I.
We observed Cathy, who, as a marketer, spent her days planning advertising campaigns, analyzing market trends, and purchasing various marketing services. She lived in a one-bedroom condo in a quiet neighborhood. Every day, she commuted twenty minutes in each direction by car. We listened outside her apartment as she played hits from the 80s, mostly Madonna, A-ha, Simple Minds, and Prince. She went running and took yoga and spinning classes. She wore patterned blouses, and her makeup matched her clothes nicely. We observed her buying medication for migraines. She slept at least seven hours per night and didn’t drink coffee. She went out—with friends and colleagues—to bars, restaurants, and nightclubs. She drank alcohol but never lost control. She was attracted to men who were tall and fit. She was herself an attractive woman. A one-night stand happened. Our guy left her apartment at 9 a.m.
II.
One day, Cathy’s manager, Stella, invited her to a private gathering at her house. Cathy accepted.
The hostess wore a white silk dress. There were five other people there, four white women and one Black man. They had drinks and snacks in the garden, which was lush and well-kept. They talked and laughed. They were old friends and former colleagues of Stella’s.
—We meet like this sometimes, the Black man said.
When the others had left, Cathy said to Stella:
—Thanks for inviting me, I had a good time.
—You’ll never see these people again.
—Oh? Why not?
—Could you give me a hand?
Both silent, they carried plastic chairs into a shed. Stella pulled the door closed behind her.
—Do you want to join our network?
Cathy had never heard anyone mention a network before. She was curious and thought it was something that might benefit her.
—What kind of network is it?
—The kind that has to be experienced. If you don’t like it, it’s no big deal.
Cathy accepted this invitation, too.
III.
On Monday morning, Cathy found a note in her locker at the gym. It contained a location, a point in time, and told her to “run.” The funny thing was: that location, date, time, and activity (the bridge in the park, next Sunday, ten past noon, running) all matched, perfectly, her habit of going running in the park on Sundays.
She did as instructed (which meant she did what she would have done anyway). At the bridge, a man in a pink and blue tracksuit appeared by her side. A hood covered most of his face, but she could tell he had a dark-brown beard with red strands.
—This Wednesday, go to Cheezus! in Westgate Mall at exactly 12:30 p.m. and seat yourself near the fake olive tree. Read a book that contains the words “gray sky” in the title. Order a triple-cheese croque monsieur and nothing else. Tip three dollars and five cents. Leave an acorn on the table. Repeat.
She laughed.
—Right, okay.
—Repeat.
He was now one step ahead of her.
—This Wednesday, I will go to Cheezus! in Westgate Mall. At 12:30 p.m., I will seat myself by the fake olive tree. I will read a book with the words “gray sky” in the title and order a triple-cheese croque monsieur and nothing more. I will tip three dollars and five cents. And leave an acorn on the table.
She paused.
—Where do I find an acorn?
The man sprinted out of sight.
Westgate Mall was not far from her office. She sat at Cheezus!, pretending to read a book titled Gray Sky Over Berlin. The sandwich she ordered was disgusting, and she didn’t touch it. The guy who had waited on her was young and had red curly hair and freckles. She paid, tipped as instructed, and placed an acorn she’d found in the park on the table.
She exited the restaurant and went to a meeting with some of her colleagues. Among them was Stella. The meeting was about their digital marketing strategy. They had signed up for a tool that analyzed key markets and target groups. The software mapped behavioral patterns and recognized buying signals and market trends in real time, streamlining marketing and sales efforts. They plotted workflow charts and agreed on a set of key performance indicators.
When the meeting was over, Stella asked Cathy to stay a little.
—Why didn’t you eat the sandwich? she asked.
—What? I….
—Why didn’t you read the book?
—I…looked in it.
—Are you really up for this?
She paused, allowing Cathy a chance to jump at the possibility of opting out.
But Cathy remained silent.
—Our system of communication is designed for any situation, to whatever end we desire, and is invisible to people who’re not part of our network. You going to the mall to eat a sandwich is only an anomaly if you choose not to eat it. Always assume that you never have the full picture. Be conscious of what you know and what you know you don’t know. Be discreet and extremely diligent. We don’t punish missteps taken in good faith. But we do punish sloppiness. Excellence, on the other hand, is rewarded.
