by Unknown
It will be like dying. Parts of your memory close down. It’s horrible, like watching lights go out all over a city, only it’s YOU. Or what you thought was you.
But please, Graça, just do it once. I know you love the AI and all zir little angels. But. Turn off?
Otherwise go ahead, let your AI read it for you. Zey will either screen out stuff or report it back or both. And what I’m going to tell you will join the system.
So:
WHY I DID IT
by Cristina Spinoza Vaz
Zey dream for us don’t zey? I think zey edit our dreams so we won’t get scared. Or maybe so that our brains don’t well up from underneath to warn us about getting old or poor or sick . . . or about zem.
The first day, zey jerked us awake from deep inside our heads. GET UP GET UP GET UP! There’s a message. VERY IMPORTANT WAKE UP WAKE UP.
From sleep to bolt upright and gasping for breath. I looked across at you still wrapped in your bed, but we’re always latched together so I could feel your heart pounding.
It wasn’t just a message; it was a whole ball of wax; and the wax was a solid state of being: panic. Followed by an avalanche of ship-sailing times, credit records, what to pack. And a sizzling, hot-foot sense that we had to get going right now. Zey shot us full of adrenaline: RUN! ESCAPE!
You said, “It’s happening. We better get going. We’ve got just enough time to sail to Africa.” You giggled and flung open your bed. “Come on Cristina, it will be fun!”
Outside in the dark from down below, the mobile chargers were calling Oyez-treeee-cee-dah-djee! I wanted to nestle down into my cocoon and imagine as I had done every morning since I was six that instead of selling power, the chargers were muezzin calling us to prayer and that I lived in a city with mosques. I heard the rumble of carts being pulled by their owners like horses.
Then kapow: another latch. Ship sailing at 8.30 today due Lagos five days. You arrive day of launch. Seven hours to get Lagos to Tivland. We’ll book trains for you. Your contact in Lagos is Emilda Diaw (photograph, a hello from her with the sound of her voice, a little bubble of how she feels to herself. Nice, like a bowl of soup. Bubble muddled with dental cavities for some reason). She’ll meet you at the docks here (flash image of Lagos docks, plus GPS, train times; impressions of train how cool and comfortable . . . and a lovely little timekeeper counting down to 8.30 departure of our boat. Right in our eyes).
And oh! On top of that another latch. This time an A-copy of our tickets burned into Security.
Security, which is supposed to mean something we can’t lie about. Or change or control. We can’t buy or sell anything without it. A part of our heads that will never be us, that officialdom can trust. It’s there to help us, right?
Remember when Papa wanted to defraud someone? He’d never let them be. He’d latch hold of them with one message, then another at five-minute intervals. He’d latch them the bank reference. He’d latch them the name of the attorney, or the security conundrums. He never gave them time to think.
Graça, we were being railroaded.
You made packing into a game. “We are leaving behind the world!” you said. “Let’s take nothing. Just our shorts. We can holo all the lovely dresses we like. What do we need, ah? We have each other.”
I wanted to pack all of Brasil.
I made a jewel of all of Brasil’s music, and a jewel of all Brasil’s books and history. I need to see my info in something. I blame those bloody nuns keeping us off AIr. I stood hopping up and down with nerves, watching the clock on the printer go around. Then I couldn’t find my jewel piece to read them with. You said, “Silly. The AI will have all of that.” I wanted to take a little Brazilian flag and you chuckled at me. “Dunderhead, why do you want that?”
And I realized. You didn’t just want to get out from under the Chinese. You wanted to escape Brasil.
Remember the morning it snowed? Snowed in Belém do Para? I think we were thirteen. You ran round and round inside our great apartment, all the French doors open. You blew out frosty breath, your eyes sparkling. “It’s beautiful!” you said.
“It’s cold!” I said.
You made me climb down all those twenty-four floors out into the Praça and you got me throwing handfuls of snow to watch it fall again. Snow was laced like popcorn on the branches of the giant mango trees. As if A Reina, the Queen, had possessed not a person but the whole square. Then I saw one of the suneaters, naked, dead, staring, and you pulled me away, your face such a mix of sadness, concern—and happiness, still glowing in your cheeks. “They’re beautiful alive,” you said to me. “But they do nothing.” Your face was also hard.
