No mad land, p.12
No/Mad/Land, page 12
Alan puts Veronika and her pouch back on his shoulders and gets up.
“Great.”
Chapter Forty
Non-Promised Land
Alan unrolls a map of the Mediterranean on the ground and anchors the corners with stones to stop the wind getting at it. With the flashlight on his phone, he points out Rome and traces the route they took to the Mount Adone Animal Rescue Center, then their route to the Adriatic Sea where they boarded the Green Ark.
The beam of light continues along the route taken by the flotilla, crossing the Naval Blockade, the pirate island of Antikythera and their arrival in the Sea of Marmara and on Büyükada. Every so often Alan raises his eyes to look at each of his companions with the control of a general briefing his high command.
“The Hebrew Hag,” says Alan, “and the pre-Islamic Haj were journeys, and celebrations in sacred locations with connections to the original nomadic route, the Easter. Before becoming the commemoration of the exodus of Moses’s people leaving Egypt, Easter was a commemoration of nomadic conditions and involved a three-day trip in the desert followed by a feast.”
The light trailing across the map has brought back memories, reminded them of arguments and rekindled bonds, leaving each of the Pulldogs with joys and disappointments: this route is their life now, it is what unites them, what makes them a family, it is their non-stationary home, their desti-nation.
“It is the original character of pilgrimages, the gathering of groups who usually live separately, to celebrate a common bond, that connects the primitive condition of humanity to religious pilgrimages and continues to do so today. A character so deep and irreplaceable that in modern times manifests as musical, football, consumer, and touristic pilgrimages.”
Alan switches the flashlight off and starts walking around the circle of Pulldogs.
“But we are not pilgrims, nor fans, not consumers, nor tourists. We do not gather thanks to international transport systems, we walk; we do not identify with mass production, we are the mass that produces for itself; we don’t use mass distribution which gives everyone identical things wherever you are, we exchange compositions, knowledge and personal experiences for free, because buying creates hierarchy, whereas donation creates equity.”
On his second lap, he stops.
“The next stage in this world, now, is in front of us.”
Alan turns his flashlight back on and shines it on a point on the map, Cappadocia in Turkey.
“I don’t want to offend anyone, but in just two weeks here at the orphanage we have gone from being walkers to holidaymakers, happy prisoners measuring our cells, toing and froing from the pool to the massage center. Our freedom has become the length of our chains. Will you be able to leave this place?”
There are murmurs and whispers but no one speaks, neither to disagree nor answer. Alan continues, “There is a time for everything, and now the time for resting is over. If any of you are happy with life here, please, we are not going to force anyone to continue, but I have no intention of staying here. Stability is the beginning of the end, you don’t need me to tell you, but I want to remind you of one thing: when we walk we can only fall forward.”
Alan turns the flashlight off and sits down. “Tomorrow we are setting off again.”
He likes the idea of pushing his limits, of always inventing a new obstacle to overcome, a challenge to win.
“I won’t ask for a show of hands as if we were in a residents’ meeting. Sleep on it and decide in all serenity. We are and always will be Pulldogs, with mesh networks we will always be in touch with each other. All paths split and come together again in the end.”
The group says nothing, then, one by one the Pulldogs get up and leave.
* * *
At the end of the speech, Nicolas and Hakim go over to Alan by the communal tent.
“We are with you. We have to move as soon as possible. This place is fantastic, Esin and Doctor Çakmak are so kind, but we are at risk of losing sight of our goals.”
Alan walks towards the woods surrounding Isa Tepesi hill.
“Talking about goals. Are you still bent on taking nanites to the natives?”
Hakim grabs Alan’s arm roughly. “Please, don’t call them natives. We are all natives of the place we are born in. It would be better to call them tribes…. A bit like us.”
“All right. The problem is they are dying out. Don’t you think if there was something useful in their way of life things would be going better for them?”
