Читать книгу Blind.Faith 2.0.50 - Tomasz Tatum - Страница 15

NEW ARRIVALS

It was early morning as Jacqueline, Charles and Niklas wordlessly collected their belongings from the overhead bins that were now gaping wide open over their heads. They made their way numbly in short fits and starts down the right aisle of the aircraft as part of a weary procession that flowed toward one of the front exits. Engrossed in the task of keeping their belongings together as they collectively inched toward the threshold of the forward door, the majority of the disembarking passengers simply elected to ignore the small cluster of flight attendants that were strategically positioned next to the exit doors, dispensing uniform-sounding cheerful farewells.

Charles flashed a hurried smile in response to the wave of a trio of stewards and stewardesses standing in the forward galley as he left the airplane.

“I’d be smiling and waving, too, if I was one of them, knowing that I was flying home again in a couple of hours,” the thought crossed his mind as he approached yet another stewardess positioned directly at the door.

He stopped for a moment and waited for Jacqueline to overtake a passenger who had managed to wedge himself into the queue between them while disembarking. Niklas was already a step or two ahead of them, looking over his shoulder impatiently as he waited for them to catch up with him.

Collectively fatigued by the swift loss of an entire night spent travelling, a hushed but expectant silence reigned as the queue of passengers shuffled almost wordlessly, like a herd of sheep, out of the long tube of the jetway, the scent of humid salty air and burnt kerosene or cow dung wafting into their dehydrated nostrils, and entered the large holding area before the terminal gate. Charles was carrying an oversized black canvas bag in one hand. Clamped resolutely under the other were his jacket and a few loose items. It was fairly quiet in the terminal building as the passengers entered and began searching vigilantly for signs that would be unambiguous enough to point them in the right direction. A rather detached gate hostess, clad in the usual nondescript universal dark aviation blue uniform with gold piping at the collar and sleeves, manned an information counter and intently scrutinized her very long and very colorful fingernails. Not far from where she sat, a chubby security guard wearing what might easily have passed for the latest suit out of the cutting-edge Kim Jong-il-Vogue collection glanced up sporadically now and again, interrupting his nervous rapid-fire scrolling through the pages of a bestseller fiction e-book, to obliquely survey the silent stream of passengers as they emerged from the gate area and entered the main concourse.

Before them was a long corridor with a stupendously purple carpet runner under fluorescent lighting that was intended to lead the new arrivals all the way to the immigrations counters and then to the baggage claim area beyond. At this early hour, none of the passengers trudging along took any serious notice of the offerings of any of the prodigious number of fast food stands that lined the route all the way to the baggage delivery hall.

At some point further down the corridor, they passed a small group of janitors wearing furrowed brows and very stern expressions who could be seen busily cleaning and polishing the floors to the left and right of the carpet runner, their buffing machines adding to the largely functional terminal atmosphere a determined humming noise that competed with the ambient music for that particular niche in a traveler’s consciousness where it is registered but simultaneously ignored, not there to be enjoyed but to nudge the flow of traffic onward instead. A few bleary-eyed travelers lay prone on the vinyl-covered benches of an adjacent seating arrangement, snoring lightly with open real-estate propaganda magazines forming small tents over their faces, an almost intimate campground bridging the public expanse of time that lies between involuntarily being here and somewhere far away.

Sponge cheese wrappers and a few Mr. Ed’s All-StarµSurrogateSirloin sandwich boxes littered the tabletops next to the seating area.

Niklas seemed to finally have sobered up somewhat prior to disembarkation and as they made their first steps in Libertyville@Esperantia. Within only a short stretch of distance, he soon made an almost lively impression as he eagerly forged his way toward the baggage claim area. Occasionally he would try to nudge Jacqueline in the one or other direction in order to squeeze past a few slower fellow travelers or to circumvent small groups of people standing about while they talked or studied a variety of messages displayed on rows upon rows of flat screen monitors mounted at eye level on the walls.

Charles was a bit surprised by how unremarkably nondescript this place thus far seemed to him. If Niklas was awaiting Shangri-La, then he was now most certainly about to be locked into a fast-forward reality check.

As the stream of passengers descended yet another escalator and finally fanned out into a high-ceiling hall with evenly-spaced tall columns and a gray granite floor, Charles could see an endlessly long row of NationStation desks ahead of him. The men and women sitting behind them watched the arriving passengers trickle in with blank expressions and simply waited.

Upon closer examination, Charles noted that the area was divided into three color-coded zones for the arriving travelers.

Citizens and Residents.

Visitors.

New Arrivals.

Niklas took his place in the latter line after a short moment of hesitation and, directly behind him, Jacqueline and Charles. There were not a lot of others joining in the line behind them, perhaps a dozen people at most. A second row had formed to their right.

