‘As I said, it’s a brand-new measure that will be introduced unilaterally from tomorrow,’ the manager said patiently, his exaggerated smile never leaving his face. ‘We conducted a survey and found that Dignitorium residents on a national level–’
‘Then we don’t want it, thank you,’ Philip barked. ‘We’ll come back in a year’s time.’ He looked at my parents, expecting them to stand up and leave the office, come home with us. But Mum and Dad remained calm.
‘Just sit down, Philip,’ Dad said. ’It’s OK.’
‘We’re OK with it, Philip,’ Mum chimed in and flashed a wide smile at us.
‘How can you say it’s OK?’ Philip raised his voice. He was pacing up and down the room like a trapped lion in a cage.
‘Because it is,’ Mum replied. ‘These people are experts, they know what they are doing and why.’
‘Mrs Walker is perfectly right.’ The manager didn’t stop nodding. ‘These new measures are the results of an extensive survey. We will show our new residents a documentary tonight that will explain everything in detail. The conclusion is that the great majority of residents prefer to enjoy a more luxurious retirement for a shorter period of time, rather than stretching it out for infinity.’
‘Infinity?’ Philip couldn’t keep his voice down any longer. ‘How can you have the nerve to call one fucking year infinity, you–’
‘Philip!’ Dad cut in. ‘Stop it, now! Please! We’re OK with it. Honestly.’
‘In fact, it’s better this way,’ Mum nodded fervently, shooting glances at the manager. ‘Am I right, sir?’
‘Without giving too much away,’ he said, with an air of mystery, ‘I can confirm, Mr and Mrs Walker, that you won’t be disappointed.’
Mum’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. She leaned closer to the manager. ‘Those multi-sensory capsules that are always in the adverts – have you got them?’
‘Mrs Walker, I hope you’re joking,’ answered the manager, pretending to be insulted. ‘Of course we do.’ He sat up straight. ‘We have purchased the finest available on the market.’ Mum was over the moon and became giddy like a little girl.
Philip turned to me.
‘The bastards, they cut it again.’
I couldn’t say a word for the lump in my throat. Mum and Dad didn’t even have a year to live.
eight
This week I received a friendly reminder, politely asking me to come to the next Sunday Mass. It’s today. The note says the authorities are extremely sorry about me becoming a Low Spender but they wish me a quick recovery and return to where I belong. As an act of encouragement, they allow me to attend Sunday Mass with the Mid Spenders one last time.
I don’t feel like going, but I know what comes after a friendly reminder. I remember, years ago, when Philip received one and ignored it. He received another one, less friendly. Then a final note, with a bill attached.
I’m staring at the church building with the same fascination as when I saw it for the first time. It looks like a giant egg turned on its side, one quarter of it buried in the lawn. Ten years on, the sleek, cream-coloured surface is just as shiny as it was then. Its frosted glass door is wide open, and masses of colourfully-dressed figures are pouring in. People are wearing their best outfits, as if attending a fashion show instead of Mass.
I feel shamefully under-dressed in my white cotton T-shirt with plain black trousers, but looking glamorous was the last thing on my mind this morning. Even the grass around the church is greener than in other parts of the park. I can’t help wondering whether Pastor Obi secretly sprays it green at night while his wife polishes the building’s outer surface. The electric bell strikes eleven – it sounds like a real one in a Gothic cathedral. I feel awkward going in; people usually don’t come here alone. Although I have no companion, I carry Philip within me. I can still hear his words, on those rare occasions when he attended Mass, after receiving a final warning: ‘It’s time to enter the zombie factory.’
In the doorway I see two rows of glittering white teeth, surrounded by curly golden hair. It’s Janine, Pastor Obi’s mother.
‘Welcome, my dear. God bless.’
