by Lori Lebow
Whether you choose to reveal or conceal my intervention, I will leave to your discretion.
Sincerely,
Rebecca Bridges.’”
§ § §
“Well, what did you think of it?” Marcel was eagerly staring at Catriona as she closed the book.
“Interesting story,” she looked at him thoughtfully while Brendon, who had just returned, started to walk away. “I’m sorry the conclusion neglects to indicate whether the contents of Rebecca’s letter were ever revealed to Samuel and Elizabeth.” Marcel remained silent. “Did you write all of these?”
“It’s my book,” Marcel replied. “Why do you ask?”
“The style is — it doesn’t seem to be in a style that a man of your age would cultivate.”
“I have tried to develop many styles,” Marcel sounded as though he wanted to enlarge upon this, and Catriona was about to pursue it when Brendon sidled up to her, pulled her to her feet and locked arms with her.
“Thanks, Mr Marcel. We’re late.” He steered Catriona down the walk.
“Thank you,” Marcel called after them.
“Brendon, what is wrong with you?” Catriona disengaged her arm and tried to see his face, but he was lifting the pace and staring ahead.
“That guy is creepy, and I didn’t think we would ever get away from him,” he said through set jaws.
“Well he’s not following us, if that’s what you keep checking,” Catriona snickered. “Do we have time to stop for a cup of coffee? I’m thirsty.”
Brendon actually looked reluctant, but acceded and they found tables in the corner of a little café across from the park where Sunday lunchtime patrons were reading papers or books, or chatting over pastries and beverages. There were tables along the sidewalk under striped umbrellas. Catriona faced the windows and watched the passers-by. Brendon fussed with his paper. Neither spoke for several minutes. Finally Catriona said, “I can’t imagine that guy writing those stories.” No reply. “He seemed like a European gentleman, and the story I read sounded like it was written by a contemporary, American or Canadian or even Australian teenager. Brendon, did you hear me?”
“I heard. I just don’t know, and frankly, I don’t want to think about that guy or his stories or his book. He gave me the creeps.”
“Okay,” Catriona sipped her coffee. Then she gasped. Brendon turned to see that Marcel was earnestly engaged in a conversation with two ladies seated at one of the outside tables. He was standing over them, and as Brendon turned Marcel handed his book to one. The scene was so predictable Catriona watched with intense interest as Marcel involved the two ladies, and finally one opened the book.
“How are we going to get out of here?” Brendon was irritated and slightly alarmed. “I don’t want to speak to him again.”
“When I have finished my coffee, I’ll show you how to escape,” Catriona assured Brendon and she patted his hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll get to the wedding on time, too.”
While Catriona finished her coffee, and Brendon fretted, one of the ladies read this tale:
Dog Story: A Parable
It was the year 2085. People were completely absorbed into the world of electronics and computer-generated virtual realities. This was a fortunate social development because nature and the natural world had all but disappeared. Pollution and overpopulation had rendered obsolete almost every outdoor sporting activity, entertainment, or pastime. Children never played on the streets. Yards and gardens were seen only in faded illustrations or photo albums because every bit of space was either locked under the foundations of a multi-storey building, or required for agricultural purposes. Human beings had progressed beyond the imperfect elemental weather, earth, sky, sun and stars that were often uncomfortable, unpredictable, or tediously monotonous. Instead, people had turned with complete commitment to the virtual worlds that were convenient and inexpensive, provided by computer technologies to suit every taste and budget.
One consequence of this transition to human-generated activities in a constructed world was that people took so little interest in the real world that soon they forgot it existed. Consequently, when human beings stopped involving themselves in reality, their neglected pets rose to the occasion. The dogs started.
Bitsa was a giant mongrel with bullmastiff, German shepherd, Malamute and Chow in his background. He summoned the local dogs to a meeting and announced his plan for world domination at an extraordinary meeting under the freeway bridge one moonlit night in the early spring. “Now is our opportunity,” he said simply to the dozen dogs gathered to listen. “We can take control of the city, the country and the world and no one will be any wiser. People are so disengaged from the real world they won’t even notice.”
“What will we do with it, once we have control?” asked Ray, a Dachshund who was sitting in the front.
“We will rule it!” Bitsa replied. “We will exercise our will. We will have The Power.”
“To do what?” Ray persisted.
“Anything we like!” the mongrel barked. “But we have one battle to win before we can take over.”
“What’s that?” asked Rovère, a black poodle with a bow in her hair.
“We have to eliminate the cats. They are also plotting to overthrow the humans.”
Ray was excited. “I never did like cats,” he growled.
“So,” Bitsa concluded, “spread the word to everyone you know that we intend to eliminate the cats and then become the supreme masters of the earth.”
From that night the war between the dogs and cats began. It was a terrible contest that took many weeks to conclude, but by late summer the dogs felt they had achieved victory. Cats had disappeared: either run away or elected to stay indoors with their owners who never ventured outside. Once Bitsa felt confident that the cats would mount no further resistance, he chose his government officials (all purebred champions) and began to reign over the conquered neighbourhoods. By autumn his dominions expanded to include half of the state and with each passing day he spread his influence further. Dogs of every type helped in his battles of conquest. Soon the area controlled by the dogs was greater than the geographic boundaries of the country mapped by humans.