Charles quickly noted that most of the travelers in these two lines made the appearance of being rather elderly to him. In fact, he also registered that he was the only child awaiting his turn before the New Arrivals desk.

As Niklas stood in line and waited, he nervously clutched beneath his arm a tattered English-translation book that quite possibly dated back to his school days.

“In case I need it …” he said in a furtive whisper to Jacqueline just before they took their place in the line. “I don’t wanna make any mistakes.”

He smiled the most charming smile Charles had seen him afford his mother in ages.

“Not to worry. I just happen to speak English, you know,” Jacqueline responded flatly and rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, but we don’t wanna make no mistakes here!” was his curt reply.

As he stood edgily in the waiting line, Niklas was soon silently fuming upon registering that everyone else standing in the same line–at least those who appeared to be in need of some sort of translation assistance–possessed the trendy e-versions with the very latest software installed. And the longer he stood and waited, the plainer it was that something else had begun to gnaw at him, probably infuriating and intimidating him simultaneously: to his great surprise and disdain, it appeared that, without exception, everyone else biding their time in the same line or those adjoining appeared to be of Asian or African descent, or some combination thereof.

Charles could read from the look on his stepfather’s face that Niklas was thinking hard about what he had expected to see in this ideal society that he had pinned his, and the family’s, highest hopes on. It was the one society where, he was informed, everyone was created in the Lord’s image. In this line–Niklas shuddered hard as the realization hit home–no one even came close to resembling him in the least.

The officer at the NationStation desk motioned for them to step forward.

After much shuffling of papers and scanning of various barcodes, Niklas, Jacqueline and Charles were successively subjected to a barrage of various short interviews and scans; they were also photographed from front and side and finally fingerprinted. The officer handling them rarely even looked up from his desk or the monitor glowing before him when he addressed them.

“So what did you say the reason was that you want to come here?” he inquired from the corner of his mouth while closely studying their travel documents yet again.

Niklas Vladimir Bratislav stood at the NationStation Desk and beamed at the prospect of soon shedding his old identity and the life that went with it: “I wanted to get away from all those dotcommunists and pacifists and atheists. You know, Sir, this here feels like I’m finally coming home!”

The officer nodded briefly and flashed the most fleeting of smiles in the direction of the monitor and routinely answered: “Sounds good a reason as any. That’s what I wanted to hear. To be processed at your next station, you’ll need to go to that counter over there. Have a nice day!”

He handed them their documents and promptly directed his attention to the next person waiting behind the wide yellow line painted on the floor.

Upon completing the copious immigrations formalities at the NationStation counter, the next stop for them was a quick visit to the transit area medical service facility, or TAMS, for a cursory but mandatory check-up.

And, more significantly, this stop was the one that was required for the implantation of the obligatory VitaMeter chip. The three of them joined the small groups of others queuing in the customer waiting area, intently studying the screens, upon which they were duly informed that men generally prefer to have the chips planted on their upper arms while women, at least statistically, more often opted for the discretionary implantation between the shoulder blades. The very basic no-frills genuine TAMS-approved package included the implantation along with a circular patch tattoo that was offered with a choice of one of the standard designs; additionally, an impressive array of optional aesthetically-appealing designs, many of them variations on a wide range of esoteric themes such as Ying and Yang, Far Eastern dragons or glow-in-the-dark Sanskrit script, was also available at a modest extra charge.

Alternatively, for those who prided themselves for their good taste and individuality, a deluxe solution was available in the form of extravagant Asian sak yant motives being offered by independent craftsmen who had set up their shop directly adjacent to the rooms of the TAMS facility. While acceptable, they were not explicitly encouraged by the staff manning the TAMS facility desk, ostensibly because these astounding tattoos were very pricey but more likely because they were regarded with some suspicion due to the fact that they reputedly contained passages of sacral Khmer text more often than not. Nonetheless, they were breathtakingly beautiful works of intricate art.

Confronted with his first unexpected choices immediately after setting foot in their new homeland, Niklas Vladimir visibly relished the authority that his new-found role as family patriarch afforded him and even risked an embarrassing row with his family over his speedy choice of one of the low-cost standard versions, replete with what he thought was an imposing eagle, for all of them.

“I don’t know. If they don’t get it right …” Charles voiced his objection, “it’ll kinda look like a rooster in drag.”

Niklas shrugged and relented, agreeing–much to Charles’ surprise–to a motif with a slight upcharge. He was almost there where he wanted to be, but not quite.

