The joke slid on Markus like a chilled blade.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that everybody knows—well, almost everybody, it seems—about Workers’ Books! They also have Workers’ Records, Workers’ Films, Workers’ Art and maybe even more . . .”
Markus suddenly felt both dizzy and ridiculous.
“How come I can’t find them anywhere?”
“Because you need to go to their website. Actually, even if I only sell permanent books, I do download some of their fiction, once in a while. Very good, generally. I heard it’s the same with their music. And they have huge archives where you can find facsimiles of rare and out-of-print books . . . And free too. Amazing.”
Carlo was getting excited as he spoke and his cigarette danced on his lower lip like a tiny newspaper sheet in the wind.
“Actually, what you have here is the first novel they published, when they started some years ago,” he resumed, tapping the PersoReader screen with a strong finger. “A world-wide success. Too bad it’s free—the author could’ve made a fortune. Bestseller, if ever there was.”
Markus’ mouth was dry.
“How come I’ve never heard of it?”
“Because you’re too square, my friend, that’s why.”
The shop door opened and a massive silhouette made its way through the piles of books like a grizzly bear in a forest.
“Hello there, ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Sojo said, waving a huge paw. “Hope I’m interrupting something.”
“Absolutely,” Carlo said, crushing the already extinct cigarette into a full ashtray. “This gentleman never heard of Workers’ Books and everything that goes with it.”
Dr. Sojo stared at Markus with undisguised surprise.
“Never hear of Nowhere? You?”
“Never heard of what?”
He remembered Christensen.
“Nowhere.”
Dr. Sojo and Carlo exchanged a long glance.
“Should we tell him or should he beg?” Dr. Sojo asked.
“I think he should beg,” Carlo said.
“An astronaut like you,” Dr. Sojo added, clicking his tongue. “Anyway, as you are one of my privileged customers, I shall fill you in. Nowhere, actually spelled KnowWhere, is a secret virtual world, the paradise of hackers, artists and con-artists . . .”
Carlo nodded and began to roll another cigarette.
“By the way doc, sorry to interrupt, but do you have my mail?” Carlo interjected, eyes focused on tobacco and rolling-paper.
Dr. Sojo nodded and produced a bulging, blue, spice-scented air-mail envelope, which Carlo swiftly grabbed and placed in the drawer of his desk.
“So, KnowWhere is a secret site,” Markus echoed impatiently.
“Yes, and a great place to dwell. You should try it.”
Markus couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“How do I log on?”
“Easy. You know Erewhon® right? Not the Sam Butler novel, of course, the commercial joke . . .”
Markus nodded.
“Well, a year or two after the big launch and media frenzy, a rumor began that someone had hacked the site itself and had created another virtual world, literally at the back of Erewhon®, called KnowWhere. Well, it checked out.”
“I still don’t understand why I’ve never heard about it,” Markus mumbled, disoriented.
Carlo dispersed the blue cloud of smoke in front of his face with a quick butterfly hand.
“That’s because you don’t live here. It’s the best kept secret of Sorgbjerg. Only the NoCreds know about it. Man, for once, we have something Creds and Cash don’t . . . Culture! No way we’re going to share that!”
Dr. Sojo and Carlo laughed in unison.
“Why are you telling me about it, then?” Markus asked.
Dr. Sojo’s heavy hand collapsed onto Markus’ shoulder, actually hurting him.
“Because we know you and you check out, amigo. Not that many astronauts who love literature around anymore . . . Speaking of which, what’s your cruise speed right now?”
Markus felt the cellophane bag in his pocket.
“About one for two days. I still don’t understand not having felt any of the symptoms yet. I mean, I have, but they’re very mild and fade away. On the other hand, it’s getting more and more difficult to distinguish hallucinations. Some things I remember I am not sure I actually experienced.”
Badia moaned as he put his hand under the fabric of her t-shirt.
Dr. Sojo scratched his head and peered at Markus over his thick glasses.
