During our studies, we learned to lead resilience trainings. Our clients, managers like Masters himself, would move through the room on one leg and balance pencils on their heads. To understand what it’s like to be insecure. To lose balance, control. They took the exercises seriously, just as they took all professional challenges seriously. After the pencil had fallen, they would become even more focused. But it was clear to all of us that the exercise must have seemed absurd to them. None of the men and women we trained could imagine a real loss of balance. In fact, it was particularly challenging for us to imagine, too. We had all worked too hard on our stability for that.
—To be honest, the findings also surprised me. Maybe the data should be checked again.
Masters’s facial expression changes immediately. I take a deep breath. I don’t want to drop any lower in the employee ranking. I focus my eyes on the Buddha statue to center myself.
—Maybe the emphasis could be shifted to a nostalgic episode, I say. Karnovsky mentions childhood memories again and again in her diary entries. It could be explained by an age-related hormonal change that caused a temporary personality disorder.
Masters nods in agreement.
—Okay, he says. That sounds good. What interventions do you derive from it?
—We need to gain more direct access to the subject, I say. We need a person on site. Someone she’s willing to work with.
Masters looks at me like he’s waiting for something. It makes me feel insecure for a moment.
—I have a field agent in mind, I say. Could be perfect for the job. It’s a somewhat unconventional idea.
—Ah?
I hesitate before I explain my plans to him, trying to emphasize the firmness in my voice. From time to time he nods, but his expression remains critical.
It’s strange how often being in Masters’s office makes me think of the management office at the childcare institute. Of my biofather. As far as I can remember, my father had nothing in common with Masters. He was a tall man with dark eyes who expressed himself in quiet, thoughtful movements. Not like Masters, who, despite his strict mindfulness program, always seems jittery, bobbing up and down on his toes during meetings and constantly moving around through space. What connects them, I realize, is not their similarity, but my reaction to them. Like my father, Masters makes me feel as if I’ve already disappointed him when I enter his office. A feeling of a fundamental inadequacy that can never be improved.
-
18
The boy looks exactly like his headshots. Slender and youthful. Tender brown skin. His facial features are soft and changeable. With the right clothing you could turn him into practically anyone. A twelve-year-old girl. An adult businessman, a flight attendant, a dancer. At Family Services™ he’s employed in the ten-to-eighteen age category.
I know him as Zarnee. He has many screen names. Many messaging accounts. And the blog.
He moves fluidly, as if there were no air resistance and no gravity. He had started practicing ballet as a very young child and then one day he suddenly got bored. In his blog he describes the multi-year episode with a nonchalance that one would consider implausible, if there weren’t such an air of authenticity to each of his words. Nothing seems made up. Watching his video postings is like having a private conversation with him, huddled together and in hushed tones. Eye to eye.
As a child, he trained for a year from morning till night and then performed very well in the castings. It wouldn’t have taken much more. But he suddenly changed his mind, decided to stay in the peripheries, started blogging. For a while, he prepared himself for the science castings, studied mathematics and physics on his own. But he also eventually got bored of that. He passed a series of exams, was transferred to the A-level castings. Even achieved a life-changing-moment™. But he didn’t accept the invitation; he forfeited his place at the academy.
He has been working for Family Services™ for eight years. According to his credit score, his income should have long been sufficient to move into an apartment in the city. His order history at Family Services™ includes a total of five hundred and seventeen assignments.
When I see him approaching on the security camera at the building entrance, I immediately know that I made the right decision. It’s raining, the temporary parking area is disgusting and gray. The delivery drivers are indistinguishable in their raincoats, quickly scurrying from their cars to the entrance. He’s the only one walking slowly and leisurely. Without an umbrella or coat. As if he were taking an afternoon stroll in one of the city parks.
When I shake his rain-soaked hand, the clamminess lingers for a while.
He sits down in my chair without it being offered. We’re in the same therapy room where I met Aston. It’s just a coincidence that this specific space was free.
I sit opposite him in the client seat. Masters will reprimand me for it later, but I’m not that worried about the distribution of seats at this point—now that I’ve finally found a promising intervention that can produce significant results.
—I’m only doing it because it’s so absurd, Zarnee says. It’s the first time I’ve received a request and had to read it twice because I was so surprised.
—I’m happy to hear it.
—Otherwise, I’m not a fan of the city, he says. You read my blog. I’ve already gotten plenty of better-paying offers. This is the only thing I’ve seriously considered.
I nod and let him talk. He gives the impression of wanting to get some things off his chest.
—I know Riva, he says. I followed her early career. She’s something special. She’s creative. She’s not one of those divers who only perfects the standard forms. They only perform what was given to them. No matter how well you do a thing, if you’re just performing someone else’s ideas, it’s pointless. Perfectionism is not a compliment. No one wants to admit it, but it’s true. What counts is creation.
