A Calculated Life

by Anne Charnock

  “Well, this is it,” he said.

  “It’s bigger than my room. And a cooking area. I’d love that. Though…I don’t know how to cook.” She smiled.

  “I could teach you sometime.”

  “Could I choose the meal?”

  Won over, he laughed. “Within reason. It would have to be fish or vegetable something.” He removed two glasses from his sole wall cupboard and filled them with water from a covered jug.

  Jayna sipped her tepid water; Dave bolted his back.

  “Do you know how to make real coffee?” he said. She shook her head. “Okay. Watch this.”

  Once again he reached into the cupboard and brought forth the apparatus for his act of alchemy: a cast iron contraption, which he clamped to the wooden board that spanned between the sink and the external wall of the kitchen; two small straight-sided cups in lime green, which he sat on two off-white saucers—one slightly too small for the cup, and the other too large (which combination did she prefer, she wondered?); two teaspoons with robed figures for handles; and a small black plastic bag. One end of the bag was tightly rolled and secured with a metal clip. He released this clip, took Jayna’s hands, and placed one upturned palm alongside the other, then poured whole coffee beans from the bag into her cupped hands. She reacted automatically, lifting the beans and lowering her face. Her action felt primeval. Here was a gesture performed over millennia, she could sense it, either in ritual or as a survival tactic. An image appeared to her: an early, hairy progenitor lifting water from a pool, the hand as receptacle.

  Step by step, Dave revealed to Jayna the magic of converting these dry dark beans, already intensely aromatic, into a steaming, high-inducing drink. She absorbed the irregular rumbling and crushing sounds, so unlike the frantic and homogenous screamings of automated grinders. Later, she would play and replay in her mind these seductive, hand-iron-bean sounds in the solitude of her room. She would dissect the grindings, stretch the time-scales and try to match the individual sounds of destruction with step-changes in the level of fragrance. Devouring his every move, she recognized a well-rehearsed routine of precise individual movements. Breathless at the beauty of this process, she had to remind herself of the ritual’s purpose—Dave was making the perfect cup of coffee, for her. As he poured near-boiling water onto the ground beans she allowed her gaze to shift from the swirling coffee, away from the focus of this endeavor, to the hands of the alchemist. And she recalled his affectionate gestures in the bookshop and felt giddy.

  She tried to de-agitate her mind by comparing Dave’s room with her own. He had a small sofa whereas she had a better entertainment console. He had a picture of the Earth taken from the Moon. She had interesting cracks on her ceiling, which she had mentally enhanced and colored to make a virtual series of 723 abstracts. And then, he had his shelf of books, whereas she had her stick insects.

  They sat on unmatched chairs—cast-offs, she guessed, from Mayhew McCline—at a square table made from strips of recycled wood, sanded down. Some strips were wider than others and most had remnants of old paint trapped in divots. Dave held the sides of the table and his middle fingers teased the imperfections. She wondered if he’d made the table himself but before she could part her lips to ask, a small eddy of information swirled through her mind and throbbed for attention. She tried to stifle it but then let it surface. Should I…? Her foot began tapping. Should I…act on this?

  “Why did you want to come here, Jayna?”

  She picked up the robed figure and stirred her coffee, far too quickly. “I wanted to see a home.”

  He sat forward, took the teaspoon from her hand, and laid it back on the saucer. “And?”

  She noticed, for the first time, the hairs on the back of his hand. “Yes, there is more. There are other reasons.” She settled her eyes on her steaming coffee. Five major tones ranging from creamy brown to brown-brown, that is, a dark chocolate brown; a little world in itself, air bubbles popping and steam rising, a primordial swamp. “I want something unexpected to happen. Something outside my usual routine.”

  “Life’s a bit boring?”

  “It’s not that. I think a change in routine might be helpful.”

  “In what way?”

  “I have this idea…that I might be…less surprised by events. I think I’d make better predictions if I knew more about other people’s lives, if I could feel for myself that things don’t always happen as anticipated.” She felt a tic under her right eye. “Not only that, maybe I’d be a little less…wooden. If that’s the right word. And, that’s not all.”

  “Go on.”

  She looked down into her coffee. “I also want to have a friend who I can visit at the weekend. Someone who isn’t…well, who’s completely normal.”

  He looked down, stirred the crema of his own coffee and shook his head. “No such thing. There’s no normal.” And he looked up at her. “Let’s face it. The likes of Hester and Benjamin think they are the norm. They’ve made themselves the yardstick.”

  “Well, whatever you say, I’m certainly not normal. There are so many things I can’t do, Dave. I don’t even know what I’m missing.”

  “And what about me?” He slowly drank some coffee and set the cup gratingly on the too-small saucer. “I’m an organic. That was normal at one time. But I’m made to feel a freak.” He leaned forward. “Look, Jayna, there are plenty of things I can’t do either. Before implantation ever started, someone like me could have a real career, travel places. But I’ve got as far as I’ll ever get at Mayhew McCline.”

  “You might be right.”

  He sat back. “You’ve seen my file, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have, Dave. Well, I’m not supposed…” And a silence sat between them.

