Melodrome Read online

  In the shower cube, under the water falling like a long-delayed bounty, Suano is convinced that he can hear Lerena’s abrupt, seductive snoring, and calculates how long it has been since he was really alone. Then he stretches on the bed like a basking python but can’t get to sleep; it must be the powerful warming unit, the decent air, the give of the mattress (his body has grown used to sleeping on straw pallets or the ground), as well as other novelties that trouble him because he can’t deny that he finds them exciting, like the prospect of travelling in an automobile again. He lies down on the carpet, greets the hardness with every bone, lets some gusts of thought blow through him,

  phrases like half free and half mad

  has

  a presentiment of transparency

  and tries not to make too much of it.

  In the end he drifts off.

  The next morning, during breakfast and then as they begin the trip, the transparency between them is limited to an exchange of crisp and carefully worded sentences, which neither destroy nor decorate the silence. Worried that Suano might be self-conscious about his driving, Lerena doesn’t offer him a turn at the wheel of her mincar, an orange Diminut that she used to keep in sparkling nick, blemished now by two scratches on the mudguards. They scratched it on purpose, she announces suddenly on the way out of the city. What’s that about? If it was done on purpose, if you’re important enough for someone to bother doing that, he replies, what it means is We can scratch your car whenever we like. She nods and keeps her eyes on the bitumen, which offers her no clarity.

  The early autumn day is also far from clear.

  To the left of the Interregional U, papetex clothing plants, robot recyclers and pharma factories are pissing residual liquids and smudging the air with grey-brown gases. To the right, complicated fun structures languish in the recreation fields like special effects in an old movie. After about twenty-one milokis, Suano wonders if he shouldn’t drive for a while, but all he says is that the views are getting better. Lerena says she finds the plains depressing, maybe especially today because she slept so badly. Suano is sceptical: in her kinetic world, two minutes of wakefulness are equivalent to insomnia. But Lerena did sleep somewhat uneasily: it wasn’t so much the thought of setting off the next day, as a premonition of greater disquiet. Now she hangs her head a little, dodging his suspicious scrutiny, and that movement, which they both recognise, sets up a faint static, which could be erotically charged if not for the farfonette suddenly sounding, as if they had willed it to intervene.

  Lerena pulls up on the shoulder, takes the device from her backpack and checks it compulsively, but then lowers the window and throws it out onto the grass. And there the farf remains, shining like a beetle. She drives off again, dodging trucks.

  Suano asks no questions. It was her lawyer, she explains. He makes a caustic remark about people who don’t answer their messages. She wipes her forehead with her hand. She suddenly realised, she says, how petty it was to fight over her payout and how it would undermine her efforts to thank Munava for the gift. Giving up your greed doesn’t mean the heavens will help you in other ways, Lerena. Moralising now, are we, Suano? Could be. Shunqui, but anyway it’s demeaning, haggling over severance pay. Naturally, it’s about honour, he says.

  Both of them remain silent. Leaning forward, Lerena opens the glove box and takes out a bottle of Quellax (not the one she keeps in her backpack), extracts a pill and swallows it. This, in Suano’s sceptical view, is incompatible with any kind of spiritual reform.

  Something is happening, nevertheless. They’re annoyed by the artificiality of the way they have been talking, and annoyance is starting to cancel out thought. If they could only stop thinking, perhaps they’d have a real conversation. But the prospect makes them feel uneasy. They wonder then, or Lerena does, if the shared uneasiness might not impel them to open up, to expose themselves, and work together, side by side.

  All they do, for the moment, though, is devour the highway’s broken lines.

  Industrial sites give way to fields of harvested colza and farms where edible animals are bred. They stop for something to eat, then stretch their legs and smoke. Lerena gets back into the driver’s seat, and further on they are delayed at one of the checkpoints set up by the Guard around the Felinezo Hills for reasons that no-one, not even the Guard, is really able explain. For an hour, the mincar creeps along in the queue at walking pace. Bored but unaware of it, Suano allows his gaze to wander to Lerena’s comfortable lanotex skirt and the dark green stockings stretched over her thighs, and just as the irresistible fantasy, nourished by the memory of scents and intimate frictions and palpitations, is about to reach a climax, he recovers control and swipes it away, as if smashing a witch’s alembic. He snaps out of it. Since she has nothing else to do, Lerena takes this opportunity to steal a glance at him. She seems to be reproaching herself for having forgotten how handsome he is, but then she wonders if it’s true; perhaps she’s exaggerating his good looks because he has softened her up; perhaps his talent for climbing into other people’s minds makes him look more handsome than he really is.

