The Sudden Appearance of Hope

Chapter 42

On his seventh day in Tokyo, I followed Rafe Pereyra-Conroy to a sumo match.

Traditional arts in Japan: sumo, karate, kendo, judo, kyudo, kabuki, origami, flower arrangement.

Hierarchy. A sumo stable is organised with military discipline. At the bottom are the jonokushi, then makushika and juryo. Only forty-two elite makuuchi exist at any time, their matches broadcast on television, life expectancy at least ten years lower than the national average.

Nomi No Sukuni, Shinto god of sumo. Once upon a time, the wrestlers performed their rites on temple grounds, to ensure good harvest, and the referees still made the dohyo sacred with sprinkled salt.

Did Rafe care, as he took a seat in a private area of cushions and clean tatami mats right by the ring? Probably not. I watched him through a small pair of binoculars from a wooden bench high in the auditorium. He was a foreign dignitary being taken to sumo to entertain and enthral, to have an anecdote to tell his friends when he returned home. I saw a sumo match, yes, yes I did; understand it? No, of course not, but I was there, I’ve experienced Japan now, yes, oh yes I have.

In the reception afterwards, I listened to the chatter as I circled the room.

I was getting better at recognising those who had Perfection.

She: her perfect teeth, her perfect hair, her perfect smile, her perfect clothes, fashionably chosen, gracefully worn.

He: silk and cotton, the white of his shirt sharp as thorns, the perfect drink in his hand, the perfect woman on his arm.

Do you have Perfection?

(“Oh my,” said the woman with the surgery-enhanced waist. “It’s changed my life.”)

(“It’s not just about looking after myself,” added the man whose champagne I refilled. “It’s about meeting people like me. The best of the best.”)

A polite smattering of applause, a man dressed in full Shinto robes, oranges and yellows, a high black lacquered hat, stood on the dais and in formal, steady Japanese thanked everyone for attending.

“In the way of the gods,” his translator limped through the words, “we seek to purify ourselves from unclean rituals and sins. We wash away sinful thought, unclean practice, guilty deeds, and emerge radiant at last. Every child who is born in Japan, regardless of their creed, is welcomed into the shrine and made a family child, their name given to the spirits for blessing and protection. It is in this spirit — welcoming, and purification — that I am proud to call Mr Pereyra-Conroy a friend, and say that the work he does in Japan helps men and women in their souls.”

First Dubai, now Tokyo. Rafe was a busy bee.

“Perfection,” he continued, after the pause, “makes people better.”

Turning to walk away, and there she was, Filipa Pereyra-Conroy, dressed in black, a glass in one hand, nails trimmed short, hair tied high. She stood in my path and said, “Hello. I saw you alone. Do you know anyone here?”

Not accusatory, not angry; a woman who has seen a stranger and wonders if she needs company.

Just like Dubai.

“Hello,” I replied, offering my hand. “My name is Hope.”

“Filipa.”

“I know; I’ve studied your work, Dr Pereyra.”

A flicker of an eyebrow, a nervous tug at the end of her sleeve.

“Have you? I didn’t think… What aspect of it?”

“I read your paper on cognitive reconstruction and reinforcement. Very interesting, even to an outsider.”

“Are you an outsider?”

“I read, for company.”

A smile, sudden, strong, that flashed away as quickly as it had come, locked down beneath manner and etiquette. “So do I.”

“I understand you’re working on treatments?”

Too fast, too much prodding for information, suspicion, a slight angling of her body. It’s fine: if this should occur, I will walk away, do a lap of the room, return to her side, try again, build a little more trust. This is an opportunity too good to miss.

The index finger of her left hand tapped a few times against the top of her glass, and I doubted she noticed. “Do you have Perfection?” she asked at last.

“Yes.”

“Are you…”

“With the 106 Club? Yes.”

“Then you’ll know about treatments already.”

“Not yet; I haven’t had an appointment. I’ve been very busy recently — family.”

“Family is important.”

A mantra, recited, and she does not look at her brother as she speaks, does not express her words with her body, but stands stiff, upright, watching. I move on quickly, and she is happy to be moved.

“Can I ask: where did the idea for Perfection come from?”

Her eyes, lifting a little, head up, chin out. “What can you mean?”

“I mean… what inspired you?”

Silence a while. Then, “My brother. He is… as a child, I thought he was… our father very much loved him, you see, and he always thought the world could benefit from something of his… quality.”

Sadness. She smiles, she is still and straight, but these were not the flowing words of the woman I’d met in Dubai; this was hurt, and justification, and hollow gaps where truth should be. To my surprise I found myself wanting to touch her, and tightened my grip on my glass.

