I see a high forehead with a small depression in the middle, sharp cheekbones, a tapering chin and sunken, sphinxlike eyes, slightly elevated at the corners. His lips are compressed into a thin line, and his unblinking gaze is directed straight at me. I am certain I have never known this person – no matter how hopeless my memory is.
“I am your friend,” he says crisply and clearly. “Your helper. Or perhaps your mentor or your counselor, your therapist. My title is not important; just take it as read that I am your Nestor.”
He is straitlaced and markedly formal. His lips do not move in sync with his words, but this doesn’t bother me much. Anyway, it’s better than just an indistinct O-shaped mouth.
“You are not obliged to reciprocate my efforts or even my friendship,” he continues, “but you need to know you don’t have many allies – in fact, not more than two. Every quarantiner has his or her own Nestor – and, of course, a roommate in the apartment. The others are unlikely to be inclined to socialize with you.”
“Theo, my name is Theo,” I say, leaning forward. “I’m happy to meet you – and I have lots and lots of questions!”
Somehow, it almost becomes clear: all this, the entire situation, is anything but a prank. Neither a pointless trick nor a joke that has yet to be explained to me. My yearning and loneliness recede; I feel a surge of energy and a feverish desire to get to the bottom of everything at once.
The man on the screen shakes his head. Nevertheless, I continue, “Tell me, is this really death? Because I remember being shot… But what about after death – what is this place? And the main thing: How did I get here?”
Nestor wrinkles his mouth and raises his palm. “No, no, wait,” I say, not wanting to stop. “Can you tell me if anything is real here? Is there at least something tangible, solid and anchored, or is all this just an illusion, worse than a dream? Elsa smells of juniper, but I can’t feel the touch of her hands. The window has an image projected onto it, but what is beyond the window?”
“Here we go again!” Nestor chuckles. “At first, everyone is concerned with the same things – looking out the window or hugging their roommate… The words differ, of course, but the thrust of the questions don’t.”
He glances down for a second – perhaps to look through his papers – and then adds, “Tomorrow you will read our Brochure for new arrivals – as a first step, so to speak. It’s interesting you mentioned your dreams right away; they have a big role to play here. You will soon come to understand: each dream is like a swim in the open sea far from dry land. A journey – through fragments of memories, semibroken pathways and connections.”
“Soon…” I repeat after him and fall silent. The questions that have been bursting to come out suddenly seem superfluous, pointless. A new thought pierces me like the point of a blade.
“Tell me, Nestor…” I begin, then clear my throat and ask cautiously, “Tell me, Nestor, am I immortal?” My voice lets me down; the last word comes out as falsetto.
Nestor raises his eyes toward me. “Are you afraid of immortality?” he enquires curiously. “Or are you already afraid of death again – having barely succeeded in living through it, if you’ll forgive the paradox?”
“But who…” I begin again and fall silent, not knowing how to carry on. My eyes become heavy, my ears start to ring – a long, drawn-out note like the thrum of a copper string.
“In fact,” Nestor says suddenly, “it seems thoroughly unfair to me that you are so lost and confused – although, to be honest, who can one blame for injustice. But we do know that the notion of rebirth with one’s memory and ‘sense of self’ remaining intact should not be an alien concept to you, Theo. You are not a typical case – no ordinary ‘newcomer’ with a file just one page long.”
He looks down at his papers again, then raises his eyes and exclaims, “Just take the quantum field that you predicted! Or the new type of quasiparticle. Or, say, metaspace, which tells us more about you than the entire contents of your file!”
“I can hardly remember a thing,” I murmur as if trying to justify myself. Suddenly and swiftly, I am again completely drained of strength. My thoughts become confused; I feel overwhelmed by drowsiness. With each passing second, it sucks me down deeper and deeper, like a thick, sticky whirlpool.
Nestor waves his hand, “Yes, yes. Your memory will return – that’s what you have been put here for, just like everyone else. This is not a problem; you have no problems at all now. They have been left in the past – but you will have to remember how they started, what caused them and what they became afterward. You will have to recall the sheets of paper covered with symbols, your equations and your theories, and the dance of the conscions… It will all come back to you – but later; that’s enough for today. You have completely exhausted yourself. You need to sleep – for now, without any dreams or visions!”
And with that, the screen switches off and the back of the armchair reclines backward. My eyelids close of their own accord, flashes of color dance in the darkness and words spin in my head whose meaning is not clear to me: “firecrackers, gunpowder, pirates…” Suddenly, symbols flash before my eyes – a fragment of a formula chalked on a blackboard, an integral sign, the Greek letters pi and theta. They are important; they cannot be wiped out easily – neither with a damp sponge nor by any thought of one’s own demise.
There is one other thing that I need to know right away. “Listen, Nestor…” I say with the last of my strength, without opening my eyes. And immediately fall into a deep sleep.
Chapter 2
The next morning, emerging from oblivion, I look around me and take stock. The room has not changed – it still has the same neutral lighting, the screen opposite and the window with its fake landscape. My body is not feeling the effects of my night spent in a semisitting position in an armchair; my head is clear, and my mind seems strong enough. I remember yesterday – the stairwells, the door to the apartment and Elsa’s smile. Then – a motorcycle with two riders, a gun aimed at my chest. New memories also flicker past, one after the other like lightning flashes. Some people, loud laughter – and suddenly, piercingly: anxiety, fear. But not fear for myself.
I screw up my eyes and see a fragile Asian-looking girl with a slight squint and a streak of bright-red hair. Her face moves very close; I rub my eyes with my fists, driving away the tears. “Tina…” I whisper, and I want to scream but somehow restrain myself. I gather my strength and try to think clearly: Tina – I remember we were together, even if only for a little while. I remember I had to save her – but from whom? What kind of danger was she in?… Steam from the pavement, hot, humid air, smoke from braziers and the exhaust of the cars – the smells of a big city seem to tickle my nostrils, but I cannot connect them with anything. I remember only that something was left unfinished – and suddenly a motorbike rider wearing a matte-black helmet fades in again. This is the very last moment before the shot: the realization of the disaster, the acute, instantaneous yearning for Tina, desperation at my own helplessness and… Here the memory fails, the chain is broken. In my head – only the remnants of my voice, “Ti…na.”
I suddenly understand: death is more than an eternal nightmare. More than a damp sponge, erasing all meanings, or the silence of a copper string. Bad blood is not at its core; at its core is the loss of those who are dear to you. Parting – forever? Parting from Tina – and who else?