  It’s just after five when they reach Alcidez, famous for its vitalist hotels, its ruined casinos, and its dullness. They drive through the town and stop on its northern outskirts, at a lodgitel in the Beltink chain.

  The receptionist is a girl with dark hair, milky skin and a false air of distraction. One night? she asks. Yes. So you must be going on to the hills tmorra, right? As if determined to lose her temper straight away, Lerena raises her voice: Why interrogate us if you already know, bibita? The young lady didn’t actually ask you anything, Lerena, says Suano. Madam, I just wanted to warn you that you’ll come to a fire. And? says Lerena, staring at the receptionist to make her say what she wants to hear. For a moment, the girl hesitates and almost lets it slip, but then she clams up, probably following an order from the Clearseers. It’s another form of manipulation.

  Now Botilecue gets annoyed: You two are speaking totally different languages. All right then, Suano, you translate for me. She means that we’re going to find it difficult to go any further. The receptionist adds: It burns you from inside, that fire, like when you’re really ashamed. So? says Lerena. Madam, it’s on this side of the hill. Would you kindly give me two rooms? The young lady, adds Suano, referring to Lerena, has a spiritual obligation to fulfil and the fire isn’t going to stop her. You’re such an idiot, Lerena mutters. The girl maintains a steely, disagreeable aplomb. Two rooms? she asks. One, says Suano. Lerena raises her eyebrows at him. What did we agree, doctor? That you would shut it, he says. Now the girl raises her eyebrows. One room’s enough, Suano insists; the lady has taken a vow of chastity. Lerena snatches the key, picks up her backpack with a barely repressed look of scorn on her face, steps out into the walkway, goes to the room and slots the key into the connector. But stepping in and seeing the double bed, with Suano there beside her, she has to repress a look of tenderness, imagining one of the various possibilities. In that brief but dilated lapse of time, Suano manages to find some blankets and make himself a bed on the ground. You’re going to drive me crazy, Suano. Too late for that. Why are we doing this? Because we have to be careful with money. She absorbs the blow, but can’t help letting out a groan: We agreed to cooperate, Suano, but that doesn’t mean you can treat me like dirt. He says: I’m going for a walk. Take some money, she says, opening her wallet. No, he replies, holding up one hand. She touches it: Okay, but if you need some, come and get it. Why would I? I haven’t needed any so far.

  With a millisecond’s premeditation, she gives him the slap that he could see coming: proof, for him, that almost nothing has changed between them, although she meant it to indicate how much the two of them still have to change.

  I’m going to take a look around, says Botilecue before walking out. The evening smells of burnt eucalyptus. There’s a small park in front of the lodgitel’s walkway, and the young receptionist is sitting there on a bench with two friends, milky-skinned like
her, both wearing the same combination of green tartan shirt and grey woollen trousers. As soon as they see Suano, all three start chatting on their farfs, while sharing a kayfra joint and staring at him with barefaced indifference. In an hour’s time, Lerena will ask him if he discovered anything, and he will describe this scene to her, admitting that he’s still not sure what to make of it. This will allow her to show that she has learnt how not to feel let down. For the moment, though, as he watches the girls against a background of scorched hills and striated sky, attributing his bewilderment to fatigue, telling himself how tired, how very tired he is, not from the shock of the re-encounter and certainly not from the trip, but tired of falling, tired of a fall that feels as if it will never end, Suano is obliged to admit that he isn’t so tired after all; in fact the recent events have opened up a seam of energy within him, and if he can’t interpret the signs that he is seeing, it’s simply because they’re unfamiliar. Lerena will tell him not to worry; there will be time for interpretation over the following days. And he will decide to gather more signs, to give his memory richer materials for comparison.