Before I can say anything, she ushers me inside and in the bright reception room a volunteer puts a glass of champagne into my hand. I take a deep breath and step into the main hall. The crowd is bursting with energy, like spectators in a Roman coliseum. Red velvet seats are organised in a giant semi-circle; they are so comfortable that once you sit down, it’s nigh on impossible to get up. I take the very first seat in the back row. Other people are coming in, among them I recognise Christine from my old condo. She’s with her girlfriends, who are all heavily made-up and chattering away. When I wave to her, she comes and air-kisses me without making eye contact, then apologises, saying ‘I’ll call you,’ and joins her friends. She turns around; I see her gulp down some champagne and disappear into the crowd.
The service is about to start, and the melodic rock music playing from the speakers on the walls gets louder and faster. People are fidgeting in their seats. Total darkness falls upon the hall and behind the stage the wall-to-wall 3D screen vibrates to the increasing speed of the drums. People are stamping out the rhythm with their feet; some are standing up, with hands held up in the air. Suddenly the music stops. Two thousand people hold their breath.
With the stage lights comes an explosion of sound. In the middle of it all, like a demi-god, stands Pastor Obi. His white three-piece suit and crimson tie are eye-catching even from a distance. Now the screen behind him shows his face up close. Pastor Obi may be in his mid-fifties, but he could be a film star, not only because of his good looks – his charisma could light a fire in the middle of Siberia. A cacophony of clapping and screaming rises to an almost unbearable level and I find myself thinking it’s lucky there are no windows in the hall as they would simply shatter. The pastor holds his right hand up, and the crowd is instantly quiet. The women in the choir stop singing.
‘God bless you all, my brothers and sisters.’
A thick wall of screams, whistles, clapping and cheering follows.
‘What did you buy today?’
Laughter.
As usual, the service starts with the Final Farewell announcements. Mrs Parker is on the screens. In her early seventies, she has immaculate golden hair and rosy cheeks.
‘This is my opportunity to tell you how happy I’ve been all my life and how grateful I am for all I’ve had: for my late husband, my beloved children and grandchildren. For being able to spend nine wonderful months at this extraordinary place and prepare for my final departure’ – clapping from the audience – ‘maintaining my dignity and…departing with that same dignity.’
More screams of support and applause.
‘I feel I’m ready to go now, and join my beloved Jack. I wish you all the same happiness and quality of life I’ve experienced. Goodbye.’
The audience are wiping their eyes; most of them gulp down the remains of their champagne. Next on screen is Hugo, a jovial man in his mid-sixties. He is in a wheelchair in the breathtaking garden of a Dignitorium, behind him a carpet of red and yellow tulips.
‘Hello, everyone! I’m here to say goodbye. By the time you see this I won’t be here. To cut it short all I can say is: Live as much as I did, enjoy it as much as I did, consume as much as I did. Then you’ll go as happily as I do.’
Applause, whistles, cheers.
‘One more thing: this stupid liver damage just hit me, and before coming here I went through hell, queuing for ages at the hospital, then hearing the cost of the operation just to carry on like this for two or three more years, as a Low Spender. And for what? What’s the point in being alive without dignity, suffering like an animal? No way, I told them. I showed them the finger.’
Hugo lifts his right hand and shows his middle finger to the camera.
‘Like this, I did.
I walked out. Next day I was here. Never had a better time. See ya, guys.’
The audience starts screaming, people stand up, clapping their hands, and soon everyone is chanting: ‘Hugo! Hugo!’
The pastor joins in. ‘Hugo! Hugo!’ He stops for a second, tilts his head up and winks at the ceiling. ‘Hi Hugo!’ Laughter fills the hall.
The green frame on the screen changes to pink. Weddings. A video of a young bride and groom starts in front of a dreamlike castle. I recognise it: Castle Howard in North Yorkshire, a popular wedding location for High Spenders, though Mid Spenders can also afford it if they save up for years. I have to admit the pictures are amazing, like watching a fairy-tale coming true. The couple, Richard and Amy, are over the moon.
‘She is my princess, and I am the happiest man on Earth,’ Richard says. Amy blushes, while women in the audience are screaming hysterically. My breakfast, meanwhile, is trying to climb up from my stomach.