Your face was like that again on the morning we left—smiling, ceramic.
It’s a hard world, this Brasil, this Earth. We know that in our bones. We know that from our father. I kept picking up and putting down my ballet pumps—oh, that the new Earth should be deprived of ballet!
The sun came out at 6.15 as always, and our beautiful stained glass doors cast pastel rectangles of light on the mahogany floors. I walked out onto the L-shaped balcony that ran all around our high-rise rooms and stared down at the row of old shops streaked black, at the opera-house replica of La Scala, at the art-nouveau synagogue blue and white like Wedgewood china. I was frantic and unmoving at the same time; those cattle-prods of information kept my mind jumping.
“I’m ready,” you said.
I’d packed nothing.
“O, Crisfushka, here let me help you.” You asked what next; I tried to answer; you folded slowly, neatly. The jewels, the player, a piece of Amazon bark, and a necklace that the dead had made from nuts and feathers. I snatched up a piece of Macumba lace (oh, those men dancing all in lace!) and bobbins to make more of it. And from the kitchen, a bottle of cupuaçu extract, to make ice cream. You laughed and clapped your hands. “Yes of course. We will even have cows there. We’re carrying them inside us.”
I looked mournfully at all our book shelves. I wanted children on that new world to have seen books, so I grabbed hold of two slim volumes—a Clarice Lispector and Dom Cassmuro. Mr. Misery—that’s me. You of course are Donatella. And finally that little Brasileiro flag. Ordem e progresso. “Perfect, darling! Now let’s run!” you said. You thought we were choosing.
And then another latch: receipts for all that surgery. A full accounting of all expenses and a huge cartoon kiss in thanks.
The moment you heard about the Voyage, you were eager to JUST DO IT. We joined the Co-op, got the secret codes, and concentrated on the fun like we were living in a game.
Funny little secret surgeons slipped into our high-rise with boxes that breathed dry ice and what looked like mobile dentist chairs. They retrovirused our genes. We went purple from Rhodopsin. I had a tickle in my ovaries. Then more security bubbles confirmed that we were now Rhodopsin, radiation-hardened, low oxygen breathing. And that our mitochondria were full of DNA for Holstein cattle. Don’t get stung by any bees: the trigger for gene expression is an enzyme from bees.
“We’ll become half-woman half-cow,” you said, making even that sound fun.
We let them do that.
So we ran to the docks as if we were happy, hounded by information. Down the Avenida Presidente Vargas to the old colonial frontages, pinned to the sky and hiding Papa’s casinos and hotels. This city that we owned.
We owned the old blue wooden tower that had once been the fish market where as children we’d seen tucunaré half the size of a man. We owned the old metal meat market (now a duty-free) and Old Ver-o-Paso gone black with rust like the bubbling pots of açai porridge or feijoada. We grabbed folds of feijoada to eat, running, dribbling. “We will arrive such a mess!”
I kept saying good-bye to everything. The old harbor—tiny, boxed in by the hill and tall buildings. Through that dug-out rectangle of water had flowed out rubber and cocoa, flowed in all those people, the colonials who died, the mestizos they fathered, the blacks for sale. I wanted to take a week to visit each sho
p, take eyeshots of every single street. I felt like I was being pulled away from all my memories. “Good-bye!” you kept shouting over and over, like it was a joke.
As Docas Novas. All those frigates lined up with their sails folded down like rows of quill pens. The decks blinged as if with diamonds, burning sunlight. The GPS put arrows in our heads to follow down the berths, and our ship seemed to flash on and off to guide us to it. Zey could have shown us clouds with wings or pink oceans, and we would have believed their interferences.
It was still early, and the Amazon was breathing out, the haze merging water and sky at the horizon. A river so wide you cannot see across it, but you can surf in its freshwater waves. The distant shipping looked like dawn buildings. The small boats made the crossing as they have done for hundreds of years, to the islands.
Remember the only other passengers? An elderly couple in surgical masks who shook our hands and sounded excited. Supplies thumped up the ramp; then the ramp swung itself clear. The boat sighed away from the pier.
