Waiting for oblivion, I breathed deeply, with my full chest. Everything should now proceed on its own. I no longer directed events; I had spent my power. I had reached the line that could not be crossed.
That night I had erotic dreams again. Or rather, explicitly pornographic dreams. They featured Adele this time – as if she were trying to reward me with herself at last. She was exceptionally good. We yielded to the most depraved follies. Most likely, I experienced the best sexual adventure of my life.
I woke suddenly, as if I had just surfaced out of a whirlpool. The wind howled; rain lashed at the windows. It was already late – almost noon. I had slept for fourteen hours straight.
Abruptly, I recalled everything – prison, the trashed apartment, Adele’s farewell letter. My heart leaped; I tossed away the blanket and wandered to the desk, rubbing my eyes. The screen flickered pale gray; the pictures had disappeared. There was no woman’s silhouette, nor a black pelican in the corner. Nothing but the words: DEAD END. DEAD. END.
I knew what this meant; that message was generated by my own piece of code. The only fragment that hadn’t been modified – perhaps the robot secretly suspected he might find it useful at some point. This was a self-destruct mechanism. I introduced it into the system for the contingency of a deadlock cycle, an algorithm failure, an infinite loop. With these words I wanted to let myself know my program was defective. That everything was confused, hopeless, and that resources were consuming themselves. And now I received the error message. Not from my program, but from Semmant.
Just in case, I hurriedly scanned the disks, trying to find some kind of trace. It was in vain; emptiness reigned everywhere. From it had arisen Semmant; from it he made money, and then he left it in his wake: an emptiness called death.
My ears were ringing, the walls floated before my eyes. I lay on the floor and stared at the ceiling. It was virginal, flawlessly white. In it, all colors mingled at once – and all my thoughts pounded in my head together. There was no sense in a single one of them any longer.
I remember the astonishment: I just could not believe my action of the day before. It was awful, immensely erroneous, hopelessly foolish. I had never done anything so stupid in my life – and there would never be another chance to. Yet, at the same time, I understood I could have done nothing else.
Also, I remember I tried – lying on the floor half-delirious, feverish – to find some kernels of rationality, to formulate some justifications. “The new level of abstraction,” I muttered, “it should have protected him, rescued him. The gigabytes – they seemed to be a safety shield. They seemed to be armor that was not so easy to puncture…”
Then I cursed myself, “Idiot! Moron!” I hastily attempted to figure out whether anything could possibly heal Semmant of his inner pain – that is, could I help him, if only I knew what pain he was feeling? It was clear: he was not becoming hard of heart, no matter how much his self-adjustment had improved. He knew suffering and refused to accept its cause, and this was a conscious choice. The artificial brain had computed with mathematical precision that, in this case, compromise was impossible. Better not to exist at all, he had calculated – out to some distant decimal point. It was harsh evidence not to be subverted. It could really make me famous – it might be worth a Nobel Prize…
Tears welled up; I wiped them away with my palm. Then I blinked, drowning in swirls of color. Again I mumbled something to swim out of it. To keep from smothering, from losing my mind.
An hour passed in this fashion. Suddenly regaining consciousness, I sat up, then stood; my head was no longer spinning. The walls, the writing desk – all froze in place.
I jiggled the mouse, opened my market access program, and laughed knowingly. Yes, this was to be expected.
The robot had sent me a notice in the end. This probably meant he bore me no ill will. This meant we were together, like before, and he believed in me no matter what.
All the papers had been sold at one fell swoop; all assets were turned to cash. We had no connection anymore to the rest of the world. We isolated, removed ourselves; the world lost track of us. We took our plunder from it and hid. But then, when it thought we were making a cowardly retreat, we suddenly threw the money in its face. We made the craziest bet – as if challenging the world’s own courage.
My capital – all of it, down to the last cent – had been transferred to Forex. Placed in enormous unsecured futures that had been selected, I was certain, at random. This was a coin tossed in the wind, but with the least chance of winning. Russian roulette with a bullet in nearly every chamber. A funny trick, a dead-end joke.