  “Well, now I know. Dave Madoc is not a special case. I’ll have to keep my head down and toe the line if I want to keep this flat.”

  She liked the way he mixed his metaphors. Careless or carefree?

  “Why did you never have an implant, Dave?” She wanted his version.

  “I failed the genetic risk assessment at eighteen. No surprise. My maternal grandfather was expelled from his university post. I always knew that. But I’m eligible for late implantation—my parents were squeaky clean all their adult lives, model employees…”

  “So?”

  “I can’t afford it. And I don’t want to take a loan. And, in any case, I hate the whole idea.”

  “But why?”

  “Too big a trade-off. I feel sorry for the poor bastards really. They’re so fucking sensible all the time.”

  She smiled. Then caught herself. “Tom wasn’t exactly sensible, was he? Swimming out into strong currents.”

  “He wasn’t being stupid. It was a misjudgment.”

  “Anyway, Dave, you’re already partly bionic.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Inoculated at birth? Protected from addictions and most diseases?”

  “I didn’t get any choice about that, did I?”

  “Even so, you’re not saddled with any inclination towards self-destruction—over-indulgence in drugs, alcohol, gambling. Look how safe it is for everyone now: hardly any crime. You’ve all been liberated. Implantation is the obvious next step.”

  “I just don’t want it. To be honest, I like losing my temper now and then. I like sitting out all night on the roof and bunking off work the next morning. Once you take the implant, you’re trapped. I’ve never heard of a bionic just dropping out, resigning their fancy job, and fucking off to the hills.”

  “Well, I can’t see how they could survive in the hills. In any case, maybe some do go to the hills, Dave, and you don’t know about it…Which hills are you talking about?”

  “Hold on. I didn’t mean the hills, literally. I mean dropping out, disappearing, living on the margins.”

  She hesitated. “There could be bionics living here in your enclave without you realizing who they are.”

  “I suppose so…I haven’t heard of any.”


  “It’s possible though.”

  They sat without speaking, each taking sips from their coffee.

  “Jayna, let’s face it. You’ve not much to worry about on the scale of things. You don’t have to worry about money. You’ve got free housing, meals, clothes. And the best job in the company below director level. Am I right?”

  “Yes. I know I have a good job and an easy life but I feel…I don’t know…For one thing, someone’s spraying yellow paint across the rest stations and writing No with an exclamation mark—four this week, including ours.”

  “Graffiti?”

  “Is it?”

  “They’ll soon be picked up. Could be some crank worried about their job.”

  “Well, it’s not just that. The fact is that my status is highly ambiguous.” Dave burst into laughter but she persisted. “Please. I’m serious. I have no past and that seems to lessen all my rights. You know, at any moment I could be recalled and reinitiated. I’d be a blank slate again. Dave, I wouldn’t know you if I fell over you in the street. And I wouldn’t be interested in stick insects and wouldn’t crave fresh coffee or fantasize about eating Singapore Style Rice Vermicelli…”

  “Whoa! Wait there. Why would they want to recall you?”

  She stood, took her cup to the sink, rinsed it and lay in gently on the wooden board. “I think there might be something wrong with me; a glitch.” A faint shudder ran across her shoulders and she turned to face him. “It’s happened to other simulants, and they’ve been taken back to the Constructor.”

  He studied her. “What’s gone wrong with them?”

  “Different things.”

  “Like?”

  “Poor time-keeping, sneaking into restaurants, sexual liaisons.”

  He leaned back, lifted his hands to the back of his head, and pulled them forward, ruffling his hair as he did so.

  “It’s not supposed to happen,” she said.

  After a moment’s silence: “Who else have you told about this?”

  “No one. No one knows. No one knows I’m here. Not even my friends at the rest station. I haven’t told anyone about what I’m doing or thinking.”

  “Better keep it that way. Let’s hope the Constructor isn’t watching you all. And don’t raise any suspicions at work.”

  Taking his cup to the sink, he lowered his voice: “Bit of a risk coming here.”

  “I think I’m covered for today. I’ve got approval from Benjamin to visit Mayhew McCline staff and his conditions were woolly. He didn’t rule anything out, though…Dave, I don’t think you’d get into any trouble.”

  “I started it anyway.”

  She smiled, reluctantly. “I suppose.”

  “Look, you know, Jayna, don’t you? You may not be able to do this again. It could be too risky.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  He stood before her in his well-worn bleached out clothes and she couldn’t help wondering if he was a shade underweight. How would he look if he upped his calories? Or was this his natural state? Maybe his parents had handed him a strong metabolism along with the suspect genes. She noted a sensation she’d felt two days ago when Lucas spilt the news of a second recall. She’d felt tense then, but this was stronger. She could feel her stomach muscles tensing and then relaxing and then tensing again. And she needed to swallow.

  “Don’t talk about risk,” she said firmly. “I want to come here again.” He didn’t need further prompting. He leant down and kissed her cheek. She turned her face towards his and their mouths met.

  His eyes closed; her eyes stayed open.

