The Song of Synth

by Seb Doubinsky

  Synth was leaving flashes of color and strange flares on his retina. He stopped at a lonesome hot-dog cart and quickly ate two hot-dogs; result—a queasy stomach and a parched mouth. The vendor was a Samarqand immigrant, tired and dirty. Markus wondered if the food was poisoned. Too much TV propaganda. He directed his steps towards a familiar street, a familiar bar.

  He stared at the prostitutes, grouped at the corner of Wiesenbergsgade, shouting at the occasional passing car, giggling and exchanging cigarettes. Most of them came from Samarqand or Timbuktu. Sad exoticism and yet he couldn’t suppress a pang of desire. One of the girls looked at him and smiled. Her teeth were even and white, shining through the damp gloominess. He passed her, hesitated, then turned back.

  *

  The hotel room was minuscule, but clean. Everything was clean in Viborg City. Everybody is blond and everything is clean. Trademark. The girl locked the door behind them. She looked at him, waiting.

  An hour, he said.

  She looked into her black and gold fake leather handbag and took out her CredMachine. He inserted his official blue CredCard and punched in his code. She showed him her work permit, with the last health inspection stamp. He nodded and watched her unzip her winter jacket. Everything is legal as long as it is clean. Trademark. Blond everybody is.

  He began to undress too, sitting on the bed. He was about to take off his jeans when she wriggled her hips to get out of her black see-through panties.

  “No,” he said. “Come here.”

  She stepped towards him obediently, the dark bas-relief of her pubic hair just a few inches away from his nose.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, stroking her perfect hips, looking at her from underneath.

  Clean and legal everything.

  “Mardou,” she said and he felt the last juices of Synth simultaneously short-circuit in his soul.

  The Subterraneans. A book, he remembered. Sad-eyed Mardou. Kerouac’s ghost. The smell of stale beer. Past things, broken. Karen screaming in the bathroom. Mardou. Good name. Good girl. Now, for the anesthesia of sex, I—

  “Whaz yours?” she asked softly, stroking his hair hesitatingly and sounding like a good actress.

  Her body next to his face attracted him like a furnace. He could smell the street, sweat and deodorant. He needed more Synth. This was too real. He pushed the girl gently back and fished for the pills in the pocket of his pants. He needed to regain control.

  “Whazzis?” the girl asked, suddenly interested.

  *

  He had regained control again. The room had turned into a luxurious bordello room of the thirties, with red draperies and a mirror on the ceiling—the latter being Synth’s idea. They lay naked on the bed, sideways. His hand was caressing Mardou’s beautiful ass, her smooth skin shining softly under the gaslights. He had no idea what her dreams were, but she seemed satisfied enough, her sad eyes looking through him and seeing whatever she wanted to see. His erection pressed against her stomach, warm and soft at the same time. A blending of textures. Blood pulse. His hands parted the cheeks slightly, and his index probed for the tight pink marvel. Mardou sighed and opened her thighs. They rolled on the enormous bed, she pinning him down by the wrists.

  Her bush brushed against his penis. He closed his eyes. He felt her breasts stroke his own chest. She was playing with him. He enjoyed being played with.

  She gently grabbed him and slid him inside. The warm moistness engulfed him like a burning chimney. Flames again. Burning him to ashes. If only sex could make me forget. He reopened his eyes. Pleasure overwhelmed him. Mardou kept sliding up and down his shaft, her stomach contracting and loosening up as she moved. Belly dancer. Arabian nights. Golden sweat. Taste of metal inside my mouth.

  He felt his sperm boiling up inside his balls. He didn’t want to come now. Too fast. Too easy. He hadn’t even tried to forget. Visualize the anklet. Karen screaming in the bathroom. Only sex you forget.

  “Oh,” Mardou said.

  It was like a whisper and he felt his dick exploding in her as she kept grinding her cunt against his pelvis, again and again.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she said.

  “Mardou,” he panted. “Mardou, Mardou . . .”

  She fell on him, all sweat and warm skin.

  “My name is not Mah’dou,” she said, reaching across him for a cigarette.

