—I saw the Discoveries segment, Zarnee says. Fuck. Are you okay?
—How could you voluntarily live there for so long? Aston replies.
Aston seems tired. His activity tracker is displaying a low heart rate.
After the filming cut off, I followed his GPS to several bars. Probably drinks with the crew. The bars were too crowded to get good visuals.
—Falls like that happen here, too, Zarnee says.
He follows Aston into his studio, I change the camera view. My eyes burn. It’s 1:25 a.m.
—But not like that, Aston says. There were no safety precautions, nothing at all.
Aston’s studio is messier than it was a few weeks ago. It’s more like a living room than a photo studio. Takeout containers everywhere, half-empty bottles, clothes, discarded wrappers.
—I had a phase a few years ago, Zarnee says, when I walked through zone F every night.
Aston looks at Zarnee in amazement.
—What? Are you suicidal?
—Not at all. I’ve never felt more alive. The thought that a violent ex-criminal, as dangerous as ever, could jump out of the shadows. A child molester, a murderer. I felt every individual atom in my body vibrating.
—Bullshit, Aston says.
He reaches for a plastic bag that’s lying around and uses it to start collecting garbage from the floor. Zarnee pushes Aston’s sleeping bag aside and sits down on the couch. He reaches for a photo portfolio that’s resting on a side table and leafs through it.
—It was electrifying, he says. The risk. The possibility of a hand on my neck, a blade on my skin.
—How disappointing that no one ever really attacked you, Aston says sarcastically.
—How do you know that?
—Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Safe and sound.
Zarnee continues flipping through the photos without actually looking at them.
—Have you ever thought about not using filters on your photos? he asks. No post-processing? Just plain reality?
—If you’re such a fan of plain reality, Aston says, why are you here now? Why not just stay in the peripheries? Take a walk through zone F?
Zarnee smiles and shrugs in a way that reminds me of Riva. Maybe it’s the same for Aston, I can see the frustration on his face.
—I have to go to sleep now, Aston says. I have an early assignment.
Zarnee gets up and goes to the door.
—I envy you, Zarnee says, that you spent the whole day in the peripheries. I miss it. The heat, the noise.
—But you didn’t have to relocate. And take a place away from someone who really wants it.
Zarnee nods and smiles at Aston before he leaves. In the doorway, he stops to wave.
I watch Zarnee walk over to the window wall in the living room. From a distance, you could mistake his silhouette for a woman’s body. A person like a fish, adaptable, agile. His charisma is palpable, almost tangible. It reminds me of Andorra, her presence when she came into a room. How she made the people around her look indistinct, colorless, only half exposed. The way classmates gathered around her in a natural way. Maybe that’s one reason why I still think about her, why I can’t forget her after such a long time.
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23
A loud noise in Riva’s apartment. I run from the bathroom to the screen without washing my hands.
Riva is sitting on the sofa, Zarnee is next to her, knee to knee. She’s holding the wooden thing that Zarnee brought with him when he moved in. She presses it with her thumb, it makes a loud crunching noise, I wince. The object in Riva’s hand is now star-shaped. I wish she would get rid of it; the sound echoes inside my skull. She strokes the wooden surface with her index finger as if it were a living thing.
—I never met my biofather, Riva says, but I did meet my biomother. She lived with me for two years, I read that in my file. I don’t remember her, but sometimes I feel like I might be able to if I try. That I just have to dig deep enough.
She tries to see Zarnee’s face, but he’s looking out the window.
—This morning I suddenly had a feeling like that, she says. I woke up and felt a hand on my cheek. I thought it might be you or Aston, but no one was there. I closed my eyes again and gave in to the feeling. A hand stroking my cheek. And then a feeling of warmth, as if a body had wrapped itself around me and kept me warm all around. Like you described in your blog. It could have been a memory of her like that. My biomother. Right?
Zarnee doesn’t look at her. His gaze is fixed somewhere out the window, as if he were afraid to look her in the eye.
—Maybe, he says.
She touches his cheek with her right hand, as if to snap him out of a trance. He doesn’t react, doesn’t turn towards her.
—And what if a breeder gave birth to you? Would you also want to remember her then?
—A breeder didn’t give birth to me, Zarnee. That would be in my file.
—Do you think it would make a difference?
—It probably would.
—Why?
—Because it would be a different relationship, wouldn’t it? You know that best. You spent your whole life with your bioparents.
—So you think a breeder kid is already defective by the time it’s born? Less human?
—I didn’t say that. I just thought you might understand why I want to remember my biomother, who conceived me, carried me, and gave birth to me, and who was there with me for another two years.
—And I do. I’m sorry. I understand that.
—That was all.
—Okay.
—I’m sorry.
—You don’t have to be sorry.
He puts his head against her neck and leans into her as if to test her resistance. It takes a moment for her muscles to soften and give in to the physical contact. I see them breathing with the same rhythm.
