When the Guards started walking back to the lift, Giovanni stood motionless and watched them, like he always did, waiting for the doors to close. He did not expect Alex to turn around – slightly, in order not to be noticed by the other EG – to blink his eye and rotating the index finger as to say we’ll talk later. It was Giovanni’s time to raise his eyebrows in surprise. He then frowned as to ask for an explanation that he knew he wouldn’t get.
The two Guards disappeared in the cabin, which was as always flooded by a blue-yellowish light, and the lift went down yet again.
Once he closed his flat’s door, Giovanni realized his muscles were still contracted in a puzzled mask and hurried to wash it away with cold water.
He thought about that unexpected encounter for a long time. Alex, the guy who ranked second, still managed to join the NMO’s military force. And he worked there, at Camp 9. To be honest, he didn’t know whether the EGs had a rotation schedule, periodic transfers or whatever, but he didn’t care. But that gesture… a promise or a thread? Well, it wasn’t necessarily one or the other. There were a lot of shades in between. It could also just mean see ya. Now that he thought about it, maybe Alex would be back that afternoon to deliver the new triplet of convicts.
It wasn’t so.
At exactly 4:30 P.M. Scar and Mole arrived, escorting three black men (with a permit to sojourn, but not to deal coke). They had probably sedated them more heavily that usual since they walked dragging their bare feet on the linoleum floor and kept their head bowed despite their efforts to keep their eyes looking upwards. As a result their eyes were almost completely white because of the sclera, as if they just came out of a zombie movie. The Shutter swallowed them ravenously and the Suffering delivered the to the realm of shadows without regret.
After having supper (fish sticks and salad while watching the circus on the documentary channel) he decided to exhaust his body in order to avoid any bad encounters while sleeping. There was nothing better than a good run around the Ring maintaining an even pace.
The habit of using the Tank’s circular corridor as a track to keep in shape was a recent one, taken after thinking over the matter of becoming overweight. He could presently say he was proud of his physical shape; but would he be so at the end of the year? The two small dumbbells were certainly helpful, but not like a good run, through which he could train a wider range of muscles. The Ring wasn’t the best track, but it was something.
So he had started to regularly exercise every time he could. He had started with twenty laps, then he gradually increased them, always adapting the duration of his training to his will and tiredness, without any specific goal. Moreover, he noticed that the linoleum floor was more faded near the outer wall. His predecessor had probably head the same idea. Maybe even the ones before him.
Other than benefitting him through by helping him burn calories, running around the Ring also helped him clear his head of the accumulating cobwebs.
It was a fortifying, regenerating experience. He could almost feel the grains of sand and dust falling of his mind, lightening him with every step he took. Thump, thump, thump… the walls of the Ring rapidly slipped away from the corners of his eyes (he instinctively always run counterclockwise), and he always needed to be concentrated to keep track of the laps. He normally used the Porthole opposite to the Escape as a point of reference and every time he reached it he would say a number out lout. Porthole… lift… flat… Shutter… Porthole again… “One!”
Thump, thump.
Lift… apartment… he wondered if they could hear him down there in the dark.
Thump, thump, thump.
Porthole… “Seven!”
Lift… Porthole
“Thirty!”
Shutter… they heard him, in silence, knowing it was him? No, it was impossible… they couldn’t hear anything but the rattles, the cursing, the screams filling that fetid, cylindrical bedlam.
Porthole… porthole… porthole…
One month has almost passed. Almost passed…
When he realized he had lost count of the laps and run out of energy he went back to his apartment, took a quick shower and got into bed.
“I can do it.” Were the last words he said, mumbling, before falling asleep.
8 – Cleansing Day
In Camp 9 the Keeper would normally be notified of a delivery that same day. In case of a Cleansing, however, the notice would arrive two days earlier. And the fax informing him of the upcoming operation (there were usually four a year) came the last day of January.
We notice the est. Keeper of Tank 9 that the Cleansing operation will commence on February 2nd at 8:30 A.M., as per regulation etc, etch. Bureaucracy was one aspect of the old State that the NMO didn’t eliminate. It was actually one of its fundamental principles. Where perfect organisation, efficiency and precision were needed there had to be am extremely meticulous apparatus. Empty spaces between one thing and the other in the established power had always constituted a threat, since they could be filled by anyone who felt like doing so, outside any form of control. So each initiative, regulation and operation was filed with a univocal code. The opposite concept – ambiguous – had the stench of anarchy all over.
That particular Cleansing, the first of the year, and also for Giovanni Corte, was the B9.22.49.C-164n.
It was a truly impersonal name for a mass slaughter.
The morning of February 2nd Giovanni saw the tanker truck come from afar, proving that the world outside the Camp still existed. Because of the distance he could only barely follow its slowing down to stop at the gates. They were conducting all the necessary inspections, from identifying the driver the nature of the load. Everything was documented, of course. So Giovanni could see it go through, followed by a jeep. Time: 8:24. The precision with which the NMO could manage its immense gears was incredible.
It had finally snowed that night, so Camp 9 was pretty different from usual, and it was a pleasure to look at it. From the widespread whiteness that had swallowed the ground trellises, towers, cottages with shining roofs, wire fences and sporadic, intelligible black spots emerged. Giovanni’s calm breathing condensed on the window, creating opaque auras over portions of the landscape. He had always like snow, since he was a kid. Like all children. And even if now he had to do something there was anything but a game, somewhere, between his heart and stomach, he could almost feel that hint of excitement that accompanied him through so many moments during his childhood.
The tanker truck and the military keep were approaching the Tank on the invisible rails of a barely distinguishable path, drawing black trails on the previously intact snow.
But he… had to hurry. He was standing there like a kid contemplating the beauty of nature, when he had to fill some modules and supervise the operation.
He rushed to the elevator – making sure he closed the apartment door – and found himself outside exactly when the big vehicle stopped at a short distance from the Gate of Cleansing, which was protected by the round wicket gate similar to that of a submarine or an old-fashioned safe. His punctuality – fortuitous, but who could prove that? – made him feel proudly worthy of the NMO’s perfect gear. The crisp air welcomed him with an electrifying embrace and Giovanni only barely noticed that it was the first time he set foot outside the Tank since he had arrived.