The High-Rise Diver

by Julia Von Lucadou

  She’s facing him again, her posture suggests a sudden openness.

  Dom Wu shakes his head.

  —Do you still remember when we were in the museum with that sculpture, the naked woman, and I couldn’t stop crying?

  —Yes, Dom says, I remember.

  My assistant sends me several files, including a weekly report from the academy’s archives. A text passage is marked yellow: Riva has been noticeably guarded ever since the incident at the museum over the weekend. She only replies to my questions with cryptic answers. I made an appointment for her with Psychological Oversight. Her scores don’t seem to be affected.

  —How old was I? asks Riva.

  —I don’t know, maybe fourteen.

  Please try to find video footage of the mentioned incident from the museum, I dictate.

  —I think about it a lot lately.

  —Why?

  —I didn’t understand it myself. The crying, I mean. I just couldn’t help it. It was as if I had no control over my body. And you never asked me why.

  The video that my assistant sends is from an exhibition space in the modern art museum, a spacious hall with various art objects along the walls, particularly photographs. In the middle of the hall there’s a silicone sculpture: Recumbent Woman on Mattress™.

  —You thought she was real, Dom says. You got scared because you thought it was a real woman lying naked on the floor. It was uncomfortable for you. You were ashamed.

  In the overhead shot from the surveillance camera, the statue really is indistinguishable from a living human. She’s lying on her side and appears to be sleeping on a mattress that is about three feet wide. One leg is pulled up against her body. You can see her pubic hair. Her skin appears slightly grayish or dirty. Pale. Her body looks shapeless, her body mass index much too high. In places where her flesh rests particularly firmly against the mattress, her obese body spreads as if it were melting away.

  —I wasn’t ashamed, Riva says. It wasn’t that. I finally understand that now. I understand a lot lately.

  Riva enters the hall at 11:54 a.m. She’s dressed up for the excursion, wearing a tight blue dress with a white hem. Her hair is braided into two plaits and pinned up into a bun.

  She stops short just past the entrance, as if someone had pressed a button that was connected to her legs. The visitors behind her have to slow down and walk around her. Riva’s posture is rigid and tense. Her eyes are frozen on the naked body in the middle of the room.

  —Then explain it to me, Riva, Dom says.

  His voice sounds gentler than before, fatherly.

  —It reminded me of the peripheries, Riva says. Her obesity, her dirty exposed skin, her whole unpleasant presence. There’s no one like that in the city. The last time I saw a person like that was in the peripheries. My home.

  In the video, Riva starts crying. Her face remains expressionless, her mouth slightly open, none of her facial muscles are tense. The tears run down her cheeks. She’s frozen on the spot, petrified, while the other visitors stream around her like a river with an obstacle in its path. She looks so lost, as if she should be somewhere else entirely. I breathe a sigh of relief when Dom enters the hall, sees her, puts his arm around her shoulder, and then walks over to the statue with her.

  —Your home, Riva?

  Dom’s voice has gotten harder again.

  —This is your home. The peripheries were never your home. You always wanted to leave there, you were happy when you finally made it.

  —That’s true, Riva says.

  In the video, you see Dom talking her down, taking her hand and carefully placing it on the woman’s skin. Riva, hesitant at first, then repeatedly strokes the surface, as if to verify the reality of the situation. In the wide-angle shot, the woman on the floor looks so real that it’s unpleasant to watch the girl touch her naked skin over and over again. Even though I know that it’s cold silicone and that it’s an inanimate object, I think I can see the skin move from a distance, flinch. I can’t shake the idea that the body is soft to the touch and as tender as dough.

  —It must have been a subconscious longing, Riva says, that I didn’t understand myself. Mourning a loss I hadn’t even registered. But it was still in my body. Inside my body.

  Her posture has relaxed. She is still standing in the doorway, but no longer in a flight position; instead, she’s upright, determined.

