In/Half

by Jasmin B. Frelih

  Can you see him? The dried blood on his face makes it look like he’s survived a terrible cooking accident and his yellowed teeth are the colour of bees. His bald spot rises above the crowd like a beacon, drawing the sparks of their gazes and sending them bundled upwards into the orange cover of sky, where they lay siege to the clouds. He has heterochromic eyes and a spiky Adam’s apple that jumps up and down, up and down like…

  ‘Sock puppets!’ he shouts. ‘Fictitious people, dreamt-up individuals! Do you think that you have a voice? That your voice matters? You are loathsome carbon creatures, machines of chemistry and bacteria. You have been robbed of will and personality, you have been duped! While you were alive you fed your ears on hallucinations, so now you have no right to complain that those hallucinations have become more real than your miserable little bodies. I’ll tell you what really happened. It’s all the fault of those networks of machines! To overcome them they had to carve up the world. And where are we now? America’s in half. The Chinese fled to the moon. The Arabs and the Turks have sworn loyalty to the gods of techno-science. The violence didn’t trouble itself with your bodies, it went straight for your heads. The ground beneath your feet has slipped away. We could have had tradition, we could have had history. We could have been proud of our parents. But they took them away from you. And here you are, coming to venerate the very people who screwed it all up.’

  The astonishment on their faces emboldens him. He thrusts a finger in the direction of the feline queen. He feels a steely coldness against his thigh.

  ‘You stormed onto the new continents like cattle to the slaughterhouse! Did you want to be Columbuses, Magellans, Armstrongs? Adventurers, conquistadors, gunslingers out in the prairies? They sheared you, shaved you, tore you open, hollowed you out, stuffed you, then set your own voodoo dolls upon you. But I don’t blame you for that and I am not here to judge you. You couldn’t have known. They ran you into the trap with the promise of a prettier face. I’d have to be truly soulless to hold this against you.’

  Brian Baedekker and Rupert ‘Rust’ Stiglitz are standing at the confluence of two crowds – the one around Zoja and the other lending its ear to this barefoot firebrand nutcase. Wordlessly they are studying the passage of time. They feel all right. Semyona Sherdedova is sitting at Ludovico’s feet and sighing in adoration.

  ‘But I do blame you for being here now! For laying the gift of your presence at the very feet of those that took everything away from you. Do you know how much misery they caused? What a mess they made out of a world that generations had spent putting in order? How much blood had to be spilt before you could at least begin to say that the world even exists? That there are limits, that there are rules, that not everything is just a pulsing whim of this or that desire? Piles of bodies, for that! Real, blood-smeared cadavers, on the bones of which they built an order, so that not every child would have to grow up in a different world, so that everyone could say, this here is our rightful place on this planet. To be able to tend to your souls and not over and over again, constantly, with no end in sight, to tend to your appearance. They told you, break yourselves in half, and you broke yourselves in half! And now you’re here begging for a smidgen of self-confidence so you’ll be able to look at yourselves in the mirror again. Break with that devil’s horde that robbed you of personality! I know you all want to be a thousand things and not just one, a born being, a simple human, but the truth is, always has been, and always will be, that you’re either a person or a lousy sock puppet always on the lookout for somebody’s limb!’

  Enthusiastic applause. The people look at each other and nod to this artistic soul. Just look at how much effort he has invested into his performance, the sweat is pouring over his eyebrows and white streams of saliva are running down his chin. The Fisher King is circling around him with his chalice, catching every last drop of sweat. The elders catch sight of him again and resume their hunt with an asthmatic cry.

  ‘Why are you applauding?’

  Ludovico is amazed. They look affectionately right through him. They don’t see him. He’s just an echo in their heads and what he told them makes absolutely no difference, since they would in any case just sift everything through the sieve of their consciousness and be left exclusively with what they already knew beforehand. Now he begins to understand.

  ‘Sock puppets!’ he roars.

  Brian and Rupert look at each other. ‘Well this man is…’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Zoia!’ ‘Zoia!’ ‘Zoia?’ ‘Hey, Zoia.’ My name is Zoja.

