by Hao Jingfang
“There is.”
“The difference doesn’t matter … once you’ve seen enough.”
Luoying gazed at Uncle Laak. His long, slender fingers were laced together on the desk, and his expression was somber. He sat very straight, as though a bowl of water were placed on top of his head. But for some reason, she thought his posture reminded her of prayer, with his hands together on the desk. There was a suffering look in his eyes, mysterious but clear, that came through the circular lenses of his glasses, through his laced fingers, through the air that divided them. She believed that he hoped she would see the pain.
Unlike Uncle Juan, Uncle Laak never showed his emotions. He never shouted, never laughed uproariously. His expression always resembled something carved out of an ancient stump, unchanging. She was sure that he wanted her to see the pain that was now in his eyes.
His face was long, with prominent cheekbones. The hair on his head was growing sparse and turning gray, as though singed by mental overexertion. He waited for her answer.
“I want to know.”
“All right.”
He stood up and touched the wall. The protective wallpaper slid away, revealing a metallic grid that filled the whole wall like filing cabinets. Each rectangle was brown in color, with a golden edge. A ringlike handle sat in the middle of each rectangle with a white placard beneath. Though it was all simulated, everything looked so real that she thought she could reach up and pull open the drawers.
The whole wall was like that, and the effect on Luoying was overwhelming. Laak walked along the wall, glancing at the markings on the white placards. He stopped and touched one of the rectangles, entering a few commands. Behind the wall, a droning noise grew.
Soon a sheet of electronic paper slid out of the slot at the side of the rectangle.
Laak picked up the sheet and handed it to Luoying. She received it carefully, like a bowl filled to the brim. She stared at it without blinking. The sheet showed her examination from five years earlier and the score. The number was incontrovertibly clear against the clear glass fiber; each stroke like a tiny knife cut into her heart.
She read over the sheet several times before looking up. She had already known what the number would tell her, but now she had confirmation.
“Why was I substituted in?”
Laak shook his head. “I can give you the facts, but I can’t give you the reasons.”
“I want to know who the other student was.”
“What other student?”
“The one who should have gone to Earth. The one whose fate was exchanged with mine.”
A moment of hesitation. “I don’t know.”
“That’s impossible!” Luoying blurted. “You were the one in charge of administering the exam.” She realized how disrespectful she sounded. She hated the way she always lost control when she was confused. She turned her face away to calm herself.
Uncle Laak’s eyes now looked pitying, with a trace of anguish.
“Even if I knew,” he said, “I couldn’t tell you. You have the right to view your own file. I don’t have the right to tell you what’s in anyone else’s file.”
Luoying looked down at her own hands. She was sitting in an old-fashioned office chair with high armrests. Sitting in it was like being hugged by it. Luoying felt that she needed such a hug. When a suspended crag finally smashed into the sea, it would start a tsunami in the deep.
“Uncle Laak,” she asked, “am I allowed to see anyone else’s file?”
“You’re not.”
“Not even family?”
“No.”
“I thought our guiding principle was that everyone’s file is transparent.”
“That is true, but there are two conditions. Either the subject must voluntarily disclose the file, or the law must require such disclosure. Anything a citizen has created and wishes to share with others is public, as are policy proposals they make to the government, and the financial records related to their work and management responsibilities. But otherwise every citizen has the right to privacy. Most personal files are never made public and become part of historical memory. It has always been this way in every age.”
“So I can’t even see my parents’ files.”
“Not unless they made them public.”
“I tried to look for information on my mother, but all the public records stopped two years before her death, when she left her atelier. I don’t know what happened to her after that. It’s as though those two years never existed.”
Laak looked sympathetic, but his voice remained neutral. “I’m sorry.”
“But why?”
“The public records are drawn from her work at the atelier. Once she was no longer registered, there would be no more records.”
“In other words, to the system, a person without an atelier is no different from a dead body.”
“You can put it that way.”
Sunlight slanted through the window, dispassionately slicing the wall with geometric precision. The grid of filing rectangles in the shadow resembled a bottomless sea. She knew that Uncle Laak was correct; everything he said was correct—so correct that it drove her to despair.
“Is that what it means to be registered?”
“Not entirely.”
“Then what is the meaning of registration?”
“The distribution of resources. The fair, open, transparent distribution of resources. The system guarantees that everyone receives what they should—not one penny more, not one penny less. No secrets or omissions.”
“We get paid according to age. What does that have to do with registration and ateliers?”
“You’re talking about the living expenses stipend, which is a vanishingly small portion of the total capital in the system. That part indeed has nothing to do with registration and is based solely on age. But when you become an adult, you realize that living expenses are not the bulk of the amount of capital you may allocate in society. Most of a citizen’s economic activity involves research funds, creation and production costs, the purchase of raw materials and the sale of finished goods, and so on. The flow of capital occurs strictly within the framework of ateliers, although the ateliers merely deploy capital, which ultimately flows back to the collective. This is the only way to ensure a single, consistent accounting. Without a registered account number, the system won’t allow you to participate.”
