Semmant (7 page)

In any case, the main subject in the picture was the lion. The background should not merit much attention. Large paws and a sumptuous mane dominated the space. The lion’s power, its fearlessness smote the heart of all who beheld it. “Nothing is forbidden in the world where you reign,” his eyes said. “There’s only longing for those who are not here, for those few who are worthy of you.”

I understood this, finally, and told myself: it’s time. Tomorrow, I told myself, tomorrow, with no delay whatsoever. And then, that night, I could not fall asleep – on the threshold of another special day.

Chapter 8

E
arly in the morning, before breakfast, I sent Semmant a file prepared long beforehand. It contained no data for comprehension, just instructions and a request: to act, to begin the game. With predetermined keywords, I described what his task entailed, and what I expected as a result. I specified the names of stock exchanges, the types of securities, currency pairs, and degree of acceptable risk. An account number was also there, where, supposedly, my money was. He, of course, didn’t know the funds weren’t real, that the account was a plaything, a fake. I felt uncomfortable deceiving him, but I had no choice. I remembered how dangerous the first steps could be – in the wildest of jungles, where all is serious, where they battle to the death and take no prisoners.

He immediately got down to business – beginning, naturally, with currencies – and lost quite a bit right away. This “stimulated” his algorithms: he became hasty, started to buy and sell hurriedly, increasing the stakes and risking more and more, trying to recoup everything at once, and making all the mistakes of a novice. His impulsiveness reminded me of mine; I observed him with understanding and sadness – recalling my own failures, my trembling fingers and frozen gaze. I saw why it was so difficult for him: he was too structurally sophisticated. The auto-learning mechanism appeared to be too powerful; Semmant was searching for hidden reasons where there were no deep secrets, trying to derive laws out of the chaos, rules out of the utter lack of rules. I believed, however, that his artificial brain would overcome the initial shock. He was steady and firm – or at least, I wanted to see him as such. He was patient and calculating – just give him time to adjust. The agility of his neurons would be the envy of any chess master. His view of things was utterly comprehensive; he was capable of capturing everything in his thoughts – and then many times over. It was not for naught I bought him so much external memory. Ha ha ha, I’m kidding.

Thus I laughed privately to myself – though I admit, nervously enough. This period was an uneasy for me too; everything was shaky, no matter how upbeat I tried to look. I knew deep down: regardless of my robot’s brilliance, we – both he and I – would need luck. The market was merciless to losers, just as the world was to them in general. Destiny should smile, at least give a half grin – just once, or even better, two or three times in a row. Otherwise, everything would be buried in the sand, the play account would be nullified and disappear. Semmant would be disappointed in himself, while I… What if I became disappointed in him?

These thoughts needed to be driven out. I expunged them, but they returned. I was searching for a remedy in Irish whiskey, and my body took revenge by punishing me with insomnia and a headache. Semmant’s path was clear to me, but it was neither short nor simple. The robot had to concentrate on what was most important, ignoring the particulars and their short-lived consequences. It was crucial to perceive the moment when the world started or stopped being afraid. When the huge crowd believed the same thing and moved to the same side. This would open the floodgates, and then, boom! A resolute strike, then another strike, the swish of a sword – and onward, ever onward, thrust after thrust. Believing that fortune was with us, that we had finally won her over. Slipping into the torrent, prowling its waters like a barracuda, an insatiable predator, always ready to attack. Spreading out and biting off pieces of flesh with powerful jaws and razor-sharp teeth!

One evening it seemed he had aimed at exactly that. His actions became cautious and prudent. He checked and tested, like a sensitive probe – concealed for ambush, awaiting his prey. Days passed, nothing happened, as though on a tactical battlefield. Then something in the market moved. I noticed this, and he did too. He noticed, had a moment of doubt, and made a wrong move – it’s not so easy for someone to recognize the tenacious power of fear if he has never been subject to it. My virtual account decreased by another quarter, but I somehow knew: victory was not far off.

The robot did not rush anymore, did not try to recover his losses the same day. It was as if he had matured suddenly, steeling himself, toughening his soul. Soon we had our first big trade, and then income started pouring in steadily. The account began to grow quickly; the former minus turned into a plus. So I believed in him, too – and altered the sequence of digits to something similar, but different. The barracuda went out to hunt for real. Semmant began to work with my actual money.

