The Song of Synth

by Seb Doubinsky

  The only free seat was right in front of her. Of course.

  Of course. It cannot be otherwise. The things you provoke, you provoke them into existence.

  The woman’s voice replaced his inner voice. Her words covered his words, alien and beautiful as gold and diamonds inserted in teeth.

  It cannot be otherwise.

  Twenty Six.

  The bus was going downtown, in the New City. She sat before him, looking through the large dusty window. The girl. The girl from so many songs he had heard before. Yeah, that girl. He didn’t know if he should discreetly stare at her, or glance at her reflection in the window. Beautiful. As beautiful as the streets of Old Samarqand passing by, yellow and white, all prepped-up and full of vital, polluted, noisy energy. The girl pressed her forehead against the window—her hair was cut in a page-boy style, with a fringe that stopped right above her eyebrows, she had long arched eyelashes, perfect almond-shaped, melancholic black eyes. She was half-smiling, though, like a Mongolian Mona Lisa. Mystery of mystery. The bus stopped and started. Stopped and started. At every stop he expected her to leave, but no, she was still here as the urban landscape changed, transitional chaos of the slums with children running around, always children running around, and then the New City, tall, powerful, clad in its steel and smoked glass armor. Markus felt a twinge of angst. He was getting off at the next stop. He stood up. She remained seated. That girl.

  Twenty Seven.

  The building where Tazar had lived was one of those large, gray social constructions bordering the Old Town like a fortress wall. A tangible border. They had been built more than thirty years ago and now had a strange charm, like a premature ruin. The train tracks zipped through them like an open scar. Olgeÿ had many times been offered a better place to live, but he loved it here. He said it reminded him of Viborg City and why he had hated it so much. It kept his poetry alive, he said.

  Inspector-General Ali Shakr Bassam scanned the surroundings to make sure there were no Bureau 23 agents keeping watch. He watched a local train rumble in the distance and spotted a group of young men in tracksuits and Western-style caps, who were obviously the local hoodlums. Maybe he would talk to them later on. Maybe they would know something.

  He walked towards the entrance of the monolithic structure and looked at the names on the postboxes. Fifth floor. He pushed the elevator button, but nothing happened. Of course. He had known that all along. Sixth sense.

  Sighing, he started to climb the cold concrete stairs. He stopped on the third floor, and wiped some sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “The bird is lighter than air but heavier than the soul.”

  Quoting Tazar always gave him strength and he continued his grunting ascent until he reached the fifth floor. It was the last door on the right.

  He looked for a doorbell, but there wasn’t one so he knocked as delicately as he could. He heard the light shuffle of feet and the turning of a lock. The door half-opened and a young woman’s face appeared.

  “Hello, I’m Inspector-General Ali Shakr Bassam.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have some questions to ask you.”

  The deep brown eyes looked at him with obvious distrust.

  “But the police have already been here. Bureau 23.”

  By the way she pronounced it she obviously didn’t approve of the Bureau.

  “I know. Here is my badge, but . . . Well, this is not really an official visit . . .”

  Tazar’s widow—a woman too young and too beautiful to be a widow, Ali Shakr Bassam thought—looked surprised now, holding onto the half-opened door of the apartment.

  “Wait,” he added.

  The inspector-general extracted a thin book from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Look,” he said.

  Hands slightly trembling, he opened Tazar’s collection, The Yellow Window and showed her the inscribed front page: To Ali Shakr Bassam, sincerely, Olgeÿ Tazar.

  “You see? I’m a fan of your husband . . . Uh, of Tazar . . .”

  The widow nodded briefly.

  “Come in,” she said. “That idiot from Bureau 23 had never read any of his stuff.”

  Twenty Eight.

