The receptionist is shooting neurotic glances at us, pretending to do her job by pushing a pile of papers to the other side of her desk but always staying within hearing distance.
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ the manager says in a condescending voice, ‘but if you keep forcing this, I will have to give you a warning.’
‘A warning? What for?’
‘Gaining two warnings disqualifies our visitors from entering the institution again,’ she says with an air of victory.
‘I understand, and sorry for the trouble.’
I turn on my heel and flee the building, not waiting for her reply.
In the garden I recognise the squeaking voice I heard two years ago from the pink heli-taxi. Tiara Joy is dining on the bar’s terrace, surrounded by a dozen people who look like devoted fans, all women trying hard to copy her clothing and hair style. Unlike Philip’s, her wristband is gold, sparkling in the sunlight, letting everyone around know she is a High Spender. On my way to the gates I see a few other High Spenders. All of them make sure, even those wearing long-sleeved tops, that their gold wristbands are clearly visible. Now I understand what Philip meant when I asked about the reason High Spenders retired here. In a Dignitorium that was exclusively for High Spenders, there would be no one to feel superior to. The gold wrist band is useless if everyone else is wearing it.
Sitting on the monorail back to London, I’m burdened with heavy, black thoughts. I had had to make Philip a promise I have no intention of fulfilling. It was a white lie, for his sake, but still a lie, the first I’ve ever told him. I don’t know how long I can carry on pretending, without him reading the truth in my eyes. I wish I had Mum or Dad here to talk to. I ring Nurse Vogel, but again she doesn’t answer. It’s out of character that she didn’t get back to me after my voicemail last night. There’s no one else I can share today’s failure with and my loneliness carries a new, acidic taste. I feel I’m hanging from the edge of a cliff with wet hands that will soon lose their grip. Maybe I should stop looking up for help and take the courage to look down in the deep, to prepare myself for the fall.
three
Today I’m up early and out of the house by eight. Crowds of people sweep past me on their way to work. I’m a loner, going against the masses, against the tide. I’m shivering, though it is hot already; apparently it will be the hottest day of the year so far. The perfect day for going to hell.
Just the thought of what happened yesterday frightens me, the possibility of not being allowed to visit Philip again. I am now approaching another Dignitorium, a familiar one that holds more positive memories. Saying goodbye to loved ones is a step everyone should take before leaving this world behind.
There is no one at the wall this early and my tears begin to flow. I feel Mum and Dad’s love transmitted through the cold silver plaque as if they were trying to comfort me. We are connected and always will be. For several long minutes I soak up their presence and store it deep within me. I look around before I lift up my wrist to take some photos with my ID phone. They come out well: my smile seems genuine and my parents’ names etched into the plaque are clearly visible behind me. The closest thing to a family selfie I can have these days.
I take a seemingly casual stroll around the park. I’m desperate to find any sign of Nurse Vogel. She still hasn’t answered her phone. I have left several messages, but she hasn’t responded. I can’t wait to tell her about my meeting with Philip. It’s strange how strong the power of beauty is. Even in my chaotic state of mind I can’t help but stop for a minute to look up at the cream-white building before walking up the hill to go inside. At reception, I try to seem calm and collected.
‘Is there anything I can help with?’ the receptionist asks.
‘I was just wondering if I could say hello to the ex-carer of my parents, the lovely Nurse Vogel, who is a dear friend of mine. If you could remind me of her shift for this week…’
She thinks I’m weird, I can see it in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry I can’t give you any information about staff,’ she says, the uniform smile stretching across her immaculate face.
‘All I want to know is what time to return to speak to her.’
‘This is a place of work and any non-professional communication with staff is prohibited.’
Her eyes are starting to shoot arrows.
‘Thank you, I’ll contact her myself,’ I say, before leaving.
On the monorail I’m trying to calm my fears about Nurse Vogel. In my mind’s eye I see her being hauled away to the T-wing, turning her head back towards me, her eyes begging for help while her frail body is held up by two stocky guards. The monorail is now taking me to MN09, a place where no one greets me any more. No human being, at least. The apple tree my father planted, then replanted, means just as much to me as any human, and if I could pack it up and take it with me today, I would.
I wait for the young couple with a little boy and a baby to leave the house that used to be my home. Once they’re out of sight, I take a last photo of the house, but it’s the tree that means the most to me. It has grown since I last visited, its canopy above shading me like a parasol. It’s the morning rush hour; the walkways are packed with people in black-and-white office wear, hurrying towards the monorail station as if charged up with electricity. I must look out of place wearing a simple T-shirt with a denim skirt, leaning my back against the tree and not rushing anywhere. As the rugged surface of the tree trunk presses into my spine, I imagine that Mum and Dad are with me, reassuring me that they support me and will be here for me forever. I take a few more selfies, then I move back a bit to get the whole tree in the picture. Before making my way back to the monorail station, I pick a leaf and slip it into my pocket. Sadly, it’s too early for apples.
