Berlin. Michael Mirolla
of its amber screen every day for the two years he’d been there. Those looking in could see him hunched over with arms spread across the face of the monitor, as if jealously protecting what he was doing from the outside world. And no one, to date, had been able to even catch a glimpse of that work, let alone examine it with any notion of trying to make sense of it.
But, in keeping with his belief in cause and effect, that’s precisely what Ryle was now determined to do. Thus, in deliberate imitation, he sat down in front of the computer himself and switched it on. He quickly found the word processing software but, to his surprise, there were no document files. That’s not possible, he said to himself. Chiavetta had hammered away at this computer keyboard practically 365 days of the year for two years straight. Surely there had to be something there to show for it. Some tangible result. But, search as he might, he could find nothing. Aha, hidden files! Of course, Chiavetta must have known how to create hidden files, the kind only he could access through some special code or password.
Ryle put in a call to another of his patients, the facility’s resident computer whiz. The whiz had been invited to spend some time at the hospital after insisting that his programming was all wrong and that he needed new wiring (which he tried to install himself by plugging into the nearest electrical socket). The word was that if he couldn’t decode a computer program or get a machine to work properly then you’d better go directly to the maker himself (the Prime Digitalizer, that is).
After half an hour, the whiz leaned back and declared: “There’s nothin’ in here. No hidden files, that’s for sure. My guess is that, if there was anything here in the first place, your friend erased it all.” “What!” Ryle exclaimed. “Shit! Now, why would he go and do that?” The whiz was about to say something else when Ryle waved his hand: “Never mind. It was a rhetorical question.”
But the whiz had no intention of answering that particular rhetorical question. What he wanted to say was that there still might be a chance of getting back what Chiavetta had so maliciously killed—as long as no new files had been processed on the computer since that act. The whiz explained it as some sort of afterimage, the files remaining in the hard disk’s various addresses—or clusters—until some more recent information was stored there.
That’s more like it! Ryle said. If deleting is the last thing he did, then they’re still in there. Now, how do we get them out? No problemo, the whiz said, pulling a diskette out of his back pocket. With my “UnErase” utilities program. It’s like bringing back the dead—only a little bit easier. If you know how. Ryle smiled and rubbed his hands together. Let’s do it then. And to himself: I might find the key to a cure for this guy after all. Hey, I might even be able to write him up in the Psychiatric Digest. And wouldn’t that be a feather in my cap. Might even lead to a promotion out of this place. A job at one of those private clinics where the patients are only genteelly mad.
In the infirmary, Chiavetta, still clutching that key in his left hand, stirred from a restless half sleep. He dreamt badly every time they gave him tranquillizers—which fortunately hadn’t happened very often. In fact, the only other time had been the day they’d brought him to the hospital—when he’d reacted poorly to the threat of having his recently bought computer confiscated.
As on that previous occasion, the dream disturbing his sleep was one of very large family gatherings, unending parties down unending tables, loud banquets verging on orgies, of drinking, singing and dancing under white-blossomed apple trees and bursting grape trellises. And a murky vision of Chiavetta somehow floating above it all. Or perhaps hiding in the branches of the nearest tree, afraid to partake fully. To “lower himself to that level,” as it were.
The odd thing about all this was that Chiavetta couldn’t recollect any such feasts in his own family history. All he could remember was being an only child. Spoiled and doted upon but nevertheless alone. As for relatives, they were kept at a respectable distance, to be visited on certain holidays more as an obligation than out of any pleasure. Everything prim and proper. Everything in its place. Nothing done on the spur of the moment. In that way, the Chiavetta family had always seemed more upper-class British than peasant Italian.
Well then, it’s obviously your subconscious speaking out, Ryle would have said if he’d known about the dreams. Trying to compensate for an impoverished childhood. Or a genetic memory of sunny afternoons along Mediterranean seascapes, balancing on a cliffside as the waves crashed below. In any case, the dream always ended in a sudden fall from the tree and served to wake Chiavetta up.
He looked around and realized it was early evening—and he was in the rundown infirmary in a rundown psychiatric hospital in a rundown Montreal suburb. Which was strange in itself because, since being admitted to the hospital, he hadn’t understood his surroundings in those terms. Only as certain blockages and colours, certain angles of sunlight and shade, certain limitations to his movements. And voices. Voices that spit out portions of something that may have been sensible at some other time and place. But not at that particular time and place.
Immediately, he arose and, once again, tried to head out of the building, following a green line painted on the floor so that patients wouldn’t lose their way. But the doors to the outside were locked and the key in his hands wouldn’t work. Normally, he would have simply continued trying the key again and again until one of the orderlies spotted him and led him gently—or not so gently—back to his room. But not this time. This time he whirled suddenly, stood for a moment scratching his head, and then descended on tiptoe into the ramshackle basement.
Why the basement? From somewhere came the knowledge there was a way out from the basement that no one else knew about, that no one would have thought to lock or bolt. This was an old coal chute from the time when the furnace still had to be fed by hand. How did Chiavetta know that? Perhaps 20 years as a stationary engineer and automaton tours of the grounds might help explain it. Or he might have simply sensed as much as he groped around in the dark, fearful that switching on a light might attract a bat-like flock of orderlies.
A few moments later, a figure pushed open a trap door, looked from side to side and then emerged cautiously from the defoliated, pre-winter shrubs at the edge of the building. One had to strain to see him, covered as he was in ancient coal dust and recently descended darkness. And even straining brought only a dim outline into focus. But who else could it be save Chiavetta, making his trapeze-artist, high-stepping way across the lawn? There were more surprises to come. Suddenly, out of the blue, he remembered a small rip in the fence where he’d seen boys wiggle onto the grounds to retrieve their street hockey balls—and to poke fun at the patients spread out on the lawn for their daily constitutional. So, this time, he didn’t impale himself or further tear his hospital clothing as he slipped easily out of the compound and onto the street.
The whiz had managed to pull back and put into readable files a good portion of Chiavetta’s work by the time an orderly discovered he was missing and rushed to inform Ryle. But that’s not possible, Ryle exclaimed. Everything was locked up? That’s right, the orderly said—and it’s still locked up. He’d double-checked. No doors forced; no windows broken. No way out. Yet Chiavetta was nowhere to be found. What about the grounds? Yes, it was possible he was hiding somewhere on the grounds. But it would be hard to check those until morning.
Ryle didn’t think Chiavetta had the ability to understand the mechanism of escape but, in light of what had happened earlier in the day, he told the orderly he’d better give Chiavetta’s description to the police right away. “My poor Chiavetta has never posed a threat to anyone but himself,” Ryle said, thinking out loud. “But it wouldn’t do to have someone like him roaming the streets. Now would it? The good citizens might do him some harm.”
After the orderly had left and the whiz was led back to his own socket-free room, Ryle sat down and, with quite a bit of nervous anticipation, opened Friday.doc, the first of the recovered files, under a sub-directory labeled Berlin.nov.
The opening screen of the document was titled: Berlin: A Novel in Three Parts, by Giulio A. Chiavetta, Freelance Circus Performer. Ryle began to scroll the document, reading as he went along.
I: File—Friday.doc
Конец