—I never used to think about the past, Riva says, and only about the future and only about my competition goals. I never thought about death either. Not even if another diver had an accident. It seemed so abstract to me.
Zarnee sits up and looks at her.
—Now I feel like I’m trapped between my past and my future and they’re closing in on me. Crushing me. Do you know what I mean?
—I think so.
She sinks back in his direction so slowly that the movement isn’t visible in the gray evening light. Two images, one after the other without a transition. The first: two slender, upright figures. The second: a single figure. Impossible to distinguish where she ends and he begins.
Zarnee, I dictate a message, take advantage of this closeness. Remind her of diving.
Zarnee needs a moment to react to the vibration from his tablet.
—I’d love to see you dive again, he says, when he’s back in position, leaning against her.
—Okay, Riva says. Maybe I’ll dive for you sometime. I’ll think about it.
I highlight the sentence yellow and send Masters a link to the video. Karnovsky expresses motivation to resume training, I write, her willingness to communicate is greatly increased.
Masters answers quickly: Very good. Have the field agent set up an initial training appointment as soon as possible.
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24
The live feed isn’t working. Transmission interference on the security cameras in Riva’s apartment. The technician’s analysis didn’t uncover any software malfunctions. I had to tell Zarnee to check the hardware when Riva was in the shower. Apparently, he was able to fix the problem, but Masters ordered a security check before the cameras were unlocked again. He suspects Zarnee of sabotaging the cameras. When I checked the archive videos from the time before the outage, I couldn’t identify any suspicious behavior.
I get up, walk through the room, stand by the window, observe the city at night. The lig
hts in the apartment windows, the headlights moving in pairs along the street at the same speed. I have the urge to leave my apartment. Normally, I would hold back, stay on the ball, walk in place in front of the monitor to keep up with my minimum daily physical activity.
Instead, I put on my coat, take the elevator downstairs, and leave the building without knowing where I actually want to end up. I go in any direction my body takes me. I let my footsteps get faster and longer until I feel exuberant, almost cocky. I let the streets and houses blur in front of me, their rows of headlights and neon signs become glimmering flares in the night. I imagine Riva on the diving platform at the top of a skyscraper, jumping off, flying. Soaring up above the building and into the sky before diving back down again. A record-breaking attempt. I see the wide-eyed commentators, Dom Wu’s tense face, and then Masters nodding happily in my direction.
I suddenly find myself standing in front of the same bar where I ended up a few weeks ago. This time I go in without hesitating.
It’s more crowded than last time. Loud music, retro hits. I order a flydive™, correct myself immediately, and then order a vodka martini instead. The bartender seems to recognize me. He smiles at me.
—Why don’t you just have a flydive™ if it’s always the first thing you think of?
—You don’t go with the first man you see. You go with the one you really like.
—But maybe the first man you saw is actually the one you always liked without realizing it.
—Vodka martini, please.
He starts mixing my drink and turns to another customer sitting at the other end of the bar.
I look around for the woman in the evening dress, wondering if I would even recognize her without it. I don’t see anyone that reminds me of her. No one seems to be here alone; all of the guests are gathered in small groups, standing and sitting in different parts of the room, having conversations. The only person sitting alone is the man at the other end of the bar. When the bartender turns to bring me my drink, the man looks around the room. It’s Royce Hung. He doesn’t seem to recognize me. His eyes casually wander past me like any other customer here.
I finish my drink and order another martini.
The bartender sees me pointing at my empty glass and pours me another. I pay, take my drink, and walk to the other end of the bar. I turn to Royce as if I had just noticed him from the corner of my eye.
—Royce Hung, I say. He looks at me, puzzled.
—Excuse me?
—Hitomi Yoshida.
I put my hand out to shake.
—We met through MattersOfLife™.
—You must have me mistaken for someone else, Royce says, turns away from me, and waves over the bartender.
—Royce Hung, I say, you are Royce Hung after all. Or at least you’re registered under that pseudonym.
—You’re mistaken, Royce says, sorry.
—We spent a whole evening together.
—Sorry.
The bartender puts a fresh beer in front of him on the counter.
—What are you doing, Royce? You could just tell me you didn’t like the date. But ignoring my messages and pretending you don’t recognize me is unprofessional.
—I don’t know you, Royce says. Have a nice evening. His voice sounds deeper than I remember it.
He holds up his beer bottle and says cheers, then he turns to his tablet on the bar and starts scrolling through content. I look at him. I’m absolutely sure it’s Royce Hung. I remember his face clearly from when he bent down to kiss me.
—You too, I say, have a nice evening. Fuck you.
Before he can say anything back, I’ve already left the bar. I lean against the wall next to the entrance. The martini glass is still in my hand. My body is trembling violently. I’m shaking so intensely that the martini spills on my blouse. I drop the glass, it shatters on the asphalt, and then I start running. For a moment, I close my eyes and run into the darkness. Suddenly, I hear the sound of screeching brakes and honking horns, I open my eyes and realize that I ran onto the road. I jump back and make an apologetic gesture towards the drivers. They continue their journey. I hope that no one notifies security services. So many credits would be deducted for endangering street traffic that I’d risk relocation to the peripheries.