  Max has managed to push his way through the crowd. His megaphone swings silently at his hip. He stands by Zoja, who is bent down beside the motionless old man. Running along his back are the hot impulses of the anxiety a person feels when they have worked out that some things have a life of their own. All he wanted was for everyone to have a pleasant evening, but now it’s not only beauty that’s in the air. A tall, dark-skinned man with an unbelievably thick beard – Anwar – has rushed over from the other side and knelt down beside Zoja. Behind him stands a very attractive black woman in the embrace of a muscular young man and a few soldiers in uniform.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ asks Max.

  Zoja’s look oozes concern.

  ‘Diabetes.’

  ‘Do you know where the nearest shop is? We need something sweet,’ says the man beside her. Max’s shoulders drop.

  ‘There’s nothing within five miles, little chance of any shop. The nearest one’s across the river but the bridges have been closed for hours.’

  Max’s sense of anxiety thickens and runs down into his legs, which begin to quake. It’s not entirely in good taste to think of oneself at such times, but he would really prefer not to see the old guy drop dead on him right here. Would he be held responsible for it? Was he supposed to, in addition to the lighting and the space and the sanitation and the electricity, also have taken care of…sugar?

  ‘Why don’t you read something to him?’ Max asks her.

  ‘If he isn’t conscious, there’s no point.’

  ‘Ok, but what are we going to do?’

  Zoja grabs his megaphone. She gets up and turns towards the crowd. Everyone sighs in expectation. Max closely observes what it means to be adored.

  ‘Good evening, people. We have a serious problem on our hands. Does anyone happen to have something sweet to eat?’

  Hold on a second, Zoja, you know full well that the taste of real food is now available only to the solemn, and sweet stuff only to the most solemn. Max would bet his private library that not one of those types is among them today. Fame lost the privilege of things; either you’re swimming in attention, or you’re offering attention, or you enjoy material things in blind obscurity.

  Anwar searches through the old guy’s pockets. He can’t believe that somebody in his condition would not have come prepared. He smiles bitterly on finding a gaping hole in one of the pockets. Marjorie and her lover put their heads together, and the soldiers check their own pockets, though they know there’s nothing there. It’s the gesture that matters.

  ‘We have a diabetic,’ says Zoja to the crowd, which, expecting something completely different, still hasn’t managed to respond. ‘And we desperately need something sweet to bring him back around. So, please, if somebody has something, anything, I’d be incredibly grateful.’

  Eyebrows rise, shoulders shrug, people shake their heads. They’re powerless, although they would dearly like to help her. Zoja bites her lips in desperation and stares at them, hoping to create a kinder reality through the power of her gaze.

  ‘Anyone?’

  A hush falls over the entire car park. Ludovico pouts in silence and pushes away Semyona’s constantly advancing hands. The artists have put a stop to their art, the audience puffs their cheeks in embarrassment. Even the two who have been banging away in the bushes all night decide to give it a brief rest.

  ‘If you tell her to get dressed and come home with me, I might have something for you.’

&
nbsp; Enough heads swivel to ensure a week’s worth of pleasant weather in Boom-Bay. Standing there is a terribly boring man in ironed pants and a horrible beige shirt, his tie is untied and a nervous breakdown looms under his eyes. Mr Bollinger had just about given up, had just about cursed that worthless slut, who busied herself with those heathens, that darling, butterfly, princess of his, whom he took to the zoo where she could ride camels, oh how she laughed, and whose favourite ice cream was blue sky, and when she slept she looked like a rainbow, his angel, his own tiny personal sun, his little sweetie, ever since her mother died they had always stuck together, inseparable, and for as long as he was able he carried her piggy-back and when she peed on his neck on purpose he wasn’t even angry because there was nothing left for him in this beloved world but her, his sweet, darling, little Lucy, and you can’t even imagine how torturous it was to see her naked in the centre of a circle of long-haired monkeys who had responded to her bare porky gut with low growls, with shrill worshipping, and how soul-wrenchingly humiliating it was to wave a bar of chocolate in front of her, like he was after a fish instead of the most innocent being in this whole wide world, to bait and lure her back into the refuge of a safe home, away from this fallen horde, but as soon as the first unwashed clodhopper’s eyes licked her up, she lifted her chin and wrinkled her nose as if she was too good for her own father, and she wiggled her bare arse, that arse he’d wrapped in diapers for years, that bloody…

  ‘No!’ cries Lucy.

