by Greg Egan
Felix wasn’t that easily intimidated. ‘No, but I’ll listen to whatever you want to tell me. It’d be a fucking lonely world if that never worked.’
Prabir aimed lower. ‘Doesn’t it ever cross your mind that there are things I don’t want you to understand?’
Prabir worked late, to keep his mind blank for as long as possible. He tinkered for five hours with a perfectly good class definition template for tellers, trying to improve its eye contact and shave a few milliseconds off its response times. In the end he gave up, discarding everything he’d done, trawling through the automatic backups and erasing them all manually – the closest he could get to the physical experience of screwing up a sheaf of paper.
As he walked out of the building he felt a kind of defiant pride, in place of the usual sense of regret at his stupidity. It wasn’t as if he had better things to do. He didn’t want to be with Felix or Madhusree. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. Numbing himself with a few hours of vacuous make-work every night until he was safely asleep on his feet was infinitely preferable to taking up alcohol.
Sitting in the bus, he ached all over. He was shivering too, though he’d felt the usual blast of warm air as he’d stepped on board. With a shock he realised that he probably had some kind of mild viral infection. Despite the change of climate he hadn’t suffered so much as a cold since arriving in Toronto; the immigration authorities had inoculated him against everything in sight. But he hadn’t kept up to date with booster shots, and it looked as if some new strain had finally broken through his defences.
When he entered the apartment, Madhusree’s door was open, but her room was in darkness. Even from a distance, as Prabir’s eyes adjusted he could see that her desk had been tidied, everything cleared away or straightened into neat piles.
There was a note taped to the fridge. She’d never told him exactly when the expedition was leaving, but he’d been half expecting something like this for days.
He read the note several times, compulsively, as if he might have missed something. Madhusree explained that she’d raised part of the money working in a café, and borrowed the rest from friends. She apologised for doing everything behind his back, but pointed out that this had made it easier for both of them. She promised to reveal nothing about their parents’ work until she returned and they’d had a chance to discuss the matter properly; in the meantime, the expedition would have to rely on its own discoveries. She’d be back within three months. She’d be careful.
Prabir sat in the kitchen with tears streaming down his cheeks. He’d never felt happier for her, or more proud of her. She’d overcome everything now. Even him. She’d refused to let him smother her with his paranoia and insecurity.
He suddenly recalled the night they’d resolved to leave Amita. At the start of the week, Madhusree had announced that her class had begun studying the civil rights movement. Then, at dinner on Friday, she’d informed Keith and Amita that she finally understood what their work at the university was all about.
Keith had flashed Prabir a victorious smirk, and Amita had cooed, ‘Aren’t you clever? Why don’t you tell us what you’ve learnt.’
Madhusree had expounded with her usual nine-year-old’s volubility. ‘In the nineteen sixties and seventies, there were people in all the democratic countries who didn’t have any real power, and they started going to the people who did have all the power and saying, “All these principles of equality you’ve been talking about since the French Revolution are very nice, but you don’t seem to be taking them very seriously. You’re all hypocrites, actually. So we’re going to make you take those principles seriously.” And they held demonstrations and bus rides, and occupied buildings, and it was very embarrassing for the people in power, because the other people had such a good argument, and anyone who listened seriously had to agree with them.
‘Feminism was working, and the civil rights movement was working, and all the other social justice movements were getting more and more support. So, in the nineteen eighties, the CIA—’ she turned to Keith and explained cheerfully, ‘this is where X-Files Theory comes into it – hired some really clever linguists to invent a secret weapon: an incredibly complicated way of talking about politics that didn’t actually make any sense, but which spread through all the universities in the world, because it sounded so impressive. And at first, the people who talked like this just hitched their wagon to the social justice movements, and everyone else let them come along for the ride, because they seemed harmless. But then they climbed on board the peace train and threw out the driver.
