Читать книгу A Moment in Time - Jeff Morris - Страница 8

I put away the paint brush and began my search for clothing. I knew that if I was going to be out for a while, I needed to take the necessary precautions for protecting myself from the environment. For as long as I could remember, the air had been thick with pollution, but since moving to the building, I had the suspicion that someone had released some sort of contaminants into the air inside the building. My body had reached near decrepitude since moving in, with the soreness of my muscles and the headaches getting progressively worse every year. I had also determined that although the air was thick outside the building, it didn’t have the wretched stench that lingered inside, further confirming my suspicion.

Not allowing the unseemly atmosphere to seep into my sanctuary is one of the reasons I had fixed my blinds to the walls in my apartment; aside from not wanting to see my neighbors. I had found that the same dingy glaze that hovered in the hallways had made its way through my windows and into my living space. I hadn’t yet found a way to get the air out, but with the tape, had found that I could stop more from coming in. I wasn’t sure how other people had learned to live with the air, but they must have their own systems for keeping it out, similar to mine—unless they had simply accepted their fate.

As I finished putting on my second pair of socks, I considered what their motives might be for wanting a face-to-face meeting about the condition of the building. The likely answer was that they wanted to understand how their brainwashing tactics were affecting the residents’ psyche, so they could decide if alterations were necessary. It came to me just then that maybe the letter writer, Sam, wanted me out of my apartment. He’ll get me to concede to its deplorable condition, and then explain how there are better apartments in the building, moving me to a more vulnerable location. Or maybe he had snuck in when I was out picking up paint and had seen the progress I had made to the habitat. Once I vacate, he’ll take it for himself. It’s only a matter of time before a group like them starts taking whatever they want.

As I finished putting on my second t-shirt, I made up my mind to stand firm. No matter how appealing he made it sound, I wasn’t going to give up my apartment. I had spent years trying to make the best of things and I wasn’t about to start over because of intimidation. I finished my ritual by putting on my jacket, hat, scarf, and gloves.

I stepped outside the apartment and locked the door behind me. I hadn’t been out for a long time and the air unexpectedly seemed to get slightly better as soon as I stepped into the hallway. I walked down the long corridor toward the elevator and all along the way I kept my head down and my hands buried deep into my pockets, wishing to be invisible. When I reached the end of the hall, I carefully inspected the elevator before pushing the down button. As I waited for the doors to open, I looked back down the hall and saw two of my neighbors, a married couple, walk out of their apartment. I pushed the down button several times to try and speed up the process, but the doors weren’t opening fast enough.

Aside from the dingy air and the forced isolation, the worst part about the building was the other people. After my first encounter with the cult, I realized that most of the residents were part of the same group, and just as forthright in their intent to convince me to join them. Whenever I ran into someone in the hall or out on the street, they would ask me questions that weren’t particularly useful, other than to pinpoint my weaknesses. They often spoke about a road that would lead to a utopia that was ruled by a man called the Headmaster. The Headmaster seemed to be a fictitious Machiavellian caricature, used by the group to convey the idea that they were a consolidated bunch. No one had ever seen the man—every one of them would admit to this much.

The more I conversed with the people around the building, the more I began to suspect that I might be the only one who was still resisting our conundrum. I wasn’t sure if the average IQ of the common resident was dropping, but I could tell from the way they spoke with such naivety that it was highly likely. I also didn’t understand why everyone, other than myself, was so cheery all the time. Had they any inkling of their surroundings? If they weren’t going to think for themselves, they should at least recognize their imprisonment and not be so thrilled by it.

At first I would plan every time that I needed to leave the apartment in such a way that I wouldn’t mistakenly run into someone, so I could avoid subjecting myself to their meaningless ramblings. I suspected that if I exposed my mind to their chitchat too many times, I might not be able to hold my sanity indefinitely and may begin doing as they did. I’d spent considerable energy on the matter, even waking up early to determine their patterns. My research told me that most people were in the halls of the building between eight and nine in the morning. There was also a better chance of running into them in the late afternoon and early evening. Times could vary extensively when outside the building, making it much more unpredictable to go outdoors. My solution was to buy things in bulk such as groceries, project suppliers, and basic living necessities. I stocked up on the essentials and had learned to cope without the luxuries by only getting them when I had to pick up the essentials. The system worked well and continuing to improve it had been a priority.

“Hi John, it’s nice to see you out today,” said my neighbor, who stood smiling with his wife.

I could sense the tension in their eyes, but couldn’t decide what they wanted, or why they were speaking in such a nice tone.

