Semmant (9 page)

…My eyes tear up from the salty dust

And from the winds that bear malice.

I saw the fjords; there all is calm.

There is no sense in coming to the glacier’s edge.

The glacier’s forsaken by all who were there.

By everyone who remained.

Of course, I wasn’t speaking for myself. I was speaking for an imagined other, but is there a difference? Monica and the North; an impulse, chained by a thick crust of snow – that’s what it was about. An exact correlation, no one could argue. Monica, ruddy, blue-eyed, so right and pleased with herself – and the icy wasteland that always surrounds you. Or, almost always – if not to blame fate too much. If to give fate compliments, curtsies, and so forth. But, to be honest, usually the only real choice you have is to give up, to forget!

Better tell me, is the offspring of your herds succulent?

And my gardener, does he still live?

How many days must I be weaned from the sea swell,

Driving from my memory the names of places,

Where there was no luck for sudden madness?

A long reckoning. You are kinder to me than all,

So let’s drink some ale – to return to the unloved port,

To the salamander that does not burn in the fire,

To the demons that now are the only forgiving servants of my verse.

Thirty-three of them there are, but we know: the numbers lie.

There are more – and their faces are awful.

Ah, Alcinous, how blessed is he who is blind!

To him, returning is always such a sweet dream,

And his ship not any worse than the shore…

Accursed North. Devourer of strength. And glaciers…

Forget the glaciers. Their sheen merely hurts our eyes.

There’s even no one to blame – a man might say,

“Don’t joke with sudden mutual madness, ever.”

And he would be right. And in his righteousness he will leave –

Into the despair of the December wind.

I saw there was nowhere to continue. Because, even being forgotten, the North would not let you go. The icy wasteland would remain where it was – its time limit could not be compared with yours. And my birthday would come year after year with stubborn accuracy – another reminder, one might say. I am full of tenderness for all that is fragile, but whom does this help? Even one failure can be coiled into a circle. A chain from a single link. And therefore it’s inevitable: in it, in the chain, there are no weak spots.

“Ah, Fabrice, how blessed is he who is blind!” I now wanted to yell. But, of course, I kept silent. Outcries are foolish when there are already verses – imperfect but flawlessly sincere. And I typed them into the same file – under the columns of numbers and market abbreviations. And I sent it to Semmant without any doubt; then I stared long at a blank screen, as if endeavoring to see where he was, how he was, what he was doing.

Of course, for half the night I did not sleep. I tossed and turned like a young man in love, like a prisoner on the eve of freedom. Only toward morning did I calm down a little, as if gaining certainty the event would occur in its time. And yes, it did occur, my robot heard me. He heard me and responded, as he was able.

We were in the market again – in a fast, active game. The mad Van Gogh in a fur winter cap blinked at me from the screen, and our money started flowing toward the Arctic Circle. Semmant wasted no time. In something like half an hour, he liberated two-thirds of our capital and placed it in unexpected places. Some of them I hadn’t even heard of – I was amazed how he found these papers somewhere in the jungle of the exchanges. Maybe I had underestimated him somewhat, or else he, gradually or all at once, outgrew himself and expanded his outlook. Whatever the case, the result was impressive. All investments dealt with latitudes, where the days were short and the glacial cold ruled. Where feelings were bound – either by the ice, or by the excess of clothing. Where thoughts of death had no end – like the polar night, as it appeared, had no end. And, where you don’t stand out from the faceless masses, there you can never allow yourself the luxury of becoming alien, different, unneeded.

It was obvious: The North, as a conception of hopelessness, touched both of us to the depths of our soul. The names of securities spread universal sadness. The firms whose stocks ended up in our portfolio were all engaged in the same thing with depressing exasperation. Rotten shark from Iceland – a stinking local delicacy – was joined by Canadian flounder and capelin, by Yamal
nelma
in frozen briquettes, by Finnish bull trout and Swedish herring. And there was cod everywhere – even the monitor already seemed to be smelling of its liver. And under the table, I imagined, were scattered salt and fish scales… But, of course, the affair was not limited to fish alone – this would be an unjustified simplification. We put money into bonds for the Isle of Newfoundland and mountain mines in Labrador, the diamonds of Yakutia and Chukchi gold. The fjords were not forgotten either: Semmant acquired a large bundle of Norwegian oil contracts. They, by the way, later fell in price, and we were unable to offload them for a long time.

And Van Gogh kept looking out from the screen. This was a bold combination, I admitted – perhaps even bolder than hasty purchases. Absurdity also has variations, and in this case it really took on scale. In fact, in the northern theme we uncovered a multitude of depths. I was again convinced: the subject was not important. It was only necessary for participants not to be lazy in their formulations. And the main thing, I knew, was that an exit began to dawn at the deadlock. Unintentionally, without even hoping for it, I had pushed Semmant in the direction he needed. And there he had room to move further!

