Diary of One Who Disappeared

by Jason Erik Lundberg

  Finally, Uncle Michael came back and said that Aya was awake and I could visit her, but that he wanted to speak with me first. He talked about the Tesseract Project and that, in that current moment, the headquarters was just slightly bigger than the landmass of Tinhau, but it could grow or shrink dimensionally as needed; about four million people worked there at any one time, situated outside the cosmic foam, separate from the Multiverse yet deeply interconnected with it. Yu-Wei had taken an incredible risk in transporting us there; she might have lost one of us in another moment-universe, or in the Void between universes.

  “We’re giving her a bit of a talking-to,” he said. His calm delivery sent a shiver down my spine.

  “So you’re the one who authorised her to neuter my ability, aren’t you?” I asked.

  He nodded. “My duty is to the Multiverse above anything else, and your systematic decimation of it had to be addressed. It’s not fair, I know.”

  “But I could have prevented what happened!” I shouted, the heat rising to my face. “I could have got the NAU off my back completely and stopped them from aiding in the coup of Tinhau. People have died and the country is now unsafe for swees because of your short-sightedness!”

  Instead of returning my anger, Uncle Michael sat next to me on the bed. “It is unfortunate, yes, and I am sorry that it happened that way. But you’re not looking at the larger picture, my friend. We ran thousands of simulations on the supposition that we just leave you alone, and in every single case the power went to your head—sometimes faster and sometimes slower, but every single time—and you would become the tyrant king of the entire world. No one is meant to have that kind of power, even someone with benevolent desires and tendencies. The temptation to use it always corrupts.”

  It’s hard to hear: that despite how much of a good person you think you are, you could so easily become a monster.

  Uncle Michael patted my hand. “Come, let’s go visit Aya now.”

  I followed him down a series of hallways made out of that same pinkish material, and we ended up at a room nearly identical to mine. Aya was sitting on the edge of the bed when I stepped in, looking like she might shatter at the slightest touch; Michael departed down the corridor. I sat next to her but didn’t say a word, just let her know I was there. After a moment, she put her hand over mine and squeezed it lightly. Platitudes would just have made things worse, so I stayed silent, and we sat like that, mute, until at last she whispered, “I’m hungry.”

  I got up and opened the door, figuring that I’d have to go searching for help, but the lady in red was waiting just outside and said that she’d have some food sent to the room. When I went back inside, Aya was lying down. I asked if she wanted me to go, and she shook her head, patted at the space on the mattress beside her and rasped, “Please just hold me.”

  I lay there with her, as someone brought in two trays of food and placed them on a nearby table, as the lights in the room dimmed slightly (to indicate night-time), as the food got cold. Aya cried silently in my arms, her muscles tensing and the heat coming off her body like a radiator. Tears leaked from my eyes as well, dampening the pillow beneath me. Together we lay in silence, two refugees.

  When she was ready to eat, the meat (which I chose to believe was chicken; it was some kind of bird, I think) was bland and a bit chewy, and the greens soggy, but we both wolfed it all down.

  At last, she yawned and said she wanted to sleep; I got up to go, but she asked me to spend the night, that she didn’t want to be alone. So I stayed that night, and every night after.

  Monday, February 18

  After we petitioned Uncle Michael for weeks, he has finally assented to sending Aya and me back into the foam, to a Tinhau somewhat analogous to the one we left, but instead called Singapore. He said that we were welcome to stay at the Tesseract Project for as long as we needed, but after two and a half months (roughly; time doesn’t really work the same here), we’re both ready to move on. They’ve already created the paperwork we’ll need (birth certificates, passports, employment passes), and seeded the moment-universe destination with our false digital histories so that it won’t look like we’ve just popped in from nowhere (which we are technically doing); they’ll also provide us with the appropriate currency, not so much as to attract attention but enough to help until we can find work.

  We leave tomorrow.

  MARCH

  Saturday, March 16

  It’s now been a few weeks since the transition, and Aya and I have settled in for the most part in our new home.