“The reasons behind their difficulties have nothing to do with their culture,” Nicolas says. “If you take away the land where they have lived for thousands of years, if you impose values that have nothing to do with them, if you steal the resources they need to survive, well, it is not the fault of anyone’s lifestyle.”
“It reminds me of the viaduct.”
“Exactly, we defended it with all the means we could.”
“But then we left it, and came all this way. And it was you who convinced me no promised land exists; that the concept of place and belonging have to adapt to the times we are living in. But, after thinking about it a lot, I believe you should try. If anyone is capable of pollinating the world with ideas, it’s you, Nicolas. I hope you manage to save lots of tribes.”
“Why are you saying this? You…I mean, aren’t you coming?”
Alan surprises Nicolas by resting a hand on his shoulder.
“This is your path. I don’t feel I can lead the Pulldogs into such dangerous places. Now we have Veronika too, I have to look after her, and I hope that in the future other children will come along.”
“Are you scared? There are dangers everywhere, and that doesn’t stop children being there too.”
“Yes, but I have learned to be cautious, it’s not the same thing as being scared. Maybe one day you too will understand this.”
* * *
The morning after, as Hamidiye’s mosque’s muezzin calls the faithful to worship, the Pulldogs begin to decompose their tents, except for two; the twins’ tent is still there, and they are sitting in the opening, sad but determined to stay on the island.
Alan goes over to them, strumming his guitortoise to disperse any tension.
“So am I going to have to post an ad: looking for expert percussionists with no fixed abode?”
“Sorry, Alan, but we’re not in the mood for joking,” says Ariel, lighting the narghilè. Her sister Leira is in a similarly bad mood.
“I know it wasn’t an easy decision. Anyway, you will always know where we are; you just have to look at iMaps.”
“It’s not the same thing.” Leira has tears in her eyes.
“You don’t want me to try to make you change your minds, do you? So come and say goodbye, and then come back and play. I want to hear your rhythm all the way to the Anatolian coast.”
The women get up and hug all the others.
The other tent that hasn’t been decomposed belongs to Martina and her son Pietro. Inside, a separation within the separation is happening. She has found the ideal place to produce her aerography creations, whereas he wants to go with Alan, carry on playing bass in the group, stay with the Pulldogs.
“I know you will be in good hands. At twenty-four you can decide on your own future,” Martina says, sliding out of her son’s arms. “Now go, I don’t want to see you for a while. But contact me every now and then, and come back to see me as soon as you can.”
Pietro shrugs on his rucksack, the neck of the bass sticking out of the top. His eyes are wet with tears, but he doesn’t want her to see. Alan puts an arm around his shoulders and pulls him away to remove him from his embarrassment. “C’mon, run to the others.”
Esin Demir and Doctor Çakmak and Prinkipo’s research staff have got up early so they can say goodbye to the Pulldogs. Alan thanks them all for their hospitality and takes advantage of the occasion to give his vision a name.
“This meeting was destined to happen. You have made Tommaso whole, we are leaving Ariel, Leira, and Martina here with you. I’m not sure who has gained more.” Someone starts laughing, Rafabel is overcome with emotion. “And after talking to Doctor Çakmak, my ideas about what we can become are much clearer. You see…in my mind, the life we have been leading over the past few months has a name I never mentioned, transhumance.”
As soon as he says the word, people start laughing. Alan is happy to play along.
“Yeah, I know, it’s because I have origins in Abruzzo, I’m no good as a copywriter.” He looks at Miriam with the hint of an ironic smile. “But the doctor suggested something better, the rhizomance. The rhizome is a root that spreads through earth horizontally rather than vertically. A rhizome doesn’t have a start or an end, it’s somewhere in the middle, imperceptible, it doesn’t put down roots. Therefore, our experience has been and will continue to be a rhizomatic transhumance.”