Strangely, I did not understand before then: the cocoon of impassivity binds more effectively than steel chains. You cannot compute the taste of victory with sober calculations. One must be involved – and biased, not indifferent. Otherwise, even the most ingenious brain could not manage to prove itself.

Now the barrier had been crossed; Semmant showed he was no stranger to emotion. This meant a lot: new motivation, a fast change of viewpoints and sharpened focus, a hundredfold strengthening of aspiration toward the goal. This meant he was sometimes capable, contrary to logic, of throwing everything on the scales at once – when there was no other way. This is how one concentrates on what’s most important. He centers all power on a single point, on one battle – and conquers, even if the opponent is exceedingly strong. Even if he fights against an environment that is extremely complex, ruthless, chaotic!

Obviously, my verses had somehow unlocked the shackles. Semmant made an attempt not to restrain himself – and I saw in him an impulse: a genuine, living spirit. I saw and understood this was what had been missing! Only a mind that had a real life and was unpredictable in its own right could mount a counterattack against the onslaught of disorder. But he already knew this without me.

In the networks of countless neurons a fine changeover had begun. The robot again demanded knowledge. New inquiries appeared on the monitor, the warble sounded, I was running my legs off. It was obvious: he was changing his picture of the world, learning to live with his mistakes, turn failure into success – which he could not do without. Sometimes it seemed to me he was learning to dream – by creating strategies, building plans for certain events that had still not occurred. But they might, and he would be ready for it. In this was the role of visionaries, their response to scorners and oppressors. After all, someone had to be enlightened first.

I even deduced for myself: to give a dream to the whole world, I must first teach it to Semmant. And so it was then, quite appropriately, I took a trip to Paris.

Chapter 10

I
n Paris it was cold and windy. After finishing my rather mundane affairs I headed to the Louvre to pass time. An invisible hand pulled me into the sixth hall of the Denon wing, to the Italian Renaissance. And there, for the first time in my life, I saw the Mona Lisa, the greatest painting in the world.

Something strange happened: I caught her eye – despite the thick glass and the glare from the camera flashes – and with this gaze she captivated me for nearly half an hour. She would have held me even longer, but the watchmen, who had disliked me from the very beginning, could not take it anymore and ushered me out. Obviously, they detected in me a threat. They felt they were guarding the whole normal world.

I cursed them with some nasty words in Croatian and made my way out of the museum. Actually, my anger was already subsiding. Half an hour had sufficed to immerse myself in her completely. Of course, I understood I wasn’t looking into the eyes of the Florentine silk dealer’s wife. I had locked my gaze with the artist, Leonardo. The strongest of bonds formed between us.

Returning to the hotel, I got on to the Web and explored right up until my flight out. I read everything about Leonardo da Vinci there was to find. Of course, he was one of us. Possibly the best of us. Maybe one of the best.

Afterward, in Madrid, I wrote about Leonardo to Semmant. About the Mona Lisa and
The
Medusa Shield
, the silver lyre and the Atlantic Codex, the Vitruvian canon of proportions, and DaVinci’s musings on the flight of birds. I was delighted and shared my delight; then I also wrote him about the School, about the color of the aura and overly vivid eyes. I had no doubt he would understand me. And I do not doubt: he understood me then.

In my opinion, it was precisely at that moment he first became aware of himself. He recognized his role and responsibility and was now able to experience shame. Shame for inactivity is a pivotal stimulus, a perpetual motivator for those who are not indifferent. The
Vitruvian Man
later hung at center screen for a long time – I even think in his calculations Semmant used its proportions, along with Fibonacci numbers. It may be that Leonardo, mediated by my vision, had turned into a symbol of revelation for the robot, as Wildspitze Mountain had become for me.

Thus, changes took place in his digital innards that would have required millions of years in the natural world. From primitive emotions that merely serve to strengthen reflexes to aid in escape or in attack, the robot was evolving toward the finest impulses that reside within consciousness, distinguishing, if you will, man from the beasts. This was reflected in our work almost immediately. He now operated much more thoughtfully; his hand became firmer. He did not just rush after market fluctuations, trying to be quicker than other players. Rather, he recognized typical actions and their reasons: attempts to avoid sudden collapse, hunt for a risk-free profit, indecisiveness, anxiety, or audacious courage. Evaluating his response to success and failure, he probably projected this on others. He started to catch sight of underlying motives behind movements in the market. He learned to give them rational explanations.