Next the upcoming weddings are announced, then communal parties, and dinner with Pastor Obi, which is open to anyone, for a hefty price. A visit to Pastor Obi’s home is an annual occasion strictly limited to twelve people. The pastor’s wife, Eleanor, is on stage in a royal-blue silk overall that was designed for someone half her size and a third her age. She wears it with extraordinary confidence, though.
Now Pastor Obi announces the new Mid Spenders, who have just been upgraded. There’s a dozen of them, lining up on the stage. They are young, hopeful and shining against the wall of applause. I know what comes next; I just hope it will be short. The pastor expresses his condolences for those who are here today for the last time as they have become Low Spenders.
‘I don’t want to humiliate you by calling out your names, so if you want to stand up, it’s fine, if not, that’s okay.’
Deadly silence. I look around, pretending to seek out the down-graders. No one stands up.
There’s a change of mood now. The lights come up; red, orange, blue and green spotlights flash above our heads. The choir starts singing. People stand up and sing with the choir, and everyone is gradually drawn into a trance by the powerful music. I put my hands up dutifully in the air but I already feel exhausted and secretly glance at my wrist for the time.
After half an hour of music and dancing, the room quietens down, for the sermon is about to begin. Today’s speech, on the importance of generosity, flows out of Pastor Obi’s lips like melted honey. Don’t break the circle, keep it flowing, he says. Be grateful for what others do, return their hard work by consuming and contributing. He constantly reminds us how lucky we are in the new system, that this is the very first society in recorded history where an exceptionally good standard of living and free accommodation is guaranteed for the majority.
‘DEATH!’ He yells out so loud that the microphone squeaks. ‘We, my brothers and sisters, have managed to do the impossible! We have cheated death!’
On the screen pictures appear: poor-quality ones, probably taken decades ago in the old system. The audience gasp when they see the bedridden pensioners. Old people, unimaginably old, some of them in their nineties or beyond, with IV tubes hanging out of them. A pension in the old system was a stipend the elderly received from the government to keep them quiet, to delude them into believing they were cared for. But one only has to look at these photos to see how they were cared for. They wear a look of unmistakeable fear, the terror of an animal about to be shot. Some children in the audience start crying and their parents put pink glasses over their eyes. Now before them they see only Disney figures dancing in a pink light and they immediately calm down. Pastor Obi starts to list all the things that happen to the human body around the age of seventy, the signs of decay. The list is endless and I don’t even want to pay attention, it’s so heartbreaking.
I think of Nurse Vogel, how many of these symptoms she already has. The smell, yes, I think I smelt it when I went to her flat. It will no doubt become unbearable in a few years’ time. Pastor Obi has just mentioned mental breakdown and memory loss. I haven’t noticed any signs of this in her. But it raises doubts about all that she has told me. How much can I believe of what she said about the uprising?
At last, the pastor has finished and is breathing heavily. He watches his audience, waiting for their reaction.
Only when the prayers, moans and sighs die out, does he continue.
‘For the first time in history, people don’t have to go through this. YOU don’t have to go through this, my brothers and sisters! You are no longer victims waiting for a disaster to happen, helplessly witnessing your own physical and mental deterioration,’ he exclaims fervently. ‘You’re in control of your own destiny. You are not defenceless puppets in the cruel hands of nature, you are wonderful human beings who can make a conscious decision! You have the CHOICE, the choice previous generations didn’t have, the choice our ancestors would have valued more than anything, the choice to decide when and how you want to leave this world!’
His words are drowned out by the screams of the audience. By now he’s panting. I fear he will faint or have a heart attack. Eleanor runs to him with a tissue and wipes his forehead and face. The pastor continues, though with less fervour now.
‘What else is this, my brothers and sisters, than the living proof that God has given us so much? But do we give back?’
‘Yes,’ many of them shout out.
‘Are we as generous as God is or are we keeping it to ourselves?’
‘We are generous,’ many people say.
‘Amen,’ others cry.
