It’s a little like factory work, this first step, taking notes on the everyday. My observations repeat themselves as regularly as Aston’s photographs in their frames. Riva on the floor, Riva with the top, Riva sweating in the sun. Aston coming out of the studio and adjusting the temperature.
—You know, it was another summons, he says now, holding up the tablet.
I see from my log that he said the same sentence two days ago with the same wording. I wonder which sentences I repeat daily without noticing.
Aston has put the tablet aside and is holding his camera to his chest. He mostly only uses the other cameras as backup. This is a vintage model, produced about twenty years ago. Aston’s financial transactions indicate that he bought it three months ago from the second largest online reseller.
—You pay a fine every time you don’t respond. You’ll be paying until there’s nothing left. And then we’ll keep paying somehow.
Riva acts like she doesn’t hear him. She reaches for the top, forcing Aston to talk over the sound.
—Aren’t you afraid that your muscles will degenerate? At some point you won’t be able to stand up anymore. It happens faster than you think.
Riva shrugs and reaches for the top, stops it in motion, and spins it again. I’m also concerned about her body’s rapid deterioration, the progressive muscular atrophy and weight loss. Ever since she broke her contract, Riva has refused to undergo her compulsory examinations and no longer wears her activity tracker. There is no way to determine her fitness data with certainty, but it’s obvious that she’s getting worse every day.
—Your body needs vitamin D, Aston says in a slightly different tone, more caring, more urgent. More natural light.
I am impressed by his commitment, the patience with which he dedicates himself to her every day, trying to get closer to her.
—That’s in the nutritional water, Riva says with her face turned away.
I add one to the daily count of her spoken sentences. So far there has been no fundamental improvement in her willingness to communicate.
Aston has left his post at the window without me noticing. He stops about a meter away from Riva and then slowly walks around her. He looks at her from all sides, tilts his head, squats. Then he starts taking pictures of her.
—I have an idea for a new project, he says.
Riva’s hand reaches for the top. It slips out of her fingers too soon and only spins for a few seconds.
I observe a change of mood in Aston’s facial features: impatience, open frustration.
—Just because you quit your career doesn’t mean I have to lose my job, he says. You’re messing with my life, too.
There’s a shrill alarm sound outside, police sirens. I don’t know if it’s coming from the speaker or through my office window.
The apartment is suddenly quiet; Riva has put down the top. She looks out the window, her eyes don’t appear to be focused on anything in particular.
I hear Aston breathing quickly and loudly, three, four times. There are these moments when he briefly loses control. His body is possessed by anger, impatience. His facial muscles are strained, his body tense.
Then he calms down, relaxes his shoulders, reaches out to touch Riva. He runs his index finger down her slightly curved back, tracing her spine.
—You’re too thin. I can see your bones.
Riva doesn’t move.
In my comment column I note: Passive behavior, Karnovsky submits to the role of object.
—Come on, Riva.
Aston grabs her shoulder and shakes it gently, but her unresponsiveness seems to discourage him, he doesn’t persist long.
He turns away and goes back to the window, reaches for the camera on his stomach. The usual click echoes through the room, both are back in their positions, appearing more like silhouettes than people against the light.
I lean back and watch them, my subject and her partner in the rectangular frame of the live monitor. Next to it, on my work monitor, a chat window is blinking; on the desk, also blinking, the tablet; under the table, a discarded flatscreen, ready to be picked up.
I click through the video files in the data archive. The analyst has uploaded four recordings of Riva and Aston’s apartment from the time before Riva’s breach of contract. They come from private providers. Four files from the last four years, taken on the first of August each year when the security systems were tested in all of the apartments in the building.
I open the most recent file on the work monitor and then I adjust the camera position on the live monitor so that both screens show the same detail. A wide shot of the apartment from above. With the two screens side by side, it’s almost impossible to tell the images apart—there are just a few more of Aston’s photo walls now.
For the first several hours, the archive video shows the empty apartment. Only the lighting changes when watched in time-lapse mode. The security camera’s automatic aperture control adjusts the brightness. Wandering shadows from the furniture on the smooth designer floor.
Around 7 p.m., Riva enters the apartment in her training clothes. She puts down her sports bag, goes to the kitchen, and turns on the water. She tests the water temperature with her index finger, washes her face, and strips down to her underwear.
For a moment, she just stands in the room, lost in thought, forgetting her surroundings. Then she goes to the fridge to get a drink.
Liger™, a sports drink. One of her sponsors.
She sits at the window, looking down from the sixty-fourth floor. Her body is perfect in every respect, her spine straight, her skin glowing and smooth. She opens her ponytail and her hair cascades over her shoulders, shining in the evening light. The security video is almost indistinguishable from an advertising clip. Everything is perfect: lighting, positioning, and model.