  —Is that the problem, Riva? That you suddenly long for the peripheries? Then go there for a few days. Find out what it feels like.

  Riva shakes her head and smiles.

  —No, she says, that’s not the problem. I have no problem. You’re the one with the problem, Dom. I used to want to jump and now I don’t. I used to want glamour and credits and fame, now I don’t. And you can’t accept that.

  It takes a while until Riva calms down in the museum. She and Dom stand in front of the naked body for a long time until she’s ready to go. Dom finally guides her out of the hall like a blind woman, his left arm firmly around her shoulders.

  —You’ve been good to me, Dom, Riva says. You used to somehow understand me.

  —Then why did you stop?

  —Why do you keep going?

  Riva’s taxi is waiting at the main entrance. She gets in without looking around.

  By the time the vehicle merges with the steady flow of traffic, the society blogs are already full of posts about Riva’s appearance at the academy. A surveillance video from Dom’s office was leaked under the headline Romantic Strife? The soundtrack is so noisy that it’s almost impossible to understand anything from their conversation—a popular strategy employed by VJs when the actual dialogue in a papavid™ offers too little potential for scandal.

  Another blog article is titled On Parole from House Arrest? The Shocking Details of How Riva Karnovsky is Being Held Hostage in Her Own Apartment.

  Dom calls me immediately after Riva has left his office.

  —I didn’t get through to her, he says.

  —She showed up, she got involved in a conversation, that’s real progress.

  My voice automatically falls into a therapy tone. Understanding, supporting.

  —What do we do now?

  —Write to her. Tell her it was nice to see her. Tell her that she should get in touch with me.

  —Okay.

  —You did well, Dom.

  —It hurts me to see her like that, you know. All those years of training. It’s such a waste.

  —Yes, I agree, I say, and wish he could see my face in that moment, my real sympathy.

  I suddenly feel very close to Dom. I watch him as he says goodbye into his tablet and then ends our call.

  My head hurts. I take two pills and close my eyes for a minute. Then my tablet vibrates with a new message. It must be Royce Hung, finally getting in touch.

  The message isn’t from Royce, but was sent automatically from the server operating system. Hugo M. Masters tagged my log from the meeting between Riva and Wu as To be revised.

  I sign into my profile at the partnering agency. Royce Hung hasn’t rated our date. Maybe I should write my review first. Maybe he’s trying to be polite by waiting. I start filling out the form. Five stars seems too enthusiastic to me, he could interpret that as too eager. I decide on four stars first, but click on five shortly before sending. Anything else would be rude.

  I find it difficult to shake the image of the naked woman in the museum. Her morbidly obese body. It makes me think of my first visit to the peripheries, my first compulsory casting. After customs, there was another world awaiting us behind the wall. We pressed our faces against the bus window and pointed to the poor, dusty streets, the gray block buildings. Within minutes our bus was surrounded by people waving to us. Adults and children in an uncontrolled mob. Sticky people, making faces and stuffing bad, unhealthy food into their mouths. One woman caught
my eye in particular. I’d never seen such a fat person before. The jumper she was wearing didn’t cover her entire body, flesh pushed its way out in rolls on all sides. I felt sick. While the others on the bus laughed and pointed at the people, I turned away from the window and looked down until we had to get out.

  -

  10

  After seeing Riva exhibit more readiness to communicate with Dom, I hoped to take advantage of it by asking Aston to organize a telephone coaching session. After making contact, he holds the tablet out to Riva.

  —Riva, I say, trying to sound as open and caring as possible, can you hear me?

  Riva doesn’t answer. She’s sitting on the sofa and her eyes are fixed on the opposite wall, as if she were deciphering an invisible message.

  —Riva, you don’t know me. I understand that this is strange. But sometimes it can be helpful to talk to someone who’s completely disconnected from your life. I just want to talk to you. Person to person. I want to understand. Can you help me understand you?

