A.
MOLOTKOV'S
LITERARY PROJECTS
Without
excerpt
DAY 0
I had lunch with John that afternoon. We discussed the usual
matters. He didn't seem very hopeful, but I was sure he was doing the best he
could. At least he was honest with me. Not so many people are these days. He
inquired about the details of the case - mostly things we had already spoken
about.
"Are you quite sure of everything you've said?" He asked
afterwards.
"Of course I'm sure," I replied. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Good, good," he said. "I wish we had more evidence to
support your story. So far all we have is speculation. Do you think there might
be anything else you might remember that would make our position a little
stronger?"
"No, I've definitely told you all I know. All I can do is ask
Sara. But you know how long it takes, don't you?"
"Yes, yes, you've explained it to me," he confirmed. "You
know, we don't have much time."
"Yes, I know."
"Well, I have to run," he said. "But do think about it and
see if you can come up with an idea or two. We'll need it!" With these words he
rose from his chair, leaving the remnants of his meal behind. Some people never
have time to finish what they've started.
"Okay, see you later!" I replied. As he headed towards the
exit, his busy-like well-adjusted pace revealing years of practice, the walls of
the restaurant expanded, and I transported myself to Bruno’s gallery. A new
exhibit was on. I didn't have time to stay. Or, to be precise, I was not in the
mood. I just waved to Bruno, who was sitting at his desk, in his usual position,
reading one review or another. He waved back to me, keeping his eyes on the
pages. I don't even know how he noticed me. Must be also years of practice.
Everyone learns to do something that is both impressive and completely
pointless, and then starts to enjoy it so much that the habit gradually grows
stronger than its owner. On the other hand, it's like this with any habit.
"How's everything?" Bruno yelled to me, still reading.
"You know how, don't you?"
"Yes, I do," this time he finally allowed himself to look up
from the magazine. The distance between us immediately contracted, so that now I
was standing right next to his desk. "Is there any progress?"
There was such a mixture of pity and sarcastic superiority in his stare that I
didn't feel like answering. Of course, I answered:
"No. What progress can there be? Maybe Sara will tell me
something…But she seems quite reluctant to talk about this." (Schneider, what a
pointless and even cruel joke!) Of course, after these words whatever it was
that bothered me about his stare grew even worse. Something to be expected.
Conversations in the Cube were so unlike ones that usually
take place between people that it took a very long time to convey any sort of
practical information, to discuss facts. If it was at all possible…I wondered
whether Sara would have enough time to tell me what had happened. I doubted it,
unless I figured out a way to break the gap between this reality and that of the
Cube. I was going to try, not so much for my own sake as for her. She deserved
it.
I was in my apartment again. I had not said good-bye to
Bruno, but doubtlessly from his perspective it was not the most peculiar thing I
had ever done.
After all this time, I was still surprised they had approved
the bail. Apparently John was really good at what he did. And even so, I knew I
was the only one who could really help. Sara too, if only I could find a way…
I closed my eyes and entered the Cube.
More like music. Intricate configurations of exquisite
details. Colors and contours contorting, confronting…Convulsing…Faces afloat on
the boats of postcards. Her face. A gallery of images like an ocean of dreams.
Some moving in directions, some staying in perfect balance. Images from within
her mind.
I open my eyes, my head still a landscape of her memory. How
to tell which images are intended for me? How to ask the question that I NEED to
ask? Is it still important to her? Or am I just being a fool trying to solve a
puzzle long forgotten by the one who offered it?
But if she is communicating with me, I guess there must be
SOMETHING that she wants to say.
This is when I realize that the only way to understand her is
to create a brain filter. It has to be small enough to fit within the Cube with
me. It has to be invented in a very, very short time.
I have less than a week till the trial.
It seems fair enough to assume that the device in question
could be based on filtering out the images not pertaining to me or our
relationship. This effect could be achieved by a supplementary memory fixation
mechanism that I do not foresee much problem putting together. This way only the
relevant part of Sara's memories will become accessible to me, thus limiting the
information flow dramatically. On the other hand, what if the murderer, whoever
he is, also falls into the category of the irrelevant, as well as the murder
itself?…Schneider, it is hard for me - trying to think about THIS in scientific
terms - but I know I have to. And still, I think that I would not be able to if
not for these seven months that have passed. Long investigation…
But I guess it is not just coincidental that until a few days
ago I didn't even know about the Cube. I'm sure you understand what I mean.
I try to concentrate again. Obviously, there has to be a way.
What if I managed to link the images that pertain to me with those of the
murder, so that the former would trigger the latter? To do so, I would have to
take control over her mind, which would definitely require more work than the
memory fixer. Maybe I should try another approach - embracing the entire stream
of her images, ultimately achieving the effect of a brain-copy. How would I do
that? I don't know yet. I have two different directions to explore.
I close my eyes and enter the Cube again - not in search of a
message: I know I cannot decipher one yet - but to marvel at the brainwork of my
lover, and perhaps just to enjoy being together again, even if our communication
is no more productive than silence.
Afterwards I go straight to bed, still imagining Sara's face,
and then, as I start falling asleep, picturing her portrait on the screen, the
same one that we were watching together earlier, even if it was only in my
mind…I dream about a device in which we both are in front of a thought screen,
and the murderer's face is on it. Then I have more dreams.