Nonentity (8 page)

“How do I do that?”

“Keep writing. Don’t get much more involved than that.”

I tried to follow his advice. I published several essays covering inside information I gleaned as a Triple-M employee. My code name became Nonentity after I read Manchester’s description of himself as a “nonentity” in
A Man of the Regime
.

I contributed an article to the eighth edition of
Criminal Enterprise: The Unofficial History of the Permanent Regime
. It hit the black market shortly after the conference I attended during election season.

The foreword to
Criminal Enterprise
, an excerpt from Manchester, read in part: “Due to advancements in electronic communications, fascism can no longer wear its various masks. People can finally apply the phrase ‘Sunlight is the best disinfectant’ to oligarchic command and control. Ancient despotisms crumble under the weight of their own deceptions. The age-old seesaw of freedom versus tyranny tips in an unprecedented direction. Put the rulers on notice: their dreams of total subjugation are just that – dreams.”

“Even Manchester was susceptible to unwarranted optimism,” Cranston said. “He failed to account for the limitations of cognitive dissonance.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, Manchester clearly understood that people are basically sheep who automatically submit to authority. He fantasized that the sheep would someday wake up. He thought that with better access to information, people would experience an overload of cognitive dissonance, compelling them to liberate themselves from the Regime. I find that doubtful.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“There is already plenty of ground for the cognitive dissonance he wrote about. Propaganda didn’t show up just yesterday; it’s been abundant throughout history. Rarely is it especially persuasive. How many times have we heard that the Regime is bombing other countries to spread ‘freedom’ and ‘democracy’? Even an imbecile should see through that. Most people believe it nonetheless. Consider it a failure of cognitive dissonance.”

I stopped pressing the matter. I had enough of my own cognitive dissonance.

Lorna showed no fear while I knew her.

“I used to worry a lot,” she said to me. “The world was such a troubling place and I was just a little girl, unprepared for the dangers. Did the constant worrying improve anything? Did it make the world less dangerous? No. If anything, the hazards grew worse. They became grisly monsters, chasing me down, devouring peace of mind. Yet I was eventually grateful for those monsters. They motivated me to change.”

I said, “At least monsters are good for something. How did you change?”

“I figured out that the world is more fictional than factual. The perils are only as real as one imagines them. I strived for something more than a surface existence.”

“You chose your own reality, in other words. Kudos for that. However, the perils are real. They’re all around us.”

“True. Ignoring the darkness won’t erase it. Choosing your own reality puts things in a larger context that unearths the sublime. Sublime elements reside in everything.”

We sat at Lorna’s kitchen table. Her home boasted paintings and sculptures she had purchased at bargain-basement prices. The apartment otherwise lacked extravagance. With only a half-fridge and some decaying cabinets, her kitchen was slight, the table jutting out into an adjacent hallway. At our feet lay an old green rug that matched the room’s peeling wallpaper.

“The sublime eludes me,” I said. “Perhaps I’m too jaded to choose my own reality. What’s your secret?”

“The secret is in you, not me. You must draw it forth. I can’t help you do that, but there is another who can.”

“Who?”

She looked away. “Forget it.”

“Let me guess: Lukas Lambert, parallel unitarian.”

She laughed. “Huh? No. Where did you get ‘unitarian’? It’s ‘universalist’; he’s a parallel universalist.”

“Of course. I was just yanking your chain. Still, ‘parallel universalist’ sounds no less contrived. You were indicating Mr. Lambert, right?”

“Yes. Lukas is a visionary. He could help you find the right path. I won’t ask you to see him again, though. You obviously didn’t take to him.”

Three months had passed since our visit to Lukas Lambert.

“Damn straight,” I said. “The guy is a fruitcake. What’s so appealing about being hypnotized into a trance where you can’t control your own speech?”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Who could? That fellow’s lucky he hasn’t been committed.”

She frowned. “Never mind. Sorry I brought him up.”

A long pause followed. I valued my extended silences with Lorna. Even when tense, they pulled us closer. Her introspective vibe weaved into my consciousness.

On another occasion, the two of us strolled through a magnificent rectangular garden. A dense forest isolated the area. The diverse colors of the foliage, flowers, fruits, and vegetables beamed liveliness. Birds chirped hymns fit for the heavens. The Autumn wind was soothing.

