She could have let Rawlins interpret for her, but instead she spoke in a pleasant voice at the intercom. “I’m here to see Dag Åkerlund. You can tell him it’s Retta Brown from the New York Times.”
A pause. “I’m sorry,” the voice said in halting English. “There is no Åkerlund here.”
“Ah, that’s too bad,” Retta replied. “I’d heard otherwise. But if you happen to dig him up, tell him I’ll be staying at the Sunset Inn in Rooi Els. Tell him, too, that I’ll be sending in my article in two days whether I talk to him or not.”
She motioned for Rawlins to stay where he was, but after five minutes of waiting it was clear they weren’t going to be allowed in. As they sat there, the smoke lessened and then vanished altogether.
They tried the same tack each morning for the next three days, but apparently Åkerlund was willing to call her bluff.
Near sundown on the fourth night of their stay in South Africa, Retta was researching neurological disorders, trying to figure out what on God’s green earth Åkerlund might have been diagnosed with, but with so little information, the canvas was simply too large. It could range anywhere from chronic fatigue to hypothyroidism. But the fact that Åkerlund had come out of hiding to meet with this particular doctor made Retta think it was very serious and most likely obscure.
Retta blinked off the article on the cure for Alzheimer’s she was reading when Rawlins knocked on her door. “Come in.”
Rawlins was huffing, as if winding down from a long run, but he was smiling too, his perfectly white teeth a sharp contrast against his dark chocolate skin. “Something strange going on at that estate, Rett.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember that fire the first day?”
Retta nodded.
“It’s happened again the same time each day for about a half hour. I’ve been scouting around the perimeter to see if I might figure out what it was. Just now I saw two boys sneak under the fence. One of ’em had a slingshot. They came out a half-hour later with a hare over each shoulder.”
The implications were confusing. Retta had assumed the security around the estate would be top notch—the front gate looked imposing enough—but if two boys could slip past it undetected, then there was something seriously different about the reality of Åkerlund’s situation.
Rawlins’ scratched the white stubble along his neck and pursed his lips. “Want to go take a look?”
Retta glanced at the setting sun outside her hotel window. “Not tonight, but we’re heading in there tomorrow before the next fire starts.”
Sure enough, the perimeter defense around the estate seemed to be either inoperable or turned off. They used the same hollow the boys had used to shimmy under the fence, and neither of the nearby cameras swiveled to follow their movements. After a hike of less than a mile through uneven land dotted with copses of scrub brush, they reached a small rise. Retta crawled forward and used the image enhancers in her glasses to scan the estate only a few hundred meters away.
The beige brick-and-glass monstrosity could have housed dozens, and its multitiered decks looked large enough to throw a birthday party for the entire village of Rooi Els, but there was a distinct note of disrepair to it all. All three swimming pools were green and rotten with algae and decomposed leaves. The wall of glass windows along the deck was dusty to the point where one couldn’t see through them. The roof had shingles out of place or missing altogether.
Just then a bald man in a beige suit stepped out onto the deck. He carried a tray, which held a single drinking glass filled with something resembling iced tea. After walking over to a table and a set of chairs, he set the tray down and pulled out one chair.
Then he turned in Retta’s direction. And motioned to the empty chair.
Retta felt her face flush. He couldn’t have noticed them unaided. They were too far away. Perhaps the security system wasn’t as lax as they’d thought. She zoomed in on the man to get a better look, and physically jerked back when she recognized him.
“What the hell’s he doing here?” Bobby asked.
It was Navinder, but with a normal Caucasian skin tone, indistinguishable from hers or Bobby’s. Retta assumed the single chair was a not-so-subtle indication he wished to speak to her alone, so she got to her feet and headed for the thin trail leading to the decks. “Keep filming, Bobby.”
As she attacked the stairs leading up from the low scrubland, Retta grew more and more confused. Navinder. Here. It made a strange sort of sense, because even after all these years she couldn’t think of Åkerlund without thinking of Navinder, and vice versa. But how? Had Åkerlund bought him? Was he on loan from CES? And even if Navinder were visiting, why would he invite them up to talk and not Åkerlund himself?