“Stay off it for a while. See if anything happens. I’m still feeling the crash landing, but then again my consumption is moderate . . .”
“Back to KnowWhere . . . How do I log on?”
“Well, you have to log on to Erewhon® first . . . Then you go to the virtual Viborg City National Bank building and look for the men’s—or the women’s—same difference—bathroom. There you click on the door, a black page will appear and ask for a log-on code. Type Potemkin and you’re in.”
“Potemkin?”
“Yes, like the movie. Or rather, like the hackers, you know . . . Some say they escaped from jail and actually created it . . .”
Markus nodded. Carlo handed back the PersoReader. It finally all made sense: the situation was beyond absurd.
*
The subway stopped, pouring people out, taking new ones in. Staring at the PersoReader between his hands, Markus realized he’d forgotten one thing since he started working for the Man: Power is deaf, blind and mute and it needs people to help it function. But even though Power is a cripple, it denies it and wants people to conform to its fundamentally flawed vision at all costs. Hence, those working for Power eventually became deaf, blind and mute themselves.
Seven. Commonplace Feathers
The apartment welcomed him like a—
No.
Reality, for once.
Synth offered a soda vending machine.
*
KnowWhere
Nowhere
What a fucking joke.
*
Paranoia hit Markus the second he logged on to Erewhon®. What if there were hidden cameras in his apartment? What if Sørensen had organized a 24 hour watch on him?
Synth scanned the surroundings, found nothing—which made him feel a little better. Synth was reliable radar, for sure (he hadn’t known that before—yet more amazing functionality).
Synth was good.
Synth was his only friend.
Image of a laughing baby.
He steered his avatar among the virtual crowd like a talented puppeteer.
*
The bench was empty. Of course the bench was empty. No more Gloria and Gloria no more. His hands on her breasts, holding onto them as he came in her in several quick deliciously painful salvoes. If he had. Synth re-ran the video. He must have. The phone in his pocket, useless. Later. He was on a mission now, standing like a pixilated idiot in front of the empty bench.
She said she would buy a computer, first thing.
When?
A NoCred now.
He was on a mission. No time to think.
The virtual Viborg City National Bank stood in front of him, a few virtual meters away from the virtual bench. He had never noticed it before. Or had he suppressed it, like a subconscious symbol of everything he secretly hated but couldn’t afford to acknowledge?
To forget is to hate.
Karen screaming in the bathroom.
He pressed on, floating in 1204 x 768.
*
Here he was. The men’s room.
The only one not to know about it.
Two, with Sørensen.
The joke didn’t make him smile.
He looked around, but the place was empty. Sinister looking bank, but aren’t they all? Gimme my money in a paper bag, quick. Keep the engine running and let’s synchronize watches. I would like to have a word with you about your credit, sir. Stool pigeon, you sch
muck.
Black sweat.
He clicked on the door.
A black page, as Dr. Sojo had said.
His fingers hesitatingly descended onto the keys.
Potemkin.
He waited for a few seconds and the screen went black again. Letters appeared, as if typed by an invisible hand.
What is your name?
“Markus.”
Who recommended you?
Markus felt his hands become sweaty. Dr. Sojo hadn’t mentioned the welcome test.
“Dr. Sojo.”
Black screen. More sweat.
Choose your avatar.
It took him almost twenty minutes to decide on his avatar and he hadn’t even looked at all the choices. All the major film and comic characters were there, plus a few hundred customized ones. Markus finally chose Dirty Harry because there was something weirdly conservative in the corduroy suit that he really liked.
He clicked on the “save and exit” button and found himself staring at the Viborg City central station. It was an excellent reproduction of the main square, with an incredible array of avatars strolling by—famous actors, literary and comic book characters, monsters and self-designed whatevers. He took a few steps and wondered if Synth was playing some nasty trick on him, but staring around his room, he realized that everything seemed to be normal. Markus focused on the computer screen and took Norbrandt Avenue, to the left of the station.