The twins’ fingers start moving on their bongos. The rhythm starts the movement, the movement of walking. The Pulldogs come down from the Isa Tepesi hill to get out and launch one of the lifeboats. They leave the other one there in case someone changes their mind and decides to start walking again.
Instead of heading north towards the Green Ark, they go east, towards Anatolia.
Chapter Forty-One
Rhizomance vs Wandering
At the eastern end of the Sea of Marmara, near the city of Izmit, the Pulldogs are heading into the Kent Ormani Forest, a large park where families come to spend the day in the open air in the midst of nature. Every now and then, by the footpaths, there are picnic areas with wooden tables, stone barbecues for roasting shashlik and marinated brochettes, and roofs serving as shelters for people, small rodents, wolves, and wild boars.
The June heat forces a slow rhythm on them and frequent rests, they need two hours more rest per day than in the winter in order not to risk fevers due to overheating.
Before finding a location suitable for a nest, Alan’s phone latches onto a mobile network in the middle of the forest and downloads Doctor Çakmak’s answer. The email subject line reads ‘Technical Report: Molecular – Biological Paternity Investigation’.
Alan removes the baby pouch with Veronika in it, hands her over to Silvia, makes an excuse, and leaves, saying, “I have to water and fertilize the plants.”
“Hurry up, we still haven’t found a place to make a nest.”
As soon as he finds a bush, he hunkers down behind it and starts to read.
“Dear Alan, please find attached the analysis results.”
On Alan’s screen there are two rectangles like long ribbons full of signs and indicators. To him they look like two sheets of music, notes marked in red and black at various heights.
“I’ll skip the medical jargon but, in practice, if two or more markers in the genetic profile of the presumed father and the daughter don’t match, then exclusion is certain. In your case, Veronika has genetic characteristics, underlined in red, that are not in your genetic profile. You are not Veronika’s biological father.”
Pulling up his trousers, Alan leaves the bush, stuffs his phone into his pocket and starts running. All of those seeing him streaking past jump out of the way. As soon as he reaches the front of the line, he jumps on Nicolas, attacking him from behind and knocking him to the ground. Nicolas falls forward without putting his hands out and bashes his face, then he turns instinctively, clutching at Alan to keep him at a distance, trying to stop him landing any blows. Nicolas’s imposing frame enables him to hold his ground for a moment.
“Fuck you doing?”
“You think you have become so perfect, don’t you? You think you can assemble and dismantle the fate of the world and all of us!”
“What are you talking about, have you gone mad?”
Alan pushes against Nicolas’s legs to knock him onto his side and they end up flailing around in the dead leaves. The rest of the Pulldogs come running towards them.
Alan regains his balance, grabs Nicolas by his T-shirt and punches him so hard in the stomach that Nicolas doubles over in pain, then he kicks him in the kidneys.
At this point, when Dikran and Hakim reach them and try to pull them apart, Alan stops, unresisting. He drops to his knees and bends over, shoving his fingers into the soft earth to ground his anger.
“Why did you stay with us, eh? Why didn’t you just fuck off on your own business like you always did before? Eh no! Instead you found her,” he says, pointing at Silvia, her face impassive and mask-like. “And she is the highest point of your forbidden dreams.”
Alan stands up again and advances on Nicolas, who shuffles backwards on all fours. Hakim and Dikran try and get between them.
“Get out of the way! This is between me and him!”
Alan shouts and shakes Dikran off. Hakim is more tenacious and attempts to act as a shield between Alan and Nicolas.
“You knew she didn’t love you, but you had to try anyway, so you wanted to get to the top of the group to impress everyone. First the perfumes, then the heliotrons, then saving tribes risking extinction…and all of it because you are nothing but a frustrated ex-fatty, ex-perfumer bastard.”
Suddenly Alan jumps forward to grab Hakim and throws him to one side.
Miriam grabs Silvia by the sleeve. “Make him stop! Do something!”
