The World of the End

by Ofir Touché Gafla

  Ann recognized the metallic taste in her mouth and forgot all she had ever known, the hypnotic burn all across the side of her face making clear that she had been right, the meeting between the two of them was truly a matter of life and death. She dropped to her knees and begged Marian to stop. Marian threw the rope to the floor and limped to the door as though their battle were already a thing of the past.

  Beaten and afflicted, Ann watched the woman walk away, knowing that if she turned the key in the lock, she would never find the man who had rescued her from her own skin and dispossessed her of her inhibitions. Marian, unprepared for another burst of violence, laid a hand on the doorknob. Fingers on the key, her ears picked up the sound of fitful breathing, and she managed to turn around and see the heavy candlestick arcing toward her head, pulling her yet again back into the maladroit fray. She disarmed Ann with a quick movement and tossed the candlestick away, pushing the small woman, who had yet to finish torturing her, against the opposite wall.

  Three minutes had elapsed since Ann writhed out of her grip and pounced on Marian, and two minutes since Marian broke three nails as she raked a hand across Ann’s face, and a minute since Ann blocked her mind and kicked the crouching woman in her loins, and a half minute since Marian managed to shake the pain and forced herself to concentrate on the blood and sweat and animal madness that had come over the hostess, and twenty seconds since the crumpled woman on the floor made it to the low glass table, took the big clay vase and aimed at Ann, and fifteen seconds since she turned her head toward the kitchen, drawn by an undefined curiosity, and ten seconds since Ann had taken advantage of the distraction, snatched the vase from her hand and smashed it down on her head.

  The bloodied shards scattered everywhere, lending the puritanical living room the ambiance of an archaeological dig turned rowdy pub. Ann sucked on a finger that had been cut by an errant shard, staring at the wounded woman by her feet, transfixed by the silence that superseded the sense-smothering cacophony of battle. She remained motionless for a long time, soothing the queasiness in her stomach. Marian’s hair and face were colored by the pond of blood, her static body surrounded by an improvised puddle that meandered ever so slowly toward Ann’s shoes, which were cemented in shock; forced from immobility by the advancing blood, she took a step to the next tile over. Too late. In a stunted effort to avoid the slow moving rivulet, her right leg slipped and she fell on her back, fully aware of the blood wetting her shirt, saturating it, till it dripped down to her tailbone.

  Sprawled on the floor, she called the name of the woman with the blood tracks drying on her face like desert earth in the naked sun, but got no response. She crawled over to her, intending to feel for her pulse but thinking the better of it. This time there was no doubt. She’s already seen ninety-nine of her kind. The void in her eyes spoke for itself. This world would trouble her no longer. The silence crowning her lips was singular and unique, ruffled only by the soft male voice pouring from the kitchen radio, “I’d rather not say too much about my forthcoming book. Let me just confirm that, as has been reported in various newspapers, it is entitled Fury.”

  32

  Father Tongue–C

  Just after boarding the multi to Aliastown ’96, Ben sat down and muttered, “I feel like a complete idiot.”

  The Mad Hop sat opposite him, smiling silently. Ben continued, “Samuel, I just want you to know I do not for a second believe that I’m about to meet…”

  “Your child,” he said, finishing for him.

  “I don’t have, nor have I ever had, a child,” Ben said, eying the last of the stunned parents to arrive.

  “I understand you, Ben. A nameless, unidentified entity, previously defined only by its absence, has all of a sudden bloomed into existence. I know it must sound sick. The child never existed for you and now you are on your way to meet him.”

  The multi started to move as the Mad Hop continued. “If we all arrive here in death, why shouldn’t a fetus, who died before…?”

  “Please, stop!” Ben said. “You don’t really expect me to believe that a miniscule being, that never drew a single breath, now lives somewhere in a city at the end of this line? What exactly am I going to see, Samuel? A pseudo-human mutation in a jar of formaldehyde that’s going to say da-da and make me feel like Frankenstein at the peak of his powers?”