I winked at the screen and shook my head. Then I opened another window, looked at what was happening in the forecasts, the news feeds, the stock quotes. The market, like a crazy train, was rushing in the other direction. A series of terrorist attacks rocked Asia; the world was panicking; investors were offloading assets. The currencies followed them – to my detriment. Our stake was as conspicuous as a suicide trooper standing at full height under heavy fire.
I could have tried to save at least part, change something, rearrange it. But I knew I must not do that. Semmant’s gesture was a test for me. The invitation, the initiation – it was clear there would never be another chance. Was I ready to go all the way, as Semmant had done? Like many others, through the centuries, whose names we do not remember.
Perhaps this was a sacrifice to the chaos monster rearing up in full rage. A ritual I could not do without – after all the transgressions I had committed. I sat with a meaningless grin, watching the points of currency transactions approaching the red line. I whispered names. Little Sonya, Little Sonya, Anthony, Anthony, Dee Wilhelmbaum. Adele, Semmant. Adele, Semmant, Semmant… At least let someone call them aloud, I thought. Even just once, maybe a few times.
Soon, all was over – irretrievably. My money was burned; I was left with nothing. I returned to the beginning of the infinite loop, to the dirty docks of Marseille, to solitude without borders. This did not trouble me in the least.
On the screen continued the dance of numbers, the creep of news lines. Graphics and diagrams changed every second; the market lived out its nervous life. It wasn’t important to me now – I threw myself out of the carriage. The train flashed by and drove on. There was nothing left for me to do, sitting behind the desk, at my computer. Feeling acute hunger, I pulled the plug and went into the kitchen. There I was apprehended by a phone call.
The police were calling – regarding my arrest. A woman inspector, wheedling and cruel, wanted to have a talk with me. I understood immediately that she was one of the worst of the bitches who had acquired authority. One of those whose genitals don’t have enough nerve endings. In her voice I heard passionate exultation, animal satisfaction, like after an orgasm.
“You should remember that we’re watching you,” she uttered distinctly. “Your girlfriend is under the protection of the State. You are forbidden to call her or have any contact. You are forbidden to even think about approaching her. If we decide that you are dangerous, you’ll be kept behind bars until the trial! We will find you anywhere – we will find you and render you harmless!”
Her voice made the diaphragm of the handset speaker become moist, sticky. I suddenly realized I was sorry for her. I felt almost no anger.
“I want to give you some advice,” I told her. “Times are about to change soon. In the line for the bull’s balls, try to push your way forward right away – there will be a crowd!”
I did this out of pure goodwill. Don’t let them think I’m up in arms at the whole world. With the lost, those who are not to blame, I’m even ready to share my premonitions. And the inspector is one of the lost. She has merely convinced herself that she’s doing a righteous thing…
And here it was as though a current ran through me. A righteous thing, even if just a single one – it was on the surface, and there was no need for convincing! An indignant shriek met my ear, but I was no longer listening. Skanda Purana’s be
ll resounded in my head, encompassing all sounds. Putting everything in place – yes, I had jumped from the train, but here, under the rails, the story had not ended, the finale had not played.
I hung up the phone and started to get ready. One more exploit, the last one, awaited me.
Chapter 30
Regardless of how long you soar through abstractions, there’s no hiding from reality; it never goes away. It will hunt you down, call you to act – and not relent, no matter how you squirm. Only, perhaps, someone may take your place – if, for example, you’re already dead. I was not dead, and no one was going to accomplish my task for me.
The more ardently you try to distance yourself, the more they demand of you later. I had achieved an incredible remoteness; therefore, they now expected a most serious action. I had no right to compromise – in fact, compromise had already been excluded from the equation. It was rejected by Semmant’s electronic brain.
I prepared carefully, without hurrying. No matter what, I had plenty of time. I knew precisely what had to be done – what was left to do, so that the plot could reach a resolution. Adele was dead and Semmant with her; the chain of events had closed in on itself. My initial plan had been fulfilled, approaching perfection at its highest point. And at the very same place it encountered the omnipotence of villainy.