He looks at me as if his criticism is in reference to me personally. His eyes are forceful. I’m not used to looking someone straight in the eye without a monitor anymore.
—We have different motives, he says, but we want the same thing. I want to live in a world where there are only divers like Riva, and you want her to fulfill her sponsorship contracts. We won’t meet in the middle, I don’t give a shit about your contracts. But I’ll help you anyway, because I want to meet Riva. Because I want to see her dive off a skyscraper again and do her thing. In any case, she shouldn’t sit around in her apartment like a caged animal. We have so little time, don’t you think? We should use it to live.
I nod and smile. I lean back. He starts talking again. There’s something almost manic about him that’s contagious. I feel more awake than before.
—I have no ethical concerns, he says, as if he were answering a question. You don’t get far by following rules, either legal or moral. I know you disagree with me, that you would even say the opposite, but I don’t care. It’s not about educating the people around me, you know. The world can’t be saved. But individual people can. You can still coax them out of their misery and “revive” them, as you so nicely put it.
—Coax them out of their misery, I say. Also an interesting formulation. I could use that for my investor’s report.
—Please don’t, he says, then it would lose all meaning.
I laugh to mask a hint of annoyance. His expression tells me that he noticed it anyway. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since the moment he entered the room.
—What I’m trying to say is, he continues, you have your reasons and I have mine, but we agree. I’ll sign your contract and you don’t interfere. Leave me to it. I know what your goal is, and I’ll stick to it. You can rely on me.
He holds out his hand.
I shake it briefly and then give him the tablet with the terms of the contract, showing him where to put his fingerprint and where to sign.
—Wou
ld you like to read it again?
—No.
—The intervention has been legally approved. You will move in within the next few days.
He gets up and heads towards the door without shaking my hand again.
—Your blog, I say, once he’s almost completely disappeared behind the door.
—Yes?
—Did it all really happen that way?
—Does it matter?
—It creates a feeling, I say, of authenticity.
The boy nods and closes the door behind him.
I watch him walk out of the building on the security cameras. He’s walking just like before, strolling leisurely like a dancer. When he crosses the parking lot to leave, it has already stopped raining, but the changing weather appears to have no effect on his demeanor. At one point, he jumps over a puddle that has formed in the middle of an empty spot. I write a message on the custodial forum about the irregularity in the pavement. I mark the location on a screenshot of the parking lot. He’s still visible at the edge of the picture, a slender figure without a jacket.
-
19
Riva enters the administration building at 8:23 a.m. Hesitant steps, I note, and in the comment column: Uncertainty, worry.
I almost want to reach out across the countless streets and houses that lie between us and give her an encouraging nudge. Speed up the process.
Yesterday, Aston begged Riva not to agree to the reduction of housing privileges, to appeal. At least to buy a little time until they can come up with an alternative, a solution.
—What would that be? she asked, without sarcasm, but rather exhaustion. An alternative?
—I have a new assignment, Aston said. Roma for Celeblife.corp. The deadline is next week. My agency hopes to get a lot from it. I could get a higher VIP status.
He took her laughter personally, stormed out of the room, and didn’t show his face again until the next morning.
There aren’t many people in the halls at the administration building. Riva checks the building plan, takes an elevator. She makes her way through the building and has to backtrack a little at one point. She missed a turn somewhere. She doesn’t seem to notice that she’s quietly saying the room number aloud to herself like a mantra. 1222B, 1222B, 1222B. She appears distant, distracted.
Inside the room, Riva sits in the designated chair. She looks into the camera in front of her. Her expression is different from the expression I see on the hidden cameras in her apartment, which occurs unconsciously, by chance. Here, her eyes are piercing, they cut into me. Riva stares at me as if she knew who was sitting at the monitor. Despite the hint of defiance in her eyes, the insecurity is still clearly visible. I wonder if the situation reminds her of her first interviews, from before she learned to hide any discomfort.
One of the officials from the reassignment office starts the program from his workplace four districts away.
—Please provide your full name and identification number.
—Riva Zofia Karnovsky, MIT 2303 1151 8600.
The computer-generated voice is gender-neutral to prevent legal complaints.
—You have a full understanding of why we summoned you?
—Yes.
—Would you like to appeal?
—No.
—In that case, do you formally agree to the reduction of your housing privileges due to non-performance?
—Yes.
—This applies to your accommodation in district 2B, building 7662, apartment 14C, which you currently share with Aston Lieberman, identification number KLT 2307 4423 0010, correct?
—Yes.