The peripheries. When we weren’t taken directly to the casting halls, they would have us walk two by two through the surrounding residential area. Everywhere, swarms of children, like wasps. Dirty and wild, unlike me and the other kids from the institute. They scared me, I tried not to touch them, clinging to Andorra’s hand.
Later, I saw them in the audience, screaming and clapping. Today casting audiences are all simulated; at that time, there were still live spectators, particularly children, a chaotic crowd. They seemed violent to me, I knew that I couldn’t defend myself if they came up to me and threatened me. It sent a shiver down my spine to think of living among them, indistinguishable like them. What if my bioparents lost their jobs or if I failed my exams and had to give up my place at the institute? I imagined myself being driven to the peripheries. How they would push me out of the van, into the chaos.
We had to wait in front of the casting halls for the security check before they let us in. A child was playing near me. I couldn’t help but stare at it. You couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a boy. It was maybe three years old and stuffed in a sack-like outfit that was torn in some places. It looked as if the child were packed in a shopping bag. He or she picked at the holes in the fabric, you could see brown skin through them. Rolls of baby fat. At some point, it plopped down and lay back in the dirt. It stretched its arms and legs out to both sides, made flying movements, laughed. Its curly hair on the dirty, sandy ground.
I had to throw up. The children in my group backed away from me. A supervisor came over to clean and disinfect me before we entered the hall.
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25
The normal split screen is back up on the monitor, but it looks almost as if the wrong apartment was activated. There are people everywhere. Electronic music is blasting from the sound system, which hasn’t been used since the start of this job. Two young men are sitting cross-legged on the floor, Zarnee is deep in conversation with two women on the sofa. Riva and Aston are nowhere to be seen.
I click my way from camera to camera, but Riva isn’t there. My right temple starts throbbing.
Where is Riva? I write Zarnee.
He glances at his tablet when my message appears and then puts it down on the sofa.
Zarnee? Where is she? I write.
Zarnee looks down at the device, smiles, and then turns in the direction where he suspects I might be watching from a camera. He puts his hand up and gives the peace sign.
One of the young women next to Zarnee is styled in the kiddie-look™. Her eyes are made up to look big, her skin is whitened with powder, her cheeks are covered with apple-sized red powder circles. Her mouth resembles a red painted fish mouth, small and round. She’s wearing a blue and white dress with a sailor collar. Her white stockings are pulled up over her knees. She’s leaning on Zarnee like a child on her father. It’s a strange image, considering how much Zarnee looks like a child himself. Then again, amidst his entourage, he seems like a tribal leader or cult guru. His thin arms draped around the shoulders of his sheep.
They’re all fixated on their tablets; from time to time they react to the content with giggles or gasps. Zarnee keeps looking up from his device and observing his guests. Every now and then he brushes a strand of hair from the forehead of one of the two girls and is rewarded with a smile or a kiss on the cheek.
Zarnee, I write. Answer my question.
Zarnee looks down at his tablet again, reads, smiles.
Then he lowers the volume on the sound system.
—When you release sheep into the wild, he asks them, do they need a shepherd to survive?
Everyone laughs. One of the boys raises his hand for a high five.
—CYEOYM, says the girl in the kiddie-look™.
I find several entries for the word, including things like the product code for a tablet cover and a username. The most likely answer is that it’s an acronym for close your eyes, open your mind. My facial-recognition search shows that the two women and one of the men live in the peripheries and are only allowed in the city for work. They must have crossed the border with a fake call sheet. Masters won’t like that.
I check the display every time I get a notification on my tablet. Zarnee still hasn’t responded. Instead, my tablet continuously beeps with news alerts, advertising messages, and notifications from the PsySolutions server about new evaluations in the tracking tool. My temple is throbbing. Before I even finish logging it on the pain scale, the pain increases so much that I have to adjust the entry. I mute the notifications for a minute and concentrate on my breathing.
The pain spreads from my right temple to the entire back of my head. I take an ice pack out of the freezer and hold it against my temple. Then I take two pills and lie on the floor. First I lie on my back and, when that doesn’t help, in child’s pose. I kneel on the floor, my forehead pressed against the cool vinyl. For a moment, I manage to concentrate completely on my breath. The headache subsides a little. I stay like this for five minutes, then I slowly stand up.
Everything on the monitor is still the same as before. The girls next to Zarnee on the sofa, the boys sitting cross-legged across from them. Zarnee still hasn’t answered my message.
Zarnee, I write. We have a contract. I want to know where Riva is.
This time he considers my message for a bit longer than before. Again, he turns in the direction where he suspects I’m watching and holds up his middle finger.
Wrong camera, I write. Zarnee laughs when he reads it.
—What’s so funny, the girl on his left asks.
The High-Rise Diver Page 14