  *

  Markus stepped inside the Gustav Wasa with its familiar half-light and retro decor. The bar hadn’t changed its tacky, lower middle-class interior in the last thirty years, making it hideous, attractive and timeless. He looked around to see if there was anybody he knew, but the place was filled only by the vintage jukebox and the usual drunks scattered around, their eyes buried in the snowy white foam of their beer.

  Markus walked to the large O-shaped counter and waited in front of the draft ale pump. He needed to collect himself in front of a beer or two and to lose himself in small talk with superficial half strangers. Maybe Dr. Sojo would show up—Markus had met him here a couple of times.

  The waitress, a beautiful girl in her twenties looking extremely bored or tired, took his order and poured him a pint of Carlsberg. The PersoReader was still in the inside pocket of his jacket and he was about to pull it out when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Startled, he turned to discover Dr. Sojo, grinning his toothy grin, accompanied by a young man in an expensive Italian suit.

  “Markus, Wayne. Wayne, Markus.”

  Wayne grunted something Markus didn’t understand. He seemed drunk or under the influence or both. Perhaps Dr. Sojo had sold him Synth, although he didn’t look like a Synth user. Synth was hip, this cat was Squaresville Inc. Wayne looked around, a half-smile on his nice face. Dark haired, with deep brown eyes, he was quite handsome and Markus noted with some jealousy that he had attracted the waitress’s attention. Her bored expression was gone, she was smiling as she floated towards them.

  “Wayne’s not from here,” Dr. Sojo explained. “He’s from New Babylon. He’s on a business trip.”

  “With you?”

  Markus was surprised. He hadn’t imagined the people doing business with Dr. Sojo looking like Wayne. Dr. Sojo laughed as Wayne ordered a round. The waitress looked enchanted to serve him.

  “No, with the Viborg City National Bank. He got bored and a friend of his recommended me. Needed some thought material.”

  “What’s your trade?” Wayne asked Markus, handing him another pint, which Markus placed next to his half-finished one.

  “I.T.,” he said, wanting to remain vague.

  “I.T.?”

  Wayne shook his head.

  “Big crash in the next five years. Saturated market and technology expanding too fast for absorption. Drop programming. Invest in hardware. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “I have, but she’s far away. In Marseille. Have you ever been there?”

  Markus shook his head.

  “Nice city. Lots of Arabs. I need to pee. Excuse me.”

  Markus watched Wayne wander off to the men’s room and turned to Dr. Sojo, who was sipping his beer and looking amused.

  “Is he always like this?”

  Dr. Sojo shrugged.

  “Dunno. First time I’ve met him. He’s funny, though.”

  “Sure.”

  “How are you doing?” Dr. Sojo asked.

  “How do you mean?

  Dr. Sojo flashed a professional smile.

  “You know. Being an astronaut and all that.”

  Synth suddenly triggered the brightest supernova ever and Markus had to shield his eyes for a few seconds.

  “Good, I guess. The envelope is holding. A few slips once in a while, but it makes it all the more interesting.”

  Another nebula formed.

  “Slips? Like in ‘Houston we have a problem’ slips?”

  Markus shrugged, floating by in his space suit, the Earth glowing behind the spaceship like a blue sun.

  “Yeah.”

  Dr. Sojo leane
d forward, both elbows resting on the bar.

  “Tell me, I’m interested.”

  “Well, it’s like there’s a hallucination leakage once in a while. Mingling with reality, without me controlling it.”

  “Wow,” Dr. Sojo whispered, visibly impressed.

  “Yeah. Wow.”

  They raised their glasses and toasted. Dr. Sojo suddenly winked at him and Markus turned around.

  “I’m back,” Wayne said, stating the obvious. “This place is dead. Do you know of any fun places?”

  “Like where you can dance?” Markus asked.

  “Like where you can watch other people dance.”

  “I know Karl’s,” Dr. Sojo said.

  “What is Karl’s?” Wayne asked.

  “A strip club, not far from here.”

  “Females are a good commodity, although, like cars, they tend to lose half their value as soon as you’ve bought them. But the risk is minimal. Safe interest rate.”

