Super-State

by By Brian Aldiss

The Diebenkorn was finally situated on one of the walls near the window. Randolph had to move while they hung it. He stood clutching his rare volume.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ Amy asked him, regarding her new acquisition admiringly.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  One of the men said, smiling, ’Myself, I’d prefer a nice sea view, ma’am. Say, the Bay of Naples.’

  ‘Nobody asked you for your opinion,’ said Randolph.

  When the men had left, Amy rounded on him. ‘That was so rude of you. The man was perfectly nice. If he prefers the Bay of Naples, well, why not? Let him. You despise the working class, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I despise the working class. I came from it.’

  The entryphone buzzed. When Amy answered, Barnard Cleeping announced himself.

  Amy rolled her eyes. ‘Barnard’s a bit of a pedant, but well meaning. I bet it’s about this Muslim lad he rescued from prison. I’ll have to invite him to come up.’

  ‘Fine. Just as you like. But I’m off, Amy,’ said Randolph, drawing himself up to attention. ’I am in the reserves, as you may recollect. I’m going to my regiment in case there’s a stand-to.’

  She stamped a tiny foot. ‘Buy your way out, then. You’re rich enough.’

  He shook his head, smiling his superior smile.

  ‘You’re laying your head meekly on the chopping block, Randy! You amaze me.’

  ‘If the chopping block won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the chopping block.’ He kissed her left and right cheeks in farewell.

  Amy’s reference to his wealth was relevant enough. As a small slum-boy, Haven had raided his old mother’s savings and bought up the patent in a then-disregarded invention, the astro-mofo. The astro-mofo was a mobile phone the size of a credit card which adhered by electrostatic force to any protruding part of the human, or indeed canine, body. Rechristened the ASMOF, the gadget yielded not only voice and vision but a daily astrology bulletin, which uttered guidance for the day’s behaviour. All that was needed was for the purchaser initially to yield up one fragment of her or his genome and insert it in a chip, which in turn was locked into the instrument.

  The ingenious young Haven had overcome this primary alarming handicap, and gone on to sell millions of copies of ASMOF, simply by giving away a CD3 of the immortal Isaac Asimov’s entire writings with each handset.

  At the age of eighteen, he had allowed himself to be bought out of his company at a cost of eleven billion univs.

  Since then, Haven had never looked at another ASMOF. Had he done so, he might have rethought the fatal decision he was about to make.

  His elevator on the way down from the Haze apartment passed Cleeping’s on the way up.

  Cleeping and Amy enjoyed some polite exchanges. Cleeping admired the new painting. Amy called her housekeeper to bring them some filter coffee.

  ‘As you may have guessed, I have come to ask you a favour,’ said Cleeping. He explained that Martitia Deneke lived only a few streets away, in the Centre Ville area. The Denekes were extremely poor: Martitia’s father had a long-standing drug problem and the benefits of SAC had not yet begun to bite. At present, they were sheltering Imran Chokar, who was recovering from his imprisonment. But the situation was somewhat dangerous. The Denekes had received threats from extreme right-wing elements of society.

  When the coffee came, they sipped it, complaining comfortingly to each other about the danger from the right wing.

  Of course, Cleeping was not asking Amygdella to act the Lady Bountiful, he told her. But he understood that she owned another house nearby which was standing empty at present. He wondered if it would be possible to allow Martitia and Chokar to live there secretly, just for a week or two, for safety, until he was able to make other arrangements for them.

  ‘I certainly think we are horrid to foreigners. I shall have to consult my guru first. Where do the Denekes live?’

  ‘Rue de la Madelaine. Off the other side of the square.’

  As she contemplated Cleeping, he reflected on how lovely was her face, with its soft contours and wide eyes, fringed by lashes that were possibly artificial. The whole, he thought, was made more desirable by being touched by time. Sorrow and longing filled him. He longed to possess her. But how would he go about it? He was a stranger in her world.

  She said, ’I will ask you something—not impertinently, I hope, but out of a general interest rather than a personal one. You are an academic in what we might regard as a comfortable profession. Why have you gone out of your way to court unfavourable criticism by helping this youth who, presumably, means nothing to you?’

  He took a sip from his coffee cup. ‘I am not homosexual, if that is your indirect question. I saw a man wronged. And a young woman who loved him. I wanted to help. What you call my comfortable profession does not entirely satisfy my inner spirit.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  He said, with a sad smile, that she sounded disappointed. But was not her question — ‘Is that all?’—what many people asked about their lives? Their lives were not filled by religion. They did not find anything else with which to fill it. Perhaps that was why the EU seemed to be on the brink of war; war was a way of occupying minds. A tragic conclusion to come to.

  Of course there were love affairs. They were better than war. Yet they too were illusions, or delusions. The ultimate truth of human life was sorrow. Thought leads only to pain — yet we must pursue it. Recurrently, the belief that sorrow was at the bottom of all, the rock on which we tried to build a little happiness, possessed him. He supposed he felt sympathy with Schopenhauer.