But Bitsa was not content. He had proclaimed nothing short of world domination would satisfy him. Yet, he felt uneasy because his officials had informed him that some of the dogs who had been most loyal, Ray the Dachshund, for example, and Rovère, the black poodle, had been heard to question Bitsa’s motives and even the point of the unending pursuit of more territory. “It won’t bring back the parks and trees,” Rovère observed.
“Our children still prefer to sit in doors in front of their computers instead of playing with us and walking on the beach,” Ray sighed.
Bitsa was outraged to hear such comments. “These ideas are seditious. We must eliminate the traitors!” So he ordered that “ethnic cleansing” would begin among the dogs. The first breeds to be relocated were the Dachshunds and the black poodles. (Other colours were excluded from the first level cleansing.) And so it came to pass that a war raged among the dogs. Not only were the dogs more dangerous enemies because they had been friends, some dogs of mixed breed could not be clearly identified as friend or enemy. It was a tense and unhappy time. Soon Bitsa decreed that all mongrel dogs who could not prove their purebred lineage would be the next targets. Rovère had taken refuge in the house with the cats and humans, but she managed to stay in touch with the developments outside through the flies and birds who were able to infiltrate dog lines and bring back news. One robin told her about the attacks on mixed breed canines. Rovère was perplexed, “Isn’t Bitsa a mongrel?”
“Oh, don’t say that!” the robin shuddered. “Anyone who says that is considered a traitor and is condemned to death.” Rovère sighed in despair. The world had become so ugly.
But the humans were completely oblivious to all of the strife because they were still glued to their computer games and videos.
§ § §
“Let’s go now,” Catriona directed as she saw the lady look up from the book. They left money on the table, moved through the café and out past the umbrellas as Marcel asked the lady his usual question.
“I don’t know,” Catriona heard her answer, but she and Brendon were out of earshot before the woman said more.
Catriona hugged Brendon as they re-entered the park. “See, no drama. That Marcel Dante is just interested in hearing what people have to say about his book. He didn’t even notice us, and we will never have to speak to him again.” Brendon looked at her sceptically. “Relax,” she coaxed. “Let’s think about the wedding. Gosh it’s later than I thought. We better move if we are going to be at the ceremony on time. I want to change clothes.”
Brendon shrugged, “As long as we get away from that guy I’m happy.”
CHAPTER 2
The wedding ceremony was actually underway when Brendon and Catriona arrived at the church. They managed to find seats in the last pew. Brendon was annoyed about being late and Catriona felt embarrassed. However, the atmosphere was pleasant and festive; the minister conducted the ceremony with a minimum of heavy-handed religion and a maximum of common sense. The congregation included many friends of the couple who were not followers of any religion, so the secular emphasis was easy for the assembly to enjoy. There was an instrumental ensemble playing chamber music at appropriate parts of the ritual. Reciting of vows included original texts composed by the bride and groom for the occasion. After the rings and kisses were exchanged the pronouncement was made that joined the two lovers. With some lively music they walked down the aisle as a married couple to the smiles and tears of the spectators.
When Brendon and Catriona had an opportunity to speak to the happy pair, there was no time for apologies. “Thanks for coming,” the groom, Greg, told Brendon as a photographer dodged up to take some pictures. “I am really hoping to set a trend for you and Catriona.”
“Oh yes, in the future, perhaps,” Brendon shrugged. “We are still feeling a bit young.”
The bride, Emma, winked at Brendon. She looked radiant. She took his hands and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for coming, Brendon. Did you enjoy the music? We had so much trouble deciding what to play.”
“Schubert and Mozart are always appropriate,” Catriona replied. “Sorry we were late. It was my fault.”
There were other well-wishers to greet, and a small reception tea in an adjoining room gave the guests another opportunity to mix and chat while the bridal couple posed for photos with their families. Brendon and Catriona separated to visit with friends in different parts of the reception room. Brendon was engaged in a discussion with some of his university classmates when his gaze was drawn toward a window at the end of the room which looked out into a garden forecourt. Framed in the window was a fountain with a ledge around its base wide enough for a seat. And sitting on this ledge was a young man who was reading a familiar looking book under the shadow of someone standing just out of sight. The young man read this tale:
Shift Workers
The year: 2109. World population: one hundred billion. Planet Earth was so overcrowded the human population had been divided into three, time-allocated groups of eight-hours duration, known as the Morning Shift from eight a.m. to four p. m.; the Afternoon Shift from four p.m. to midnight, and the Night Shift from midnight to eight a.m. At birth, each child was assigned to a work shift, and they could only be out of their assigned homestead area for the eight hours of their work shift. After the initial assignments during a twenty-year period, the groups had stabilized so that the shifts lived totally separate and apart. Because the Segregation Enforcers patrolled, and punished by death anyone found on the streets after their shift finished, three entirely independent populations co-existed in the same space. They never met members of the other shifts, because their work, leisure and sleep periods only coincided with the other people who shared their shift. A thirty-minute travel time ensured that everyone got to work or back home in time to safely conclude each part of their neatly divided day. Generations grew and died knowing only the people who slept, worked and played in their assigned time zones. It was a practice implemented so the world could continue to function, despite population that choked its roads and filled its cities which covered the planet in one megalopolis broken only by the still standing mountains and largest bodies of water.
