NINETEEN

The doubts about my identity became a permanent and familiar part of my life. If I dwelt on them I saw myself in reverse image, subtly different, like a black-and-white photograph printed from the wrong side of the negative. But my central preoccupation was my return to health, because with every day that passed I felt stronger, fitter, more equipped to return to the normal world.

Seri and I would often go for long walks through the grounds of the clinic. Once, we went with Lareen to Collago Town and watched the bustle of the traffic and the ships in the harbour. There was a swimming pool at the clinic, as well as courts for squash and tennis. I exercised every day, enjoying the sensation of my body returning to co-ordination and fitness. I started me gaining the weight I had lost, my hair grew again, I tanned in the warm sunshine, and even the operation scars began to fade, (Doctor Corrob told me they would vanish altogether within a few weeks.)

Meanwhile, other skills returned. I learned to read and write quite quickly, and although I had difficulty with vocabulary, Lareen lent me one of the clinic’s retraining books, and after a few hours I was in command of the language. My mental receptivity continued: anything I came across that was novel to mc could be learned—or relearned, as Lareen insisted—with speed and thoroughness.

Soon I developed taste. Music, for instance, had been at first an intimidating scramble of noises, but later I was able to detect melody, then harmony, and then, with a sense of triumph, I discovered that some kinds of music were more enjoyable than others. Food was another area where I developed likes and dislikes. My sense of humour became tuned: I discovered that bodily functions had a limited scope for fun, and that sonic jokes were more amusing than others. Seri moved back from her hotel to live in the chalet with me.

I was restless to be leaving the clinic. I thought I was back to normal and was tired of being treated like a child. Lareen often angered me, with her pedantic insistence that my lessons continue; my sense of taste was developing here too, and I was resenting the fact that things were still being explained to me. Now that I could read I did not see why she could not merely give me the notes she worked from, nor let me read those typewritten sheets.

A breakthrough of sorts came with a paradox. One evening, while having dinner in the refectory with Lareen and Seri, I happened to mention I had lost the pen I had been using.

Seri said: “It’s on the desk. I gave it to you this afternoon.”

I remembered then, and said: “Yes, of course.”

It was a trivial exchange, but one that made Lareen look sharply at me.

“Had you forgotten?” she said.

“Yes… but it doesn’t matter.”

Suddenly, Lareen was smiling, and this in itself was so welcome a change that I smiled too, without understanding.

“What’s funny?” I said.

“l was beginning to think we had made you into a superman.

It’s good to know you can be absent-minded.”

Seri leaned over the table and kissed me on the cheek.

“Congratulations,” she said. “Welcome back.”

I stared at them both, feeling aggressive. They were exchanging glances, as if they had been waiting for me to do something like this.

“Have you set me up for this?” I said to Seri.

She laughed, but it was happily. “It just means you’re normal again. You can forget.”

For some reason I felt sulky about this; I was a domestic pet that had learned a trick, or a child who could dress himself. Later, though, I understood better. To be able to forget—or rather, to be able to remember selectively—is an attribute of normal memory. While I was learning voraciously, accumulating facts, remembering everything, I was abnormal. Once I began to forget, I became fallible. I recalled my restlessness of the past few days, and I knew that my capacity for learning was nearly full.

After the meal we returned to the chalet, and Lareen collected her papers.

“I’ll recommend your discharge soon, Peter,” she said. “Perhaps by the end of the week.”

I watched her sort her papers into a neat pile, and slip them into her folder. She put the typewritten pages into her bag.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” she said to Seri. “I think you can tell Peter the truth about his illness.”

The two women exchanged smiles, and again I felt that paranoia. The sense that they knew more about me than I did was grating on me.

As soon as Lareen had left, I said: “Now what did that mean?”

“Calm down, Peter. It’s very simple.”

“You’ve been keeping things back from me.” And more, which I could not say; the constant awareness of the contradictions.

“Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”

“Because the truth is never clear-cut.”

Before I could contest that she told me quickly about the treatment: I had won a lottery, and the clinic had changed me so that I would live forever.

