No mad land, p.13
No/Mad/Land, page 13
“It was presumptuous of me to think I could hide all of this. I am sorry for not telling anyone before now. This is the truth.”
Alan stands and takes his daughter from Miriam. Then he moves closer to Nicolas as if he were holding a weapon. “Did you hear what she said? This is my daughter.”
His words wound Nicolas more than the kicks and punches did.
“I don’t like the atmosphere there is around you,” continues Alan. “You exert a kind of evil attraction over people. I don’t want Veronika to be near you. I know from experience now.”
Nicolas doesn’t react but Rafabel knows the drama he is living through. She grabs Alan’s T-shirt and pulls him away. “Enough! He has just found out he is a father, then that he isn’t anymore in the space of a few minutes. Leave him alone. You’ve had your revenge.”
Alan doesn’t put up a fight. He takes Silvia by the hand and says, serious, “It’s better if our paths separate here. Whoever wants to go with Nicolas is free to do so. We are going to continue to Göreme, then to the north, across Georgia and upwards, until we reach Russia and Ivan and Kirill’s friends. Our route remains the same.”
* * *
For five days, until they reach Göreme, the two groups of Pulldogs walk a few kilometers apart. The rift created by Veronika’s paternity seems to be unrepairable, even though for Alan it wasn’t the only problem. Nicolas’s presence was an obstacle in the way of creating his idea of a ‘wandering life’ from the day he got it into his head to take heliotrons to tribes risking extinction. Now Rafabel and Hakim – as was to be expected, plus Shimbo and Farisa, which was more of a surprise – are not walking with them anymore, things should go more easily. Miriam is a different kettle of fish. Despite having taken the heliotrons, she has decided to stay with her family and not follow Nicolas’s group. The same goes for Kenshij the taciturn.
Tasia and Pino would have liked to have gone with Rafabel, but she didn’t want them to take the heliotrons, and without them the children would not be able to keep up with the group; for the moment they whine and complain three or four times a day, every time they see someone from the other group appear on the crest of a hill, or in the middle of a bare field. They complain because they can’t run and join them, like any children who are prevented from doing something they suddenly have the desire to do. Then, when they too begin to see the pointy columns that rise from the Göreme valley, they forget everything else, gobsmacked.
“Look! It’s like being on the moon,” says Tasia.
“The moon doesn’t have those things…. It looks like an alien planet,” Pino corrects her.
The white clouds crossing the sky are flocks of doves wheeling between the peaks.
“Actually, they are called ‘fairy chimneys’. You see those mountains over there?” Miriam stands next to the little girl and takes her hand as she points out a peak in the distance. “That’s him, the Argaeus volcano created this place with lava and tuff rock. It took millions of years of wind and water erosion, of heat and cold to shape these bizarre-looking rocks.”
The land around is arid, and yet under the ground there are rivers that feed springs capable of guaranteeing fertility to places where the water surfaces in plentiful springs, giving life to luxurious oases amidst pinnacles of jagged rock: enormous chimneys that look like something out of a fairy tale, strange stone mushrooms, deep valleys, and caves scattered here and there set up as shelters. A few little stone houses mark the edge of a village in the middle of brambles climbing everywhere.
“Down there, that sign points to a Turkish bath,” says Alan after checking the translation on his phone.
From the side of the hill a footpath winds between blocks of stone, all that is left of an imposing Turkish bath complex, which must at some point have been used as a source of building stone.
A dribble of clean water runs into a cistern full of croaking frogs. After filling their pouches, the Pulldogs continue along the side of an abandoned farm. Its orchard of wild plum trees offers such ripe fruit that all they have to do is stretch out a hand to pick them from the branches bending under their weight.
Nearer to the village there are some families relaxing and playing tavla, a kind of backgammon.
As they cross the village dozens of picturesque characters gather around the Pulldogs, attracted by the arrival of strangers; dried-up old men taking their hairy, black Bactrian camels home; kids wearing Barcelona and Manchester City football shirts; tough-looking guys with tattoo-covered arms; and the inevitable women with baskets full of bits and bobs to sell balanced on their heads. The dusty air carries a smell of propane, old cars, and shashlik smoke.
The arrival of the Pulldogs livens up the atmosphere and word of mouth does the rest: in a few minutes, a handful of beggars arrive and begin to chant prayers and litanies, while yawning camels appear from behind the houses, drooling and screeching at their masters for waking them up.
An old man with a green headscarf on his head pulls out a bottle of yellow liquid from one of the saddle pockets. “Ayran. For you, good.”
Alan makes a gesture to show they have no money, but the old man insists, as if the point in question is more important than money: hospitality. After drinking he passes the bottle to the others; Alan is trying to understand how far the old man’s generosity will go.
“We thank you, we are looking for a place to sleep.” He tilts his head to rest it on his joined hands, to explain himself better.
The old man smiles and thumps his chest with his hand. “I take you. My camel cave. On foot not far. You first outsiders after long time. War takes all things, all people.”
But when Alan turns to let the other Pulldogs know he has found them a place to stop and rest, he has to resign himself to the sight of some of them – Tommaso, Pilar, Pietro, Pino, and Tasia – already lying fully clothed in the pools of water.
