So, I had a party for one in room 140. I danced to the entire album of The Gods of Seafood and felt happy. It may appear that I was regressing, but when I thought about it I came to the conclusion that as long as I held onto the thread, a bit of regression here and there was not so harmful. It may slow things down, but since time here is arbitrary, what did it matter? Sort of like Genesis. People take it literally that God created the heavens and earth in seven days. But God-time is incalculable so who could possibly fathom what a day in the life of God is.
I listened to Convocation one more time. It’s is a long song. Not really a song, more of a piece or a movement, a real long movement where one has the time to get lost and return with time to spare. There is no way to decipher the lyrics, shifting languages like listening to a page of Finnegan’s Wake that keeps turning. I decided when I had the time I’d try my hand at writing my own lyrics. I suddenly noticed the sun was going down, who knows how long I had been here, dancing with my shadow.
I started back to my hotel. I wasn’t sure exactly where I was, so just headed toward the Radio Tower. There was something that was nagging me about Number 4 and his scientist son. According to the Secretary the young scientist was the prime person of interest- he had disappeared and Number 4 had gone after him. But I felt there was more to this story. I had surmised that the young scientist was the volatile one. I pictured his father, stoic Number 4, tracking him down. But the reports I had found in Room 137 suggested a different scenario. Unsigned carbons, too dated to be notes of the young scientist, and the tone of the last few pages reminded me of something. When I joined the Continental Drift they were presenting a series of lectures concerning changes in ice sheets in Greenland. The talks were technical in nature, delivered dryly by Number 4, who I now know to be the Secretary’s brother. I listened diligently to the lectures that seemed to be gaining in intensity. Number 4 delivered them in English, simultaneously translated in Danish. The translator was becoming uncomfortable as No. 4 became increasingly agitated. At one point he actually shouted. What are we waiting for? The secretary brought him a glass of water and the evening was adjourned. I had entirely forgotten this small, strange incident.
What are we waiting for? If delivered one way it could have pre-empting a highly anticipated event. But his tone was exasperated, even accusative. I was a new member and did not ask questions and put it out of my mind to avoid any embarrassment, in the event I should collide with Number 4 in the future. But shortly after he went on another lengthy expedition and we saw little of him.
I turned a corner and sat on the stone steps of an abandoned structure that I was fond of. There were dead leaves everywhere, the end of autumn. I went over these things in my mind, a patchwork quilt somewhat undone that I had to restitch. The Secretary wished me to go beyond the parallel. She assigned me to locate Number 4 but warned of distractions, saying that I may cross paths with my heart’s desire or become enraptured within a tale of my own, spinning a silken web as indestructible as certain metals. It was even possible to be drawn into an encounter with the Emperor himself. All is illusion, she said, resist the temptation or find a clever way to exit and keep on going. You possess far reaching improvisational powers, do not hesitate to use them.
It was not unlike certain fairy tales I read as a child. A young man is entrusted with a mission and warned of illusionary obstacles. The League of the Good schooled and tested me and soon they would let me go on ahead unchaperoned, with the greatest of hopes that I would not fail. Projecting the uncertain future I went into the forest. I saw the mordant bowl. I saw a woman stabbed in the heart not far from her fathers’ house. I saw a ship with happy adventurers tossing streamers of crepe in the air as they departed into a sea of optimism, not unlike Professor Sogol and the team on their way in pursuit of Mount Analogue. Come aboard, they cried, come aboard! But I turned away, even as their cries and salutations grew louder. Come aboard, they cried, come aboard! And I turned from the possibilities of adventure and kept on going.
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