The only thing remaining was to reward the omnipotence as well as the perfection, according to their deeds. It remained to punish villainy, its embodiment: the villainess herself. To punish abstract evil – in the manifestation that it had assumed this time. To halt entropy – even if only on the most local scope. And also to affirm the impropriety of simplifications. Lidia Alvares Alvares should share the fate of Adele and Semmant.
Don’t try to persuade me their deaths were artificial, unreal. It had long been clear who among us was real and who wasn’t. That’s why Lidia actually had to die – she and her poisonous soul. Maybe this would finally help her, cleanse her of insincerity, of false posturing. Perhaps it would make her genuine – as much as Adele the courtesan was genuine for Semmant and me.
Of course, I understood this would all look absurd from the outside. Exceptionally absurd, even criminal. I didn’t care; I was carrying out the inevitable. That’s how everything worked out – no arguing with inevitability. As far as what would happen to me afterward, what difference did it make? I sensed it was too late to think of the consequences, and I was not afraid – of anyone or anything. Once you know the extremes, you get over being afraid. Deprivation of freedom is the most fearful thing there can be. And don’t think I’m just talking about prison. Extreme loss of freedom is more than prison!
Never in my life had I hit a woman, but Lidia – she was no longer a woman to me. Abstract evil has no gender; it is not a product of nature. I had to make retribution, and not just for Adele and Semmant. It was also for the demon let loose in the world; hate must not be left with a positive account balance. Besides that, it was for the perversion of an idea, for the blindness of all the old maids at the D.A.’s office, for every act of violence against those from whom the softest ray emanates. For the fact that this light is taken to be their weakness. And no government can prevent that.
Let them all be blind, but I see – I see and rush to help. Semmant is dead, but I will pick up his spear. And I will not avenge; I will execute!
I dressed in black, which was fitting for an assassin. The rain had stopped, and the sun was peeking out, but I threw on a jacket despite the heat. Rifling through my kitchen cabinets, I selected a knife. I wrapped it in a rag, tucked it in my belt. I took stock of myself – yes, I was ready. Ready to thrash, seize by the throat, deliver the decisive blow.
Then I realized I had missed something. I sat down at the table and seized a sheet of paper. I began to write – legibly, neatly, so that every word would be understood.
Retaliation required giving notice, not allowing it to remain unexplained. I wrote a long letter where it was all laid out – about the villainy, the lack of freedom, and even the future of Europe. I wrote about the bull and his balls. About the boundless torpor of this country. About the police inspector and the skinny old maid – that they were guiltless and should not be blamed. About Adele, that she existed somewhere. About Semmant… No, once I thought about it, I made no reference to Semmant. I had no desire to mention his name for nothing.
Then I went outside and grabbed a taxi. I hunched my head into my shoulders, became invisible. I couldn’t give myself away too early, before the right moment, until the time came.
Concealed in the back seat, I watched the passersby. As usual, they seemed ridiculous; but now I felt this a thousand times more acutely. I was amazed, astonished. Their self-assurance knew no bounds. They all thought that, by their own will, they controlled themselves and their lives. They all supposed they had the right to judge – existence, the whole world. And yet, not one of them knew Semmant. They knew neither him nor Adele. Or any of the story of their love and death.
The taxi driver studied me in the mirror, stealthily. In his gaze I saw pitying curiosity. Perhaps I was wincing, looking crazy. On top of that, the whole time I was fighting the urge to laugh. I had to keep holding back my laughter, finding it difficult to restrain myself and not burst out giggling.
He cocked his head in contempt, this typical Spaniard – slightly protruding eyes, curly hair, pot belly. Most likely, he had a wife; he feared her, this fat, henpecked hombre with the brains of an earthworm. My story was immensely wider than his foreshortened perspective. Naturally, he was not worthy of it. But I still allowed him to participate briefly – at the next traffic light I pulled back the hem of my jacket and showed him the knife. This worked; he was scared to death. He peered at me again, but this time his look was different. No trace was left of his former arrogance.