We stood by the railings and watched. Round-headed white dolphins leapt out of the water. Good-bye, Brasil. Farewell, Earth.
We took five days and most of the time you were lost in data, visiting the Palace of Urbino in 1507. Sometimes you would hologram it to me and we would both see it. They’re not holograms really, you know, but detailed hallucinations zey wire into our brains. Yes, we wandered Urbino, and all the while knowledge about it riled its way up as if we were remembering. Raphael the painter was a boy there. We saw a pencil sketch of his beautiful face. The very concept of the Gentleman was developed there by Castiglione, inspired by the Doge. Machiavelli’s The Prince was inspired by the same man. Urbino was small and civilized and founded on warfare. I heard Urbino’s doves flap their wings, heard sandals on stone and Renaissance bells.
When I came out of it, there was the sea and sky, and you staring ahead as numb as a suneater, lost in AIr, being anywhere. I found I had to cut off to actually see the ocean roll past us. We came upon two giant sea turtles fucking. The oldest of the couple spoke in a whisper. “We mustn’t scare them; the female might lose her egg sac and that would kill her.” I didn’t plug in for more information. I didn’t need it. I wanted to look. What I saw looked like love.
And I could feel zem, the little apps and the huge soft presences trying to pull me back into AIr. Little messages on the emergency channel. The Emergency channel, Cristina. You know, for fires or heart attacks? Little leaping wisps of features, new knowledge, old friends latching—all kept offering zemselves. For zem, me cutting off was an emergency.
You didn’t disembark at Ascension Island. I did with those two old dears . . . married to each other 45 years. I couldn’t tell what gender zey were, even in bikinis. We climbed up the volcano going from lava plain through a layer of desert and prickly pear, up to lawns and dew ponds. Then at the crown, a grove of bamboo. The stalks clopped together in the wind with a noise like flutes knocking against each other. I walked on alone and very suddenly the grove ended as if the bamboo had parted like a curtain. There was a sudden roar and cloud, and two thousand feet dead below my feet, the Atlantic slammed into rocks. I stepped back, turned around and looked into the black-rimmed eyes of a panda.
So what is so confining about the Earth? And if it is dying, who is killing it but us?
Landfall Lagos. Bronze city, bronze sky. Giants strode across the surface of the buildings holding up Gulder beer.
So who would go to the greatest city in Africa for two hours only?
Stuff broke against me in waves: currency transformations; boat tickets, local history, beautiful men to have sex with. Latches kept plucking at me, but I just didn’t want to KNOW; I wanted to SEE. It. Lagos. The islands with the huge graceful bridges, the airfish swimming through the sky, ochre with distance.
You said that “she” was coming. The system would have pointed arrows, or shown you a map. Maybe she was talking to you already. I did not see Emilda until she actually turned the corner, throwing and re-throwing a shawl over her shoulder (a bit nervous?) and laughing at us. Her teeth had a lovely gap in the front, and she was followed by her son Baje, who had the same gap. Beautiful long shirt to his knees, matching trousers, dark blue with light blue embroidery. Oh, he was handsome. We were leaving him, too.
They had to pretend we were cousins. She started to talk in Hausa so I had to turn on. She babblefished in Portuguese, her lips not matching her voice. “The Air Force in Makurdi are so looking forward to you arriving. The language program will be so helpful in establishing friendship with our Angolan partners.”
I wrote her a note in Portuguese (I knew zey would babblefish it): WHY ARE WE PRETENDING? ZEY KNOW!
Emilda’s face curled with effort—she couldn’t latch me. She wrote a note in English that stayed in English for me, but I could read it anyway. Not for the AI but for the Chinese.
I got a little stiletto of a thought: she so wanted to go but did not have the money and so helps like this, to see us, people who will breathe the air of another world. I wasn’t sure if that thought was something that had leaked from AIr or come from me. I nearly offered her my ticket.
What she said aloud, in English was, “O look at the time! O you must be going to catch the train!”
