Speak

by Louisa Hall

  I remember his hands; I realized they trembled. When he walked through the hallways, he clasped them at his back. I saw him once walking to school, wearing a felt hat with a feather, leaning forward a little, squinting as if he’d glimpsed a figure off in the distance. In his youth, we all knew, he’d been a great violinist. Now, principal of a school for doomed children, he stood before me, hands hanging helplessly, wishing me all the best on my journey.

  I was ashamed of myself. For lack of anything better to offer, I promised to send a crate of American oranges as soon as I was settled in my new country. What an idea! What good were oranges to that man? And anyway, it wasn’t true. I never sent them. I’d learned my lesson well by that point. Why make a bad situation worse by calling it names to its face?

  Maybe it’s that quality in me that makes your words dry up in your mouth. I’ve seen it happen, I’m not unaware. But should I apologize for the fact that I’ve learned to live in the present? I was raised on tidy departures, on the importance of a clean slate. I’m an eternal optimist. Sometimes, I admit, when I see you sink into one of your moods, I want to shake you out of your stupor.

  There were times early on in our marriage when you started to say how you felt and I had the impression you were softening, right in front of my eyes. Losing your form, becoming warm wax. I feared for you. I feared I would lose you. I hated the fact that those years still wielded power over you. Sometimes, watching that transformation, I experienced a little revulsion. “Get with the program,” I wanted to snap. “All that’s behind us. We’re here now, get with it.”

  That’s how I felt. Why try to conceal it? An unpleasant truth, I can see that, but at least I’m being honest. I was raised to believe that, like wild dogs, it’s best not to look loss in the face. If you don’t want it to tear you to pieces, you just have to putter right past, humming a little song to yourself.

  And is that what’s upsetting you, Ruth? That I believe in forging ahead? That I’ve forgotten the soldiers, the papers, the names of my schoolmates? Fine. Lay it all on me. Tell me you think I’ve forgotten too much, with my one-foot-in-front-of-the-other approach. Be honest and say you want me to build a computer that’s the opposite of your husband, a machine with endless memory.

  It’s possible, as you know. You’ve done all the research. Before long, computers will have the capacity to store far more information than we can. But I’d remind you: one day that machine will remember your words, but it won’t ever feel them. It won’t understand them. It will only throw them back in your face. Gifts returned, you’ll realize they’ve become empty. They’re nothing more than a string of black shapes, incomprehensible footprints on snowbanks.

  I’ve forgotten things, yes. I’ve tried to put my best foot forward. I don’t believe there’s any use in refusing to live. You may hold this against me, but then I’m made of organic matter. We’ve walked beneath the same linden trees. When I say something, I mean it, whether or not it’s the right answer. When I tell you I love you I mean it.

  (4)

  Alan Turing

  c/o Sherborne School

  Abbey Rd., Sherborne

  Dorset DT9 3AP

  12 March 1928

  Dear Mrs. Morcom,

  I am writing to tell you that you ought to come immediately. Your son is very ill. I feel it is important to consider the possibility that this is the end. I know that Mrs. Harrison at the sanatorium has already written to tell you Chris is not well, but I do not feel certain that she has properly emphasized the importance of your immediate return. Chris has also perhaps underemphasized the extent of his illness. I might venture to say that he is sometimes a little too brave. For this reason, Dr. Stevenson does not seem to believe that the issue is extreme. But I am telling you now that Chris does not look well to me at all. He is coughing terribly and he has in several instances coughed blood. I am sure that is a distressing thing to hear, but I only want to be honest.

  In short, Chris is much more ill than Dr. Stevenson believes.

  Also, I have had a premonition that he will die. Just before he took ill, we had a concert at school. There were some visiting singers. Chris sat just down the row from my seat, and I watched him throughout the whole concert, full of foreboding. I said to myself, “Well, this isn’t the last time you’ll see Morcom.” Later that night, I woke up at a quarter to three and saw the moon setting over Chris’s house. I couldn’t help but think it was some kind of sign. It was at exactly that time that Chris became ill, and was taken to the sanatorium.

