Markus smiled painfully.
“Hell, no! Are you?”
“No. But do you want to check?”
Her eyes held his questioning gaze. Markus felt the world tilt at an impossible angle. His head hit the surface of the water. Salt invaded his lips.
“Yes,” he said. “Sure. I want to check.”
*
The hotel room welcomed them as a hotel always did, anonymous and slightly smelling of dust, although it was clean and functional: a bed, a side table, a chair and, of course, a TV on the wall at the end of the bed. Karen pulled the curtains, turning the gray morning light a dull yellowish shade.
She moved softly towards Markus, taking his hands in hers. She smelled of rain and gas fumes. The smell of winter when winter was familiar. Their mouths met without hesitation. His hands lifted her shirt and stroked her burning back.
“See?” she whispered. “No wire.”
*
Markus hesitated when she opened his jeans. Karen felt his hesitation and drew back a few inches, her hands still on his belt.
“Is there a problem? A wife? A girlfriend?”
Markus shook his head.
“This.”
He bent over and lifted the right leg of his jeans. The anklet.
“Now you know who I am working for.”
Karen smiled and kissed him.
“That’s what I figured. Like your new job?”
Markus shook his head.
“I hate it.”
“That’s what I figured too.”
Markus’ pants dropped to his ankles. The anklet disappeared for a moment.
*
It was still raining outside. Synth could have turned the sinister room into a palace in Marrakech, but Karen was in his arms and that was stronger than any hallucination. Time was going forward again. The acceleration of particles. Karen. Or Kristin. Gloria. Or Badia. Marcus. Or Thomas. Identities. Lies. Avatars. Mirror moves. Karen lifted her head and drew him closer. Another kiss. Harder this time. He had remembered her in t-shirt and jeans. She had changed so much. How had she remembered him?
Parenthesis:
He had remembered her in t-shirt and jeans. Was it true? Or was it a memory he had chosen to keep, an icon of some sorts? What about the many fights, the bitterness, the subtle remarks about “not sharing the daily chores enough” and the “reactionary machismo of his best buddies?”
Close parenthesis.
How had she remembered him?
Second parenthesis:
Evening meals watching TV. A shower, the sound of water on her body and the faint smell of her body lotion. The suggestion of her cleft and dark pubic hair as she read a newspaper in her t-shirt and underwear on the sofa, one leg up against the coffee-table. A conversation, laughter. Rain ceasing to be an existential problem. Cheek against cheek, looking forward like in a revolutionary poster.
Close second parenthesis, perhaps overlapping the first.
“Do you want to work for me?” she asked, stroking the top of his thigh with a soft hand.
“What?”
True?
Untrue?
“Do you want to work for me?”
True.
Does truth have an echo?
Markus heard the rain on the window. A much clearer sound than earlier. Echo of an echo.
“What do you mean?”
Exactly.
Karen sat up in bed. He admired her beautiful back. She hadn’t changed that much. Her body, he meant. She could still wear jeans and a t-shirt.
“I mean just that. Do you want to work for me?”
“For Cyber Magic®? I can’t.”
She turned her head around and smiled. It was a new smile, one he had never seen before. Hard, direct, knowing. A Goddess. Athena. A bronze shield.
“No, for KnowWhere.”
Markus smiled and pointed at his ankle.
“You know I can’t. I can’t run away.”
She nodded and grabbed his cigarettes from the side table.
“Still smoking these?” she said.
Amused. In control.
Synth suggested a computer from the fifties, with blinking lights.
She lit a cigarette and handed him the pack. He fished one out, lit it from hers. Their smoke clouds mingled.
“They want you to believe you can’t.”
Markus exhaled.
“It’s a GPS tracker device. It’s real.”
“You can take it off. Do it. For five minutes. See what happens.”
“I can’t take it off! It’s locked!”
Karen bent over his leg and reached for the black device. She searched for something with her fingers and pushed. There was a click and the anklet fell off.