  Every time Markus walked into the Imperial Bookstore, as it was called, he felt uplifted. The smell of ink and paper. The piles of books, the colors, the people—yes. The people. Crowded. The bookstore was always crowded. All ages. There were six stories in the store. Six. He remembered the bookstores in Viborg-City. The neons. The hip coldness. The plug-in book-vending terminals where you could download the books you had just bought. Bestsellers. Only bestsellers. And the classics, of course. If you wanted anything else, you either had to find it on illegal sites or buy old, yellowed paper copies. Synth recreated Carlo’s shop, but Markus blocked it. There was no need for that here. The Imperial was great. Nothing to be replaced or morphed here. He suddenly realized that since his arrival, he was getting more and more annoyed with Synth. The pills had dried up a long time ago, on the way here. He still remembered the anguished night in Ur, waiting for the withdrawal symptoms. But nothing happened. Only more Synth creations, without the need of any pills. It felt as if Synth was a part of him now. Or he a part of Synth. He couldn’t forget what Dr. Sojo once told him, about Synth being a genetically engineered drug. DNA poison. Good name for a band. He smiled in spite of himself and decided to take the elevator to the sixth floor, where all the foreign books were. Synth looked at him with half-closed eyes, vexed and frustrated.

  Twenty Nine.

  So here he was, in Olgeÿ Tazar’s famous apartment. Faiza Tazar ahead of him in the narrow corridor leading to a small sitting room, all walls lined with bookshelves. Here and there, an empty space was filled by a painting, an etching, a drawing. A huge portrait of Tazar hung over the sofa on which Faiza sat. Shakr looked at the image of Tazar admiringly while lowering himself into an old armchair.

  “A friend of his painted it? It’s truly amazing. So lifelike . . .”

  “I painted it,” Faiza answered coolly. “Now, you said this wasn’t really an official visit . . . What is it, then?”

  Ali Shakr Bassam cleared his throat and ran a hand through his shiny black hair.

  “As I’ve told you, I am a . . . was . . . am a fan of his. His poetry touched the deepest parts of my soul and . . . I was called to the crime scene. I was the first officer there and I . . . I examined the body . . . Your husband’s body . . .”

  Shakr felt a terrible sadness come over him as he spoke and he had to clear his throat in order to carry on.

  “I was supposed to be in charge of the investigation but . . . My cousin . . . Well, Bureau 23 took the case. As you know.”

  The young woman nodded slowly. He saw that her look had changed. It was more intense, more focused now. Feeling encouraged, he resumed, wiping his hands with an invisible cloth.

  “I still want to investigate. On my own. I am afraid Bureau 23 wants to bury the case under official secrecy. But Tazar cannot be buried, be forgotten in such a way. He has to remain alive, in all of us. He is our voice. Still.”

  The widow smiled at him for the first time.

  “What you say is very beautiful, Inspector-General. But I am afraid you will only get in trouble. Tazar knew he was threatened. He didn’t care. He taught me not to care either. Death is only a door.”

  Ali Shakr Bassam felt a slight flutter of irritation.

  “You don’t want to know who killed your husband?”

  Faiza shrugged slightly.

  “The murderers are not the ones who used the knife. You know that.”

  The inspector-general nodded.

  “Of course. But still. I believe in justice, as incredible as it may seem. Do you have any idea who it could have been?”

  The young woman looked away, frowning as she thought about his question.

  “A lot of people hated Tazar, for a lot of different reasons. The Fundamentalists, because of his
take on official religion. The Royalists, because of his defense of freedom. The Progressists, because of his faith . . . Other poets, jealous of his talent.”

  Shakr Bassam smiled at the irony.

  “No idea, then? Really?”

  Faiza sighed.

  “Look at the political situation. We’re on the brink of war—either civil or global, or both. The Western Alliance is pressing us with all its might, the United Cities of the South are mocking our democratic attempts, our only support is the Chinese Empire, whom everybody else hates. Who cares about a poet? Who cares about music at a time like this?”

  “I do,” the inspector-general said. “With all my heart. Don’t you?”

  Faiza smiled again, but this time it was a shy, almost imperceptible smile.