She walked past Cathy and out the door.
A couple of days later, Cathy was out shopping for groceries when a female voice came from the adjacent aisle:
—Wear a green dress tomorrow at work.
She never figured out who had said those words. The next day, she and Stella had lunch at a fancy restaurant downtown. Cathy noticed three other women wearing green dresses. Whether this was coincidence or not, she couldn’t tell and wouldn’t ask.
IV.
For a whole year, Cathy embodied codified messages. She had no idea what they meant, but the instructions were always precise and delivered whenever, wherever, and by whomever. A woman’s whisper in an elevator. A note in a shoe. The cashier in an empty hardware store just before closing time. Go there, do this, wear that, arrange this so-and-so, eat a banana, pet a cat, drink tea, paint a wooden park bench yellow, stick used chewing gum to restroom tiles in this here pattern. One time, she put forty-five dried raisins in a suburban mailbox. She took a deep breath. Spring was in the air. The early sun, milky white and bright, soaked the morning haze.
When Stella asked her if she wanted to go out for a glass of wine, Cathy instinctively sensed that something was up. They went to a piano bar in one of the hotels by the river. They talked about hiking, scuba diving, scenic routes, movies, and restaurants.
Stella fixed her eyes on Cathy.
—You’ve done well lately.
She paused.
—You’ve got a talent for discretion. I think you should become an observer.
—Observer?
—We evaluate candidates. You observe, discreetly, and report what you learn.
—I’ll report to you?
—No. You’ll deliver oral briefings at designated places.
—And the people, the candidates, what should I be looking for?
Stella smiled.
—I just wonder, what’re the criteria?
—Just stay invisible.
Back home, she found an expensive wristwatch in the pocket of her wool coat. Someone must have slipped it in there without her noticing it. Her belly fluttered at the sight of it, but she did not wear it to work the next day. It would have been out of place there.
Her new genre of assignments was exhausting. She watched, waited, followed, and kept her distance. The people she observed drove cars, sat by office desks, laughed, conversed, went to Sunday mass, did construction work, carried out ward rounds, rode the bus, and bought things at grocery stores. She sat behind them in movie theaters. She was two tables away from them at food courts and followed them through fashion malls. She watched them watch their kids in playgrounds. She watched them in their homes through a pair of binoculars. She kept her distance.
And she delivered reports, assembling the observations into a condensed account of the candidate’s appearance. Her statements were always given orally and at random locations. She entered a public toilet and spoke near the soap dispenser. She drove upstate, parked at the designated spot, walked north straight into the woods, and found the tree covered with iron nails. She talked loud and clear to the tree. She assumed recording devices had been hidden at those locations. But she also understood that it was none of her business. Her focus was to extract and relay simple facts about how these people—her targets—appeared.
V.
And she kept her distance. Until Christina happened.
Cathy had been given three weeks of observation time, which was longer than usual. She got up early and parked outside a two-story red brick house with a black roof and windows of yellow light. Christina got herself ready for work while I made the boys breakfast. Cathy would later describe me as a short, round woman with a flat nose and curly black hair.
On that first day, Cathy followed Christina to an office building with large, revolving glass doors that soundlessly swallowed her. After a while, Cathy had to drive to her own office for a meeting, but she returned at noon, hoping to be able to spot her target as it went out for lunch.
Cathy followed her to a fish restaurant. Sitting by the bar right next to her table, Cathy listened to Christina and her colleagues gossip and joke. Christina’s laughter was the sea.
Cathy returned to the house that evening. Using a pair of binoculars, she observed the mother and her boys moving from window to window.
Silent sirens, bodies of love.
A couple of days later, they went to the zoo. Concrete walkways, greenery, crowds, waffles, mascots, and caged animals. Christina, heavy and full of energy, led the boys on, directed their attention, made them laugh, shared and amplified their excitement. She wore a short-sleeved silk dress and white designer sneakers.