He lands more kicks on Nicolas’s legs, chest, and head. Beginning to pant, he scrabbles for something on the ground but all he manages to pick up is a handful of grass. Alan is landing blows in a frenzy, so many that Nicolas is beginning to bleed.
“Help!” His voice comes out in a lament, like the whine of a child.
Paralyzed, Silvia says nothing, nor does she move, so Rafabel throws herself into the fight, trying to stop Alan from killing Nicolas.
“Stop it! You’re going too far!”
He finally calms down and yells, “This shithead had Silvia. Look!”
He pulls out his phone and sticks it in Rafabel’s hand, the email from Doctor Çakmak open on the screen. “How else do you think Veronika got heliotrons if not from him!”
She reads and her face blanches.
“Is she your child?” Rafabel asks Nicolas.
“I know nothing about this. I think you’ve all gone mad.”
Alan presses on with his accusations. “If you think you can put yourself between Silvia and me, you are wrong. There is a chemistry between us you will never be able to break! Not even with all your nanotechnological devices.”
Nicolas stays where he is, lying on the ground, aching; some of the phials in his bandolier have broken, their contents making colored puddles on the ground. Amongst the odors released into the air something attracts Rafabel’s attention. She picks up a phial and holds it to her nose.
“This smell.” She turns to Silvia. “It’s yours…. I recognize it.”
Alan comes over and sniffs it too, casting Nicolas a look of disgust.
“I knew it. I thought I smelled it at the concert in the animal refuge, but I wasn’t sure.”
Everyone is staring at Silvia, who is feeling totally humiliated. She wants to cry, but fights to keep control. She takes off the baby pouch and hands it and Veronika to her grandma so she can go and get the phial.
“It isn’t Nicolas’s fault,” she says calmly. “He has nothing to do with it. Or at least not in the way you think.”
She sniffs the phial, then lets it drop to the ground.
“It is my smell, I admit it. Like I admit I was with Nicolas once, the night of the Rishow.” Silvia turns to Alan. “You were playing, I had been drinking. Nicolas made me an infusion to help me sober up. I stayed at his house for a few hours. What happened there should not have.”
Silence. Then Silvia speaks to them all, as if the consequences of her mistake have fallen on each of them too.
“You know me, I don’t tell lies, not even to protect others or myself. This time it is different, because it affects a baby. Please believe me when I tell you I didn’t know who Veronika’s father was, I didn’t want to know because I didn’t need to.”
She looks her man in the eyes. “You are Veronika’s father, Alan.”
“How can you say that?” he hisses, turning away from her.
“Telling lies is like walking with a splinter in the sole of my foot, and this is the right time to pull it out. One day you asked me if I would have preferred Nicolas as a father for Veronika, because he’s intelligent, can compose perfumes, and anything else a child could want. It’s true, I care about Nicolas, we grew up together and I have to apologize to him because I have been cruel to him. In a moment of weakness I wanted his genes, I was envious of his ability to accept the transformation of his body and turn it into a strength, something it was hard for me to learn. But I never thought of him being the father of my children, and certainly not during the night of the Rishow.”
Silvia tries to catch Nicolas’s gaze, but he is keeping his eyes on the ground.
“Wanting something like that would be like expecting the sun to stop shining down on the rest of the world because we want it to brighten only our heads. It is true, Nicolas walks with us, but he has always been on a different path, an unknown path that every now and then – almost by chance – crosses ours. As a father for my children, I have always wanted you, Alan, even when you didn’t even want to discuss having them. You climb a tree every morning to play the wake-up call for our group. You always find a place for us to make our nest for the night when the sun goes down. Your hands are dirty like mine, we have the same scars. You can be sweet, rough and melodic; you are not perfect, but you are perfect for me.”
Alan turns his head a little to see Silvia out of the corner of his eye: that woman, rough and often cantankerous, has wrong-footed him again. She has turned all his suppositions upside down. He had believed she would have preferred a paternal figure like Nicolas, whereas actually she wanted the exact opposite.