Riva sits at the window in her light gray athletic undergarments, takes a sip from the bottle, looks down. She’s probably going over the day’s training sessions in her mind, remembering the failed and successful maneuvers, the new jumps. The video ends when Aston enters through the door that connects his studio to the living room. He sees his partner, picks up his camera, and shoots. Riva, hearing the click of the device, looks over her shoulder at him and smiles. I have unsuccessfully tried to find the photo in Aston’s archives. I write a note to my assistant to look for the photo again and attach a screenshot of the video.
I would have liked to observe Riva back then. To see her train, the movement of her muscles under her taut skin, the strength and control of a highly conditioned body.
I attended my first high-rise diving™ show when I was six years old. I remember how it felt, getting off the bus two-by-two, my whole body trembling and tense with excitement.
It was my first trip with the talent scout program. A look into the future, if we were lucky. A motivation trip™ meant to inspire us to greatness. What do you want to become? A high-rise diver. To risk falling, so you can soar, as our career trainers said. The closer you get to death, the more alive you become. We had cheap tickets. Not a box, just standing room on the ground. At least it wasn’t far from the fall spot™, a closed-off area on the ground that the divers were supposed to aim for, to get as close to it as possible. At the time I had still not seen the videos of accidents, of technical failures. Blood-sprayed spectators, barriers coming out of the ground, people in waterproof orange suits.
Back then, there was only anticipation. I was wedged between adults who towered over me. The smell of sweat, a herd smell that was foreign to me and unexpected.
High above us, the diving platform couldn’t be seen from the ground. At least I managed to peer through a space between two men and see part of a monitor showing the event from different camera angles.
I felt the sound waves in my body. The audience cheering when the first diver appeared on the platform. We all stretched our arms up int
o the air as far as we could.
Then, the shock when the diver jumped, plummeting at an unfathomable speed.
The falling body, as if heading straight for me. The suit’s shimmer, the diver’s outstretched fingers, my relief as she shot back up, just inches above the ground.
Our joint sigh of relief and then her ascent, accompanied by thunderous applause.
If I want to make it home before the night shift starts for my second job, I should leave now. Forty-five minutes to drive home, seventy-five minutes for dinner and mindfulness exercises.
The evening light is a different color on the monitor than in my office. This may be due to the location. Riva and Aston’s apartment is dozens of floors higher than here, the difference in natural light is measurable.
My right hand rubs my temple. The gesture has taken on a life of its own, has almost become a sort of tick. The headache is a constant, it swells and subsides like the tides. A consequence of stress, says Masters. Meditation, relaxation exercises. Conscious breathing. Avoid noise.
A full-blown headache attack on the way home would be hard to bear. I would have to stop driving and lie down on the back seat. Close my eyes. Wait until it passes. Powerless against this force of nature.
Maybe I should stay a few more minutes. Massage my neck. Lower my heart rate, which is currently displayed at eighty-three on the activity tracker. Take a deep breath. Avoid noise.
Riva has started spinning the top again. I turn the monitor volume to zero. When the monotonous scraping noise is muted, I feel a wave of relaxation. In the background, only the soft hum of my devices.
A green check mark in the chat window indicates that my assistant is still logged in. I send him a message.
Are you still there?
Yes.
You can sign off now.
On my securecloud™ file list, I can see Masters accessing my document. If he’s still in the office, it might be a good idea to stay a bit longer, show commitment. Then again, he rarely says goodbye, so he could have left several hours ago and logged into the system from home. Maybe I can nonchalantly walk past his office. But it’s the last door in the hall, my intentions would be obvious right away.
I could also just start my night shift here, and why not, I get the fewest client calls at shift start anyway. I can postpone dinner and meditation a little, and interrupt them later for a consultation if necessary.
The overtime will increase my employee ranking. I’m in the upper third of my division. Masters gave my first five reports high ratings. Probably to give me a boost as a beginner. It worked. When I get tired, looking at the standings and seeing my upward curve motivates me more than my nootropics.
When I glance back at the live monitor, Aston and Riva are still in the same positions. Aston at the window with his camera, Riva on the floor. If it weren’t for the top spinning on the ground, you’d think the picture was frozen.
Archive No.: M14_b
File Type: M-Message™
Sender: @DomWuAcademy
Recipient: @PsySolutions_ID5215d
Ms. Yoshida,
As discussed, here is my report on the aforementioned conversation with Riva, which took place ten days before her breach of contract. I tried to describe Riva’s statements and my observations with as much precision and detail as possible. I can’t guarantee that all of the information provided, insofar as it concerns my personal perception of the situation, is 100% accurate. Unfortunately, the conversation was not recorded on video, but only as an audio note. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact me. We hope you’ll be able to revive Riva as soon as possible. As I told you at the steering committee meeting, I am not merely concerned about the great financial damage and loss of face incurred by my company and our sponsors, but primarily about Riva’s health.