The reconstruction of the city attained incredible precision and was probably based on genuine army satellite pictures. Of course, you could see the pixels as you neared a wall or an object, but the illusion was still incredible. Then something caught his eye: there were stores, just as in real life, but they weren’t the same stores. He knew there should be a Books and Wonders bookstore at the corner of Norbrandt and Stangerup, but here it was replaced by the Yellow Rose Press Bookshop. Intrigued, he walked up to it and entered.
There were three download terminals. Two were occupied by Captain America and Krazy Kat avatars, he took the vacant one. He clicked on the Novels page and a list of titles completely unknown to him scrolled before his eyes. Even more incredible, in a way, all the books were downloadable for almost nothing—you could actually choose how little you wanted to pay.
He walked from the shop stunned, checking out other stores. There were music stores, political bookstores and organic food stores. There were newspapers. There were exchange markets.
A parallel world with a parallel economy, thriving under the surface of the most commercial virtual world on the planet . . . What would Sørensen think about that? Synth materialized a pipe. No, seriously. And they didn’t know about it.
The lost opportunities of the last ten years suddenly hit him full force, like a train colliding at top speed with a gas truck. Noise of scraping metal. A brutal shockwave. Explosion. Primary colors. Black smoke. Where had he been? What had he been doing? Synth opened a catalogue of memories with corresponding background music, but Markus closed it in a rage. Now he knew how it must feel to wake up from a coma. Wonderful dreams but nothing compared with the harsh colors of reality. What reality? Karen screaming in the bathroom. My name’s not Mahdou. Who were you talking to? You fuck. Karen computers hated. You fucking fuck.
He remembered his old, two-room apartment, up on the 5th floor of Bergmanvej 63, right behind the station. On summer mornings he would open the window and watch the suburban trains roll along the tracks like lazy silkworms. He would smoke a cigarette and think of Karen. Those were happy days. Those were days.
*
The red brick building of Bergmanvej 63 was here and he clicked on the door expecting nothing, but it opened. The entire structure had been recreated. He climbed the stairs to the fifth floor.
His name.
His real name was on the door.
Thomas Wesenberg
A gust of icy wind filled his hollow chest, bringing a stinging veil of tears. How long since? Ten years, you moron. The name tag was a picture of the real one, scribbled with a blue pen and badly taped onto the door. Karen had often asked him why he hadn’t done a nicer job. Every time he had shrugged it off. Now he knew: so that it would be unforgettable.
*
Three loud knocks on the door. Ole’s round face and sweet blue eyes, Mona Lisa, feminine half-smile and huge shoulders bending in through the door, hands never empty—a bottle of wine, whisky, whatever, joyously lifted up as a salute. Then Nick’s discreet tapping. The small silhouette shuffling in and the dark page-boy hair. Blue eyes also, staring right through him. Karen in the kitchen preparing food, a salad usually in the summer, lasagna in the winter. Rituals of conspiracy. Never say too much in front of Karen—no need to drag innocents into this. Much good, it had done . . . Of course, she wasn’t stupid—she saw the computers and when she finally went to bed, after kissing him gently on the lips, she could probably still hear their muted conversations as she fell asleep. It had been a good thing she had hated computers so much. Prevented her from understanding what was really going on—and made it easier for him to lie. He would join her in bed hours later, pressing his body against hers, as if she was an indestructible shield.
*
He clicked on the tag and a window appeared.
Leave a message.
Not really knowing why, he typed a few words.
“Honey, I’m home.”
And it didn’t even make him smile.
*
Gloria. Badia. A NoCred now. Did she know about KnowWhere? Would be ironic, to say the least. A computer, she would buy first thing she had said. Her nipples, a dark brown. Why was he in this taxi, zooming back to her place? The smell of leather, probably. A smile? He wanted to know. To make sure. Had he or hadn’t he? Her dark body rubbing against his, her soft stomach and her deep navel accepting him as a new earth and sky.
*
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes.”
The flatness of real language. He missed Erewhon® and the keyboard conversations. Did she realize?