“All thought is feedback,” I said at last, and now her eyes were fixed on me, through me, I had her full attention, so intense I wondered if she would ever forget me, if she could ever forget this moment. “Faced with mounting stress, the body enters an alarmed state. Capillaries dilate, heart beats faster, breathing increases, skin flushes, muscles tense. With each social rejection, pathways are reinforced in the brain which links social rejection with physiological anxiety. Thus reinforced, you are more likely to experience a physical reaction to even slight social discomfort, thus making you more uncomfortable, thus reinforcing the physical and so on and so on. All thought is feedback: sometimes that feedback can be too loud. That’s what I think, anyway.”

Silence a while.

Her body seemed to uncoil, shoulders releasing from their stiff posture, knees softening, face softening, eyes softening. For the first time she seemed to see the room, see the party, a swaying, laughing, tinkling mass of perfect people with perfect smiles.

“You aren’t in the 106,” she said simply.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because you’re not perfect.”

“What does ‘perfect’ mean?”

She smiled, arms folded, head to one side. “If you were in the 106, you wouldn’t ask. Perfection is you, and you are perfection; that is the truth of it.”

“And you don’t have Perfection either,” I replied. “I can see it too.”

Her eyes flickered round the room, caught her brother for a moment, half bowing, shaking hands, all smiles, charm, beauty. Her gaze returned to me, and for a moment, I thought she might cry.

“Have you eaten?” she asked. “I’m starving.”

We ate noodles. She ordered spicy Singapore style, I had udon in soup, and she tried a spoonful of the broth, slurping from the shallow wooden spoon.

“The party, won’t your brother be…”

“He won’t care.”

“You sure?”

“It’s one of the things Rafe shares with my father — a single-minded commitment to an ideology. The rest is noise.”

“What ideology is that?”

“Victory.”

“Is that an ideology?”

“I think so. Rafe hides it better than Dad did. Dad was always proving something, that he was better, smarter than everyone else; but Rafe has to prove that he’s better than Dad.”

My eyebrows must have risen, because hers did in reply, mirroring, and she asked, a little too high, “What’s the matter?”

“This seems like something you wouldn’t tell a stranger.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve made you… I’m not very good at meeting new people, you see.”

“You seem to be very good.”

“No,” she replied, a little sadly. “I’m not. Rafe drags me along to all his parties, his big launch events, points at me and says, ‘There’s the head of development, my sister’ and everyone smiles at me and shakes my hand and then he keeps on talking, in case I speak.”

“You spoke to me.”

“You were alone. You were imperfect.”

“Is that all it took?”

“You… know something of my field. I can talk to people at work but they don’t really get it, not really, but you were alone and imperfect, and you thought about thought, about what thinking means, about minds and people and… Are you a journalist?” The words came fast and sudden, an almost physical jerking back of her body at the idea.

“No. I’m not. I’m writing a paper on Perfection.”

Her eyebrows flickered upwards, sharp, an attention fully honed. “What body?”

“Oxford, St John’s.”

“You know Professor Vikkendar?”

“No. I’m in anthropology.”

A little nod, her interest diverted almost instantly; humanities bore her, but I pushed on. “I’m interested in the definition of ‘perfect’ over time, and the construction of the self. Perfection is becoming a movement, a global redefinition—”

“No it’s not. That’s not the point.”

I bit my bottom lip, chose my words slowly. “Maybe that’s not the point for you, Dr Pereyra,” I mused, “but that’s what it is becoming.”

“The point is thought. Patterns of behaviour, patterns of thinking, breaking boundaries, creating new pathways — I’m sorry, I thought you understood this, when you said—”

“Perhaps we should be clear — there is the science, and there is the product. I’m talking about the product.”

“Oh.” Her interest almost gone now, the noodles growing cold in front of her. “I don’t really deal with that.”

Silence, suddenly awkward, a hard fall from the place we’d begun. I looked round, my gaze briefly meeting the eyes of one of the two security men who shadowed Filipa to the restaurant. One stood by the door, one was in a booth a few rows behind, keeping a polite distance.

“What’s with the…?”

She dismissed them with a flick of her chopsticks, not looking up from her plate. “My brother’s worried about security.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Rafe’s worth a lot of money; I think he’s scared someone might try to kidnap me. It’s ridiculous, really, but then…” I waited, and in time it came. “Our father was killed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She dismissed it with another mouthful of noodle. “It was a long time ago. Officially, no one was ever caught.”

“Unofficially?”

A half shrug. This isn’t something that interests her. Then sudden, fast:

“Isn’t it worrying, I mean, not worrying, not an emotional response, but isn’t it interesting that in a room of perfect people the two imperfect people move together at once, and two societies form — as an anthropologist this must interest you — the beautiful and the ugly, and the beautiful stand and talk and are wonderful together, and the ugly have noodles. Is this something you’ve observed? In your studies?”

“I… yes. Perfection encourages perfect people to congregate. So does the 106 Club.”

“And doesn’t that make you frightened?” she asked, watching my face for something only she knew to look for.