We came upon a patch of violet lilacs. Lorna ran a hand over them. “My mother used to wear flowers like this in her hair,” she said.

“Oh yes,” I said. “You told me about your mother. She’s deceased, correct? I don’t mean to pry into a sensitive area.”

“It’s okay. In fact, seeing these flowers reminds me that she never really left.”

“What was she like?”

“She was extraordinary. I never met anyone so elegant, so refined. She radiated pure beauty, inside and out.”

“Like mother like daughter,” I said, letting my usual guard down.

Lorna waved a hand. “I wish. The warmth flowed out of her and gave me a feeling of incredible peace. I miss that. These flowers bring her back a bit.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died of cancer when I was nineteen. When she first got sick, my father and I were naturally devastated. But not my mother. The cancer spurred her toward greater goodwill. Her bravery was infectious. By the time she died, my father and I were at terms with it, thanks to her. She was so amazing I could go on for hours. I’ll spare you that.”

“Actually, I didn’t want you to stop. What you were saying was enchanting. It reminded the cynic in me that there is such a thing as genuine benevolence.”

“Gee Sebastian, you’re showing your true colors. I figured you had a softer side. What about your family? I know nothing about your parents.”

The shift to my background jarred me. “Not much to say about them. I have no complaints about my childhood, but I try not to relive the past. I, uh …”

“That’s alright. I don’t want to pry into a sensitive area either.”

“It’s not a sensitive area. It’s just that, well, I enjoyed listening to you. What about your father? He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

Lorna’s smile widened. “‘Alive’ would be an understatement for that man. He doesn’t live; he transcends. He ventures into places you won’t find on any maps.”

“Must be a fascinating individual. I believe you told me he’s a writer.”

“That wouldn’t cover the half of it. He used to write crime thrillers, which were fairly successful. He eventually burnt out on that and transitioned to more esoteric subjects.”

“Esoteric? What do you mean?”

“It’s kind of hard to describe. You know, maybe you could read one of his recent books and tell me what I meant by that.”

“Getting cryptic again,” I said. “Surely you don’t need me to interpret your father’s material for you. What makes you think I’d have any special insight?”

“That’s not what I was implying. I just think you might find his writing interesting. Would you like me to give you one of his books?”

****

Three in the morning. Sleep was evasive. How many cups of coffee had I guzzled since waking up twenty hours earlier? Too many to count.

I had kept on the outskirts of the underground movements against the Regime (to Cranston Gage’s relief). I knew about a dozen individuals operating in resistance circles. Were those circles expanding? Cracks in the system were visible. Fewer people expressed interest in the current Grand Premier campaign than elections past. Evaporations seemed to be increasing. What did any of that indicate? Answers were scarce.

Paranoia gripped me, reinforcing my insomnia. How much anti-establishment content had I published? That was less trackable than cups of coffee. Some of that material surely fell into the wrong hands. A code name provided phony security. Prosecutorial agents needed only to match pseudonyms with recurring themes; they could then narrow down possible perpetrators. Part of me hoped that they would hurry up and nab me. The suspense was exhausting.

Recollections of Lorna brought solace. The three-year anniversary of her evaporation would pass shortly. She had seen it coming and accepted it with grace. I tried to emulate her courage. But I felt weak.

Meanwhile, the race for Premier surged toward its pointless conclusion. Triple-M had assigned me to Cynthiana Davinsky’s candidacy. Her footage broke my spirits. “We must not permit the ideal of diplomacy to soften our resolve. A Davinsky Administration will never negotiate with foreign tyrants,” she said in her speeches, out-hawking her rivals. “We owe it to the boys and girls of our great nation to stand firm in our defense.” She added, “If we waver in our obligation to secure the homeland, what might the results be for our children? Shattered confidence, escalating threats of terrorism, enemy invasion – maybe even mass death in the form of a mushroom cloud.” Nobody combined militarism with duplicitous pandering for the children quite like Davinsky.

“They held a mock election at school today,” Cranston said to me, about three weeks before Election Day.

I cringed. “That must have been awful. I hesitate to ask for details.”

“Understandably. I watched the spectacle with a mixture of agitation and ironic enjoyment. The whole thing was an unwitting satire. For instance, calling it a ‘mock election.’ How does that distinguish it from the actual election? They staged a debate before the vote. They selected a little girl and two boys to play the Premier candidates. Seeing children act it out put the campaign in perspective.”

