The Endless Week, page 8
The next day, they’d sent each other videos of people with rare bodies.
In a video called conjoined twins study law, brothers in a single body rolled over themselves horizontally through the halls of a university. They wore a specially fitted suit and glasses. In class, they lay down in the first row, and they placed their computers on their single stomach. When they pronounced the letter J, their lips rose up to their noses. They said: When we eat, when we sleep, we time each other. We’re organized, we time our trips and our conversations. Maybe we’ll die on the same day, in fact, that’s almost certain. Normally, you can’t predict which people will die in the same instant, but we can guess: we’ll likely die aligned, aligned to each other, aligned in time. Every morning, we look at each other and find ourselves handsome. We talk to each other in our thoughts, but at night, we sleep. We don’t dream.
Then Salim had sent Jonathan a video called a woman with an eye on her tongue. In the video, the woman wasn’t blind, but she had only one eye on her tongue. She didn’t speak, she opened her mouth to look at her son. She stuck out her tongue and the baby laughed. He patted his mother’s tongue. She smiled the way dogs do. Her child moved his fingers across her tongue. The video was quiet, wordless. The mother and son were in a park. The baby crawled in the grass. The mother sometimes closed her mouth the way you’d blink your eyes. When the baby cried out, the mother widened her eye. It was green with eyelashes.
Then Salim and Jonathan had sent each other videos of jumping robots and videos of falling robots and videos of robot interviews. Salim wrote: I feel like the bones in my face don’t think about anything even when I’m thinking.
*
At Jonathan’s house, water was dripping. The roommate had installed a system of oilcloths connected to basins. Pieces of the ceiling were falling, white crumbs like confetti. The walls made little sounds as if they were creaking. The roommate lit three cigarettes and smoked them. He didn’t smoke them all at once, but took turns, alternating, one puff at a time. Salim didn’t say anything, his hands were resting on his thighs. Jonathan was taking pictures of himself silently. He leaned his head to one side and drops ran through his hair. He saw himself in his screen, he recognized himself, but deep down, he didn’t understand how this appearance could correspond to the sense he had of himself. When you’re a child, you don’t imagine your adult face. If someone had asked him as a child to imagine an old version of himself, Jonathan would have glued his child face onto a larger face. He would have imagined his face inside of an adult face, a basic face, a soldier’s face. He took twelve photos of himself smiling, half-smiling, looking pensive, looking ahead, to the right, down, his hand in front of his eyes. In these images, he saw himself as real and non-real, it was both normal and impossible, like when you see two groups of birds crossing paths in the sky and they don’t run into each other. The birds should run into each other, but they don’t. Reality should have hit them, but it didn’t. It’s almost not normal, it’s almost not real, but we see it. On our phones, we look at our pasts, and even when we look at ourselves in the mirror, we’re looking at ourselves in the past. We can’t see ourselves in the present. The mirror gives us an old image of ourselves. We always see ourselves later. You will never be able to see yourself in the present. The mirror adds an image on an image. You can’t touch the hand of the person in the mirror. A doctor can’t examine a person in the mirror. The mirror produces the inverse of the person, it reflects an opposite, but the opposite resembles the person, it looks more like the person than anyone else. It resembles itself, but without being itself.
Jonathan chose one photo of himself out of the thirty-seven photos of himself. He added a filter and he posted the image. Salim liked it. Jonathan said: Thanks. The roommate said: You’re both ridiculous. You’re weak, the exact opposite of a castle. When I was a kid, I had three mothers and four fathers, we lived in a castle at the base of the mountain. Have you heard of it? I lived in a castle, are you listening to me? Jonathan said: I’ve never been inside a castle. The roommate said: Oh, are we talking about you? No. I’m talking about me, I started speaking to talk about myself, not you. We’re not talking about your life, we’re talking about my life, I’m talking about myself right now.
He showed them an image on his phone, he said: This was our castle. They demolished it because we were supposedly a cult, supposedly because I was born in a cult, supposedly because everyone in the cult committed suicide, my whole family, my brothers, my sisters, my mothers, my fathers, my uncles, my aunts, my cousins. Supposedly I’m the sole survivor, supposedly because they forgot about me. They forgot to have me commit suicide, supposedly, but that would really surprise me. All the people in my family were perfect. There’s no other way to describe it. No complaints. They were like the people in The Bible, do you know The Bible?
Jonathan said: A little. Salim said: Yes.