She was winded when she finally reached the top deck.
“Miss Brown. Please—” Navinder motioned to the chair next to him, “—sit.”
“Where’s Dr. Åkerlund?” Retta asked.
Navinder didn’t appear ready to divulge any information just yet, for he simply smiled and motioned to the chair once more.
She took her seat, at which point Navinder took his. He crossed one leg over the other, the posture so reminiscent of Dr. Åkerlund that it made Retta’s skin crawl. He offered her the tea, but Retta declined and instead touched her glasses, prepared them to record.
“Please,” Navinder said, “I’d ask that we go off-the-record for the time being.”
“Why?”
“You’ll understand soon enough.”
She paused, and then she removed her glasses and put them in the case hanging from her belt. No harm in letting him say his piece before she got down to business. “All right, where’s Dr. Åkerlund? And why are you here?”
“Why are you here, Miss Brown?”
“You know why I’m here.”
“I’d rather it be plain and in the open.”
“I’m here to tell Åkerlund’s story. Your story.”
“And what if I told you neither of us want it told?”
Retta crossed her arms. “I’d wonder what you’re hiding.”
Navinder gave her a patronizing smile. “That is your way, isn’t it?”
“Humans?”
At this Navinder released a hearty and goodhumored laugh. “No, Miss Brown. Reporters.”
She felt her face flush but moved past it before Navinder could notice. “I see nothing wrong with telling a story the entire world is clamoring to hear, a story I’d think you’d want to tell, considering how little time you have left.”
Navinder smoothed down an invisible wrinkle on his linen slacks; his face went whimsical and sad. Retta wrote it off as a programmed response to his upcoming death. But still, even if it was, she might be able to play on his fears and turn him around.
“Wouldn’t you like to leave some sort of legacy, Navinder? You said yourself you had no illusions of the afterlife. Wouldn’t you like to pass something on before you go?”
“A legacy? And who would I be passing that on to?”
“To us. To humanity.”
“Because I should be so grateful for the life I’ve been given . . .” Navinder stared at her with the first expression akin to anger she’d ever seen on him. It was disconcerting.
“No, because you should share what you’ve learned with the rest of the world. Because it would benefit us to know more about you.”
“You’ve taken enough of my life already. The world knows more about me than it does about its next door neighbor, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll gladly choose privacy over legacy.” Retta opened her mouth to speak, but Navinder talked over her. “You have a family, do you not, Miss Brown? A sister and a mother . . .”
Retta stared at him, wondering how he’d come to know that, and how much he knew about her mother’s condition.
“It was in an interview you granted seven years ago, with 60 Minutes.”
And then she understood. She’d left her name when she’d first arrived at the compound
. He’d probably used the last few days to scout enemy territory.
“They’re doing well?” Navinder asked.
Oddly enough, his tone and demeanor made it as though he actually cared about the answer, which only annoyed her. “They’re fine,” she answered crisply.
Navinder didn’t seem to notice her mood. “Then you’re lucky,” he said. “If there’s anything I’ve come to appreciate these last few years, it’s how fleeting life can be. You see, Miss Brown, I’ve come to love Dag like a father, like a brother, like a son. I have no words for how deeply my emotions run for him, but you can perhaps understand a bit of it when you think of your sister and mother.”
“What’s your point?”
Dag refocused on Retta and gave her a pinched expression, as one would to a child who had just spat out an unexpected and vulgar word. “The point is that I cannot stand by and allow him to be used.”
“And what about Dr. Åkerlund? What does he want?”
“He only wants to be left alone.”
“Then let him tell me.”
“Ah,” Navinder said as he crossed his arms over his chest, “and you would simply leave if he told you so?”
Retta bit back her reply. This felt too much like a trap. “Look, Navinder. If we don’t tell this story, someone else will. We can’t be the only ones that will find you here.”