“See? You’re free.”
Markus’ mouth dropped open. The world spun at incredible speed. Gravitation was pulling him down, although he was slowly floating upwards. Impossible. Free. Synth creaked like a rusty wheel. A searchlight behind his eyes.
Sørensen: What do you mean: ‘you lost him’?
He reached for the anklet in a panic. He looked at the mechanism. Shut the bracelet around thin air. Click! Pressed on the button. Opened it again. Click! Same sound, same wavelength.
“Every slave misses his collar,” Karen said. “I know. I’ve been there too.”
Suddenly Markus felt even more naked than he really was. He was free and freedom was a nightmare. Karen was back and that was a nightmare too. What do you mean you?
“Have you ever wondered how Sørensen tracked you down?” she asked, scratching her head with the back of her thumb.
“Every day,” Markus answered, like an automaton. “Every single day. Still wonder who their hacker was . . .”
Karen smiled sadly.
“There was no hacker, Thomas. There was only me.”
Thomas. His old name. His old name.
“Sørensen had me too. Thirty years if I didn’t cooperate. I ran a peer-to-peer network, about a year before they sent me in your direction. The best one. Quicksilver Clouds. Remember?”
Markus nodded. Who hadn’t used it? The site was shut down and those behind it were given long prison sentences. Well, so the media had said. A great corporate victory. He’d marched in the streets during the Pirate Riots following the trial.
“Sørensen was curious about you. He’d heard things. Rumors. Activists, possibly second generation hackers. You know how it works. University is a small place. He wanted to check. So he sent me. For you. And we met.”
The puzzle was in place. Markus felt like the Greek general hopefully asking about his future before a battle, and hearing he will die. Who needed the truth? You fuck. You fucking fuck.
“I turned you in, Thomas. And Ole and Nick too. That’s why I never came to visit you in prison. My job was done and I had signed a contact in which it was clearly specified that I must never, ever contact you again.”
Karen screaming in the bathroom. Sørensen smoking his pipe. We want names. This is not a test. I repeat, this is not a test.
“So we’re both fucked now,” Markus said, taking a long drag on what remained of his cigarette.
“No,” Karen said, curling up against him, the smell of her raw nakedness jumping once again to his tobacco-filled nostrils. “They’re fucked.”
She turned on the TV. A documentary about lions. They were eating a dead antelope. Yellow grass, red meat, white eyeballs. How perfect.
Markus’ thoughts crashed into each other in blurred chaos. Stalingrad. Synth evoked ruins. Explosions. Running shadows. A sense of panic and a desire for victory.
“Who was Christensen?”
Karen killed her cigarette.
“They set you on him?”
Markus shook his head.
“No, I tracked him and then they set me on him.”
“The moron,” she said.
“What happened? Who was he?”
Karen shrugged her beautiful shoulders. Markus noticed she had put on some
weight and that her breasts were sagging a little. Enjoy reality. My treat, for free.
“He worked for me. For us. KnowWhere. It’s an organization, you know. Not just a portal. Anyway, Bjørn was in logistics. I didn’t want to give him the card and . . .”
She stopped, aware of having said too much. Markus smiled reassuringly.
“Don’t worry. I know about that.”
Karen nodded.
“Okay . . . Well, I didn’t trust him one hundred percent. I thought he was too young and could do stupid things with it. But he insisted. He wanted to see if it worked and offered himself in sacrifice. The others supported him—he was a popular figure in our movement. A rising star. So I finally gave in. And the idiot got caught . . . How did you find him by the way?”
“Viborg City National Bank security systems. He probably wanted to check if the card had been traced. They found some recent receipts at his apartment.”
Karen looked for another cigarette. Her pager chimed on the floor. She didn’t even flinch.
“Yes, I guess you’re right. The dumb fuck. Always told him to stick to what he knew and not try to mess with computers . . . But he was young and wanted to prove he could, I guess . . . Male virility bullshit . . .”
