Tears in Rain Part 13

The woman freed herself with a jerk and continued on her way. Bruna watched her walking away with concern, but she was already going to be late for her meeting with Nopal, and she didn't think she was the most suitable person to look after the sick woman anyway. She rang Habib's personal number, and he answered instantly.

"I've just b.u.mped into Nabokov and she seemed very ill."

"By the great Morlay, thank goodness!" he exclaimed, relieved. "Where is she? We've been looking for her for hours."

"I'm sending you my GPS location right now...Have you got it? Nabokov has just taken off southward on foot. I can still see her."

"We're heading there right now, thanks!" said Habib hurriedly.

And he cut out.

Bruna had more things to discuss with the acting leader of the RRM, but she decided they could wait. Pressed for time, she caught a cab again, something that was turning into a disastrous and wasteful habit. Despite the expense, she was fifteen minutes late when she walked into the Bear Pavilion. Nopal was waiting for her seated on one of the benches in the garden inside the entrance, elbows resting on his knees, his lank hair falling over his eyes. He looked annoyed.

"Late again, Bruna. Allow me to say it's a very bad habit. Did your memorist do a bad job with your upbringing memories? Didn't your parents ever tell you that it's bad manners to be late?"

The rep noticed that he'd called her by her first name, and that disturbed her more than his sarcasm.

"My apologies, Nopal. I'm normally very punctual. There was a last-minute complication."

"Fine. Apology accepted. Have you been here before?"

Pablo Nopal seemed to have a strange predilection for meeting in peculiar places. The Bear Pavilion had been built five years earlier, at the time of the Madrid World Expo. The city's symbol had always been a bear eating fruit from a tree, and Inmaculada Cruz, the many times reelected and almost permanent regional president, had decided to celebrate the exposition by updating the ancient emblem. A half century had pa.s.sed since polar bears had become extinct through drowning as the Arctic ice cap melted. A slow and agonizing death for animals capable of swimming desperately for more than three hundred miles before succ.u.mbing to exhaustion. The last polar bear to drown-or at least the last one anyone knew about-was followed by a helicopter from the organization Bears at Risk, which had tried to rescue it, but the polar bear's final swim had coincided with the outbreak of the Rep War. The result was that animal lovers were unable to gain the support or necessary funds to carry out their rescue plans. All they could do was film the tragedy. They also froze and stored in a genetic bank the blood of that last bear-a female. Thanks to that blood, President Cruz was able to get her new symbol for Madrid. Employing a similar system to the one used for the production of technohumans, bioengineers created a bear that was a genetic clone of that last animal. Her name was Melba.

"Yes, I know this place," Bruna replied.

She had always been aware of the existence of the rep bear, as they more or less shared the same birthday. She found the Bear Pavilion a poignant place and had visited it a few times; in particular, during those months of torment after the death of Merlin, when she felt she was degenerating from the pain of her grief in the same way that the original Melba had degenerated on her solitary and ever-smaller iceberg before finally drowning.

"I haven't been here for ages. Shall we take a look?" asked Nopal, standing up.

Bruna shrugged her shoulders. She didn't understand his urge to sightsee, but she didn't want to argue with him about something so insignificant. They crossed the small garden and entered the pavilion building itself, a gigantic, transparent dome. They immediately felt a blast of cold air. Around them, everything seemed to be made of ice or crystal, although it was in fact made of thermogla.s.s, a synthetic, unbreakable material used to create thermal environments. They walked through a re-creation of the Arctic as it once had been, with huge glacial rocks and sparkling icebergs floating on seas of gla.s.s, until they reached a large, irregular, moat-like creva.s.se that separated the visitors from an intensely blue lake with some ice shelves that formed Melba's home. You could look at the animal from the edge of the moat if she was out of the water and hadn't hidden among the rocks, but it was better to go down inside the creva.s.se. That was what Nopal and Bruna did now. They stepped onto the moving sidewalk like conscientious tourists and descended between slippery, crystal-clear walls. The walkway moved very slowly, and a film of the last moments of the original Melba was projected onto five successive and overlapping screens on the walls of the creva.s.se. You really felt as if you were there, watching the last small piece of ice that the bear was trying to hang on to breaking up; the animal swimming more and more slowly, snorting as it sank beneath the surface, then thrusting its dark snout out of the water with one last, agonizing effort and letting out a chilling wail, a furiously terrified growl. And then finally disappearing under a black, gelatinous sea. The life-size images left the spectators speechless. And surrounded by this imposing silence, you reached the bottom of the creva.s.se and in the darkness the walkway deposited you in front of a s.h.i.+mmering wall of water. It was Melba's artificial lake, viewed from the bottom of the tank through a thermogla.s.s wall. And there, with any luck, you would be able to see the bear diving and playing with a ball and happily frolicking while releasing a trail of bubbles from her snout. And once in a while Melba would swim close to the gla.s.s, because she could sense the visitors, too, and was no doubt curious.

