The much-celebrated novel We by Yevgeny Zamyatin, an influence on George Orwell’s 1984 no less, is 100 years old this year. As way of a wee tribute, I’ve written the following story, which is set in the timeline established by the novel. D-503 in his role as First Builder even graces the pages with a brief but crucially important scene. The main inspiration for the story comes from references throughout the book to the imagination, which is viewed as a ‘fever’ and ‘the last barrier in the pursuit of happiness’. At one point, the totalitarian regime known as OneState urges its citizens to ‘cut out the imagination’. So, I have written a story around one man’s reliance on his imagination to get him through various social anxieties and the inner-conflict he feels as a loyal subject of OneState as a result.
An Escape – The Painter – Judgement
There is order in a straight line. When I close my eyes, I see the city unfolding in front of me. Consisting of blocks. Perfectly aligned. Constant. Safe.
I see the Green Wall stretching out and providing necessary protection from things I know little of, except that the thought of them makes me feel small and afraid.
My consciousness is stripped bare, confronted by an awareness of one’s own mortality, so I take solace from the stability it provides and the calm it represents. Without it, I fear I would lose my balance. The world would tilt on its axis and there would be nothing to stop me from falling. And screaming. My throat raw and torn for an eternity. I try not to dwell on any of this and instead I think of a straight line.
I open my eyes and I’m afraid to look, but look I must. Not too far as it happens, to be reminded I live in a world of glass. Neighbours to my left, to my right, above and below, I am surrounded by people looking at me. Pairs of eyes from every conceivable direction scrutinising my every move (even though for the most part I am almost perfectly still). They dissect me. They threaten to tear me apart just from the intensity of their stares alone. And there is nothing in their eyes. Pools of dirty water. I am surrounded by golems, barely animate. Interminable, we are locked in each other’s orbit.
I long to lower the blinds and blot it all out and spare myself the onslaught at least for a short while. But this isn’t the proper time and I don’t want to attract even more unwarranted attention than I already have. So, I stand unflinching and wait for them to move on with their lives and quit staring. I will myself to become as transparent as the walls around me. There is nothing to me. You can see straight through me. It’s not that difficult.
I take a circuitous route to best avoid the crowds, but it comes to the point it is impossible to avoid the swarms of citizens moving this way and that. I am faced with no other option but to hold ones nose and go with the flow, which thankfully, mercifully, relents on my approach to the hangar, where my workstation awaits.
There, I remove my coat, taking lengthy pauses between each button, dreading the prospect of reaching the end. But the inevitable comes about as clumsy fingers clasp around the bottom button. And I’m left to stare at all types of paperwork sprawled over my table. There is the Integral’s engine design. There are star charts that project into deep space. I absorb the data and explore the probabilities. I make sense of my measurements.
I want to say something, I know I should say something, but I keep my head down. I am aware of the Second Builder having entered the office to walk among us. My fellow designers look up from their workstations, where a nod of acknowledgement from each of them is met by the same. As certain as the Benefactor is a colossus among men, it comes to pass that the Second Builder is standing next to me. He crosses his arms behind his back. I can feel his gaze burning two holes in my skull. This would be the perfect time to announce my belief that there is a flaw in the design of the Integral. I can see it, but I can’t bring myself to say it. I dig a back tooth into my tongue and count time. The Second Builder makes a flapping noise with his lips, and eventually he shuffles off.
And I am left washed up on shore. I am transfixed by a single equation scrawled out from one end of my desk to the other. And I don’t think I will ever lift my head up again.
*
It is not weakness to retreat within yourself. It is not blasphemy. I do not believe it is so. In my mind I have built a replica of the city, but one devoid of people. Streets I can walk on without the intrusion of prying eyes or other people’s sweat. A city of straight lines and little else.
In the expanse that is my city, I hold out my arms to either side. I can breathe. I can relax. I can peer into the distance as far as I like. It is so quiet here I could hear a pin drop, if I allowed such an eventuality to happen. The silence coalesces around me like a trusted cloak.
The city is not a product of my imagination, for such a thing is outlawed in OneState. Imagination is a fever, a barrier to the pursuit of true happiness, but it is not applicable in this instance. The city is an extension of me, and my loyalty to the Benefactor is without question. As clearly as I build each wall, every building block, I can just as easily tear it down again. Should it come to pass, there would be no moments of hesitation.