  Yu-Wei was the one to bring us across. She’d been conspicuously absent in all the time Aya and I were at Tesseract HQ, which was probably for the best; Uncle Michael told me that she was still a field agent, but on a probationary basis until she could earn his trust again. She was waiting for us in a control room of some sort, with screens and holographic displays and lots of impressive-looking equipment being manned by people wearing helmets that completely obscured their faces. Yu-Wei’s backpack was smaller this time, but apparently more advanced. We huddled together within a circle marked out in blue on the floor, and before I could say a word, we shifted; no whiteness or hissing static this time, just an immediate change in the world around us. I wasn’t even dizzy.

  We had arrived at a remote location in a botanic garden, close to dusk. Yu-Wei told us that an MRT station was only a twenty-minute walk along the nearby path. She pulled us all into a hug, then drew two finger rings from her pocket and gave one to each of us; they were silver, with a smaller ring embedded within, which rotated. Strange symbols were etched into the moving inner ring.

  “For emergencies only,” she said. “If you find yourself needing to get out of this moment-universe in a hurry, move this inner ring so that it rotates five times, and it’ll signal me to come get you. You yell, I’ll come running.”

  Aya hugged Yu-Wei again and whispered something in her ear, then we all said goodbye. Aya and I started down the trail, and then I heard what sounded like a muffled clap behind us. When I turned around, Yu-Wei was gone.

  We were able to rent a cramped flat in a neighbourhood called Clementi. Aya found a job quickly in the strategic planning department of a non-profit downtown, and I’ve made do with tutoring students and adults in English at a nearby community centre. Aya has begun to smile again, although it’s never for very long and she always seems embarrassed to have done so. The days pass as they should, full of routine, regularity and relative normalcy. Our lovemaking has gone from frenzied and grasping to tender and loving. There are days where neither Aya nor I have wept at odd, unexpected moments. We even talk about visiting the United States (since the NAU never formed here) and climbing to the top of the Statue of Liberty (rather than the Statue of Justice). It feels as though we’re both starting to heal.

  Wednesday, March 20

  I woke up this morning to an empty flat, and this note.

  Dear Lucas,

  I thought that I could just push the truth away and pretend like we were an everyday couple with quiet, normal lives, but I can’t do it anymore. You have been wonderful, more wonderful than I ever could have asked for, and please know that my decision was not made at all lightly. It’s because of your support and affection that I now feel like I have the strength to do what I need to do.

  Out there in the Multiverse, Tinhau, my Tinhau, is burning. The nation I love and which my mother loved has been usurped, changed from a beacon of acceptance to an uglified shadow of itself. I have to do something about it. I also need to bury my mother, even if her body is still unaccounted for. I know that this action will be dangerous, but my mind is made up. I hope you can understand.

  I have activated my emergency ring and will be meeting Yu-Wei back at the botanic garden later this morning. By the time you read this, I will be gone, and I beg you not to follow me. Please, live your life. What will sustain me is knowing that you are safe and sound.

  Love,

  Aya

  As much as I want to go
after her, she’s right; that other Tinhau is now ruled by a military that would turn me over to the NAU. Going back to that moment-universe would mean imprisonment and forced labour, and only if I’m lucky. I hate that I’m such a coward; as much as I feel for Aya, it’s not enough to die for.

  Fuck.

  Friday, March 29

  After more than a week of consideration, I’ve decided to move back to Chicago. Although, not “back”, since my Chicago is closed off to me forever, but this one should be close enough.

  I’ve purchased airplane tickets for tomorrow, exorbitant at such late notice, but the money from the Tesseract folks is more than enough to cover it. I’m excited about actually flying in a plane rather than an airship. I wish that Aya could experience it with me. I haven’t stopped thinking about her since she left. I hope she’s okay.

  I went online and looked up the version of Dad in this moment-universe; he never met my mother, or had any kids. He’s been married to some woman named Aubrey for the last sixteen years, and is still active in the Air Force. I hope that he’s happy. It’s going to take everything I have to not show up at his door, but I don’t think I could handle it anyway, talking to a man in almost every way identical to my father, who has no idea who the fuck I am.