Ruth is not at home, so I don’t have the chance to say farewell to her and Felicity. Maybe it’s better this way. It would be too painful. Maybe Felicity’s laughter would hold me back. They would probably try to change my mind. I’m sure Ruth would. In the apartment that I didn’t even occupy long enough to call home, it takes no longer than ten minutes to pack my things. I won’t need a lot. I’ll commit the first crime in my life; I’ll leave the place without clearing my old furniture out, without getting it ready for the next resident. It’s not yet eleven when I leave this wretched Low-Spender area for the station, with one small e-suitcase following me like a faithful servant. Like yesterday and the day before, I use my ID Phone to buy a ticket for Scarborough. But today I don’t buy a return ticket.
Now that I know I have limited time, my perception has changed. Past, present and future are concentrated in this moment. I only half-lived before, and probably half-loved, too. Everything that I experience is intensified: the flavour of the strawberry I’ve just finished, the bold purple colour of the shirt the woman opposite me is wearing, the grace of the rolling hills through the window. The speaker on the train announces we’ll be arriving shortly in Scarborough. It’s a sweet female voice, wishing us a wonderful stay.
Philip is already in the garden, gazing at a glass statue of a frail old woman. From a distance Philip looks like an obedient schoolboy who has been told to sit quietly. He is listening to the sounds of nature around him, bliss is written across his face. He spots me straight away. I would have preferred him not to see me as there is still half an hour left until visiting time. I could have finished my business at reception then told him the good news. He comes to me, and we wrap our arms around each other.
‘What have you brought me?’ He is eyeing my e-suitcase. ‘I don’t need any more clothes.’
‘It’s not clothes. Not for you, at least.’
We sit down on an isolated bench at the top of a hill overlooking the lake. His skin is glowing, his eyes are shining and he seems relaxed. He must sense that I have something to say, as he’s watching me impatiently.
‘I have made a decision, Philip.’ I swallow.
>
Continuing is far more difficult than I expected.
‘It wasn’t hard really. Given the circumstances, I think this is the only sane thing to do.’
‘Is it to do with the contents of your luggage?’ he asks, lifting his head, suddenly alert.
‘So you guessed it?’
‘If it’s what it seems to be…you can’t do this, Ali.’
‘I’ll speak to the manager, in fact if you hadn’t spotted me, I would be already in the office. There would be no visiting time today. I would just join you, and never leave.’
He releases a painful sigh.
‘So you were deceiving me yesterday when you promised to grant me my wish!’
‘I needed time to think, Phil.’
‘You didn’t listen to me. You never listen, you just follow your own stubborn head, and you don’t care how much it hurts me.’
I can see the tension rising in his shoulders. He’s watching me with pain and disappointment in his eyes.
‘But don’t you see, it’s good news. We’ll have a wonderful two weeks together. Like Mum and Dad.’
‘Stop this, please!’
‘It’s too late, Phil. I am not going back into that shithole, only to be alone and end up here anyway in a year’s time, without you.’
‘How can you say that? My God, look at yourself, you’re young, you’re in your prime.’
‘In these two weeks ahead of us, we can make up for the bad times, together.’
His face turns red with anger.
‘I don’t want you in this place, do you understand that?’
A carer, a sturdy, square-shaped woman, marches towards us from the left. A guard from the gates approaches from the right.
‘Philip, calm down. It’s OK,’ I whisper, trying to avoid calling any more attention to ourselves.
‘It’s not fucking OK!’
The guard and the carer reach us at the same time. It seems it’s the first time they have heard him swear. And they are not impressed.
‘Is there a problem, Mr Brunelli?’ the carer asks.
‘Oh, no. Everything is just fine. Marvellous that my wife has just decided to get herself killed.’
The carer shoots an annoyed glance at me, as if I’m a small child disrupting an important event.
‘How come you’re here so early?’ she turns to me.
She checks something on her mini-screen.
‘You are not allowed to visit for another fifteen minutes, Mrs Brunelli. I have to ask you to go to the reception area and check into the Salon.’
‘But when I arrived Philip was already outside,’ I say.
‘It was his relaxing time and not an opportunity for anyone to disturb him.’
This word, disturb, is pronounced with an unpleasant stress.
‘What kind of place is it that doesn’t allow me to talk to my husband, as if he is a bloody prisoner?’
‘Leave her alone,’ Philip says to the carer. ‘It was I who approached her at the gate. I apologise. For a moment I forgot I was in a Dignitorium.’
The carer ignores him; she’s watching me like a hawk, expecting me to leave.
‘What’s in this luggage?’ she asks.
‘It’s mine. I’m retiring today.’
‘You’re not retiring!’ Philip raises his voice again.
‘Please leave now, madam, or I will need to report you to security.’ The guard turns to me. ‘This may end in a warning.’
‘If you ever loved me, promise me you won’t do anything,’ Philip yells as I make my way slowly towards the main building. ‘Wait in the Salon, we’ll discuss this.’
‘Please, don’t let her go to the office,’ he begs to the carer.
‘Don’t upset yourself, Mr Brunelli. It takes more time than that to complete a registration.’
‘Could you hurry up, please?’ I can hear her raspy voice behind me. ‘You’re upsetting him.’ The footsteps of the security guard to my right are speeding up.