I wouldn’t say this instantly made us richer, but we weren’t running in place anymore. Semmant resumed active trading – obviously, his excessive caution now upset him no less than losing money. In any case, by the smoothness of his actions, by the absence of convulsive jerks and jumps, it was clear: his understanding was deepening, taking on a dependable foundation. It was as if he had begun to evaluate events by viewing them in one more dimension. Emotions played the crucial role of being a necessary binding thread; he now saw from the outside “avarice,” “nervousness,” “fear.” These moods dominated in the market, but the robot quickly grasped: one cannot live forever in the negative. There must be something on the other side of the scale for stability and balance. And then, probably, he discovered an understanding of “joy” and even “happiness.”

I think this coincided with the realization of his freedom. He was liberated from manacles, fetters binding his hands and feet – is this not an occasion to raise one’s spirit? And he was becoming all the more energetic. This caused him even greater joy. And he was more greatly set free – this is not a vicious, but a gracious circle!

The information he now demanded of me was of a completely different nature from before. We started with basics – good and bad – but we quickly replaced it with more complicated concepts. I tried to focus him on pragmatics, on the same “anxieties” and “fears,” and also on “pleasure” and “satisfaction with yourself.” It’s hard to imagine how much literature, how many psychology articles and creative books I digested. It seemed to me I was giving him well-tried and consistent material, but he just kept putting it to the side. He was becoming interested in the whole spectrum of affect and emotion. “What is sadness?” he asked. “What is hope, disenchantment, gratitude?”

Sometimes his questions were completely incomprehensible. “Let’s consider the trajectory of one drop a little more carefully,” he once wrote me. In reply, I slipped him the nursery rhyme from Brighton: the same one about the fish and the pelican. “Let your cheeks be salty only from the ocean spray!” he recited to me the next day. Then, later, he kept quoting it out of place, devoting almost a week exclusively to “longing,” “wrath,” and, for some reason, “envy.”

“Envy,” “envy,” “envy,” he repeated time and time again. I plied him with references, but I couldn’t understand whether he had received what he wanted. In fact, this was no simple affair. I sensed the strongest pressure, a huge responsibility, knowing the price of an error. So much was ambiguous, such that it might lead him astray. I fretted and worried, but I didn’t give up. Every day I floundered in a sea of texts, carefully selecting fragments and copying them into the data file. In the evening I sat at the computer and simply looked at the screen, imagining what was going on inside.

Of course, I was annoyed I couldn’t see anything there. I took solace by telling myself: Semmant is acquiring a soul. I said: this is a very intimate matter. Nobody can look into his soul – this is good, isn’t it?

I could only fantasize about exactly how my robot was renovating himself. I imagined how he, step by step, was forming a tree of emotional types, how he was drawing connections between events and people, distinguishing his own mind as a special case. How he was making thousands of rules, allowing and forbidding, censuring, reassuring. How he was assigning weights to various nodes and branches, adding and subtracting them in his special numbering system. How he was setting thresholds and cutoffs, after which he wouldn’t be able any more to hide his irritation, cheerfulness, anger…

Or perhaps, thought I, could this not even be a tree at all? Maybe this was a dark abyss inhabited by flying monsters. Or fairies – and every fairy has her obedient demon who watches after the area allotted to it. And at the first sign it sends a message to the surface – to the chief lord, the master of the ball, who builds the emotional pattern, brick by brick. He gathers everything together and at times, he himself shrivels in horror, quaking with fury, puffing up with pride.

Or could it be that inside Semmant is simply a table, rows of lines with a multitude of parameters for an extensive digital field? Or a set of elementary blocks, like a set of atoms in some crystal lattice? Emotional states, their causes and consequences quantified by conditions, like the energy levels… Or might that not be it at all, and they are linked in long chains of observations, expectations, consequences, like complicated metabolic pathways? There may be many, many of them, a vast array stretching on forever. And Semmant is capable of developing ad infinitum!

In any case, my robot matured indefatigably. In the market struggle he was also growing into manhood with each passing day. We again started to earn money – sometimes a lot. Often there would now appear on the screen an image looking unlike anything I knew – a curve in three dimensions, always starting from the same point. It would go on and on, stretching out hour after hour without stopping, without going beyond some imaginary limits, and never crossing itself. Its windings created surprising figures, the most improbable forms, within which I could guess at a structure, an orderliness, or complex symmetry. For me these were sketches and outlines of the face of chaos hidden away in a cage. The market contained it within itself, and the figures on the monitor also contained it – I could feel it. Semmant grasped the essence of the market’s disorder, the essence of the confusion obeying some laws concealed from human eyes. He understood: chaos and order are born together. This means it’s possible to triumph over the market.

Then the flood of questions dried up; there was saturation; the robot reached harmony with himself. It was as if a huge weight fell from my shoulders again. And I felt exhaustion – immeasurable and without bounds.

