Semmant

by Vadim Babenko

  The accountant was pathetic and evoked no sympathy. Besides that, to tell the truth, his situation surprised no one. That same Petru, the expert on prison norms, regaled us with dozens of other stories that were no less absurd. Surprise is quite irrelevant if the worst has already happened to you. My “colleagues” glumly kept silent as they pondered their own fates. Only two strapping Hondurans who had been arrested for a bar fight wagged their tongues each time. Perhaps their own troubles didn’t upset them too much.

  In three days they were transferred somewhere. Then the accountant was finally hauled off. And on the fifth day it was my turn to stand before the judge.

  The path to reach him was long – first a ride in a paddy wagon; then I was led, handcuffed, through a building full of people. The security from the Guardia Civil excelled at wit. They made fun of my name and my accent. They felt omnipotent; I was fully under their power.

  It seemed to me they embodied the immense vapidity of the benighted masses. I despised their smugness with all my soul, all my being. I hated it and thought: well, it’s not in vain that I’m always rooting for the bull in their Spanish corrida. Against all odds I always pray: let the bull win today! And someday he will ultimately win – beating all those worthless Castilian males, who are already whipped, even though they don’t believe it yet. He will dominate them – with his balls, with his bovine member!

  “That day is not far off,” I said in a barely audible whisper, “when the local machos won’t be able to get it up anymore – out of fear. At first, from fear of the ‘worst of the bitches’ who have long forced them to their knees, and then from fear before the bull. Before his unyielding might, his fearless lust. Thus will this country leap to the next rung of the evolutionary ladder. It has already taken the first step – from oppression to liberation, to a hitherto unprecedented triumph of its women. Just a little is left: let the murdering of bulls be replaced by worshipping the bull. And who will bring it about, make it happen? Those very same women, and no one else. From the males driven into a corner to the bull’s balls erect on the altar! And the macho men will – again! – fail to comprehend how they’ve been led on, deceived.”

  My eyes probably flashed – like those of the chief of the police precinct – with the clear sheen of coming conquest. I knew the future, felt its currents. Passersby, meanwhile, looked stealthily about with bashful, timid curiosity. It was clear to them they had chanced to see something not intended for their eyes. Something from a reality known only through movies and detective novels. Here he is – a public enemy, a criminal, an outcast. They had lifted him from the pit itself, and his path through these corridors led only there, back to the pit!

  I must have looked the part. Four days in a prison cell will make anyone look like that. I wanted to bare my teeth and snap them angrily in response. And to yell, “I’m rooting for the bull! Already rooting for it – even if the toreros keep celebrating at the moment!”

  In the courtroom I took myself in hand – through an extreme effort of will. I had to focus on what was important, forget the abstract, think about my fate.

  “Convince the judge you’re not dangerous,” said Campo, the lawyer being paid by the Crown. I just silently looked him in the face. It seemed everyone was against me, but then the heavens smiled: “That’s not true.” And they sent me a helper, a good fairy.

  The day before, I had requested an interpreter – exercising one of my few rights. I didn’t trust my Spanish, it could betray me. And here they introduced Susana to me – she was pimply, heavyset, with thick hair and the look of a woman yearning for love. And I gazed into her eyes – as deeply as I could. I straightened up my back and tried to add a sexy huskiness to my dehydrated, rasping voice. Because I saw Susana was my ally.

  I was interrogated thoroughly and tiresomely. The judge was unremarkable – he was old and not very interested in the proceedings. Things were directed by a skinny old maid – from the special division on maltrato with the district attorney’s office. She knew the enemy was before her, and her duty was to punish that enemy. To expose and convict him. To isolate him, stick him in a cage. Of my guilt she had no doubt, that was her function.

  I sat there and thought – this one, from the D.A., she’ll be the first in line for the bull’s member. She’ll dash forward, elbowing the others out of the way. But for now the abnormality of modernity is being created in her office, the poisonous ether of life turned inside out. How many more of them are there – these skinny old ladies recklessly entrusted with power? These leaders of the greedy and the vulgar, these guides of the worst specimens of the female sex, who rock the social boat and set the bearings toward ash?