“Why can’t anyone just conduct research on their own, outside the system?”
“You can do that if you wish, but then you may only use your living expenses stipend and can’t tap into any public funding. If we allow a single breach to develop in the dam that keeps public wealth out of private hands, then corruption, hoarding, and greed will pour through like a flood.”
“If someone doesn’t want any public funding, is it a crime to not register?”
“No, it’s not a crime.”
“They won’t be exiled?”
“They will not.”
“Then why did my mother and father die?”
It took all of Luoying’s courage to ask this last question. She bit her bottom lip, slightly dry due to her anxiety, as her heart pounded against her rib cage. Contrary to her expectation, Laak didn’t look surprised. He continued to sit quietly, his posture erect, with no change in his expression or voice. He had been prepared for the question.
“They died from an unfortunate accident. I share your grief.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m asking why they were punished and sent to the mining ship.”
“As I’ve told you, I can only tell you facts, not reasons.”
“Then tell me what the charge brought against them was.”
“Threat to national security.”
“What threat? How?”
“I can’t elaborate beyond what I’ve told you.”
Laak’s voice had grown softer. Luoying felt an invisible rope suspended between them, with each pulling on one end. But the rope refused to budge even one millim
eter. She choked back tears. Laak poured her a cup of tea without speaking. She shook her head, refusing to accept.
She looked into his eyes, pleading. “Uncle Laak, I’d like to ask you something else.”
“What is it?”
“Is my grandfather a dictator?”
Laak gazed at her as though trying to ascertain the motivation behind her question.
At length, he spoke in a voice as dry and dispassionate as a textbook, and as unreal as an unearthed antique in the fading Martian sunlight. “We have to start from the definition. From the time of Plato’s Republic, the meaning of ‘dictator’ has not changed much. If someone could enact laws and execute them at will, without any checks and balances, then by consensus, they are a dictator.
“So let’s take a look at your grandfather. He cannot enact criminal laws at will because such laws must be proposed by the directors of the Security System. He cannot alter policy arbitrarily because every system has its sphere of autonomy, and cross-system policy changes require the consent of the Boule as a whole. Matters affecting the planet must be put to a vote involving the entire populace. He is under constant oversight: the central archive records and publicizes everything he says or does, every expenditure he authorizes. Do you think he is a dictator, then?”
“Then why can’t I see my grandfather’s file? I’m part of that oversight, aren’t I?”
Laak spoke slowly. “That’s different. Everyone’s life has a private part, a part that belongs only to memory. That part is like the reef under the sea, while we only have the right to monitor the ships on the surface. No one has the right to pry into his life outside of his official duties.”
Luoying bit her bottom lip. Laak’s words were like the gridded ocean behind him, bottomless.
“What’s contained in these files?”
“Memories. Time’s memories.”
“Why don’t they have such files on Earth?”
“They do. You just haven’t seen them.” Laak’s voice grew even more patient and slow. “You’ve been to Earth, so you know how helpful our files are. When a person switches from one atelier to another, they don’t need to provide any proof of identity or open new bank accounts and switch household registration records. All that is needed is a change in the atelier’s record, and everything happens automatically in the background. Don’t you find this convenient? The unified system of centralized record keeping makes it possible and ensures that we can establish each person’s true credit history.”
“Yes, that is true.” Luoying knew that Laak was right. On Earth, when she changed jobs, she had to take a whole stack of documents from one office to another to prove she was who she was, to introduce herself, to be interrogated by bureaucrats, to answer the same set of questions again and again, to be surrounded by suspicion, to be drowned in form after form. She had witnessed the frauds and disguises enabled by such a system. Yes, Uncle Laak was right, but that wasn’t her question.
“What I’m trying to understand is this: Why must we assign a single number to every person, a static space, an identity tied to an atelier? Why can’t we move around as we please, to forget the past and to re-create the self? Why can’t we be free?”
“You can do as you like, and you are free to re-create yourself,” said Laak, whose voice took on an enigmatic air. “But you are not allowed to forget the past.”
The rays of the setting sun were almost parallel with the ground, and deepening shadows made the ceiling seem even higher. Laak still sat erect in his gray suit jacket and his plain white shirt, the cuffs and collar neatly buttoned. Through his black-framed glasses, he looked at Luoying with pity, as though he wanted to tell her so many things while saying nothing. His hands were flattened against the desk, and his slim fingers resembled ancient quills lying still.
Luoying noticed the columns in the office for the first time. Like other columns in Martian buildings, they concealed the electrons speeding through the wires within. But these resembled the columns in ancient Greek temples, sacred and stately. The desk, though made of glass, looked indistinguishable from wood. The penholder on the desk had enigmatic patterns on its surface. Everything in the room hinted at the weight of history, like the figure of Uncle Laak himself.
THE COFFEE LOUNGE
On Mars, coffee wasn’t real coffee but a synthetic substitute. It wasn’t as bitter as the real thing but was very fragrant. The drinker could choose the preferred roast and additives, including stimulating effects. Coffee lounges were open and airy, and there were no baristas or servers. Customers brewed their own beverages at machines embedded in the walls while bakers in the kitchen prepared pastries.