“How so?”

“Well, as you are painfully aware,” he said, “the rhetoric of the race is not only plastic, it’s outrageously juvenile. It’s fitting to have young people imitate it. It used to bother me that people take this stuff seriously. I’m strangely starting to appreciate the absurdity of this system.”

“I work too closely on the race to find the humor in it. What happened in the debate?”

“It was funny, you know. The girl playing Davinsky really hammed it up. She was knowledgeable too, man. She must have studied the genuine article because she had the entire schtick down: empty slogans, feigned conviction, even some of the mannerisms. The two boys who played the other candidates were as awkward and unappealing as could be. Think the folks who arranged the event were trying to tell us something?”

I laughed. “No doubt. It’s accurate. Davinsky’s opponents are forgettable stiffs. Too bad you didn’t get to see how they would have portrayed Manchester. That might have been interesting. How did the election turn out?”

“Congratulations are in order, my friend. Your candidate won in a landslide.”

How apropos. A Davinsky victory seemed a foregone conclusion. If she prevailed, I would collect a handsome bonus for working on her candidacy. Insufficient consolation.

****

A week after our walk in the garden, Lorna gave me
Extracurricular Explorations
, a book by her father. He had published it a year earlier under the code name Randolph Doppelganger. It was 113 pages. “Esoteric” did not do it justice.

The Preface of
Extracurricular Explorations
read:

Detach from the urge to comprehend. Some of these messages emerged from dreams and hallucinations. Others surfaced after a flawed examination of the subconscious. Much of the book is gibberish derived from something elsewhere. Hopefully, my dear readers will at least get some confused amusement out of it.

There were five chapters: “Hallowed Be the Green Circle,” “Hourglass Neutralization,” “Little Girls, Ax Man,” “Infinity in Reverse,” and “The Jack of All Chesterfields.”

An excerpt from “Hallowed Be the Green Circle”:

Some claim the blue light is good and the green light is bad. Others claim the opposite. Some claim both are good. Some claim both are bad. Some claim both are neutral, or one is neutral and one is good, or one is neutral and one is bad. I am undecided.

The chapter “Infinity in Reverse” – a phrase that would appear in my own hallucinations a few years later – began with a poem, “Dreams and Nightmares”:

All the dreams and nightmares

You’ve suffered and enjoyed

All of them evaporate

As they’re swallowed by the void.

You had seen a man you know

Who would cast a spell of blue

Now you’ll take the device he’s worn

And discover that it is you.

This man you thought you knew

You only knew so well

It was just the nature of the guise

With which he cast his spell.

Past and present are now as one

And the future is with you everywhere

Time is now dead and gone

Or so says the small man of white hair.

The final chapter, “The Jack of All Chesterfields,” featured a single paragraph, repeated for eight pages:

As you write your story, Jack watches and waits. You may assume that you can elude Jack. His authorship is inescapable. His divinely perverse hand will out-write you.

“Confused amusement” was all I got out of
Extracurricular Explorations
, though my amusement was moderate. It was a disconnected mishmash of non sequiturs, unintelligible poems, fragmented short stories, and miscellaneous ambiguities.

“What did you think of it?” Lorna asked me.

I couldn’t tell her that her father was a crank. “Well, let’s just say that I’ve never read anything like it.”

“Any idea about its deeper meanings?”

“I won’t even stab at that. The whole thing was beyond me.”

She laughed. “Dad appreciates that type of reaction. He’d be pleased with you. Would you like to meet him?”

Though
Extracurricular Explorations
exasperated me, I was curious to see its author in person. “I’d be honored.”

On a cold and stormy day, she and I travelled out to the far hills where her father lived. We rode in the same unregistered cab that had taken us to Lukas Lambert; such illegal transport no longer disturbed me. Lorna’s evaporation was less than three months away.

“Sebastian,” she said during the trip, “I know it’s cliché, but do you believe in fate?”

I thought about it. “No. I mean, that’s not something I can answer. Fate strikes me as an abstraction. Whether abstractions literally exist or not, beats me.”

“Think about how you and I met – at a party where we never found out why we were there or who the guest of honor was. That seems fateful.”