Shadow Traffic (12 page)

A smallish, sparsely furnished loft billowed out in front of him. They obviously don't have anything near the money Memo has, Andrew thought. They'll be pleased to hear that at headquarters.

“Can I ask your name?” Andrew said, now that she was out of the dreaded elevator and seemed composed again.

“Seven,” she said tartly.

At the far end of the loft sat an undistinguished-looking man in his late thirties, early forties wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans. His sandy-colored hair was receding in an unflattering way but he had a charming smile.

“Wilhelm, this is Andrew,” Seven said, then retreated to a chair at the other end of the loft.

Wilhelm shook his hand warmly. “Sit down,” he said, pointing toward a straight-back chair with his thin, light-haired arm.

“Thanks,” Andrew said.

“I prefer standing,” Wilhelm said, with a slight German accent. “I hope you don't mind. There's a little speech I need to make and I feel more comfortable standing when I speak. OK with you?”

“Sure.”

“I know you answered a lot of questions electronically when you signed up, but there are a few more Seven probably told you about that we'll need from you before you can really start our program. We're sorry but we have to be careful. Also, like I said, I want to give you a general idea about where we're at philosophically before we go any further. Is that all cool with you?”

“Absolutely,” he said, mildly surprised by the informality of Wilhelm's language.

Wilhelm turned to face him directly. “OK then,” he said. “Basically the world, as we see it, is divided between those who are trying to remember and those who are trying to forget. We don't have a problem with that. There are tortured veterans from, say, the Iraq war who, even though it ended five or six years ago, still can't sufficiently forget that part of their lives. but there are also aging people struggling to remember their own children because Alzheimer treatments still haven't been perfected. By the same token there are those who want to forget a lost lover and those who want to remember one. We accept that. We think there are more of us than them, but even if there weren't and we were in the minority, we understand that that's the way of the world, man,
capiche
?”

“Oh sure, of course,” Andrew said, noticing for the first time a facial resemblance between Wilhelm and Seven. It was the shape of their eyes, he thought, or perhaps a vaguely vacant expression in them.

“Unfortunately there are people out there in organizations who don't accept our views and won't let us live our lives the way we want and deserve to. We know that increasing your memory can be valuable, even indispensable in some cases, but so is the ability to forget. Millions of people, who need to forget selectively and can't, suffer from anxiety, depression, paranoia, and sometimes end up committing suicide. But the so-called memory warriors in the name of the Great God Awareness want to force them to remember even more. They want to undermine Oblivion and make it disappear because we offer genuine relief to these sufferers in a way that contradicts their so-called research. So we're a threat to them, right, man? I think they're afraid we'll cut into their business, which, without meaning to, we already have. But that's free enterprise, right? You see the irony, don't you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So how do you feel about what I've been saying so far?”

“I completely agree with you. You've really expressed how I feel very convincingly.”

“Good, I'm glad we're on the same page philosophically. But now I need to ask you why you want Oblivion in your life. I'm sorry if this puts you on the spot, but we have to know you really need it. Contrary to what you may hear on the street, there's not an unlimited supply of Oblivion and we have to constantly watch our reserves.”

“Of course.”

“We also know that Memo is trying to infiltrate Oblivion with a variety of spies and double agents. See, we're just too big a threat to them even though they're grabbing all the headlines. They're paranoid and very aggressive, man. I think they want world domination, I really do, so how can they let any alternative view stand in their way? They can't. They want to crush us like weeds, man, but we're tough weeds that won't go down. Ha ha! They didn't count on that, did they? Seven, come here and tell Andrew that's what Memo really wants to do.”

Seven looked surprised to suddenly be addressed, flustered even, but she promptly got up and walked next to Wilhelm.

“He's telling you the truth,” she said, and for the first time he realized her accent was German as well. Officer E had referred to Oblivion as “the Nazi drug” because a gang of Germans were said to be controlling the U.S. distribution, but Wilhelm and Seven seemed so kind and earnest—anything but the latest incarnation of neo-Nazis.

“What he's saying is one hundred percent truth about Memo and everything,” she said, looking at him directly. He was startled to suddenly make contact with her ambiguous eyes, so full
of promise and disappointment at the same time that he felt at once discovered and helpless.

“So you see we've been honest with you,” Wilhelm said, “now it's time for you to be honest with us. Why do you want Oblivion?”

Of course he had a preplanned answer that the organization had given him, but he decided to tell them the truth about his life, which certainly contained things he wanted to forget anyway and which, he thought, would ultimately be more convincing. So he told them about his lonely apartment on the Upper West Side, where he often felt he was living in a cemetery. Instead of actual buried corpses he had memories all around him. Some of them from his childhood were beautiful but from his late teens on, many of them were often frustrating, in one way or another, or just plain painful.

What were they, Wilhelm asked? He felt himself hesitate, but then Seven asked him and he soon began telling them about his last two lovers, who each left him (they didn't seem surprised), and also that in his last relationship he felt deeply ashamed of how he'd behaved. He couldn't yet tell them what he'd done specifically, he said, but it was the darkest secret of his life, something he'd be ashamed of till the day he died.

“We can help you forget that,” Seven said with great earnestness, and he looked at her and nodded, feeling touched.

He did go on to say that he tried to bury himself in his work, wanting desperately to do something constructive to escape his pain, which might have worked except he couldn't find any meaning in his job. He loved reading, but endlessly classifying and organizing books, attending meetings, dealing with library politics—yes, libraries had politics too—was killing that love. It was so soul killing, he went on to say, that he'd sometimes even
had thoughts of ending his life. “Everyone needs the illusion of meaning,” he said in conclusion, “but I no longer have any.”