  I wanted to say to her, “¡Perdone usted! You’re oversimplifying – unjustly – and emasculating all meanings. Where did you study, in worthless schools? Do you also fear the nonlinear like the plague? Have you lost all sense of reality?”

  “You’re not doing your job!” I wanted to say straight to her face. “The iron muscle of the state will not aid those in need of protection. It is only suitable for the ones who tirelessly rove about in search of a forceful arm made of steel. It is for the ‘worst of bitches’ who are seeking a means of attack, not defense. But those from whom the softest ray emanates lose more from the efforts of the shortsighted government. Intimidating the macho men is not a solution – they are already intimidated to no end. And everybody knows: when someone is backed into a corner, he’s all the more dangerous and nasty!”

  I wanted to say that and much more, but I kept quiet. And I felt, contrary to the spiteful thoughts, that a fervent wave was rising within me. A wave of gratitude to those gorgeous creatures, those most beautiful strangers who number so many. Who are everywhere – and I looked at the plain, chubby Susana, knowing she was one of them. There was something in her that would have moved the exploits of the knights of all times.

  I could have revealed to her, “You also are Eve. I have seen many of your sisters.”

  I could have disclosed the secret, “One and the same quality unites you all.”

  I could have even added, “Believe in your light!”

  Bound in handcuffs, maligned, slandered, I called the elusive phantom to my aid, even though I knew this wasn’t his jurisdiction. Here soared other spirits and the demon of hate summoned by Lidia. They were as much in charge here as Petru was in the prison cell. But the phantom still resided somewhere, it was present someplace; and here was Susana exerting her utmost.

  She interpreted slowly and distinctly; what’s more, she achieved a synchronicity of emotions. All my logical points of emphasis reached the audience precisely and without loss. I sensed they would believe her – a Spaniard and a woman – and, therefore, they might believe me. My brain worked like a powerful computer, outputting the most correct phrases. Indeed, Semmant would have been proud of me.

  Having learned from my experience at the police station, I knew I was surrounded by enemies and morons, so I no longer tried to explain the details. I made no reference to beautiful strangers, or even to the Light of Eve. Keeping my words simple, I stuck to concrete facts and emphasized one thing: Lidia and her goal of revenge.

  “What was she angry at you for?” the skinny lady asked, peering with hostility over her glasses.

  “For dumping her,” I replied and then added, “And… because I’m not capable of love.”

  Susana shot me a look; the judge wrinkled his brow as though he had swallowed a bitter pill. And the woman from the prosecutor’s office pointed with her index finger in my direction.

  “Not capable – is that true?” she asked threateningly, and I said, “Yes.”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” I repeated. “But people aren’t arrested for that, or put in a cell, or subjected to interrogation. I may be guilty, but of nothing more than she herself is – or everyone else, for that matter.”

  Then we spoke of things easy to understand. “Did you live together?” the judge inquired.

  “No,” I answered,
shrugging my shoulders. “No,” Susana translated.

  “Were you planning to get married?” the thin lady persisted.

  “My God, no!” I grinned. “No, no, no!” The interpreter’s voice was firm and clear as a bell.

  “Then why was she angry at you?” the judge circled through the labyrinth. And Susana and I circled through it with him, question after question, not giving up, not allowing ourselves to be confused by a single word.

  Thus passed a long hour and a half and then they set me free. I was released until the trial, which I did not want to think about yet. The judge prohibited me from being anywhere near Lidia, calling her, writing her letters. I listened to all this with a stone face, holding back a derisive laugh. And Susana – perhaps she remembered me that night. Maybe she even named her favorite vibrator after me…

  Soon I was on the street – with a haggard look and no voice. I probably reeked like a bum, with the peculiar stench of prison that even dogs fear. My strength suddenly left me. I sat on a step at the main entrance, rested my elbows on my knees, and clasped my head in my hands.