  During dinner, an efficient but chilly waiter asks them where they are headed. To Cordilen, says Lerena. To see Dona Munava, Suano adds boldly. The Nucedi Route is closed, replies the waiter; it’s a pity, but the only way is to go around via the Saluca Ring. You don’t think it’s a pity at all, blurts Suano. A pity for me, I meant, says the waiter, leaving the cafitos on the table, where they remain untouched because Lerena is convinced he spat in them.

  Well, there’s one thing I’m starting to understand, says Suano: these people want to make us feel we’re losing touch with the earth.

  You’re from another planet, Suano, she says, but unemphatically.

  He drinks his cafito and goes off to bed. She stays for a while play-duelling with a moneybot, and wins twenty-five bits. Since no-one is watching, she pops a Quellax. Both of them sleep soundly, each in a bubble of uncertainties, and just as well, for the new day will be difficult.

  Longitudinal Road 6 climbs into the middle of the range. Before the watershed, there’s a turn off to the right that takes you to the Saluca Ring, which in turn, if the map can be trusted, joins up with the road to Cordilen. For a few milokis, the 6 traverses open country. Flocks of swifts wheeling through ash-laden air; little, isolated trees, surrounded by rocky ground on which a few puddles have survived. Bubbles break the surface of the water here and there: snakes, perhaps, fleeing from the fire. In the ditches, yellow spurge and white daisies bid for human attention, but they can hardly compete with the glowing swathe branded onto the flank of the Felinezo range up ahead. As Suano and Lerena approach the hills, the flames spread steadily westward, as if chasing the clouds of black smoke. The feeling that they will never arrive is intensified by the people who stop them every couple of milokis to offer conflicting advice about the best route to Nemezio, which is just over the lip of the scarp. This happens over and over. Lerena keeps pointing out, in vain, that they want to go to Cordilen. The stubbornness of the locals is defeating them; it seems to be deflecting the mincar to the left at every fork in the road.

  When they finally reach the base of the hills, they are much further east than they wanted to be. At a place called Quelba Point, they stop in front of an open-air café: it’s empty and intact. Lerena says: This hasn’t just been abandoned, Suano; they’ve set this up specially for us, because they knew we were coming. He doesn’t say she’s being self-important; he doesn’t even shake his head. Anyway, there’s nothing to drink, no food on offer, not even a bench to sit on. The temperature has risen; flakes of ash are swirling about. A short-legged guard in a brand-new uniform, who takes his time and more to come over, informs them that they may proceed. Why wouldn’t we be able to? asks Lerena. Not because of the fire, says the guard; that’s under control. So you have power over the fire as well? says Lerena. Suano tries to calm her down: We can go on because we can. As he walks away, the guard recites: I sincerely pity those who always have to win. You’re so gutless, shouts Lerena, but the guy doesn’t turn around to reply.

  They go back to the car. These people, says Suano, are organised in concentric circles; and we have just entered the first. Is that what you believe? she asks. No reply: silence.

  Time crawls by. They start to talk again. Lerena greets Suano’s comments on the countryside with a condescending tolerance. They have run out of melowater, and there’s not a shop of any kind in sight; it’s as if someone had taken down all the buildings in the area. They don’t have a lot to say. Their words are tired of digging.

  As they reach the end of a long curve, an incandescent gust strikes at the windows of the car, and flames illuminate their profiles. The sky turns to flint, the world to embers; all outcomes are on hold. To the left, the fire is already receding, leaving a slew of charred trunks; to the right, by contrast, an alder wood is entering autumn on a carpet of violet lungwort, entirely unscathed. On they go, between the odour of scorched earth and the breath of living vegetation. Suano senses the fragrance of Lerena’s skirt evanescing; he feels that they have been pushed beyond a point of no return, and as a therapist he has always believed that such points do exist. Meanwhile, they are gaining altitude. They feel the heat of the fire on their backs; they’re starting to leave it behind. To celebrate, or out of impatience, Lerena slaps at the steering wheel. The mincar swerves; the tyres screech; but she gets a grip on the wheel again, and apologises with a little smile, forestalling the sarcastic remark that Suano has not had time to make. What was I doing? Trying to get us killed? she whispers. Something darker than they can intuit is coming alive in the atmosphere. The shock absorbers take a pummelling. It’s as if they were following a cobbled way traced out by their hearts.