“You’re bundled up. Is it supposed to be cold today?” he continued cheerfully.

He then turned to his wife and remarked, “Maybe we need more layers.”

The elevator chimed, indicating that this conversation was about to get squished into a tiny inescapable space. The doors opened and one of my other neighbors walked out of the small steel box.

“Oh, hi Ben, we’ve been meaning to speak with you about dinner,” the man who came out of the elevator said to my neighbor.

I slipped past the group, and as the three of them huddled in the hallway, I pushed the close door button inside the elevator several times. The doors slowly shut, but not before the man peaked his eyes between the diminishing crack and smiled. I felt a sense of relief and pushed the B button. It was a close call.

As the elevator made its descent toward the basement, I used the time to compile my thoughts. I ordered my priorities in such a way that I would only speak on topics related to the improvement of the building, but if I could, I would also try to gain an understanding of what the group was really after. I had to be careful and not allow Sam to somehow manipulate me. The elevator started to slow, and when it stopped, the chime indicated that I had arrived at the basement.

I had never been to the basement of the building. When the doors opened, I was surprised to find that the dingy air had lightened even more. I was cautious at first, and wanted to make sure I understood my surroundings before committing myself. I walked carefully out of the doors and into a large room with light gray walls. The ceiling seemed so tall that when I looked up, I felt dizzy and lost. I could make out row upon row of large chandeliers lining the ceiling through the hazy fog of the dingy air, and then realized that they had used them to make the basement seem a little less dingy and a little less dark than the rest of the building. The floor was made of marble and stretched as far as my eyes could see. When I looked closely at it, I could see intricate swirls of gray and dark gray. Other than the grandeur of the room, and the large chandeliers, there was nothing out of the ordinary to observe.

In the center of the room, far from where I was standing, I could see a desk with a man sitting at it. I paused for a moment, squinting my eyes relentlessly, somehow thinking the act would help me formulate my first impression of the man. I walked slowly toward the center of the room, careful not to take my eyes too far away from the lonely silhouette. I thought to myself that if this man was trying to swindle me, he had picked the wrong guy to tangle with. My nerves felt sharp and I readied myself for confrontation. The echo of my feet bounced off the walls as I made my approach to the desk.

“John, we’re so glad that you came right away. I’m Sam. Come, have a seat.”

He stood before he made his greeting and had announced it as if he was introducing a boxer into the ring. His voice clanged throughout the large space and filled the basement auditorium with a brief sense of warmth. I felt insecure at his delighted greeting and wanted to cower away, or run back toward the elevator.

For some reason, I couldn’t help but to concede to his request and slid my way into the wooden chair. It had a straight back and was very solid. The design forced me to sit with almost perfect posture, with my back as straight as a board. The sensation was both painful and irresistible.

His desk was wide and a small stack of blank papers and black envelopes lay on the corner closest to me. There was one pen resting in the middle of the desk, and a piece of folded paper sat in front of him. When we made eye contact across the large wooden barrier, it felt like Sam was sitting right on top of me, and I looked away quickly. His smile was beaming and his eyes were open wide. I wondered if I was the first person to respond to one of his letters. It looked to me like he had a system and that he was glad that someone had finally taken his bait. I had learned over the years to never speak first when someone wants something from you, or when you want something from someone else, so we sat in silence while he stared at me.

“Would you like some tea?” he asked. “I was about to take a break and have one myself. Now that you’re here, we can have one together.”

I was a bit startled by the question. The offer of tea was the last thing I had expected him to say, unless he was preparing to play the long game with me.

“No, I’m fine,” I said, before quickly looking toward the ground.

The second thing I had learned about negotiating was to pretend that you’re not at all interested in the situation. Giving the impressions that nothing about the encounter matters, and it is all just a waste of time, should get the other person to cut to the chase and show their true intentions more quickly.

“I bet you haven’t had a tea like this one. Try some—it satisfies from the first sip to the last gulp,” he cajoled.

I looked up from the ground and saw a cup of tea steaming at the edge of the desk right in front of me. Sam clenched his cup with both hands and took the aroma slowly into his nose as he squinted his eyes and curled his shoulders toward each other. When I realized there was no kettle in the room, or stove, or anything other than Sam, his desk, and some papers, my whole body shook uncontrollably. I hoped that Sam hadn’t noticed. It was obviously a well-orchestrated stunt, meant to shock me into vulnerability. Somehow I was able to remain calm and keep my composure, all the while wondering how he had produced the tea from thin air.

“How was the ride down?” he asked.