Today, however, the animal was nowhere to be seen. Bruna and the memorist waited a while, noses frozen, the intensely blue s.h.i.+mmer of the water dancing across their faces. But Melba didn't appear. So they went back up on the exit walkway, which was considerably shorter and quicker, and emerged from the creva.s.se into the polar landscape. Thanks to her excellent eyesight, Bruna managed to spot Melba on solid ground. Or more accurately, Melba's hindquarters-her round, s.h.a.ggy behind-lying well camouflaged in the shelter of some equally white rocks.

"Look. She's over there."

"Where?"

Of all the times that Husky had been in the pavilion, this was the only one when the bear hadn't been clearly visible. Too bad, Nopal, she thought with a certain malicious pleasure, proof that we reps just don't like memorists.

"Fine. Let's head out," said the man. "I'm absolutely frozen."

They went into the cafeteria, deliciously warm and bright under the transparent dome. It was half-empty, and they sat down at a table next to the curved thermogla.s.s wall. Above the memorist's straight, bony shoulders, Bruna could see a procession of clouds scudding across the sky. It must be windy out there.

They were in an automated establishment, so they ordered two coffees for their table, and after a short while, a small robot arrived with the order and the bill, which came to the exorbitant sum of twenty-four gaias. Entry to the Bear Pavilion might be free, but the cafeteria was highway robbery. No wonder n.o.body was there.

"How can they charge this for two coffees?! And in a place with robots!" muttered the detective.

"You're right. But thanks to that, it's more peaceful. No, it's my treat."

Nopal paid, and for a while they focused on drinking their coffees in silence. You could certainly keep yourself amused with a coffee. You had to pour the sugar into the cup and stir it. Then you could blow on the liquid to cool it down, creating gentle waves. And play with the spoon, separating the foam. Bruna unwrapped the small biscuit that came on the saucer and nibbled at it. It was almost lunchtime but she wasn't hungry; she'd had too much for breakfast. The cafeteria was a nice place. You could do worse than this, calmly having a coffee without saying a word. Almost like a human family. Or one of those couples who'd been together for decades. The twisted, ghostly face of the dying Valo suddenly flooded her mind. Bruna s.h.i.+vered. Melba, the replicant bear-would she also suffer from TTT when she completed her ten-year existence?

"Do you think the bear will die, too?" she asked.

"We're all going to die."

"You know what I'm talking about."

Nopal rubbed his eyes in a weary gesture.

"If you're asking about TTT, it would seem so. As far as they can tell, the average life span of replicant animals is a little shorter than yours-only eight years. But when this Melba dies, they'll produce another one. An infinite chain of Melbas down through the ages. I read all that while I was waiting for you. Here."

Nopal took a pavilion brochure out of his pocket and threw it on the table. Bruna glanced at the brochure without touching it; it had a 3-D photo of the bear. A poor image, a cheap brochure. Four years, three months, and eighteen days. That was all she had left to live. She wanted to stop, she wanted to give up counting, but she couldn't.

"You're very beautiful, Bruna. Very elegant," said the memorist.

The rep gave a start. For some reason, the man's words. .h.i.t her like a reprimand. Suddenly she felt overdressed. Ridiculous in her s.h.i.+ny jumpsuit and her gold necklace. She blushed.