I walk.
I walk through an apartment block and revel in the vastness and emptiness. I no longer view the long glass complex as a maze, but as a source of solitude, of fortitude. There is nothing for the glass houses to reflect back except the progress of time. I walk straight and count the numbers down. A-50…A-49…A-48…
I am reminded of a countdown to launch. The promise of the Integral to take us to other worlds, but there is no need for a rocket in the sky to reach this place. I am already here.
At the end of the pathway something strange is happening. The far wall consists of triangular blocks, where the glass catches the sunlight in a certain way, acting like a prism. So unleashed, a smorgasbord of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. A wall of light. I can’t see past it. I can’t see what’s inside one of the houses.
This is not a conscious thing. It is an oversight. A blip. I did not plan this. It is something that I can’t in all clear conscience ignore. I walk up to the house in question. Through a fog of many colours, I can make out the outline of the door. The back of my hand shielding me from the full glare, I can just about see the house number. It is the only information open to me, so I have to lend importance to this. It reads A-1.
It feels like I’ve come to an end of a countdown.
*
Back in the land of the living. Is that what they call it?
It is the time of the Sex Hour. I believe that is what they call it.
N, my companion so-called, is on her side on the bed. At least now I am able to close the blinds and keep the outside world at bay.
I can’t help but stare at N and wish she would look back at me. She can’t settle. She turns on her back, then back on her side, cast out to sea, thrashing against the waves. I feel useless in her presence. This is not a source of comfort for either of us.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“What’s wrong,” she says. “What’s wrong, what’s wrong.”
Instinctively I hold out a hand. Her body generates so much heat and I swear I can feel pockets of warmth enveloping each of my fingertips. I try to find words of comfort, but am conscious of doing so while coming across as a cold fish.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We can just sit here for the allotted time. Maybe we can talk or not talk. I’m okay with that. Are you okay with that?”
I just want to make things better between us. Maybe I could let her into a secret. I could reveal to her my personal nirvana? My oasis of calm? Where you can find a release for thoughts otherwise bouncing around your skull with no chance of escape. Thoughts otherwise left to rot inside your head. But it’s not a secret, it’s not as easy as that. It can’t come down to the fact that I haven’t told anyone about it. Should I change this? Would this prove to be a blessing or a curse? Knowledge can be such a dangerous thing.
She doesn’t answer, but at least she is no longer tossing and turning. I reach out, but my hand passes through her. She is hardly there at all.
*
I’m back outside A-1. My A-1. My hand shaped as a fist as I motion to knock on the door. It is an instinctive thing, a natural reaction to being faced with not knowing what lies beyond. This is my world, but even I have to respect such a boundary placed in front of me, however inexplicable. The mystery that is A-1 has to exist for a reason.
I am under no illusion. Most of the time I am certain the mind works for you. It wants the best for you. Keeps you on your toes. It tries to work things out.
After all, it worked out there is an issue with the Integral. The planned trajectory of the launch in terms of time by velocity V(t), altitude H(t) and mass M(t) is all wrong. If the rocket goes up as matters stand it will use up too much fuel upon escaping the planet’s gravity. It will slow down at a critical juncture. It will fall back to Earth. It will plummet like a stone.
I’m sure of this, sure of the mathematical certainty, but I still can’t bring myself to say it aloud. Sometimes the mind plays tricks on you.
What can this A-1 represent? Could it be the Benefactor has discovered my secret place, possessing the necessary omnipotence, having the sheer ability to enter my mindscape? If that is the case, as he reveals himself, will he embrace me and call me brother, or cast me out and condemn me to the Machine? Will he rip out my imagination, even though it poses no threat to anyone? I am a man of science. I love OneState. I love the Benefactor. There can be no doubt.
It could be nothing of course, but I cannot deny my palms are sweaty and my head is pounding. None of this should be happening to me, and yet here it is. A puzzle my deep subconscious has set out for me. Equally, my mind is set; my knuckles set to connect with the door. The moment of truth awaits. It is then that I look down to discover that the door is slightly ajar.
Two worlds. A world within a world. I push open the door. One mind. The mind folding and unfolding. I walk in.
