One section contains different source codes that have been found on hacked computers. You type graffiti and Resistance. Just in case, you type Kandinsky. Box 239, top shelf, row H. Your memory is the computer's memory. With nary a gesture to betray your sense of triumph, so that Baez can suffer a little bit more, you open the door to the archives, turn on the light, and lose yourself in its narrow aisles.
The arthritic wood creaks, and the poorly ventilated enclosure smells musty. On the shelves are boxes containing papers, diskettes, Zip disks, CDs, videos, DVDs, cassettes. Like museum artifacts, collected you have no idea how, there are also eighteen-inch acetate disks, precursors to vinyl disks that were used during World War II and that can be listened to only on a machine called a Memovox (there is one at the National Archives Building in Washington). Diskettes that can no longer be read because they were written using programs such as Lotus, comprehensible only to those who studied computer science in the seventies. Optical disks that were in fashion in the eighties and have disappeared from the market. The information age produces so much information that it winds up suffocating itself and becoming obsolete. The speed with which technology changes results in new equipment that quickly replaces what came before. Thanks to digital technology, more and more data are being accumulated in less space; what is gained in quantity is lost in the fragility of the new media, in their inability to persist. Today information is being stored as never before in the history of man; today information is being lost as never before in the history of man. At times you wander through the aisles without noticing it. Other times you feel every drop—bit, pixel—of information, what is lost and what still exists, and you feel close to a mystical ecstasy, to the rapture that a mischievous god has in store for you.
You come to the stand you were looking for. You open a few boxes and take out several files, hold them in your hands. They aren't heavy, but you feel them push you to the floor. You kneel down, pressing the files to your chest, look left and right and up—box after box in the process of decay.
You touch your old skin, lined with wrinkles. You too are information that is decomposing irreversibly. You feel that there, up above, someone wants to speak to you. You have no idea what that someone wants to say. Perhaps it doesn't matter.
Chapter 17
FLAVIA OPENS THE REFRIGERATOR and takes out an already-bitten apple. She lies on the sofa and turns on the television. She watches the news: nothing about the hackers who were killed; no news about the Resistance; an interview with the Aymara leader of the coca growers, who announces the formation of a political party and declares himself "future president of the country." She switches to a channel with Japanese cartoons—Haruki, about a frog or a toad that survived a nuclear attack. How were the Japanese able to universalize their pop culture so easily? Soon there would be Haruki backpacks, Haruki pajamas, Haruki sandals ... She mutes the volume on the television and turns on the stereo: the Chemical Brothers, "Come with Us." Techno goes better with the images.
The pictures that surround her in the living room have a single theme, stormy nights in the impressionist style. Who would have imagined: the French spent thirty years painting flowers and trees and created a style that still persists today. Her parents' old-fashioned taste is incongruent with the world of anime and the Chemical Brothers. She would rather have something else on the walls. Lichtenstein, for example. But even that's not enough; something closer to her taste would be digital art, pictures that can't stay still.
She reads her e-mail on her silver Nokia. The guidance counselor at school has written, asking where she is: It's 9:15 A.M. and you're not in class. Oh, the miseries of technology, which connects her to the world and prevents her from completely escaping it (unless technology is used for that very purpose).
The house is empty. The closed curtains block out the morning light. More than once she has thought she was alone, only to discover Mom locked in her room. Maybe she's home now? She should go up and check. She eats her apple with great relish.
Flavia understands her parents less and less. They seem so distant from the beauty of the world. Dad ... he's been different for a long time now. Or maybe he was always like that and she is only just realizing it. Mom has imprisoned herself in an exhausting straitjacket. The two of them used to do things together; they would find any excuse to go to the supermarket or the mall and between purchases would tell each other their secrets, as if they were friends. As far as Flavia was concerned, her mom was her best friend; she had never managed to relate that well to girls her own age. But the intimacy and trust had ended. Maybe it had simply been a phase between the ages of ten and thirteen, when a girl was reaching puberty, her body and mind transforming, and she needed, as never before, the support of someone older to stave off her fears and reaffirm her confidence.
She eats the core of the apple and goes up to her room. It smells of pears, her favorite fragrance. She opens the curtains, letting the. daylight burst in. Her computers are in sleep mode, an image of Duanne 2019 on the screen saver.
Flavia logs on to her Web site. Instead of the homepage there is the symbol of the Resistance and a message: her site has just been hacked. She feels like punching the screen, destroying that arrogant symbol.
She reads the message. It is a friendly attack. One, in order to. tell her that she needs a better security system. And two, that she should stop attacking the Resistance by means of unfounded rumors, because that will only get her into trouble. In fact, they need her for their fight. She should join them; she thinks the way they do, she is like them. Big corporations are oppressing Latin American countries. They make the rules that suit them and then call the game they play globalization.