‘So instead of going to the people in power and saying, “How about upholding the universal principles you claim to believe in?” the people in the social justice movements ended up saying things like “My truth narrative is in competition with your truth narrative!” And the people in power replied, “Woe is me! You’ve thrown me in the briar patch!” And everyone else said, “Who are these idiots? Why should we trust them, when they can’t even speak properly?” And the CIA were happy. And the people in power were happy. And the secret weapon lived on in the universities for years and years, because everyone who’d played a part in the conspiracy was too embarrassed to admit what they’d done.’
After a long silence, Amita had suggested in a strained voice, ‘You might not have understood that lesson properly, Maddy. These are difficult ideas, and you’re still quite young.’
Madhusree had replied confidently, ‘Oh no, Amita. I understood. It was very clear.’
Late that night, she’d snuck into Prabir’s room. When they’d finally stopped laughing – with their faces pressed into pillows and hands to muffle the sound – Madhusree had turned to him and pleaded solemnly, ‘Get me out of here. Or I’ll go mad.’
Prabir had replied, ‘That’s what I do best.’
He’d found a job the following weekend. But after six months working three nights a week filling vending machines – telling Amita he was studying with friends – he’d finally accepted what he’d known all along: part-time work would never be enough. A week before he graduated from high school, he’d smooth-talked his way into an interview at the bank, and demonstrated on his own notepad that he had all the skills required for a software development position they’d advertised. When the personnel manager conceded his technical abilities but started raising other hurdles, Prabir pointed out that his lack of tertiary qualifications would save them a third of the salary.
He’d gone straight from the interview to a real estate agent, and whispered the news to Madhusree that night by the light of the TV.
‘We’re heading south.’
Felix arrived just after eleven. As he entered the apartment he explained warily, ‘I just wondered how you were taking the news.’
‘You knew she was leaving tonight?’
‘Yeah. She thought she had to tell me, because I loaned her some money.’
Felix waited for a response. Prabir recoiled with mock indignation. ‘Traitor!’ He shook his head, smiling abashedly. ‘No, I’m OK. I’m just sorry I screwed you both around so much.’
They sat in the kitchen. Felix said, ‘She’s going to be independent soon. She’ll have money of her own. A place of her own.’
Prabir was wounded. ‘You think that’s what this was all about? You think I get some kick out of holding the purse strings, telling her what she can and can’t do?’
Felix groaned, misunderstood. ‘No. I just wanted to know what your plans were. Because once she’s supporting herself, you’re going to be free to do anything you want. Quit the bank. Travel, study.’
‘Oh yeah? I’m not that rich.’
Felix shrugged. ‘I’ll help you.’
Prabir was embarrassed. ‘I’m not that poor, either.’ He mused, ‘If I can hang on at the bank until she graduates, that’ll be ten years. I’ll have access to part of my pension fund.’ He shivered, suddenly aware of the fact that he was babbling on about money while Madhusree was flying straight for the one
place on Earth he’d sworn to keep her away from. ‘It’s strange. I didn’t think I’d be so calm. But she’s really not in any danger, is she?’
‘None at all.’
‘Ceram, Ambon, Kai Besar … they’re just islands like any other now.’
‘Safer than Mururoa.’
Prabir said, ‘Did I ever tell you about the time she debated the theory of evolution with a Texan creationist minister on the net, and he publicly admitted that she’d changed his mind?’
Felix smiled and shook his head stoically. ‘No. Go on, tell me.’
‘He was a brave man, actually. He got excommunicated, or whatever it is they do to lapsed creationists.’
‘I believe the technical term is “lynching”.’
They sat talking until four a.m. When they staggered into bed, Felix was asleep within seconds. Prabir stared blearily at the open door of his room; even with the apartment to themselves he felt exposed, but he was too cold to get up and close it.
He dreamt that his father was standing in the doorway, looking in. Prabir couldn’t see his face in the darkness, and struggled to decide whether his stare was reproachful. Everything he knew about Rajendra suggested that he wouldn’t have been angry, but Prabir was still ashamed that he’d let his father stumble upon him like this, without warning.
But as the silhouette in the doorway took on more detail, Prabir realised that his father was oblivious to Felix. There were more important things on his mind. Rajendra was holding an infant in his arms, rag-doll limp. He was rocking her back and forth, weeping inconsolably with grief.
