Semmant (29 page)

I was silent for a second or two and then dictated the number of my only remaining friend. The beautiful Anna, born the Countess Pilar María Cortés de Vega.

Chapter 31

Two months and seventeen days have passed since then. It is now late autumn – rains, chills. I have adapted fully and don’t feel like a guest. I do not feel superfluous or as though I’m violating the harmony of this place.

Clients are treated well at our clinic. We are VIPs, not just psychos. Even in the first days when I had spasms and fits of rage, nobody addressed me rudely. They bound me carefully – so as not to bruise my wrists and ankles. They did not humiliate me like a helpless rag doll. They did not prescribe me a compulsory enema. They didn’t beat me with a rubber stick, or leave me to rot for days in my own filth. None of these methods are practiced here in this institution for the rich, paid for with Anna de Vega’s money.

The fits of rage are far behind me; I’ve almost regained my senses. My mind is perhaps even healthier than before – prior to Lidia or Semmant. I speak to the doctor about this, though somewhat languidly. I don’t insist on anything or make any requests. He takes it all into consideration and just smiles through his mustache. He and I seem to have a silent pact of inaction.

This suits me – where else can I get a merciful respite? I’m considered to be incarcerated, and my balcony is enclosed by steel bars, but it seems to me I’m as free as ever. I feel freedom with every cell of my body, with each neuron of my overworked brain. And I know: this is precisely the kind of liberty I need now. I’m free of money, of being afraid about it. This is the highest form of freedom in modern times. And, besides, a weight has been lifted from me. The weight of responsibility for what I had created. I’m no longer indebted – not for anything, to anyone. Not to Semmant, not to humankind, not even to myself.

Here in the clinic, it’s not bad, in its way. It smells of pine and dry moss. Or wet moss, when it rains – that’s also a pleasant smell. At dinner they let me drink wine. I order French – to spite Spain, which I despise. At times the conditions remind me somehow of the School. I’ll tell Thomas about this when I happen to be in Tyrol again. There are mountains here too by the way – but not the Alps. Their eternity is different. As if, over time, it surrendered to itself.

The nurses like me – I cause them no trouble. I’m compliant and not capricious. No wonder – I still have a lot ahead. If I felt that the clinic was forever, that – alas – it was not my fate to leave here, then I would probably behave differently. I would exhaust them with petty complaints, would not allow them to breathe easily. I would feed on their irritation just to give myself a morsel of something new to think about, a reflection of the patches of light from the life outside inaccessible to me. Even then, ready formulas would hardly console me; I would want to strain my waning mind over and over. But now – now I am calm. I have a method appropriate to my case. It’s not complicated: I am simply waiting.

I wait and, in the meantime, make friends with the nurses, all pretty Latinas. We talk about a lot – about Madrid and far-off Brighton, about Paris in the fall, even about Anthony and Bradley the astrophysicist with the acacia branch on his lapel. I draw the chimeras of Notre Dame for them – tame, almost not scary. Sometimes I go so far as to explain what the softest ray is, the mystery of the Light of Eve. Usually this gets me excited, agitated, and I can hardly keep myself in hand. The nurses soothe me, leniently, as they would a child. As if I were speaking of what I had learned from my children’s books.

At times I don’t want to speak but to listen. I question them, and they readily tell me about themselves. About lovers and husbands past and present, about their parents, aunts, brothers, sisters. Their fates are simple, with passions familiar to all; their dramas are similar and have a predictable end. I sincerely respect all of them – Sara, as well as Esther, and Veronica. I do admire Laura – and I always will, even if she won’t put out. Because they are all genuine. Despite their made-up names.

This calms me. This proves all is still not quite so hopeless, so bad. At this given point in space-time, it is indeed possible to exist. My story with Lidia is nothing more than an antimatter discharge, a fluctuating blip. Could this be a hint at my mission, my purpose? Or a test to see what an advanced artificial brain is capable of? How it may cope with the collision of truths, which almost no one cares to deal with anymore? Or maybe this is a proof by example: there is no place left for real males in Europe. A warning: very soon, society will have to regenerate. To plant a kiss on the bull’s balls – might this be a Spanish bull? After all, there must be historical significance in the
corrida
. Let Spain be proud then, I don’t mind.