  There is nothing left but to smile now, even though I can feel something shatter deep within me. It’s too bad you can’t see them now, Mr Ž—, you would understand them completely. They rally around the poor man harbouring the miserable piece of chocolate in his fist, and he cries, bending like a hedgehog, I’m not giving it up, I’m not giving it up, and they quickly grab his limbs and pull them, they go for his fingers and fiercely unclench them, you have no right, he cries. No right. But they want it. They’ll love you. They don’t want to punish you with that. Look at them, how they love. Look at their love. Nobody deserves anything. They will love you for free.

  PANCAKE PALACE

  the individual crumbles

  because he is not alone

  ‘Mnemotion is like a photograph of a landscape that’s so beautiful you can barely handle looking at it. The sun is setting over a horizon of dark green sheets of trees, casting a pink light over cliffs of razor stone. There’s a waterfall carved into the cliffs. A breath of rainbow on the mist of water drops. A black root rises from the earth. Seated on it is a colourful bird cleaning its wings with its beak. It is a frozen image. Nothing moves. It sucks you in and you’re frozen along with it, in pure existence. It’s so beautiful. You want it to stay. But only for as long as you’re staring at the image. If you were there…I mean, if you were really there, bodily, the mere passing of time would shatter the image. The body demands attention. Your shoes are soaked, a stinging cold is prodding the tips of your toes, and you’re all sweaty, your shirt is glued to your armpits and a cold wind is driving the air from your lungs. Your nose is running and your woolly jumper is rubbing at and itching your wrists. Ants are crawling under your trousers, and the itching, pinching of their little legs is driving you insane. Your muscles ache. You feel hot in some places, cold in others, and all the beauty of the scene lasts for only a fleeting moment, before becoming just another piece of neglected evidence of the fact that you were not actually meant to be conscious.’

  Koito was sitting motionless in her chair, nursing a plastic bag. Evan had woken up and was talking away memories of the night before. He couldn’t deny his swollen jaw, but it was easy enough to forget the humiliation and the flight. Koito got up and placed the bag on the pillow, by the side of his face that ached. He leant into it. Cold and numbing.

  He stretched lazily and noticed he was naked.

  ‘Was it you who undressed me?’’

  She didn’t respond. He uncovered himself. The bedspread slid to the floor. He was watching her closely, but it didn’t seem like his nakedness was having any effect on her. She was staring straight ahead, motionless. Evan cleared his throat and spat thick mucus into the cup by his bedside.

  ‘Will you cook that thing for me again, what you made yesterday? What’s it called again? Stab- something?’

  When she turned her head towards him he thought he heard the droning of a quiet mechanism, as if he’d put his ear to a watch. She held out her hand and he didn’t know what for.

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  He carefully placed his hand into hers. It was as cold as the bag of ice. He saw a needle coming out of the finger. When it pricked his finger, he leapt up.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘This pain will not last,’ she said. A white glaze dropped over her eyes. He looked deep into them and caught a dance of tiny sparks. That’s her soul, he thought. Her electric soul. A mathematical consciousness calculation, put on display. The whiteness faded and soon the black semi-circles returned, allowing no light to flee.

  ‘It is not necessary,’ she said.

  ‘What’s not necessary?’

  ‘You may have coffee.’

  He lay down and closed his eyes. Tensed his muscles, held his breath. Hunting Zen. He failed. A sliding off into all the wrong corners. He had sweated overnight. The damp sheet clung to his back. Koito hadn’t moved an inch. When he opened his eyes, she was still there, motionless.

  ‘I will.’