  But finally they come to a pub, and in the pub they discover a meticulous tableau of everyday life. Sawmill workers are identifiable by the curly wood shavings on their overalls, textile workers by the cottex fluff clinging to their aprons. The little shop is stocked with shoes, well-known brands of brachial prosthetics, and lookalike inkpencils. In the lounge, people are sitting around after lunch. Iridescent kayfra smoke twists in the air over their heads. They seem to be putting on a well-rehearsed show of austerity, dutifulness, disregard for foreigners and unshakeable faith in a joyful present to which only they have access. As soon as Lerena says hello, the circle closes, the talk turning automatically inward. And yet she sits down at a table, feeling perfectly at home. She praises the luarba stew, grimaces so the women won’t envy her looks, hangs her head when the men look at her, puffs her lips out, peach-like, asks if the road to Nemezio is still closed, and opens a gap into which she can slip the remark that she has come to the region to fulfil a promise. That little word sparks a sudden but restrained interest. You don’t think that’s arrogant, says a man: presuming to know exactly what you’ll do in future days? It’s true I could die first, replies Lerena. Yes, says the publican, but if you die suddenly, your soul will go looking for another body to use, in order to complete its task. No, says Lerena; if I die, no-one will be able to do what I promised.

  Although they look as if they’d heard a curse, some of them burst out laughing.

  A soprano voice resounds from the doorway: What you really want, lady, is to feel good about yourself, not to keep the promise you made. The woman who said this has entered the pub with four men, obviously Clearseer cadres. With peremptory gestures, they order the mass of loose-lipped customers to return to their work, leaving Lerena and Suano alone like lepers at their corner table. The five newcomers fall to gossiping about adulterous liaisons; they swear they’ll make the firebugs pay, and rail against ralumeh, a corrosive herb somebody’s pushing as a substitute for kayfra: it’s all the rage among the local teenagers. They curse the dealers, blame themselves for having failed to get rid of them, and then come up with excuses: the scumbags are so hard to find, they use brachitos for distribution and kill them, for good measure. The five are drinking fogwater. The woman men
tions some immigrants from Biasut Island who, when they went to ask Dona Munava for asylum, brought with them babies that had starved to death. Suano murmurs that all these extravagant stories have been invented for their benefit; they’re putting on a show: the proof is they’re not even looking at us. One of the men has unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a handgun in a holster. No, stupid, they’re calling me, says Lerena in reply. She gets up and confronts them, announcing that she has come to deliver something that might make life a bit easier in the area. Listen, young lady, only a dog worships the crumb that falls from the table, replies the man with the gun. You shouldn’t assume I’ve come to hand out crumbs, Lerena warns him. This is followed by a silence so long the buzzing of flies can be heard. Finally, Suano comes over to point out that since they walked in, they haven’t stopped talking about death. Well, yes, says the woman; however far you run, an absence will always jump out behind you. Lerena rubs her hair; the disdain has cast a spell on her. Suano speaks on her behalf: You people don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t know what you’re saying, the woman replies. You talk about God, says Suano, but you have no idea, and you know it, and you go on talking anyway; you’re constantly lying to yourself. You know something? says the woman: You don’t have the flardiest idea. Suano touches his head: But I’m recording it all here, every word you say. You two aren’t going anywhere, one of the men cuts in. Lerena steps on Suano’s foot.

  He goes red, takes a deep breath and begins to speak: This is what you said a while ago, madam: And Carinela told Targio she’s going to get that bitch who’s coming on to him and squash her like a frog; and she’d do it too, I’ve seen that bibita fight…and so on until he has reproduced verbatim two whole paragraphs of speech.

  The Clearseers aren’t dumbfounded by this compelling demonstration of the therapist’s mnemonic powers, but they are unnerved. And although it wasn’t Lerena’s main objective to inspire fear, now she has.