Answers clear and fast, response time less than 150 milliseconds, I type. Karnovsky wants to get the session over with quickly.
I’m happy to see that Riva’s behavior is in line with my prognoses and that she isn’t showing any resistance. My intervention is based on Riva’s readiness to adapt.
Initiation of intervention successful, I note in the daily protocol. I have a good feeling.
—Do you have any other housing privileges?
—No.
Riva’s media training at the academy taught her not to give answers like that. The following interview rules are emphasized in the code of conduct: Never give monosyllabic responses! Always formulate full sentences, even if the interviewer asks questions that could be answered with yes or no. Every answer must have media value.
—Would you like to make an official statement?
—No.
My analysis of the user comments showed that the public was not bothered by the mechanical way that Riva gave her answers in the last few interviews before the breach of contract. Only Dom’s weekly reports note that he had been urging her to work on her energy in interviews.
—The reassignment proceedings will be initiated in the next few days, the computer speaker says. We’ll inform you electronically about the specific terms. Please sign here.
Riva uses the stylus to enter her initials into the blinking field on the monitor and then holds all of her fingers up to her digital fingerprints until a check mark appears.
—We wish you a pleasant day.
After the identity verification, Riva just stays there, sitting in her chair. Her expression seems absent on the camera.
When Riva doesn’t move, my pulse starts to rise. Her behavior is absurd. It doesn’t seem deliberate to me, but more like a system malfunction.
—Please leave the building via the marked route.
Riva doesn’t move. It’s as if an all-encompassing fatigue has taken hold of her body. What will happen if she just sits there until the end of the day, blocks the room, disrupts productivity? I’ll be held responsible.
I pace back and forth in front of my monitor, counting the seconds. I hope Masters isn’t logged in and watching the action live.
—Please leave the building via the marked route.
After exactly thirty-five seconds, Riva stands up, her legs trembling. In the hallway, she heads for the bathrooms and splashes cold water on her face, sits in a stall on a closed toilet cover.
I sink into my office chair, breathe a sigh of relief.
Karnovsky found the appointment strenuous, I write in my report. Just leaving the apartment requires more energy for her than average. She is no longer accustomed to being in public.
Good work today, appears on my screen shortly afterwards, HMM.
I save the message in my personal archive and lean back. I can’t help but smile. Masters’s recognition fills me with joy all the way to my fingertips.
I watch Riva as she sits on the toilet seat and breathes slowly and purposefully, in and out, just like she learned in diving training. My breathing automatically conforms to hers.
When she returns to the apartment, Aston is already there waiting for her.
—What did they say? he asks.
He seems nervous. His camera is sitting on the floor next to an armchair instead of hanging around his neck.
—Nothing, Riva says.
She is visibly taken aback by Aston’s interest. His eyes follow her every move as she walks to the kitchen counter and reaches for the shelf. Her quick hand movements, putting ice cubes and gin into a glass.
—You want one, too?
—Riva, what did they say?
—Nothing.
—That can’t be. They don’t summon you for no reason.
—I had to sign something.
—What?
His facial expression is fearful, almost childlike. Riva doesn’t seem to notice his nervousness. She’s withdrawn, sipping her drink, slowly walking to the window.
—What did you have to sign?
—Why do you care?
The sentence probably came out more aggressive than Riva had planned.
—Why do I care
? We have a credit union, Riva.
—Then dissolve it, Aston.
-
20
A notification sound pulls me out of my thoughts. Riva hasn’t moved much over the past several hours and I keep drifting off during observation. At first, Riva doesn’t react to the tone coming from her tablet on the living-room table. It’s the default sound for the apartment buzzer. She probably expects Aston to open it from the studio. At the fourth ring, she slowly stands up. Aston left the apartment three hours ago.
When she gets up, her lack of movement over the past few weeks is visible, she rises sluggishly from the floor, needing both hands.
The boy enters the room. He’s wearing one of his outfits from Family Services™. A simple T-shirt and jeans. Neutral, in order to avoid overwhelming Riva, as we agreed. He didn’t gel his hair the way he usually does it. It’s a little curly, a bit messy, but not wild. He looks very young with it styled this way. Riva might assume that he’s around fourteen.
—Hey, he says.
His voice is soft, very different from the interview. Kinder.
Riva silently considers him, absently running her hand through her unwashed hair. The boy looks around the room, letting his eyes drift across the reconstructed photo walls, the photographs, one after the other. He takes his time. Looks back and forth between Riva’s picture and Riva.
Then he drags a suitcase into the apartment, a huge monstrosity that appears disproportionate next to his slender, boyish body.
He holds his hand out to Riva.
—Zarnee, he says.
—Aston’s not in.
The High-Rise Diver Page 12