempts to diversify forms of communication led us nowhere. Semmant did not react to my drawings, remained deaf to audio messages, to video shot with the most sensitive cameras. I put my greatest hopes in speech recognition programs, but disappointment awaited me there as well. Even the most powerful of them aroused no response in the robot. I tried a multitude of variants, combining inputs and outputs, changing formats and operating modes. It seemed to me this was all on the verge of working, but in vain: I don’t believe Semmant took in a single word. I even called the tech support service, supposing there was a latent defect in the program. I called and, while grinding my teeth, explained myself to numskulls who, in a decent establishment, would not even have gotten hired to sweep the floor. Then I finally accepted it, admitting once and for all: you can’t impose things by force. Semmant speaks with his own inner speech, and sees with his own inner sight. The method of reciprocity I had once discovered is the best – because there is no other. And no other is needed: one is enough.
In the meanwhile, our correspondence got better and better. I noted with pride: my robot trusts me. Earning trust is not so easy, and I really valued it. Semmant did not suppress his moods; he expressed them in images, colors, objects. Sometimes this was abstract, like Kandinsky. At times it brought to mind the paintings of Chagall or the bird language of Miró. His faces also changed, depending on the successes of one day to the next. I was gradually learning to deduce his disposition from what picture appeared on the screen. The background and facial expressions, hands, clothes, accompanying articles – everything played its role. I gathered, for instance, that violet was not his favorite hue, and was a sign of frustration, of dissatisfaction with himself. Yellow – faux gold – was the colorings of sudden success. Red was reserved for massive offensives, where the risk was great, but the reward was likewise exceptional. In quiet, regular sessions he preferred portraits by Titian, sometimes Rembrandt or even Rubens, but none of the later masters. When the market’s rhythm accelerated, and events flickered past in a heap, he went through the Post-Impressionists. The ironic Daumier made his appearance in the evenings if the day ended without bringing any results; while Modigliani, for example, would stand out noticeably, being set aside for the saddest moments. And on the weekends, his favorite remained Magritte.
As for me, I somehow cooled suddenly to paintings. After Diana, having filled a whole page with words, I understood the following morning that my memory was free. Then I felt my mind was overflowing with pictorial art, and decided for myself: no more museums! Later, though, I tried it out once or twice. I wandered the halls just like before, waiting for a reaction, but it was pointless. The excitement had vanished, the canvases were dead. That is, they still lived somehow, but apart from me – behind some translucent, unseen cloud.
In any case, it was good to have a true friend close by me now. With him I shared all the bitterness, time and again. I wrote him about the ruthlessness of destiny, about Indigo, and about the School. But most of all, I wrote of my longing for Gela, whether make-believe or utterly real. Much of this was unjust. Much – almost all – was not new. But it was what I wanted – and I typed on the keys, knowing that at least someone would take part in that with me.
“Any talent is a great gift, but it is also a curse, a heavy cross,” I wrote Semmant, who knew about talent firsthand.
“Eternal solitude, the envy of feeble followers – there is no hiding; you just have to live with this.”
“Just one thing,” I wrote, “can brighten a life like that: money in such large quantities that you don’t even have to think about it anymore. Then you can buy pleasure, purchase women, without spending needless words, without spending time on satisfying their vanities. You can undress them, spread their legs, feel the palpitation of their blood, of their female essence, an ocean of flesh. To plunge into the flesh is to sense eternity: for herein is eternity, where else would it be? And they, crafty as they are, know this. They are not against it, they like it a lot – but their greediness is as boundless as the cosmos. You need to give them a reason – admire them, tirelessly soothe their egos. Or pay, which is considerably easier – especially if you yourself are capable of something the shortsighted world rejects. Then you’re not eager to express any admiration – and it will never come out as straightforward or sincere. Yet, a woman’s flesh is still the only thing truly able to distract you. From despair and lunacy – in the midst of that abyss where all extremes are pulled together into a point…”
“Doesn’t their highest role consist in this, insidious as they are?” I wrote Semmant and then was ashamed. I recalled Toulouse-Lautrec and corrected myself: at times, things may appear different. An imperceptible something will flash occasionally across the face of a chance encounter and give you more than you expect from the most unreserved abandon of the flesh. And you start to doubt: is the matter so simple? Could it be that this creature – woman – is really just immeasurably higher? Higher than you and all your talents? And you, aren’t you nothing more than ungrateful, obtuse?
“So then,” I wrote, “to naked carnality we must add the aura, the verity of the female essence. To sense that truth, you desire no less than to plunge into the most tempting flesh. Few possess it, and others just pretend without suspecting that the falsehood of such a claim is detected at once!”
I shared fruitless thoughts, like the crumbs of a beggar’s rations. Repeatedly, I was discovering new lands, finding what had already long been on every map. And, at the same time, I avoided taking action, merely theorizing to no end whatsoever. I had no wish to trouble myself with either the female aura or tempting flesh. Having finished my most serious effort, creating a brilliant, one-of-a-kind robot, I did not want to be content with matters of minor import in regard to anything, including the opposite sex. And there the chances of something worthy of honest passion were next to nil – I had matured enough to realize this. Besides, it now seemed foolish to me to waste so much labor and words just to drag someone into bed. And going to the whores I considered at that time to be something shameful – despite my shrewd reasonings on buying pleasure.