Inside, there is as much light within as there is without. It seeks to illuminates things; to make things clearer. A woman I do not recognise stands before me in white overalls splattered with splotches. She is surrounded by an unholy alliance of towels and sheets and various pots and jars. I have never in all my life witnessed such a chaotic arrangement.
“I’m a painter,” she says, smiling, as if that explained anything.
I say, “How can this be? How can you be?”
She stands perfectly still, a quizzical look on her face. “It is not my place to say,” she says.
Initial feelings of irritation quickly make way for a more sedate form of body language. Visibly slumped, my spine no longer seeming a good fit for my body. “If you are a painter, where is your easel? Where is your canvas?”
“The light is my colours. My canvas?” She raises a hand towards the room. “You are standing in it.”
I look around and reluctantly grunt as way of confirmation. The canvas is the walls. Painted on them is a cityscape consisting of strokes of red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo, and violet. All captured inside a continuous green border.
The air is thick with it. The room is awash with it. I need to catch myself. Remind myself I live in an empire of glass.
*
I am in a crowd, but unlike any other crowd I could mention this one is different. I want to be here.
There is heat here, the crowd moves and heaves in unison. We are of one mind, of one instinct, of OneState. We are one collective breath.
“Blasphemer! Miscreant!” I holler.
What better demonstration of my loyalty to the Benefactor and my utter disdain and hatred for those who would conspire against him?
The poets on stage say it best, more eloquently than I could ever hope to emote. They remind us that the Benefactor does not sleep, that his every thought is dedicated to our security and wellbeing. He is service. He is firmament. He is devotion.
As for the man bowed in front of us, he is everything that the Benefactor is not. He is a plotter, a deviant, a would-be usurper. And finally, this pathetic excuse for a life is about to come to an end, and as such, latterly, is given some meaning.
There is a moment of exquisite silence as the Benefactor’s Machine falls.
There is a splash of colour. A blotch on a canvas and the crowd erupts in noise and exultant fury.
I am elated, but suddenly my emotional journey is turned on its head. Such are the way of things for me; my wretched soul. I cannot experience an emotional high without experiencing in the next breath the polar opposite. I am suddenly gripped by a maddening fear that the poets will now point and pick me out from the crowd. They will accuse me of being a traitor; an enemy of the state. My crime will be my lack of perfection, my crumbling demeanour, my weakness when compared to the unimpeachable morality of the Benefactor. But who from the thousands present could claim to be otherwise. There can only be one.
The poets are pushing out their arms now, in a bid to alert the crowd of the infidel’s presence. My palms are sweaty and my head is throbbing and I want to duck and find cover; recoil and wrap my arms over my head and shoulders. I must wait until the moment passes. A moment that threatens to stretch into infinity. Waves of insufferable debilitating panic come over me. Make it stop.
Stop, stop, stop.
*
“What is it?” I ask, looking around me.
“You know what it is,” the Painter replies, “it is the city.”
I look, then look again, and, yes, it is now obvious the paintings represent the building blocks and straight lines of the city. And encircling this, keeping it safe, the green wall, unbroken, erect, standing tall. So many colours coming together to form one unshakable reality. The diligence for detail around me is impressive, but still, I remain unimpressed.
“I already have a city outside this house. And another city beyond that. What use do I have for yet another?”
The Painter smiles at this, as if not easily sidetracked; as if unfettered by pride.
“Let us walk in this city of yours then,” she says.
I move towards the door. The Painter does not follow.
I say, turning around, “What are you waiting for?”
“Waiting for you.”
I blink. I don’t know why. This is my mind, I am in control here, but still accepting the fact, I blink.
I am outside, the Painter by my side. We walk at a leisurely place and I feel wholly comfortable in her presence.
“You are back so soon,” she says. “You spend too much time in this place.”
“Here, I feel complete,” I say. “I am at peace. Sometimes the world—the real world, that is—turns too fast for me. I am not so steady underfoot. Sometimes it feels like I might stumble and fall off the edge and that would be that. There are too many people hungry for the air in my lungs. I cannot breathe.”
“Too many people like you?” she says.
A crowd of people suddenly appear. A mob, even. It doesn’t matter where they have come from, it is enough that they are here in this city. This mindscape. Instinctively, I stoop; I place my hands on my head. I can’t cope with them being here, not now, not any day.
