These were frantic weeks; I had so much to reconsider! My picture of the world turned upside down, albeit not without difficulty. Along with it, Adele was changing – as she, in turn, changed Semmant and me. We, all three of us, influenced each other. And we sensed how our affinity was growing stronger.
Gradually, Adele became calmer and more discreet. I would even say more old-fashioned, but that would be going too far. She didn’t try so hard anymore to indulge her own wishes – quickly, without waiting, skipping ahead of others in the queue. Getting what she wanted and turning immediately to what she might desire next. In fact, indulging wishes ceased to be the meaning of life for her. Adele suddenly grew up; the world was no longer a giant toy shop in her reckoning. To grab, play, cast away, pick up another – this did not seem to be the only correct formula to her now. One might say her consciousness was spiraling in alienation – to spite society and its customs, in defiance of the rules of the benighted masses. Adele matured and listened to herself. She got to thinking; her eyes were opened. Soon, a new quality could have developed within her: a thirst for love in which you give all of yourself. It could have, but it didn’t, and it was my own fault. However, more about that later.
In the meantime, Semmant also noticed the changes – with some kind of fine receiver, a nerve of numbers. In his actions there was now more than just inspired determination. He became more confident, stronger – but he also became softer. He was at war with the whole world for the queen of his heart, but he was also ready to love this world – or at least to show it gratitude.
My robot expressed himself in the only way he knew: making transactions on the market, which had no room for morals. Yet even there I saw a new Semmant – and it could not have been otherwise. The wretchedness of the environment did not restrain his feelings. He, unlike the rest of us, did not gripe about the lack of freedom, about the fetters of circumstance. Nothing prevented him from feeling truly free. Doing battle in the exchanges, he was an example of integrity and never betrayed himself. And he vigorously followed the impulses and desires of his lady.
Once, in a certain forum comment, I wrote that Adele had a beloved figurine made of ivory. It was the Hindu Shiva, transformer and destroyer, vanquisher of demons, bearer of blessings. Then I noticed how part of our money had started flowing to India. Semmant gradually invested in everything available: in construction and manufacturing, computing firms and rural cooperatives. Times were hard for the land of yogis and elephants. Newspapers wrote of drought, epidemics, farmers coming to ruin, and their frequent suicides. Shiva was actually transforming the universe – but Semmant continued to act, unperturbed. For him, Adele’s wish was law.
Afterward, out of curiosity, I verified this more than once. In one case, Adele-Sonya admitted that since early childhood she had dreamed of wild Africa, of the savannas, of lions and tigers, jungles and shamanic masks. This produced an immediate effect: Semmant switched his activities to the dark continent. He was not intimidated by diamond mine strikes or civil wars or unstable regimes. Then I imagined Adele was about to set off on a three-week trip from Patagonia to Santiago, through the mountains of Peru and Chile. And again the robot reacted without delay. We bought up a large quantity of fairly risky South American bonds. This alacrity was touching: to follow the one you love everywhere…
Semmant acted assiduously and boldly. His procedures were refined and beautiful – especially to my experienced eye. As a rule, a new project would start with a military march. He bought and swapped, transferred and unloaded useless stocks that had served out their term – and almost always guessed correctly. They fell soon; firms passed their peak; investors considered them dead and buried. Woe to the vanquished: I could picture villages overrun by conquerors, barbarian settlements sacrificed to a great symbol, a big idea. But, at the same time, Semmant always left the game before the unlucky ones could ultimately be crushed by the market. Before the newspapers picked up the vague rumors always accompanying those who have faltered. Before the leaders, proud of their power, were cast down and put out of work, their teams driven away, their businesses smashed to pieces… No, Semmant no longer desired to profit from another’s misfortune. He even stopped short-selling; as soon as the big funds snatched up the papers that had started to fall, my robot stepped aside. In the world of dark disappointments, he soared like a white warrior. He didn’t finish off his prisoners or burn houses or despoil the crops. Only fighting in the open with an enemy full of strength now fit within his mores. He rushed forward on his swift stallion, where the foe yet lived. Where the steel rang, where they thirsted for his blood. To exploits in the name of his fair damsel, deeds worthy of a true knight.
