A black horse carriage loaded with passengers scampers across the street. One after another, a series of rickshaws all painted black follows behind it. Girls for the Sacred Service officers—every one of them dressed in her standard black uniform—ride in these rickshaws. All of the capital is painted over in black and white. No colors other than these to be seen anywhere in this city.
Only the bleached ochre slopes of the cliff sides, the blue skies above, and the lush green of the banyan tree’s leaves provide any exceptions.
The recent rain showers having washed off the dust, the leaves of the banyan tree look especially verdant. K finds comfort in gazing at their deep glow of green. Such a large tree is quite unusual even back in K’s hometown. Is there another tree like it anywhere across the lands of the Holy Empire? All that’s left to be found anywhere are vast expanses of barren plains and deserts. Exposed rock surfaces and endless stretches of sand and dust are all that remain of the mountains and hills and farmlands that once dotted the landscape.
The voice of a passing merchant interrupts K’s thoughts. The man stands before a small cart, pouring drinks into cups from an attached hand pump. Black syrupy liquid trickles out of the spout. K picks up a cup from atop the cart and places an order for what turns out to be a rather coquettish and fashionable drink that dampens the appetite for a few moments.
K turns his attention to a small group of men sipping some drinks as they intently watch a game of Stellar Chess. The match is just about to enter the endgame sequence. One of the young men playing sets a trap by sacrificing his Sol piece.
Such a curious strategy . . .
K finds the move impressive. To an untrained eye, the gambit will not make any sense whatsoever. But K can see that it’s all a clever setup for a finishing move. He lets out a small gasp.
Certain that he is about to win the match, the other player—a slightly overweight man with the bearing of a merchant—moves his Moon piece into the third dimension. To his chagrin, a beaming smile forms on his younger opponent’s tanned face. His Comet slips through the orbit of the Moon to cut off the path back to Earth.
The merchant groans. The game is over.
“One more round?”
The young man gives his opponent a piercing look.
“Nah,” the older man says.
The overweight merchant stands up and shakes his head. He passes a bean-sized silver ball to the other player.
The young player slips the silver ball into his sleeve.
“The placement of your Home Planet could have been better,” he says. “Maybe you’ll have better luck on the next match.”
The overweight man mumbles something to himself as he walks away. He is probably going to get another drink. With a wide grin on his face, the young player turns his attention toward K.
“How about you, kid? Fancy a game? The bet can be anything you want. And, yeah. If you have tickets, that’ll do too.”
“No, thank you. I’m a total beginner at this.”
“Oh yeah?”
The young man doesn’t try to push K into a game any further. No way for K to stand any chance against him. It’s quite obvious that he’s quite a pro. Only the best players would even think of making such wild plays. Evidently, even the capital has its share of smart men with excellent educations wasting away their days on gambling and games of chance.
The young man offers K a hash-laced cigarette.
“Thanks,” K says.
The man pulls out a small lens from his pocket. With it, he lights the cigarette using the sun’s rays with a surprising finesse.
K accepts the lit cigarette. He takes one long drag, then asks the man a question:
“When your Sol was taken back there, what if your opponent moved his Comet back one dimension? With Pluto in dimension zero bearing down on Jupiter, how would things have turned out in that match?”
“I would have lost,” he says, smiling.
“But you took the chance anyway?”
His smile widened.
“Of course,” he says. “I must say, if you figured out what I was plotting, you must be pretty good yourself. No way you’re a beginner. Which school do you attend? Pythagoras? Or maybe—”
K shakes his head.
“No, I’m not from around here, actually,” says K. “I mean, I can’t afford to go to private school. I just like to watch. That’s all.”
The young man doesn’t hide the surprise on his face.
“Really, now,” he says. “You sound like an amazing guy, you know that? Now I really want to play you sometime. No bets, of course!”
From their conversation, K learns that the young man used to be a student at Pythagoras until his delinquency finally got him expelled. Pythagoras is quite famous for two things: the skill of their Stellar Chess team and their ridiculously high tuition fees, which help to pay for some of the best teachers in the Holy Empire. Their student body is drawn mostly from members of the holy order or from wealthy families. Is it any surprise that their players were known for putting more weight on the elegance of their matches than simple win-loss records?
“Yeah, well,” the young man says. “Those fancy matches they liked to promote just weren’t for me, if you know what I’m saying. I mean, what’s the point of playing if you don’t play to win, right?”
K does not offer an answer. The man looks like he wants to continue their conversation, but K isn’t having any of it.
Once again, K’s eyes wander as fatigue begins to set in. His thoughts turn to the young beggar woman, her breasts and her nourishing milk. He continues to return every day to share with her some of the food he has acquired with his meal tickets.