"I have...I have a date later, that's why I'm dressed like this."

"A romantic date?"

They looked at each other, Nopal unperturbed, Husky disconcerted. But this rapidly gave way to boiling rage.

"I don't think who I'm meeting is of interest to you, Nopal. And we've come here for something more than to talk nonsense. You said you had news for me."

The man smiled. A cold, smug little grimace. Bruna hated him.

"Well, yes. Don't ask me how, but I came across one of those mem pirates who write illegal mem implants. And it turns out the guy owes me a favor. Don't ask me about that, though. The thing is, he's prepared to talk to you when he gets back to the city. He's traveling. But he'll see you in four days-Friday at 13:00 sharp. I'm transmitting the address to you right now. I hope you're a good interrogator, because he's quite a tricky customer."

Bruna checked that the information had made it to her mobile.

"Thanks."

The large screen above the counter was showing a tumultuous scene-blood, flames, people running about, police. The sound system was turned off, so Bruna had no way of knowing where it was happening. It didn't matter much, either, to be honest. It was just another violent scene on the news.

"And there's something else, something I remembered after our meeting at the museum."

Nopal paused hesitantly and Bruna waited expectantly for him to continue.

"I don't know if it's relevant, and I'm not even sure it's true, but there's no question that when I was in the business there was a rumor running rife among the memorists that about twenty-five years ago, just before Human Peace and the beginning of the process of the Unification of Earth, the European Union was developing an illegal secret weapon that had to do with artificial memories...for humans."

"For humans!"

"And for technos as well, but primarily for humans. That's why it was a clandestine operation. The thing is, the implants supposedly took over the subject's will and made them do things."

"An induced-behavior program."

"Exactly. And after a few hours, the memory killed the carrier. It was that detail that made me think it might be related to the current cases. But that old story could also be an urban myth. You'll have noticed that it has all the ingredients: a memory implant that, rather than being for technos, is for humans, and kidnaps your will and then finishes you off. It corresponds really well to our unconscious fears, don't you think?"

The cafeteria's screen continued to show disturbing images. Now some people appeared in ash-colored tunics, their faces painted gray, holding a sign that read: "3/2/2109. The end of the world is coming. Are you ready?" It was some of those crazy Apocalyptics. Recently, they had become very active because their prophet, a blind physiotherapist called the New Ca.s.sandra, had predicted on her deathbed fifty years earlier that the end of the world would take place on February 3, 2109-in other words, in less than two weeks. Bruna frowned. Judging by the images, the Apocalyptics were giving their fiery speeches right in front of the RRM headquarters.

"Excuse me for a minute," she said to Nopal.

She swiped her mobile across the electronic eye on the table, paid twenty cents, took one of the tiny earpieces out of the dispenser and put it in her ear. She could hear the chanting of the Apocalyptics and, over the top of it, the voice of a reporter who was saying: "impression of this tragedy which has shaken the Radical Replicant Movement again. This is Carlos Dupont from Madrid." And then a block of advertis.e.m.e.nts started playing. Bruna took out the earpiece, discouraged and somewhat concerned. Were they still talking about Chi's death, or was it something else? She'd check the news on her mobile as soon as she left the writer.

"Why is he following you?" asked the memorist.

"Who?"

"That guy."

Bruna turned in the direction Nopal's finger was pointing. Her stomach churned. Paul Lizard was sitting at one of the tables at the back. Their eyes met and the inspector gave a small nod of his head in greeting. The rep sat upright in her chair. Her cheeks were burning. She thought she could still feel the guy's eyes on the nape of her neck.

"What makes you think he's following me?" she asked, trying in vain to keep her voice sounding normal.

"I know him. Lizard. A wretched, persistent bloodhound. He was giving me grief when...when I had my problems."

"Well then, you could be his target."

"He came into the pavilion behind you."

Bruna blushed slightly. How could she not have realized that she was being shadowed? She was losing her faculties. Or maybe the encounter with the dying Valo had upset her too much. A black rock weighed on her chest. A profound premonition of misfortune. The rep stood up.