Since hotels and homes had their own coffee machines, people mostly came to coffee lounges to chat with friends or to discuss business. Thus, these spaces were specially engineered for audio isolation. Sound-absorbing boards hung from the ceiling; potted plants acted as partitions; the tables were set far apart from one another, ensuring a degree of privacy at each.
This particular coffee lounge was located at a busy street corner. A customer sitting next to the window could see the clothing store to the left, the framed-painting shop to the right, and the open-air theater surrounded by bushes across the street. The sides of the street were lined with statues of famous chefs through the ages because the street was dedicated to the culinary arts. On Mars, practically every street was named after a creative master: a scientist, an engineer, a painter, a chef, a fashion designer, and so on. Every street had its own collection of statues, some in formal poses, but many also portraying humorous moments. The statues of the great chefs along this street were especially vivid. Every one struck a different pose, surrounded by replicas of their signature dishes, preserving in a lasting manner the beauty of fleeting taste.
A group of children bounced past the coffee lounge to have a snack of fruits under an umbrella-shaped tree. In an empty space between the two lanes of the street, four youths played a string quartet. A few girls opened roadside display cases to put in dolls they had made—a part of their atelier internship program. Pedestrians streamed past the glass wall of the coffee lounge like hazy currents.
Janet had invited Eko here because it was close to the Tarkovsky Film Archive, and it was also where she and Arthur had gone on their first date. She didn’t touch her coffee. Her gaze was focused on some nonexistent place far away as she listened intently.
Eko finished his account.
“So he didn’t make any more films?” asked Janet.
“No.”
“Did he ever agree to be interviewed?”
“No. He was an enigma, confiding in no one.”
“Not even you?”
“Maybe a few hints here and there, but I was too young to really understand.”
Janet sighed. “Arthur was stubborn as a mule. He dedicated himself to the pursuit of his vision, regardless of how others viewed him.” She looked down at her hands. Softly, she added, “Did he at least explain himself to his family?”
“Family?”
“His wife and child.”
“No. He and his wife divorced a long time ago, and he spent the last ten years of his life alone.”
“Ten years? When did he get a divorce?”
“It was so long ago that I don’t even know the exact date. I think it was when he was thirty-two, thirty-three, something like that.”
“Before he had come to Mars, then.”
“Definitely. You didn’t know?”
Janet looked shocked. “No, I didn’t.”
It was Eko’s turn to be shocked. How could she not know after spending eight years with Davosky? Carefully he asked, “He never spoke of it?”
Janet shook her head absentmindedly. She was lost in her memories again, her gaze unfocused. Her elbows rested on the table, fingers interlaced. Twice she seemed about to speak but stopped herself.
Eko waited patiently.
Janet sighed again. “Arthur never mentioned it. I guess I never wanted to k
now—or didn’t have the courage to ask. I saw a photo he carried with him, a picture of him and a woman and a little boy. I asked him if that was his wife and son, and he said yes. I asked him if his family would worry that he was away for so long, but he told me they weren’t getting along. I didn’t pry, thinking it was something within the family. I told him that even if they weren’t getting along, he had to go home sometime. He said yes, eventually. And then …
“After we were together, I never brought it up, thinking that he would leave if I did. Sometimes he would say, ‘Janet, I have something I need to discuss with you.’ I would ask him, ‘Are you leaving?’ He would say, ‘No, I’m not leaving.’ I would say, ‘Then there’s nothing to discuss.’ Eventually, he stopped bringing it up.
“Arthur was like a rock, and even if you asked, you couldn’t be sure he would answer. I never asked. He was engrossed in his scripts and films, and I stayed with him. Year after year, I refused to let myself think about his life from before. But the whole time, I was afraid he was going to leave. I always had an instinctive feeling that he wouldn’t stay on Mars forever, and so I tried to delay that day as long as possible. When Arthur finally told me he was leaving, I wasn’t surprised. I felt awful, but not surprised.”
“You thought he was returning to … reunite with his wife,” said Eko.
“Yes.”
“He never got back together with her.”
“I …” Janet’s eyes moistened. “I hoped he would return. He told me he needed to take care of some things on Earth, and I thought he meant his … marriage.”
Janet blinked to keep herself from crying. She tucked her hair behind her ear and took a deep breath, forcing a smile onto her face for Eko’s benefit. She didn’t want to look fragile, especially in front of someone who was just a kid in her eyes. She had tried to prepare herself for today, to stay detached. If she didn’t allow herself to feel uplifted, then she wouldn’t have to suffer the pain of tumbling back into emotional troughs.
Eko looked at her with respect. She looked a bit wan and pallid, with swollen eyes. But she was strong. Her hair was neatly combed and her clothes crisp. Eko saw in her the independence of someone who relied on herself, who took care of herself out of habit even when her mind was in chaos. She had not gotten married because she thought she would save a place for Davosky, a place that he never came back to.