  “So, do you want to go to Karl’s or not?” Markus asked impatiently.

  “Sure,” Wayne said. “Sure.”

  *

  If Wayne wanted company, his wish was fulfilled. Karl’s was packed with the usual array of Cash and Cred students, intellectuals, wannabees and other scumbags, taking advantage of the NoCred prices and of their own economically strong position to fulfill their illusion of Bohemian life. Markus knew the type well. He had been one of them.

  They were sitting at a table near the stage, where a beautiful blonde girl with a sharp mouth and angry eyes was doing a modern rendition of the classic 60s Go-Go style. The 60s were big now style-wise, as their ‘good, clean, fun’ cartoon-like images helped convey an idea of ‘friendly consumerism.’ Markus lit a cigarette and tried to relax in his chair, while his two associates ogled the girl’s beautifully designed breasts.

  Pictures of Mardou—or whatever her name was—kept sliding back and forth over the dancer’s body, like a wild slide-show.

  “Have you ever been to Corsica?” Wayne asked no one in particular, his voice muffled by the cheesy music.

  Two bodies merged into one. Fragments swirling slowly like ice on the surface of a still river. Fingers probing, invading holes. The salty taste of sweat. A faint smile. The bodies moving. His body too. His body, dragged in by the force of desire.

  “Isabelle’s best friend is Corsican. I think he’s a terrorist. I don’t mind. It helps my business. Supposed to be superb. More beautiful than Greece. Have you been to Greece?”

  Only one body missing. Karen’s. The figure in the carpet. What you forgot was never missed until it was suddenly pointed out. Could he remember the smell of her sweat? Could he remember how tense her stomach was when he licked her? Could he remember the way she lifted her hips so that he could push deeper into her? Could he remember anything?

  “I have been to Athens once. Very polluted. I saw a junkie beaten to death by two policemen on Omonia. Very violent. But the Parthenon is beautiful. They also have one of the last anarchist terrorist groups. Risk investment recommended. In the top-ten, actually.”

  Anything at all?

  *

  The night was cold and beautiful, the stars crowning the black sky like a hierophant. It all hung like a beautiful tapestry over the roofs of the Strindberg Residence, the housing complex where he lived. Red brick and white-framed windows, five stories of pure Credit style, perfectly crafted to give the tenants the illusion of temporary comfort on their imaginary way up to Cash residences and summer houses. All power to the people. Yeah, he remembered. The old poster with the black fist up on Ole’s door. Synth made a summersault within his soul. The old fist up on black’s door. Yeah, whatever. He was so drunk and high he had tunnel-vision. Up on door. Funkadelic seemed appropriate. Didn’t have any of their albums though. Nick had them all—a complete fan. But Markus knew where to find some at this ungodly hour. The only place that never closed and where money was always welcome.

  What is soul?

  I don’t know, huh!

  *

  Lalalala, ladada

  (x3)

  Lalalala, ladada (ah, ah)

  Lalalala, ladada

  *

  So here he was again, cruising the cybernothingworld of Erewhon®, that so nicely brought peace to his soul with its commercial emptiness. He walked his avatar to the virtual Yo Music store, looking around for Gloria, with no real hope. Was she married now? Was she happy? He slapped his avatar’s face. What a fucking stupid question! What did happiness mean anyway? The measure by which every occidental life was measured. The impossible measure. Of course. One could never be happy. Well, not really anyway. Of course. Less sad, maybe. Less miserable at the max. But the lie, oh the lie. So perfect. So humiliating. Kept us spinning the wheel like stupid guinea pigs. Synth tried to provide comfort, sending pictures of candy bars, hamburgers, tropical sunrises, female beach volleyball contests and beautiful Rolex watches.

  The store was full of sexy avatars—teenagers having fun and pedophiles trying to find their prey, he guessed—did they know each avatar was encoded and therefore traceable?—did they know that Cyber Magic®, owner of the Erewhon® servers sold the code to companies so they could elaborate customer profiles and send them appropriate spam, ads and commercial trojans? The minute you pressed a download button in one of the two hundred virtual shops that existed there, you were caught in the net of the Net—freedom of choice, as they said—no more bad thoughts, mister Olsen—maybe there were tracking codes for those too.