Later I noticed something else: Semmant had freed himself from long-term assets. Conservative papers were a thing of the past; now he invested only in what could make a quick profit. Of course, the risk increased, but the robot seemed to pay it no mind. He wanted to live in the present and chose the straightest path, the shortest road to happiness.
He also tirelessly sought the image of his happy future. Once, he bought the debt of a dying resort in the Caribbean – I think he was drawn to it by a picture in a brochure floating around the Web. He was probably envisioning himself with Adele on the warm, fine sand. The sound of the ocean, the sunrise, palm trees – that can have an effect on anyone. The purchase led to a loss, but in a day Semmant had compensated for it by a series of palladium trades. And then the loss was converted into gain. To the amazement of all, the unfortunate resort was suddenly acquired by a successful hotel chain.
Soon, the amount of real money in our accounts started to grow. Semmant now set aside large sums, turning what he earned into cash. I understood this was his way of bestowing gifts. He was giving his beloved what she deserved. He desired her freedom, the liberty to be herself. He wanted the world to work for her, not the other way around, and let his lady be free to choose. The artificial brain found meaning for itself that made life worth living. Neither the battle of capitals nor the war of corporations trying to outstrip each other stood as the cornerstone. To make his Chosen One happy: now there was no clearer goal for Semmant.
I looked, evaluated, saw: for his Adele he wanted the very best destiny. The best life, the best lot in it – regardless of whether it was with him, or without. He wanted for her not to know the drudgery of fighting to survive, for her face not to be blemished by a web of fine wrinkles, for it not to be hardened by expressions of concern and worry. He knew only one method for this, and tried as he might. He resisted the power of time, not wishing Adele to grow old, as do all. The markets taught my robot much; the birth-peak-fall cycle, observed everywhere, had let him feel what mortality was. But now he didn’t want to believe in mortality; only flourishing suited his lady.
For her he wanted the longest possible bliss. Reliable joy – and it seemed to me I could see where he was conducting his search. New images filled the monitor screen; Semmant constructed invariants: designs that repeated themselves in great and small, in the momentary, the instantaneous, the eternal. Before my eyes he invented a means of reproduction – for ideas, harmonies, beauty. He sketched astounding pictures – like fire or a stormy sea, they were similar but somehow always distinct. Their borders were comprised of immense, boundless complexity. He sought infinity and found its trail, like order in the limitless chaos of the market.
I noted with a certain anxiety that I no longer saw the logic behind his actions. Then I came to sense the tactics of his activities were symmetrical with respect to time scales. Cycles of sales and purchases started to recall those same structures he was drawing on the screen. Minute perturbations he projected across months; hourly and daily patterns across weeks and years. He risked – and won, time after time. And, I think, he didn’t even realize he was taking risks.
Abstract images, unwearyingly reproduced, transformed into pictures that were surprisingly reminiscent of reality. Inflorescences and delicate arches, constellations, crystal castles plotted by
an endless line were born on the screen each day. Silhouettes took on flesh in which life pulsed. This was yet another way to give his lady lavish gifts. What could be more valuable than eternity, subjugated in her honor? The ultrathin line never cut itself off or crossed over what was already drawn. I understood: this comprised his new picture of the world.
And I thought, the higher order re-created by the robot, who is not a man – can it be within the reach of man? No longer ashamed, I jotted down: “love,” “self-organization of nature,” “ability to survive…” The “ability” – or rather the “necessity?” Is there not an opening here for predestination, to the meaning of meanings, to the unattainable sought by all?
As for Semmant, upon what did he meditate? Perhaps the same thing with which all great minds wrestle and fight. Maybe he was trying to clarify, to capture the ruthless essence of the greatest of contradictions. How to stop an instant, not let it slip away? Immortality – what is the recipe for it, if this word has the right to be?
