Part 5 (2/2)
”I'd say you're about 5/30 years...Maybe 6/31. Which would make it possible.”
”Make what possible?”
”That I wrote your memory.”
Bruna gasped. Sweat drenched the back of her neck.
”That's a revolting idea,” she whispered.
She clenched her teeth to hold back the nausea.
”You know what, Husky? There's another reason I decided to meet you here rather than at home. I've had problems with some reps. On the whole, you technohumans aren't too fond of memorists, and on one level, I can understand why.”
”You're not allowed to identify yourself as the author of a memory. It's forbidden. You can't do that.”
”I know, I know. Calm down, Bruna. Forgive my earlier comment. Honestly, I'd never tell you. Even if it weren't banned, I wouldn't tell you. Even if I knew. I promise.”
The slight feeling of relief she felt at Nopal's words made her realize how terrified she was. She also felt something akin to grat.i.tude. It was a stupid emotion, unjustified and too close to Stockholm Syndrome, but she couldn't avoid it. Four years, three months, and twenty-two days.
”Nevertheless, we memorists not only feel no antipathy toward reps, but we also have a special fondness for you. Or at least I do. To be able to construct a person's memory is a privilege beyond description. Can you imagine? Memory is at the root of our ident.i.ty, so in a way I'm the father of hundreds of beings. More than the father. I'm their personal little G.o.d.”
Bruna s.h.i.+vered. ”I'm not my memory. Which, moreover, I know is fake. I am my actions and my days.”
”Well, now, that's debatable. And in any case, it doesn't alter what I was saying to you, because I was talking about my feelings, about how I see things. And I was telling you that I love reps. You inspire a special feeling in me. A deep complicity.”
”Right. Well, forgive me for not feeling the same way. Forgive me for not thanking my little personal G.o.d, whoever that might be, for that entire arbitrary fake garbage.”
”Arbitrary garbage? It's real life that's arbitrary. Much more arbitrary than we memorists are. I've always tried to do the best possible job; I thought about and wrote every one of those five hundred scenes so carefully.”
”Five hundred?”
”You didn't know? A life consists of five hundred memories, five hundred scenes. That's enough. I always tried to balance some things with others, offer a certain illusion of meaning, a sense-in the end-of a harmonious whole. My speciality was the revelation scenes.”
”The d.a.m.ned dance of the phantoms.”
”My revelation scenes were...compa.s.sionate-that would be the word. Enlightening and compa.s.sionate. They encouraged maturity in the rep.”
”My memorist killed my father when I was nine. I adored him, and a criminal stupidly killed him in the street one night.”
”Those things do happen, unfortunately.”
”I was nine years old! And I spent five years suffering like h.e.l.l until I turned fourteen and experienced my dance of the phantoms. Until I found out that my father didn't really exist, which meant that he hadn't been killed, either.”
”It's not like that, Bruna. As you know, those five years you refer to didn't exist. It's nothing more than a false memory. All the scenes were inserted at the same time into your brain.”
A knot of angry, burning tears squeezed the detective's throat. She had to make an effort to speak, and her voice came out hoa.r.s.e.
”And the grief? All that pain I have inside? All that suffering in my memory?”
Nopal looked at her gravely. ”That's life, Bruna. That's how it is. Life hurts.”
There was a brief silence and then the man stood up.
”I'll make a few phone calls and try to find out what's going on among the memorists. I'll get in touch with you if I find anything.”
Nopal leaned over and brushed Bruna's tattooed cheek with a finger. Such a light touch that the rep almost thought she had imagined it. Then the memorist smoothed his hair, regained his charming and barely trustworthy smile and, giving a half-turn, walked away. The android-still seated, still stunned-watched him as he left, her thoughts buzzing around in her head like a swarm of bees. Five hundred scenes. That miserable pittance was her entire life? She was trying to gather the strength to stand up when she heard the sound of an incoming call. She looked at her wrist mobile: it was Myriam Chi.
”We have to talk,” said the leader without even bothering to greet her.
”What's up?”
”I'll tell you in person. Come and see me tomorrow morning at nine.”
And she cut the connection. Bruna was left staring at a blank screen, filled with self-loathing. She was bitter about having to obey a client like Myriam Chi, who trumpeted her orders as if Bruna were her slave; and losing her self-control with the memorist made her feel literally ill. The armchair in which the detective was sitting was at the back of the exhibition s.p.a.ce, and a slow stream of visitors was pa.s.sing by in front of her, crossing from the one side of the gallery to the other, and beginning the return walk to the entrance. But strangely, no one was looking at her. No one appeared to notice the tall, striking technohuman; too much invisibility for it to be normal. Yes indeed, Nopal had gotten it right when he arranged to meet her here. Illuminated by the skylight as if by a spotlight, Bruna felt like one more fake. Without a doubt, the least valuable one in the entire collection.
CHAPTER NINE.
”Bruna! Bruna! Get up! Wake up!”
The rep opened one eye and saw a human figure rus.h.i.+ng toward her. She sat bolt upright in her bed, yelled, and chopped defensively with her hand. Her arm pa.s.sed cleanly through the colored air without meeting any resistance. She refocused her vision and recognized old Yiannis.
”Dammit, Yiannis, I've told you a million times not to do this!” she growled, her tongue numb and her mouth dry.
The full-length holograph figure of the archivist was floating around the room. He was the only person Bruna had authorized to make holo-calls.
”I will not have you entering my home like this! I'm going to put you on the prohibited list!”
”Sorry, but there was no way of waking you, and Myriam Chi-”
”Oh, s.h.i.+t-Chi!”
Before the old man had even mentioned the rep leader, Bruna had already seen the time on her ceiling, 10:20, and her neurons, abused by her hangover, had painfully begun to fire up, reminding her of a missed appointment. The previous day began to reconstruct itself hazily in her memory: the meeting with Nopal, Chi's phone call, the excessive gla.s.ses of wine when she got home. Drinking by herself-or rather, getting drunk by herself-was the penultimate stage of alcoholism. There was no question that she had a problem with alcohol, and now she also had a problem with her sole client, whom she had stood up. Bruna leaped out of bed so quickly that her jellylike brain seemed to bang against her skull and she had to hold her head between her hands and close her eyes for a few moments. That was it. She would never ever have another drink.
”I know I'm going to be late for my appointment with Chi. I know I've f.u.c.ked up,” she groaned, her eyelids still tightly shut.
”No. It's not that, Bruna. You won't be late.”
The rep lifted her head and saw that Yiannis had turned his back to her. Of course, I'm naked. My poor old gentleman, she thought to herself, feeling a sort of irritated affection toward him. Her Chinese bathrobe was lying on the floor. Bruna picked it up and put it on.
”You can look now. What do you mean I'm not going to be late?”
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