The Painter holds her hand out to me. “Take it.”
I take it.
“Move forward. Do not falter. Hold your head up high.”
I move forward. I do not falter. I hold my head up high. I move through the living sweat of humanity. Hands near to pushing, shoulders near to nudging, but not quite connecting. The heat; the overwhelming heat. And the noise threatening to shatter my equilibrium. I stumble on, I breathe, and I somehow evade the jostle and diktat of the general populace. I keep on walking and reach the other side.
“You see,” she says, even though in truth I do not.
“Everything in life can be distilled to this,” she continues, her hands circling, releasing an infectious enthusiasm into the ether. “One point to the other. Establish where you are—this is your starting point and this can only exist if there is an end point. Stay on the line, you can never waver, never fall off. You can achieve anything, articulate what you want, say what you need.”
I stare at the Painter. She has that smile—always that smile—the one I have grown so accustomed to. The one I have come to rely on.
“Look back.”
I do as she asks. The mob is gone. All there is in its wake are the colours of the rainbow, forming a spectral streak through empty air, a transparent canvas. I have always sought comfort in a straight line. A source of reassurance mainly; an insurance against falling. And now there is something new to discern. A fresh insight. A burgeoning possibility. No, scratch that earlier remark, there is a measure of understanding for me to exhibit after all.
I begin to see.
*
I stand at the front of my house, and I am aware of every neighbourly stare pointed in my direction. And I turn my head to meet in turn every one of them. Such good folks. Such decent citizens. I’m not even thinking of the blinds. I smile and wave and keep on waving until to a man and woman they move on and go about their normal business. Until I am no longer on their radar. There is nothing to see here.
I walk to the hangar. The crowds are there as ever, occupying space, gobbling up oxygen, but I do not waver, and instead break into a stride. I enter the melee. My body language elevates me to seven feet high, seven feet wide, and the onus is on those around me to get out of my way.
I arrive at my workstation and immediately remove my coat and don’t give it a moment’s thought. I stand at the side of the desk, impatient to the point of tapping my foot. Such is the uncharacteristically brazen nature of my actions, it attracts the attention of some of my fellow designers, but I ignore them, and await twitchily for the Second Builder to arrive.
It is not the Second Builder who appears, but the First! My eyes bulge at the sight of him and I fear I will burst into flames. My mouth goes slack. But I think of the Painter, I think of the personal voyage undertaken; a visualisation; a beginning and end designed to carry me on. The First Builder may represent a higher status, a step closer to the authority of the Benefactor itself even, but the objective remains the same. It started with me waving at my neighbours and I know how it will end. I know what I must do next in order to get there.
“First Builder,” I say, raising a deferential hand ever so slightly.
“Yes,” he says walking in my direction, while not quite looking at me. I bolster myself. I straighten my back.
My hand is up at an angle as I demonstrate the optimum trajectory needed for the Integral, followed by a demonstration of its present trajectory. The difference from one to the other is barely perceptible to the untrained eye. Not so the First Builder. Light fires up in his eyes.
“An excellent observation G-74,” he says. “And you have the equations at hand to back it up?” At this, he glances down at my workstation. “Of course, you do. I am most certain you have saved the launch from certain disaster.”
He places his hand on my shoulder, going as far as to exert a tiny squeeze. Oh, happy day! Oh, glorious day!
And still, it must continue. The blinds are down and N has returned to the top of my bed. For her, more than anything it remains a place of torment. She tosses and turns like she has been swept away in the tide. Like she is drowning.
I no longer stare at N; my interests lie elsewhere. I sit at the end of the bed, hands clasped, looking outwards, not inwards.
“Around us an easel, empty jars, towels, many paintbrushes. A canvas,” I say.
“What?” she asks. She doesn’t look my way, but this is a word undeniably meant for me.
“In fact, four canvasses. All four walls, they can be gateways to other worlds. If you want them to be.”
She sits up, still keeping her distance, but undeniably intrigued. No longer thrashing in the rapids.
“We don’t have to be limited by our present surroundings,” I continue. “Imagine a painting, a landscape, somewhere to go that you’re utterly familiar with. That isn’t here.