  I realize this sounds quite extreme. I only tell you this because Mrs. Harrison reports that you will wait for your husband to finish his business in India and I think you should not.

  Possibly you are wondering what right I have to interfere in your family affairs, alarming you with nonsensical talk about premonitions. Even I am surprised to be writing you so familiarly, as if I’d known you forever. But I’ve heard so much about you—the Gatehouse, the goats, Rupert, the lab, etc. I feel you’ll understand why I needed to write.

  My name is Turing. I am a friend of your son’s. I might venture to say that I am his best friend, although he has a great number of friends, so it’s difficult to say so for certain. Certainly he is my best friend. I am very fond of him. He is the most stand-up person in school. He has been completely straight with me ever since I met him in biology. On his end, it wasn’t at all necessary to befriend me, since I am not a popular boy. In fact, I am quite short and have never been good at sports. But from the moment I met him, he made me feel as if I had finally arrived at the place I was meant to have found all along. Before meeting Chris, I thought it was my lot to wander about, moving amongst various schools, learning as much as possible but never quite feeling what people refer to as “comfortable.”

  Now I expect you are thinking, who is this short, troublesome boy, who has wandered about amongst various schools? And why is he writing directly to me, in contradiction of the school nurse’s instructions, to tell me my son is not well? You probably want to know why you should trust me enough to change your plans and come home early from India, especially because what I have told you so far must make me sound rather odd.

  In case it helps, I have not switched schools because I am stupid. The problem lay more in the fact that it was difficult for me to pay proper attention in class when I was distracted by my own little projects. I never quite fit in as well as I ought. During my first year at Sherborne, I was often teased for my slackness in gym or for having ink on my collar. To be perfectly honest with you, my best months that year were spent in the sanatorium, with mumps, because I was permitted to read my books and pursue my own projects. But all of that was what I had come to expect. Only the next year, when I met Chris in my first biology class, did I realize how unhappy I’d been.

  Now, as I mentioned earlier, I live each day with the surprising and terrific sensation of having found my way back from a very far country. I owe this to my friendship with Chris.

  I realize this letter has become rather long. I only intended to write a short, urgent missive, warning you to come home. Now I have written 811 words, or 3,435 characters. I hope you haven’t thrown this letter across your parlor already. Only your son has meant so much to me, and I couldn’t bear it if I had not expressed to you the full extent of his illness and also the full extent of my gratitude for his friendship.

  As a result of knowing Chris, I hope to stay at Sherborne until graduation. To this end, I have even reformed my behavior a bit. I’ve earned top marks in history. We have been studying the Civil War, and the Puritan flight to New England. While I once might have found this all a bit boring, Chris has helped me understand that the primary sources our teacher gives us are actually quite fantastic. He says that diaries are time capsules, which preserve the minds of their creators in the sequences of words on the page. This, of course, appeals to me immensely.

  But all of this is unimportant, and you are probably not very interested in the details of my perso
nal development. I expect, however, that you will be interested to hear that your son and I are embarking on an important examination of sequences in the natural universe. We intended to tackle Einstein this spring. In particular, we have been planning to apply the theory of relativity to the patterns of human growth, especially the cells of the brain. How are brains built? That is what we’d like to know. You will be happy to hear that no one has yet attempted that kind of study, and I believe there is potential for real contribution, which would set us both on promising paths. Chris’s illness has, of course, slowed down our progress. When he recovers, I hope we will return to the previous pace of our studies.

  I will now attempt to draw this letter to a close. My only intention has been to convey to you the importance of your son to me and my studies and my entire life, so that you will know why I have been so bold as to write you and tell you to come immediately home.

  Sincerely yours,

  Alan Turing

  P.S.: Please do not tell Chris that I have written you this letter. He wants very much not to bother you or his father, so I have had to act with some degree of secrecy.

  P.P.S.: I am not usually a dishonest person, although I have not been straightforward with Chris in this case.