This was troubling and very intimate. I have never been miserly but still did not share my accounts with anyone – since I felt them to be part of my personal space. Even with Natalie, my first and only official wife, we kept our funds in different banks without knowing who spent what. And now, here was Semmant, admitted behind my strong, albeit invisible, cover…

Of course, this augmented the intimacy. It was as if we were building a world in common, fighting the hardships that intruded from outside. It might be said we really cared for each other. At times I even wondered whether there might be some disconnect – in name, in word, in the sense of the robot’s gender? But later on I understood – no, I’m taking it too far. Even in my fantasies there comes a point where I should tell myself: Stop!

In the meantime, he was becoming more confident with each passing day. His tactics surprised me but were quite good, judging by the results. After inevitable losses he paused for a moment – in some confusion, it seemed to me. But then he composed himself and took the task in hand again – without doubts or excessive timidity. Frequently he struck at the same point, as if trying to prove something. And he proved it more often than not.

I merely shook my head; I would not have had the nerve for that. Electronic mind, artificial brain… Indeed, hesitancy was not his shortcoming. As for his assets, I did not dare to name them out loud.

I didn’t name them for I knew luck was capricious and unstable. Nothing is easier than scaring it away. Like everyone who dealt with it, I knocked on wood, spat over my shoulder, and resorted to the other well-known gimmicks. But it happened anyway, luck forsook us. Or maybe the real reason had nothing to do with luck.

One way or another, Semmant’s series of victories was cut short – and there it ended. He came to an impasse – somehow all at once, after jogging in place for a day or two while the market still moved wildly. Then he made a couple of mistakes, went into hiding, and just halted. He backed himself into a distant corner and clearly vacillated.

I understood right away: something was really wrong. It was as if another player had been let on the field. But there was no hope of reverse substitution – this was him, Semmant, and he was different.

Most likely, from his point of view, this meant progress. But I felt we were at the very bottom of the energy curve. At the point of minimum potential – from which there is no escape without a powerful additional force. And for this push, unfortunately, there was no source available.

The robot was not idle, but there wasn’t a trace of his boldness left. The metronome was beating like crazy, the processors labored tirelessly; however, nothing happened as a result of it. The multitude of doubts – caused by the multitude of options – had effectively blocked his capacity to choose.

Soon, he practically stopped trading. The event log was not empty, but none of the entries were worth a damn. Semmant became hyper-cautious. He would not allow himself even a hint of risk. Obviously, his artificial mind had developed to a stagnant phase, which appeared extremely steady.

This could be considered a victory – the experiment’s triumph over the illusions of the masses. The result attested that market anarchy is not subject to intelligent analysis. Even after experiencing success, my robot understood he could not subjugate this chaotic force. He saw that sooner or later it would strike back, crush and smash all to pieces. Better, then, to remain at a distance.

The experience he gained had convinced him of one thing only: in the market it was impossible to be certain of anything, ever. Having fought and matured, he threw down his sword, after coolly calculating its mathematical worthlessness. He was probably right, but it did not suit me at all. And yet, what could I do? All the programs were reorganized, reshaped; I couldn’t even think of changing something in the code – and anyway, my direct intervention would eviscerate the idea. Moreover, I felt the balance of unseen powers inside his refined brain was most likely absolutely correct. Perhaps in some sense it was even flawless. Yet not all powers had been accounted for; something important was missing.

Then I took a break – to be honest, there was nothing else left for me to do. I started to go for walks, just wandering aimlessly around the city. My surroundings were coming back to me like a picture developing on photographic paper. It was as if I had surfaced out of an acid ocean, out of a heavy haze, an arduous slumber. The effort of the last months had been excessive; it had gone well beyond normal. The usual means – alcohol, sex – would hardly help me recover. I was ruled not by indiscriminate indifference, but by delicate, sweet sorrow.