She does not know how to respond. The Resistance's struggle seems idealistic, Utopian to her. Yes, she does understand the threat that big corporations represent to a small country, but from that to defeating them is a stretch. An unbridgeable chasm. She wonders what the Resistance's next step will be. The government communication system on the Internet has been successfully hacked; they managed to paralyze the flow of information for over a day, but everything has gone back to relative normality. Surely the government's new firewalls will be much more difficult to penetrate. If the purpose was simply to send a message, to show Montenegro that it would not be easy for him to give in to large corporations, then they had achieved their objective. If the purpose was to try, together with the Coalition, to get the government to rescind its contract with GlobaLux, she thought it would be much more difficult. The company would create a lot of jobs, and the power company had been inefficient when it was in the hands of the government. And she was not entirely opposed to GlobaLux. True, nearly all government companies had been sold, with the result that Bolivians were poorer than ever and, to top it all off, living in a mortgaged country. But that didn't necessarily mean that all types of private control should be rejected. If that's the way it's going to be, Flavia thought, we'd better just close the country's borders.
She would have liked to ask the sender what the Resistance had to do with the deaths of Vivas and Padilla, but it was clear that this was not a two-way conversation. Was this message the work of Rafael? Was Rafael Kandinsky? Hard to say. The leader himself wouldn't be likely to follow or threaten her in person; others would do that for him.
She logs on to Playground using the identity of Erin and heads to the Wharf, an area populated by those who deal in drugs and information, by paid adventurers and prostitutes. Erin goes to Faustine, a casino with a dubious reputation. She is searching for Ridley and thinks he might be there, if he's still in Playground at all. Cameras set up in strategic places monitor her steps, groups of soldiers patrol the streets, and a helicopter flies above her in the metallic blue sky.
Faustine is full of avatars at the blackjack and crap tables. Their conversations melt into a murmur that must compete with the electronic music blasting from a jukebox. Erin makes her way through the crowd. A redhead offers her services; a white powder with go
ld sparkles covers her face, makeup that has become the fashion for announcing sexual availability. Her rough hands rest on Erin's shoulders, who is not interested and declines, but not before whispering that she likes her supersaturated red blouse with its dizzying neckline.
She sits down at a blackjack table and orders an amaretto with Irish Cream and a splash of grenadine. Next to her is a bald man with a gaff in his right hand and a dog at his feet and a woman who is high and slurs her words when she speaks.
The cards are dealt: an ace and a king of hearts. Blackjack. It will be the first and last time; she will lose her next hands to the house, represented by a man in a black suit, his features somewhat feminine, his thin lips pursed in a disdainful sneer.
Someone touches her shoulder. Flavia sees him before Erin does and becomes excited for both Erin and herself. It is Ridley—the link, she hopes, that will lead her from the virtual labyrinth of Playground to Rafael's hideout in Rio Fugitivo.
Erin loses once again and stands up from the table. Ridley's right arm is in a sling. His left cheek is bruised, a shade somewhere between blue and purple. They go out into the street and walk toward an esplanade lined with lime trees. Flavia wonders if they are fragrant; Playground's reality lacks the sense of smell.
ERIN: theyre still after u
RIDLEY: they caught me beat me put me in jail 4 a nite the police dont forgive they have a surveillance system thats more effective plus they use good informants 2 hide it im talking 2 u but u might be 1 of them
ERIN: dont even joke
RIDLEY: i know otherwise i wouldnt b here still its dangerous come w/ me 2 my hotel its nearby
Erin decides to follow him. The hotel is two blocks away, in a decrepit area that borders the port. Flavia admires the realism of the building, the way the Playground designers keep improving the details of the city. There is no elevator, so Erin and Ridley walk up the stairs, the wood creaking loudly. The walls are dirty and covered in pornographic graffiti. They pass by two men who are in the midst of what appears to be a drug deal and arrive at the room. Ridley keeps the curtains closed and turns on the light.
RIDLEY: its harder 4 them 2 intercept r conversations here
Erin takes off her boots and lies down on the bed. Ridley lies down next to her and kisses her neck; Erin lets him. With his good hand, Ridley unbuttons her shirt, freeing her breasts. He kisses them hurriedly, as if he doesn't want to waste time on them in order to get to what he really wants. When he starts to unbuckle her belt, Erin stops him.
ERIN: u could at least start w/ a kiss on the lips men ur all the same
Ridley kisses her on the lips while continuing to unbuckle her belt. Erin can sense his anxiety. Her hands slide down his muscular body, finding his erect penis. Soon they are both naked.
ERIN: must b uncomfortable w/ your hand like that
RIDLEY: id forgotten all about it
Flavia touches herself with the fingers on her right hand. Erin closes her eyes and feels the pleasure of having Ridley inside her. The tremors and panting take her deep into the moment.
When it is all over, Erin crawls under the sheets and lies next to Ridley. When it is all over, Flavia closes her eyes, wanting to lie down on her bed and sleep.