  ‘I suppose that my help to Imran Chokar helped to make me a little happy. It’s this belief in the permanent truth of sorrow that makes me frivolous in my own eyes. Isn’t life far too terrible for seriousness? Would you be susceptible to that argument?’

  Amy bit her lower lip.

  ‘What we call “the political business” means nothing. It’s exercised by puny men. I don’t find life that bad . . . But you are more profound than I, Barnard. In general, I feel safer when concentrating on small things. Small things loom large to me. There are nice little cafes near here. Pleasant birdsong along the canal. Paintings to collect. Some dear friends.’

  She paused. ‘Yet, to be honest, I think I always prefer people who have sorrow in them as a well to draw on. They are more sensible.’

  He regarded her sympathetically, as if wanting her to say more, while knowing she was waffling.

  ‘Did you see the lecture by Daniel Potts? Do you agree with him?’ She had interpreted his gaze and changed the subject.

  ‘In part. He’s an odd chap, though.’

  ‘You know him? Is he responsible for these depressing Insanatics messages?’

  ‘I would not think so, though he certainly shares some of their opinions. Are you going to say something more about yourself?’

  ‘I’m a superficial person, Dr Cleeping. I do not like to talk in these terms. Maybe you see life whole. For me, it’s a series of daily events — daily events and Diebenkorns.’ She gave a small laugh to excuse herself.

  ‘Who’s Diebenkorn?’

  ‘Oh, he was a painter.’

  He leant forward and pressed her hand. ‘Thank you for what you have said. We all have private compartments we do not always wish to open. What you say is so sensible.’

  She withdrew her hand and waved it. ‘No, I’m just quite, quite trivial, I’m afraid. So let’s talk about this Muslim fellow you have fished out of prison.’

  * * * *

  After some discussion, in which Barnard described the difficulties facing Chokar now he was free, Amy said she wished to speak with Chokar and the Denekes personally, in order to see how things were, and decide about lending them her house.

  ‘We will take a taxi and visit them now.’

  ‘It is only a short walk, Amy.’

  ‘I like to ride in taxis.’

  When they arrived in the rue de la Madelaine, a dark little crook
ed street, it was to find a crowd of people jostling about outside the Denekes’ door. Some carried banners with xenophobic slogans. The crowd was silent, but a mood of suppressed violence could be felt.

  ‘Now you see why I prefer taxis. They give one some protection.’

  Nodding his agreement, Cleeping got out of the taxi. Someone in the crowd recognised him and called out. Others started to jeer.

  A mongrel dog ran by, yelping, with an ASMOF attached to its right ear.

  Although Cleeping looked frightened, he made a stand and addressed them. ‘Friends, you must try to understand the situation. Mr Chokar was here in our hospitable country legally. Absolutely legally. He had a rather humble job in the post office. He had gone to the defence of a white woman when—’

  He got no further. A cobblestone was flung, which struck him hard on the shoulder. He clutched his shoulder in pain. Then a hail of stones began. One stone struck Cleeping on the head. He fell to the ground. Another stone cracked the taxi windscreen.

  ‘I’m getting out of here!’ said the taxi driver to Amy

  ‘Let me out first. I shall refuse to deal with your company again: So saying, Amygdella climbed out. She confronted the crowd as her taxi drove off.

  She raised her hand. The crowd, in surprise, held their fire. The sight of this attractive woman, scrupulously dressed, immediately quelled them. Her fragility was her protection for the minute. Several in the crowd waited, stone in hand, to see what was coming next.

  ‘You nice people are being thoughtlessly cruel. You are acting against the law. We all need the law. Otherwise, there is only anarchy. Please do not throw stones. You have injured a good man.’

  ‘He’s a Muslim-lover,’ a woman called.

  ‘No. He merely loves justice. As we all do. But it must be justice for all. If this man dies, then you will all be convicted as murderers. I promise you, you will feel the bite of justice. I ask you to disperse, and someone to call an ambulance on their mofo. Please move on. It’s a fine morning. Go away and enjoy it. Have a walk in the park.’

  ‘It’s the amaroli lady!’ a man shouted. ‘She drinks her own piss. No wonder she’s funny!’

  ‘I’d make her drink mine,’ said the man next to him, cackling as if he had said something witty.

  ‘You filthy-minded buggers. Clear off!’ yelled a woman in the crowd. But already the crowd was melting away. Soon, the two men stood alone, reluctant to go, reluctant to act. Amygdella, ignoring them, had bent down to attend to Cleeping’s wound, when two mounted police rode up. At that, the toughs skedaddled down a side alley.

  The door of No 7 opened. A thin and haggard woman peered out, as battered herself as the panels of her door. Ratlike, she aimed her short sight along a thin grey nose, to focus on Amy.