“It’s important I think to recognise one’s existence. Once you come to terms with it, you can project it. Then you can accept it. Shed guilt and self-doubt like an unwanted skin. Do you see?”
“I think…” she says. “I think I do.”
She surveys the room, takes a good look, but makes no attempt to come closer. We remain worlds apart. Our other worlds are worlds apart. But it’s a solid start.
We sit in silence. We close our eyes.
*
I walk through empty streets, my home from home, and breathe in air which I have to remember doesn’t exist outside of my mind, and I feel a little deflated as a result. There is a restlessness about me. But old habits die hard and I go through the motions.
I stand outside A-1 and the door is ajar, again, as if I am expected. As if I am always expected. As I enter it might be said I muster a smile (although I would never admit to such a thing).
The Painter is there. She has been busy. There are fresh paintings on each of the walls.
I turn full circle, which upon completing each 90-degree turn, increasingly becomes more of a chore.
“There are all of me,” I say.
“Of course,” she says, her smile as bright as ever, “you are triumphant in both worlds. You are creator of your own destiny. And here, this is the domain of your own choosing. Here, you are as powerful as the Benefactor himself.”
I start at this. I glare at the Painter. “No, I…”
I try to gather myself as best I can. “What you say is heretical and insane.”
She seems unconcerned despite my obvious agitation. “You know these words are truth,” she says. “They are your words. How else would I come to speak them?”
She looks for approval. Her conviction unwavering. Where does such untrammelled, reckless optimism come from?
“Haven’t I done a good job?” she says.
“No, no, no.” The room is spinning and I spin along with it. I now understand the Benefactor’s words. His warning of the imagination.
The fever, the last barrier in the pursuit of happiness.
Cut it out. Cut it out.
Cut out the imagination.
It is clear that I cannot trust the whimsy of the mind. The official guidance tells us, three visits to the doctor and the X ray machine will do it. Three sessions to wipe clean the brain node responsible for the imagination. But this is not necessary, not in my case. My loyalty to OneState knows no bounds. My faith in the Benefactor is immeasurable.
I run from A-1. I do not look back. A few paces more and I’m confronted by a straight line. But no ordinary straight line, the end closest to me is a fuse. I crouch down and touch the fuse. There is so much heat around, as if a product of a fever dream, which I transmit to the fuse. The fuse lights easily.
A collection of sparks travels a few feet, and there is an explosion, which brings every block, every building, every layer of wall, crashing down in so many concentric circles.
And I turn with every one of them.
It gets so I get dizzy.
*
I wake in the real world. This has to be the real world as it is the only option now available to me. Which is a blessing. My happiness is immutable and I prepare for the steady progression, an unbroken perambulation, through the day to come.
I stand staring at my neighbours. One is brushing their teeth; another is drying their hair. I continue to gawp until it is time not too. We move on in unison. I am part of the crowd heaving and twisting towards their place of work. Moving with the undulations. I am them and they are me, blissfully at ease, and complete, in their busy busyness. I join my fellow designers in the hangar. We work diligently and are graced by the presence of the Second Builder. Blink and you would miss him, but of course I do not blink. I hold out my hand instead.
At all times I keep my feet on the ground in preparation of the day I am whisked away by the Integral to another world. Another world to colonise in the name of the Benefactor. We are all his children after all.
In the meantime, I go on. There is nothing else to it.
Later, N does not appear for our next session and that’s fine with me. Everything is fine with me. I am above the physical act. The suggestion of it. I am content.
I am content.
There is nothing left of my imagination for I no longer have use for it. My mind is calm and even. There is nothing in the horizon and all is well, all is good. I am transparent. My walls are transparent. With absolutely nothing to hide.
Except perhaps, one pinprick of light in an otherwise reliable grey landscape. You could easily ignore it if you wanted to. What it represents.
But if you did decide to investigate (and I have no idea why you would) you may find a solitary room. An enclave where (it is difficult to be sure) there may be figure dressed in overalls. Alone, anaemic, and undeserving of pity. Nothing more than a collection of splotches. And no one you would recognise. A faded prism.
There is nothing to see. The impression of movement, up and down, the most amateurship of brushstrokes. A collection of lines that you might anticipate come together, but rest assured it is all a trick of the light.
Don’t even think of it beginning to take shape, there is nothing to see here. You should look away now.
-The End-
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