The weekend before Cathy’s report was due, a man in jeans and a flannel picked the boys up in an old Toyota. Christina was alone. Cathy waited outside. For two days, her target stayed put, until she finally left the house to go to a nearby supermarket made of yellow aisles, tile floor, shelves, cans, bottles, cartons, and artificial light. Christina turned the cart with grace.
By now, Cathy had acquired a decent understanding of who Christina was: a resolute, well-organized, and empathic woman in her forties. And a divorcée who worked full-time while raising two boys practically on her own. Intelligent, well-educated, stubborn, and kind. Yet something felt different this time, something was missing. Cathy wasn’t satisfied.
Cathy left the supermarket and drove back to Christina’s house. She used a crowbar to break open a basement window. She figured she had about half an hour or so to find a decent place to hide. She crouched behind two cardboard boxes in the large, built-in hallway wardrobe. From there, she could hear most of what would go on in the kitchen and the living room.
Christina arrived home a little past five. Her sons were with her. She must’ve picked them up on her way back from the supermarket, Cathy thought. They hurried upstairs while their mother went into the kitchen. Cathy listened carefully to the rhythm of her dinner preparations: fridge, tap water, cans, stove, plates, and cutlery. Christina called on the boys to come down. They ate in the living room. There would be no TV during dinner, the mother said. The younger one, who had made the request, moaned. The older one belittled him. The mother intervened. Cathy heard everything.
The mother asked them about their weekend at their father’s place. They answered in monosyllables. She pushed for details.
—Things happened, the older one said.
—What do you mean?
Silence.
—What happened?
—He hit Tommy.
—He hit you?
—I dropped a jar, the younger one said.
—C’mon, you did nothing wrong. Come here.
When dinner was over, the boys were allowed to play video games while their mother did chores around the house. Cathy listened to the sound of clinking silverware and splashing water as Christina filled the dishwasher. From farther away came the sound of interactive entertainment for boys. Sometimes there were footsteps in the hallway, but no one opened the wardrobe.
Christina put the boys to bed at around nine, which presented a decent opportunity for Cathy to leave the house. She had to pee, badly. But she waited.
Christina came back down and called a friend or close relative. She told the friend/relative that her loser ex-husband had hurt Tommy and that she was “getting a fucking restraining order.” She calmed down, and they talked about her ex, his relation to the boys, what a custody dispute would mean, and his “pathetic” new girlfriend. The call lasted forty minutes. Then silence, steps—and the wardrobe opened. Cathy glimpsed her face, the somewhat bumpy nose, her hair, brown and curly, and her eyes, steady, thoughtful, deep, and dark. She didn’t look in Cathy’s direction. She found what she was looking for, a wool cardigan, and closed the wardrobe.
She made her second phone call of the evening, during which she confronted her ex-husband about what had happened. A door opened, and her voice waned. She must have gone down to the basement. Now it was time for Cathy to leave.
She exited the wardrobe and approached the front door. Stopped. Vaguely, she heard Christina’s agitated voice from below. On light feet, she sprinted upstairs and entered the bathroom, which was located near the top of the stairs. She peed without flushing. Approaching the stairs, she heard the basement door slam shut. Christina, a dark and coarse figure in the darkness, was headed for the stairs.
Cathy sneaked into a nearby room. The younger one breathed heavily in his bed. She crouched in the corner toward which the door swung. If Christina merely opened it to check on her son, Cathy would remain unseen, which was precisely what happened—the lower part of the boy’s bed was flushed with light, the rest covered in darkness as the mother hovered over the threshold. She closed the door.
The walls were thin. Cathy heard Christina brush her teeth, pee, wash, and undress. After maybe thirty minutes of silence, she exited the room. No light framed Christina’s bedroom door at the end of the corridor. Cathy couldn’t resist the temptation of one last look.
There she was. In bed, breathing. Clutching the sword of her dreams.
Upon finally leaving, Cathy had no choice but to leave the front door open. Christina would wonder but never know.
Cathy delivered her report in a small apartment located east of the city center. There was a hole in the wall, covered by a fine plastic net, next to a wooden chair. She sat on the chair and spoke into the hole. She talked about Christina for forty minutes.
Three days later, Stella asked Cathy to come around to her place. Cathy sensed that something was off.
