by Claire North
“I steal,” I replied. “I am a very good thief.”
That seemed to be all the questions she had.
Some fifteen miles short of Daegu we stopped in a small town of 1960s concrete blocks, clinging to the terraced side of a mountain. A small building of beige-washed walls and pink-tiled roof overlooked a tumbling mountain stream that rushed over shallow smooth stones. A black and white cat regarded us from on top of the wall, while beneath it, a lethargic dog, grey with no collar, opened one watery eye to consider first us, then the cat, then us again, and finding nothing interesting, went back to sleep.
The driver was the first out of the car, and embarked instantly on a cigarette, hauling in long breaths as he leant back against his bonnet. The man and woman emerged slowly, neither willing to take their eyes off me for more than a few moments. I followed, the cold air pushing out some of the sickness in my stomach. Calm. I am the cold; I am my empty face.
Byron gestured me inside; I followed.
A corridor lined with reed mats where we could leave our shoes. A collection of slippers of various sizes, decorated in bright plastic beads. A staircase going upwards to unknown rooms; a picture of the Dalai Lama on one wall, smiling as he signed a book with a felt-tip pen. A door to a living room which was also a kitchen; cushions on the floor, a flat-screen TV against one wall, a gas fire, a collection of books in Korean and English. A travel guide to the local area.
A traveller’s house, furnished for brief stays.
Byron gestured me to a cushion, sat opposite, folding her legs awkwardly, a bone clicking in a joint at her hip. The woman gave her a phone, which was switched to record and put between us. The man set up a digital camera on a tripod.
“Here is our situation, Why,” she said at last. “One of us will remain with you at all times. Every conversation will be filmed. May we offer you tea?”
“That’d be nice.”
“I don’t want you to feel in any way uncomfortable.”
“Might be a losing battle, that one.”
“I need to understand what you are.”
“I’m a thief.”
“I need to understand how you are.”
I shrugged. “Good luck.”
A kettle put on a stove. Three matching cups pulled from a cupboard; a question, green tea or red?
Green tea for Byron; red for me, thank you. Make it strong, milk if you have it.
The woman’s nose wrinkled at the idea, but she found some UHU, sniffed it, dribbled in the barest slap, didn’t stir.
We drank in silence, Byron and I, her eyes never leaving me.
I said, “You know that if I walk away, you’ll never find me.”
“You’re here, aren’t you? Have you ever been… forgive the word, but it’s the only one which will do… studied?”
“Doctors don’t remember who I am.”
“I have connections.”
“I’m not a lab rat.”
“Then you are not serious in your ambition to be remembered,” she replied simply. “If that is the case then you are correct – you can leave and we will almost certainly never find you. But you will never find me either, that I can promise.”
So saying, she stood, still watching.
“You’ll need to sleep,” I said. “You’ll forget when you do.”
“I know what I want from this,” was her answer. “Do you?”
She left, and I remained.
A moment in the night.
I sat, cross-legged, in front of the camera.
The man watched me, and I watched him watching.
Byron, asleep upstairs.
The woman, asleep on the other side of the room.
Taking turns, shifts to remember.
Each time they woke, they were surprised to see me, but always they left themselves notes – she is _why, you are set to guard her, do not forget.
Every three hours they swapped to a different video camera, just pointed at me, recording.
At two in the morning, the man dozed off.
I watched his head roll gently down, the lights still on, the camera still running, and waited for a little line of spit to gather in the lower corner of his mouth, ready to drop. In the darkness outside, I could hear the far-off sound of the motorway, and the nearer rushing of the river. I stood up, turned the camera off, poured myself another cup of tea, took the mug outside and went to consider the starlight.
Chapter 60
Remembering Reina bint Badr al Mustakfi.
A question perpetually looping itself through my mind: should I have known? Should I have seen her pain, was there anything I could have done to help her?
Obvious answers: of course not. Don’t be bloody daft.
Even if you could have done anything, she wouldn’t have remembered. You speak words of kindness, you tell her it’ll be all right, that she is beautiful, wonderful, perfect as she already is, and maybe she smiles, and maybe she laughs, and maybe for a moment she forgets Leena on her couch, and Perfection on her phone…
the power to succeed is inside you!
… and then she turns away, and your words are dust in the wind, and nothing you do means a damn, and she dies.
Walking through Tokyo streets, remembering the words of a long-dead emperor-philosopher. Marcus Aurelius, ad 121 – 180, author of the Meditations. Quoth said emperor: It is not death a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.
And also: You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.
Amongst his less well documented declarations was a determination to obliterate the Iazyges in Germania. Genocide of Rome’s enemies was a reasonable military tool; history’s never as simple as it is in the movies.
How did I end up here?
I think at some point I must have made some choices, though it feels like they were far away
fairer perhaps to say that some choices were made around me and I acted in a manner which could be seen to be
impulsive reckless petty spiteful vindictive crusade stupid angry lonely jihad
full of struggle.
