I sat there, petrified, until I realised Dad was talking about Sofia.
‘Dad, you were and still are the perfect father.’
‘No, no, you don’t understand. Let me explain. I failed to hide how I felt about her, and she knew it. For example, when we learned that she had betrayed Grandma. I stopped caring for her that day.’
His serious tone was starting to scare me.
‘Dad, don’t be harsh on yourself. You were in shock.’
‘I’ve never told anyone about this. That day when she admitted to betraying Grandma, I was relieved. I was afraid the house had been bugged. You were only small, but maybe you remember. There were certain things that worried me when the new system came in. I was terrified for you.’
‘For me?’
‘I didn’t want you to grow up in a world that is rotten to the core. When Sofia admitted the truth, my faith in the new system was restored. I could believe in a future for you after all.’
‘You doubted I had a future?’
He sighed and hugged me.
‘For a father it is the most important thing in the world – you’ll understand when you become a parent yourself. Your happiness and safety was the only measure. But not hers. That didn’t even cross my mind.’
He looked away and fumbled with his jacket sleeve.
‘And I can tell you, Ali, that she sensed my relief. In that moment she understood that from the depth of my heart I cared only for you. I can’t shake off the sense that I was responsible for what she became after that. No wonder they say war begins at home, in the family. It was I who–’
‘Don’t let her make you feel guilty, Dad. She’s very good at that, you know. Meanwhile, she’s enjoying the high life as an Owner.’
He was staring ahead and held my hand tightly in his. I would have done anything to have a magic sponge to wipe away his misery.
‘I’ve never been so excited. Thank you for planning all this.’
His face lit up, and I could see he had decided not to ruin my special day by bringing up Sofia again.
To me, Sofia’s betrayal of Nana hadn’t come as a shock. I had always sensed she had a kind of emotional disability. The day after Grandma retired, I knocked on Sofia’s laboratory door. When she let me in, without the slightest sign of guilt on her face, I didn’t beat around the bush.
‘Why did you betray Grandma?’ I asked.
‘Go away!’ she said, not looking up from her microscope.
‘I just don’t get it. You’ve always wanted to help old people. You wanted to stop ageing.’
‘No. I wanted to stop them being a burden on society.’
‘How can you say that? They’re not a burden. They…they just live, like all of us.’
‘I can see Dad explained it in vain,’ she said.
‘Explained what?’
‘Why the old system collapsed.’
‘Grandma didn’t do anything!’ I cried out.
She rolled her eyes, then stood up and started pushing me towards the door.
‘Tell me what Grandma did!’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said, and slammed the door in my face.
Our monorail arrived in Bakewell, a former village. We had learned at school that villages used to be little settlements, much less convenient than cities, whose inhabitants lived in primitive conditions, many of them having been forced out of cities by the high living costs. In the new system, with everyone assigned free accommodation in the megacities, the village became completely unnecessary. Farmers and agricultural workers were delighted that, thanks to the new high-speed transport, they could travel out to the countryside in no time, and return to civilisation at the end of the working day.
Village-dwellers who didn’t work on the land had been at a great disadvantage, for there were few job opportunities and very little entertainment. I couldn’t believe people really had to put up with living in such isolated and backward places. By now the remaining villages were fully commercialised: visitors accustomed to city life could stay in the cottages that had been converted into guesthouses; others had been made into restaurants, museums and, most importantly, souvenir shops. Once we got off the monorail, we were transported into the past. I marvelled at the rustic bakeries, tea rooms and antique shops, and posed for photos.
The veteran car-taxi was a whole new experience. The one we hired was blood-red and allegedly from the 1950s. We were driven really slowly and attracted looks of astonishment from the pedestrians around us. The taxi took us around Bakewell, but the end of the village was closed off with a red wire fence and a plaque that read: ‘Warning! Predatory wolves beyond this point.’ We got out of the taxi and gazed beyond the fence. There was no sign of any human dwelling, only the vast green of hills and valleys stretching out, untouched, before us.