Almost all of the lights were off when Cathy arrived. Stella told Cathy to undress. And with warmth, intensified by the dimness of the room, she added:
—Trust me.
Cathy was given a cup of lukewarm beverage that looked like milk but tasted of paper and glue. She drank it all and was led upstairs. Stella’s scent poured into her like a river and disappeared. She lay in bed, looking at the white field that was the ceiling. She lost her vision completely. There were no floating or dazzling remnants, no flashes, sparkles, or imprints of things that can’t be seen. It was as if a cord had been cut inside her brain. She also couldn’t feel her feet. She reached for them. They were bulky objects of skin and flesh in her hands. The numbness spread. And when all sound disappeared, the world closed in on itself, quietly leaving her in a state alien to time and space. She felt the cloth against her neck for a while.
She woke up in gray daylight. Her clothes lay neatly folded on a chair by the bed. She got up, dressed, and walked about the house. No one was there except her. The gray light shone in on furniture, appliances, floors, paintings, and rugs. The rooms and their objects were fully visible and identical to their appearances.
She was still in.
VI.
After the episode with Christina, Cathy’s observations struck a fine balance between invisibility and proximity. She never again transgressed. During three and a half years of observation assignments, she perfected the craft, delivering reports that were true masterpieces of carefully selected details.
She saw less of Stella, who, as their employer’s Global Brand Manager, traveled a lot. When they did meet, Stella was mostly cheerful. But they did not speak of the network, except for once, when Stella said, in passing:
—Congratulations, I heard you’ll receive a pass!
Soon after that, an old woman in the supermarket whispered to Cathy:
—Go to the Vietnamese restaurant on Pine Street on Sunday, order a vegan phò, wear a green baseball cap, and pay with cash.
And she did, and there it was, together with the receipt and the change. A card. Blank, plastic, and gold in color.
A few days later, the venue was conveyed to her through a note in her handbag. The note was to be destroyed, it said. She ate it, having memorized the address. Excitement. This was a reward.
The place was four hours away by car in a city she’d never been to. The GPS directed her to a public housing complex composed of shadows and a dozen towers, each at least twenty stories high. She was supposed to go to the seventeenth floor of “House F.” Nothing betrayed what she was about to experience. The entrance was run down and tagged with graffiti.
She stepped into the elevator. On the seventeenth floor were four doors, one of which was ajar. She approached the neon light that flowed from the opening and entered a dimly lit hallway. A stern man in a dark jacket and a turtleneck sweater nodded, closed the door behind her, and held out his hand. She gave him the gold-colored card. He went behind the reception counter, did something with it, then gave it back to her.
—Wait here.
To the right, a door. Behind the desk, another door. Cathy could find nowhere to sit. She stood while the guy stared into a computer screen, oblivious to her.
The door behind him opened. A man entered. He was in his thirties and wore a knitted tie, a checkered blazer, chinos, and a striped shirt. His skin was light brown, his glasses were round and stylish, and he kept his hair short. They shook hands.
—I’m Arnold. Now, this way, if you will.
They entered a narrow corridor with black walls. At its end was a spiral staircase. Upon descending the stairs, they came into a small room with a large, white, steel door. Arnold opened it and showed Cathy into a larger room with crates, shelves, racks, mirrors, and fitting rooms.
—You can help yourself to whatever you want. And you can keep it. If you want.
There were luxury and designer items of a variety of styles, colors, and sizes everywhere. New and vintage. As if someone had raided every fashion store in the city and put everything on those shelves.
—I spent three hours here on my first visit, Arnold said.
Cathy smiled wryly. She finally opted for a crimson Dior dress. It went to her knees and laid one shoulder bare. She matched it with a golden necklace, black suede pumps, and a Chanel handbag.
—You can get makeup done as well, he said.
Makeup artists, five of them, sat in cubicles, idle except for the one who was putting powder on a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and closed eyes. A young woman with an intelligent look dauntingly matched Cathy’s green eyes with silver eye shadow.
—Amazing! Let’s get a drink, Arnold said.
