The Ticking Heart

by Andrew Kaufman

  Before arriving in Metaphoria, Charlie had never read or heard the word Sarzanello. He still didn’t know what it meant. But this was the third time in less than thirty minutes he’d encountered it. This, Charlie surmised, must be metaphoric. The elevator arrived. Charlie got in. Thirteen other people did as well. He did not press the button for the ninety-ninth floor. He pressed the button for the sixty-seventh.

  At the sixty-seventh floor, Charlie was the only one who got out. A red velvet carpet ran the length of the hallway. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. At the far end of the corridor stood a Giant. The Giant looked uncomfortable. His arms were crossed and he was hunched over to prevent his head from scraping against the three-metre ceiling. He was dressed in a black tuxedo with a bright red bow tie, which, judging from the way he kept pulling on his sleeves and adjusting his pants, were not the clothes he would have picked out for himself.

  ‘I have an appointment,’ Charlie said.

  The Giant bent down to tie his shoe. Charlie, thinking he was safe, failed to pay attention, which is why he did not see the Giant pull a knife from his sock. The knife was long. The blade was serrated. The handle was pearl. Although it looked tiny in the Giant’s hand, it was quite threatening when held against Charlie’s throat. Charlie swallowed, which pushed his skin against the blade. A drop of blood slid down the edge of the knife and fell onto the carpet, where it left a heart-shaped stain.

  ‘What were you before Metaphoria?’ Charlie whispered. ‘Director of Public Relations? CEO? Head of Acquisitions?’

  ‘I ran a consulting firm that worked mainly with the federal government.’

  ‘Advised world leaders? Pulled strings behind the scenes? Held the real reins of power?’

  ‘All of those things.’

  ‘You were a big man and now that you’re forced to live here, in Metaphoria, they’ve reduced you to this. To being nothing more than a big man. That doesn’t seem fair to me. Does it seem fair to you?’

  ‘I didn’t get it the worst.’

  ‘You got it worse than me. And I was cog. An office drone. Did what I was told. People like you paid people like me to walk their dogs. Why don’t you do something about it?’

  The blade pressed a little harder against Charlie’s throat. Charlie held his breath. The smallest amount of pressure was all it would take. And yet the Giant didn’t push the knife forward. It’s true that he didn’t take the knife away, but he didn’t add any more pressure either.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Walk away?’

  ‘What would that do?’

  ‘I have no idea. But you don’t either. If you were to walk away from this, this moment, pressing this knife against this throat, Metaphoria would reward you. Or punish you. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even poof! But what else can you do? Maybe I’m misguided, but it’s hard for me to believe you’re gonna trigger an epiphany while standing at the end of a hallway doing someone else’s dirty work.’

  Although imperceptible to anyone whose throat it wasn’t held against, the Giant reduced the pressure he applied with the knife. Then he puffed out a breath of air and turned his head slightly to the right.

  ‘Whatever happens, you know as well as I do that if you drop the knife and leave this building, a whole new set of circumstances will open up for you. Maybe better. Maybe worse. But unlike this. If you change yourself, Metaphoria will change around you. You know I’m right.’

  ‘I think …’

  ‘What? What do you think?’

  ‘I think that’s true of back home too.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘It’s just easier to see it here.’

  The Giant continued to hold the knife against Charlie’s throat. However, his eyes shifted focus. The knife fell to the carpet. The smell of burning cedar filled the air and the purple smoke was thick …

  Poof!

  22

  THE CARDIAC OVERALL WRAPPING

  AND RESERVE DEFENCE

  When the purple smoke cleared, Charlie saw the elevator door that the Giant had been guarding. He pressed the Up button. The doors instantly opened and Charlie stepped inside. The walls were covered with mirrors. A military general in full uniform stood in the corner. He had six medals pinned to his chest. They were bright and shiny and attracted Charlie’s attention. The General pressed the floor button – there was only one – and the elevator began to rise.

  ‘What are those for?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Avoidance.’ The General pointed to the first medal. He pointed to the next five as he continued to speak. ‘Repression, compartmentalization, denial, displacement, and suppression.