I seemed to sense how the most intense work was churning inside his brain day after day. Myriads of ones and zeroes changed combinations – in search of the single, precise solution. Semmant sought an answer, his own philosopher’s stone. He was searching, if you will, for his own god. He did not know his name; that is not surprising. The true name is known to none.
Chapter 24
The story of Adele and Semmant occupied me totally for several weeks, until the end of July. Until the insufferable Madrid heat, which the air conditioners could not handle. At first, Lidia was patient – obviously waiting for everything to go back to the way it had been. Then her patience dried up, and the problems began.
Not surprising, since I now made very little time for her. We met, but infrequently; and my standoffishness was noticeable. But the main issue was not with me – or rather, not with me personally. Soon it became clear Lidia Alvares Alvares did not approve of the new Adele.
Meanwhile, symbiosis with the virtual was, as before, necessary to her. She depended on my tales, was accustomed to identifying herself with an image composed to satisfy her dreams. And now the identification had gone amiss; Adele had quickly been reincarnated, becoming all the more magnanimous. This also related to the details of the courtesan’s craft – the change Lidia could not come to terms with. She liked to imagine herself as a whore, but she didn’t know how to just give herself away without receiving compensation in full. She understood how and why one could sleep with a man for money – or for pleasure, to indulge her own passions. Or, best of all, for both at the same time, but never without a rational reason, an idea of what she wanted to get in return. “Getting in return” was the key phrase. On that, not on “giving,” all emphasis was placed. And now that emphasis pointed at nothing.
For Lidia this was unbearable, ridiculous. Her world had been broken to pieces, not being secured anymore by well-calculated logic. Society had nurtured in her an understanding of her role and had been prepared to pay for that role. Her every smile and grimace, every bit of her sexuality were worth something and awaited reward. She never made friends without reason – and never gave herself to men without demanding in return. Something from my sketches had confused her earlier: when Adele had transformed from a puta into a priestess, and money was merely incidental, not the end in itself. Lidia was perplexed – according to her code, love “for its own sake” was forbidden. Otherwise, they’ll take you for a fool, for a provincial who doesn’t know the rules. Sometimes Lidia would ask me, “Remind me, where was Adele born? Oh, she’s Russian. Well, that makes sense!” For some reason, this made her put up with a lot. But everything has its limits, of course.
If you don’t advertise your price, that means your price isn’t high – of this, Lidia Alvares Alvares was absolutely certain. And it soon became clear: she was annoyed with the new Adele for almost everything – for her kindness, her generosity, her brutal honesty. On top of that, the themes of lust and depravity in my stories had moved to the background. Subconsciously I hoped she would simply lose interest as a result. I already wanted to break up with her, though I didn’t admit this directly. But it didn’t turn out that way; the breakup didn’t happen. Rather, the opposite occurred. Lidia got tired of tolerance and resolved to fight – for the Adele she needed.
Yes, I underestimated the extent to which she was unaccustomed to losing what belonged to her. She could not imagine life without Adele, as she could not imagine it without conveniences, good food, and expensive clothes. Lidia had been conditioned for someone to think her up on her own behalf, and now she believed that was precisely how it would be – how it must be – forever. The one who had spoiled her now owed it to her – to continue, not to stop, what he had started!
All this I concluded later, after a couple of weeks. In fact, Lidia herself didn’t clearly comprehend at first exactly what was happening. Her gaze took on an evaluating squint, but the essence of the task was not clear to her. She thought I, perhaps, could be moved to pity or cajoled; and she tried – fussing over trifles, attempting to become more subservient, obedient. Then, on the contrary, she made it look like she knew something of which I was not aware. Something to affirm her power, her wisdom, her invulnerability. She would lecture me, smiling wickedly, all the while with that same evaluating squint. She was becoming wearisome – like a teacher giving a lesson. She wanted me to admit I had not done my homework about real life.