They went down another staircase, through an antechamber, and into a large, open space. Bottles gleamed behind the long and curved counter. The bartenders wore white shirts and black bowties. Only a handful of people occupied the stools. A pianist in the middle of the room filled the air with melancholic jazz tunes. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a stunning view.
Steel, glass, concrete, lights, and reflections in the sky: pompous contours of the city, ephemeral imprint.
They sat down by a window and ordered drinks. Arnold had tequila, she a whiskey sour.
—You have that glow in your eyes, he said, smiling.
She smiled back.
—What glow?
—Newcomer. It’s cute. Kinda envy you, you know.
Cathy shrugged. His eyes narrowed.
—Alright. I can see why you’re considered an asset. Most people would have asked by now.
—I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.
Arnold laughed and Cathy took a sip. Her cocktail was perfect.
—Relax! You’re here to have a good time.
—So, tell me about it.
—Okay. First thing you gotta know is no one watches you, and you’ll receive no assignments while you’re here. You’re free to do whatever. And there is plenty to do. Clubs, bars, and restaurants are everywhere, and new ones open all the time. What recently was an empty floor of raw concrete pillars may the next week have turned into a jungle-themed nightclub, complete with waterfalls, real fruit trees, and animal costumes for the visitors to dress up in. But you can do more than just clubbing and dining. There are numerous sports facilities, a library, a movie theater, and an auditorium with a daily program of lectures, concerts, and performances. You can play video games, paint, write poetry, organize seminars …
—Is there anything I can’t do here?
—All you need is to put in a request, and they will get it for you. Granted, the request isn’t, you know, unethical or anything.
—Who are the people that work here?
—Ah! We do.
He seemed amused, as if he’d anticipated the question and was looking forward to answering.
—Everyone here is a member of the network, he said. They cook, clean, work as fitness instructors, do maintenance work—you know, basically everything needed to keep the place going. And they live here. Some of these buildings contain apartments. You’re required to do a simple task for three hours per day. Then you’re free to do whatever. Most people of your type—you know, educated people—choose to engage in more advanced projects, like organizing clubs, seminars, role-playing, theater, whatever. But that’s entirely up to you. If you want, you can put in the required time and then just sleep, eat, watch TV, and get drunk.
—Who wants that?
—You’d be surprised. And many people spend nearly all of their free time in one of the sex clubs. Those are located in the basement.
Cathy rested her bare arms on the table and said, hesitantly:
—I thought this was more of a reward.
Arnold’s face was blank.
—What you think it is is entirely up to you. Your pass is valid for thirty days. During that period, you’re free to explore this place as you wish. An apartment has been prepared for you in that complex over there.
He nodded out the window and went on:
—When your trial period is up, you get to choose whether to stay or continue doing assignments. One word of advice, though, and I don’t say this to everyone. The longer you stay here, the harder it is to leave.
He stood up and pulled at his tie. He was speaking fast. His tone of voice was not so friendly now.
—And with that, I’ll leave you with your decision.
—Wait!
He stopped, his back to her.
—What will my future assignments be like?
He turned and smiled.
—I do hope that we meet again.
He left.
She stared into the vague reflection of her face in the window. She didn’t see the city. She asked a waiter to guide her to the exit. His directions were remarkably precise.
VII.
Not long after the encounter with Arnold, Cathy was given a new task. She was assigned to a safe house. It was located in a strip mall that was practically deserted. You entered an abandoned shop and walked through a corridor of gray concrete walls and fluorescent lighting. Behind a white door was a small room equipped with a bed, a chair, a basin, a water boiler, and a fridge. There was no window. The mall’s only remaining tenants were a liquor store and a dry cleaner—the new highway had diverted almost all the old traffic.
Cathy also received lessons in code.
Her teacher said:
—I’m here to transform how you perceive things. You’ll become an eye that interprets code in the world. Eventually, you’ll put together messages of your own.
That was true but also challenging. The code was vast and had a flat, irregular structure. Its multitude of rules dictated the validity of specific combinations rather than more extensive sets of possible combinations. The code could only be penetrated by learning the combinations, and their exceptions, by heart.
A pink napkin, for instance:
A pink napkin in a room with a painting of a black cat = Help.