The Salon feels like a hothouse; it has been soaking up the heat all morning. I can’t wait for Philip to return or I will explode. It’s infuriatingly noisy in here, for other families are also visiting. There’s a large family in the corner; they are loud and cheerful, apparently celebrating some good news. Suddenly I see that it’s George, Philip’s roommate, surrounded by his family. He is very happy and cuddling one of his daughters. When he notices me he waves across the room. I reach out for the mineral water on the side table. The touch of the ice-cold glass is so refreshing, I’d like to pour the water all over my face. A few minutes later, Philip storms into the room. He spots me straight away.
‘Don’t you understand, if you upset me they won’t let you in again,’ he whispers. He drops into a chair on my left.
‘What have you got against me moving in with you?’
He shakes his head in disbelief.
‘Don’t get upset. Just explain. Please.’
‘This is my last wish. Is that satisfactory?’
‘Philip, I–’
‘I want you to live and find a good husband and have children. If you do this, the damage has been only half done. It’s the only thing that can put my mind at rest.’
I take a deep breath before I reply.
‘I promise then.’
I can’t believe I managed to say it. This time I believed it. There’s no other way, he would notice it if I faked it. He’s at peace again; the tension gone from his body. He draws me closer and presses a kiss on my forehead. A kiss has never been so painful.
‘I know it’s not easy for you, Ali.’ His tender voice breaks my heart.
‘It takes some getting used to.’
Gratitude is pouring from him, walls and barriers collapsing. We keep quiet for a while. Philip gives me time to digest the truth. The truth is that this is it. No more silly hopes. He’s got two weeks as Philip Brunelli, the man I have known and chosen for life. And the only thing I can do for him is grant him his last wish.
George’s family are so loud, we decide to take a walk. Philip says he is taking me somewhere I’m going to like. We pass the rock garden, then the rose garden with its pink, red and yellow buds, then the lake with the fountain. All this reminds me of stories I read as a child in a Bible for young people, of the beautiful illustrations of the Paradise we all get to after the hardships of life on Earth. Walking here with Philip, hand in hand, evokes those pictures. Still, the external paradise can’t silence the internal hell.
‘I’m so happy you have found a lovely room-mate in George. What’s his surname again?’
‘Dimitriadis. He is extremely proud of it.’
‘You’ve become good friends?’
‘I would be so much lonelier without him. I would be the only one who asks annoying questions before Death Taster sessions.’
‘Death Taster sessions?’ I’m horrified. ‘How could they call it such a thing!’
‘Oh no.’ He laughs. ‘It’s George who named it the Death Taster session. The official name is something like De-bodifying experience.’
I remember now the sign I saw for ‘De-bodifying Caves’.
‘It’s a form of meditation, lying in warm water in a dark cave, which gives you the sensation of floating in space.’
‘Like flotation tanks?’
‘Similar, but much better. They guide us through with a mini-speaker implanted in our earplugs. You feel as if the voice is coming from inside your head, as if you don’t have a body any more, though you are still alive and more content than ever.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘It’s quite pleasant, to be honest. I can only hope that death itself is similar.’
How can he be so casual about his own death? And what can I say to this?
‘Mum and Dad didn’t have it.’
‘It’s a fairly new thing. Someone local invented it. They’re really proud of it and are selling the technology to other Dignitoriums. Of course, we get only two sessions per week, unlike High Spenders who get five.’
We turn onto a narrow, pebbly path that leads up to the top of the hill.
‘What are the annoying questions you and George ask?’
‘Things like “How does the inventor know real death will be the same? Has he died and returned?” The facilitators try to hide the fact that they don’t know the answer. Most residents don’t notice it, but we do.’
Maybe, in this case, it’s better to be ignorant, I want to say, but I force my mouth shut. We’re halfway up the hill. I stop and look back. I can see straight through a second-floor window of the Dignitorium, into the sunlit corner of a room. It’s decorated like a palace, with gilded stucco walls and ceiling and a crystal chandelier in the middle. As the sunlight falls on it, it shimmers like diamonds. Philip follows my gaze.
‘High Spenders,’ he says with pursed lips.
How morbid! Even in the jaws of death High Spenders don’t seem to give up their privileges. We turn around and continue our way up at a slower pace, panting heavily.
‘Do you know why George is here?’ I ask Philip.
‘He had a so-called “charity” that went…“bankrupt”.’
‘What kind of charity?’
‘He collected used items in the High-Spender areas, and redistributed them to the poorest Low Spenders.’
I don’t get it. I’ve always thought helping the poor this way was counterproductive. We’re considered worthless without consuming and being able to prove it.
‘But what’s the point of getting things for free? Without them going through the Buy-O-Meter and increasing our legal consumption?’
‘Some people are so poor that they barely qualify for the Right To Reside. For one reason or another – unemployment, redundancy, sickness – they are on the verge of becoming non-profit.’ His voice is breaking up. ‘Their savings are just enough to buy basics to keep the Right To Reside going for a while, but when something more expensive needs replacing, they can’t afford it.’
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