  “No, Ben, I expect you to imagine seeing a perfectly normal five-year-old child who has never seen his parents. Unlike us, they don’t stop aging at the time of their death. Instead, they continue to grow until they decide to halt the advance of the years … after all, that’s their privilege as people who never had the chance to live.”

  A spark of understanding rose in Ben’s eyes and he whispered, “God, now I get it all. Those who didn’t have the chance to live as humans, all the fetuses that didn’t make it to the outside world, they’re the aliases … they’re the ones who run the Other World … that’s why they’re called that … they came here without names, they use pseudonyms.”

  “Serial numbers, Ben, not pseudonyms, based on the order of arrival.”

  “And that’s the only difference between them and us,” Ben said. “They never came to our world but we brought them into this one. That’s why they don’t like to talk about differences between us … we created them, and they help us through the rest of our existence…”

  “Glad to see you back to form,” the Mad Hop said, clapping him on the back.

  Ben’s speech became rapid and disjointed. “But what happens to the babies who lived a few months and then died, I mean they lived already, no? They’re not aliases. Who takes care of them? And what about all the women who died while pregnant? Does that mean they stay uncomfortably pregnant for all eternity? And what about…?”

  “Why don’t you just keep your eyes on the prize,” the Mad Hop laughed. “Perhaps first I should tell you a bit about the place we’re going to. Every year in the Other World has its city of aliases, populated by fetuses and babies that passed away before, during, or immediately after birth. They’re cared for by ‘surrogates,’ in other words, replacement mothers and fathers, that is to say aliases looking for respite from their infertility by raising young aliases. The newborns spend their first year in a ‘greenhouse,’ much like hospital nurseries in the previous world, where all of their physical and mental needs are met. At the end of that year, the nursery graduates are transferred into the custody of either their ‘surrogates’ or one of their biological parents or grandparents, if they arrive in time. Only six people are granted immediate custody over the young alias—the mother, the father, the mother’s parents, the father’s parents. Even if the biological parents are late and the alias was given to a ‘surrogate,’ that person is easily located because, as you might imagine, careful records are kept. There are no cases of missing or lost aliases. Moreover, the Association for the Wellbeing of the Aliases stays in touch with the children and makes sure they’re being properly cared for. And just one more statistical fact that should wipe the interrogative expression off your face—only twenty percent choose to freeze their age in childhood. Thirty percent opt for adolescence, and the remaining fifty percent choose their early twenties, with twenty being the single most popular age for freezing the life cycle. You have no idea how many elderly twenty-five-year-olds roam these towns.

  “The issue of age doesn’t really concern me,” Ben said, biting his thumb. “Samuel, this whole thing seems contrived to me. Totally contrived. I’m supposed to be excited, moved to the marrow, going out of my mind, something, anything that’ll prove I’m human, but aside from the initial shock, I’d say all is as usual. Maybe because I buried my dreams of fatherhood long ago. Maybe because death has rendered me a cold, emotionless man.”

  “That’s the absolutely last thing I’d say about you,” the Mad Hop said, pointing to the other, stone-faced passengers. “Look around. Everyone here looks like you. Strangers on their way to meet other strangers who just happen to be their offspring. In a
n instant some irrelevant tot becomes the most relevant thing in the world. In an instant he undergoes a metamorphosis from a kid to your kid. Just an hour ago you were telling me how much you wanted to have one.”

  “An hour ago I knew nothing at all.”

  “And in another hour, who knows?” the Mad Hop smiled mysteriously.