That’s what I think, almost peacefully – and then suddenly I jump up and nearly shout out loud. A white burst of madness lacerates my brain, my blood boils and pounds in my temples. The most terrible profanities are ready to burst from my lips.

Because: why Semmant? Why did such a lot befall him? All the lousy significances are not worth his soul!

I clench my fists – powerlessly, angrily. There is no one to punch; no enemy stands before me. Only the sensation of great loss – the kind that can never be accepted – remains in the air, in the room, in the cosmos.

But I reconcile myself to it – that is, so I pretend. Breathe in, breathe out; I get my anger under control. And I repeat – yet again – don’t hold out hope. Yet even here I will not lose my head. You can’t imagine how steady my mind is. How I am able – in everything – to see kernels of reason. And to bargain with my own judgments.

I say to myself: all is interconnected; links form the well-organized structure. One, another, one girl, another… Lidia, Adele, love and, behind it, death – this is a fractal, the Dragon Curve, repeating itself over and over. I supposed my robot would become eternal, invulnerable. But he turned out a bit different. Capable of loving – which means capable of dying. It was my mistake to think he was old-fashioned. Most likely he acted as a messenger. As a symbol of the future, while I – I had to answer for the present. This was not difficult: ultimately, I could act according to the rules of the present. I could kill – and I’m not sorry I tried. Just as I don’t regret the attempt failed.

Listen. I’m not idealizing him, no. I’m not imposing a model on anyone to imitate it. He is no hero; he was merely able to do what not everyone can. He could make his own personal choice. He took his fate into his own hands. He strove for perfection and was not satisfied with less.

He is no hero, but he possesses a lot of courage. Courage and something else – for which, I admit, I was unprepared. One of the truths was finally revealed to me. It was that one must mature to appreciate any given truth. This, alas, I still have not done. But only by having definitively gone astray can one be sure that the path is false.

I naively presumed my robot was the first step on the path to a new faith. I was mistaken; I was deeply wrong. No one would believe in something full of humanity – even if just in dreams. You are ashamed of these dreams; you do not forgive them – it’s enough already to pretend otherwise. To refer insincerely to Judea, to recall Golgotha, shed fake tears – I do not believe those tears. The phantom of mercy is so foreign to the market, as the specter of love is to the children of the market era.

Of this I had received the most graphic of proofs. Without even knowing Semmant, without seeing him, society did sense the danger. It had dispatched a representative, a fighting machine. It had issued her a military order. It had equipped her with the newest brand of weapon…

My fists clench again, and my jaws go numb. I take a deep breath, count to ten. A new faith – now I know the recipe for it. Its primary ingredients are quite clear. The new religion must soar high above common sense. Its idol must frighten all beyond measure. You may argue with this; you may not agree. Humanists would make a laughingstock of me, hold me up to scorn. But they know for themselves: it won’t work any other way. At least those among them who have brains do.

Then, after causing a fright, something should be promised in exchange. I know what this will be – there’s only one formula. A great reward commensurate with great fear – this is immortality, no less. It will draw all to itself like the Pied Piper. Everyone will be quick to believe there’ll be no end to the pleasures of consumption. That they can keep buying new cars over and over. Buying clothes, alcohol, sex. Doing all that has become habitual. I know; I am the same way myself. Everlasting life is the opportunity to suck oysters forever. Now, in two hundred years, in five hundred.

All jokes aside, the negation of mortality will become the fetish of the masses. It already gets mentioned occasionally – but soon they will start discussing it on every corner. New prophets, new visionaries and guides… I even know where the trick may be. This understanding came to me right here. In the first days, when I was still quite ill. During one of my fits, when I could not move because of the bindings. This is extraordinarily important, immovability. Later I read scientific journals – a large collection covering several years. They were delivered to me upon my first request, right from the National Library. Really, this is a very good clinic.