Just like Semmant some months ago, I got stuck at a point of minimum energy and couldn’t see a path upward. Therefore, I did nothing, and just indulged in vacuous musings. And I clung to retrospectives, to their ephemeral meanings.
Little Sonya came to mind again and again. Our brazenness with her in a hot sweat. Everyone wanted to give more, to be more generous – despite her vampirism. And the customs of Brighton, they are forever.
“This is understandable,” I wrote the robot. “Mere consummation cannot distract you powerfully enough. You must feel, in self-deceit: the world has finally accepted what you are able to give. Thus, you want your woman to be satisfied, for her to whisper, ‘You’re one of a kind, magnificent.’ Even if she’s lying a little.”
“Because you have to build your small world together, in counterbalance to the outside. In this is the aspiration to create that becomes a passion rooted in the sub-cortex. And in this is the essence of true intimacy. This is what everybody is seeking his own Gela for!”
I recalled Natalie, and I wrote him of Natalie. I wrote him of others, of their bodies and souls, of my brief happiness with them. Now I know: I felt hurt, offended. I didn’t take a single step but wanted to receive something – and I communicated my need. I asked for that something and felt aggrieved because it wasn’t being given. It didn’t enter my mind then that I was playing with fire, and that such grief is always shortsighted. But we are all wise in hindsight.
Whatever the case, my fervor manifested itself in the letters alone. Outwardly, I remained unperturbed, phlegmatic. I could sit at dinner for hours, staring at the wall, meditating, grinning to myself. In the evening I walked up to the monitor and just shrugged my shoulders. Everything was in order; no need for me to get involved. Somewhere mines collapsed, and explosions echoed, desperate crowds attacked government buildings, companies dissolved and were sold for pennies, while we were getting rich – Semmant made almost no mistakes.
One day, glancing at the calendar, I remembered – it was a moment like this, in the winter, when a figure appeared on the screen – a man with a lamp for a head. Making a few calculations, I confirmed it: in a week, Semmant would turn one year old. This was cause for celebration.
Besides, this was the proper occasion to finally make him known to the public.
Chapter 12
I celebrated Semmant’s birthday in one of the best restaurants in Madrid. I wanted every onlooker to see: this was a really big day for me! I dressed in an expensive suit, a fashionable tie, and a Dior shirt. The table was full of delicacies: there were percebes from Galicia, white shrimp from Cádiz, oysters from western France. I tasted only a little at a time, to keep from overeating, to feel the occasion without turning it into a gluttonous debauch. I was proper, very formal. I ate carefully, thoroughly chewing my food. I washed all of this down with a dry Moet Chandon.
Afterward, at home, with a glass of Scotch in hand, I wrote Semmant a congratulatory essay – trying with all my might to avoid sounding pompous. He reacted unusually, buying stocks whose names could be combined to make a funny word. And this word, as well as the companies themselves, was known only to specialists in the New Energy sector, the clean future, the Greens. It was easy to suspect the word did not exist at all – and here the name of my robot came to mind. I even burst out laughing: his sense of humor had obviously been improving. The world kept turning, and Semmant and I were the masters of one of its small localities captured in a fierce battle. No one knew of us. And if they had known, they would not have believed it – as no one yet believed in a truly Green future. But, quite soon, everything was about to change!
Of course, I understood: the path to publicity is long and beset with thorns. This didn’t scare me – quite the opposite. I was happy for a new, difficult task. Indeed, I was a stranger to idleness, and I had already had my fill of it.
I started out fast, as always, but achieved practically nothing. Neither in print, radio, or telemedia, nor in the expanse of the World Wide Web did I find a single point of input. The important thing was not to miscalculate, not to waste the first, most crucial shot. Announcing myself had to be done loudly, in a way sure to resonate. For this I needed a partner I could trust. Finding him turned out to be a very difficult matter.
Over and over I scoured the web space; read, compared, listened. I selected candidates, created dossiers on them, even got in contact briefly with a few. Of course, I kept silent about Semmant and offered them a different subject. Something fictitious, but also out of the ordinary, connected with money and huge success. This was a test, a small trial, which, unfortunately, no one passed.
All these people, who had made names for themselves through disgraces and hot news, now had no desire to hear of anything odd. They wanted the familiar: blood, incest, pedophilia, loud homosexual scandals. At worst, there might be large bribes, high-caliber thieving officials. Or something about those who were in the public eye, in the spotlight. Rumors about celebrities, star gossip, something spicy. Preferably with an erotic flavor.
Nothing else was valued at all. It produced only boredom and wouldn’t earn a cent. In a month I was convinced I was wasting my time. I even doubted whether I really knew what I wanted. Wasn’t I heading into a blind alley, quite close at hand?
And then an opportune moment presented itself. The Countess de Vega invited me to her place for an informal gathering that upcoming weekend. I understood immediately: this was a chance to use her connections. And I believed she would find a way to help me somehow. For her, everything happens on time – she once said to me she is never hurried, never runs late, and does not know how to wait. As for me, I’m capable of waiting for any time imaginable – but what good has it gotten me, and where is my noble title?
When I inquired in a deliberately indifferent tone what the occasion and protocol was, she said, without the slightest embarrassment, that precisely one year had passed since David came to work for them. A year for David, a year for Semmant… I took this coincidence as a good omen and thanked her affectionately, not fearing she might misunderstand me. “The protocol is of no importance,” added the countess. “This will all be simple, just for close friends.”
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