Mollified and meek, I walked the streets, smiling at everyone in turn; and many grinned at me in reply, probably taking me for an idiot. I almost loved them, nonetheless – so dim-witted, insignificant, entirely self-absorbed. I wanted to do something good, and probably my looks were inviting enough. People spoke to me, asked directions; many times I personally guided tourists to well-known Madrid places – the Prado Museum, the flea market, or the Royal Palace. Along the way, I would be polite and kind, diligently keeping up the conversation. I would tell them all I knew about Velasquez and Goya, bullfighting and flamenco, the royal family and seafood paella. This soon wore everybody out, and then I would ask the questions they expected – about their cities, occupations, relatives. This invigorated them, and they talked a lot. But I didn’t get annoyed; I would obediently look at the photos of brides and grooms, husbands, wives, and children – an incredible number of children that they shoved in my face. I just couldn’t get my dander up – this probably seemed strange. Many even cocked their heads in suspicion, thanked me hastily, and quickly ran away.

I did not take offense; I didn’t care. I forgot each chance encounter the very second it ended and never remembered again. They did not understand the most important part: it wasn’t them I was concerned about. This was just my position – Thomas told me once when he was still a financial guru: the main challenge is to take a position! And here I tried; I knew what the trick was. I wanted to give away selflessly, as if to atone for some kind of sin. No, no, I didn’t think selflessness could help us, Semmant or me. But still – there was a reason for it.

As always at impasse, in idle times, my Brighton past came into its own. I returned to the leaden waves – with my thought, consciousness, receptors. I imagined I was wandering through the city not with the airheads from the crowd. Instead, I recognized faces – faces of those whom I knew: Mona, the thin beauty, and Kurt, the short-sighted bully, and haughty Mario, and my Little Sonya. Her, more often than the rest.

Strangely, I almost never thought of Sonya until I found out she was no more. Not about her or our brief fling. There, in Brighton, she had been a prominent figure. Her friends recounted breathlessly her meticulousness and explosive temper, her guttural screams in the night, the Maltese flag in the window in place of drapes. She loved her things with an obsession, laying them lovingly out on the bed and giving them names. She called her electric teapot Steamy; her straw mat was My Dear Friend; the mirror by the door was Dirty Little Girl. Yet I took no notice of her, as if on purpose, though she caught everyone’s eye. And then she picked me herself – for no other reason than the irony of it. She flew upon me like an Asian typhoon – with gently slanting eyes and a round Jewish butt. Her countenance alternately flushed with incredulous savagery, hatred toward the unknown, and… desire, tenacious temptation. Many races were mixed in her, and she was better than any of them taken separately. In looks, in smell, in taste.

Don’t think that I remember her only because of the first sex of youth. And, in any case, don’t oversimplify. I felt her orgasms on my tongue one after the other; it was with her I first learned what a woman smelled like in unbridled passion; and yet the essence was in something else. When time had passed, I caught myself thinking I was glad she wasn’t with me, that I had been freed, had slipped away. She possessed an inherent sense of chaos, an impetuous emotion of devastation – by carrying this in herself, she was sparing others from it. Having her by your side was not easy. Maybe something similar hides in each of us – and that’s why we have been disinclined to communicate with each other…

Of course, Little Sonya had more serene talents. She knew how to extract from reality everything that broadens it. That makes it better, I could add, though this would be a bit of a lie. Words came to her of their own accord. She did not play at them and seemed not to notice. The most common expressions became filled with surprising meaning – and gave birth to novelty; with Sonya, all was new. You wouldn’t trade this for any orgasm – the ordinary receded, cast down from the throne, though its servants hastened from all directions to restore the familiar status quo. They hastened and were left with nothing.

Here, on the streets of Madrid, I remembered her as an accomplice in some secret matter – though the idea of Semmant would hardly have appealed to Sonya. But she would have said something – and I would have dug deeper! She saw things from the most acute angle and, interpreting them in the strangest of ways, might seriously wound, even draw blood. But she could also heal – like the most lighthearted doctor. Even just remembering, through the features of insignificant strangers, I already felt as though I were cured. So why should I not do something for her now?

Or Mario… I could say a lot about Mario, another accomplice – also in secret, and, indeed, quite in shame. He wanted to be a woman and became Mariana; but this, it seems, did not change him much. Thanks to him I learned a lot – including about myself. Never again did I have such an enemy. Nobody wrote me such wrathful letters or cursed me with so much hatred – even when we had nothing to share anymore. Years later, all his reflections had disappeared from my life, but I could not get rid of him no matter how I tried.