The Sudden Appearance of Hope

Chapter 83

Preparation.

A new computer, new clothes, new internet connection, new download of Tor through the Wi-Fi of San Servolo, a good place to work, a little university campus for people looking for three months of art history, or two months of intensive Italian in the city of wonders, easy to blend in, buy yourself a coffee, sit in the café and surf the web.

Tor: The Onion Router. It has its flaws.

Arguments for increased government surveillance of the internet:

Arguments against:

I love you. I want your skin against mine, your tongue in my mouth, your hands on my

I’m sending the money today, here are the details

My fucking sister is fucking getting on my tits again, fat bitch

Do I care that Google knows my religion, if I’m divorced or pregnant, that Facebook uses my face in an ad campaign? When I challenge my government; when I attack a media mogul, when I question a belief that others take for granted, do I care that my family history, finances and home address can be found immediately by my foes? Of course I don’t: I have nothing to hide.

Do I care that the only way to be free from the fear of surveillance is to be absolutely harmless? To conform to a sociological norm, and never say anything that is personal, or real, or half thought through, or challenging?

I ordered another espresso, and waited for Tor to load.

A new address from which to contact an old friend.

I chose Zenobia1862, and sent my message to the most plausible corner of Prometheus’ infrastructure.

It took them nearly three days to reply, but I kept myself busy. I ran through the city, learning the streets, the bridges, the dead ends and the waterways. Learning where to hide and where to steal. Finding my way into police-radio frequencies, counting the rich and the beautiful, the vulnerable and the criminal as they mingled beneath the palazzos and inside the hot, wine-soaked bars.

I looked for the 206, the elite of all elites, and it was easy to find, the glamour sheets and the gossip rags already buzzing, the Perfect Party, Perfect Millions they called it, and look, wasn’t it exciting, he was going and she was going, and didn’t his fiancée look beautiful, she’d clearly beaten the cellulose. And she’d be there and so would she even though she’d once slept with his brother and she’d called her a slut but that was another time, they loved each other really, you see, and she’d lost so much weight since getting Perfection did you see her exclusive hot beach holiday pics?

“You don’t want to be photographed, don’t make an exhibition of yourself,” said one paparazzi I gave a bottle of whisky to as he sat outside a grand hotel on the Grand Canal, cameras slung around his neck.

“What about people who want to make an exhibition of themselves in private?” I asked, and he shrugged.

“They’re rich, they’re famous, they gotta deal with the stuff that comes with it.”

The next day I went back, and there he was again, a little bit tipsy by 11 a.m., and I gave him another bottle of whisky and he said, “Hotel Madellena, that’s where it’s at, they’ve got royalty coming, all the rich princes and their pretty girls, you know how it is, pussy, hot pussy, all of them.”

I smiled politely, and thought about stealing his camera, throwing it into the canal, but no, that would be unworthy, must remember, even though it would be kinda righteous.

I counted my steps away from him, and by thirty paces the urge to steal had passed, and I laughed as I began to run again, heading back into the city.

When I returned to my hotel, Gauguin had replied to my message, with Luca Evard cced in for good measure.