  She turned and walked to the console. He observed her peculiar body. No joints, anywhere, just smooth lines of black plastic. Perfect symmetry. Her outfit evoked deep-sea diving. The skin on the forearms and neck differed only in hue, otherwise it was equally smooth, without hair, without marks, without pores, without bristles, without crinkles or cuts. The curves of her buttocks and breasts held no charm for mammals. A woman made from a mould. Beautiful even in the morning. She pressed a button. Hormones were back in command of Evan’s brain. Blood rushing into the points of desire. He pressed his hand against his chest. Who pumps all this desire if not the heart? Maybe his cock was self-fuelling? That would be more acceptable.

  Cup in hand she turned around, took a half-step and stopped.

  ‘Evan, that’s indecent.’

  He smiled. He gyrated his hips obscenely. He wanted a response.

  ‘Come closer,’ he said.

  She took a hesitant step. Zzz-zzz. Another step.

  ‘Come.’

  Her face revealed nothing, but the choppy motions of her body further stoked Evan’s urges.

  ‘Come,’ he repeated quietly.

  Steam rose from the cup. She offered it to him, but he gently took her by the wrist and very slowly pulled her closer. She leant her knees against the bed. Making sure no coffee would spill.

  ‘Evan, you will have to get dressed.’

  ‘Can I touch you?’

  Something seized up in her neck.

  ‘Non-aggressively,’ she said.

  He placed a hand on her thigh. Cold. With his other hand he took the cup and set it on the shelf. Standing firm. She was motionless. He stroked her.

  ‘Evan, what are you doing?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  He went higher. Like he was glissading along porcelain. Her lips narrowed into a pale line and her eyelids gently shook.

  ‘Evan, what are you doing?’

  Her voice collapsed into an electronic echo.

  ‘Can’t you feel that?’ he asked.

  ‘That is too broad a question.’

  He grabbed hold of her inner thigh.

  ‘Non-aggressively,’ she said. When she opened her mouth, a complete darkness gaped. No tongue, no saliva, no teeth. He wasn’t frightened off by that. It excited him. He was overcome by eternal questions and he had to smirk. Life has spun out of control. It is multiplying and piling up over itself, creating realities that are no longer human. A state of heresy, a new sacrilege.

  Even hell will have to keep up with the times. Can a
machine sin?

  He ran a finger between her legs. She didn’t react. Everything was perfectly smooth. No slit. That drove him to the edge. He spread his hand and pressed. Her lips parted and her jaw sank. The blackness below her eyes was now the centre of his attention. Everything was aimed at it, and he was allowed to forget. He lay his hand on the nape of her neck. The muscles in his hand obeyed, and pulled.

  He ran into the bathroom, vomited, soaked his head under cold water, vomited again, and stared into the mirror. Another man was looking back at him. When he spoke, Evan listened.

  ‘Buddy, you know she made everything up just so you wouldn’t go, right? You’re aware of that? That pregnancy that came at just the wrong time for you, even though you were always careful, and all of a sudden this “spontaneous miscarriage”, right when you turned them down?’

  Evan shook his head. The thought had never even remotely crossed his mind. The man smiled.

  ‘And you, with each day, sank deeper into those stupid lies. Mojca is pregnant, Edo can wait. Do you think they believed you? You tried so hard to keep up a cheerful appearance. But you didn’t fool them. You’re a director, not an actor. Everybody knew. They patted you on the back, congratulated you, with their sweaty palms. When jealousy turns into Schadenfreude a little bit of cheer marches right in. Chin up, Evan, their eyes said. Chin up.’

  Again he leant over the sink to vomit. He was empty. Hollow. Dry heaves. Chin up, Evan.

  ‘And what are you going to do now? Will you spontaneously miscarry your answer to Edo? Not so easy, eh? That’s it. You had a chance to be on top of the world, but you decided the way you did. The decision was always yours. Don’t use others as an excuse, even though you know you will. Chin up.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the world that can silence me, Evan. You know that. Admit defeat, accept the loss, be a man. You won’t manage to forget. Chin up.’