I received this information without questioning it; I had scepticism which to test it, and anyway it was secondary to my real interest. From the revelatory manner in which Seri spoke, I was expecting something that might explain her contradictions… but nothing came.

As far as my inner universe was concerned I had learned nothing.

By not telling me this before, the two women had been indirectly lying. How could I ever know what other omissions and evasions there were?

I said: “Seri, you’ve got to tell me the truth.”

“I have done.”

“There’s nothing else you should tell me?”

“What else is there? “

“How the devil do I know?”

“Don’t lose your temper.”

“Is that like being absent-minded? If I get angry, does that make me less than perfect? If so, I’m going to be doing it much more often.”

“Peter, you’re an athanasian now. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Not really, no.”

“It means that one day I’m going to die, but that you never will. That almost anyone you meet will die before you do. You’ll live forever.”

“I thought we’d agreed I was less than perfect.”

“Oh, you’re just being stupid now!”

She pushed past me and went out on to the verandah. I heard her walking to and fro on the wooden boards, but then she slumped into one of the chairs.

I suppose, in spite of my resistance to the idea, that I was psychologically child-like still, because I was incapable of keeping my anger. A few moments later, full of contrition, I went out to her and put my arms around her shoulders. Seri was stiff with frustration at me and she resisted at first, but after a while she turned her head and rested her face against my shoulder. She said nothing. I listened to the night insects, and watched the flashing lights on the distant sea.

When her breathing had steadied, I said: “I’m sorry, Seri. I love you, and I’ve no reason to be angry with you.”

“Don’t say any more about it.”

“I’ve got to, because I want to explain. All I can be is what you and Lareen have made me. I’ve no idea who I am or where I came from. If there’s something you haven’t shown me, or told me about, or given me to read, then I can never become that.”

“But why should it make you angry?”

“Because it’s frightening. If you’ve told me something untrue I’ve no power to resist it. If you’ve left something out I’ve no way of replacing it.”

She drew away from me and sat facing me. The soft light from the window lit her face. She looked tired.

“The opposite is true, Peter.”

“The opposite of what?”

“That we’re keeping something from you. We’ve done everything we can to be honest with you, but it’s been almost impossible.”

“Why?”

“Just now… I told you that you’ve been made into an athanasian. You hardly reacted.”

“It means nothing to me. I don’t feel I’m immortal. I am what you’ve made me believe I am.”

“Then believe me about this. I was with you before you took the treatment, and we talked about now, about what would happen after the operation. How can I convince you? You didn’t want the treatment because you were scared of losing your identity.”

I suddenly had an insight into myself before this had happened: frightened of what might happen, frightened of this. Like those delirious images it was temptingly coherent. How much of him, myself, remained?

I said: “Does everyone go through this?”

“Yes, it’s exactly the same. The athanasia treatment causes amnesia, and all the patients have to be rehabilitated afterwards. This is what Lareen does here, but your case has given her special problems. Before you came here you wrote an account of your life. I don’t know why you wrote it, or when… but you insisted that we use it as the basis for restoring your identity. It was all a rush, there was no time. The night before the operation I read your manuscript, and I found you hadn’t written an autobiography at all! I don’t know what you would call it. I suppose it’s a novel, really.”

“You say I wrote this?”

“So you claimed. You said it was the only thing that told the truth about you, that you were defined by it.”

“Is this manuscript typewritten?” I said.

“Yes. But you see, Lareen normally works with—”

“Is that the manuscript Lareen brings every morning?”

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t I been allowed to read it?” Something I had written before my illness; a message to myself. I had to see it!

“It would only confuse you. It doesn’t make sense… it’s a sort of fantasy.”

“But if I wrote it then surely I would understand it!”

“Peter, calm down.” Seri turned away from me for a few seconds, but she reached back to take my hand. Her palm was moist. Then she said: “The manuscript, by itself, doesn’t make sense. But we’ve been able to improvise. While we were together, before you and I got to this island, you told me a few things about yourself, and the Lotterie has some details on file. There are a few clues in the manuscript. From all this we’ve pieced together your background, but it’s not completely satisfactory.”