"Thanks for everything, Nopal. I'll keep you informed."

She walked decisively toward the exit and as she went past the inspector's table, she bent down and whispered in his ear, "I'm going to the RRM headquarters. In case you lose me."

"Many thanks, Bruna," the big man replied.

And he smiled, granite-faced.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Nopal watched Bruna as she walked off. He saw her stop briefly next to Lizard, whisper something in his ear and then continue toward the exit with a light, confident step. She was a beautiful creature, a rapid, perfect machine. Thirty seconds later, the inspector got up and walked out after her, tall and st.u.r.dy, with the swaying gait of a sailor on land. His body is the exact opposite of Bruna's razor-sharp one, thought Nopal.

A gentle drumming above his head made him realize that it had started to rain. The drops were falling on the transparent dome and then tracing swift-running trickles of water across the cover. A pale ray of sunlight filtered through a gap in the clouds, and the sky was a tangle of mist in every conceivable shade of gray. It was a perfect sky to accompany sad feelings.

Sadness is a genuine luxury, the memorist thought to himself. He hadn't allowed himself that calm and unhurried emotion for many years. When you experience pain so acute that you're afraid you won't be able to bear it, there is no sadness but rather despair, madness, rage. He sensed something akin to that despair in Bruna, something of that pure sorrow that burned like acid. Of course, he had a clear advantage when it came to sensing her feelings. He knew her. Or rather, he recognized her.

In his time as a memorist Nopal had always behaved in the manner he'd described to the rep at the Museum of Modern Art. He'd always tried to construct solid, balanced lives with a certain sense of purpose. Lives that were comforting in some way. Only once had he transgressed that unwritten personal rule-and that was with the last job he did, when he already knew they were going to expel him from the profession. And Bruna was carrying that memory. The Law of Artificial Memory of 2101 strictly prohibited writers from knowing which specific technohumans would end up with their implants, and vice versa; it was a.s.sumed that such knowledge might generate various abuses and problems. But his work on Bruna's memory had been exceptional in every meaning of the word; it was a much more comprehensive, deeper, freer, more pa.s.sionate, and more creative memory. It was the masterpiece of Nopal's life, because it was precisely his own life. In a literally re-created version, naturally. But the basic emotions, the essential events, they were all there. And since you are what you remember, Bruna was in a way his other self.

From the very moment he handed over the implant, Pablo Nopal tried to discover which technohuman was carrying it. All he knew was that it was a female combat model, and her age to within six months. He would have preferred the techno to have been a male, and a computation or exploration model, as these allowed for greater creativity and refinement, but the specifications were set by the gestation plant, and Nopal concurred. Anyway, he had been extremely free in creating her; he had ignored all the rules of his profession. Poor Husky: by being his final opus, she had received the poisoned gift of his grief.

During the six years Nopal had been searching for her, he had investigated scores of technohumans. The only way to discover the recipient of his memory was to talk to them and try to deduce it from their comments, with the result that he had become a combat rep stalker. He discovered that some reps had a morbid fascination for memorists, and he ended up taking a liking to those quick and athletic reps with their perfect bodies. He slept with several of them, but he only became truly intimate with one-Myriam Chi, who was not, in fact, a combat rep but an exploration model whom he met while he was hanging out with an RRM militant. So his relations.h.i.+p with Chi was free of any utilitarian considerations. She was a very special woman. Her memorist, whoever he might be, had created a real work of art. They ended up being friends and he spoke to her of his search. She made him promise that he would say nothing to the android when he found her, but she agreed to help him. Thanks to Chi, he had managed to draw up a list of the reps he still had to probe. There were twenty-seven, and Husky was among them. When the detective had spoken to him about Chi in the museum, Nopal had been unable to discern if Chi had sent Bruna to him in order to help him out or in order for him to help Bruna with her investigation. He had intended to give the RRM leader a call to ask her, but they had killed her before he could do so.

They killed her, the man repeated to himself, feeling that the hurtful, sharp edge of the word was slicing his tongue.