The roommate continued: I had an uncle who was continuing The Bible. He put it on a podium in the middle of the living room, my uncle did, and day and night, he wrote his magnum opus. And we watched.
What was his name?
Who?
Your uncle.
What? You want to know my uncle’s name? Is that it? You want to know his name? Did I hear you correctly? Am I dreaming? Do you think I remember? Do you think I keep a log of every name? I had a lot of uncles, I told you, it was a huge family, I just said that. I can’t remember all my uncles, I can’t remember everyone. Do you think I do memory competitions on the weekend? That I think it’s fun? Do I look like someone with a passion? A passion for memory? Do you think I go to memory clubs and do memory competitions with all my friends? I don’t have any friends. If I had friends, they wouldn’t like memorizing things, not one bit. I don’t do memory competitions, but you think I spend my days training to remember random people’s names, is that it? You think I remember the names of everyone in my family? Do you think people remember the names of all the people in their families? Their uncles? Their aunts? Everyone forgets things, it’s our duty. We can’t hoard names in our brains like idiots. It takes up space for no reason. Knowing your uncle’s name serves no purpose. It serves no purpose in life. Who uses it? When is that useful? People who know their uncle’s name never use it. Just ask them, it serves no purpose. I don’t like it when people ask me questions.
Jonathan made a gesture at Salim, as if he’d placed his hand in the air and it slipped, which could have meant either: Be quiet, or: Don’t worry about it.
The roommate said: We lived together in the castle and we baptized each other. We baptized each other every morning. We splashed water in our hair, on our foreheads, on our ears, do you know about The Baptism? Every morning, before breakfast, we baptized each other. I baptized my mother and my father and another mother and another father that I had. Then, I baptized my uncle, a brother, and an aunt I had who was in a wheelchair and often my aunt stood up because of The Miracle. Do you know about The Miracle? We applauded when The Miracle happened, we always applauded. But it’s mostly for dead people, The Miracle I mean, it’s mostly for dead people. Do you know about death? I personally didn’t know that people died, I’d never heard the word dead, I learned about it late. Do you know that word? Salim nodded.
The roommate said: We had three or four Miracles per day. The blind could see, the lame bounded like deer over the grounds. We baptized every creature, we baptized animals, especially slugs, beetles, lizards, we baptized a lot, especially in summer. Certain animals would drown for the glory of the Earth, do you know about The Glory of the Word? You don’t? We made dried plants rise from the dead, you know, those dried roses people put on walls, we gathered them, we made them rise from the dead. That was The Miracle and The Glory of the Word.
Salim asked: Did you ever experience any miracles yourself?
The roommate pointed at himself and said: Me? You’re talking about me? You mean my body? Miracles in my own body, is that what you mean? Do you have a problem or what? Do you have a problem with me or what? What is your problem with me? You can’t ask that. You can’t ask me that, it’s just not done, it’s private. I’m not going to start telling you about my personal miracles. Do you think people who have been miraculously saved talk about their miracles? Their personal miracles? The miraculously saved do not talk about their miracles, the true miraculously saved don’t talk about their miracles, miracles happen in silence, it’s between you and God, do you know about God? If the miraculously saved talked about their miracles, the miracles would get canceled, everybody knows that. You can’t brag about miracles, do you want my miracles to get canceled? Would you like it if my miracles got canceled? You want my miracles to get canceled, is that it? If you want to fight, we can fight, I don’t care. You’re the one who hasn’t left your house for four years, right? You’re looking for your mother, right?
Salim said: Yes.
The roommate said: I know about people who disappear. I’m kind of an expert. I read a lot of random things all day on the internet, ask Jonathan. Once I’ve read something, I read it again, that’s what I do. I’ve read all the lessons for fbi agents searching for people who’ve disappeared. I’ve read them fifty times, 2,000 times. The classified X-files, I’ve read them, I’ve read everything, I know all that by heart. I’m going to give you three pieces of advice: First, don’t look under her real name, she’s changed her name. Look for her under names you’ve made up, change the name frequently, type random names into the networks, ask around. There are a lot of names, you’ll see. Then ask anybody questions, listen to everyone. Among all the people in the world, somebody knows something. Finally, remember what she used to eat and look near food. If she ate meat, she’s near animals. If she ate mashed potatoes, look near potatoes. If she chewed gum, she’s close to a supermarket checkout line. The roommate turned toward Jonathan, he said: And you? Do you have a religion other than looking at yourself? Do you actually have a religion, other than taking pictures of yourself, do you have a religion? Did you have a religion when you were little?
