Some friends never abandon you.
Browsing through his extensive -though by no means exhaustive- record collection always gave Elijah a sense of reassurance. He had never understood how most people had long ago given up the pleasures of having a physical, tangible music collection in favor of stacks of computer files. Computer files were practical, for sure, but for Elijah records were much like books; they needed to be looked at, touched, browsed upon, and even read, in order to fulfill the true potential of the listening experience. It is for people like Elijah that records kept being released physically, in increasingly luxurious editions, though their market, far from being massive like in the distant past, was now an underground ghetto.
It took him almost a quarter of an hour to find what he wanted to play, which didn’t bother him in the least. His mind didn’t stop making decisions and arriving at conclusions as his gaze took in shelf upon shelf- which records he was most proud of having, which needed replacement for improved editions, and which ones should be done away with as soon as possible. The collection was much like a living organism, with a permanent flux of albums coming and going, sections growing and shrinking, artists appearing and vanishing. Along the way, of course, he came along some old friends. A good amount of this music had accompanied him through the greatest part of his life, providing either help, respite, exaltation or inspiration whenever needed.
The Ambient record he started playing was no exception. While many didn’t have the patience to deal with this inconspicuous, ubiquitous piece of music, it succeeded in giving Elijah what he often wanted most- calm and space to think.
He sat down on the armchair from which he could contemplate the whole extent of his art collection, which consisted mostly of music and books. This was his greatest achievement, definitely. The Complex would never come close. The Complex had started because of an external need, this had started because of an internal drive.
Catalina would not let him talk to her now. Not so soon after Hugo Winning’s departure. No better place to wait, reflect and recover than here, amid his most precious possessions.
Still, he found it disturbing to notice that his melancholic mood, instead of remaining behind at the performance, had accompanied him even here, to his sancta sanctorum. Again, he began to ponder and to question it all.
A collector practically since birth, Elijah had always looked askance at the completist. For him, a good collection was not simply about having everything (anyone with enough time and resources could accomplish that), but, rather, about having the best. A good collection was something on which you had to apply concentration and judgment. You had to acquire, evaluate, conclude, reevaluate, reassemble, reacquire, reevaluate over time- it was practically a work of art in itself.
Yet now he wondered. How many times, for instance, had he sold albums he mostly loved in order to get compilations with mostly the same songs, looking always for the absolute best selection, the absolute best running order, the absolute best physical presentation? Was is really the case that the new editions were always better, or did he simply enjoy them more just because he had grown tired of the original records? After all, he couldn’t remember the last time he had found some truly new music that he felt he needed to have. Had his taste become so crystallized that, instead of constantly expanding his horizons as he once did, hearing the same old songs in a different order was now all the variety that he needed?
The answer, he concluded, was no. These somber trains of thought led to no station and betrayed everything he knew was true about him. He knew that each time he replaced a record for another one, he had a good reason to do so. He knew because he was fully aware of his emotions, and consequently fully capable of knowing what he enjoyed, why he enjoyed it, and to what extent. If he hadn’t incorporated much new music lately, it was simply because it wasn’t being produced, which was obviously the only possible consequence of the premises and policies society had accepted. Some decent new works could be found within The Complex, for sure, but they were hardly breathtaking. He hadn’t expected much more- these people had been mostly ruined before ever coming here.
Having survived his own ruthless questioning with his convictions intact filled him with a relief of sorts. So he was in relatively good spirits when Catalina came into the room. He had expected it would take her longer – if she was going to come at all- yet there she was, standing before him, smiling that delicate smile that seemed to tell him that everything was far from all right, but she was nevertheless here because she loved him, and that was her priority. Again, what a woman, Elijah thought.
As always, he would try to avoid arguing with her at all costs. Arguing with her couldn’t be more frustrating, because, at least in this, she was always right and he knew it. But at the same time he knew that he had to do things his way, or there would be no future for them at all.
“They are empty threats, dear,” Elijah said conciliatorily. “Winning has been threatening to shut The Complex down ever since before it existed, yet here we are, five years down the line and still standing.”
Her smile was gone. Her features morphed into an implacable, impenetrable image of severity. Nobody could have ever accused Elijah of being a religious person, but his fear of Catalina when she was in this particular mood made him give some credit to the biblical concept of Judgment Day.
“Whether he makes his threats effective or not is irrelevant,” his judge, jury and very probably executioner declared. “The fact that you grant him the authority to threaten you at all is the issue here.”
“I don’t grant him the authority, honey- he has it. He’s one of the most influential people in the world right now. You know that’s a fact.”
“I’m not talking about political authority. I’m talking about moral authority. Don’t pretend you don’t know the difference.”
They had been through the same circle of arguments and counter-arguments countless times already, and Elijah knew her arguments were always better. At the back of his mind he remembered something he had once read- something about certain ancient philosophers being unable to believe that a man could know that something was right and still act in open contradiction to that belief. Either the man wasn’t entirely convinced of the truth he seemed to admit, they argued, or he simply found that the different course of action chosen was indeed the more convenient one. Apparently they had never tried to sustain something as intricate as The Complex, Elijah thought.
He decided he wasn’t going to go through Catalina’s extenuating, almost Socratic process yet again. He simply shrugged his shoulders and gave up.
“What else could I possibly do?” he pleaded, in the vague hope that his surrender would inspire sympathy on her part.
A rather naïve hope, as it turned out.
“You know what else you could do. I’ve been saying it ever since this project started. Expel all government officials from The Complex. Cease dealing with Winning or any other bureaucrat. Cut off all ties between The Complex and outside society. Become a truly independent community. End of the problem.”
“End of the problem? Maybe if you ignore the fact that the rest of the country is in possession of a military force that we could never hope to match in a million years! As soon as we cease dealing with them, they will blow us out of existence!”