  “With all my heart too. But the heart is the weakest spot of the body,” she added, quoting her husband.

  “But the strongest spot of the soul,” he said, finishing the stanza.

  Faiza stood up and held out her hand. He gently took it, her fingers were soft and warm

  “You two should have met,” she said. “He would have liked you very much I think.”

  Thirty.

  The local hoodlums were still hanging around by the building next door. Four young guys, dressed in Western fashion. Western television style, Shakr Bassam thought. He had never been to the West, but he didn’t believe that people dressed like they did in music videos.

  They watched him as he hurried towards them, and by their slightly frightened eyes he judged them inexperienced. They probably sold small quantities of hashish and stored stolen goods, but hadn’t entered the real crime world yet. He wasn’t sure they even really wanted to, although they tried to look tough. Sometimes these kids made excellent cops.

  “You stay here all day?” the inspector-general asked the young man who seemed to be the alpha-male—gold chain around the neck, expensive sunglasses, fancy haircut and standing up while the others sat on the concrete steps leading to the building’s hallway.

  “Why do you ask?” the boy answered defiantly. “You the police or something?”

  The others laughed, looking at him provocatively. They reminded him of his son at 15. But they must have been in their early twenties. Without saying a word, he took out his wallet and showed them his badge. The laughter stopped at once and their eyes darted in all directions. Really small fry, he thought.

  “You knew Olgeÿ Tazar?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the leader said, much to Bassam’s surprise. “He was very respected around here. A great man.”

  He even put a hand on his heart, a gesture imitated by his goons.

  The inspector-general nodded, slightly moved by the respect shown to his favorite poet by these young punks. They had slightly risen in his esteem.

  “Well, I am trying to find out who killed him.”

  The four young men slowly nodded in unison, waiting for him to continue.

  “You have no idea, I guess?”

  They all shook their heads. Of course.

  “In any case, I would like you to help me.”

  They waited, motionless, their eyes watching intently like soldiers waiting for their officer to order them to charge the enemy. He extracted a card from his wallet and handed it to the leader.

  “If you see anybody unusual going into the Tazars’ building, let me know. If you hear anything concerning Tazar’s murder, let me know, ok? If you help me. I’ll find a way to make it up to you, I promise.”

  The leader nodded, and showed the card to the others. As he made his way back to the car, the inspector-general felt extremely moved, and he was glad that his back was turned to the young men. People respected poets here. People respected poetry. No, he was wrong—it was more than that: people respected people.

  Thirty One.

  “Excuse me, do you know anything about Wilhelm Reich?”

  The voice was timid, almost accentless. Markus turned around. The girl from the bus stood before him, two books in her hands. The girl from the bus. Of course.

  Of course. Accidents are the common rule.

  Her eyes were smiling under the fringe. Markus put back the science-fiction novel he had been glancing at.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but you’re the only . . . uh, Eleni, here, so I thought I might ask you . . .”

  She had said the word Eleni with that caution people used when using a word that had derogatory undertones. But she’d smiled at the same time.

  “Wilhelm Reich?” he repeated, trying to muster evasive memories from his student days in Viborg City University.

  “Yes.”

  The girl looked at the books she was holding.

  “I’m doing research. Not on him directly, but on some of his stuff . . . I wanted to know which one was the most interesting. Do you know?”

  Markus took the books from her and felt the warmth of her fingers. That girl.

  He read the titles. The Orgone Energy Accumulator, Its Scientific and Medical Use and Selected Writings: An Introduction to Orgonomy.

  Shaking his head, he gave the books back to her.

  “Sorry, I really don’t know. I guess it depends what you’re looking for.”

  She shrugged and smiled back.

  “I don’t really know. Yet. I’m doing some research and I came across his name. Do you know it’s the last case of official book burning in the West?”

  That girl.

  Thirty Two.

  He’d ordered a chai and she some Western coffee. Of course.