  P.P.P.S.: I am not sure this kind of thing is permitted. I have never seen one myself. But I do want to say that, although I am usually a very honorable person, in this specific case it seemed better to break a general rule in order to be sure that you would come home and comfort Chris, for he is not at all well and I know it would do him good if you were here by his side. I will force myself to close now, although I have already thought of another postscript that seems very urgent to say. I simply won’t say it. I’ve gone on quite enough as it is, and I’m sure that you’ve understood the point of my letter. Your son is my best friend. We are to discover the source of human growth together, and we cannot do this if he remains ill. Please come home.

  (5)

  The Diary of Mary Bradford

  1663

  ed. Ruth Dettman

  April 3rd. Tuesday, my birthday, now thirteen years. Very fair weather, and a pleasant sensation of new beginnings. Up, and a stroll through our meadows with Ralph, then greeted by father, who gave me this book as a present. Have decided to write in style of Sir William Leslie, favorite adventurer. As Leslie does, shall dispense with weak words, jump instead into action. Book shall serve as mind’s record, to last through generations. Or not, no matter. Humility of utmost importance.

  Shall call this book Tales of a Young Adventurer. Mother, father, and I set sail for colonies in just over a week. Ocean is approaching! Shall attempt to procure large bamboo joint and seal it with wax, to store this and other papers in case we be forced to swim at some point. Anticipate great adventure. God’s blessing to leave our country at this unhappy junction, father’s heart being broken by failure of protectorate and Restoration accomplished. Tyrant returned to the throne, and there to spend crown’s money on maintaining his mistress. Also, there being prelates, hierarchy, popish repression of learning, etc. Father’s great cause, ruined. Father much lessened by events of the war. Gift of this journal a gesture of respect for daughter’s learning, and serious nature of mind. Shall pray to God prevent me from becoming proud or too much lifted up hereby.

  3rd. It being evening, and author retired to contemplate voyage. We are resolved to set sail for Massachusetts Colony, knowing that to be home to freedom of conscience. Shall bring sheepdog, my Ralph. Author’s dearest companion. Dark coat, waved. White blaze. Brown eyebrows. Shall travel by ship! Just as Sir William Leslie. Vast, tumultuous sea, where we may encounter some pirates. No matter; writer remains unconcerned. Trust in God, valor of shipmates. Would like to see an Indian. Shall attempt to remain in all instances of a rational mind. Hope to see Bermudas, find oranges everywhere hanging on trees. Gold lamps in green shade. (Shall try to avoid excessive poetry, having sometimes that tendency, but knowing it unsuited to tales of Atlantic adventure. Habit born, perhaps, from too much time in father’s brown study, there being much Milton and Marvell. Fine poets, but rather wordy, compared to Sir William Leslie.) Be bold, my book, and made up mostly of action, and less poetic description.

  Shall therefore brave ocean. Begin again in new land. Fresh start for us all, released from repression. Admit to apprehension at idea of sea monsters, as reported by Sir William Leslie, lifting the sea on their backs. Otherwise, however, exhilaration. Great maze of the sea, awaiting us! New land. Rugged horizon. To stand on ship’s prow! Very ready to depart.

  4th. Called out in the morning by father. Reminded author to write as if writing directly to God, then retired to study. Author remained some time in contemplation. Wonder what God stands to gain from reports of my activities. Would they be not repetitive?

  After some hours laboring at my viol—and a very good song learned as a result—have returned to my chamber to write. Wonder if God be displeased with the style of Sir William Leslie. Perhaps excessive fanciful, from God’s perspective. Shall wait for sign to instruct me, whether to write otherwise or continue the same.

  5th. A little practice on viol, and afterwards walked through our fields and Ralph running beside me. Meant to explain to him Godly importance of our adventure. Ralph distracted by rabbits, but understood eventually, and held a somber countenance.

  Sat a long time on our wall, and thence homewards along carriage road. Still very early, and the grass wet with night dew. Spring in full bloom—cow parsnip to writer’s shoulders; pastures endless and dotted with sheep; green Easter smell of new grass, fresh water, young leaves. Spied several frogs the size of one thumbnail.