“Elijah dear, you’re not thinking clearly.”
Now he was annoyed. Her high-and-mighty attitude always got on his nerves. Still he was willing to listen. “Enlighten me”, he scoffed.
“Why is it that government officials come here regularly? Why is it that Winning and company, in your terms, “allow us to exist”?
There was the Socratic process again. He was trapped. He had already started playing, now he had no choice but to go along. Quitting without answering her questions would amount to letting her win by default.
“You know why. They find life after the “Cultural Reform” unbearable. Socialization of beauty, socialization of talent, this is what they wanted, what they enforced--- now they cannot live with the consequences. Everyone looks the same, neither ugly nor precisely beautiful but an ambiguous in-between. Everyone can produce the same mediocre music, literature, paintings, sculptures, TV shows--- nothing worthless, but nothing of value either. Everyone is roughly the same. It drives them crazy. If they want to keep their sanity they have no other choice but to come here, to the homeland of the subversives, just to see something different. It’s not that our productions are precisely innovative or even mildly original, as most of the people who took shelter here had already suffered from the “reform” in some way or another. But at least they are something. Something a bit different from the rest. At least people here still retain a spark of individual creativity. At least their faces and bodies don’t look all the same! This is why government officials come here. They wouldn’t be able to put up with life otherwise.”
Catalina’s eyes told him that she loved him, that she was proud of him, of his way with words and of the clarity of thought that it reflected--- but that she still hadn’t lowered her defenses.
“A fine speech, my darling. This is of course all true. Now, why is it that you assume that this situation would be any different if The Complex ceased to recognize the Government as its authority? The outside world needs our products? Fine. We’ll commercialize them. They need to see our people? Fine. We’ll put them on video. That we become an independent nation will not change the fact that they need us.”
“My love, you’re making the same honest mistake that you always make. You’re assuming that people are as rational as you. A fatal mistake, especially if we’re talking about the Government. You can’t take for granted that these people will coldly balance costs and benefits of each possibility and then choose the most suitable course of action. They act on whims. Winning gets infuriated because of our independence, wants to make an example of us, that’s enough for him. He blows us up. Is it possible that then they will realize that they needed us and that they acted prematurely, made a mistake? Yes, it’s even likely. But that won’t matter much once we are dead.”
That seemed to throw her a little off balance. Just a little.
“I don’t quite agree with you. I think the government people have been here too often, gotten too accustomed to this place to ever consider or let anyone blow it up from one moment to the next.”
“Of course that’s possible too. But you understand, my love, that I cannot risk our lives for just a ghost of a chance.”
Some of her severity had left her. They had reached that point in their arguments when she finally seemed to understand some of his ordeal, some of his burden.
She sat on his lap and kissed him in the mouth. He embraced her.
“I know how hard everything is for you, Eli. I just wish we could stop compromising. I understand what you say, but I just can’t see anything good coming out of bargaining with these rats. If only…”
Now it was his turn to kiss her. She responded passionately, though he sensed that part of her mind was somewhere else.
“Darling…” she said tentatively, as if giving form to the thought for the first time while uttering it. “If my idea that they won’t blow us up were more than a possibility, if we had actual proof that it would never happen, would you do as I said? Cut off all ties and claim independence?”
“Yes, my darling, of course I would, but there’s no way you, or anyone, could prove that. How could you possibly prove without a doubt the future behavior of any individual?”
For a moment he feared she knew the answer. She hesitated for a moment, then finally said what was on her mind.
“Eli, we could consult the futurologist.”
“Frederick? Are you sure? He hasn’t been quite himself for years. That affair with the Taoist Murderers...”
“That’s what I thought too, but don’t you think he could be useful to solve our current dilemma?”
“Resort to mysticism in times of crisis? Catalina, I thought you knew better than that.”
“It does seem to be mysticism at first sight, but I know it’s more than that. There is a method to his predictions. You yourself even trusted him once.”
“… Yes, I know. Not one of my proudest moments, though some of what he told me did turn out to be true after all…”
“My love, we are at a crossroads. You know this. You haven’t been your usual self lately. You’ve been preoccupied, distraught. Rarely able to enjoy yourself.”
This woman could read him like a map, Elijah thought.
“Government intervention and presence in The Complex is stronger than ever. Angela, one of our greatest allies in the outside world, is dead. Winning’s threats are more tangible than ever. He even left that Kroeche bitch behind to keep constant track on us. It’s now or never. Something must be done. Please, Elijah. Come with me to see the futurologist. If he says that what you’re doing is right, that it’s the only way, that if you don’t keep compromising we’ll die, then I’ll accept it. And you’ll be fully confident of the value of what you’re doing, which you aren’t now. It cannot hurt you just to ask, can it?”
He was afraid he was beginning to concede. But deep down he knew there was no shame in losing in argument if the other person was right.
“No… I guess it can’t.”
“And he was one of your childhood heroes, remember?” she teased him.
Elijah couldn’t help chuckling. Even now, whenever anybody mentioned the funny books, he became a child all over again. “Indeed he was. I still re-read those comic books and pulp magazines now and then.”
“It’s more than that and you know it!” she kept teasing him. “I know you kept collecting them well into your adulthood.”
“Oh, I did…” he chuckled again until he actually recalled those later stories. “It wasn’t the same thing, though. Stories kept getting darker and darker, and quite bizarre on occasion. Just like the rest of the world, obviously. I remember there was even a story called “The Literate Case of Readers’ Town”, which was kind of an offbeat take on the creation of The Complex, almost in the shape of a children’s literature.”
“Sounds amusing.”
“Quite. I still have it somewhere. I can look for it and read it to you before we go to bed.”
She licked her lips and smiled.
“Or… perhaps after.”