He’s going to butter me up for awhile, I thought.

“It was fine,” I said.

“Was it exciting to leave your apartment?”

“Exciting? More like dangerous.”

“Oh?” said Sam, with a sense of curiosity in his tone.

“The air down here isn’t so bad, but you should try living on the fifth floor where I am,” I continued, without even thinking to hold my tongue.

Sam looked confused.

“Either you’ve never been outside of this basement, or you’re trying to make me look foolish. Your letter said you wanted me down here to discuss the condition of the building, well, the polluted air is a good place to start.” I said without a crack in my voice, reminding myself to stay calm, assertive, and stick to the topic of the building.

“Oh no, I don’t live in the basement,” he said with a light chuckle. “I was told to move my office down here. I used to have it on the top floor, and before that I worked outside.”

“Sounds like you’ve be demoted,” I snickered.

“Demoted?” asked Sam. “Why would you think that?”

It seemed he wanted to dance around for a while. I felt sure about my position of unwavering invulnerability, and my ability to hold it, so I decided to play along and follow his lead. My first impression of Sam’s role was that the cult probably expected him to advance their strategies, but that he wasn’t all that important. His clothes looked far too worn for someone who held a high position, and he had obviously just been demoted.

“At my job, when people went from the top floor to the basement, there was no other explanation.” I felt good about the witty comment and wanted to keep Sam on his heels.

“I see. The organization I work for doesn’t operate in the same way as the kind that you work for,” he replied. “There are no demotions for us. But I am familiar with what you’re describing.”

“I have a friend on the first floor,” continued Sam. “He was demoted because he found accounting errors in his company’s books. He tried to tell his boss about the discrepancies, but soon after found himself working in the back room sorting receipts all day. He would’ve looked for another job, but his boss had been stealing from the company, so he wanted to keep my friend close and threatened to sue him, accusing my friend of cooking the books. Since he didn’t have the means to defend himself, my friend couldn’t do much else but stay. I believe that’s what it means to be demoted. I met him under similar circumstances as you and I are meeting today. He was on his fourth letter too.”

The tale made me realize that the group was cruel and would use any piece of personal information to its advantage. To wait for a man to be under duress before bringing your attack is as underhanded a tactic as I’ve ever heard. A man is most crushed when his sense of purpose is vanishing—the perfect time for them to introduce an alternative one.

“He’s doing really well now. He’s been using the amenities more and spends much of his time outside. I’ve seen him up and down the road many times since we met. The Headmaster’s happy with him too.”

My reflexes took over and I couldn’t help but let out a small cough just as I was raising the tea cup toward my lips. The warm liquid splashed back on itself, jumping out of the cup, before resting on my face, clothes, and the edge of the desk in front of me. I put the cup down quickly and wiped my face with my gloves, the smell of tea sticking to my nostrils.

Sam stood quickly, and with unabashed sincerity asked, “Are you OK, John?”

I was fine, but I liked seeing him concerned.

“Yeah,” I replied.

He sat back down in his chair so slowly that I couldn’t tell whether or not he was actually moving. His eyes stayed fixed on mine, as he finally settled into his former position, while firmly gripping his tea cup with both hands.

“Do you really want to start this conversation by talking about the Headmaster?” I said. “Only ignorant people would buy such a farce.”

Sam twitched his head slightly sideways and froze in his seat.

“What makes you think that?” he replied, with grave concern in his voice.

As our conversation moved forward, I was trying to form an idea of what type of man I was dealing with. Depending on how well I could read my adversary, I thought, I could leave him with the impression that I wouldn’t interfere with their group, or even discuss them with anyone, as long as they ceased harassing me. On the other hand, Sam seemed so genuinely concerned for my well-being that part of me started to think that the request to see me about the conditions of the building was honest, and that for some reason he needed my advice. It came to me just then that he must have looked at my rental application and knew of my standing as a scientist. They wanted to utilize my training to either advance their cause, or maybe because they really did have some issues with the ventilation and needed the expertise of a skilled lab-man.

I was taking a risk because the Headmaster was obviously the leader of their organization and I knew that some cults took it as near blasphemy if you said anything negative about their commander. Suddenly a clever idea hatched in my mind, and I began to think that there might be a way for me to get something out of him. Maybe he had access to the building’s supply room, or would allow me to remove the signs outside the apartment. If he was an amateur at manipulating people it wouldn’t be hard for me to turn the tables on him. His old friend from the first floor may have bought his performance, but unlike him, I was about to use the charade to my advantage. Either way, after getting to know him briefly, I wasn’t all that worried about his influence. I decided to continue playing along and press him for answers.