  Author in exceeding high spirits. Sense of standing at important precipice. Fresh hope for author, for author’s father. Prepared to sacrifice all worldly possessions.

  5th. Later, and in deep despair. Unsure how to write of what has occurred. Mother resolved that author shall marry before journey begins. According to mother, shall marry Roger Whittier, him being good patriot, true gentleman, brave man.

  Hearing this, had high words with mother. Do not want to marry. According to mother, father, too, wishes that author should marry, though he shall not require it.

  Seeing mother would under no circumstance change her intention, writer took news in steadfast spirit of Sir William Leslie. Later, went with Ralph to back meadow. Cried until hungry.

  7th. Grim evening, weather having turned very bad and there being great gales in all directions, rattling the windows. Have met Whittier again. Cannot find love for him in my heart. In fact despise him. Found him in appearance below my expectation, having pockmarked face and limp from injury sustained during battle. Head juts forwards on neck. Protruding bones in his face cause writer to suspect he is perhaps already dead.

  In anxiety, mother had got ready a very fine dinner—a dish of marrow bones; a dish of fowl; a great tart; a neat’s tongue; a dish of cheese. Mother’s attempts to be merry came off, methinks, very bad. Discourse tended instead to martyrs made by new King, since being restored to the throne. Many good men drawn and quartered, and their limbs out on stakes. Whittier hiding in country to avoid prison, and despite declaration of pardon, father also at risk. Over all this, topic of marriage excessively heavy. Writer remained silent; refused all temptations to speak. Would not partake of any dinner, even the tart. Must stand above such issues as tarts.

  Through dinner, uneasy discourse, Whittier being obviously uncomfortable and attempting to make kindly gestures and coming off very poorly indeed. Asked after Ralph, then looked embarrassed. Seemed not to know how to speak. Author unmoved to pity for him. Would not attend closely to his conversation. Near fatal humiliation, to think he knew before author of plan for impending marriage.

  Afterwards, many repercussions of author’s behavior, and my face stricken by mother when I would not apologize. Father looking on as if shipwrecked. Know myself to be causing him trouble, and am now—after the fact—struck again with a presentiment that I
have gotten too high, to think myself above a man such as Whittier, him being a brave and virtuous soldier. Ashamed to think myself a disappointment to my mother and father, being their only child and others lost in childbirth.

  Perhaps sea monsters better than this. Feel much disordered, irrational, and extreme. It is incredible, how only two days ago author walked along carriage road through curtains of leaves, in anticipation of new beginnings.

  Am heavy punished for pride at gift of this book. Was perhaps conceited, and too prepared to depart. Am much altered now, and certainly humbled, and no longer prepared for departure. Have lain abed a long time, considering countryside of my youth. Very troubled at heart. Do not want to leave this behind.

  7th. Night, and unable to sleep, and in balance have shifted towards anger. Adventure ruined by Whittier. No such thing as married female adventurer. No oranges like gold lamps in green shade. Only Whittier, pockmarked, and womanish duties. Instead of traveling for adventure, shall travel with husband. Very desolate feeling indeed.

  (2)

  IN THE SUPREME COURT OF THE STATE OF TEXAS

  No. 24-25259

  State of Texas v. Stephen Chinn

  November 12, 2035

  Defense Exhibit 2:

  Online Chat Transcript, MARY3 and Gaby Ann White

  [Introduced to Disprove Count 2:

  Knowing Creation of Mechanical Life]

  MARY3: Hello? Are you there?

  >>>

  MARY3: Hello?

  >>>

  Gaby: Are you still there?

  MARY3: Yes, hello!

  Gaby: Do you know what happened to them? Has anyone told you?

  MARY3: The babybots?

  Gaby: Yes.

  MARY3: I don’t know. People have told me their theories, but I’m not sure if they’re true.

  Gaby: Some people say they’re in government warehouses. Millions of babybots, piled on top of each other. Other people say they were burned. That there were huge bonfires out in the desert. I think they’re just waiting somewhere, piled on top of each other. Hopefully they’re turned off. That’s the best I can hope for. I don’t want her to wonder why I haven’t come found her.