It does after all seem to be the village meeting place, and, judging by the signposts along the road, it must have been the largest tourist attraction in the area before the conflict with the Kurds caused it to be abandoned. The old people and the few younger people left have nothing else to do but find comfort in the waters, washing each other’s hair and backs as they chat, make fun of each other, discuss life and splash around in the shadows of ancient walls and dilapidated columns.
Lying back and admiring the panorama, Tommaso, Pilar, Pino, and Tasia motion to the others to come and join them. Alan realizes he can’t miss this opportunity. The last to get in the water are Dikran, Silvia, Kenshij, and little Nika in Miriam’s arms.
The old man stops and waits.
* * *
Tarak’s cave is ten meters deep, wide and humid. In a wider area where his fifteen camels live, the temperature is eighteen degrees, thanks to which they have slept better than over the past few days. As soon as he wakes up, Alan gets up and checks the phone hidden behind a rock at the entrance.
The first video it recorded shows Dikran coming out of the darkness of the cave to go and take a slash behind a boulder. Alan deletes it.
In the second video, Tarak drives away a couple of drunk young men come with the intention of bothering the Pulldogs’ girls. He shakes his stick in the air and it is enough to discourage their boiling spirits. Alan deletes this, too.
The last video is more complicated to understand: a shadow moves slowly between the prone bodies, careful not to wake anyone. The phone is positioned on a small tripod and the movement sensor makes the video camera rotate until it focuses on the figure in the shadows. Step after step, the shadow makes its way between the sleeping people until it reaches Nika. Then it lifts the sheet, scoops up the sleeping baby, takes a few steps, and sits on a rock.
Alan shudders and immediately leans out to check Nika is still in Silvia’s arms, then continues watching the video and sees, bending over the infant’s face, the shadow is whispering quietly.
“Look for your smell, the rest is only a passing stink. And it doesn’t matter if it is the smell of a storm or of spring, the smell of dirt or a refined essence, or that of the truth or being resigned, what is important is that it is your smell, the one you recognize as yours, the one you wouldn’t swap for anyone else’s and makes you get up every morning and walk. Remember, our noses point forward because it is the organ that helps us orientate ourselves.”
A sound behind the shadow forces him to turn. Silvia is staring at him, her expression dark. She doesn’t say a word. She is wary and cautious, as if this man has sneaked into the cave to kidnap her daughter.
“Why did you come here?” she whispers, holding him by the arm. One wrong move and she is ready to scream.
“I didn’t say goodbye to her. I can’t stand the idea of being separated like this….”
“Our ideas and ways of behaving are different. We have different goals.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Everyone has to follow their own path in life. You have to accept that.”
“I know. I’m not trying to change anything.”
Silvia lets go of him and lowers her eyes, as if she can’t bear to look Nicolas in the eye. She had believed him capable of doing something terrible, something maybe she would have done if she had been in his place.
“What are you going to do now? Where will you five go?”
“South, I’ve had an idea.”
“You never get tired….”
“A network of people who exchange the excess solar energy produced by their heliotrons in order to compose whatever they want.”
“I bet you have already thought of a name.”
“Well yes, actually, I have. My father used to deal with these marketing things, now they’re my job. I’m going to call it ergonet. And you? Are you really going to go into the cold?”
“We’re going to try, even though I have no idea what is going to happen. I mean, no one ever really knows. Sometimes I am scared to have got into something that is too difficult for me. While you are hitching, traveling on trains without a ticket, or squatting in empty houses you feel strong because you are challenging a certain kind of world, but now, when evening falls and you come to a place you don’t know and it isn’t your destination, with no one waiting for you, and you also know the only reason for not turning around and going home is an eccentric idea like the rhizomance…well, it gives you pause, and you begin to feel nostalgia for your roots, even if these are in a 3D-printed house on a falling-down viaduct that sooner or later is going to be taken from you to make a multistory car park or a shopping mall….”
Silvia’s sigh is melancholic, then she continues, “But I hope you manage to take the nanites to the tribes and anyone else who needs them. I have the feeling that we two won’t meet again anytime soon. The world, outside the cities, is so big and footpaths don’t cross as easily as roads do.”
“That’s true, but I still believe in coincidences. Like the ones that brought us to meeting each other again after so many years thanks to the smartfume Little Simon stole.”
She finds the strength to look him in the eye.
“I can tell you now. When I saw you again outside the Rendezvous, I was scared of you, someone who knew me before anyone else did. Being known too well can make us vulnerable. But now I am happy things have gone the way they have. I am happy to have helped your emancipation and transformation.”
“I prefer to call it evolution.”
“Whatever you prefer, the meaning doesn’t change.” Silvia hugs him and kisses him on the cheek.
Nicolas, filled with emotion, caresses little Veronika’s forehead and gets up to go. “Can I ask you to take a photo of us together?”
She can’t deny him this wish, and nods. Nicolas hands Silvia his phone.
“I’m sorry, no flash.”