The question of immortality is not decided in churches – that would be too simple. Religious myths fabricated for the crowd are overly conformist, primitive. Can anyone really believe, deep down, in such tripe? Can this really assuage the fear of death? Maybe only for dickheads.

No, the recipe is in our thick notebooks. In the ones that Theophanus and I threw on the mezzanine. To be precise, in the notebooks of those who – almost altruistically – make their way, micron after micron, toward comprehending the structure of the universe. There are theories there to instill hope – each one can choose something according to his taste. Personally, I’m interested in excessive multidimensionality, as well as black holes, hidden doors beyond the event horizon. I see great potential in them – like my dad did in the craft of Simon from the traveling circus.

One day I will describe all that in more detail. About the hint of eternal life, and also about how the world will change – irreversibly. How art will disappear, no longer being in demand, and plain reflections of the momentary – photos, videos, comic strips – will take its place. And all books will have the format of a synopsis – I will write that sort of opus too. Then they will finally believe my efforts are not driven by protest or negation. After all, to tell the truth, I’m much better off than the rest. Protesting is not within my rights. Nor those of any of us, the Indigo children.

For now I am just comparing ideas diverse in nature. I draw light cones, bisect them with planes. I match projections on the most varied scales. From the Planck length to the size of stars. From a chronon to a human lifespan. Sometimes quite amusing patterns result. In distant galaxies, in cosmic vortices I see the same higher order that is born of chaos and dwells together with it, and restrains it from time to time. Semmant tried to explain this to me – and I had almost understood him. And now I see even more clearly: the difference is only in the system of coordinates. This means there is hope.

I have only spoken with one person about this – Anna de Vega. She has come to see me a few times. We converse about very strange things. We both need that.

“I see your aura,” I told her at the last visit. “It’s pale blue. That may not be indigo, but you’re also on the other side of the looking glass.”

The conversation didn’t work out then. Anna looked at me in silence and left without saying good-bye. But I know she’ll be back.

All in all, there is no lack of visitors. One time they even tried to interview me – for a newspaper specializing in hot facts. This was my chance finally to make Semmant famous, but it presented itself too late; I drove the newspaper team away. I told them, “The power of mass media is counterfeit. You feed on carrion, and you reek.” Of course they left in resentment. Only a single pretty reporter hung back at the doors.

“It’s a shame you behave like this,” she chided me. “We could offer you some help.”

“Well, yeah, yeah,” I nodded and then added, “Tit for tat – here’s good advice: when they put the bull’s balls on the altar, get in line for them, don’t delay!”

She just sighed and made a gesture to suggest I was not in my right mind. But I don’t consider it to be her fault, and I wanted to help her from the bottom of my heart. She reminded me of Diana – she looked like a nympho ready to let herself go wild.

I believe, by the way, she shared the advice with my doctor. At least his questions the following day were suspiciously close to this topic. But he is not a woman, and I wasn’t in the mood to discuss the fate of Europe with him.

Then an activist for men’s rights showed up – it turns out such characters do exist. He was very thin, with a strong-willed face and a squint-eyed look.

“Something terrible is happening in the world,” he told me. “It can’t keep going that way; civilization will go extinct. They want equality, but there is no equality. There will be a battle, the war of the sexes!”

He bored me right away, from the first word. I really wanted him to leave.

“Of course there can’t be any equality,” I concurred. “The ones you’re preparing to do battle with, they are the best thing that happens in our lives – unless you count Brochkogel and Brunnenkogel and recall the virgin, off-piste snow. How can we equate ourselves with the best, level it, reduce it to the average?”

He was slightly dumbfounded, so, attempting to speak calmly, I explained to him, “After all, they smile every time they see a child! They command a specter in light clothes that is still alive and that will live forever. And, finally, the softest ray emanates from them!”

Then I lost my temper; his posture irritated me. “Remember Eve,” I exclaimed, “if your memory hasn’t betrayed you yet. Remember: her features are full of innocence, even at the crossroads, when she holds the apple and envisions sin. Even when, once she has bitten the fruit, she looks at the farthest point and sees someone there, and it’s not Adam. All the wickedness maturing in her soul is not able to mar her image. And each man, each one is happy to be deceived!”