  ‘Of the enemy?’

  The General’s furry eyebrows furrowed. The look he gave Charlie was a mixture of wonderment and sympathy.

  ‘No, son: of love.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve come to the right place, and just in time.’

  The elevator stopped. The doors opened. The General had done nothing to make either of those things happen. Charlie returned the General’s nod and stepped into a large, open room that was blindingly white. The walls were white. The floor was white. The furniture was stainless steel. There were no plants. There was nothing in the space that wasn’t man-made. Behind a desk made entirely of plastic and right angles sat Twiggy Miller. He wore a white lab coat. He and Charlie were the only two objects in the room that were, or even had been, alive.

  ‘Mr. Yossarian?’ Twiggy asked.

  ‘Uh, yes?’ Charlie answered.

  ‘You’ve arrived a bit early.’ Twiggy’s voice was much deeper than the voice he’d used onstage at the Kummerspeck Theatre. His appearance had changed as well. He still wore a lab coat, but the sleeves on this one had been tailored so that only the tips of his finger-twigs were revealed. His hair was carefully combed and parted at the side. His body language expressed a calm professionalism. As Twiggy used the tip of his index twig to remove a speck of dirt from the pristine surface of his desk, Charlie wondered how much of this current persona was just as manufactured as the one he’d used to showcase the Spero Machine.

  ‘My apologies. I tend to be a little too punctual.’

  ‘Well, punctuality means on time.’

  ‘My apologies.’

  ‘So, how can we help you today?’ Twiggy asked.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. Are you … are you not here for the procedure? The guard should have –’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Who’s your reference?’

  ‘I was told it would be inappropriate to say.’

  ‘Very good!’ Twiggy walked around the desk and shook Charlie’s hand. His fingers didn’t feel like Charlie imagined they would. They were warm and smooth. His grip was gentle. Twiggy stomped his right foot three times. The wall behind him lifted, revealing a secret room designed in the style of a log cabin. A deer-antler chandelier hung from the ceiling. The heads of moose and stags were mounted on the walls. In the centre of the room stood a stone fireplace. Two leather club chairs were angled toward the roaring fire. Twiggy led Charlie to the chairs, filled two heavy glass tumblers with whisky, and handed him a glass.

  ‘To the human heart!’ Twiggy raised his glass, and Charlie did the same. ‘I know this is our first consultation, but I find it best to just jump right in. So let me ask you a personal question. How long have you been in Metaphoria?’

  ‘Longer than I care to admit.’

  ‘You see? Even that answer tells me so much. You’re not proud to be here. Why? Because you’ve been told not to be proud. We’ve all been told that Metaphoria is, if not a prison exactly, some sort of re-education centre, summer school for the emotionally challenged. Would you agree?’

  ‘Something like that, for sure.’

  ‘Let me tell you: the opposite is true! Metaphoria is a gift. It is a wonderland! The possibilities are endless.’

  ‘You don’t want to get home
?’

  ‘Never. And let me explain why. And let me do so using the very question we’ve all been told is our best means of escape: have you figured out what the function of the human heart is?’

  ‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’

  ‘Then it’s not too late for you! In the Old World, the answer is so clear. The purpose of the human heart is to push ten pints of blood around a hundred miles of veins and arteries. The idea that the heart is the source of love was just metaphoric, something to jot down on a Valentine’s Day card. But here, in Metaphoria, the human heart really is the source of love. And this is where the curse of Metaphoria becomes a blessing. I have learned how to use Metaphoria to my advantage, and I can do the same for you!’

  Charlie held out his glass. Twiggy refilled it. Taking a long sip, Charlie leaned back in his chair.

  ‘No longer a muscle, a rudimentary pump, in Metaphoria the human heart truly does generate and transmit emotion. Chief among them is love. Let’s take it deeper. Because the question isn’t ‘What is the function of the human heart?’ It’s ‘What is the purpose of the human heart?’ So, in order to fully answer that question, let us ask ourselves about this substance the heart spends so much of its time generating. What is the purpose of love? It isn’t rainbows and hugs, let me assure you of that. The common conception of love is ludicrous in its inaccuracy. Love is a thing with teeth that takes what it wants. Do you agree?’