  I looked up O’Brien here as well, and got the shock of my life: just over twenty years ago, he renounced US politics altogether after some reality-show host was elected president, moved to Dharamsala on the edge of the Himalayas and was ordained as a Buddhist monk. He’s now called Venerable Tenzin Jangchub and has written a number of books about Buddhism, including three co-authored with the Dalai Lama himself. I’d always thought of O’Brien as thoughtful and considerate, but I never could have imagined that he’d forgo the Word and devote his life to karma and all that.

  Although if he could do it, maybe I should look into it as well. He’s actually due to give a number of talks in Singapore in September (apparently there’s a large population of Buddhists here, just as there were in Tinhau), but by that point I’ll be gone. Still, I’ll keep an eye out if he decides to travel to America as well.

  I don’t know what I’ll do once I get to Chicago, but I have some time to think about it. Maybe I’ll look into a quiet analysis job in local administration; I’ve had quite enough of the federal government. Or maybe something in the private sector. Or even something completely different; I’m starting with a clean slate, so I could do anything.

  Okay, writing that just made me a bit breathless.

  I can do anything. Look at me.

  I’m ready.

  I’m going home.

  Tesseract Status Report

  Case #LML137C

  Agent in Charge:

  Neo Yu-Wei

  Supervising Executive:

  M. Molina, SATMMC Order of the Shield

  Target Status:

  Neutralised and relocated

  Further Action:

  Monitor but do not engage; archive documentation

  Case #LML137C CLOSED

  Acknowledgements

  In late 2013, I was awarded a Creation Grant from Singapore’s National Arts Council for the purpose of writing Diary of One Who Disappeared; I am a permanent resident rather than a citizen, but NAC’s willingness to consider me a Singaporean writer by awarding me the grant was a wonderful form of validation, and provided some financial help while I laboured on the novella. Especial thanks go to Mr Khor Kok Wah (then-senior director of the literary arts sector) for his enthusiasm for the work, most notably during the interview process for the grant. An arts council that supports its writers is a good thing, and NAC has my heartfelt gratitude.

  After many fits and starts, I finished the first draft of Diary in mid-September 2014, and sent it off to renowned editor Juliet Ulman, who had agreed to work with me on the project as a freelancer. I met up with her the following month in New York City while I was there as a featured author at the inaugural Singapore Literature Festival in NYC, and her brilliant and discerning critiques helped me to produce a solid (and markedly better) second draft, which she aided me in further refining. She made this book so very much better than it ever could have been otherwise, and is responsible for Lucas’ transformation from a naïve flâneur into an agent of political change. Juliet is an amazing editor, and I am so grateful to have been able to benefit from her editorial mastery.

  Speaking of editing, I must thank my Epigram Books colleague Eldes Tran for her expertise in helping to shape this novella into its final form; four and a half years have now passed from when the novella was first finished until publication, and the world has changed much during that time. The previous concerns of this work had to be updated for this different, and often more cruel, world in which we now find ourselves, and Eldes was exemplary at keeping the narrative focused on the now; a good editor is a treasure, and should never be taken for granted.

  Additional thanks must go to the following people: Edmund Wee—for agreeing to publish this novella, and seeing it as equal to the high standards of all Epigram Books fiction; Kenneth Wee (no relation)—for his close reading of the text, and pointed criticism; Victoria Lee—for her gorgeous retro-futuristic cover design and layout; Nick Mercer—for introducing me to the concept of tesseracts back in 2008 (two years before Joss Whedon used one as the maguffin in The Avengers), when we were teaching at the same secondary school in Singapore; John Kessel—for coining the concept of “moment-universes”, which he used for his phenomenal time-travel novel Corrupting Dr. Nice (I’ve ruthlessly appropriated the term for my own exploration of Many Worlds Theory here), and also for his many years of mentorship and friendship; and the understanding managers and staff at the Pacific Coffee Company at the Red Dot Traffic Building on Maxwell Road—for providing a home away from home during nearly all phases in the life of this work (the café very sadly no longer exists; the building was taken over in early 2017 by the Ministry of Law. That café was extremely important in my development as a writer in Singapore—it’s very much the inspiration for Pacifica in this novella—and I still mourn its loss at least once a week).