A pink napkin in a room with a photograph of a white castle = Objects larger than wolves.
A pink napkin that touches a hairdryer = Family.
A pink napkin with bloodstains = Star anise.
A pink napkin with bloodstains that form random letters = The tallest structure ever built by humans.
A pink napkin that partly covers a dog = Venom.
A pink napkin that’s so dirty it’s almost gray = A road junction with broken traffic lights.
Cathy dug in, and fifteen months into her training, she realized she could decipher the content of the very first message she’d delivered. Her reading a book (week) with the words “gray sky” in its title (less than two) in the city’s third-largest mall (the imminent completion of a major project) while ordering a dish that contained at least three kinds of cheese (southern Germany) in the vicinity of a fake olive tree (underground hollowness) meant:
“In less than two weeks, the tunnel in southern Germany will be completed.”
Her therapist taught her code. She was in her fifties. Her straight black hair reached her shoulders. She never smiled. The sessions were real therapy sessions. But the last twenty minutes would be all about code. Cathy presented her homework and listened attentively as the therapist provided her with new knowledge and new assignments for next time. They met three times a week.
Hosting a safe house was effortless compared to observation assignments. She welcomed guests, brought necessities, cleaned, and saw after the place. The people who visited were silent, thoughtful, and packed lightly. They never stayed longer than one night.
At first, a random individual would approach her and briefly describe the guest and tell her the time of arrival. Then one day, she saw a man with a Yorkshire terrier on a yellow leash. He wore a blue turtleneck sweater, round glasses, and bounced a red ball against an oak tree:
“On Friday at 3 p.m., a young, light-skinned man wearing brown pants will arrive.”
From that moment onwards, she always received instructions in code. The fact that she was fluent enough pleased her.
Her therapist was a skilled teacher. And a skilled therapist. Cathy opened up to her about how she grew up with her sister and their mother. Her mother’s short temper and rage, sometimes turning violent, had disposed Cathy to seek control of every little detail and try to anticipate every possible negative event. Together, she and her therapist constructed a narrative about her experiences through which she checked those impulses and gained better control of herself.
Cathy was awarded a silver card. It was, in fact, superior to the gold version because it came with no obligations and provided her with unlimited access to a large number of places for recreation, entertainment, and leisure. Hidden and seemingly located everywhere, these places ranged from ordinary bars to big nightclubs, exclusive restaurants, and even an underground aquarium beneath a nail salon. Codified messages announced their existence. The red trash bin outside the nail salon was decorated with five star-shaped stickers. A woman wearing a green blouse led Cathy down the basement stairs.
Aquatic creatures swam behind glass that was spotless and thick.
VIII.
She smiled, her therapist on her mind, as she was about to enter a shoe store. A man said:
—Follow me.
He brushed by her and made his way to the children’s section, which was located in the basement. They were the only people down there. He pretended to inspect a rack of shoes. She stood on the other side of the rack. He wore a trench coat.
—Don’t talk. You’re in danger. I’ll tell you more soon. I’m going to exit this shop now. Count to ten, then follow me.
He walked up the stairs. She counted to ten. He was not there when she reached the ground floor. She got out on the street just in time to see him turn a corner. She followed and came to an alley where a red door slammed shut. Behind it was a steel spiral staircase that led to a car park. He was in a car with the motor running. He got out and opened the trunk. In it were a blanket and a pillow. She climbed in.
She could use her phone to tell their exact location. They headed east for an hour and stopped somewhere along the highway, on the outskirts of a town whose name was unfamiliar to her. The daylight was bright and brutal when he helped her climb out. They were parked outside a gas station.
—I’ll buy you coffee.
They sat on stools by the windows and watched people fill up their gas tanks or get something in the store. The coffee, steaming in paper cups in front of them, was tasteless.
—What’s this about? she asked.
—Take a look around you.
Cathy looked around. The guy behind the counter was overweight and unshaven. He wore a green baseball cap and a white T-shirt. An elderly couple walked the aisles. One of them, a woman, pressed a huge candy bar against her chest. In the back, over a brown door, was an exit sign.
—There are no messages here, he said.