  Small thin children, like parodies of real children, pushed at her skirts, emitting tiny tinny shrieks. The woman pushed them back, reddened hand in pinched faces.

  She cursed the police because they were late as usual. They should have kept a permanent guard over her house. ‘Them bastards will burn our house down if we don’t look out. That’s what they was threatening to do.’

  The police dismounted and spoke soothingly to their horses.

  Amygdella went over to the woman and spoke soothingly to her. ‘Of course you are upset. It has been most unpleasant. You are Mrs Deneke? Would you let me in? I promise not to comment on the decor. I wish to help your daughter and Mr Chokar.’

  The woman was both suspicious and defiant. ‘What’s my day-core got to do with it? It’s no good you coming into my house, all dressed up to kill. Anyrate, Imran has cleared off.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘How should I know? Two black blokes come and took him off.’

  ‘You must know where they’ve gone.’

  ‘He didn’t want to go with them, I know that. And that’s all I know. So clear off. Take these cops with you! You’re only making more trouble!’

  With that, the old woman retreated indoors, slamming the door behind her.

  One of the police said apologetically to Amygdella, ‘She don’t mean no harm, love.’

  ‘Really? I rather got the impression she did . . .’

  A small ambulance came purring down the alley. Cleeping, still unconscious, was loaded gently into it. The vehicle drove off at speed in the direction of the hospital.

  Amygdella made her way back to her apartment on foot, followed by the mounted police clip-clopping along, keeping at a respectful distance behind her.

  * * * *

 
  Some religions ban the use of contraceptives. This is one way in which we plainly see evidence for religion warping the human mind and human society.>

  * * * *

  By this time, Imran Chokar was some way away — and terrified. He was tied to a post in what might have been an old store, or perhaps a garage. It was a nondescript room, built of brick which was crumbling with age. In one corner, ivy was bursting in, to hang and die after protruding two metres into space. Litter and filth lay everywhere. Ashes of a fire were scattered nearby. The only new things here were two motorbikes; they stood gleaming darkly to one side.

  Chokar’s captors sat at their ease on an ancient broken sofa, swigging beer, laughing and joking with each other, one occasionally slapping the other on the shoulder. They were large black men — both, as far as Chokar could tell, called Muhammad. They wore big lace-up boots, jeans and leather jackets over T-shirts. Opened beer cans stood by their side.

  One Muhammad had in his fist a printout of an Insanatics message. He was asking the other Muhammad, ‘You think these guys are saying true? That we all got a screw loose?’

  ‘You certainly have, man!’

  ‘What about you?’ More laughing and slapping each other. ‘You gone get that Welsh girl pregnant!’

  ‘Where these message come from?’

  ‘The police want to know that. I say they come from God hisself.’

  ‘God got the ambient up there?’

  ‘That why they can’t track him down. He keep moving on, goin’ from cloud to cloud.’

  They found this very funny.

  Chokar was aware that he felt ill. His bladder was full. He dared not attract their attention.

  They had arrived at Mrs Deneke’s door, claiming to be friends of Chokar’s. She had let them in. They had then produced guns, threatening him, Martitia and her mother. They had gagged him, tied his hands together with parcel tape, and shepherded him out at gunpoint.

  He had been dumped on the pillion of a motorbike and strapped to one of the men. Off they had roared. Now he was their prisoner and they were relaxed. He had to admit that they had caused him no physical harm. Gradually, he forced his trembling to cease.

  Without giving him a further glance, the pair of men now rose, in the best of spirits, clutching their beer cans, and tramped out of the garage by a side door. Imran Chokar was alone.

  He struggled to free himself. It was impossible.

  Light faded from the interior of the garage. He saw through cracks in the fabric that a street lamp burned somewhere nearby. He heard birds chirping as if it were still daylight. Once, he heard footsteps passing outside. Although he called, there was no response. The dusk thickened towards night. The shabby surroundings faded away.

  The two captors returned.

  They were as cheerful as before, and carried some savoury food with them in plastic containers. They lit two fat candles, one of which gave off a pleasant mango scent.

  ‘You hungry, man?’ they enquired of Imran.

  ‘No,’ said Imran.

  ‘Course you hungry.’ One of them came over and un
tied Imran’s bonds. ‘Come on and eat with us. We won’t harm you.’

  ‘I desperately need a pee.’

  ‘Pee in that corner over there.’

  When that was done, he went and joined them. They made him sit between them and gave him a delicious leg of chicken, dripping with a peppery sauce. He was glad to eat it, and began to feel more cheerful.

  When they had eaten and thrown the bones on the floor, and wiped their fingers on the fabric of the sofa, the Muhammads explained that they were the good guys. (‘But we can be horrid when we like.’) They had a mission. They intended to stop this super-state going to war against what they termed ‘our innocent brothers and sisters of Tebarou’.