Markus saw something flicker in her eyes and heard the fake irony in her tone.
“Your lover?”
She shrugged.
“Only recently. I was getting tired of being the Corporate Virgin.”
“You created Cyber Magic®?”
No surprise. Beyond surprise now. Little Karen asking him stupid questions about his computer stuff. If he had only known. She could have been a great asset to the Potemkin Crew.
“Yes. A cunning plan.”
A vicious smile.
“After your arrest, my contract was fulfilled. Pocketed the reward and began thinking. I had lived with you for almost two years. You got me thinking. You opened my eyes—or rather, confirmed what I was seeing. Love can do that, sometimes.”
The hotel room expanded, as if it had taken a deep breath.
“Love?” Markus asked, his heart suddenly made of glass.
Oh, fragile little me. Did you fuck her?
“Love. I created Erewhon® and KnowWhere back to back, to avenge you. And redeem myself. Remorse, they call it.”
Markus focused on a crack in the ceiling. It was a very thin crack, but a crack nonetheless. Imperceptible almost, but running along the full width of the ceiling.
“Sørensen gave me Christensen’s PersoReader along with the card. Who wrote The Potemkin Overture?”
“Ole. He’s in Samarqand now. Or so the rumor goes. Escaped four years ago. Don’t you watch the news?”
Information overdose. All systems are down. No, he hadn’t watched or read the news in the last ten years. Had tried not to at least. Apparently, with some success.
“And Nick?”
She lit the cigarette she was dancing in front of her face like a white moth.
“Nick’s dead. He was diabetic. He went into a coma, shortly after the trial. You didn’t know that either?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Silence. Reality equals death.
A prick in the silvery bubble.
Pop! goes the weasel.
Shuffle the cards one more time. This time, what? A pair? A full house? Hoping for a flush?
“The CashCard,” she said after a long pause filled with silently screaming ghosts. “Do you know where it is?”
Sørensen behind his desk, pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth. The prison cell, walls painted a nightmarish gray. A cloud of pipe smoke. Poker, anyone?
“Yes.”
“Can it be recovered?”
Markus shook his head.
“It’s in a safe, watched by a video-camera.”
“Can it be destroyed?”
Can I be destroyed? Of course. Anybody can. A pleasure to meet you. Karen screaming in the bathroom. The door explodes. I am destroyed. I am destroyed. I am a door.
“Karen, did you have Christensen killed?”
There was surprise in her eyes.
“Karen . . . I love it when you say this name . . .”
Markus welcomed her kiss. You do not reject water. You do not reject air. You do not reject food. You do not reject a gift.
“Answer me.”
He wanted her again. She felt his erection and extended a hand.
“Answer me.”
“He had become a liability. We voted. I voted against. I was the only one. I remember the stares. Where is the card?”
“In my office.”
The ground is approaching at incredible speed.
“Can you get it back?”
I can see trees. I can see houses. I can see people.
Markus shook his head.
“If I get it back, then Sørensen will know. And I will be fucked.”
“You are fucked.”
“I will be even more fucked.”
“Let’s do it then.”
Her mouth enfolded his penis in its moist, warm blanket.
I can see nothing.
*
“That credit card, what is it for? I mean, what is its purpose?”
“Subversion, what else?”
“How does it work? I couldn’t trace it to anything.”
“Ha, ha . . . Have you heard about Synth?”
Shockwave. Back in the subway. The time, what time is it? Half past twelve. Black sweat. Karen’s body. A true memory. Is it? Yes.
“Yes.”
“It’s a military drug. Based on the brain’s algorithms. It follows them, for maximum effect. Like a virus. It adapts. The purpose was to help each soldier maximize his inherent capabilities. Only problem: it was uncontrollable. Soldiers went insane, some disappeared completely, others pretended they were becoming psychic and could hear other people’s thoughts . . . A mess . . .”
“How do you know that?”