“Come in.”
The voice was weary. Had they? He stayed where he was, hesitating.
“I tried to call you,” he explained, “but I think I wrote down the number wrong.”
“Well, it was pretty late when you left. And we were pretty drunk . . .”
She laughed and it echoed pleasantly in his ears.
“I have a question . . .” he began, feeling his words flying ahead of him like stray bullets.
“Why don’t you ask me inside? There are more beers in the fridge.”
Markus nodded, his throat dry, and stepped once again into the crammed two-room apartment, with the red sofa and small TV.
He sat down and she joined him with two cans of chilled beer.
“Okay,” she said, opening her beer. “What do you want to know?”
She was sitting very close to him, her knee touching his. Blue sparks. The hum of electricity. Maybe they had, after all. Quick, another question.
“Have you ever heard of a virtual world called KnowWhere?”
She shook her head.
“No. Why?”
That made three of them. Markus felt relieved.
“Someone mentioned it to me, but I’ve never heard of it either. It’s supposedly a secret site, where you can get a lot of illegal stuff . . .”
She balanced her beer on her lap, her deep brown eyes dancing over his face.
“You mean like pedophile images?”
“No, like music, books, cultural things . . .”
She smiled, obviously relieved.
“Could be nice. Hate the shit we hear on the radio. Well, I’d have to buy a computer first. You know they take everything from you when you become a NoCred and replace it with government issue appliances? It’s on credit of course—deducted from your pay check. If you save money you can get more things. Like a computer.”
Markus remained silent, embarrassed by the confession.
“They just found me a
job at the public library. In the cafeteria. If all goes well I should be able to get a new computer in four years and an internet connection in five . . . Unless, of course, I get to know someone who knows someone . . . No wonder the black market is so big around here . . . Even bigger than in Samarqand, if you can imagine . . .”
Markus nodded. He would give her the names of Dr. Sojo and Carlo. They knew people. Of course, Dr. Sojo could also turn her into a junkie . . .
“How did you become a NoCred, by the way? I don’t know if I asked you this question before—like you said, I was so drunk I don’t even know how I got home . . .”
Nice lie. You took a cab. You can’t remember if you fucked her, that’s different.
“I had an accident and had the wrong sort of insurance. Didn’t cover the costs.”
Markus remembered a long period without Gloria. A month, maybe more. Everything had a rational explanation. She had said she had travelled. Why doubt?
Her perfume floated around him like an aura. He put down his beer and turned towards her. Her face was so close he couldn’t see it any more.
*
Badia’s body was fantastic. He couldn’t believe he was against her, naked, in her bed. Her breasts were soft under his hands, only the nipples hard and willing. Her back, a long curve. The angle of her hips, perfect against his. They weren’t machines, programs, citizens. They were naked and making love. This time for real.
For real?
Yes.
Synth ran in a parallel world. False memories were becoming real. Just as he had wrongly remembered, she hadn’t cared about the anklet, just remarked on it before letting him lie down next to her. Wrongly remembered? No, foreseen. Was Synth a psychic drug or was he just becoming crazy? Image of his face exploding in a thousand puzzle pieces, like in a bad 70s psychedelic flick. Exactly. He heard cithara and tambourines. Black sweat. Was he coming down, finally, between Badia’s arms? Quicksilver thoughts. A flash of panic. Dr. Sojo, so many questions. Answers, anyone?
*
“Tell me about Samarqand,” he said, accepting her cigarette.
She offered him a light, then settled down next to him exhaling a blue cloud.
“Why? You planning your holidays?”
They laughed. Samarqand was the last place one chose for a holiday. It was the city of the Enemy, although no war had officially been declared. It was mysterious, incomprehensible, formidable. Exotic, religious and hateful, yet it had the nerve to call itself democratic. There were indeed elections every four years. Exactly like in Viborg City, Babylon, Petersburg and all other megalopoli of the civilized world—but they knew what elections in Samarqand really meant: corruption and lies.
The Song of Synth Page 7