The Sudden Appearance of Hope

Chapter 45

A suspicion growing, which now I acted on.

By stealing the identity of a journalist from the San Francisco Chronicle who looked perhaps a tiny little bit like myself, I got a meeting with a junior housing minister. He bowed as I entered, and I bowed lower, and we exchanged cards with both hands. As well as his normal card, he produced another, which transpired to be a dozen or so incredibly thin cards, each made of pressed platinum, his name engraved in gold.

“I donate them to the temples,” he explained, as I turned one between my fingers, feeling the sharpness of the edge. There must have been something of the thief in my face, for he quickly pulled it back, slipping these precious objects back into their hiding place. “It is both a financial gift, and a means of ensuring my name is remembered.”

I locked my smile in the attack position, and looked the minister up and down, adding up the value of his suit, his bespoke leather shoes, his watch — a beautiful piece, the face changing gently as the hands moved, the moon to conquer the retreating sun. In the 1500s, watches had been filled with symbols of Death: Death beating on the bell, creeping from his cave; Death waiting at the end of every dangerous hour. How time had changed.

My mind, wandering, again; there is a human in the room, there is company, he can see me, he can see me, focus on that.

Questions — the easy ones first, gently prepared. How long in his job? New challenges in housing? Changing demographics. Over-population in urban areas? Loss of rural communities? Planning laws. Tenant protection. Market imbalance. The 106 Apartments.

“Ah, yes, a beautiful piece of design, no?”

Beautiful indeed, and was I right in thinking that he was personally involved in the project?

“Not personally, not involved, but yes, I helped give it clearance.”

But wasn’t there a building standing there already?

“Unsafe building, terribly old, the residents living in unsanitary conditions, terrible, really, terrible.”

Low-income families evicted from their homes, sent away from the city and—

“That is the worst way of seeing it!” he interrupted, suddenly sharp, suddenly hostile. Strange how fast the switch may happen. In a society where good manners are king, the breakdown of such formalised structures rapidly reveals a need to not only save face, but to save face by chewing off the face of your adversary.

I do not need him hostile, so I bob in my seat, smile humbly, bat my eyelids, throw out a few harmless questions — new initiatives, lessons learned, wisdom acquired — and only at the very very end, as I stand up to leave, snapping my satchel shut around my entirely redundant notes, do I ask, quiet, conspiratorial:

“Do you have Perfection?”

His eyes dart up from the leather top of the desk where they had rested, to study my face. “Seven hundred and ninety-four thousand, five hundred,” I murmur, gentle as you like.

“Nine hundred and eighty-one thousand, four hundred,” he breathes, eyes now fixed on my face. “It’s changed my life. I thought I was worthless, now I know I can do whatever I want.”

“That’s how I feel.”

“I am a better person, now.”

“Me too.”

He leant forward, and I bent in to join him, so close I could feel his breath against my neck, feel him enjoy it, the heat rising in his skin, stayed still, didn’t flinch, didn’t curl away. “I got two hundred and fifty thousand points the day the 106 project went through. ‘You have made the perfect decision,’ it said. ‘You are building the perfect life.’ It is the perfect home.”

I smiled and nodded, and said nothing in reply.

He beamed at me, like an old friend happy to discover that time has not diminished our bond, as I walked away.