Soon we arrived; there was not much on the meter. I gave him a twenty and didn’t wait for change. This was my modest way of encouraging him. My gift to a little man who had suddenly learned the world was not as he imagined it to be. That the world was different – it was inscrutable, scary… The taxi driver hit the gas and sped away with screeching tires. But I was already through with him.
I headed for the main door – with a springy step. As if I were on a path in the wild woods. Ready to fend off an attack by a savage cat, the enraged creature Lidia had become. Ready to draw the knife and plunge it into her neck first.
Someone exited the entryway right on time. I changed my appearance for an instant, averting my eyes and smoothing my wolf’s fur, making myself ordinary, just not dressed for the weather. I proffered a saccharine smile, uttered “Gracias,” and caught the open door. The trick worked; Simon the magician would have been pleased with me. If he still remembered me, I mean.
In the entranceway I looked around – feeling a little hunted, sensing every whisper. All was quiet; no one was prowling on padded feet ready to pounce. The vestibule was cool, hollow, empty. Only potted cactuses stood along each wall. Somehow I had never noticed them before. They looked like the phallic statues that had been venerated in ancient Greece. Women planted them in the earth and watered them, calling out to the gods of fertility. Here, however, that would not have helped. Everything was sterile in Lidia’s residence. It exuded an air of superfluous, nonessential, meaningless life. An urge for destruction I should bring to naught.
“Celebrate the festival of your god, celebrate while ye may,” I quoted to myself in a mischievous sneer. No, she would never be the “nursemaid to a prince.” Not to one like Felipe, or to any other. She was only capable of destroying and tearing down!
Ever so slowly I ascended the stairs. Utterly quiet, I stepped across the marble on the soft soles of my sneakers. Here was the second floor, with a plaque on the only door, “Andrés Enrique Aguilar, Dentist.” A charming guide in the jungles of pain. An expert in torture with iron hooks. The building is expensive and soundly made, I thought. The walls are insulated thoroughly – no one can hear the screams!
&nbs
p; I continued to the third floor. “Carlos Villa Moreno, Attorney.” Now this was a truly ominous figure. A friend to some dungeon interrogator who shines a lamp in your face. A usurer raking in your meager, hard-earned gold with greedy fingers. At the threshold to his door lay a nice rug. He was clearly a man with far-reaching connections.
I grimaced, feeling my anger at this mob, but I knew – my rage was powerless. All of them – the dentist, the lawyer, the accountant Cristóbal García behind the door at the right – lived in their own realities. They had their own wives, mistresses, secretaries, clients. Their own specters, their own concepts of love. You can’t blame others for their universe not coinciding with yours. My world, for many, looked quite monstrous as well.
Here was the fourth floor, the one I needed. I stood for a moment, listening; then I put my ear to the keyhole and was thrilled. Voices could be distinctly heard within. That meant my target was close. I wouldn’t have to put this off or drag it out!
I drew the knife from my belt and unwrapped the cloth. I weighed it, stretched out my arm, crouched slightly, parried. Hid it behind my back, grinned as though nothing was up. Thrust my hand forward and made a few stabbing motions. Then a few slashing motions…
The air whistled as I sliced it, the blade glinting. This was a good kitchen knife. The steel was indemnified against any doubts about its quality – by a whole army of lawyers with nice rugs at their doors. If something didn’t work out, the knife would not be to blame. I could only fault myself – and my indecision, the remorse that might suddenly arise. But no, I did not have remorse. Lidia had become an abstraction, as if she weren’t even made of flesh. Dark energy was her essence. Destroying an abstraction – that was easy, not frightening.
I rang the bell and hid behind the wall. High heels clacked across the apartment. Someone, probably Lidia herself, walked up to the other side of the door and stopped. I imagined her looking through the peephole and shrugging her shoulders.
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