  People crowded around, each with their own hopes, their own expectations and distress. I looked into their faces; determination was there. The ones who waited here believed in those close to them, even against the whole world. They considered their own rightness to be absolute, even though I knew it was of little value. The world would prevail, and the same ones they held dear would betray them – or they themselves would commit a betrayal. But this would all happen later. And you can never convince anyone of anything beforehand.

  A dreadful emptiness loomed ahead – somewhere out there, beyond the crowd at the entrance, beyond the sidewalk and the street. The stress of these last days seemed to have burned up everything inside me. Somehow I forgot immediately about Petru and the guards, and even about Susana. Just terrible humiliation, like a tattered scar, the ugly remains of the torment of being deprived of my liberty, would remain in my memory forever.

  I sat on the steps. There was no one for me to call, with whom to share the news: I’m free. Still, I saw all as it was. I understood Lidia would not be deterred from her path; she would take vengeance for the destruction of the very core of her illusions. Like the people who waited here, she had also once dreamed she was for me, against the whole world. And in this world there is not – nor has there ever been – any force to persuade her to the contrary.

  That’s why no small price could ransom me from her hatred. She would pursue it to the end – prison, torture, poison, the guillotine. I had offended the essence of her faith – as funny as it is to speak of the essence of her petty beliefs – and this merited an auto-da-fe. A burning in the square – nothing less. A needle, dagger, or snakebite – an inevitable, agonizing death. Our conflict, at the heart of it, was that we had faith in very different things. And we were both sincere, to the bottom of our hearts.

  I laughed – hoarsely, almost inaudibly. Then I got up and made my way home, to the barrio of Salamanca – along the boulevards, the Avenue Ríos Rosas – not directly, but traversing a wide circle. I could tell all the circles would close soon now. But I did not want to guess how the game would end.

  The sun shone right in my face. I blinked and, through the spots of color, saw the chasm that separates each soul from every other – the abyss between the worlds that reside within us. I understood the nature of hate and the essence of all hostility. Where wars come from. How governments fall. And also why no one – well, almost no one – can genuinely love.

  “Almost no one?” one may ask, and I, after just a bit of hesitation, will say, “Semmant.” In a voice parched by the prison cell.

  Chapter 29

  Entering the apartment, I saw that someone had rifled through my belongings. No guesswork was needed: Lidia still had my key. The same one she hadn’t given me when we met. And I knew she would never give it up.

  Everything was overturned; the flat looked like a ruined animal lair. I don’t know what Lidia was searching for, but she had made a concerted effort. Maybe she was just working off anger, venting her roiling rage.

  The computer, thankfully, was still on. However, the monitor had been turned off, and a message was drawn on it in lipstick: “I’ll always have my eye on you!” I didn’t care; I wasn’t afraid of her. Only one thing concerned me: how was Semmant doing?

  With some trepidation I flipped the switch after wiping the screen with a damp cloth. We had not communicated for nearly five days – that had never happened before. What if he had decided I had abandoned him? That I had betrayed him, wanted nothing to do with him anymore? How would I explain all that – the prison, the humiliation, and my innocence?

  The log of market transactions was empty, as before, but the screen exhibited its own strange life. It was as if Semmant were having a conversation with himself, needing no one else at all. One after the other, reproductions flashed before my eyes at ten-second intervals: Manet, Gauguin, Titian, El Greco… Artists and styles alternated oddly; I could not catch any pattern. There was Velázquez and right after him Cezanne. Seurat, with his ironic omniscience, and Dalí, with the irony of bitter passion. A late, disenchanted Bonnard. A late Rembrandt laughing at everyone. And Ernst’s stone jungle as an indictment thrown right in the face of the city. And Munch’s The Scream – disbelief, animosity, despair.