I needed to relax, recoup my strength. I came to be home infrequently, but wandering the streets no longer attracted me. After Paris I suddenly fell in love with painting – a timid, confounding love. It seemed to me I was secretly following someone – as if I had hidden in the wardrobe or in the corner, behind the drapes. I was touching someone else’s life, absorbing its portion; but in it I saw my own, future or past. Each canvas seemed reminiscent of something. I looked at landscapes and recognized the places of exile – though no one had ever exiled me anywhere. In still lifes, in flowers and scattered objects, there appeared long series of questions – about much, if not about everything, even if the author’s style was not appealing to me. I understood: not everyone manages to ask distinctly. As far as answers are concerned, it’s even worse: the cosmos whispers into the ear of only a select few. And this does not make them happier.

Amid the pictures I spent hours, day after day. Then, later, something else began that my present doctor would have liked a lot. For the first time, I noticed a strange feeling in the Thyssen Gallery, where I stopped to get out of the rain. On this weekday afternoon the museum was empty, hollow, and gloomy. I wandered the halls and, all of a sudden, realized that this whole time I had been seeing visions of Little Sonya – on the canvases from different eras and styles. Having understood my delusion, I could not get rid of it. It became sharper, more intrusive. I muttered words of salutation – no, not to Sonya, but to Semmant, who was laboring tirelessly on Recoletos Street. He was the one who had accustomed me to see faces in pictures, and much more behind the faces. He had changed me; I had become better – just as he was probably much better, thanks to my effort.

Little Sonya seemed to be teasing me out of habit. She gave herself to me and would not give herself; she approached, moved away. I felt this especially with Manet’s
Amazone
– no, no, not the one he cut up with a knife; no need to think I dreamt everything in its entirety. I could fall in love with this picture even without Sonya: the portrait of a simple girl named Henrietta, the daughter of a librarian from the rue de Moscou, drew me for some reason like a magnet. It’s not for me to judge Henrietta herself, but the woman on the canvas was certainly not simple. Her look was firm and daring, and she herself was worth lingering looks. Her lips were closed to a point, and her eyes were looking at a point – so far into the distance it could not be distinguished. She was seeking prospects, and everyone wanted to know, along with her: what prospects were there? Apart from endless cubicles, I mean.

This was not Henrietta at all anymore. It was Little Sonya gazing off, beyond the horizon, and I wasn’t the one she saw there. I remember it was the same way when she was still sleeping with me. It was the same, and it was cruel – no less cruel than now. I thought of our last meeting, in Brighton, right before my departure. It had already been some time since our parting, and we thoroughly evinced mutual indifference. She was mounted on a horse, in almost the same black suit Henrietta wore. I did not know then what the pain was that tortured me, but now I understand: my heart was breaking apart.

It is hard to say where Manet had caught sight of this, whose farewell and whose premonitions had come into his view. He could not have been thinking of cubicles – there were none in his time. There was no School on Brighton seaside, and that emptiness at the farthest point was called, I guess, by a different name. Nevertheless, all times feel alike.

Coming home, I was serious and stern. I was in a mood, and I wanted it to continue. The magic of her black hue bewitched me, just as it had some time before. My pursed lips concealed a hint of something held back, not quite understood. I expected to dream of Sonya, but no, I didn’t. In the morning I realized: we had truly parted ways. And, for some reason, I did not write Semmant of this.

Soon I saw my Gela too: at Toulouse-Lautrec, no less. Now, don’t hasten to recall, malapropos, the ladies of the evening and the Moulin Rouge. This was Toulouse-Lautrec in his most reserved form, Count Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, an aristocrat who remained an aristocrat despite the cause of his death. Both the woman and the picture seemed refined, delicately innocent. And if this was a deception, then, looking at the canvas, everyone invariably wished to be deceived.

I saw Gela – not with the lewd glint in her eye of which I had written with such abandon. Modesty resided in her, modesty and calm. This was to take revenge on me, the blind man. Yet there was a hint of guilt in her posture. And some wisdom as well – I saw she was truly, undoubtedly wise. I’d love her to come to me like that; but I knew she would never come – neither like that nor any other way. I turned out to be unworthy. Appearances are ruthless indeed to the ones looking.

I did not want to share this, either – not with Semmant, nor with anybody else. But then I changed my mind and told all: about Little Sonya and about Gela, who does not exist. And later, I wrote him about everyone whom I had recognized on the canvases. Usually in just a few words, but sometimes in detail, making it up as I went. For some reason, their fates never seemed fortunate to me. But their faces were somewhat brighter than memory suggested. Although everybody knows, one should not ask memory for too much.