‘This is one of the rare places where you can walk in the countryside before you get to the fence,’ Dad said. ‘Not too far, about a square mile, but it will do.’
‘Will we see wolves?’
‘We might.’
There was a sign indicating a narrow path on the left. The taxi driver advised us to walk for five minutes alongside the fence and then we would get to the open countryside. Once there, we saw a few other families who had come to the furthest point of the safe area, some of them standing just next to the fence. They had cameras ready; Dad said they were waiting for wolves. I wanted to see the wolves too, but first we took a long walk. It was a new experience for me, as I ran up and down the meadow, feeling the crisp air on my skin. I got tired after an hour and we sat on top of a huge rock, which was the highest point in sight, and felt as if we were suspended between earth and sky. Dad was very quiet all day. I think he was still torturing himself about Sofia, although he was trying hard to conceal it.
The silence was shattered by the sound of a helicopter, cutting through the air like thunder. The whirring became louder and soon we saw it hovering over the woods down in the valley, approaching the meadow. It was about to land. I wondered who would want to land in the middle of the fields. Dad said it was probably a High Spender who felt he was above taking the monorail. He pulled a face; I found it funny how he never even tried to hide his feelings about High Spenders. I hated them too, and now they were about to ruin the quiet beauty of our trip. I wanted to suggest that we return to the guesthouse and come back later, when I saw the helicopter prepare for landing beyond the fence.
‘Dad! Look, they’re going to land in the wolf zone.’
‘No way! What is that crazy pilot doing?’
The other families stopped their barbecues or whatever they were doing, ran to the fence and held up their ID Phones to record the incident.
‘Don’t worry, sweetie,’ Dad said. ‘They probably have guns. It might be an Owner surrounded by soldiers.’
The helicopter landed and we held our breath and waited. Soon a dark green jeep appeared on the road beyond and stopped near the helicopter. Three men in military-style uniforms jumped out of the vehicle with some equipment and disappeared into the depths of the forest. My heart stopped beating; they didn’t have any guns with them. Some minutes later, they returned, and I was shocked to see that two of them were carrying a stretcher with a bloody bundle on it. The onlookers gasped in horror and began taking photos. The third man was pushing a broken bicycle out of the woods. It must have belonged to the dead man, probably a reckless biker, tempting fate despite the warnings. We assumed the three men would be in a rush to put the body and the bike in the van and get in before the wolves could return. But they just kept messing around. A few spectators began yelling to the guys to hurry up. I nearly started screaming. Dad said they might have guns in their pockets, but I looked very closely and couldn’t see any evidence of it. And what if a wolf attacks unexpectedly, I thought; the men might not have enough time to react and shoot.
The next
moment a man emerged from the forest. He was middle-aged, with dark blond hair, and victory written across his tanned face. He wore a dark green uniform in the same colour as the jeep. On his back he carried a long rifle. Dad and I sighed with relief. The other onlookers calmed down, too. So that’s why the three men were so relaxed: they knew the guy with the rifle, probably a hobby hunter, was behind them and would protect them. Dad and I went to the nearest part of the fence to get a better view. Everyone else was there, chatting excitedly. The three men finally put the body and the bicycle into the vehicle. The hunter stayed speaking for a while with the jeep driver. We all expected to see the wolf’s carcass carried out of the forest shortly. Everyone pointed their cameras, ready to start recording. Even Dad turned the camera of his ID Phone on. Someone whispered there might be more than one wolf. People said that the police would come soon, some even suggested an ambulance, but this was unlikely as it was clearly too late.
Still, nothing happened. After a few minutes of conversation, the driver closed the van door and drove away. The hunter climbed aboard the helicopter and left. Dad said they had probably left the wolf’s carcass in the forest so the other wolves could feed on it. I could sense people’s disappointment that they hadn’t seen the dead wolf. I felt the same way and couldn’t stop thinking about the accident even when we walked back to the guesthouse.
