d-8
Erasmus knocks on the door, three knocks, each loud and resonant. The insistence is clear- he is here for business. Inside the darkened room, she is waiting nervously chewing her pale, off-purple blanched nails.
"I want you to tell me what's going on," he states in a calm voice, the tenors in his throat quivering only slightly.
"I don't know, E. I don't understand why the program doesn't work."
The ends of her sentences lift up as if in a question, even though it is not. She is telling him clearly, succinctly, confusedly. But honestly.
"Come outside please," he says, patiently. She has a feeling that he's checking his watch, or tapping his foot. She imagines that it is the left one, going up down up down tap tap tap on the shiny waxed floor. She opens the door, and discovers she's wrong.
"Oh, I thought you. You brought the-"
He raises a sparse eyebrow.
She shakes her head, never mind. He's thumbing through a well-worn copy of 1984, the red of the cover has become a garish sort of pink and the corners have become frayed. His luminous dark skin, velveteen almost, seems to shine in comparison to the gritty grey paper.
"You know, what I've come here for, Ariadne?"
She does not. Not exactly, not the fine details. She certainly knows her failure has brought him her but she doesn't know what he is supposed to do next. A sense of almost falling off a cliff overwhelms her.
The words spoken in his deep baritone, gravelly voice sound not unnatural but somehow false. They are someone else's words implanted deep into his cerebral consciousness that travels into his voice box. Throat, she reminds herself, throat.
"I don't know, E," she says honestly, pressing a hand to her forehead. The browness of her skin has leached out from the cold, her face has become pinched and withdrawn.
"Who controls the past, controls the future. Who controls the present, controls the past," he reads, his large thumb cleaving the pitiful book into two, adjusting his glasses on his wide nose.
She gestures towards a chair inside her apartment. He agrees to come in, assenting through a small nod that is not exactly curt, is conciliatory even.
"What is the meaning of this phrase? You," and he chuckles drily, "should know, isn't it?"
He slips inadvertently into colloquialisms. It doesn't become him exactly. It fits strangely with the rest of the bureaucracy that he clothes himself in.
"How is Camus?" he asks, an aside she is not prepared for. Her boyfriend. Why does he
"- want to know? He's fine, Erasmus. Don't worry. We're not getting married anytime soon."
A soft smile then back to the book. He sits in the living room, at ease, on the sofa. She sits next to him.
"Have you heard of the D-8 department?" he asks.
"No."
A curious word, not scared but interested, intrigued. Fascinated.
"We control the present to control the future and the past. But there is only so much we can do. We need people like you to work on the mind, the perception of reality and fiction. To reprogram."
A nod.
Yes.
Okay.
"We begin next Tuesday."
"I want you to tell me what's going on," he states in a calm voice, the tenors in his throat quivering only slightly.
"I don't know, E. I don't understand why the program doesn't work."
The ends of her sentences lift up as if in a question, even though it is not. She is telling him clearly, succinctly, confusedly. But honestly.
"Come outside please," he says, patiently. She has a feeling that he's checking his watch, or tapping his foot. She imagines that it is the left one, going up down up down tap tap tap on the shiny waxed floor. She opens the door, and discovers she's wrong.
"Oh, I thought you. You brought the-"
He raises a sparse eyebrow.
She shakes her head, never mind. He's thumbing through a well-worn copy of 1984, the red of the cover has become a garish sort of pink and the corners have become frayed. His luminous dark skin, velveteen almost, seems to shine in comparison to the gritty grey paper.
"You know, what I've come here for, Ariadne?"
She does not. Not exactly, not the fine details. She certainly knows her failure has brought him her but she doesn't know what he is supposed to do next. A sense of almost falling off a cliff overwhelms her.
The words spoken in his deep baritone, gravelly voice sound not unnatural but somehow false. They are someone else's words implanted deep into his cerebral consciousness that travels into his voice box. Throat, she reminds herself, throat.
"I don't know, E," she says honestly, pressing a hand to her forehead. The browness of her skin has leached out from the cold, her face has become pinched and withdrawn.
"Who controls the past, controls the future. Who controls the present, controls the past," he reads, his large thumb cleaving the pitiful book into two, adjusting his glasses on his wide nose.
She gestures towards a chair inside her apartment. He agrees to come in, assenting through a small nod that is not exactly curt, is conciliatory even.
"What is the meaning of this phrase? You," and he chuckles drily, "should know, isn't it?"
He slips inadvertently into colloquialisms. It doesn't become him exactly. It fits strangely with the rest of the bureaucracy that he clothes himself in.
"How is Camus?" he asks, an aside she is not prepared for. Her boyfriend. Why does he
"- want to know? He's fine, Erasmus. Don't worry. We're not getting married anytime soon."
A soft smile then back to the book. He sits in the living room, at ease, on the sofa. She sits next to him.
"Have you heard of the D-8 department?" he asks.
"No."
A curious word, not scared but interested, intrigued. Fascinated.
"We control the present to control the future and the past. But there is only so much we can do. We need people like you to work on the mind, the perception of reality and fiction. To reprogram."
A nod.
Yes.
Okay.
"We begin next Tuesday."
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