“Sam, I thought you brought me down here to discuss the condition of the building. I’m not sure which department you work for, but you obviously know my credentials. Do you think you are the first person to try and leverage my training?”

Sam didn’t object to my assertion that they really wanted me here because of my training as a scientist, so I decided put my cards on the table.

“Let’s cut to the chase. Have you brought me here because I’m a scientist, or because you want my apartment?”

I was careful to read Sam’s reaction, and was surprised to see a sadness in his eyes that I hadn’t seen yet.

“Neither,” said Sam, with a calm voice. “We do want your opinion, not because you’re a scientist, but because you’re a person. There is a difference, John.”

For a moment he sounded like a psychiatrist, and the zig made me feel slightly unsettled.

“Listen, Sam, you seem like a friendly person. I’d like to share my thoughts on how to make this place better, if that’s what you’re after, but let’s do this civilly. First you shove magic tea in my face, then you’re talking about your prey on the first floor, and now the Headmaster—the character you use to scare children. What is this all about?”

He didn’t move a muscle, and the sadness in his eyes was now penetrating. I suddenly felt like I was being harsh with the man, and a feeling of embarrassment stirred inside me as I looked at him. I’m not sure why I didn’t notice the sorrow he carried when I first sat down with him. I had only spent a few minutes with him, but there was an amiability about him that I hadn’t expected, and it felt good to talk with someone, even though he was a stranger. I had spent considerable effort avoiding contact with other people, but Sam was somehow different. His tone was innocent, with a hint of naivety, and I was sure I had the intellectual upper hand in our encounter. I had been afraid that it would be a waste of my time to come down here, and although I suffer to admit it, the brief companionship alone seemed to be worth the trip.

“You’ve been forgetful for some time, John. Take another sip of tea, and this time focus on its lovely flavors.”

His voice suddenly carried the distinction of authority, though not enough to scare me off completely, and I reminded myself not to get to comfortable.

“We do spend a lot of time with children. We find them to be extremely reliable messengers.”

“How do you people sleep?” I snapped, involuntarily losing control of my wits. “You know your game won’t last forever, right? Power is cyclical.”

In that moment, I knew I had lost control. Sam didn’t miss a beat, but my outburst probably caused him to reveal more then he should have.

“Oppression is cyclical; power is absolute.”

As soon as Sam finished his sentence, I felt a chill go down my spine. His eyes pierced me like a javelin that has successfully hit its target on the first throw. Sam paused for moment before he said, “Do you remember who brought you to this building?”

“Brought me? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied soberly.

“I see,” Sam said calmly.

He sipped his tea slowly, his arms and hands rising and falling from his lap to his mouth with precision. He was like a mechanical drone, deep in thought, while constantly oiling his parts with the flow of warm tea. I didn’t know how to explain what was happening just then, but he seemed to grow larger and larger as we sat in silence. The features on his face barely changed, other than when he licked his lips to devour the small traces of liquid that were left behind after each time he had raised and lowered the cup. His hair suddenly stood out the most, as the lightness of the gray contrasted with the grays and blacks of the rest of the room.

I had studied time for decades before meeting Sam—it was my academic area of expertise—and my work had changed the way people think about the subject. My dissertation was called Time’s Accumulating Effect—Something Gained, Nothing Lost. But even with all of my experience, never had time become so mysterious and unpredictable as it had during these fleeting moments. I felt like I was concrete, unmovable. It seemed that even if I could move, I shouldn’t, as though time had stopped for me, but Sam was fluid. It looked as though he were in motion even though he wasn’t, and that somehow I was trapped, stuck in a moment in time that Sam was outside of. His eyes grew larger and larger, and I could count the times that he would wrinkle his brow just slightly. The longer I sat there, and the closer I looked, the more I noticed the features on his face move, even in the slightest way. The tiny pores on his cheek seemed to breathe in and out, moving like the chest of a man who is sound asleep. He blinked now and then. When his eyelids closed I could hear them thunder shut with a loud echo, and then suddenly reopen with a squish. His gaze never changed, and I could hear his satisfied rumble every time he moved the tea cup away from his mouth. Even when I tried, I couldn’t see past the small features on his face, as if his face had filled the whole room and when I looked up as high as I could, I saw his hair line, and if I looked as far as I could to the right, I could only see as far as his ear with the corner of his right eye in my peripheral. I was paralyzed in time, and my whole world had involuntarily sunk down to the size of Sam’s face. I don’t know why, but for the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt safe.