Only once during the further proceedings on that morning did he again risk losing his countenance: difficult as it was, he successfully managed to keep himself in check following Jacqueline’s extremely cheeky and very embarrassing comment as to whether the implantation of the chip might not be most adequately and fittingly accomplished by just “… ramming it up everyone’s ass.”

The answer to that particular question was unfortunately no, she was informed wryly by the young dog-faced, on-duty chief of staff at the TAMS facility administration desk.

Then they were cordially referred to their lifestyle counselor.

Here, following their rather unceremonious arrival, and now committed to live and work in a society beholden to none other than the good Lord himself, the family was advised of the legal grounds associated with the necessity to contribute the greater share of its savings in return for the privilege of residing in a tenement erected to house the swelling flood of newcomers rushing in ever since the proclamation of the domain.state. Although everyone was doing all they could to keep the process streamlined, they were informed, there was unfortunately still a lot of bureaucracy and plenty of additional papers to be signed before one finally comes out of the pipeline.

“But, of course, we’re here to help you!” proclaimed the counselor cheerfully. “And it’s all worth the effort, as I’m sure you’ll see!”

Upon submitting application for permanent residency in the Domain.State of Libertyville@Esperantia, and after all other formalities were finally taken care of, the prospective immigrants were instructed to proceed to the next and final station, the desk where they would then assume their new identity prior to being discharged into the mainstream of Libertyville@Esperantia.

Although not explicitly mandatory, a name change was strongly encouraged as it was viewed as a sign of one’s willingness, or even eagerness, to integrate into the existing social habitat. It was a signal of wholehearted acceptance of the new homeland and its culture. And, to make it more attractive, there was certainly nothing in the guidelines that found fault with selecting something trendy.

The assumption of new identity was regarded as an important milestone on the path toward a successful integration.

“Just think about it for a moment,” the on-duty notary officer explained as she sat before them at her desk with an impish smile that Charles thought was perhaps exclusive to the realm of brainwashing.

“… our job here is not unlike introducing huge swarms of new fish into a big aquarium each new day.”

The notary officer sat at her desk, waving her rather muscular arms in concentric circles as though she was about to paddle away. Charles suspected that she held this lecture often.

“The more they do to resemble the rest of the existing population,” she continued her lecture, “… the easier it will ultimately be for them to become accommodated by their peers. It’s all about assimilation and it’s all voluntary, of course.”

A short discussion ensued. When it was over, Niklas eagerly went for the name of Nik.Vee.

There was then some delay while the three of them engaged in a brief but ultimately fruitless discussion among themselves over the real necessity of this measure. In the end, Charles was dubbed Ch.ase, primarily because the on-duty notary–whose enthusiasm for her work clearly exceeded some of the more obvious limitations of her mental capacities–was apparently having difficulty making any real sense of the meaning of the abbreviation ‘Chas.’ that was contained in some of his documentation and she was simply loathe to admit it. Luckily for her, Niklas had then quickly assented and thus Charles’ new identity was speedily and irrevocably decided upon without ever bothering to really consult him about it.

With two names already decided, it was Jacqueline’s turn. She remained, much to Charles’ silent admiration, adamant in her refusal to go along with anything as ridiculous as a name change intended to forge a new identity.

“How about Jack.ie or maybe something flashy, something really intriguing like Jacki.Q? Oh, hold on! I see that there are already a few Jacki.Qs. How about Jacki.Q32?” the on-duty notary suggested. “That sounds really keen, don’t you think?”

The on-duty notary licked her dry lips as her fingers hovered just above the keyboard, ready to tap the letters onto the form at a second’s beckoning.

“No way,” Charles’ mother stated bluntly. “It sounds like a kitchen blender or a fatburning machine. Jacqueline it is and shall remain. I was told the name change is voluntary.”

The on-duty notary paused and looked up for an instant. The expression on her face was similar to that which she would have worn if a dog had unexpectedly pissed into her shoe.

“Does anyone here have a problem with my just staying who I am?” an annoyed Jacqueline demanded, her voice now slightly louder and her tone slightly sharper.

“No. No, that’s alright, I suppose,” the on-duty notary murmured and resumed typing on her keypad.

Jacqueline glared victoriously at Niklas Vladimir–or Nik.Vee, as he had decreed he would be known from this day onward. He didn’t say a word.

And, as was to be expected, Nik.Vee did indeed have a problem with this display of stubbornly brainless repudiation, at least as he personally viewed it, but he today wisely elected to keep his mouth shut. In keeping with his usual manner, he would simply wait until a more opportune time presented itself to make it readily apparent how pissed off he was at his wife for her embarrassingly inane display of rejection just as they were on the verge of being released into their brand-new lives.