Sort of, yes.
What was it?
I ran. My mother and I lived close to a forest. I got up before my mother, I ran naked in the forest. That was my religion, I think.
The roommate said: That’s not a religion. You think that’s a religion? Do you have any respect for religion? Are you really comparing that to The Bible? You’re comparing that to The Baptism? To The Miracle? You’re comparing that to God? Listen carefully, there’s almost nothing worth respecting. When you think about it for a minute, there’s nothing worth respecting. Everything around us is there for no reason. There’s nothing worth respecting, almost nothing, we don’t have to respect anything. Respecting nature isn’t worth the trouble. Why respect the planet? There’s no reason to respect whatever it is. We don’t need to respect people. We don’t have to respect ourselves, there’s nothing worth respecting, almost nothing. Respect doesn’t even deserve our respect. And you don’t respect the one thing worth respecting? You’re comparing running to a religion. But it’s not a religion, it wasn’t your religion. You think that’s religion?
That’s how it felt to me. I didn’t pray to anyone, but sometimes, I prayed for a while. I prayed while I ran in the forest, that was my religion. I know this isn’t anyone’s religion, but I didn’t have a personality. You have to understand, I didn’t have a personality. I did everything the way everyone else did, I didn’t have any ideas. If I had to choose, I chose the same thing as everyone else. I said: Me too. I said: The same for me. When people asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, I responded: A job. When people asked me what game I liked to play, I responded: Playing. When people asked me what I like to eat, I said: Eating. I never wanted anything special, but running in the morning, naked in the forest, that was the thing I did. I decided. Nobody knew about it, it was my religion. My body and my spirit relied on speed. I ran on the outside, but on the inside, I wasn’t moving, I was inside the speed. I think I was praying.
Salim said: I believe you.
The roommate said: Man, you believe anything anyone tells you. It’s obvious. As soon as I saw you, I knew it, it’s written all over you, like you were born yesterday. Do you think there’s another sun behind the sun? Do you believe anyone? Neither of you know anything about anything, do you know what religion is? You know what it is? No, you don’t. But I know. I know it by heart. It was my life, it was my religion. Look, I’m going to show you religion. Look closely. The roommate emptied the ashtray into his mouth and stuck out his tongue. It was black, covered in cigarette butts.
He said: That’s it.
2
Oh, so you got your nose done, you got lip injections, and you, we haven’t seen you for a while, where were you? What are you hiding? You haven’t slept, I can tell, what were you up to? Do you have problems? What kind of problems do you have? Is it because of your children? Is it because of money? Is it because of your boss? She was speaking to the faces inside of her brain, she said: You’re old, you’re too animated for your age, you overreact, you talk loudly, that’s not normal, are you snorting something? Are you? I can tell, I have an eye for these things. And you, you’re really worried about something, it’s obvious from the line on your forehead, I read: Worry. Is it because of your husband? He’s mean at home, is that it? He comes home and he’s mean in the bedroom, is that it?
She knew their names, their voices, their laughs, all the voices, there were so many voices, it didn’t matter what they said, they touched something invisible inside the grandmother. She felt them. She watched these people grow old, their faces changed, their places on set changed, they went from the center to the side, and from the side to the center, they became different characters. Over the months, singers became judges, fat people became thin, hosts became commentators, bullies became the bullied, the bullied became judges, and everyone laughed. Athletes became commentators or presenters, Michelin-starred chefs became health inspectors, they rummaged through kitchen drawers, there was a timeline, there was order. She watched television like a long frieze, like a mystery in the mystery of human life. These people never went anywhere, they aged onscreen, they almost never moved. They were available. You could count on them.
A robot was singing on the tv, it was holding a microphone in its iron hands, people were applauding. The judges jumped with surprise, they opened their mouths, and their eyebrows rose, they jumped with joy. The camera turned toward the audience. And people put their hands in front of their mouths, someone yelled the sound: Wooah. The robot arranged expressions on its face. Its skin stretched automatically, it was pale, pink and blue. It had stiff hair, all plastic, combed for eternity. The grandmother thought: We’d save time if our hair didn’t move, like people who tattoo makeup to their eyelids, it saves minutes. When you add up the minutes, you save weeks. People would save time with fake clothes stuck to their bodies, with fake hair. They’d save time if they didn’t change, if they were robots. People would save time if they were machines. At the end of the song, the robot produced one superb tear. It slid along a pale path down its smooth cheek, it sparkled. The grandmother thought: Illness has kept me away from everyday hardships, I don’t know how to cry anymore. A mechanism activated lights inside of the tear and everyone applauded. The grandmother applauded in her brain. The robot smiled, it said: Thank you very much. The judges got up, they put their hands on their heads, their mouths formed empty circles at the bottom of their faces.