  She laid her palm against his chest as if confirming their connection; a heartbeat. The forefingers of her other hand found the belt loops of his jeans. She tugged a little. A fair start, she thought, but what happens next? Dave’s arms were around her. He didn’t seem to be hurrying. They were still kissing; for how much longer? I must be getting it all wrong. What else…? She tried to unbutton his shirt and instantly felt the uncanniness of performing a familiar task with extraordinary clumsiness; she felt uncoordinated, realizing she’d never looked at how a button escaped its stupid buttonhole. He let go, stood back a step, and finished unfastening his buttons. He shrugged the shirt off his back. There seemed only one option—she’d simply copy him. She took off her shirt. He took off the rest of his clothes and chucked them aside. So she did the same. He laughed and she smiled. “Is this right?” she said.

  “Absolutely.” And for the next thirty-five minutes she explored the near-flawless body of this organic man, as he explored the perfect average-ness of this simulant woman. She trusted her earlier instinct and simply aped as many of Dave’s actions as her physiology allowed. No need to think, she decided, this was purely physical. In time, it seemed her vigor as much as his impelled them through a cycle of gentleness followed by greed, followed by gentleness. And she felt safe.

  A bee buzzed intermittently at the shutter slats, preventing Dave and Jayna from slipping into sleep. They lay on their sides facing one another, their skin catching the faint breeze that barely disturbed the solid heat of the room. Their eyes flicked open at random intervals.

  There was something attractive, she mused, about Dave’s mouth but she couldn’t work out what it was. She traced the edge of his lips with her forefinger. It seemed to be a stone mouth, sculpted. His lips hardly broke the plane of his face. The mouth of a stoic, maybe.

  She realized she was no longer tuned into the buzzing bee. Instead, she’d registered and was now following the blurred sounds of a conversation downstairs: a man and a woman. Their windows must be open, too, she thought. His voice, then her voice. His voice again, and her voice, higher and louder. Then a shout. “What’s going on, Dave?”

  He opened his eyes and kissed her. “They’re just warming up. Picked a great time.”

  “What?”

  “Every other weekend. They slowly wind one another up and then let rip. The record is three weeks without a blow-up.” The two voices started to overlap.

  “Don’t you complain?”

  “Not worth it. They’ll wear themselves out.” He kissed her again. “Try to ignore it.” But she couldn’t.

  A child cried. “Oh Christ! The baby’s joining in now,” he said, exasperated.

  Jayna sat bolt upright. “Why’s the baby crying?”

  “Just frightened. Doesn’t like the shouting.” The child’s cry cranked to a warbling scream. Dave rolled onto his back.

  “We must do something, Dave. Make them stop.”

  “It’s okay. When they stop, the baby stops.”

  “I think they’re hurting it.”

  “No. They’re not. It sounds worse than it is. Babies always cry like that…no sliding scale.”

  “I don’t believe…just listen.” It was stomach churning.

  “We can’t do anything, Jayna.”

  She jumped up, hands over her ears. “It’s horrible. I can’t bear it.” She turned to him. “We must go down and stop them, now.” She grabbed her clothes from the floor. Before she could attempt to dress he took hold of her. The shouting and screeching ran up the walls, surrounding them. And something smashed. The woman’s voice stretched to an even higher pitch, competing with the child’s. “Dave?”

  “It’s okay. It will stop. I promise.”

  She pushed away from him. Her nails caught his shoulder, leaving two red slashes. “I’m going downstairs.” But as she pulled on her shirt, the shouting ended. And a minute later the child stopped crying, just as Dave had said it would. He took her hand. She strained to hear.

  Eventually she spoke: “How can you bear it, knowing it’s going to happen again?” She moved aimlessly about the room. She found herself at the sink and leaned over, turned on the tap, and rinsed her face. He followed and placed his hand on her shoulder. But her thoughts were roaming far away. “Tom’s children must be crying like that,” she said with her face in her hands.

  “Not like that, Jayna. It’s not the same.”

&nb
sp; They dressed. She put on Dave’s top shirt once again as he waited by the door. She hesitated, reluctant to step outside. “Time to go,” she said, as if to herself.

  He followed her down the first flight of steps and, as she turned for the second flight, the door opened to the downstairs flat. The couple stepped out. He was holding the child—asleep against his chest. Jayna froze.

  “Hi, Dave. Going to introduce us?” said the woman.

  He ignored the question. “Hi there. Where are you all off to?”

  “Going for a stroll. It’s blazing hot in there.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  And the couple laughed.

  “How could you make a joke of it?” Jayna walked faster than necessary.

  “Come on. Don’t let them spoil things.”

  “The baby was screaming and now you’re all laughing.”

  “There’s no real harm done.”

  “You can’t possibly know that.”

  They walked behind a wide-backed man who led a young boy by the hand. The boy could barely keep up; he progressed with a choppy mix of short walking and running steps. The boy tripped but the man kept him upright by pulling his arm upwards. Jayna heard the boy complain. The man gave a nasty, gratuitous yank to the child’s arm.

  “Why do you pretend it’s all right?” she said.

  They continued to the station without speaking. When the shuttle came within earshot, she removed the top shirt and handed it back to Dave. “We can’t talk at work. You know that, don’t you? And no messages either.”