The city of Libertyville@Esperantia looked, at least superficially, pretty similar to most of the modest number of other towns and cities that Charles had visited up to now. There was traffic everywhere, busses, trams, cars. There were old buildings and new buildings. The family certainly wasn’t expecting any kind of Amish-style frugality, horse-drawn buggies or coarse hand-woven garments in their new home but they were surprised at how unexceptional it appeared to them upon their first encounter, an uneven and oddly modern mix of both dynamism and decay that was arguably the true face of globalization.bliss.

There were grocery stores and laundromats and garages specializing in shock absorber installation. There were fast food places and discount furniture stores everywhere. If anything seemed remarkable to them, it was perhaps only that they were somewhat baffled at the sheer number of both churches and adult entertainment facilities that dotted the main thoroughfare into the city. Judging by this, there was obviously a lot of competition out there for patrons and for the souls thereof.

SCANDAL: LIBERALS SPEND BUCKETLOADS OF BILLIONS ON BOOKS! an oversize gazillion-pixel NewsBoard blared brightly as they whizzed by.

There seemed to be electronic NewsBoards and AdBoards everywhere. The top subject, so they deduced after catching successive glimpses of the running text, was some unsettling news about water tables, about flooding somewhere and a few outskirt areas elsewhere suffering water shortages. As the minivan hummed along, whisking them to their new home, they saw finished concrete foundations at numerous abandoned construction site from which rows of drainage pipes protruded two or three meters into the air. To Ch.ase, the sight of the pipes reminded him of upturned brontosaurus skeletons whose ribs poked mutely skyward. Supplying these buildings with water was proving too difficult a task and way too expensive now, the driver–he had introduced himself as JoJoBa–had explained to them.

“And, besides that,” he added, “… I hear that there aren’t as many immigrants arriving here anymore to fill up all of these grand projects they were planning. So I guess, like, the investment probably just went tits up.”

“Oops! Excuse me!” JoJoBa said as he ruefully glanced at Jacqueline in the rear view mirror. He was hoping for an adequate tip today and had thus worked hard at being as talkative as he could without saying terribly much.

The radio blared a song through a single rather tinny-sounding speaker mounted in the dashboard. The rattling noises of the bus effectively drowned out most of the music and left the occasional cheerful banter of the host largely unintelligible.

“And you know, there’s also all kinds of discussion right now about the subject of diversity going on …” JoJoBa tried his luck again a few moments later.

“It’s kind of a mantra here, you know? But it’s odd: we’re constantly celebrating diversity here but, if you talk to anyone here, they all tell you that they cherish conformity. So it’s like a place whose highest ideal is to fully integrate all these newcomers it keeps trying to get to come in from abroad but it’s also doing everything it can to jealously defend what people think makes up its own very unique identity. So, you know, while one portion of the population is claiming that they’re working at making immigrants resemble themselves as closely as possible–because they consider themselves to be representative of the indigenous population–the majority is shitting bricks that, like, if they become like us, then this kind of conversely means that everyone else is increasingly becoming like them, the immigrants. It’s all really kind of crazy, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s a good place,” Nik.Vee grumbled in response, somehow not exactly amused at what he was seeing and hearing.

“Yeah,” he continued as they drove, “… but don’t worry. It’s all controlled pretty well here. In fact, the level of control here is, well, maybe a bit more than you’re used to or maybe even expected. But it’s all how ya look at it, I guess.”

After having received no satisfactory response from Nik.Vee, JoJoBa–still working valiantly at earning his tip for this ride–prudently elected to change the subject.

“Hey! You folks ever heard of the architect Frank Lloyd Wright? I don’t have any idea what, er, what he built but I heard he once tore out the rear view mirror of a car he was riding in and just, ya know, chucked it out the window. Kind of psycho, you know? And ya know why he did it? Said he was only interested in seeing where he’s going to, not where he’s already been. Pretty neat, huh? I’m kind of like that, too …”

As he chattered, Jacqueline noticed a small truck-like vehicle passing them smartly in the adjoining lane. To her amazement, she saw that it was a mobile confession booth.

“Get Moto.Absolution!” proclaimed the bold red lettering on the side of the vehicle. “For Absolution on the Go, Get Your Session with mobi.Fession, the Good Conscience Specialists!”

Ch.ase noticed that the Moto.Absolution van was equipped with an impressive array of red and blue emergency lights mounted on its roof. Upon seeing this, his youthful curiosity quickly got the better of him.

“Excuse me!” he called at the top of his voice from the rear bench of the bus to get JoJoBa’s attention. “But, like, can he always just keep on going or does he need to stop at stoplights?” he asked JoJoBa, pointing as the vehicle smoothly changed lanes ahead of them and quickly disappeared into the thick stream of traffic.