  * * *

  In another hour, Ben knew that the aliases had a very strange sense of humor. The maze at the entrance to Aliastown 96, The Labyrinth of the Tied Fallopian Tubes, forced visitors through a circular network of hedges, with hundreds of paths ending at an ivy covered wall or some other impassable barrier of foliage. While plodding through the maze, the excited parents were surrounded by the gleeful shrieks and pealing laughter of unseen children. Luckily for Ben, the Mad Hop made quick work of the logic behind the botanical maze. After forty minutes of walking in circles, he covered his ears, drowned out the children, and heard the calm voice of an older girl explaining how to choose the proper path. She directed them to a towering wall of wild grass and asked them to push. Putting their weight behind it, the wall swiveled on its hinges and opened up to a hall full of running children. Ben scanned the kids fearfully, wondering if he would spot the lost fruit of his loins.

  The Mad Hop, a few feet ahead of him, turned around and said, “Ben, come on, the kid is not in this hall.”

  “How do you know?” Ben asked, scrutinizing a group of five-year-olds playing tag.

  “They’re ignoring you…” the Mad Hop said, signaling him toward the ninth door on the left. A drawing of a panda bear decorated the middle of the door, just beneath the word SEPTEMBER.

  “Of course they’re ignoring me, they have no idea I could be one of their fathers.”

  “They do…” the Mad Hop said, groaning and looking up toward the ceiling. “I can’t imagine why they don’t hand out a guide right after the orientation, a Lonely Planet for the Other World.…”

  “What should I know that I don’t?” Ben asked. “Samuel, how do these kids know that I’m not their…”

  “Genetic composition.”

  “And for laymen?”

  “Every alias genetically recognizes any of their six biological relatives. I say genetic, but in truth I also could have said magnetic. Whenever an alias is near one of the six, he or she feels an inexplicable gravitational tug. As if he were face-to-face with a magnetic field and not a human.”

  “And what about the biological six? Can they sense the offspring when they’re nearby?”

  “No. That’s another one of the aliases’ unique privileges. They are the barometers of irrefutable truth. Better than a DNA test, don’t you think?”

  “So the fact that not one of these kids is the slightest bit interested in me is basically scientific proof that none of them are mine?”

  “Putting it mildly.”

  Ben caught the Mad Hop’s smile. “Meaning?”

  “They have a very interesting way of expressing their sudden welling up of love.”

  “When you say an interesting way, you mean that all the aliases react the exact same way when they meet one of the parents or grandparents?”

  The Mad Hop, his face brimming with glee, said, “I know it sounds robotic, but to me it’s brilliant. I’ve seen it happen dozens of times and each time I’ve been struck by the aliases’ stunning innocence at the hair-raising moment of revelation. The relatives’ startled reactions have been no less amusing, as the toddlers clung to their legs, didn’t let go, and uttered a cry of admiration as if they’ve come across a treasure like no other.”

  He fell silent at the sight of his travel partner leaning against the wall, staring down at the floor, his lower lip trembling.

  “Christ, Ben, what’s wrong?”

  “I … met … him…” Ben managed to whisper.

  “Who?” The words froze on the Mad Hop’s lips. “The kid?”

  “Yes.” Ben’s shoulders fell. “He was playing with a ball and then he just latched onto my leg. Exactly as you said … and I rejected him, pushed him away because I didn’t know what he wanted from me, but he really did keep on coming. It was so strange.… Samuel, I chased away my own son when he…”

  “Ben, please don’t,” the Mad Hop said forcefully, “you had no idea who he was and it makes perfect sense that an adult wouldn’t want some strange kid hanging onto his leg for no apparent reason. But if you don’t mind me ruining this poignant moment, would you please tell me where this encounter took place?”

  Ben said, “When I went looking for Marian. In the labs. I mean outside of them. Near some park.”

  “Well that’s not much help,” the Mad Hop said, pointing at the door. “And our answer’s in here anyway.”

  Ben nodded and followed a few paces behind the investigator, who rapped on the door. The gentle voice that asked them to come in belonged to a dark-skinned girl, who smiled at them sweetly and gestured for them to be seated at the desk, behind which she sat reading a book.