  *

  A note on the title: this slim book is in conversation with two other works of art, Amerika: The Man Who Disappeared by Franz Kafka (written 1911–1914, published posthumously in 1927) and Diary of One Who Vanished: A Song Cycle by composer Leoš Janáček (composed in 1919, based on poetry by Ozef Kalda). The similarity of these two titles is remarkable, as well as the fact that each work deals with overlapping themes and was created within years of one another (not to mention that all three creators were from the Czech Republic).

  Firstly, Kafka’s novel (his first) is about a young man who must cross the ocean (escaping a family scandal) and meet up with relatives in America; his interaction with America as a wide-eyed foreigner provides much of the comedy and tragedy in the book. Similarly, my protagonist Lucas makes a journey from the North American Union to Tinhau (my alternate versions of America and Singapore), and through various events is forced to stay in Tinhau, though he also falls in love with the country.

  Secondly, Kalda’s then-anonymous poetry inspired Janáček’s song cycle about a young farm boy who forsakes his home to run off with an irresistible Gypsy girl; only his diary remains in the end. Similarly, Lucas encounters a captivating woman after his marriage has fallen apart, and is caught up in an all-consuming infatuation which reveals that the woman is not nearly who she appears to be. Also, Lucas’ epistolary narrative is all that remains of him.

  *

  As I was initially writing and revising this book, I was also going through a painful divorce; there were days that working on the novella helped to take me away from it (even as real life bled onto the page), and there were days so overwhelmingly depressing that I couldn’t write a word. (Although I should explicitly note that, even if Lucas’ experiences are broadly inspired by my own migration from America to Singapore twelve years ago, the circumstances of the dissolution of his marriage in no way resemble my own;
my ex-wife and I are still on quite civil terms, and consult each other frequently, especially when it comes to our daughter.)

  However, through it all and afterward, I relied on the emotional and moral support of the following people, whom I can’t ever possibly thank enough: Nikki and Dean Francis Alfar, Barth Anderson, Yu-Mei Balasingamchow, Glerren Bangalan, Erzebet Barthold, Keith Brooke, Kirstin Chen, Paolo Chikiamco and Sharon Lim, Jasmine Ann Cooray, Heather and David Frink, Sarah and Guy Hignite, Paul Ho, Huang Si Jian, Adan Jimenez and Felicia Low-Jimenez, Steven and Tracy Karplus, John Kessel, Kenny Leck, Lee Jing-Jing, Wei Fen Lee, Amanda Lee Koe, Alison Jean Lester, Maureen McHugh, Nick and Sophie Mercer, Vinita Ramani Mohan, Eugene Myers, Victor Ocampo and Patricia Mulles, James Artimus Owen, Marguerite Reed, Daphne Anne Rodrigues, Lawrence Schimel, Christina Sng, Mark Teppo, Renée Ting, Juria Toramae, Terri Windling, Stephanie Ye, and Michelle Jean Yeang; as well as my sister Kristin, my parents, Maria and Jim, my extended family, and most of all my brilliant and wonderful daughter Anya. (Heartfelt apologies to anyone I might have forgot.)

  Without these incredibly kind people in my life, I might not have weathered such a stressful period so well, and this novella might never have been written at all. I am forever in their debt.

  About the Author

  Jason Erik Lundberg was born in Brooklyn, New York, grew up in Raleigh, North Carolina, and has lived in Singapore since 2007. He is the author and anthologist of over twenty books, including Red Dot Irreal (2011), The Alchemy of Happiness (2012), Fish Eats Lion (2012), Strange Mammals (2013), Embracing the Strange (2013), the six-book Bo Bo and Cha Cha children’s picture book series (2012–2015), Carol the Coral (2016), and the biennial Best New Singaporean Short Stories anthology series (est. 2013). He is also the founding editor of LONTAR: The Journal of Southeast Asian Fiction (2012–2018), and a recipient of the 2013 Creation Grant from Singapore’s National Arts Council. His writing has been anthologised widely, shortlisted for multiple awards and honourably mentioned twice in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror. His new “greatest hits” short story collection, Most Excellent and Lamentable, is available in late 2019 from Epigram Books.