Ju kyu hachi shichi roku go fuck it.
Fuck it.
I close my eyes and see, always and again, my mum crossing the desert, only now she turns to look at me as I walk in her shadow, and smiles and says, Why so angry, petal?
Fucked up, Mum. Totally fucking fucked up.
How so?
Thought I’d live. Thought I’d be discipline, life, living, the machine, everything I am, all of this, living and breathing and beating the world, beating this fucking forgetting, fuck the world, fuck memory, I thought I’d be a sun goddess, a pilgrim, crusader, thought I was…
… I thought I was in control.
Aren’t you? she asks, pausing to drink from a flask hidden beneath her robes. (Must be water: I dream it is whisky.)
Don’t think so. Made choices. Did things, went places; left a footprint on the sand. Didn’t control me. Stole the fucking diamonds in a fit of pique. Went after Perfection because it pissed me off. Looked at Reina and didn’t see. Came to Korea and got made. Not in control. Can’t stop myself. Can’t see myself. Don’t know where I’ve come from or where I’m going. Just now – that’s all I’ve got. If I close my eyes, do you think I’ll forget my own face?
Now you’re being daft, tutted Mum. And not only daft, you’re tying yourself in knots in a thoroughly unhelpful way.
Mum?
Yes?
What if all of this is my fault? What if I’m forgotten… and it’s something I did? A man looks at my photo on the other side of the world, and he sees my face, I’m not invisible, but then he looks up, and he’s forgotten me. People fill in the gaps, find a way to meet me without being afraid, but it’s all lies, all of it, my parents forgot me, you forgot me, the world forgot and what if it’s me, what if it’s my fault?
The power is within you!!
Beneath the starlight of the Korean night, with the sand of
the desert beneath her bare feet, my mum laughed.
So what? she asked. You going to shout at the sun for shining and the wind for blowing? You gonna curse the sea for rolling with the tide, the fire for being hot? Hope Arden, I thought I taught you better than that. Now pull your socks up, and get on.
I thought about answering, but didn’t want to, so opened my eyes again to see the now, the night, feel the cold and hear the quiet, and sat a while longer, and thought about nothing at all.
I am Hope.
I am a thief.
I am a machine.
I am living.
I am unworthy.
I am righteous.
I am none of these.
No words can contain me.
In the morning, when Byron came down, I was still there.
“Okay,” she mused, long and slow, seeing me sitting on a rickety plastic chair outside her door. “I had a letter from myself on my bedside table saying we’d found you, but I didn’t think it’d be true.”
“You met me yesterday,” I explained as she rubbed her hands against the still-heavy morning cold. “It’s all on tape.”
“My letter said you were unsure if you would stay or go.”
I shrugged. “Your assistants fell asleep. I thought about going, and decided to stay.”
“That’s… good. That’s very good. Did you tell me yesterday what kind of tea you drink?”
“Builder’s, with milk.”
“Am I going to forget that by the time I get indoors?”
“Yes – unless you’re recording this, and remember to play it back.”
“You must get terrible service in restaurants.”
“I like buffets,” I replied, detaching myself from my seat and heading for the door. “Also those sushi bars with the conveyer belts.”
Chapter 61
They gave me a new passport.
A lift to the airport.
At every step, Byron, recording, someone, recording.
Byron had a notebook, maintained in impeccable handwriting. On every page a new line of thought was developed in perfect cursive script, black ink from a silver fountain pen.
“One of my little indulgences,” she explained, rolling it between her fingers.
I flicked through the book, following the passage of her thoughts as we sat in the car heading for Incheon International Airport.
Is _why following me?
How did _why get this number?
Why am I on this ferry?
How did I decide to come to this hotel?
“All this before we had dinner?” I asked her.
“Yes. It was the hotel that alarmed me. I remembered walking up the hill with a great sense of purpose, checking in with purpose, but when the door closed on my bedroom I realised that I had no idea why I’d chosen to go there, to that place, that room. There was no message on my phone, my computer, nothing to justify these decisions, this time or place.”
“I’m impressed – most people make something up.”
“When one lives alone, one must develop strict critical processes.”
I didn’t meet her eye, looked back at the notebook. “And then you got my invite for dinner.”
“Yes.”
I turned the page, and there it was, notes entering sudden emphatic capital letters, terror seeping through the script.
WHY HAVE I RECORDED 59 MINS OF A CONVERSATION I DO NOT REMEMBER HAVING?
“I thought you’d just move on,” I sighed. “Most people do.”
“And you would come looking for your payments – your treatments – later?”
“That was the plan.”
Byron nodded, took the notebook back from me, carefully wrote:
Why believes that the treatments can make her memorable.
“That is right, isn’t it?” she mused, glancing up at me. “Have I asked that already? Every time I speak to you, I’m worried that I’m repeating myself.”
“Everyone repeats themselves,” I said. “I don’t mind.”