  Of course.

  They were sitting in the café located on the top floor of the bookstore, a comfortable room with low sofas and soft leather pouffes. A Géricault setting.

  He had invited her and she had accepted with an amused smile. Accidents. The common rule. His thoughts escaped him now. He let them escape.

  Her name was Saran, she was 29 and a medical researcher at the university’s hospital.

  “And you?”

  Markus shrugged.

  “I used to be in IT. Now I’m working at a bar in the Old City. Tsentsen’s. Maybe you know it?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, where is it?”

  She took a pen from the breast pocket of her embroidered suede jacket and opened the book she had just bought—The Orgone Energy Accumulator—to the last page, so he could write the address down.

  “And your name?”

  He suddenly realized he hadn’t given her that vital information and they both laughed, she covering her mouth as if it was obscene to show tongue and teeth.

  “Thomas.”

  Names are shields or weapons. You have chosen wisely, my beautiful.

  Something warm rolled in his throat as he pronounced his real name for the first time since he had left Viborg City. No—not left. Escaped from. The words had to be put back in place now. Synth materialized a dictionary. Thomas decided to ignore it.

  “Thomas,” she repeated. “It’s a nice name. Very . . . Western.”

  They laughed again.

  He felt naked in front of her.

  He felt completely vulnerable.

  He felt completely complete.

  Not Markus. Not Mathias.

  Thomas.

  Thomas.

  Thirty Three.

  On the bus, on the way back, another name jumped into his memory. Badia. He had lost the paper with her uncle’s address on his way to Samarqand. He thought of sending her a postcard, but he didn’t remember her address. And—trying to survive as a NoCred immigrant in the heartless Northern city—she had probably forgotten him anyway.

  Flutes and Skin-Drums

  Thirty Four.

  Routine is another way to reconcile past and present, putting the future on hold. Routine, routine, routine. Wiping up the last table at Tsentsen’s was routine. It felt good.

  Ole had been buried a week ago, the riots and violence had subsided, business was good again and from what he could understand with his limited
Perso-Mongol, the political situation, although still tense, had regained its familiar complexion. Tsentsen and Garash could argue again, like they used to. Sometimes Synth would produce Ole’s massive silhouette at the bar, drinking Khans all by himself, with his familiar sardonic half-smile. Thomas would secretly wave to him once in a while and Ole would slightly raise his bottle, with a sharp bow of the head. Good old Ole. Ever so dramatic. Even in death.

  Thomas—he couldn’t think of himself as Markus or Mathias any more—these names were the reflecting shields for the strange reality he was living in—Siamese twins that didn’t even exist, even if Synth once in a while would unexpectedly produce a beautiful tiger at his feet—finished his job and slowly walked back to the bar. Tsentsen and Garash were engaged in a chess game, as they often were when they guessed the evening would start slowly. It was a Tuesday. They were probably guessing right.

  As if to prove that logical reasoning is always faulty, the door opened and a small, loudly chatting group entered.

  Oh no, Thomas thought. Not them.

  The Elenis searching for the tomb of Alexander the Great sat down at a table, and looked around, as if they were discovering the place for the first time. Thomas wearily walked towards them.

  “You just opened or is it a bad day?” the older guy said, with a grin. “Mathias, right?”

  Thomas nodded. Names. Just names.

  The Eleni put out a large hand with fat fingers. Thomas grabbed it reluctantly. It was strangely callous—maybe they were archeologists, after all.

  “Richard. And this is Mark.”

  He pointed at the younger dude with the thinning hair and the glasses.

  “Todd.”

  The other guy with short brown hair and a bad dose of acne nodded.

  “And Sylvia.”

  The woman stared at him, expressionless.

  “Four Khans, right?” Thomas said, desperately wanting them to go away as fast as possible.

  Richard nodded and looked around, to see if any of them wanted something different. When Thomas came back with the beers on a tray, the Eleni paid with a crisp new banknote.