The Sudden Appearance of Hope

Chapter 60

Remembering Reina bint Badr al Mustakfi.

A question perpetually looping itself through my mind: should I have known? Should I have seen her pain, was there anything I could have done to help her?

Obvious answers: of course not. Don’t be bloody daft.

Even if you could have done anything, she wouldn’t have remembered. You speak words of kindness, you tell her it’ll be all right, that she is beautiful, wonderful, perfect as she already is, and maybe she smiles, and maybe she laughs, and maybe for a moment she forgets Leena on her couch, and Perfection on her phone…

the power to succeed is inside you!

… and then she turns away, and your words are dust in the wind, and nothing you do means a damn, and she dies.

Walking through Tokyo streets, remembering the words of a long-dead emperor-philosopher. Marcus Aurelius, ad 121–180, author of the Meditations. Quoth said emperor: It is not death a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.

And also: You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.

Amongst his less well documented declarations was a determination to obliterate the Iazyges in Germania. Genocide of Rome’s enemies was a reasonable military tool; history’s never as simple as it is in the movies.

How did I end up here?

I think at some point I must have made some choices, though it feels like they were far away

fairer perhaps to say that some choices were made around me and I acted in a manner which could be seen to be

impulsive reckless petty spiteful vindictive crusade stupid angry lonely jihad

full of struggle.

Ju kyu hachi shichi roku go fuck it.

Fuck it.

I close my eyes and see, always and again, my mum crossing the desert, only now she turns to look at me as I walk in her shadow, and smiles and says, Why so angry, petal?

Fucked up, Mum. Totally fucking fucked up.

How so?

Thought I’d live. Thought I’d be discipline, life, living, the machine, everything I am, all of this, living and breathing and beating the world, beating this fucking forgetting, fuck the world, fuck memory, I thought I’d be a sun goddess, a pilgrim, crusader, thought I was…

… I thought I was in control.

Aren’t you? she asks, pausing to drink from a flask hidden beneath her robes. (Must be water: I dream it is whisky.)

Don’t think so. Made choices. Did things, went places; left a footprint on the sand. Didn’t control me. Stole the fucking diamonds in a fit of pique. Went after Perfection because it pissed me off. Looked at Reina and didn’t see. Came to Korea and got made. Not in control. Can’t stop myself. Can’t see myself. Don’t know where I’ve come from or where I’m going. Just now — that’s all I’ve got. If I close my eyes, do you think I’ll forget my own face?

Now you’re being daft, tutted Mum. And not only daft, you’re tying yourself in knots in a thoroughly unhelpful way.

Mum?

Yes?

What if all of this is my fault? What if I’m forgotten… and it’s something I did? A man looks at my photo on the other side of the world, and he sees my face, I’m not invisible, but then he looks up, and he’s forgotten me. People fill in the gaps, find a way to meet me without being afraid, but it’s all lies, all of it, my parents forgot me, you forgot me, the world forgot and what if it’s me, what if it’s my fault?

The power is within you!!

Beneath the starlight of the Korean night, with the sand of the desert beneath her bare feet, my mum laughed.

So what? she asked. You going to shout at the sun for shining and the wind for blowing? You gonna curse the sea for rolling with the tide, the fire for being hot? Hope Arden, I thought I taught you better than that. Now pull your socks up, and get on.

I thought about answering, but didn’t want to, so opened my eyes again to see the now, the night, feel the cold and hear the quiet, and sat a while longer, and thought about nothing at all.

I am Hope.

I am a thief.

I am a machine.

I am living.

I am unworthy.

I am righteous.

I am none of these.

No words can contain me.

In the morning, when Byron came down, I was still there.

“Okay,” she mused, long and slow, seeing me sitting on a rickety plastic chair outside her door. “I had a letter from myself on my bedside table saying we’d found you, but I didn’t think it’d be true.”

“You met me yesterday,” I explained as she rubbed her hands against the still-heavy morning cold. “It’s all on tape.”

“My letter said you were unsure if you would stay or go.”

I shrugged. “Your assistants fell asleep. I thought about going, and decided to stay.”

“That’s… good. That’s very good. Did you tell me yesterday what kind of tea you drink?”

“Builder’s, with milk.”

“Am I going to forget that by the time I get indoors?”

“Yes — unless you’re recording this, and remember to play it back.”

“You must get terrible service in restaurants.”

“I like buffets,” I replied, detaching myself from my seat and heading for the door. “Also those sushi bars with the conveyer belts.”