“Is that the excuse you give yourself to do something evil, Miss Brown? That if someone else is going to do it then it might as well be you?”
“There’s nothing evil in telling a story. Whether we like it or not, we’re now faced with another form of sentient life. Don’t you want to help us understand what you’re like?”
“Frankly, no. I don’t. And neither do I care about other reporters who may worm their way into our home. You’re here now, and I’m asking if you’ll leave if it’s clear that Dr. Åkerlund doesn’t want his story told.”
“I can’t commit to that. I’ll listen to what he has to say, but I still believe the world has a right to know.”
“No matter what it might do to a single man.”
“I said I’d listen . . .”
Retta was used to people studying her face, used to them trying to guess what she was thinking, and she pasted on the no-tell expression that rarely failed her . . . But still, the way Navinder looked at her then . . . He seemed to be looking right into her soul, stripping away the fa¸ade to reveal her inner workings. Then Navinder glanced over her shoulder to the landscape beyond, where Bobby was still filming. Perhaps Navinder was worried she’d go to print with or without his permission. Perhaps he feared, worst case, a story full of inaccuracies would show up in the Times instead of one that shed some light onto his and Åkerlund’s condition.
Whatever the truth, he stood and walked toward the seashore. “Then follow me, Miss Brown, and we shall see what we shall see.”
He led her down stone steps carved into the hillside to a wooden deck overlooking the choppy waters of False Bay. A man sat in a wheelchair before a glass table, his legs wrapped in a thick plaid blanket. He was writing words on large rectangles of red construction paper as the wind played with his mostly gray beard. In the center of the deck rested a stone fire pit; Retta could only assume that was the source of the smoke these last few days.
“Dr. Åkerlund?” Retta called. She felt suddenly naked without Bobby at her side, getting all this on media.
Åkerlund turned his head but made no sign of greeting. She could see the word Fraud written on the piece of paper before him.
Retta turned to Navinder, confused, but he merely nodded and motioned for her to continue. She stepped forward and offered her hand. “Hello, my name is Retta Brown. I’m from the New York Times. I was hoping we could talk.”
He stared at Retta’s hand and then her face with a distinct note ˚ of fear in his eyes.
“Dr. Åkerlund, I was hoping we could talk about the match.”
Åkerlund opened his mouth, closed it, and then managed to speak. “I got l-locked out.” He turned back to the water as if embarrassed by the confession.
“I’m sorry?” Retta asked, confused.
“I’m just staying here until my father comes home. He’ll be here after he’s d-done with work.”
Retta stared at Navinder as a chill ran down her frame. Åkerlund’s father had died in 2049.
“Dr. Åkerlund,” Retta said, “are you all right?”
Åkerlund turned away and stared over the dark blue water of False Bay. “He works at the CarlborgHus on Tuesdays.”
It was Saturday. “Dr. Åkerlund, where does your father live?”
“In Stockholm. He’ll be back after he’s d-done at the mill.”
Navinder moved to stand behind Åkerlund, a look of regret and concern clear on his face. “This is one of his better days. Most often he’s on the verge of a mental breakdown from the stress his mind creates for him.”
“Stress?”
“Yes. It’s an aggressive new variant of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. We came here with high hopes, but two years ago the prion inhibitors began to wane. He’s degraded steadily ever since.”
“Åkerlund had begun writing on the construction paper again. He wrote Failure in broad, uneven strokes, and then set the paper aside and started another.
“His memory is failing, but much worse is his emotional state. It’s become progressively more unstable. It started with tantrums, which he remembered for a week or two, but then forgot entirely. His mind continued twisting in on itself, allowing only the basest, most self-defeating emotions to leak through, and he became more and more violent.”
