“Read what?” Vocally answering that written message instantly alarmed him. Under his ribcage, his heart started pounding like a blind bird in a cage.
“What?” he wrote. He should probably have written the question in a more articulate and deferential way, but he instinctively excluded that could be an official communication.
He stared at the screen for thirty second or so, until a second beep shook his nerves with a jolt of low tension current.
The answer was utterly illogicaclass="underline" “Bed bed bed bed”.
The notes from the harp started harmonizing on two minor chords, as if they caught the weirdness of the situation, and Giovanni felt sucked in by the spiral they created. What did that mean? Who the hell was writing those absurdities?
Hoping to make things right, he answered: “Possible malfunction in the communication. Requesting clarifications, in possible.”
But when after five minutes no reply had been sent, he decided that there could only be two options: either there truly was some technical problem, some interference or whatever; or someone was having fun at his expense and the game was over, for now. Not having enough information to determine the cause of those incomprehensible messages, he decided to choose the most linear explanation: the first one. And yet he suspected the second one to be truer.
The Register was left where it was. He had lost his concentration, and didn’t even feel like listening to music anymore.
He turned off the TV, drank a glass of grapefruit juice – swearing because of the small, cold stain that expanded on his singlet – then went to his bedroom and sat on the bed, making the frame creak.
Why on Earth would someone ask him if he had read something? Was he talking about one of the books in the Tank? In that case, wouldn’t it have been simpler to just say its title? No, the answer was elsewhere. It wasn’t a book…
Despite knowing he reached the conclusion through completely arbitrary deductions, Giovanni couldn’t help but think that the question – Did you read it? – was about the diary. And that word – bed – repeated in such an absurd way… it was a reference to the place where the diary was hidden. Someone was provoking him. Testing him. But why? And since it seemed that every question led to another, his doubts expanded like numerous concentrical circles generated by a rock thrown in a pond. How could the stranger who had contacted him know that damn diary was hiding under his mattress. Simple: he was the one who put it there.
“Ah, that’s a good one!” Giovanni slapped his thigh with one hand. “So who was the one who wrote those messages? The former Keeper?”
He shook his head, stood up and started walking up and down the room. Beyond all the questions that had exploded inside his head, only then did he realize what the fundamental one was: what did he have to do? Whoever had poked him was expecting some kind of reaction. The possibility of the NMO being behind the bait-message was high, since very few people could access the Operative Center that was linked to the Tank, or so he thought. Now, if he decided not to do anything or just wait passively for other such messages, he would make a poor showing. His role required initiative, ability to face any kind of problem and most of all discernment. He had to be able to distinguish the situations he could manage on his own from those that needed the involvement of the higher-ups. Always without disturbing the general, if possible.
He approached the window and set his sight on the crimson and violet sky. Camp 9 was a completely still expanse, a vast space suspended between dream and reality that, after the sunset, was remodeled following the imagination of some invisible painter. Giovanni would have liked staying there to watch the world while it imperceptibly slipped towards the dark abyss of the night; but in order to do he would need a clear mind, free and well-disposed to dusting off the day’s dirt, ready to grasp the true value of such beauty…
Unfortunately, it wasn’t so. The Tank didn’t allow slipping away, not even in spirit. And the matter of the messages needed to be solved. He turned towards the bed, intently staring at it. He was given an input and it was his duty to demonstrate he had caught it. In the past, he had decided to ignore the diary. It hadn’t been an easy choice, but he wanted to pretend nothing had happened. Things had changed now. Someone had given him a clue and he could exploit it to “find” the diary and give it to his superiors.
(And how did you find it?)
Interpreting the hint correctly.
(What hint?)
The one that is registered in the Head Office – Tank communication log.
(Good job, Keeper Corte. You did the right thing!)
Yes, he would do so.
Without hesitating he lifted the mattress and grabbed the diary for the second time. How would he have liked to spit on it! It was no more than a jumble of delirious thoughts, getting rid of it would no doubt make him feel better. And about the remorse he felt towards his predecessor: to Hell with it! He sure didn’t do him any good, leaving that to him. Moreover, those pages were against the norms of the NMO. So, no more scruples: he would wait until the following morning, then he would announce his discovery. He would get of clean irrespectively of the diary being some kind of test or someone knowing about his existence under the bed. He would really do the right thing.
He leafed through those creased pages with contempt, avoiding reading their content. Then he locked them in one of the console’s drawers. And as a demonstration of how powerful suggestion could be, he couldn’t sleep more serenely that night.
14 – Four Words
Early in the following morning, even before dressing up and having breakfast, Giovanni sat in front of the Postman and input the text he had so carefully made up in his head.
“I communicate the finding of a manuscript hidden between the frame and the mattress of my bed. It looks like a transcription of memories, probably of the former Keeper. I await dispositions.”
He carefully read it a couple of times, asking himself whether he should give more information or gloss over the conclusion he had reached; it was inevitable to think he had read it, even only partially, to asses its nature. He decided that the message was perfect. He sent it and waited in front of the monitor with his hands crossed on his lap.
He never knew who was on the other side, when he communicated with the Head Office. He had some vague idea of the alternations of the military staff, but not of their rank and authority. For ordinary communications they were probably normal employees, while officers were involved in case of more important matters. Like that one, no doubt. He could almost see a soldier, maybe an EG, read his message, think about it for a second, than contact a superior with a certain hurry…
Beep.
There. Really fast. How much time did pass since he had sent his email? A minute? Two? They monitored everything with admirable rigor.
The answer was predictably laconic, but very clear: “The EGs of of the first delivery will get it.”
Good, it was done. Giovanni could almost physically feel the weight relieve from his back.
He was crumbling some biscuits into a bowl full of yogurt when he heard the buzzing rustle of the fax machine. He cleaned his finger and went to see what it was about.
Three deliveries, for a total of eight new convicts: thieves, scammers, a pedophile priest, a couple of revolutionaries… same old, same old. Under the list of names and accusations, in the space reserved for notes, a perfect block-lettered handwriting: The Guard Giulio Lojodice had been assigned to collecting the exhibit. An unintelligible signature followed.