Most of the time, K simply leaves her a portion of the food without making much of a fuss. Before she can say anything, he rushes off somewhere else. K himself has no explanation for what he is doing. Perhaps he’s too conscious of the watchful eyes of everyone around him when he offers the food to the woman? Or is it because, in the end, even if she’s just a beggar with little more than rags to wear, there’s no denying the fact that she’s still a young and fertile woman? Undoubtedly, this is one of the reasons. But the truth is that he cannot really make much sense of this confusing fluttering of his heart. The urge to cry wells up within K every time he recalls the touch of her breast on his face. Bittersweet emotions overflow from within him. There’s simply no controlling this impulse. K has no idea what is happening to him.
With no memory of his parents, all K has known is loneliness, living and struggling on his own. Is this what he’s looking for? A family? Is this the reason he moved into the groundskeeper’s quarters in the temple? He must have not realized it at the time, but his old master, Hypocras, became a surrogate father to him. This time around though, it’s a surrogate mother he’s found in Eva.
Clara Hall
1
The day has come. The bells of City Hall’s carillon tower reverberate through the city, waking everyone all across the capital. Today is the day they announce the results of the Sacred Service Examination.
K rises from underneath the shade of the banyan tree. His feet follow the crowds to the plaza in front of City Hall. They gather before the bulletin board and search for their names on the posted lists.
Someone taps K’s shoulder from behind.
“So I take it you’re also a candidate?”
K turns around to find himself face-to-face with the young Stellar Chess player from the terraced house two days ago.
“Yeah, I am. You too?”
“Right you are. My second attempt, in fact. How about you?”
“This is my first try, actually.”
“Really now?” His eyes beam. He’s maybe five or six years older than K.
“Let’s see how we did then,” the young man says. He runs his fingers through his hair as his eyes search the names on the bulletin board.
“Well, well, well,” the young man murmurs.
“What?” K says.
“Oh. It seems I managed to pass the exam. That’s all.” His face betrays no trace of any joy or excitement.
“Really? You passed?” K’s eyes lock on him, drawn to his impassive face like a moth to a bright light.
“Sure did. Top row, fifth column. You see the name ‘Hoffman’ there? Sure sounds like my name to me. I guess I somehow managed to get a score good enough to be accepted into the Sacred Genetics Department. Just enough.” There’s no change at all in Hoffman’s placid demeanor as he explains it all to K.
“Congratulations!” K says. Surely this Hoffman is no mere side street Stellar Chess hustler. His speech patterns, his gestures, his demeanor—he has to be a graduate from a top theological school, or his father must be a high official in the Papal Court.
“So, what department did you apply for?” Hoffman asks K.
“I don’t know. I don’t really know much about departments and disciplines,” K says. “So I left it blank.”
“Oh?” Hoffman says. “If that’s the case, my guess is that they’ll place you in ‘Planet Bosch Research’ or something like that. If your name doesn’t show up in that section, it would probably be best to give up. I did hear a rumor that only two people were accepted into the Planet Bosch Research Center this year.”
Hoffman stands on his toes, trying to catch a glimpse of the other end of the bulletin board from behind the crowds milling about before it.
“This won’t work. I can’t see anything from here. Let’s head over to the front.”
Hoffman signals to K to follow him forward. The two force their way through the crowd until they finally reach the very front of the pack.
“So, what was your name again?”
K is just about to tell Hoffman his name when he catches a glimpse of it printed on the board from the corner of his eye. He can’t believe what he’s seeing. But there is no denying it. His name is one of just two listed under the row marked “Planet Bosch Research.”
“I found it!” K’s exclamation startles a few onlookers.
“Your name is on the list?” Hoffman checks for himself.
“Right there.”
“My friend, you are officially amazing,” Hoffman says, smiling. “It’s no small feat to pass the Sacred Exam at your age, and on your first try, no less.” Hoffman slaps K on his back, nearly knocking him over. But K barely notices. All he feels at that moment are his stiff shoulders finally relaxing.
“Just what is this whole Planet Bosch Research thing all about anyway?” K asks Hoffman.
“You’ve never heard of it before?” Hoffman says. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. All I know is that they only just recently added it as an official field of sacred study. But enough of this for now! Let’s ditch this crowd and find somewhere to celebrate! I know the perfect place!”
“Shouldn’t we head over to registration first?” K asks. “That’s what it says right here—accepted candidates are to register with their respective departments.”
Hoffman waves off K’s concerns.
“Oh don’t worry about that,” he says as a knowing smile forms on his lips. “They’re on their lunch break right now. Registration won’t even start until four o’clock.”
K follows Hoffman to an area behind the City Hall complex. They approach a high sandstone cliff, the same cliff K saw from the terminal station when he first arrived, where several small tunnels have been carved into the face. Hoffman leads K toward one of them, pushing open its door. It takes K’s eyes some time to adjust from the glaring light of the sun outside to the shadowy space behind the door. He is well inside the place before he realizes that the inside of the tunnel has been fashioned into a small bar.
Hoffman greets the man at the counter in his usual jovial manner. He brings K all the way into the back, where curtains conceal a small cavern with a wooden table in the center encircled by a long bench carved right out of the sandstone walls. The pair plant themselves on one of the fur-covered seats.
“The best wine in the house!” Hoffman sticks his head through the curtains to bark his order to the man behind the counter.