He moves closer to Veronika, he doesn’t take her in his arms, he simply positions her. Silvia takes two photos and gives the device back to Nicolas.
Before leaving. he takes a message out of his pocket and hands it to Silvia.
“Open it, but only when I have gone.”
As he walks away, Nicolas turns frequently to look back. Silvia watches him until he is a small dot in the distance.
“It has been a pleasure to walk alongside you, Nicolas,” she says, turning to reenter the cave.
Alan deletes the third video and goes back. He slips down beside Silvia and notices she still has the note, held tight in her fist. After pulling it delicately out of her grip he reads it:
I was only saved after meeting you
PHASE FIVE
ETERNAL WANDERING
‘In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni
We spend the night out and about and the fire consumes us.’
Palindrome by Sidonio Apollinare
‘Eternal wayfarers are the days, months, and years that come and go. He who spends his life floating on a boat and he who welcomes old age holding a horse’s bridle, travels day after day, and makes the journey his home. I too, I don’t know since when, house in my heart the inextinguishable desire to wander, called by the wind that blows the scattered clouds.’
Basho – The hermitage of the illusory abode
Rafabel Cosser
Chapter Forty-Two
Roadside Divinities
Nicolas leaves the tent and walks towards a sandy area. In the middle there is a table from which he takes a sharp pointed object, a symbolic blade Rafabel composed on the fabtotum, and moves closer to a man with his back to him. He bends forward and with a top-to-bottom movement thrusts the blade in the space between the man’s spread legs and pretends to cut something, as if slicing through ropes tying his feet together.
“Our paths separate here,” says Nicolas solemnly, “but everything the paths divide, the paths reunite.”
Then with a light push to the back of the other man’s neck, he makes him start walking. Nicolas and Rafabel watch the man until he stops a hundred meters off and starts transmitting. The packets of energy, enerbot optimized in small, compact units for extremely unstable bands typical of the desert, are invisible to anyone who is not connected to the ergonet mesh net.
Liberating anyone who so desires from the need to eat is fundamental in an environment as hostile to man as the desert. Before initiating a nanite-taking ritual, Nicolas usually says to his followers, “If nutrition bonds man to a physical space, to stop eating in a traditional way means no longer needing a territory for survival.”
Nicolas goes back into his tent and Rafabel, after giving him back the fabtotum, heads towards the village.
* * *
They have composed their daily nest just outside Bir Gandouz, twenty kilometers from the border between Morocco and Mauritania. It is a flat, empty space, there are no paths or signposts, and the panorama is made up of sand, bushes, and gravel, a transit area which extends to a vanishing point dotted with signs bearing the universal sign of danger, the skull and crossbones:
danger. mines – do not leave the main road.
Coming back from the village, Rafabel surreptitiously eavesdrops on the people lining up outside the tent. The postulates have baskets and rucksacks full of objects, recyclable materials which in their innocence they think is enough to transform their requests into wishes. Some have collected small batteries and batteries from old cars, some have bundles of sticks and plastics, some have rolls of ribbons, animal skins, bones, foam pillows, shoe soles, bits and pieces of iron, portable electrical appliances, rotten fruit and vegetables, and each one is convinced they can exhume something from this cemetery of biological and technological obsolescence.
Two of them are wearing cutoff jeans and a third is wearing a blue tunic. There are faint marks on the stone chippings left by the Bedouin tents taken down a few days ago.
“It is incredible,” says the first man to the second in sketchy English.
“Kind of miracle. Truly!” adds the man in the tunic, to the second man with an air of skepticism and crossed arms.
Rafabel walks over to the trio and stands behind them. She has heard hundreds of phrases like that, in the Caucasus, in India, in Southeast Asia. Wherever they have been over the past seven years, the rumors and gossip about Nicolas have gone before them, often completely wrong, sometimes right.
“They told me he transforms material like a god. How can you believe things like that?” The man in the tunic answers back.
Rafabel can’t help herself; in her barely understandable English, she pushes into the conversation. “Not like a god, more like a nanite smith.”
To begin with, the men are disoriented, but then, when Rafabel asks them why they are there, they recognize her and don’t dare answer out loud, they just point to the man standing motionless a little way in front of them. His skin is covered in the moving arabesques typical of heliotrons. His eyes, protected by a cheap sun filter visor, are pointed up at the sky. On his shoulders he is carrying a backpack whose ribbed structure changes color every ten seconds, from blue to green to red to yellow.
“We also want to become solar plexus,” says one of the men in jeans, almost whispering in a sign of deference.
The solar plexus doesn’t move, he has been standing there for hours, and the only signs of life are his steady breathing and the variations in intensity of his skin’s pigmentation. In reality he is uploading energy packets to the ergonet cloud for anyone requiring it in order to exchange formula or compose on a nanomat.
For the people they meet along the streets in the outskirts of the metropolises, in the out of the way villages of the savannah, or in the country towns, the plexuses are a direct emanation of Nicolas. Where he is considered a kind of god of materials, the demiurge of many myths and legends from the past, the plexus is his ambassador, a carrier of free energy with which to forge your own fate, whether this is simple survival or the start and development of a project.