  He went to the virtual jukebox and looked for Funkadelic—but the first three albums were missing—actually they were there, but the link didn’t function—just his luck. It was the same with books, he knew. He had tried downloading Naked Lunch a couple of times, but the link was dead. The message read “soon to be restored,” but it hadn’t been restored in two years—not enough readers probably, though Mein Kampf was available—he was tempted to add of course.

  Markus sighed and logged off. No drug-induced Black Power funk tonight. If he wanted the music real bad he’d have to go back to Sorgbjerg and go to Frank’s Second-Hand CD Store. Like Carlo, it was a goldmine for music lovers, at least for those who still had a CD player at home.

  He got up and stretched. Bedtime. Synth would give him the most magnificent dreams. Something to look forward to. Flashes of Mardou and the stripper mixed. He felt a warmth grow in his underpants. Then he remembered the PersoReader in the pocket of his jacket. The Potemkin Overture. The novel about him and the Potemkin Crew.

  He picked it up and turned off the lights in the dining-room. Time for a good bedtime story.

  *

  It was really strange to picture himself, Nick and Ole as characters. Well, they all had been characters, in a way, especially during their high treason trial and the ensuing hype. He could remember the TV specials on them and the pile of lies or grossly distorted info that they were media-lynched with. In the City of Freedom, bad guys had to be really bad guys—evil sociopaths and the like. You had to be insane to rebel against this perfect model of a society. It was funny to think that the USSR had jailed its dissidents on precisely the same arguments. But politics were a thing of the past now. The anklet was all the politics he knew about and that was enough for now. Until Sørensen mentioned the past and Karen made her gigantic comeback in the forgotten cinema of his soul, in full Cinemascope® and Technicolor®.

  He remembered

  fumbling with the buttons of her shirt—a white cotton shirt revealing the white bra underneath—she stroking his hair and laughing—they were sitting on the sofa—was it her second visit or her third?—his fingers trying to hide their impatience while her breath crowned his forehead—his fingers moving slowly downwards—her shirt like a curtain opening on her lovely satin bra—his nose digging deep in her soft, perfumed flesh rippling with delicate laughter—she all the while not touching him, except for his hair in which her hands were buried—he kissing her while his hand made the great leap to her breast
, finding its way beneath the cup, discovering her hardened nipple—the vertigo of the tongues, the slight change in breathing

  she finally helping him out of his own shirt—still laughing as his head got entangled—sweet strangulation of love and desire—very Burroughsian to say the least—their stomachs touching and burning with that invisible fire

  and he remembered the slow undressing and tongue licking biting kissing eating swallowing turning discovering while their bodies crashed into one another sweetly but fiercely in the fleshy walls of their soft machinery oh how he had longed for her for this moment oh how he had

  her hand around his penis timid at first while he rubbed and rubbed where it feels oh so good yes yes yes and then her hand becoming more self assured and his own erection too tower of power rocket to the moon all that silly imagery that suddenly wasn’t a metaphor anymore

  but why think of poetry at a moment like this—kneeling between her knees in front of her dark forest—he noticed she had shaved the sides of her pubic hair—darker skin around the thighs like his cheeks at the end of the day—his nose discovering her real self first—through her bittersweet perfume—then his delicate fingers then his tongue—closing his eyes although he wanted to keep them open—but he was still shy in a way not for long but at that time yes—his tongue tickling and lapping and rolling and playing and tickling and lapping again—she not saying anything not even moaning as if her breath had frozen—only the movements of her belly going up and down like a fleshy wave—his hands on her hips feeling upwards and downwards—touching her like a blind man with his face buried deep against her

  until she reached for his shoulders and made him join her kiss her fondle her some more taking his penis in her hand again and opening her thighs like a beautiful tree—the image had surprised him but that was the image he had the first time they made love—a beautiful tree

  inside outside inside outside inside outside

  the love dance

  all the while Synth recreating it all in true-to-life rendition

  he had looked directly into her eyes as he was coming shards of electric pain jolting though the small of his back