A plane to San Francisco. We sat together, but at some point, even Byron slept, and so did I. When we woke, she stared at her napkin in surprise. On it she’d written,
You are travelling to America with Why. She is the woman sitting next to you. Her name is Hope.
“Is your name Hope?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“We have of course had this conversation a dozen times.”
“Fewer than you’d think, but I’m sure there are more to come.”
“Astonishing. I can remember that I am travelling with someone I forget, but I can’t remember it’s you.”
“People remember things about themselves, and you’ve been writing down the important things. That’s how you remember why you’re travelling. You forget me, my face. It’s impressive that your methods let you remember as much as you do.”
“You are astonishing,” she breathed, and her hand reached up, and brushed my cheek, feeling the reality of my skin, a mother soothing a child perhaps. Or perhaps another thought – a master comforting a much-loved pet. “You are incredible.”
We were separated at customs, but Byron held her phone tight, followed the photograph and the note which read, You will meet this woman in baggage reclaim. Do not leave without her.
She had difficulty seeing me in the crowd, so I approached her.
“Incredible,” she breathed. “It’s as if you are invisible, one moment to the next. You exist only in this moment, and then your face is eaten by memory.”
“Shall we go?” I replied.
San Francisco. Once Spanish, then Mexican, then for a brief period its own little state, before finally integrating with the USA. It was a city flanked by other cities flanked by the sea. Most of the city had been destroyed in 1906 by the earthquake, but that still made what remained a historical treasure in American eyes, and the taxi driver as he carried us across the bridge to Oakland lamented that the little house he owned down in San Ramon – he couldn’t afford San Francisco prices – had been built in the ancient times of 1949.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I asked, as blue waters rolled beneath us.
“Ma’am,” he retorted, “it’s a nightmare. Local ordnance says if you own a house built before the 50s, you gotta keep it in its historical modality.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you gotta strip all the paint back to what it used to be back when the house was first built, to make it conform to the historical aesthetic. Well, we did that – and it cost a damn fortune, I mean, it’s there’s like one guy who can do it and he’s got the market in a bind – and you know what colour the place was in 1949?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Baby peach. Can you fucking believe it? I was in the Marines for eight years, I teach baseball on Sundays, kids they look up to me, like, an example, and every night I go home to this house and baby fucking peach, damn me.”
I nodded and smiled.
“I don’t know much about politics,” he mused, “but when I saw what colour the house was meant to be, that’s when I knew the country’s gone crazy.”
We stayed in a hotel in Oakland, looking down towards the water from the top of the hill. Cypress trees swayed gently around the empty swimming pool, leaves brown and stiff. The owner’s wife, dressed in bikini and sunglasses, spread herself across the recliner by the dirty tiles and said, “Sweetie, I’m sorry, but there’s a drought on at the moment.” A pair of children, seven and five apiece, looked up miserably from the edge of the place where water should be. “It’s Ruthie’s birthday today, but she’s sulking because the party’s at her gran’s house this evening, and she wanted her friends to come here, but they couldn’t come here, could they Ruthie, not while Mama and Papa are working.”
So saying, she returned to her sprawl across the lounger, a reflective foil sheet resting below her chin to bounce light up her carefully pruned nostrils.
Her husband, all moustache and capillary-shatter
ed red nose, said, “Twin or two singles?”
“Twin,” said Byron quickly. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“You two related?”
“Hope here is such a dear,” replied Byron, putting one arm across my shoulders. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
In the face of the old woman’s smiling ambiguity, what was a man to do except smile back, and hand her the keys?
Byron said, “If I take a shower—”
“You’ll forget me, but I’ll still be here.”
“I’m beginning to find that quite an exciting prospect. I could learn to enjoy being perpetually surprised to discover your presence.”
I smiled and said nothing, and she left the door to the bathroom slightly ajar as she went to wash, as if that might make a difference.
A few minutes of local news was all I could stomach.
“I don’t need Washington to tell me what my children should learn, I don’t need the fat-cats in DC to spend my money, to tell me what’s right and wrong for my family, what I carry in my back pocket, like a knife or a gun, how to look after my health! It’s my life, what the hell are they doing interfering in it?”
“Ma’am, can I ask, do you believe in abortion?”
“I believe that every life is sacred.”
“Do you believe that the government has the right to legislate on what a woman can do with her body?”
“Now hold on there because you’re doing a thing here, you’re doing a thing…”
“Ma’am, I’m just trying—”
“… and I’m talking to you honestly, I’m having an honest debate about things that matter and you’re trying to make it something it’s not…”
“… should women choose—”
“This government has spent my money on teaching children I’ve never even met about stuff I don’t even know about…”
I changed channels, flicking through an array of cop dramas and soaps, until stumbling on a current-affairs/gadget programme in which two men and a cosmetically gleaming woman went through the technological toys of the day and of course, but of course, there was,
“… Perfection – now, Clarice, you’ve been trying this, haven’t you?”