They wait.
“It’s nice and cool in here,” K says as his eyes take in the inside of the bar.
Hoffman only grunts nonchalantly in response.
The bartender finally serves them a black bottle of wine. In a single practiced motion, he slides the glasses on the fingers of his left hand, gives them a quick wipe of his apron, and then sets them on the table. Without missing a beat, Hoffman picks up the bottle and begins to pour. After a quick sip, he turns to the bartender.
“That’s nice. Quite nice.”
Hoffman beckons the bartender closer, whispering something in the man’s ear. A broad grin forms on the man’s face. He points a finger toward K as he whispers something back at Hoffman.
“Oh it’s all good,” Hoffman says to him. “Believe it or not, my friend here passed the exam too.”
The bartender furrows his brows in disbelief, but it doesn’t stop him from giving them another grin.
“Well then!” he says before dashing back to his spot behind the bar.
Before K can drink more than half a glass of wine, a beautiful young woman enters the bar and makes a beeline to him. Suddenly, this beautiful stranger is standing right in front of him, and K can only stare.
“Say hello to Serena, K,” Hoffman says. “She’s cute, right?”
He turns to Serena.
“Come and sit between us, Serena.”
K watches, his mouth hanging open, as Serena flashes them both just the hint of a smile. The delicate folds of her dress slide against her legs as she ever so slowly makes her way around the table.
“Hoffman, is this really a good idea?” K asks. He can hear his own heart racing. He can’t stop himself from noticing Serena’s cleavage framed by her low-cut dress.
“Oh don’t be silly, K. Today is our special day. Don’t just sit there, Serena! Pour the poor boy a drink!”
“As you wish,” she says. “Here, now. Have something to drink, K.”
Serena’s face beams as she refills K’s glass with wine. Her body’s sultry fragrance overwhelms K’s already racing heart. Resistance is futile.
Has it really just been only an hour? K could have sworn that he has been in the bar for far longer, wrestling with the first true test of a young monk’s asceticism. But Hoffman seems completely unconcerned with notions of propriety, ignoring the commandments without any hint of shame. He draws Serena’s body close to him, slipping his hand under her dress, to which she does not object. She allows Hoffman to do whatever he wants. K catches a glimpse of Serena’s legs—the first time he’s seen a woman’s bare legs up close—he gasps at the sight of the muscles all taut, the dark brown skin glistening with sweat.
Pushed to the very edge of breaking, K’s body is drenched in sweat. Only when he finally steps out of the bar can he breathe again. Not a word passes between him and Hoffman during their walk back to City Hall, where they go their separate ways to complete their respective registration procedures.
“Since we’ll probably run into each other again at some point,” Hoffman says with his hand extended, “why don’t we play a match of Stellar Chess the next time we meet?”
K shakes Hoffman’s hand. But he has no response to his invitation. All he can do is bow without saying another word.
What is taking so long? No one can say why K’s department has taken so long to call them in for registration. K remains in the waiting room, even as all the other examinees from other departments finish up, sitting around not knowing just whom or what he is waiting for. Just one other examinee—an elderly man with a bad back and salt-and-pepper hair—waits with him. At first, neither of them says a word to one another. But with the passing of time, even as their periodic fidgeting and joint cracking break their mutual silence, the air between them becomes so unbearable that they have no choice but to exchange pleasantries.
“Hi there. My name is Abir,”
the old man says. “This is seriously taking much too long. I wonder what’s keeping them?”
“No idea,” K says.
So much older is Abir that a random passerby might mistake them for father and son. The old man tells K that he works as a professor of fine arts at some provincial university, speaking at some length about his research on the classical art of the Twilight Era.
“So, to tell you the truth, I’m not really sure why they’ve assigned me to the Planet Bosch Research Center. Actually, the authorities here sent me specifically a formal request to take the exam for this division. So I did. Still, I couldn’t tell you what my field of study and research on Planet Bosch have to do with each other.”
The old man lowers his voice. Whispering, he tells K about how the inclusion of “Planet Bosch Research” among the Holy Disciplines was something quite out of the ordinary. Not a single new field has been added to the traditional list of Holy Disciplines of Sacred Inquiry since the time they were first declared by none other than Pope Algol I. Until now.
“How about you? What sordid circumstances brought you here?” The old man gives K an inquisitive look.
“Nothing special, really. It’s not like I have an education in any particular field.”
“Oh?”
“The thing is . . .”
“The thing is?”
The old man waits for K’s answer with probing eyes. Is he in complete disbelief that a young man of K’s age could have passed this year’s exam? Does he think there’s some special reason K is here with him?
“The thing is, I’m only here because I got an official notice from the Papal Court too. The local officers in my area came all the way down to my village. They told me it was my solemn duty to take the exam.”
“Right . . .” Does he know something more than he is letting on?
“Do you know what exactly this so-called field of Planet Bosch Research is all about? I’ve been asking around, and I can’t seem to get a straight answer from anyone.”
The Sacred Era: A Novel (Parallel Futures) Page 4