Nopal's father, too, had been killed by a criminal one night when the memorist was nine years old. That was one of the centers of pain he had implanted into the detective. But things had become even more difficult for the writer because, a few months later, his mother committed suicide. Then there was the year he spent in the orphanage and, just when he thought he'd reached the absolute depths of h.e.l.l, his uncle appeared and adopted him-and that was when he learned there can always be something worse.

Nopal stirred in his seat, feeling too close to the abyss. Each time he thought about his childhood he remembered that child, Pablo, as if it weren't him, but some poor child they'd spoken to him about sometime in the past. He knew that they had hit that boy and had kept him in the dark in a cellar for days at a time, and that the child was terrorized. But he had no memory of those experiences from within, of the interminable darkness of the dirty cellar, of the dampness when he wet himself, of the pain of the burns. Inside Nopal's head that child who wasn't entirely him continued to be shut away and ill-treated. Just touching on that thought filled his eyes with tears at the pain and anguish that clutched at his throat like a hunting dog, preventing him from breathing normally. That was why Nopal tried not to think, not to remember.

The writer didn't really know why he had toned down his experiences when he translated them into Bruna's memory. Perhaps out of compa.s.sion for the rep who was going to become a life-size version of that young Pablo he carried inside him. Or maybe a professional obsession made him fear that if he included everything, the story would seem exaggerated and barely plausible. Or it could be that he had kept quiet about some of those things because authentic pain is indescribable. Even so, investing the rep with his own memories had helped Nopal to lighten the load of his own pain. Not only because he had, in a way, pa.s.sed on some of his misfortunes to another, but also, more than anything, because that other existed, because there was someone who was like him. Because he was no longer alone.

The loneliness was worse than being locked up, worse than the sadism of the other children in the orphanage, worse than the beatings and injuries-worse, even, than the fear. Nopal had been left completely alone when he was nine years old, and the absolute loneliness was a terrifying and inhuman experience. After the murder of his father, the memorist had not been needed by, or important to, anyone. n.o.body missed him. n.o.body remembered him. Not even his mother had thought about him when she killed herself. It was the closest thing to not existing. But this replicant was, to a great extent, like him: she had a share of his memories, and she even possessed actual objects that came from Nopal's childhood. Bruna was, in short, more than a daughter, more than a sister, more than a lover. There would never be anyone as close to him as that android.

That afternoon at the museum, when Bruna's ident.i.ty and the end of his search had finally been confirmed, he had come out in goose b.u.mps. It had been a deeply touching moment, but fortunately he had been able to hide his feelings; he had spent his entire life learning to hide his emotions. Nopal had felt instantly attracted to the rep. She was beautiful, wild, and tough, and suffering and burning inside in the same way that he was. He found her fascinating from the first moment perhaps because he sensed the similarity, and when he finally confirmed that she was the one, he liked her even more. But he couldn't give in to that narcissistic impulse, the memorist told himself. He couldn't make love to the replicant. That would be an act against nature, something incestuous and sick. And the memorist, contrary to what many might think, considered himself to be a highly moral man, almost a puritan. It was just that his morals tended to be different from those of everyone else.

No, it was better to continue like this. He'd look after her from afar, as a benevolent G.o.d might look after his child. And for the few years of life she had left, he'd try to delight in her, in the relief from pain that Bruna's existence provided him. The memorist sighed, enfolded in a delicate sorrow. The cafeteria was empty and all he could hear was the soft drumming of the rain. It was a perfect day to experience the melancholy of the impossible. He would never be able to tell Bruna who he was. He would never be able to hold her in his arms and love her as only he knew how. Oh, what a refined luxury sadness was!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Bruna had just left the Bear Pavilion when she answered a call from Habib.

"I'm on my way over to you now. Can we catch up?"

Habib's well-proportioned face was distorted with distress.

"Don't even think about coming here. It's dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"Because of the demonstrators. The police have already arrived, but I'm still wary. It looks like reps are being attacked all over the city."

"Attacked?"

Habib looked at her, astounded.

"Haven't you heard anything?"

"Anything?" repeated Bruna, unable to prevent herself. She felt like a total idiot parroting everything the man was saying.

"Husky, something terrible has happened. It's...it's..."