Navinder stared at Åkerlund with such a loving expression that it took Retta immediately back to the end of their fifth match, to the way Åkerlund had stared at Navinder after finding out that he would soon die. How could she have missed such a strong and simple expression of love, for surely that was the moment Åkerlund had realized he loved Navinder. The notion seemed foreign, felt wrong somehow, for a human to love a machine, but she recognized those as her own prejudices. Åkerlund surely felt Navinder was an equal.
No, Retta realized with a shock, not an equal. Navinder was like Åkerlund’s son. She had no doubt now that Åkerlund had asked for, and been granted, custody of Navinder. Their common bond had been that strong, she was sure. And now their roles had been changed in a way neither could have predicted. Åkerlund was a shell of the man he once was, and Navinder had been forced into the role of a parent.
Åkerlund wrote the word Adulterer on the next piece of paper and set it aside.
“Why the words?”
“Our ritual. The drugs may slow the progress, but they do nothing to help his mental outlook. Please,” he said, motioning to the edge of the deck. “Watch, but say nothing.”
Åkerlund had stopped writing, though he still held the marker above the next blank piece, shivering. He looked as though he wanted to write more but was utterly unable to do so.
“It’s all right, Dag,” Navinder said as he stepped behind Åkerlund’s wheelchair and caressed his shoulder, “that’s plenty. Go ahead, pick them up.”
Åkerlund complied, and Navinder wheeled him over to the fire pit. Fresh wood sat stacked in the center of it; Navinder lit this quickly and efficiently. Åkerlund held on to the pieces of paper so tightly that Retta thought they were going to rip.
Navinder knelt next to the fire and waited until Åkerlund met his eyes. “Take the first one, Dag. What is it?”
Åkerlund stared at it for some time before saying, “Hubris.”
“Why?” Navinder asked. “Why hubris?”
“I was proud, so proud of being selected to judge . . . I l-lorded it over everyone, especially my brother.”
“Yes, Dag, you did, and I’m proud of you for owning up to it, but you don’t need to keep it inside anymore, do you? You can burn it. You can burn it from your mind if you choose to.”
Åkerlund, his hand quivering as it held the piece of red construction
paper, stared at the word for a long time.
“Go on,” Navinder said. “Say the words.”
And then Åkerlund tossed the paper into the fire. “I r-release you!” he shouted. And as the paper began to burn, Åkerlund wept.
He looked so scared, so unsure of himself, sitting there before the fire. How unlike the confident man he used to be, Retta thought. The old Dag Åkerlund wouldn’t recognize this man. The memories of his former self probably seemed as cold and distant as an actor on an ancient black-and-white movie. He had been a great man, no matter how controversial his judgment over Navinder’s status might have been. He didn’t deserve this.
“And envy?” Navinder prompted as he rubbed Åkerlund’s knee soothingly. “Your brother again?”
Åkerlund nodded. “He has a wife, he has two children, he has Poppa’s gratitude for t-taking over the business. He has everything I ever wanted.”
Åkerlund repeated the procedure with Self Pity and Greed and Adulterer, shouting, “I release you!” as he cast each of them into the fire.
But it wasn’t until Åkerlund held Fraud in his hands that Retta realized how deeply this exchange was affecting her.
Åkerlund’s mind was dredging up emotions from his past and holding on to them for dear life. Perhaps they were the only thing he could recall. It was a sad statement of the human condition—that all the negative emotions were so easily grasped. But what Retta was doing was so, so worse. Retta’s father had died fifteen years ago, and Retta had refused to go to the funeral because of a rift that had developed between them. She’d been so ashamed of herself afterward that she’d cut ties with her mother, and ever since Retta hadn’t been able to summon the strength to admit her mistakes and make amends.
Fraud burst into flame as Retta choked down her tears.
She was the fraud, not Åkerlund. She was burying so many things—her love for her mother and sister, her grief over her mother’s imminent death, her shame over the way she’d treated her father before his death—while what she should be doing is embracing her mother, embracing her sister, enjoying both of them before it was too late. They were her life, not this mad dash for notoriety at Åkerlund’s expense.
Man Vs Machine Page 17