Rem was twenty. He worked the Afternoon Shift. He was a cadet Segregation Enforcer. When his girlfriend dropped him he felt there was no reason to live because he would never find someone to love in his own shift. His depression was deep and his misery inconsolable. Merc, his friend, suggested they stop at a popular Café on their way home. Although Rem objected, Merc led him into the noisy, crowded bistro where a lively mix of commuters changing shift, and leisure shifters were eating and talking. There was a Laser Billiard Chamber near the room reserved for private functions, and a large party was gathered in the room. Rem could hear bursts of laughter, and the live band which sent electronic noise into the cacophony of the café. Eventually Rem strolled over to the entrance of the function room and watched the revellers dancing, eating and chatting under the bunting and party lights. In the strobe he noticed a young woman sitting in the darkness at the far end of the room. She rose and walked through the crowd toward him. He was entranced by her beauty, and could not speak when he found her standing directly before him. Their eyes met. He stared without speaking.
“Excuse me,” she said, “are you trying to crash this party or do you have an invitation?”
“Are you the gate keeper?” Rem heard himself ask.
“I’m Liet, Soran’s sister. Are you going to let me pass?”
Rem jumped aside and turned to accompany her. “May I join you? My name is Rem. I am a gatecrasher, but I would not have met you otherwise. Can I buy you a drink?”
Liet shook her head and tried to walk ahead. “No thanks.”
Rem followed her between the packed tables and out onto the street. The air in the café was stale but the street air was worse. “Look!” he pointed to a break in the clouds. “A star!”
“One star makes a starry night,” Liet smiled. “I’ve read that in the centuries before this people could not count the numbers of stars visible on a clear night. It must have been magic.” They had now crossed the road and stood above a canal. In the darkness, the rippling surface cast tiny mirrors of light along the culvert walls. “I guess this is a romantic moment,” Liet sighed, and looked steadily at Rem, who fell speechless. She frowned and started to walk back to the café.
“Please don’t go, yet,” he pleaded gently. “I would like to know you better, and there is so little time. Can we not have a few more minutes?”
“What would you learn in a few minutes that would make you feel you knew me better?” she asked. “My occupation? What I am studying? What my father does? How much money I have? What kinds of things I buy and where I shop?”
“Nothing like that,” Rem shook his head. “I would have asked you about what makes you happy? Do you watch old films or read literary classics? What do you do during your leisure shift? Have you got a lover?”
“Why would I tell a total stranger any of this?”
“Because I do not want to be a total stranger, Liet. I want to be a friend.”
Rem became conscious of a person moving toward them in the darkness. He confronted a handsome young man in a dinner jacket who was looking anxious and a bit threatening. The man said to Liet, “Why did you leave the party? Who is this?”
“His name is Rem,” Liet announced. “Rem, meet Soran. He is my keeper.”
Soran locked arms with Liet and escorted her back to the café. “Nice to meet you, Rem.” To Liet he said, “That guy is in the Afternoon Shift. He should not be out now.”
“I live in Verona Block, Part 46,” Liet called to Rem. “Phone me.”
“He can’t! You’re in the Morning Shift. It will never work,” Soran said as they moved out of earshot.
> Rem’s last sight of Liet was her troubled, beautiful face turned back toward him as her brother led her into the café. Merc appeared and took Rem forcefully by both arms. “Where did you go? I was looking everywhere. It’s nearly time for the changeover and we have to get home.”
“I will stay at the café,” Rem replied steadily. “I want to see Liet again.”
“What is the point? She is from the Morning Shift. You will never be able to spend time with her.”
“I’m a Segregation Enforcer,” Rem answered. “I can break the rules.”
“You will both be killed,” Merc insisted. “Find someone else.”
Rem shook his head. “There is no one else.”
“Rem, there are one-hundred billion some one elses on this planet. You can find a person to love in your own shift, in your own neighbourhood.”
Rem’s jaw was set and his answer full of the frustrated rage of a trapped animal. “Merc, in my whole life I will only have contact with a few thousand people, only be on speaking terms with a small percentage of those, and only be intimate with — perhaps half a dozen, or even one. Possibly no one. I can’t afford to let this chance meeting disappear.”
“For this you would risk your life, and hers?”
Rem replied simply, “What life? Without love we are only going through the motions.”
§ § §
“Brendon, CQCQ, do your read me?” Mark was calling. Brendon snapped to attention, and realised the grinning faces before him had been trying to engage him in their conversation.
“Sorry,” he sighed. “It’s just that guy —out side —”
“Oh, you mean Marcel,” Mark nodded. “I read his book. It’s pretty interesting, I think.”
“Was he invited to this wedding?” Brendon gasped.
“Oh no,” Mark shook his head. “He just came by and noticed the crowd gathered so he joined to see the bride and groom before the service. I read one of the chapters.” Mark summarized the plot of the following story: