∅℃
[ZERO DEGREES CELSIUS]
"What's done cannot be undone." —William Shakespeare, Macbeth.
one
. . . Cat & Mouse
It was the neatness that appealed.
It was the way things were put away and saved. The plastic beneath the fingertips had been perfected, hardened like glass with the advantage of unbreakability. Years of recycling the crudest of fossil fuel had brought about this perfection, and she ran her tips over the curved edges. There was nothing sharp, neither in texture, nor in color, so that the form matched the function in the balanced aesthetic that had been so sought after throughout Art History. She was part of this safety that ensured consistency and continuity in the foundations of Civilization and all its finest accomplishments.
Reason had prevailed and everything was now preserved electronically. Everything, and yet as if nothing, because to the eye, there was as if nothing to be seen. She hazarded to touch the heat sensitive pads and keys of her station affectionately, feeling the worth and importance buried deep in a plane that existed as if in its own universe, on the other intangible side of the millimeter screen.
There were safeguards in layers that filtered quality of data output like in a hi-tech furnace set to keep the air purified and the minimal machinery running. The inner workings, it occurred to her were like the wings of the condor, which scientifically yet inexplicably, soar for over 170km without a single flapping, and remain to the observer as simply the conjoined parts of a tiny, gorgeous creature hovering in astounding feat of aerodynamics.
She had shut down her charcoal matte catalog unit with its beautifully embossed logo ∅, the lightest hover upon its center sufficing, touchless. The mathematical symbol recognized in this age as the achievement of man— that nothing cannot be done with determination and time. The policy of Integration had been the way and the wave, which had prevailed, and that excited her in the work, as a visual and even as a sound, of "zed," the seemingly impossible. Her concentration lifted to a satiated upward curve. Erdita rose, smoothed her camel suit down, and pulled her polyester duster from the clear acrylic swivel and slipped into its smoothness, that made only the softest swoosh almost imperceptible as it graced her slender arms. It was a fabric pressed, not woven of threads, for weaving like handwriting was a thing of the past, seen as imperfect and riddled with holes, variability and ambiguity. These were relics for the mausoleum, a grand but limited space, and as such only the most carefully selected samples were kept. That selection was part of the important task within the department of Histrionics.
°
Sweeping a shiny strand of hair from her sleek manicured eyebrows, she had this apprehension, yet the shaded street was empty, as should be, being that it was dinner hour. Routine and order were kept dutifully, exceptions granted for course, and the most lenient regard for those officials who could furnish the esteemed work degree, which was a bottlecap-sized permit pin, worn on the left shoulder, shaped fittingly in the form of a circle laser stamped with ∅ upon the lightweight micro engineered stainless steel. Its special angle of engraving nobly refracted the slightest oncoming light in such a way that the symbol of zed seemed to hover most prominently, as if in front of the wearer, an illusion enhanced considerably in shadow.
It wasn't the first time she had had this misgiving of something being awry, and perhaps she had been focusing wrongly, straining to view along the path ahead, and mostly at eye level. She had tilted her ear, and looked above for the monitor drones, and checked her Elbowatcher for any reminders of something she might have forgotten, misplaced or otherwise overlooked, either at work as left behind, or upcoming to be done at home. Then again it wasn't really any physical sensation she was feeling, it was something more like being in the company of someone, but not quite of being spied upon, or nagged. Suddenly she realized that she had not thought to look down.
°
It was a child, soundlessly, at her side. Erdita couldn't say whether it was boy or girl immediately as it didn't yet have any of the "defining markers," that come with gender choice, which can happen at any age but typically would be made just before the onset of puberty, usually between ages 12 and 13. This fair haired caramel skinned child was at most 10 and stood a confident three feet looking up at her own willowy 1.8-meter frame, extended so by the platforming of her work boots, which was worn not so much for height nor appearance, as for sound and impact buffering. Quiet was valued as much as peace, perhaps even more so. The child looked out pale gray-eyed with askance and she slowed her stride slightly to accommodate the small footsteps that scampered along beside her like an amiable puppy in training. A sudden recognition overtook her, this child was in fact the great grandson of the esteemed Montag, who had been embraced by the rebels, and had risen in ranks during the calamitous times of the Inferneration. Montag had spearheaded the digital campaign that prevailed, arguing that human memory was flawed and that works could more objectively be saved through electronic storage, since paper was shown to be so perishable, and the mind unreliable.
"You work at the Histrionics Department," the child said with an expression of wonder, and self-assurance, adding, "Grandma says that is an oddly titled agency."
"It is from the Latin, a very, very old language," Erdita answered him, feeling compelled to simplify, "it refers to us as actors, and in a way, I think it is a suitable reference. Not acting out but taking action. It means 'actor and/or theater,' and what we are doing is in fact finding and Cataloguing the great and minor works of Literature so that there is a permanent reference in the Ethosphere that can be accessed by every person." She was very eager and pleased with the Ethics of her work in that respect.
"Where does the work go?" he inquired with an angelic smile, knowing, yet innocent.
"You mean where is the Ethosphere? It's in the airwaves, and all of our devices have ability to tap into it, much like in the olden days of wireless and service plans, but even better, and more historic. We have gone back to the previous model, of radio. I don't know if you know what that is, friend. Its beginnings were ages ago, though our receptor model today is to be sure much more technologically advanced. Long gone are the units with wires and antennas, just like passé are keyboard computers and mice with wired or invisible tails. Every device is self-contained, slim, and touchless, operated by body energy, not by pressure," Erdita said.
"You mean the Scrolls," he replied, nodding with understanding despite the likely unknown terms. He still seemed puzzled over something undefined, unspecified, and she wanted to reassure him.
"Yes, the Scroll has come a long way. In the Histrionics Department, our goal is to learn from history and not repeat it."
"Not repeat it?" he said incredulously, and she noted there was a faraway look in his eyes like he was able to actually see the rise and fall of civilizations over time, tumbling over inflated and deflated beliefs.
"Well, yes. We don't want to risk losing our heritage again, like in the misguided days of destroying creative works in attempt to preserve order, or peace, and prevent confusion of... of... thinking. That's why we are saving everything, to make up for that error," Erdita said, checking her posture in the reflection of the store window as they rounded the corner.
"Everything? but what about the process of Elimination?" he asked unhesitatingly, opening his arms, palms up, as if in askance of the already vanquished. Erdita was impressed and dismayed at once, that someone so young knew of it and was at all concerned. It had been explained to her many times as a child, and many times in her youth she had flushed in trying to understand it, fully, but had grown to embrace the process as right. by global economy.
"We cannot allow for that sort of congestion of the Environment, the world has suffered too long from the abuses of accumulation of Stuff." She said this with a certain sadness, the same sadness she felt every time she completed a Histrionic file, clicked the Enter button to the left of the Delete button, and then sent the original to the Elimination Department through the pneumatic chute.
"Are you worried about something?" she asked him after a considerate pause.
"...aren't you?"
°
The U Turn 02:28
Maybe it's the emotional high. A person grows up so used to the major levels of stress and emotional contortion—and then seeks it out. As a string. Of something, deflating.
"I'm... not myself."
He gave silence. Receptive. He watched Goldy dry her eyes preemptively.
"I've let go. I had... desires, and one by one, I've cut ties."
"Ah. Ambitions?"
"Yes. Yes. That which I now understand were not really mine. I ended "owning" my mess ups. Then realized that these were relationships. Things —not things— none of us control. I suddenly feel... empty."
"Not empty handed, no?" gesturing to the space beside her, by work, occupied.
"My sister's. I'm looking for my sister."
"Is she lost also?"
"I'm looking through these pages— for my sister. I mean— for her publisher."
"?" Gentle questions reflected in his eyes.... of her eyes.
"She's not lost. She's gone."
"Oh. I'm sorry for your loss," he said, opening the space for thoughts.
The U Turn 02:27
The old man let out a sigh combined with a laugh, backwards, facing the counter.
"I thought you were having a moral crisis."
Not a characteristic of Silver, behind him, small.
"I want to be able to say with confidence— if a thing is good. Excellent. People say all the time. That's a good film, a good song, a great book."
"And they are only giving their opinion."
"Yes."
"And that's not good enough."
"No."
The old man was always giving a qualification. It irritated Goldy. The greatest irritation was set off by the prelude "a normal intelligent person would...".
She sat at the table, the old kitchen table, square, notebook in front of her, and a book, a good one, because what else? The old man would object.
Great Expectations.
"I can't finish that one," Silvie said. "The girl pisses me off."
She had said that about all the characters in Gatsby.
"No, not the same. I said they evoked no sympathy to the end."
"Maybe that's the point."
"Yes, I think it is. Not a condemnation. An observation."
She wasn't sure why she was remembering it now. It irked as judgement, and obviously it wasn't meant. Not personal. People read differently.
She could feel the Padre reading her silently. Trying to. And what did he see?
A woman mid-forties, who had let herself go, to live a little; wear in the face, wrinkles as happens with three grown children. But she still took care to dress fashionably, maybe a bit too much jewelry as decoration, as distraction from what foundation and eyeshadow could not hide. Mascara to fill out thinning lashes, hair coloring to hide the grey and thicken, as she heard coloring added volume.
But then she caught glimpse of her reflection in the glass. Their reflection. Hers a cynical one; and his still sympathetic; with patience. She took a breath and her face relaxed. Maybe he hadn't noticed. She thought she'd try again.
"I'm..."
The U Turn 02:26
He gave a little nod. A courtesy. "How are you?"
An invitation. Sonorous, deep, as to a cavern.
She didn't feel like Jehovah's Witnessing, if that's where this was going.
"I'm O.K."
"Carrying a lot." His one slim volume contrasting the papers boxed next to her.
"Yeah." He had the look of one going just as far as you are. No hurry.
It was purely circumstantial, but she was sure they were going to talk about God.
"The key to the past is the future." That's what it said on the little red cover.
She could use an Aha. Musta showed, Goldy thought.
Maybe it was the right amount of wait time:
"She's gone. My sister is, and I don't understand how or why."
He clasped his hands and made a temple with his index fingers and pressed these to pursed lips. At rest, for a moment, closed like a cage for an invisible bird.
Why do we break the Cardinal rule?
Silver had once asked: How do we know, if something is Good?
It wasn't a moral question. It was about Qualification.
He waited.
The U Turn 02:25
She was staring blankly at the padre's lowered face, but she was looking across the kitchen table again. Both glasses drained.
It wasn't the question she wanted to ask really, but it was forming itself in speculation.
"Do you have anything to drink?" she asked.
"You mean, like a shot?"
She had nodded, biting her lip, but her insecurity passed when he pulled out Rum, Scotch, and Vodka. Juggling them musingly by the necks for selection, he waited.
She pointed to the Rum. "Coke?" she added hopefully.
He shook his head. "We drink neat. Soda is a 'no.'" He laughed at her surprise.
"Just kidding, I have tonic." Only Silver drank straight, but Goldy didn't know that, and he omitted it, letting her dwell on the bad teeth evoked by the sound of Cola.
Not that he was judging her choice, or that he wouldn't pour out two, it if he'd had.
And he didn't hesitate to pour himself a mix, relaxing. "Ice?"
"Yes, thanks," Gold said lightly. "Did you ever feel you and Silver were on the rocks?"
"No. Never."
"Never?"
"Well, before it was official. I couldn't imagine being tied. What I'd have to give up."
Goldy lifted her brow in silent encouragement— give up what? He shrugged.
"Silver wasn't like that. She had an opinion. She gave it. Heard mine. We moved on."
"So, you didn't give up anything... or compromise?" she was relieved, actually.
"Not anything I wanted. Not anything I'd regret. It was easy. Yeah, I put myself to stuff I might not had realized I really wanted, but not because someone was abusing me over it. Added benefits. Things that were more doable than I'd thought. I felt really good, better than I have in a long time."
The padre was suddenly looking right back at her and closing the book. Tight.
The U Turn 02:24
Gold realized her sense of guilt was rising. The harbored hate was melting away.
She had been angry about many things. The note from the old man had spoken directly to her lack. Her need to be important, if not first, then significant in an unquestionably unique way. That was critical to her, in her affairs, his, the old lady's, Silver's...
If Silver could have summed it for her, if she could listen and hear it, Goldy would have maybe taken it to heart much sooner and fully know that to the old man (and to Silvie) she was, and would always be, first. He spoke with passion. Not anger, though to the incensed listener the distinction might be negligible— the hurts being too real—the choices having been already made and there being no way of knowing if the alternative would have been in any way better.
Sigh. Silvie had never taken anyone's "place," or places, and he had never wanted to stand in anyone's "way." He saw potential, and potential is always, just that—whatever one makes of it. Matteo wasn't first, his mother hadn't been "replaced," and the old lady's grievances were unrelated, however she might try to retro actively dovetail them.
Gold was familiar with sex as an instrument. But only in the way that she herself used it. As brick and mortar.
The old lady was too proud to tell her how it actually worked on her end. She told Silvie though. Of course, she would, because Silver was an inert receptacle for lurid secrets. Actually, the old lady had blurted in a sex-starved rage, convinced Silvie, age seven was too stupid, and was very startled to hear back: "Can't live? nuns go without, don't they?" for which Silver got an otherwise incomprehensibly vehement whooping with a leather belt that the old lady had briskly brandished from the other room as if by witchcraft— instantaneously— having nothing on but a housecoat loosely knotted.
If power were wielded other way around, Gold would have held it against the old man as a failing. As it is, it was a sign of the woman's weakness, and His strength. What Gold didn't know— that Silver knew—from both ears—was that he had denied Her. Once, and for all.
He said it was something she said, as trigger, but Silver understood that it was the contextual baggage that tipped the coital wagon. A man works for the upkeep of his household—rightly or wrongly— he expects understanding, whatever his order. His order was for peace and quiet. He was exhausted from working three albeit informal (meaning mostly pro bono) demanding shifts as Driver, Builder, and Counsel. All of which were being learned on the job.
Husbandry was taking a bow to Fatherhood. He was providing. Not entertaining.
And the bored little lady at home wanted to go dancing!? having shuffled the children off elsewhere. That was misstep number one. The second was she tried to tease him into intercourse, when he was emotionally spent, and needed her support rather than dissipation of energies in proving his already demonstrated love. The final strike was when she asked, in an exclamation quoted with particular vehemence to Silver:
"O! my charms have ceased to please you?!" Three years into the marriage. Maybe four.
That was when the old man took his shit and moved into the Study. Permanently.
Goldy would never have believed such a powerplay, anyway. Silver kept secrets exceptionally well— with subtle understanding, and attention to nuance. Such as, in the language that the old man quoted, the word for charms being actually "sounds," and by extension as happens in colloquialisms, "the ring of bells," as in windchimes. She would never hear the playing of these as "innocent," or without haunting sadness, and distinctive sexual overtone.
To Gold, the old man had become impotent. But now she saw him more softly.
The U Turn 02:23
He sat down.
The phone vibed.
"Hullo? ...hi!" she was genuinely pleased. "Yes, I'm on my way now."
"Did you find anything in Silv's things? what you'd hoped I mean."
"No. I mean, yes! I found a letter for you, from Silver and one, uh, one for me... And everything is OK. I think. At rest." Pause. "Yeah, I thought she'd be upset. Things ended roughly when you'd met, on the Skype I mean. The way I left things. When I..."
The guy was some sort of preacher, maybe. Dark and trim bearded, with sweeping charcoal overcoat drawn up well over the broad shoulder and rugged jawline. Ears built like for the confessional. He had a small book, resting on crossed gray knee that he was intently reading behind tinted glasses and a small hat that was not quite a fedora, brim bent up in back and drawn low in front. His fingers were playing with his mouth in mock read aloud. A rosary would complete the look... as it were.
She shifted and lowered her voice.
"Thanks for calling. I was thinking about you. How's Karolyna and the baby?" Pause. "I'm so glad." Pause. "No. I'm still on the vital questions."
"Blanks?" he said right to the point.
"Yes, that's it."
"Are you sure you're not reading too much into this? I mean, you're delivering the papers. Let them figure it out."
"I suppose I want to know. She's gone—gone. It's hard to make sense of it."
"You mean, what you told me about U?" said Matteo.
—was she seeing things or did that man's ears just twitch?
"Um, I've got to go now, but I'll give you a call as soon as I'm there, and know something more, ok? Thanks! Ciao."
The U Turn 02:22
She thought it best to take stock. What she knew, what questions lingered.
Backstory, backstory... She suspected she was approaching the publisher's request all wrong. She was thinking about the things she would have written about. Her upsets. Those things that she had inserted herself into.
Truth, she knew nothing of Silvie's life after she left. The summer Gold turned 18. Those years were showing up in photographs, not words. Silver's face mostly behind the camera, and unlike Gold's keepsake model-pose catalogs, Silvie's picture albums were ambiance, a documentation of the living environment in which she caught some mood or other of the moment, to remind her of a significant occurrence, abstracted to Gold or anyone who wasn't there to share it.
It was, characteristically, devoid of people—showcasing the paraphernalia of Life.
Nope, Silver wasn't writing about self, nor her, and her exploits; nor the now, or then; nor faults or failings really. She wasn't writing about the wrongs of the old man; nor the old woman for that matter. On all this there was plenty to be told, and Gold wondered that she didn't take herself to task. One day. Maybe the publisher would be further interested, on a tangent. A true story of passion, theft, and attempted murders. No, she wasn't writing about the lost brother, the extended family, its purported Mafia ties, and local political doings. That was certainly a relief. It was a large family, and there would be repercussions. Here, and overseas.
She had, if she had to channel her doubts in one direction, the impression that Silvie had emersed herself in some sort of near fiction. Not a future wish, but something in parallel. She could suddenly hear the voice of their maternal grandfather chiding about the great crime of Wasted Time. Like when he chanced to visit on a whim the mansion and spying the walls of the hall lined with books floor to ceiling, hollered, "Who will read all of this Junk?" and then muttered some cliché about the inedibility of the written word, before stomping out with his wallet shut.
That of course was a very long time ago.
Gold needed help, some intervention. She was feeling empty handed and foolish in this errand. She had half an hour to come up with something logical. Something to show. She was meeting the Agent at 3pm.
The U Turn 02:21
Back to the kitchen table. The small circle, and the half glass, waiting in pauses.
"Did she write you?" Goldy ventured.
"Yeah." This was a delicate topic, so he left it short. He liked Gold but she didn't inspire the heart on the sleeve side of his nature. Not like Silver. A person couldn't hide long from that lightly sparkled gaze, if she turned it towards a subject. It might as well have been a locksmith, picking inside the mind— soon enough the mouth would open, surprise, surprise, and start talking.
But Gold had her own pragmatic approach. She opened a binder. Stuff that triggered Stan, mainly because he had remembered and forgotten, and once again was startled.
"Yeah. Maybe I should have wrote back more than I did," he offered, seeing that the words Gold asked didn't exactly frame the question that was hanging.
"So, there aren't more pages...?" she checked.
"No."
"But it sounds like... I don't know. It sounds like there's something outside of... all this," she gestured, "that's missing here."
That's the way it is with Poetry.
"Do you write poems?" he asked her suddenly curious. Silver had never mentioned.
"...Well, I used to. A lot actually. For a little while. Er, on and off..." she thought of Aaron. Of Florida. Those smoldering illicit nights in the campus production studio, before he left. The cool pistachio stretch of linoleum floor, the flecked Formica tabletop, as inviting as the expanse of a yacht for sun thirsting bodies. Writing after dark, when they wouldn't be together— and then when she wouldn't see his hazel eyes sliding wantonly down the milkiness of throat—Foolish imaginings. She swallowed, and shifted herself amply in the wooden chair, adjusting the little pillow fussily, taking a sip, and bringing the water line well below the halfway marker.
She imagined, back then, she would have tried her prowess on this man. He was still handsome, he looked capable. Goldy smiled to herself. It wasn't a pleasant expression, but he didn't catch on. He'd already written her off. Cold. That's what he saw. Gold knew better and sobered her face to the outside. He was nice.
She wanted to drop the essential question, but she wasn't sure if they were ready.
The U Turn 02:20
That naturally was only a draft—Unsent.
The Lost Letter was behind this, at the very bottom of the pocket, in sealed plain white envelope. Goldy found it when trying to stuff the gray lined paper back in, unsuccessfully. The envelope was "Presleyan."
It read:
RETURN TO SENDER, FORWARD UNKNOWN.
And it was addressed to her. Lungs compressed, she was fully aware of that sharp skipped beat, and the sucking in of a withheld breath. She opened it carefully, slipping a finger in the slight opening where adhesive had failed to attach. It was her old in-between address, from when she had moved out of Hamberg. Before she had gone out to California, before Arizona, before coming back here to the East coast...
It was a postcard, or rather a white index card. Sturdy, in neat print—his.
The old man had written! He had written her,
Rakas lapsi, olen todella pahoillani. Tiedät jo, kuinka tiukasti mies pitää esikoistaan! Niin kiihkeästi nähdessäni tämän ensimmäisen heijastuksen itsestäni. Kuinka paljon mies tarttuu toivoon, että hän lievittää hänen kipuaan. Että se suojelisi häntä hänen omilta virheiltään. Tuntemattomista epäkohdista ja väärin suunnatuista, pirstoutuneista tulevaisuuksista. Toivoin vain voivani auttaa kanavoimaan energianne polulle, jolla on vähiten taakkoja kannettavana. Emme aina valitse. Minä tiedän, ja sinä tiedät, kulta. Olemme seurausten panttivankeja. Rakastan sinua kaikesta sydämestäni. Ei ole ketään, jonka puolesta olen taistellut niin kiivaasti, ja kun sinut siitettiin, ei ollut ylpeämpää ja onnellisempaa isää kuin minä. Ja olen edelleen. Halusin sinulle parasta. Tämä ei ole rikos. Hugs. Suutelen sydäntäni, Isä
He had more than once said fatherhood is an act of Faith, as much as fact. And he had held her in esteem as his First born. First in all ways, and for always. It was all he knew, as Fact.
—as Faith.