Prabir lay in the bath so long that he ran out of room to add hot water. He climbed out, shivering, and pulled the plug.
As the bath refilled, he picked up the paper knife, closed his eyes, rehearsed the strokes. He’d deliberately avoided testing the blade on his skin; the only part of the knife he’d touched was the plastic handle. Anyone who could stick a kebab skewer through his cheeks ought to be able to lull the relevant part of his brain into believing that there was no real threat from a couple of scrapes with this toy.
He stepped into the bath again, scalding his legs, swearing irritably. He didn’t want to feel any discomfort at all now; he wanted to die as pleasantly as possible. But every kind of potentially lethal legal pharmaceutical he could imagine getting his hands on came with a dose-limiting enzyme, and he couldn’t bring himself to buy street drugs that would turn him into a stranger as he went. Drain cleaner was even less attractive, and he didn’t trust himself to have the courage to jump from a bridge.
He lay down in the bath, submerged up to his chin. He went over the message to Felix and Madhusree one more time; it was sitting in his notepad in the kitchen, waiting to be sent, but Prabir knew it by heart. He was happy with the wording, he decided. Neither of them were idiots: they’d understand his reasons, and they wouldn’t blame themselves.
He’d done what he’d set out to do: he’d carried her to safety. He was proud of that. But it wouldn’t do either of them much good if he kept on going through the motions for another fifty years, just because it was the only thing that felt worthwhile to him.
He’d very nearly kept her from joining the expedition, which would have ruined her whole career. Two days after she’d left, he’d almost followed her, which would have humiliated her in front of all her colleagues. And though he knew that she’d be safe, there was nothing he could do, nothing he could tell himself, to banish the feeling that he was standing idly by while she walked across a minefield.
There was only one way to cut the knot.
Prabir dragged the blade across his left wrist. He barely felt it pierce the skin; he opened his eyes to check the extent of the wound.
A red plume, already wider than his hand, was spreading through the water. The dark core looked almost solid, like some tightly packed blood-rich membrane uncoiling from the space beneath his skin. For several long seconds he lay motionless and watched the plume growing, observing the effect of his heartbeat on the flow, following the tongues of fluid at the edges as they diffused into the water.
Then he declaimed loudly, to remove all doubt, ‘I don’t want to do this. I’m not going to do this.’
He scrambled to his feet and reached for a towel. The wound was even more shocking when it hit the air, spraying blood down over his chest and legs. He wrapped it in the towel, almost slipping on the floor of the bath, his paralysis turning to panic.
He stumbled out of the bathroom. It was only a cut, a paper-thin slit. There had to be something he could do to stop the bleeding. Tie a tourniquet. But where, exactly? And how tight? If he got it wrong, he could still bleed to death. Or lose his arm.
He knelt in front of the TV. ‘Search: emergency first aid.’
The entire screen was filled instantly with tiny icons; there must have been thirty thousand of them. It looked like a garden of mutated red crosses, stylised flowers in some toy-world evolution program. Prabir swayed on his knees, appalled but mesmerised, trying to think what to do next. Help me, Baba.
‘No sacred, no mystic, no spiritual.’ The garden thinned visibly. ‘No alternative. No holistic.’ The towel was turning red. ‘No yin, no yang, no chi, no karma. No nurturing, no nourishing, no numinous …’
The TV remarked smugly, ‘Your filtering strategy is redundant,’ and displayed a Venn diagram to prove its point. The first three words he’d excluded had eliminated about a quarter of the icons, but after that he’d just been relassoing various sub-sets of the New Age charlatans he’d already tossed out. Whatever pathology had spawned the remainder of the noise employed an entirely different vocabulary.
Prabir was at a loss as to how to proceed. He pointed to an icon at random; a pleasant, neuter face appeared and began to speak. ‘If the body is a text, as Derrida and Foucault taught us—’
Prabir closed the site then fell forward laughing, burying his face between his forearms, pressing down on the wound with his forehead. ‘Thank you, Amita! Thank you, Keith!’ How could he have forgotten everything they’d taught him?