RIDLEY: im not gonna ask u 2 come w/ me i just want u 2 listen i have a secret and need 2 tell somel if something happens 2 me find my parents the address is on this paper i cant contact them myself find them and tell them that their son disappeared 4 a just cause
ERIN: ur starting 2 scare me
RIDLEY: im scared 2 but willing 2 carry on til the end
ERIN: til the end of what
RIDLEY: i belong 2 a group we have a plan 2 rebel against the government of Playground free rselves from this dictatorship theyve subjugated us based on pleasure its the worst kind of dictatorship they control all r movements tricking us by telling us were free
ERIN: u wont achieve what u hope 2
RIDLEY: better 2 disappear trying than continue 2 b part of this
ERIN: do u have anything 2 do with kandinsky
Ridley hands her a folded piece of paper. Erin opens it and reads an address. Flavia copies it down, suspecting that this may lead her to Rafael.
The silence in the hotel is broken by the urgent pounding of feet on the stairs. Ridley gets out of bed and quickly puts on his pants. Without saying goodbye to Erin, he opens the window and jumps onto the neighboring roof. Erin watches him disappear. Just then, two military police officers break down the door and aim their guns at her.
MP 235: dont move dont move stay right where u r
Flavia thinks it won't hurt to tell the truth. Erin follows Ridley out onto the neighboring roof.
ERIN: he went that way
Chapter 18
RUTH DISCOVERS that her suspicions were correct: all the gates leading into the university have been closed. The patios are deserted and a couple of armored cars are at the main entrance, along with riot police in bulletproof vests and helmets, carrying rifles. Fifty yards away, a group of university students is hurling insults at them. Another group of students is confronting soldiers who are guarding the McDonald's half a block from the main entrance. All its windows have been smashed. Ruth has eaten at the fast-food restaurant often since it opened at the start of the semester; sometimes she even held her office hours in that bright space, with its polished floors and clean bathrooms where there is always toilet paper.
Her feet hurt. Such a lot of walking today; she shouldn't have worn high heels. Should she give up? She lights a cigarette: black tobacco, like her parents used to smoke.
She tries to calm herself. Even if they find her manuscript, they won't be able to decipher what she has written, her long accusation against the government. Each chapter is written in a different code, and so they would also need the notebook—out of reach in a safety deposit box at the Central Bank—that contains the key to the codes. Each of the codes is used only once, like the one-time pads favored by the Nazi Enigma operators. Well, she did use one code twice and knows that repetition is careless, an open door through which other cryptanalysts can enter. The Nazis had been careless too, perhaps because they were overconfident about the infallibility of Enigma, perhaps out of exhaustion.
She will take a look around. She may have better luck at one of the side entrances; at the very least she will move away from the confrontation. She finishes her cigarette and tosses the butt on the ground. Along the way she pictures the shaken faces of the university students, some of whom are in her classes. She had no idea that those even-tempered faces contained an energy about to explode, discontent that needed only the proper excuse to spill over. Perhaps the calmness and sinister conformity that they usually exhibited were an exaggerated form of superficial resignation: not accepting that it is impossible to change the state of things but still searching for the shape the outburst will take. Like terminally ill patients who seemingly accept their condition with clarity and little resentment, when in reality they are silently preparing for the inconsolable wail of desperation that will emerge in the predawn hours, or perhaps in the middle of the day, when the curtains in the room tremble before the power of the sun.
It is strange to see the vacant patios, the enormous, solitary pepper tree, no students resting in its shade. The windows of the four-story building let light stream into the deserted classrooms and offices. Perhaps a bench has been knocked over, texts and notebooks are on the floor, a chalkboard bears insults aimed at a professor, a coffeepot is still on in the cafeteria, exhaling clouds of steam. Once again the universities have shut their doors. Will the floor soon be littered with manure from the soldiers' horses, as it was during Montenegro's dictatorship? What bitter memories do the locks on the gates bring back? How many generations have been left with their studies unfinished? Back in the seventies, in the early eighties ... Those in the nineties were luckier. The wheel of life continues to turn, and some things move forward while others are forced back again.
Ruth wasn't ab
le to complete her course of study because Montenegro closed the universities. She never got her official degree as a historian. Thanks to her work in the field, she managed to obtain a counterfeit degree. Perhaps that was the reason she hated Montenegro. Perhaps it had nothing to do with principles: she had been forced to live with the fear of being discovered at any moment, of being exposed as a fraud. She would be fired from her job, the target of public scorn.
Three soldiers stand at the side entrance leading onto the Calle de los Limoneros. Ruth gathers her courage and approaches, her face as contrite as she can make it. She is about to enter when one of them, his voice surly, stops her: "Entrance is prohibited, ma'am."
"I work here," she says, displaying her university identification. "I'm a professor. I haven't come to cause any trouble—I just need to get into my office for a minute. It's urgent."
"Sorry. Orders are orders."
Ruth knows that orders are never really orders: they can always be violated. It is simply a matter of settling on the right price and the precise moment in which to offer it.
"Officer, please. Try to understand. The university might be closed for weeks, and if I don't get in now, I won't ever get in. Pretend the order hasn't been issued yet, that you get it as soon as I leave. If you do me this great favor, I will value it as only something like this can be valued."
Turing's Delirium Page 13