I think I know the moment you started to hate the Chinese. I could feel something curdle in you and go hard. It was when Papa was still alive and he had that man in, not just some punter. A partner, a rival, his opposite number—something. Plump and shiny like he was coated in butter, and he came into our apartment and saw us both, twins, holding hands wearing pink frilly stuff, and he asked our father, “Oh, are these for me?”
Papa smiled, and only we knew he did that when dangerous. “These are my daughters.”
The Chinese man, standing by our pink and pistachio glass doors, burbled an apology, but what could he really say? He had come to our country to screw our girls, maybe our boys, to gamble, to drug, to do even worse. Recreational killing? And Papa was going to supply him with all of that. So it was an honest mistake for the man to make, to think little girls in pink were also whores.
Papa lived inside information blackout. He had to; it was his business. The man would have had no real communication with him; not have known how murderously angry our Pae really was. I don’t think Pae had him killed. I think the man was too powerful for that.
What Pae did right after was cut off all our communications too. He hired live-in nuns to educate us. The nuns, good Catholics, took hatchets to all our links to AIr. We grew up without zem. Which is why I at least can read.
Our Papa was not all Brasileiros, Graça. He was a gangster, a thug, who had a line on what the nastiest side of human nature would infallibly buy. I suppose because he shared those tastes himself, to an extent.
The shiny man was not China. He was a humor: lust and excess. Every culture has them; men who cannot resist sex or drugs, riot and rape. He’d been spotted by the AI, nurtured and grown like a hothouse flower. To make them money.
Never forget, my dear, that the AI want to make money too. They use it to buy and sell bits of themselves to each other. Or to buy us. And “us” means the Chinese too.
Yes, all the entertainment and all the products that can touch us are Chinese. Business is Chinese, culture is Chinese. Yes, at times it feels like the Chinese blanket us like a thick tropical sky. But only because there is no market to participate in. Not for humans, anyway.
The AI know through correlations, data mining, and total knowledge of each of us exactly what we will need, want, love, buy, or vote for. There is no demand now to choose one thing and drive out another. There is only supply, to what is a sure bet, whether it’s whores or bouncy shoes. The only things that will get you the sure bet are force or plenty of money. That consolidates. The biggest gets the market, and pays the AI for it.
So, I never really wanted to go to get away from the Chinese. I was scared of them, but then someone raised in isolation by nuns is lik
ely to be scared, intimidated.
I think I just wanted to get away from Papa, or rather what he did to us, all that money—and the memory of those nuns.
A taxi drove us from the docks. You and Emilda sat communing with each other in silence, so in the end I had to turn on, just to be part of the conversation. She was showing us her home, the Mambila plateau, rolling fields scraped by clouds; tea plantations; roads lined with children selling radishes or honeycombs; Nigerians in Fabric coats lighter than lace, matching the clouds. But it was Fabric, so all kinds of images played around it. Light could beam out of it; wind could not get in; warm air was sealed. Emilda’s mother was Christian, her father Muslim like her sister; nobody minded. There were no roads to Mambila to bring in people who would mind.
Every channel of entertainment tried to bellow its way into my head, as data about food production in Mambila fed through me as if it was something I knew. Too much, I had to switch off again. I am a classic introvert. I cannot handle too much information. Emilda smiled at me—she had a kind face—and wiggled her fingernails at me in lieu of conversation. Each fingernail was playing a different old movie.
Baje’s robe stayed the same blue. I think it was real. I think he was real too. Shy.
Lagos train station looked like an artist’s impression in silver of a birch forest, trunks and slender branches. I couldn’t see the train; it was so swathed in abstract patterns, moving signs, voices, pictures of our destinations, and classical Tiv dancers imitating cats. You, dead-eyed, had no trouble navigating the crowds and the holograms, and we slid into our seats that cost a month’s wages. The train accelerated to 300 kph, and we slipped through Nigeria like neutrinos.
Traditional mud brick houses clustered like old folks in straw hats, each hut a room in a rich person’s home. The swept earth was red brown, brushed perfect like suede. Alongside the track, shards of melon were drying in the sun. The melon was the basis of the egussi soup we had for lunch. It was as if someone were stealing it all from me at high speed.