‘No transgressive.’
He looked up. Thousands of icons had vanished, but tens of thousand remained. Half a dozen new fads had swept the antiscience world since Amita’s day. Liberation Prosody. Abbess Logic. Faustian Analysis. Dryad Theory. Prabir hadn’t bothered to track their ascent or learn their jargon; he was free of all that shit, it couldn’t touch him any more.
He stared at the screen, light-headed. There had to be genuine help, genuine knowledge, buried in there somewhere. But he’d die before he found it.
As he’d meant to. So why fight it? There was a comforting drowsiness spreading through his body, a beautifully numbing absence flowing in through the wound. He’d made the whole business messier than it might have been, but in a way it seemed far less bleak, far less austere, to die like this – absurdly and incompetently – than if he’d done it in the bath without a hitch. It wasn’t too late to curl up on the floor and close his eyes.
No, but it was almost too late to do anything else.
He staggered to his feet and bellowed, ‘Call an ambulance!’
‘You might not find her,’ Felix warned him. ‘Are you prepared for that?’
Prabir glanced up nervously at the departure list; he’d be boarding the flight to Sydney in five minutes. Madhusree had covered her tracks well, and no one at the university had been willing to provide him with the expedition’s itinerary. All he could do was fly to Ambon, then start asking around.
He said, ‘I’m doing this to satisfy my own curiosity. It was my parents’ work; I want to know where it would have led them. If I happen to run into my sister while I’m there, that will be a pleasant coincidence, nothing more.’
Felix replied drily, ‘That’s right: stick to the cover story, even under torture.’
Prabir turned to him. ‘You know what I hate most about you, Menéndez?’
‘No.’
‘Everything that doesn’t kill you makes y
ou stronger. Everything that doesn’t kill me just fucks me up a bit more.’
Felix grimaced sympathetically. ‘Irritating, isn’t it? I’ll see if I can cultivate a few more neuroses while you’re away, just to even things out a bit.’ He took hold of Prabir’s hand between the seats, and stroked the all-but-vanished scar. ‘But if I’d met you when I was fucked up myself, it probably would have killed us both.’
‘Yeah.’ Prabir’s chest tightened. He said, ‘I won’t always be like this. I won’t always be dragging you down.’
Felix looked him in the eye and said plainly, ‘You don’t drag me down.’
Prabir’s flight was called. He said, ‘I’ll bring you back a souvenir. Do you want anything particular?’
Felix thought about it, then shook his head. ‘You decide. Anything from a brand-new phylum will be fine by me.’
PART FOUR
7
The flight from Toronto touched down in Los Angeles and Honolulu before terminating in Sydney. Prabir changed planes for Darwin without leaving the airport. Choosing this route over Tokyo and Manila had been purely a matter of schedules and ticket prices, but as the red earth below gave way to verdant pasture and great mirrors of water, it was impossible not to dwell upon how close he was coming to retracing his steps away from the island. The boat full of refugees from Yamdena had landed in Darwin, and he and Madhusree had been flown back there from Exmouth before finally leaving the country via Sydney. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he’d gone out of his way to avoid these signposts; the last thing he wanted to do was descend systematically through the layers of his past, as if he was indulging in some kind of deliberate act of regression. He should have swooped down from Toronto by an unfamiliar route, and arrived in Ambon feeling as much like a stranger as possible.
He stepped out of the terminal at Darwin into a blast of tropical heat and humidity. It was barely half an hour later, local time, than it had been in Toronto when he left; even with three stops along the way, he’d almost kept pace with the turning of the Earth. The sky was full of threatening clouds, which seemed to spread the glare of the afternoon sun rather than diminish it. February was the middle of the wet season here, as it was in most of the former Indonesia, but Madhusree’s expedition wasn’t mistimed; in the Moluccas the pattern of the monsoon winds was reversed, and there it would be musim teduh, the calm season, the season for travel.