The grandmother liked tv shows with judges because of the faces they made. The judges looked worried, happy, they yelled and they hated each other, they loved each other. The camera lingered over an emotional face for a long time. The face changed. It expressed gratitude, the judge would say: Thank you. Sometimes, the grandmother imagined all those faces covered in wood. She tried to see those faces like ancient tribal masks, she lined the masks up in a room, and in her mind, she was walking in the room. She wasn’t thinking anything.
Every week, the grandmother watched a show where women gave birth. The women would lie down in front of the judges, they lifted their skirts. The judges took notes, they observed the insides of these women with a magnifying glass. The women spread their legs, they pushed, the babies were born. If the baby was dead, the mother lost a point. If the baby was blue or red, she lost a point. If the cord was strangling it, she lost a point. But if the baby was beautiful, she won a point. If the baby had hair, she won a point. If it wasn’t sticky, she won a point, if the baby was smiling, everyone applauded. The mothers prepared for the show months in advance, they would speak to the fetuses through their stomachs, the mothers asked them to smile and be healthy, to move their legs. If the baby had a proportional, standard body, the mother won a point. The president of the jury would announce: The adventure continues. If the baby cried, that made sense, but it wasn’t recommended. It was tolerated. If the baby cried for a long time, that was a point off, they’d cut the microphone. A deep voice would say the word: Goodbye. If the mother was beautiful, if she wore makeup, if her hair was done, she got a point. The judges would congratulate her, they would give her compliments, they would look at the camera and say: She understood the goal of the show. If the mother smiled while she pushed, if she laughed while she pushed, if she pushed without sweating, if she pushed without yelling, if she pushed without crying, she could stay. Someone would say: The adventure continues. When the mother was ugly, no one applauded, no one applauded for anything, not her, not the baby. The judges would look embarrassed and sorrowful. Their mouths would point toward the bottom of their faces and they would eliminate her. The audience booed. If the mother died, she lost a point, they stopped filming her, they stopped filming the child. Even if the child was alive, they didn’t film it. It had lost everything. The camera focused on the judges. They were emotional, someone brought them tissues that they patted against their cheeks. High-pitched piano notes accompanied the scene. A judge would say: We must go on. They used the expression: Never give up. And the song the show must go on played in the background. The judges hugged each other, then they danced. They raised their fists in the air and the audience stretched their arms toward the light. If the father was there, that was a point. If the mother was a lesbian and the other mother was present, that was a huge point. The judges used the word: Diversity and the expression: Like everyone else. The lead judge would congratulate the parents: The adventure continues. If the father or the other mother kissed the mother giving birth, everyone applauded. The judges leaned their heads to the right or to the left as a sign of endearment. Their faces were filmed with bells playing in the background and everyone smiled. Everyone touched everyone else’s hands. Everyone patted everyone else’s shoulders and backs. If the father or other mother was absent, that was a point for or against, it depended on the mother, it depended on her hairstyle, her outfit, her appearance. Was the other parent right to have left her? Could we sympathize? The judges decided. The judges wrote things down on their tablets, then they drew a big circle and showed the point awarded in the middle of the screen. When the placenta came out, that was a point, everyone applauded. When the placenta stayed in the stomach, a point was lost because of complications, because of the metal objects they had to use. The scene wasn’t interesting then, it was too long, too complicated. They’d cut the microphone and announce what happens next. If the mother caressed her child, that was a point, the judges applauded, they nodded. The lead judge used the expressions: Life event and: Bonding. If the mother looked at her baby and thought it was ugly, if you could see it on her face, that was a point off. People booed at ugly babies. There were mothers who didn’t like their babies sometimes. People would throw shoes and point their thumbs down while booing. One day, a baby came out of its mother’s stomach almost dead. Its eyes were open, but it wasn’t moving. A judge picked it up, he said: Do you want to live or not? Yes or no? We need to know, but the baby didn’t respond. The mother cried without smiling. Then the judges each made their trademark grimace according to their face type. They moved their heads, and the lead judge turned to the mother: Suicide is the leading cause of death for women during the first year after giving birth, be careful, it’s a statistic.