Incidentally, it was not just me who was affected by this. Lidia started to express her displeasure regarding everything around us. While doing this, she praised my qualities in comparison – merely to assert her rights even more persistently. Property rights, above all – her relations with me became jealous to the point of absurdity. Sometimes she would call at an unusual hour to request tender words. At our encounters she would expect flowers, gifts, some commonly vulgar display of affection. Everything was becoming harder with her – nagging even commenced during sex. It was as if I had to pass an exam every time: Lidia wanted everything, and all at once. She demanded I always put forth a heroic male performance. She became too loud and even started scratching my back – earlier she wouldn’t have dared do that. When I expressed my annoyance, she feigned offense – complaining I was inhibiting her freedom in lovemaking. Indeed, she began to fake offense quite often. I think she now frequently faked her orgasms too.
All this was burdensome, uncomfortable. Lidia had ceased to be in a tranquil state of mind. Her set of prearranged poses nearly doubled. If I wearied of pretending I believed in the sincerity of her emotions, she would get teary-eyed, pathetic, then rude, then fawn over me again… Afterward, she became ashamed of herself, tried to take revenge by telling me about her past love life – and then again demanded petty care. She was capricious like a princess, complained I did not fully appreciate her, assessed out loud and at length how many men would like to be in my place. To carry her in their arms, pamper her unfailingly. Here they are, standing in a long line. How strange I couldn’t see it!
Perhaps it seemed to her she was strengthening our connection, but it was the opposite: I withdrew as I grew increasingly tired of her. Her artificiality irritated me more and more – it seemed she had stopped ever being real. Pressure built up, and finally Lidia exploded, making a terrible scene.
There was no accusing her of artificiality here: her hysterics erupted genuinely, there was no way to counterfeit that. She shouted with unexpected rage, “What you’ve been writing lately is a load of crap!” Then, sobbing out loud, she tried to hit me. She writhed, grimaced, imitating Adele from my last story…
That story, by the way, had come out pretty good. The affair occurred at a shooting range – per the fantasy of a client with a military past. He apparently thought up a sort of game – in camouflage, with a black pistol in hand. Adele did various “things” with it – according to the plan, Lidia was supposed to take note of this. Maybe she did, but she didn’t admit it to me; she was too troubled by something else. Adele, playing alon
g and getting into the role, gave the client a free blow job – just out of a good mood. This enraged Lidia – as an example of inappropriate unselfishness – though, in my view, there was not a hint of altruism in the whole account. There was nothing to blame me for, but she did detect some dirty trick – probably because she was looking for dirty tricks in everything. She shouted that, for a long time already, I had been trying to take away her will and common sense; that I was imposing upon her something unnatural, preposterous, deliberately driving her mad.
Her wrath was frightening, her fury genuine. I saw how she suddenly liked to pull out all the stops, to spew emotions endlessly. We had a knockdown, drag-out argument – I believed it was the end. But the next morning she changed her mind and started calling me, asking for forgiveness. She said she really wanted to buy khaki fatigues – and a GI blouse, heavy army boots. Then, a day later, she came to me in a military uniform. Right in the hallway I ripped off her shirt, baring her breasts. She came right there, clawing the wall with her fingernails…
However, despite our making up, the problem was not resolved – we just buried it for a little while. The tension did not relent, though Lidia never dared to make an open démarche again. Rather, she started a grueling, silent struggle.
Our quarrel had taught her something, so she changed her tactics by turning to rational logic. She used any opportunity to let me know, detail by detail, how she wished to see her virtual model portrayed. The pressure was serious; I was amazed by her persistence. Now it was she who concocted stories for me – and I should give her credit: they turned out well. Though harmless in themselves, each of them still contained an instructive example. I seemed to be entangled in a web of everyday truths. Not a single one of them could be debated – anyone would say, “Yes, that’s the way things actually are.” I myself would have affirmed: that’s the way things actually are! And who cared that all of it seemed alien, savage to Semmant and me?
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