“Everyone needs to forget some things too, so they can have a fresh start,” Wilhelm added with a knowing smile. “Your life is about to take a turn for the better this time, my friend,” he said, suddenly producing a round, turquoise blue pill. “Are you ready for this? Are you ready for the peace and joy of Oblivion?”

He knew this moment would happen, Officer E had told him so. But he was also told that by taking Memo first, as he'd already done, the effects of Oblivion would be mitigated.

“I'm definitely ready.”

Seven was pouring him a glass of water. He looked at the small blue pill—it seemed no more substantial than a drop of rain. He touched her fingers as she handed him the glass and a moment later he swallowed his first Oblivion.

They both applauded as Wilhelm's face exploded into a smile. “Congratulations, you're part of Oblivion. Here,” he said, tossing him a black T-shirt Andrew hadn't noticed before. “Take off that pasty white shirt and put on the black one. That's what we wear at Oblivion. That's it, just leave the other one behind you. Now, how would you like to go to a party with us to celebrate, Oblivion style?”

“Sure,” he said, and for some reason he knew he meant it, though he wasn't sure at all that the organization would approve of him going to any Oblivion event high. And what kind of party would it be anyway? His hosts kept that a mystery, saying that they didn't want to ruin the surprise.

The next thing he knew he was out on the street laughing with them as they walked toward the party. They kept telling him it was a short distance but it felt like a long one. Still, he laughed because he didn't care how long it took. And when they told him
they'd only been walking three minutes at most, he laughed even harder.

At Prince Street, Wilhelm pressed a buzzer and they were let into a loft. “Your sense of time is changing, man, and it will change again, where time will pass more quickly before it regularizes.”

“I don't understand a word you're saying,” Andrew said, laughing hysterically as he hadn't laughed since he was eleven.

Inside the loft some kind of loud “computer rock” was playing. He saw a sea of mostly young people dancing, dressed in black T-shirts or sweaters and black jeans. So it
was
an Oblivion party, but there was nothing sinister about that, was there? He wondered if he'd even bother including it in his report or if he'd even bother writing one. That made him laugh, too.

Meanwhile, a number of people were hugging Wilhelm and Seven before Wilhelm introduced him. He had all he could do to control his laughter and a minute later couldn't remember their names. He walked away and began circling the loft, feeling the strong high surging through him while watching the dancers. He must have circled the loft three or four times before he suddenly stopped. He wanted to be with Seven more than he remembered ever wanting to be with anyone, but she was at the other end of the loft still socializing with the guests. Then someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and saw Wallace.

“Hello there,” Wallace said. “Having a good time?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I guess you've found me out. I'm a member of Oblivion now. The real question is what are you doing here? I didn't know it was a party for double agents,” Wallace said with a mischievous smile. How Wallace loved these situations, making people who intimidated him suddenly squirm themselves.

“I'm not a double agent.”

“Anyway, whatever you are, you should know there's been another Memo suicide, did you know that, so I really hope what you tell me is true. If it is then congratulations, you've made it to the other side…. Well, sayonara for now,” said Wallace, who turned and suddenly disappeared into the crowd of dancers.

Andrew never thought of calling after him. It wouldn't do any good if Wallace had heard him and returned. What could he say? It was all over now. By not admitting to anything, he'd blown his cover—and to Wallace, which was like telling the world, or at least the world of Memo and Oblivion. He had to get out of here. Wallace was probably on his cell phone right now calling Officer E or Dr. Rossi to report him. There might even be Memo security on the way to the loft already, where they'd be waiting to work him over, or worse, once he set foot outside the loft. They certainly wouldn't let it pass without some response. They'd interrogated and researched him. He'd sworn allegiance and now he was at an enemy's party, having taken Oblivion itself while being flooded with desire for Seven. Yes, nothing like sleeping with the enemy, or wanting to, on your first night on the job. Yet he had to admit he'd also never had fun like this before, certainly not as an adult.

He continued to pace around the periphery of the dancers, who were gyrating with more frenzy than ever as the music also became increasingly frenetic and atonal. Finally he realized there were two hopes to which he could still cling. Perhaps the organization would believe that he'd made the decision to take Oblivion and go to the party to gain extra information. That he'd made a strategic blunder (any decision that Memo didn't prescribe would be viewed by them as a mistake) but that his motives were pure. He'd actually had fleeting thoughts like that
at one point, though he knew it wasn't his real reason for going to the party. How easily swayed he was, how weak! Still, he might be able to pass the organization's inevitable interrogation, which he'd heard involved a new kind of truth pill. The other possibility, which he couldn't entirely dismiss out of hand either, was that Wallace really was a member of Oblivion and not a double agent at all (with a little research he could possibly find that out one way or another). If Wallace had joined Oblivion, and there was a plausible case that he had, then it became imperative to convince him that he, Andrew, was now a member as well. And that could be done maybe more easily than he imagined.

He suddenly felt lighter, happier, could feel the high coursing through him again as if he'd suddenly learned his life had been unexpectedly saved. Then he began to search for Seven. He wouldn't be so diffident this time but would compel her to talk with him. Finally, he found her walking off the dance floor, looking both sad and angry. She was walking toward him without realizing it and away from Wilhelm, whose back was turned to her in any case.

“Seven,” he called out twice before she stopped and looked at him. She'd clearly been crying and also, for the moment at least, appeared not to recognize him.

“Seven, it's me, Andrew.”

She half nodded, making no effort to smile. He was going to ask her how she was enjoying the party but that seemed ridiculous now and, moreover, false. He'd been working on this project for Memo for three days and he was already sick of dissembling.

“You look upset. Are you all right?” he blurted.

“Was that what you wanted to tell me?”

“No, I wanted to talk with you.”

“You're right, I am upset, too upset to talk.”