“No, not really.”

“It should do. It’s not my research, not at all, but the product — the thing Rafe did with it, it’s brilliant of course, pure brilliance, he’s like that. Growing up, I was the oldest, but Rafe was… You see, Dad needed to prove that he was smarter, better than the world. Rafe just needs to prove that he’s better than Dad. So Perfection is an aspiration carved from socio-economic values, not ethical ones. Perfection is wealth, fashion, interest and power. It is glowing skin, pleasant laugh, easy conversation. It is… a thing that the world aspires to, and it is of course very dull, and hugely elitist. I’m not very interesting, you see. I’m my brother’s boffin sister, in fact. ‘Don’t worry about her — she’s into the science stuff,’ he says, and everyone laughs, because it’s funny. You and I are having noodles together, and this is a disaster by Perfection’s standards, cheap food full of nasty chemicals — lose a thousand points — and we are the minority, and we will be looked down upon. Ugly, fat, lazy, not capable of looking after ourselves, bad habits, junk food, junk.”

Frigid. A word spoken by Reina, the day before she died. The screaming is very loud now.

Filipa was still talking, high speed, a rata-tat-tat of words, tumbling fast. “It’s easier to be perfect if you’re from a certain socio-economic background. Perfection takes time, effort, and if you’re poor, if you’re struggling then… and Perfection can help with that too, find a way to make the pennies work, learn to let go of things you don’t need, aesthetic lifestyle, simple lifestyle. It’s made for everyone of course, but easier, so much easier, if you’re already wealthy and as an anthropologist, surely you can see — Perfection as a product creates a digital aristocracy, and the imperfect of this world are little better than the serfs.”

Silence a while. The security man in the booth behind Filipa ordered another glass of mineral water; the guard by the door watched the street.

Finally she said, “A woman died in Dubai. I didn’t know her name. She died just before we went there for a launch — a disaster as it turned out, a humiliation, a thief got in but… anyway. A woman killed herself. She had severe depression but no one was treating her, I mean, no one helped, even acknowledged it, because it’s not an illness, is it, it’s just something you deal with, right? Anyway. She had Perfection. It didn’t save her.”

Silence.

“If you aren’t perfect, then you are flawed,” she continued, staring at nothing much, a piece of ginger pinched between the end of her chopsticks, going nowhere. “Rafe is a genius, but none of this was the point of my research.”

“What was the point?” I asked, soft, in case we broke the spell.

“To make people better. Of course. To make the world a better place.”

She rolled the ginger between her chopsticks, put it back down.

“I think my brother has taken something beautiful and made it obscene,” she said at last. “That’s why I left the party. You’ve studied Perfection: what do you think?”

I opened my mouth to answer, found all the easy words were now hard, said nothing.

“‘Qui tacet consentire videtur’,” she mused, with a half-empty smile.

“‘He who is silent is seen to consent.’”

“You studied Latin?”

“Read it in a book somewhere.”

“They made me study it at school. Latin, economics, business studies, maths, further maths, piano, singing, speech and drama, computer sciences, French, Russian, Japanese, debating, journalism…”

“Your school wasn’t much like mine.”

“We were my father’s legacy. Or rather my brother was. My brother was always going to be better at that sort of thing.”

“I don’t know Latin — just the famous bits.”

“Is that famous?”

“Thomas More, just before King Henry VIII decided to cut his head off. ‘He who is silent is seen to consent’ — he refused to take an oath, but neither did he speak against it. He hoped by his silence to escape the axe. Sorta noble, sorta an arsehole.”

She laid the sliver of ginger carefully back down, tucked her chopsticks to one side, folded her hands, raised her head, looked me in the eye. “If I were to write the parameters for Perfection,” she said, firm and steady, “I would forgive all cowards.”

“If you believe so strongly that your brother has done something… with your work, then why do you continue working on it?” I asked.

“I work on treatments, not the software.”

“What do the treatments do?”

“They make people happy.”

“How?”

“They… help people feel happy about themselves.”

“That sounds like a drug.”

“It’s not. It’s… this isn’t how I wanted it to work, it’s not… not right yet, but my brother funds it. Rafe got the money and no one else would let me do the things I do, so I needed him, we had to make a bargain — he’s always making bargains you see, and I have always been a coward. You believe that, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have. Always. It’s why I chose the treatments. He’s done something with it that is… But one day with the technology, giants on the shoulders of giants, we’ll build something… good. Happiness for everyone. One day we’ll get it right.”

Happy: to be pleased, delighted or glad.

Favoured by fortune.

The experience of pleasure, or joy.

Happiness: a lie, constructed to ensure that we never find it.

“Are you happy?” I asked, and she didn’t answer.

I pushed a couple of notes under our bowls, squeezed my hand tight said, “Come on. Let’s go walking.”

She didn’t speak, but neither did she resist as I led her away.