I said: “I’ve got to read the manuscript.”

“Lareen won’t let you. Not yet, anyhow.”

“But if I wrote it, it’s my property.”

“You wrote it before the treatment.” Seri was looking away from me, across the dark grounds and into the warm scents of flowers. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

I said: “If I can’t actually read it, will you tell me what it’s about?”

“It’s a sort of fictionalized autobiography. It’s about you, or someone with your name. It deals with childhood, going to school, growing up, your family.”

“What’s fictional about that?”

“I can’t tell you.”

I thought for a moment. “Where does it say I was born?

In Jethra?”

“Yes.”

“Is it called Jethra in the manuscript?’”

Seri said nothing.

“Or is it called ‘London’?”

Still she said nothing.

“Seri?”

“The name you give it is ‘London’, but we know this means Jethra. You give it other names, too.”

“What are they?”

“I can’t tell you.” At last she looked at me. “How did you know about London?”

“You let it slip once.” I was going to tell her about the ghost memories of the delirium, but somehow it seemed too difficult, too unreliable, even in my own mind. “Do you know where London is?”

“Of course not! You made the name up!”

“What other names did I make up?”

“I don’t know… I can’t remember. Lareen and I went through the manuscript trying to change everything to places we knew. But it was very difficult.”

“Then how much of what you’ve taught me is true?”

“As much as possible. When you came back from the clinic you were like a vegetable. I wanted you to be who you were before the treatment, but I couldn’t just will it. Everything you are now is the result of Lareen’s training.”

“That’s what scares me,” I said.

I stared up the rising lawn to the other chalets; most were in darkness, but lights showed in a few of them. There were my fellow athanasians, my fellow vegetables. I wondered how many of them were suffering the same doubts. Were they even yet aware that somehow their heads had been emptied of all the dusty possessions of a lifetime, then refurnished with someone else’s idea of a better arrangement? I was frightened of what I had been made to think, because I was the product of my mind and I acted accordingly. What had Lareen told me before I acquired taste? Had she and Seri somehow acted in well-intended concert to instil in me beliefs I had not held before the treatment? How would I ever know?

The only link with my past was that manuscript; I could not ever be complete until I read my own definition of myself.

There was a wan moon, misted by high clouds, and the gardens of the clinic had a still, monochrome quality. Seri and I walked along the familiar paths, postponing the moment when we went inside the chalet, but at last we headed back.

I said: “If I get the manuscript, I want to read it on my own. That’s my right, I think.”

“Don’t mention it again. I’ll do my best to get it. All right?”

“Yes.”

We kissed briefly as we walked, but there was still a remoteness in her.

When we were inside the chalet, she said: “You won’t remember, but before all this we were planning to visit a few islands. Would you still like to?”

“Just you and mc?”

“Yes.”

“But what about you? Haven’t you changed your mind about me?”

“I don’t like your hair as short as that,” she said, and ruffled her fingers through my new stubble.

That night, when Seri was asleep beside me, I was wakeful. There was a quietness and solitude on the island that in a sense I had grown up with. The picture drawn by Seri and Lareen of the world outside was one of noise and activity, ships and traffic and crowded towns. I was curious to experience this, to see the stately boulevards of Jethra and the clustered old buildings of Muriseay. As I lay there I could imagine the world disposed around Collage, the endless Midway Sea and the innumerable islands. Imagining them I created them, a mental landscape that I could take on trust. I could go out from Collago, island-hop with Seri, invent the scenery and customs and peoples of each island as we came to it. An imaginative challenge lay before me.

What I knew of the world outside was similar to what I knew of myself. From the verandah of the chalet Seri could point out the neighbouring islands, and name them, and show them to me on a map, and describe their agriculture, industries and customs, but until I actually went to them they could only ever be distant objects drawn to my attention.

Thus was I to myself: a distant object, charted and described and thoroughly identified, but one which so far I had been unable to visit.

Before I went out to the islands I had some exploring of my own to do.