“My father invented Synth, He also designed the card. It’s based on the same principle. It adapts. It changes all the time. He found a way to break binary logic. It goes 0-2 or 0-4 or 0-0. Invisible. Opens all doors. My father was also a composer. He wrote ultra and infra-sound symphonies. He had just died when I met you and my mother never threw away his computer. I loved my father. I really did.”
The Shakespearian moment. What is truth? Words, I say. Words are said. Karen hating computers. Karen screaming in the bathroom. Karen talking, naked in my arms. Markus’? Thomas’s? Arms? I am sorry, is that your hat? Rumble of the train. The tracks elongate and thin under the weight of the metal carriage. Home is a few stops away. Or the illusion of home.
Shuffle the cards once again. Why did he always get a bad hand? What was he playing, anyway? Poker? Bridge? Crazy eights?
Her father.
What now?
Synth.
Her father.
Stuck in the labyrinth with a defective map. The Minotaur, a possibility at every corner.
His hand lowered to his ankle. The anklet was still in place. His fingers felt the switch. Karen had shown him how. The possibility of invisibility. Freedom?
Call or raise?
The train stopped and the doors slid open.
Like an animal at the zoo, he contemplated the odds of the opened doors, counting time backwards.
Nine. Waiting on the Line
Carlo was sorting books from a large cardboard box as Markus walked in. The comfort of pages. The warmth of paper.
“You’re early,” the bookseller said, in his deadpan tone. “I just opened.”
The clock over the counter—a circular, black and white, vintage hospital clock—indicated one thirty in the afternoon. Markus had never known Carlo’s opening hours, as he usually came late in the evening. Ignorance is bliss. I only know that I know nothing.
“I was passing by . . . Didn’t go to work today . . . I need a thick book.”
Carlo frowned, rubbing his chin.
“Can you
be a little more specific?”
“A book that can be read in many different ways. Exotic would be a plus.”
Carlo scratched his head.
“I can see a light.”
“A book with a lot of doors and no walls.”
“Then I have exactly what you need.”
Carlo dropped the book he was holding back into the box and took a couple of steps sideways, scrutinizing the multicolored shelves. A few seconds later he found a thick sim-leather bound volume.
“Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet. Ugly edition, but complete. Fairly rare nowadays.”
Markus took the book. It was heavy.
“What’s it about?”
“Everything. Tragic love. Murder. Betrayal. A city. Time. Perspective. Women. Hare lip.”
Markus opened the first page and read a few lines. The words were vibrating like an enchanting melody. Subsonic. My father. Karen screaming in the bathroom. Justine. Lovely name.
“I’ll take it.”
“Want some mint-tea?”
“Please. Have you seen Dr. Sojo?”
Carlo shook his head as he poured boiling water into two small glasses on his desk, being careful not to spill.
“Not today. He might be at home. He might not be. His life is like a book randomly opened every day.”
“Aren’t you the true philosopher?”
Carlo smiled, a glimpse of white teeth above his dark chin.
“Sugar?”
*
Dr. Sojo was indeed at home. He didn’t have his parka on, for once, and was wearing only pants and a sleeveless white t-shirt. His arms were covered with crude, prison tattoos.
“Can I come in? I’ve got some information for you.”
“Are you having a bad trip?” the Doctor asked, his dark eyes piercing through the round glasses.
Markus shook his head.
“Info, you said? You’re making me very curious.”
Dr. Sojo let Markus into his den. The shutters were drawn and a heavy smell of weed pervaded the room. Moroccan music hummed softly in the background and Markus wondered if the doctor would offer him some mint-tea too.
They sat opposite each other, on the smelly leather stools. Dr. Sojo grunted as he collapsed onto his.
“I’m getting too old for this shit. So? The info?”
Markus told him as best he could what Karen had told him about Synth, taking care not to mention her name.
“The scientific part escapes me, but pragmatic experimentation would seem to confirm the facts . . . Does it mean this is a dangerous drug?”
The Song of Synth Page 9