At dinner, the waiter served my favourite, a rocky road cake with my name written on it in tiny marshmallows, but my mind was still on the bloody bundle on the stretcher. In the meantime, I was relieved by the fact that I was not the only one tortured by Sofia and even a strong, grown-up man like Dad could be hurt by her.
The next morning we visited a farm where animals were kept for demonstration purposes. I was disgusted by the horrible smell and by how boring and dirty the cow was. I couldn’t believe that milk came from such a sickening place. Then we went to the farm shop where we bought Mum a plastic cow the size of a toaster, in which to store milk. Its oversized udders were made to look and feel like real ones and had to be milked. I thought Mum would love it, and she did indeed. None of her friends had anything like it, but when they saw ours, they all decided to get one.
The sense of freedom I’d experienced in the countryside was new to me and I craved more of it. When we returned to London the next day, I told Dad I wanted to become a doctor or a lawyer to earn a lot of money and come to the countryside every weekend. Dad chuckled and said that those sorts of people didn’t have proper weekends and I’d do better to become a gardener if I liked the outdoors.
three
This room feels familiar. Maybe it’s the way the declining sun shines in through the sash window, just as it does on my balcony at home. My eyes are drawn to the pots of cacti Ms Hayashi, the crisis advisor, crams into her little office. They are everywhere, on the windowsill, on the bookshelf, on the edge of her desk. Hundreds of tiny thorns, directed at me. Ms Hayashi resembles an ostrich, her head balancing on top of a long thin neck. Most of her little consulting room is taken up by two oversized armchairs facing each other. The armchairs are covered with soft orange and yellow blankets, inviting the person in crisis to sink into sunny comfort.
All it takes is Ms Hayashi asking ‘How can I help?’ and all the pain of the last few months comes pouring out. The conversation is recorded so that she can pay full attention without having to make notes. A lovely gesture. She looks at me attentively with her bright green eyes as I tell her my sad story of husband lost, home downgraded, work jeopardised, and dreams shattered. She leans slightly closer to examine me.
‘If I understand correctly, Alice, it was the loss of your husband that triggered all this. It seems to me that after the death of your parents, your relationship with Philip was still strong.’
‘For a while, yes, but lately we had drifted apart. The stress at work didn’t help either – you know how it is. He became more and more withdrawn.’
‘Do you have any idea why?
‘He began to isolate himself. For example, he stopped his early morning gym and his weekend cycling club, without which he couldn’t have coped before. He bought himself an exercise bike to use at home, an expensive one that simulates outdoor cycling. But he used it less and less frequently.’
‘How did you react?’
‘I kept asking what was wrong but he didn’t reply. I hoped one day he would overcome his inner demons. I hoped that we could start a family, have a future.’
‘Did you do anything else? Apart from hoping?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Never mind,’ she says and holds out a tray of chocolate biscuits. ‘Let’s be realistic, Alice. If he can’t be tracked, I know it hurts, but it’s very likely he’s dead. And if he’s dead, you need to sort out your life. On your own. A crisis advisor is not a counsellor, this one-off session wouldn’t be enough for that, I hope you understand. Also, I’m afraid you’re running out of time.’
‘If I move into a Low-Spender area–’
She gives me a sharp look, as piercing as the spines of one of her cacti.
‘Of course, I would like to avoid it,’ I murmur.
She nods.
‘Going downhill, becoming a Low Spender is something that happens to the elderly and the terminally ill, not to someone of your age, Alice. You should be aiming higher. Why not spend your savings on an excellent psychologist?’
‘Would it bring my husband back? Would it give me the answers I need?’
She holds my gaze.
‘If you can’t get up, Alice, there’s only one way out. I’m really ashamed to even mention this to a young lady like you.’
‘Do you mean…the Dignitorium?’
‘Have you been working for at least ten years?’
‘I started working when I was twenty-one. Thirteen years ago.’
