The driver was the first out of the car, and embarked instantly on a cigarette, hauling in long breaths as he leant back against his bonnet. The man and woman emerged slowly, neither willing to take their eyes off me for more than a few moments. I followed, the cold air pushing out some of the sickness in my stomach. Calm. I am the cold; I am my empty face.
Byron gestured me inside; I followed.
A corridor lined with reed mats where we could leave our shoes. A collection of slippers of various sizes, decorated in bright plastic beads. A staircase going upwards to unknown rooms; a picture of the Dalai Lama on one wall, smiling as he signed a book with a felt-tip pen. A door to a living room which was also a kitchen; cushions on the floor, a flat-screen TV against one wall, a gas fire, a collection of books in Korean and English. A travel guide to the local area.
A traveller’s house, furnished for brief stays.
Byron gestured me to a cushion, sat opposite, folding her legs awkwardly, a bone clicking in a joint at her hip. The woman gave her a phone, which was switched to record and put between us. The man set up a digital camera on a tripod.
“Here is our situation, Why,” she said at last. “One of us will remain with you at all times. Every conversation will be filmed. May we offer you tea?”
“That’d be nice.”
“I don’t want you to feel in any way uncomfortable.”
“Might be a losing battle, that one.”
“I need to understand what you are.”
“I’m a thief.”
“I need to understand how you are.”
I shrugged. “Good luck.”
A kettle put on a stove. Three matching cups pulled from a cupboard; a question, green tea or red?
Green tea for Byron; red for me, thank you. Make it strong, milk if you have it.
The woman’s nose wrinkled at the idea, but she found some UHU, sniffed it, dribbled in the barest slap, didn’t stir.
We drank in silence, Byron and I, her eyes never leaving me.
I said, “You know that if I walk away, you’ll never find me.”
“You’re here, aren’t you? Have you ever been… forgive the word, but it’s the only one which will do… studied?”
“Doctors don’t remember who I am.”
“I have connections.”
“I’m not a lab rat.”
“Then you are not serious in your ambition to be remembered,” she replied simply. “If that is the case then you are correct — you can leave and we will almost certainly never find you. But you will never find me either, that I can promise.”
So saying, she stood, still watching.
“You’ll need to sleep,” I said. “You’ll forget when you do.”
“I know what I want from this,” was her answer. “Do you?”
She left, and I remained.
A moment in the night.
I sat, cross-legged, in front of the camera.
The man watched me, and I watched him watching.
Byron, asleep upstairs.
The woman, asleep on the other side of the room.
Taking turns, shifts to remember.
Each time they woke, they were surprised to see me, but always they left themselves notes — she is _why, you are set to guard her, do not forget.
Every three hours they swapped to a different video camera, just pointed at me, recording.
At two in the morning, the man dozed off.
I watched his head roll gently down, the lights still on, the camera still running, and waited for a little line of spit to gather in the lower corner of his mouth, ready to drop. In the darkness outside, I could hear the far-off sound of the motorway, and the nearer rushing of the river. I stood up, turned the camera off, poured myself another cup of tea, took the mug outside and went to consider the starlight.
Chapter 60
Remembering Reina bint Badr al Mustakfi.
A question perpetually looping itself through my mind: should I have known? Should I have seen her pain, was there anything I could have done to help her?
Obvious answers: of course not. Don’t be bloody daft.
Even if you could have done anything, she wouldn’t have remembered. You speak words of kindness, you tell her it’ll be all right, that she is beautiful, wonderful, perfect as she already is, and maybe she smiles, and maybe she laughs, and maybe for a moment she forgets Leena on her couch, and Perfection on her phone…
the power to succeed is inside you!
… and then she turns away, and your words are dust in the wind, and nothing you do means a damn, and she dies.
Walking through Tokyo streets, remembering the words of a long-dead emperor-philosopher. Marcus Aurelius, ad 121–180, author of the Meditations. Quoth said emperor: It is not death a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.
And also: You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.
Amongst his less well documented declarations was a determination to obliterate the Iazyges in Germania. Genocide of Rome’s enemies was a reasonable military tool; history’s never as simple as it is in the movies.
How did I end up here?
I think at some point I must have made some choices, though it feels like they were far away
fairer perhaps to say that some choices were made around me and I acted in a manner which could be seen to be
impulsive reckless petty spiteful vindictive crusade stupid angry lonely jihad
full of struggle.
Ju kyu hachi shichi roku go fuck it.
Fuck it.
I close my eyes and see, always and again, my mum crossing the desert, only now she turns to look at me as I walk in her shadow, and smiles and says, Why so angry, petal?
Fucked up, Mum. Totally fucking fucked up.
How so?
Thought I’d live. Thought I’d be discipline, life, living, the machine, everything I am, all of this, living and breathing and beating the world, beating this fucking forgetting, fuck the world, fuck memory, I thought I’d be a sun goddess, a pilgrim, crusader, thought I was…
… I thought I was in control.
Aren’t you? she asks, pausing to drink from a flask hidden beneath her robes. (Must be water: I dream it is whisky.)
Don’t think so. Made choices. Did things, went places; left a footprint on the sand. Didn’t control me. Stole the fucking diamonds in a fit of pique. Went after Perfection because it pissed me off. Looked at Reina and didn’t see. Came to Korea and got made. Not in control. Can’t stop myself. Can’t see myself. Don’t know where I’ve come from or where I’m going. Just now — that’s all I’ve got. If I close my eyes, do you think I’ll forget my own face?
Now you’re being daft, tutted Mum. And not only daft, you’re tying yourself in knots in a thoroughly unhelpful way.
Mum?
Yes?
What if all of this is my fault? What if I’m forgotten… and it’s something I did? A man looks at my photo on the other side of the world, and he sees my face, I’m not invisible, but then he looks up, and he’s forgotten me. People fill in the gaps, find a way to meet me without being afraid, but it’s all lies, all of it, my parents forgot me, you forgot me, the world forgot and what if it’s me, what if it’s my fault?
The power is within you!!
Beneath the starlight of the Korean night, with the sand of the desert beneath her bare feet, my mum laughed.
So what? she asked. You going to shout at the sun for shining and the wind for blowing? You gonna curse the sea for rolling with the tide, the fire for being hot? Hope Arden, I thought I taught you better than that. Now pull your socks up, and get on.