  The Mad Hop cleared his throat and began. “Hello love, my name’s Samuel Sutton and this here is my friend…”

  “Thumb, please,” she ordered politely, laying a red ink pad and a white silk handkerchief on the desk. Ben pushed his thumb down on the cushiony pad, made an imprint on the handkerchief, and handed it back to the girl. She looked him over and said, “The pad is for identification; the handkerchief for tears.”

  The Mad Hop made a show of presenting him with the handkerchief, but Ben was transfixed by the alias. She took the identification pad and held it to the center of the computer screen before her, waited three minutes, wrote the relevant data on a slip of paper, slid it across the desk, wished them “good luck,” and returned to her book.

  * * *

  Ben thanked her and the two men left the room, the Mad Hop reading over his friend’s shoulder, his voice projecting, “Alias 9562300483371, male, born 9.21.1996, father, Ben Mendelssohn, mother, Marian Corbin, placed in the custody of alias 57438291108 and alias 88888888 on 9.30.1997, returned to the nursery on account of incompatibility with ‘surrogates,’ placed in the care of aliases 74321555 and 74321556 on 12.4.1998, returned to the nursery on 2.17.2000 after decision of both ‘surrogates’ to simultaneously punch in a mutual seven over three, and given, on 6.5.2000, to legal female biological guardian.”

  “That’s it? That’s all the information they provide?” Ben asked, looking back at the door.

  “You still don’t get it?” the Mad Hop asked. “You’re not as smart as I thought.”

  “What don’t I get?”

  “Ben, think for a second. The kid’s with a legal biological guardian. What do you deduce from that? Don’t you get it? A few hours ago I told you why I thought your wife had played a trick on you and that she was still alive. But now I’ve got no choice but to concede that I’m as confused as I’ve been in years. The kid’s legal female guardians are either the grandmother from the mother’s side, the grandmother from the father’s side, or Marian, and since you’ve met with the first two options, that leaves us with our answer.”

  “You think Marian came and took the kid?” Ben asked.

  “Well, at least you now have some hard proof that the woman is really dead.”

  “It was never in doubt,” Ben said looking down at his feet.

  “Okay, don’t be cross, but I have to ask, are you an idiot, a masochist, a schizophrenic, or all three rolled up in one?!”

  “This isn’t rock solid proof to my wife’s passing anyway, Samuel, because, aside from my mother, there’s another legal guardian.”

  “You mean Miriam Corbin, the one who died yesterday.”

  “I mean Marian’s biological mother, not her adoptive one.”

  The Mad Hop’s eyes narrowed to threatening slits. “Have I told you yet today that I hate you?”

  “I know you always say I’m absentminded,” Ben said, trailing behind, “but you never asked if Marian was adopted and I didn’t have any reason to think it was relevant and, befor
e you ask, I’ll just say that, no, Marian never tried to find out who her mother was.”

  “I’ll tell you who her mother is. Her mother’s the total stranger who’s raising your son! The total stranger who decided to take advantage of her rights in this world and is soothing her conscience by raising her grandson.”

  “But there’s no way of knowing whether it’s the grandmother or Marian who’s raising the kid.”

  “There is,” the Mad Hop said, pounding him on the shoulder and guiding him toward the entrance to the hall with renewed vigor. “Come. We’re going to the Family Tree Administration offices. They’ll give us the name and address of the woman; we get off the multi, go to her apartment, and I guarantee you that by the end of the day, you’ve met your little son.”

  * * *

  Doubt ridden, Ben nodded, and was about to join the light-footed detective, when an old woman’s voice came alive in his ear. “Ben? Ben Mendelssohn?”

  Ben looked at the godget and saw the blinking telefinger. “Yes, Mrs. Parker. How are you?”

  “Nosey, sweetheart, Nosey. There’s only one Mrs. Parker and, much to my disappointment, I never wrote any poetry.”

  “I understand. I guess you’re contacting me because you’ve heard word from my grandparents.”

  “Yes, they asked me to let you know that they have some vital information about your wife.”