There are dark wet patches on the underarms of Pastor Obi’s suit and sweat trickles down his forehead into his eyes. He can’t see and he has to close his eyes, but he doesn’t stop.
‘Now turn to your neighbour, shake each other’s hands, and say: “You deserve everything your heart desires and God will give it to you.”’
The young woman on my left has a hazy expression and her hand is hot and shaking. She must be in a trance. I try to make eye contact but she doesn’t acknowledge me and after the handshake she bursts into tears and praises the Lord loudly. After this the pastor sits down to recover and has a glass of water. Eleanor, beaming, announces that the opportunity to give back has started. People get excited, especially after the next round of champagne that is carried around by volunteers. Now the images of the decrepit old people disappear from the screen.
The next video shows the Obi family in a short film. We are given an insight into the pastor’s life, to reassure the audience that he’s one of us and give us the impression that we know him personally. Funny incidents that happened last week are shown: a family outing to the park with their three kids, a late-night shopping trip to the supermarket when their smallest, the five-year-old, led the e-trolley into a mountain of tinned food. Everyone laughs.
After the film is over, clothes, food and furniture are brought up on stage and people can see them and select on their ID Phones whatever they want to buy. The pastor doesn’t stop repeating: ‘Who will be our highest spender today?’ The volunteers are very busy now, running around with extra-large champagne bottles. I feel a bit dizzy and don’t let them refill my glass, claiming I have a headache.
Pastor Obi is prancing around on the stage, his hair shining with sweat. More and more people, mostly women, become so excited they faint. The volunteers are now even busier, trying to get them on the stretchers that are dropping down from the ceiling like oxygen masks on airplanes. Next the pastor recommends his latest book, titled A Recipe For Success. Then he tells us to turn to our neighbours and ask them: ‘What did you buy today?’
The young woman on my left is happily showing me her ID Phone, on which she ticked all the clothes Eleanor was wearing in the video. Pastor Obi shouts: ‘Let’s see who our highest spender is today! Who is the winner? Three, two, one!’ The music stops. I decide to make my escape, before the screaming erupts again. I am about to faint but not wi
th excitement. Thank God I’m out.
At the exit I get extra money uploaded on my ID Phone, a reward for attending the service. At the door, Janine, showing all her teeth, says that I can stay in the restaurant because they’re having a meal with the pastor soon. It’s the last thing I want. As a final effort, she recommends Pastor Obi’s rainbow paintings that fully cover the wall. She claims they have healing energy. I’m starting to have a real headache now, so I tell her I have already two paintings of the pastor. The fresh air outside sobers me up. I’m relieved I can tick Sunday Mass off my list. Even though I won’t be returning, I can’t do anything to escape the church in my new Low Spender area. But they won’t be bothering me with friendly reminders for another month.
It’s quiet at home, thank God, and I finally collapse on the sofa and put my feet up against the wall. I wonder what has changed in me. Why did I find the service so unbearable? I used to be one of those who danced and wept. Now I’m irritated by their empty stares and fake smiles, and can’t wait to hear Felicity’s genuine laughter, which melts my heart every time I see her.
It always upsets me when I see Farewell Videos at Sunday Mass. They remind me of Mum and Dad. I have a copy of their’s and I often watch it, especially after I wake up from those horrible nightmares in which I see Dad on the floor and Mum leaning above him, screaming. I had the same dream last night. When I woke up, my heart kept on beating furiously for a long time. But then I watched their Farewell Video, in which they confirmed how happy they were and that the best gift was that they could do it together. They praised Nurse Vogel and how she had taken great care of them. I watched it twice to calm myself down. There was nothing like this in the old system, but Nurse Vogel clearly preferred it all the same. It’s probably because of what she went through. Her story was heartbreaking, and I can completely identify with her guilt. Since I started to look after Felicity, I can’t shake off the feeling that I didn’t listen to Philip, didn’t pay attention to him the way I should have. I’ll never see him again, never have the opportunity to make it better, to tell him I’m sorry.
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