  ‘Truly.’

  ‘Think of all the things you’ve done for love! Think of all the horrible, selfish, cutthroat, downright evil things you’ve done to keep love, to acquire more of it. ‘

  ‘I agree completely!’

  ‘Now, add to that list all the ways love has made you hurt yourself. Think of all the decisions you would have made differently, the goals you would not have struggled to attain, the energy and time and effort you would not have devoted to hopeless, improbable causes if you hadn’t been doing them for love. Love doesn’t serve you: you serve it.

  ‘But no more! Let us be rid of love forever. We have found a way to prevent love from ever becoming your master again. We have figured out how to make the human heart impervious to love.’

  ‘How?’ Charlie was surprised by how quickly this word came out of his mouth.

  ‘We have created a system.’

  ‘The Spero Machine?’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve brought that up. And I feel like I can trust you enough to admit that the Spero Machine is an unfortunate but necessary lie. You’ve seen a performance?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘I’ll say it straight: the Spero Machine is designed to extract hope. That’s what those performances are for. We don’t tell people if their love is true – even in Metaphoria no machine could do that. Rather, we collect their hope and then, using a patented process that utilizes darkness, a confined space, and a large amount of stress, we burn off impurities like realistic expectations and self-respect.’

  ‘Realistic expectations and self-respect are impurities?’

  ‘We turn regular hope into this: Hope #108.’ Twiggy pulled a clear glass vial from the pocket of his lab coat. Inside was a glowing orange liquid. Opening the vial, Twiggy poured a drop of it on the tip of Charlie’s finger.

  ‘Go ahead. Taste it.’

  Charlie did. It tasted like oranges on the cusp of going bad.

  ‘Hope #108 is so pure that when applied to the human heart it stops all the love you generate from going out and all the love from outside that’s trying to come in. And that’s basically what we offer here: we take your heart and dip it in Hope #108, which hardens into a coating that surrounds your heart, making you impervious to love. Love is an addiction. We are here to help you kick the habit.’

  ‘I …’ Charlie began, and then he stopped. He checked his watch. It looked like this:

  0 HR 23 MIN 16 SEC

  Charlie did not attempt to repress or deny that he only had twenty-three minutes before the bomb, which sat where his heart should have been, exploded. It seemed like there were so many things he should spend those last twenty-three minutes doing: calling his kids, finding Wanda, sitting still and pondering whether the sum of his decisions had amounted to anything. But, if he were honest with himself, which the limited time he had left on the planet ensured he was, what he wanted to do more than anything else was to undergo the procedure and learn what it was like to be impervious to love.

  ‘Can we do it immediately?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘We can do it right now.’

  ‘There’s one problem. My heart has been cut out and is currently on the roof of this building. In my chest is a bomb that’s set to go off in … ’

  Charlie looked at his wrist.

  0 HR 23 MIN 9 SEC

  ‘Twenty-three minutes!’

  ‘Twenty minutes is more than enough time. The fact that your heart is already removed will quicken the procedure.’

  ‘And the bomb isn’t a problem?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that bomb. We can save you from the bomb. We’ve handled worse. You go get your heart. I’ll scrub up.’ As Twiggy stood, the west wall of the lodge lifted, revealing an operating room where several nurses prepared a brightly lit, sterile environment.

  ‘You’ve had … Have you had the procedure?’

  ‘I was patient zero.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  ‘Just before you go, I am legally obligated to make you aware that our procedure, patented as the Cardiac Overall Wrapping and Reserve Defence, is irreversible. Once performed, you’ll be free of the need for love, but you’ll never feel it or express it ever again.’

  Charlie thought about all the pain and suffering love had made him feel. He couldn’t remember the last time love had made him happy. It did not take him long to make his decision.