  Aston holds the tablet so that the round speaker opening is turned directly towards Riva. He’s standing next to the sofa. His posture suggests uncertainty. I advised him not to sit right next to Riva or put the device down because then she could turn it off.

  —Imagine what it must be like for Dom, I say. He’s lost a close confidante, a colleague, a daughter of sorts. And he doesn’t understand why. We don’t want to force you into anything, that’s not what this is about, Riva. But at least give us the chance to understand why you broke your contract. Not me, forget me, you don’t know me. But Aston. Dom. Your colleagues. They don’t deserve to be left in the dark, helpless. Your fans.

  Riva lets out a laugh, the first indication that she’s been listening.

  —You don’t think your fans deserve to understand why you left? Why not, Riva?

  Riva doesn’t answer. Her facial expression is stony. Her eyes stay frozen on the opposite wall. She didn’t even look at Aston when he came into the living room from the studio and started the audio connection.

  —Imagine what it would be like for you if one day Aston just suddenly started walking on his hands. That’s all he did, all day and all night. Wouldn’t you like to know why? And in your case, Riva, it’s a much more extreme situation because he sees, because everyone sees, everyone who cares about you, that you’re not well. And everyone is worried about you, Riva. Everyone wants to help you. But you have to tell us what happened. We want you to get better. Don’t you want that too?

  The corners of Riva’s mouth move, her lower lip quivers. She looks at Aston, his arm has begun to tremble slightly from holding up the tablet to her. Riva’s gaze is cool, almost condescending. Aston looks back at her, unsure, and then takes a step towards her. With a quick hand movement, she knocks the device out of his hand. It crashes onto the floor with a bang and lands with the screen facing down. Aston backs away.

  —Riva? I call out and hear my muffled voice echo in her apartment.

  Riva leans over the edge of the sofa.

  —Riva, I can understand your anger, I say. I want—

  Before I can say anything else, she’s already broken the connection. She leans back on the sofa, no emotion can be read from her facial expressions.

  Aston shakes his head, shrugs, and then goes into his studio. The door loudly clicks shut. Riva doesn’t move.

  Unsuccessful results, writes Masters in the log file.

  The color marking the action does not change.

  At least she had an emotional reaction, I want to write back. But I don’t want to appear unreasonable.

  In order to escape my disappointment, I search the web for distractions. After several news portals, I suddenly find myself back on familymatters.org.

  Media Usage Log Archive No.: Bc8

  Employee: @PsySolutions_ID5215d (Hitomi Yoshida)

  Content: familymatters.org

  Media Type: Blog

  Security Category: Safe

  Usage History Data: Frequency of use low, average once per day.

  Closed Caption Track: “Presents.srt”

  My biofather always buys us presents when he has enough credits like yesterday when he gave me this clown that you can wind up and then he laughs and shakes his head just like this hahaha my biosister got scared and cried my father always brings her sweets because it’s the only thing she likes then she stuffs them into her mouth all at once so that her whole face is full of chocolate I tried to play with her with my clown but she just cried she said that she wants a dog so my father will probably bring a dog with him next time he actually does everything we want because he loves us so much

  -

  11

  Riva has used her tablet three times in the last twenty-four hours. A breakthrough. According to her media usage log, she searched the internet for images using the keyword peripheries and downloaded certain ones. Generic photographs of streets and houses, typical concrete blocks. But also several individual portraits of children playing outdoors. One of the pictures was taken at night. It shows a girl, about three years old, with a circle of light around her. The visual effect doesn’t seem like it was added later, but instead was created naturally by the girl spinning in a circle with burning torches in her hands. I couldn’t find any connection between the people in the pictures and Riva through facial recognition.

  While checking the tablet, the data analyst made a discovery. The installation history shows that a diary application was deleted shortly before Riva broke her contract. The analyst promised to recover the account as quickly as possible. Since the app operates with multiple encryptions, it may take a few days. At least there’s hope of gaining direct insight into Riva’s inner state. Even Masters reacted enthusiastically to the news.