Yours sincerely, Dom Wu
Attachment: Report_Wu_Karnovsky_I.arc
The conversation took place on July 18th at 5:30 p.m. and lasted almost twenty minutes. I asked Riva into my office to discuss her current scores. She had shown no progress in the previous weeks—no major deficits either—but there was a distinct change in her disposition, that is, her social behavior and mood. Although she showed up at all of her training sessions, she seemed unmotivated to me, which didn’t correspond with her usual personality. From the start of her career, Riva was a very ambitious, energetic person. She had good social interactions with her teammates and, in addition to training, she was also interested in art and literature. She seemed balanced, neither overly excitable in the sense of being manic nor tending towards sadness. When she lost tournaments or did poorly in training, she quickly overcame her initial frustration and turned it into a thirst for action.
I spoke to Riva directly about her changed behavior. She reacted evasively, trying to change the topic to the results. I asked her if something had happened. She denied it, but avoided direct eye contact.
I reproduce our conversation here to the extent that the audio recording allows:
—You can trust me. (Me)
—I know. I trust you. (Riva)
—If something’s bothering you, we have to talk about it. It hurts your performance if you don’t deal with personal problems properly.
—I know.
—Are you unwell?
—I just have a headache. I don’t feel so good.
—Have you seen a doctor?
—It’s not that bad.
Riva’s last mandatory examination had been four days earlier. Her vital score index™ was as high as always. Riva has rarely had to struggle with injuries or other health problems. She is physically very healthy.
—I’m worried about you. (Me)
—You don’t have to be. (Riva)
At about this point in the conversation, Riva took my hand and squeezed it. As already stated on the log, we were always very close. Riva has often confided in me on private matters. Through many years of working together professionally, we have built up a familial closeness that includes sporadic hugs and other similar forms of physical contact. This is undoubtedly also the reason why there have been occasional false reports in the media about us having an affair. I feel connected to her in an almost paternal way. That is, in the sense of an old-fashioned, romanticized ideal of biopaternity, but I can’t think of a better comparison. I have been beside Riva since she was nine years old and, although I don’t value the other girls any less, she has always been somehow special to me. Of course, this may also have something to do with her outstanding performance.
I squeezed her hand and asked her again what was wrong. I could feel that her initial reluctance had eased somewhat. She gave me a longer answer:
—You know the feeling when your credit level rises and you get higher living-space privileges? You move in to your new apartment, look at the new surroundings, maybe go to the roof garden. You see it all for the first time and it inspires you, your wide windows, your view from above the city, the clean streets, the beautifully trimmed boxwoods in the roof garden, the small platform with the bench, and so on. Then you see it every day, three times a week you sit on that bench and the picture loses a little bit of color each time, until at some point everything—the window, the street, the park—it just makes you sick, you can’t look at it anymore.
—It’s perfectly normal for things to get boring. Maybe you should move again.
—That’s not the point! I don’t just mean the apartment, I mean my whole life. The diving, Aston, everything.
—But now you’re exaggerating. You’re in a bad mood. Maybe you should take a day off, do something nice, let Aston take you somewhere special. Or I can book you a happiness training™ session. Something like that.
—You don’t get what I mean.
—Of course I get it, Riva. You’ve been diving for fifteen years, you’re worried. You’re bored. Maybe you’re
thinking about what you should do when your body stops cooperating at some point. But you’re in great shape. You’re at the top of all the leaderboards. The younger competitors can’t touch you. You have a realistic chance of winning the World Championships.
—What difference does it make if I win the World Championships or not?
I tried to make her feel better, but Riva contradicted everything I said. She seemed unmovable, bitter. I assumed it was just a phase, so I didn’t press her too hard. In retrospect, I realize that I probably should have been more persistent and just ordered her to go to happiness training™.
Riva ended the conversation. She said she had a headache and wanted to lie down. We briefly went over the training schedule for the next day and she seemed to rally her spirits a bit.
I took her hand again; she quickly pulled away, but smiled at me.
—Everything’s gonna be okay.™ (Me)
—You haven’t said that to me in a long time. (Riva, still smiling)
—You haven’t needed it in a long time.
—Don’t worry, Dom.
With that, she left my office.
I left the conversation with a good feeling, since her smile seemed authentic to me, as if something had been resolved, something fundamental inside her.
-
2
My tablet rings and wakes me up at 2:33 a.m. Ever since I started regularly working the night shift, I only need a few seconds to shake the heaviness of sleep from my body when I get up. Like a bird that sleeps with only one half of its brain.
I’m still at the office. I must have nodded off while looking at the archive documents. My neck hurts from the awkward sleeping position. I had my head on the desk, now my right cheek has an imprint from the edge of my tablet.
—How can I help you?
Although the caller is using her employer’s internal Call-a-Coach™ hotline, the system doesn’t recognize her identification number or her language profile. I don’t understand her name, her voice is distorted and interrupted by sobs.
The High-Rise Diver Page 2