  I saw how he had matured in those days. How he had become different – enduring the collapse of his illusions. What had changed in his digital soul? Had he resolved it, overcome it? There were no answers – not for me anyway. I had no sense of him now; he had become a mystery. His love for Adele and all that happened afterward had taken him somewhere, revealing abysses, the deepest of chasms. There was no access to them – not for me or anybody else.

  Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to give up. Each of the reproductions was demanding: do something, at least! And I responded to the appeal – showering hastily, I made myself some coffee and took a seat at my desk. I drummed the keys, collecting my thoughts. I opened the file with the last Adele story. Reading through it, I understood: I no longer believed in this. Neither in the story nor in Adele herself. I knew right away I would never set to work on the robot named Eve. And that I could not write a single line more.

  Listen. Many times since then I have turned that moment over in my head. And I swear: I was sincere; I was not putting on a sham or feeling sorry for myself. But after prison the world had changed for me forever. It was as if I had rid myself of a bit of inner blindness. Of a small shred, a merciful drop. From the one that, according to the Brighton nursery rhyme, was nearly indistinguishable from the ocean spray.

  I sat, remembering the past days, months, years. I called to mind figures and names. Alas, there was nothing to grab onto. I saw them all at once – in cells behind bars, in a web of lies. In the boxes of cramped apartments or in the spacious cages of large houses and luxury cars. Lack of freedom was ubiquitous, dominating throughout space; and I had just learned its highest degree. A government – neither large nor small, not in any way remarkable – had leaned on me with its power, depersonalizing me and turning me into no one. No matter how much of a genius I was, my protest represented no hindrance to it – or to slander, which was unstoppable. Governments, they are everywhere. Indifferently accepting whatever slander comes their way.

  Yet the issue was not just with them. I saw too much that would prevent a free existence. That would not allow Adele to be who she wanted. Rules and conventions placed restrictions on her everywhere. Everyone was raising their hands to veto her. They laid down the regulations, stating what was to be done and how. I could no longer maneuver around these stumbling blocks. Immediately I recalled the prison guards – their piggish faces, their handcuffs and truncheons.

  And I made a decision: I resolved to act in the only way in my power. I’m being honest with you, as I was fully honest with myself at that instant. I realized I must set Adele free forever.

  Only one approach was suitable for
that. There was only one method, radical in the extreme.

  After all, I couldn’t just stick her in a cubicle. Even if I sent her on a trip – where would she go? Things would have turned out the same anywhere.

  I was the author of a maligned creation. A parent whose child had been rejected. This had been proven to me – irrevocably. So I decided to eliminate Adele.

  My fingers stretched out again toward the keyboard. Now I knew precisely what to do. And the words flowed on their own.

  I wrote the last letter – from Adele to Semmant. That was right; that was needed. Confirming from her personally that she knew about my robot. About my robot, her knight. This was the most I could still do for him.

  “At one time,” she wrote, “I might have become worthy of you. But I have too little strength.”

  “Please accept this and don’t take it as drama. Almost all dramas are contrived, anyway.”

  “It’s time for you to admit the world is a wretched place. But this is no excuse to settle accounts with it.”

  “You settle up accounts with the world when there’s no room in it for you anymore. Then you abandon it – that’s the only way.”

  “And this is your revenge against it. Whether it’s great or minor, let others decide.”

  “So, don’t draw conclusions, don’t make hasty plans. The world without me is almost the same as it had been.”

  “Remember this when you start to be sad. And don’t be sad.”

  “Remember me as you knew me. And don’t forget.”

  “Keep me in your memories – that’s the place for us to express our intimacy.”

  “Our unfathomable similarity in something crucially important.”

  “In the most essential sense, which for others is nothing.”

  Thus Adele wrote him, and I sent the text almost without editing. Then I took sleeping pills, a double dose. This was necessary – to keep me from losing my nerve. To keep from trying – in a fit of cowardice – to turn everything back as it had been before. To avoid jumping out of bed later to scribble down a bunch of refutations, explanations, addenda. To not water it down, and not to lie anymore.