  Still, I’m running out of time. Masters has been putting more pressure on me every day. In the online tracking tool, he’s marked all of the ongoing actions orange or even red, and project progress is displayed as insufficient. I have to get her much closer to the intended state by the next investor meeting. Because of my bad review, I didn’t get a performance fee and I’m afraid I won’t have enough credits for my rent next month.

  My order log for Call-a-Coach™ has been empty for two days. I wonder if I lost my account without having been informed. It’s probably just a coincidence. Despite the lack of nightly interruptions, my sleep is getting even worse. The sleep-summary graph on my activity tracker shows restless periods. They occurred at regular intervals when I reached for my tablet, half asleep, to check if I missed any calls.

  Everyday needs cost too much time. Since my contract requires a minimum level of physical and mental fitness, I can’t cut back on my already neglected mindfulness and fitness exercises anymore. I’ve limited my sleep time to five hours and got a warning from my tracker in response, which Masters marked red in the daily report. I asked him if I could do the video analysis from home for a while in order to waste less time traveling between home and work. Masters has approved this for the time being. My argument that I needed a geographical change for new stimuli made sense to him.

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed how he was rapidly taking notes as I left his office. I suspect that it was a performance report. Judging by his stern expression, I’m going to have to expect a warning.

  Masters’s demeanor brings back the memory of my last encounter with my biofather. It took place in a similar-sized office with a similar air of authority. I was four years and seventy-seven days old. One of the caregivers had unexpectedly taken me out of the morning program and brought me to the director’s office. I was wearing the institute’s play uniform. The girl’s version was a blue knee-length dress made of water-repellent stretch fabric. The institute logo was printed on it in white—the silhouette of a dog’s head in a circle. The logo is firmly embedded in my memory. It was printed on everything we owned. I liked the idea of a d
og; it’s cold, wet snout and thick, warm fur. More than that, I liked the associations with trust and reliability. Dogs seemed like the perfect companions to me and I dreamed of owning one as an adult, not realizing that it was incompatible with a successful workday.

  I was led to the management office, a part of the institute that I’d never seen before. The first things I noticed were its expansive size and the window wall; backlit in front of it, the two men standing at the desk looked like silhouettes. My caregiver greeted them both with a brief handshake and left the room. From close up, I first recognized the institute director, who came around every Monday to visit the classes. And then I noticed the other man—my biological father. I’m not sure anymore how I knew it was him, the caregiver probably told me. From the institute’s archival data, I know that he and my biomother came to the institute together in the first year of my stay, but I don’t remember it. After that, the frequency of his visits dwindled more and more.

  When I was two and three years old, he sometimes came for meetings at which, according to the minutes, I wasn’t present. At the age of four I only saw him this one time in the director’s office. The reason for the appointment is noted in the minutes as a finance meeting. My father wanted to exempt himself of any payment obligations and remove his name from the contract because he and my mother had ended their relationship.

  He looked down at me and put his hand on my head. It’s the only time I can remember my father touching me. His hand felt heavy and warm. At first I wanted to brush it off, but then I started to like it. It gave me a sense of security, similar to how I felt when I was restrained on one of the daybeds at the institute. They would strap us to them when we got in trouble. Other children would squirm in their beds for thirty minutes and try to free themselves from the restraints. But I usually accepted my situation after just a few minutes and would submit to it entirely. Once I had accepted it, my inescapable position suddenly turned into a space of happiness. I would close my eyes and breathe into the bed, which seemed to engulf me like a hug. The feeling that I could do nothing and that nothing was expected of me other than to breathe in and out. I relaxed every muscle of my body, so that the straps would only lay loosely on me, and often didn’t even notice that a supervisor had already released the fastener. In a whitepaper from the childcare institute on the benefits of physical restraints in child rearing, I once proudly read a case description on my own positive reaction to the bed.