‘Good. So you’re eligible for retirement in the Dignitorium. But are you aware there is an alternative to retirement?’
‘Instant euthanasia?’
‘You would feel nothing.’
‘Hang on, Ms Hayashi.’ I can hear the anxiety distorting my voice. ‘You’re telling a 34-year-old woman, who came to you for help, that death is the only option?’
‘Don’t get so upset, Alice. Quite the contrary! I’m trying to tell you that either you stand up and carry on or you let yourself go and fall. If you fall, instant euthanasia is an option. But I wholeheartedly wish you will be able to get yourself together. Recover and keep on working, consuming, enjoying life. Maybe if you could find a boyfriend–’
‘But…I’m married.’
‘You don’t have to love him. Just find someone to keep contributing for your Right To Reside. That should be your priority. If you really want to live, of course.’
I’m struggling to speak.
‘Many other women do it, Alice.’ The woman who is always reading in my condo comes to mind. I feel sick.
‘You can’t be serious.’
She gets up and walks over to the window. She looks down at me, a mixture of patronising authority and compassion in her bulging eyes. The cacti on the shelf behind her are watching me intently, like a miniature army, sharpening their thorns. I should just go.
‘I’m only talking from a realistic point of view, Alice. I know the rules of this world, it seems, better than you do.’
My whole body is shaking and I’m unable to hold the tears back. I have to turn away, I don’t want this woman to see me cry. She pushes a box of tissues in front of me. Her voice sounds slightly softer now.
‘It doesn’t have to be a psychologist. Do you really not have anyone to talk to? A close friend?’
‘Philip and my parents were the only people I was close to. I don’t have anyone else but…’
‘Yes?’
‘There is Philip’s father. But he is useless. He lives in the Zone.’
She snorts.
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‘Any brothers, sisters, cousins?’
I hesitate for a moment as if I need to think about the answer. Do I have a sister? Or do I not? I shake my head and stand up, ready to go. I’m going to be sick.
‘One more thing, Alice,’ she says when I’m at the door.
I make an effort to turn around.
‘I really hope I’m wrong, but have you ever considered that Philip was not a victim of the explosion?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said yourself that he despised the custom of Boxing Day shopping. And he didn’t turn up at work that day. What if he wasn’t a victim? What if he was involved in the terrorist attacks?’
‘That is…impossible.’
‘It could also explain why there was so little money left in his account.’
‘You don’t know him! How can you –?’
‘Was Philip an anti-consumerist, a freedom seeker, the type who secretly disappeared, allegedly to enjoy nature, for a whole weekend? And then came home more withdrawn than ever, but with a glint of something indescribable in his eyes?’
Philip used to say Boxing Day shoppers were feeding this rotten system. It’s on the tip of my tongue, as a part of me is desperate to pour my heart out to this woman, but I have enough sense to hold back.
‘Leave him out of this. Please.’ I drag myself out of the room, but my legs won’t carry me beyond the waiting area. Blurred faces follow me as I collapse into an armchair in the corner. I try to get up but drop back into the seat. I can’t see through my tears anyway.
Looking out of the window from my apartment, watching the more capable part of the world go by, only makes me feel worse, but it’s addictive. The courtyard is swimming in the sunshine and my eyes wander idly over to the apartments on the opposite side. The reading woman looks as if she’s on holiday, the way she’s sprawling in her hammock, wearing white hot pants and a bikini top. There’s something comforting in watching her; she’s one of the few certainties in my life right now, though I’ve never met her and she doesn’t even know I exist. Out of the blue, she slams her book down and runs inside. Not long after, she closes the balcony door and draws the heavy curtain. It’s rare that she has a visitor in the daytime; most of them come in the evening. I try to ignore the pinch of jealousy in my gut; it can’t be real, I can’t be jealous of a woman like that. But then I have to admit there are moments when I would swap this icy loneliness for any company at all.
Wolf Country Page 6