There was the image of the man drowning in a sea of dying, furious, hungry, crazy women. There was the ineffable expression of the doctor, examining him behind the veil of a routine check-up. And those words. We are many. Who? The revolutionaries, of course. And we are ready. To do what? Where they trying to attack the NMO, overthrow it? Was there really someone so crazy to think he could succeed? The fact that more time to time this kind of people were brought to him meant the the NMO was perfectly alert.
But he didn’t need to make a problem out of it. Stevanich’s and all the other hierarchs’ military forces were more than capable of neutralizing any attempt to return… to what? The status quo ante? It was inconceivable. Those young men who were dumped in the Tank didn’t look dangerous, but had to be. They weren’t killers, not in the common meaning of the term; but if they spread ideas, wrong ideas, they had to be stopped.
He began to watched an already started movie. A war movie with John wayne. But when he realized he couldn’t discern the good guys from the bad ones, he turned the TV off and went to the Ring.
Fifty laps, until he was too tired. Then off to bed.
12 – The Voice of Damnation
The second Cleansing, at the end of April, went according to plan. He had reviewed every single action he had to perform and didn’t say a word more than necessary.
The officer who came to supervise the process was the same as three months earlier, but the diver of the tanker had been changed. Giovanni had no way to know whether they rotated each time, depending on availability, or if he had been expelled for talking too much. It didn’t matter. Every part of the process went smoothly and this time the lieutenant bade him farewell with a short: “Good. See you next time, Keeper.”
It had a good ring to it. It promised continuity, stability. It told him he had behaved properly, that his conduct was adequate.
Once back in his apartment, Giovanni turned the TV on the music channel and let a symphony by Dvořák fill his ears in order to let all the bad thoughts go away. Yes, because with the passing of days he had realized that his darkest thoughts, the ones keeping him awake at night, the ones eroding his conscience (with an almost imperceptible levity, but also with such an insistence that they could ruin his life on the long run) weren’t born inside him, but came from outside. He knew he was ready enough to protect himself; he had always shown a strong character whenever life tested him, so he didn’t doubt that all his weakness and uncertainty were fed by the environment. The Tank was a cauldron of dangerous temptations, especially the one of giving in to discouragement and give up. It was a major risk, but the selection process he had undergone had declared his resolve was solid enough to complete the task he had been assigned to, without no preoccupations if not those bound to zeal and negligence.
This time, the Cleansing had no effect on him. Or at least it didn’t unsettled him as much as the previous one. He had come to the conclusion that the trick was to lock out all the thoughts trying to get in, the wrong ones, that didn’t do anything but hurt him. And to raise this mental shield he had learnt to focus on something, a sentence he would use as a mantra, until every external stimulus wasn’t devoid of any emotional charge. And it worked, at least for a while.
“I am the NMO. I am the NMO. I am the NMO…”
He had started repeating it slowly when he went down to attend the Cleansing – stopping to interact without making mistakes – and he had gone on and on until the lieutenant's jeep and the tanker had departed, leaving him and the corroding bodies behind. As a result, he had felt pleasantly dazed, unable to feel dismayed by the pictures in his mind.
“I am the NMO!” He stated before the Well, noticing how the level of the greenish bodies had decreased.
“I am the NMO!” He repeated, sitting on the side of his bed, while violins and brass instruments chased each other in the otherworldly dimension where music exists, while we can only hear its echo.
“I am the NMO…”
Two deliveries that afternoon: a triple one (three drug dealers and panderers, who had already been filed and were recidivist) and a single one, a man who had killed his wife. Nothing particularly demanding or exciting. Apart from the fact that Alex was escorting the single delivery, at 6:15 P.M.
“So, how are you?” He asked the Guard as soon as Giovanni had counted to thirteen and closed the Suffering.
“I get by, thanks.” It was a vague answer, yet not so detached as to sound rude. “What about you? Do you still like your job?”
Alex wiped away a thin layer of sweat glistening under his nose using a fingers. “It’s OK. I’m not screaming in joy, but I can’t complain. They continuously move us, you know? That’s why you rarely see me.”
Giovanni raised an eyebrow. “As you said last time, I’m no military. Don’t let anything important slip.” He said it with a serious look on his face, but a trembling of his mouth was enough to express he wasn’t talking seriously.
Alex took the joke with levity. “Yes, yes… oh well, big deaclass="underline" I had just got the job, so I wanted to stick to what we have been taught. I don’t think it’s a secret.”
“Neither do I.”
“Yes, we take turns in different Tanks, to avoid bonding with the Keepers. And if it happens… and it does happen, it’s inevitable… reporting every word isn’t strictly necessary. You know?”
“I do.”
“And rumors spread among us Guards, even if not officially. For example, I heard about what happened hear, the convict who tried to get shot by Lorenzo…”
Giovanni nodded, thinking it was Scalp’s true name. “Yeah, it was a bad one.”
“These things happen. I still have had no problems whatsoever, but I’ve heard that other people have. Maybe I can tell you someday.”
Giovanni understood their time was up and Alex had to go. But he needed to get a question out of his teeth. “Excuse me, Alex, but… how are things out there?”
“Out there?”
“In the outside world. The real world.” In the very moment he had used that curious expression he wondered how he came to think of it. As if the Camp and the Tank belonged to a less real universe.
“Why, don’t you watch the new?”
Yeah, the news…
“Yeah, but… they say everything is all right, everything’s awesome, everything according to the Order’s plans.”
“So? You don’t believe them.”
Giovanni, watch our: you’re walking on nails. You’re expressing your doubts to an NMO officer.
“Of course I do. It’s just that sometimes I get to unload some revolutionaries, so I was asking myself…”
Alex looked at his watch, then quickly approached the lift. “Sorry, but I can’t stay. Delivery times are monitored, and if I go back after the scheduled time I need to find an excuse. Anyway, don’t worry. Everything’s under control. Believe me. See you!”
He pronounced those last words with a higher volume, so that he could hear him above the buzzing doors cutting him away from the Ring, and from Giovanni.
Everything under control.
He had spoken like one of those anchormen. All anchormen of all the news channels. Giovanni wondered if he had dared too much, asking that question.
He could look like he had doubts.
And the NMO didn’t like doubts.
That night, while he waited to fall asleep, he thought back to the former Keeper’s diary, that bundle of sheets on which he slept every night. He hadn’t thought about it in several days. But if his psyche decided that was the time for it to surface again, maybe there was a reason.