  ‘That sounds ideal,’ Charlie Waterfield replied. He struggled to hold back his tears. Whether these tears were prompted by relief or remorse was something even Charlie didn’t know for sure.

  23

  SWITCHING CHANNELS

  Charlie was in the main elevator, ascending to the roof of the Tachycardia Tower, when the Unnamed Ghost suddenly reappeared. Charlie did his best to ignore him. He looked at the elevator buttons. He looked at the floor. He pretended to read the advertising bolted to the walls. But no matter where Charlie looked, the Unnamed Ghost hovered into his view.

  ‘You’re making a grave mistake,’ the Unnamed Ghost said.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Why? Why can’t you tell me this?’

  ‘It’s not the way these things are done.’

  ‘So you can tell me, you’ve just chosen not to.’

  ‘That’s … true.’

  ‘Then what good are you?’

  ‘I’m a manifestation of your innermost turmoil!’

  ‘Are you? I guess maybe you are. But honestly, what use is that? How does that help me? I am so sick and tired of all of the goddamn self-improvement in this town! All this striving to be better, these outrageous efforts to become a better person. What if I’m okay with who I am? Where’s the harm in that? Name me one thing in nature that isn’t broken. Point out a single tree that doesn’t have a broken limb, a river that doesn’t flood, anything that won’t be wiped away by water plus time. There’s nothing! Absolutely nothing! Being broken is the natural state of nature!’

  ‘You’re just having a bad day.’

  ‘No. Don’t do that. Don’t negate what I feel because you don’t like it.’

  ‘I’m not negating anything.’

  ‘How about this? How about you fuck off?’

  ‘What? You’re telling me to fuck off?’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘Fine!’

  The Unnamed Ghost disappeared. The elevator continued to rise. The other twelve people in the elevator, none of whom had seen the Ghost, put as much space between Charlie and themselves as the condensed space of the elevator allowed. Sixteen floor
s from the top of the Tachycardia Tower, Charlie took the walkie-talkie out of his pocket. He set the channel to Linda (Ex-Wife). He pressed the Call button. As her phone started ringing, Charlie steeled his courage. It came as a significant relief when the call went to voice mail. Charlie waited for the beep.

  ‘I think, what’s been so hard for me, so difficult for me to deal with, to admit, is not that I still love you, but that I’ve stopped. How can that be? How can something so life-changing and significant as love, a dollop of the divine falling into our everyday lives, disappear? How could I have been so careless? And that, more than anything else, explains why it’s been so difficult for me to let go of all this. To admit that I’ve let something so unique and rare slip through my fingers, a Ming vase fumbled to linoleum. But it’s okay. I’ve found a solution. Neither myself, nor anyone else, will be plagued by love, either toward me or from me, ever again.’

  Charlie put the walkie-talkie away. He was the only one on the elevator when it reached the ninety-ninth floor. He still hadn’t called Wanda. The doors opened. He got out. The walkie-talkie was still in his hand. He saw the sign pointing to roof access. He switched the channel button to Wanda. He spent several moments in the hallway staring at the walkie-talkie, although he did not use it. Charlie realized he didn’t have the strength to tell Wanda the truth about what he was planning. He decided to just be okay with this. He knew that having that conversation would be so much easier after he’d had the procedure. He knew she had the power to talk him out of it. Charlie turned off the walkie-talkie and put it back in his pocket, which is why the Cardiac Overall Wrapping and Reserve Defence has the acronym it does.

  24

  THE ROOF OF THE TACHYCARDIA TOWER

  Charlie stood on the roof the Tachycardia Tower, looking west, one hundred storeys above Metaphoria. He counted six people flying. There was clearly a sea monster in the harbour. He found it hard to take his eyes from the flaming tall ship sailing down the main street. The primary geographic feature of the north end was a mountain, with roads and houses wrapped around it and an incredibly vulvic cave entrance on the south side. As one would expect, there was a tall phallic tower, complete with slight curve, rising above the south. There were so many wonders that Charlie couldn’t look away, which is why he didn’t notice the path of the Cyclops’s fist until it connected, with grace and intention, with his left eye.