Cathy had more or less internalized the code by now, in the same way that someone who knows how to read is unable to look at a text written in a language that they understand without also reading that text. The man was right. The people, their actions, the objects. They signified nothing.
—You’re not where you think you are. We fed your phone false GPS coordinates.
—“We?”
—I’m here to save you.
—You’re a police officer?
—What makes you think that?
She laughed. The situation was both uncomfortable and silly.
—I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself, he said. A chance to do the right thing.
—I’m not sure I understand.
—There is something called deep code. It’s like a sixth sense. Complex structures whose meaning can only be grasped intuitively. You’ve already been exposed to it.
He nodded towards her wrist. It glittered as she pulled up her sleeve. She always wore it on Sundays. The watch.
—They are destroying you, he said. Your path leads to submission. You’ll lose yourself and gain nothing.
The cars kept passing by. The sun warmed the earth. The sun warmed the snow.
—When you have acquired total sensibility for deep code, it will be too late. There is still time. If you cooperate.
—I don’t get it. Cooperate with whom?
—Don’t play the fool. We’re ready to hit the entire network in your region. You can choose to stand up for what’s right and, at the same time, save yourself. All you need is to do us a favor.
—And what’s that?
—Identify your handler.
—Handler?
—The person who invited you to the network.
—Okay. What if I don’t have a handler?
—You’re disciplined. That’s good. We’ve been watching you. There will be possibilities for you when this is over. But first, we need to get you somewhere safe. Just say the name, and we’ll get you far away from here.
—No. I mean, wait, what is this? Who are you? Why should I trust you?
—Do we really need to do this?
He squeezed the empty paper cup in his hands and threw it on the table.
—It all comes down to common decency, he said.
He reached for something in his inner pocket. Photos. They were black and white, and the first one showed naked bodies lying face down in a hole in the ground. They formed a perfect line of backs, buttocks, and hair. The next photo showed a girl, perhaps ten years old, her limbs cut off, sharp black cuts crisscrossing her eyes. In the third photo, two dogs were standing next to the severed head of an adolescent boy. Cathy turned her head and swallowed hard.
—I think I need to….
—Sure.
She headed for the restroom and splashed her face with cold water. There was a tiny window just below the ceiling. She yanked it open. It faced out onto the parking lot and was just big enough to crawl through. She hoisted herself up.
A semi was idling not far away. The man in the driver’s seat was middle-aged and wore a yellow sports jacket.
—Can you help me? Cathy said. My ex-husband, I have a restraining order against him, and suddenly he just showed up. I know he’s gonna hurt me, I think he has a gun…. Can I come with you? Please?
The truck driver nodded.
She hunkered down as he drove out of the parking lot. They passed the little building where they’d been drinking coffee. The man was still there, staring blankly out the dirty window. Seconds later, the truck bounced onto the highway.
The driver dropped her off in a nearby town, and from there, she took a cab to a mall. She bought a pink baseball cap, an orange scarf, and horseradish. She sought out the northernmost self-service laundry within city limits. Wearing the hat and the scarf, and eating horseradish, she coughed four times facing the window:
“Urgent. Need counsel from a superior member.”
A minute later, a man wearing a leather jacket, visibly younger than thirty, entered and picked up a white paper bag that had been lying on the floor. A drawing of dolphins was printed on it:
“Follow me.”
The man crossed the street and entered a brick building three stories high. She entered the building, too. A door on the second floor was open. Dense electric light welcomed her. As did Stella, with a big smile on her face.
—It’s so nice to see you!
They hugged. The walls had fresh white paint.
—There’s someone who wants to talk with you.
They went into a room without windows. The man she’d just met, the guy who had shown her the pictures, was sitting in an armchair, his eyes fixed on her as she entered.
Behind her, Stella said:
—Have a seat.
There was a white couch to her left. It was the only place where she could sit comfortably. Stella closed the door and seated herself next to Cathy.
—Congratulations, the man said.
Cathy stared at him. He went on:
—The photos I showed you, did you think they were real?
—Does it matter?
Stella touched Cathy’s shoulder.
—Your caution is exemplary, she said.
—Well, they’re pictures of dolls and people in makeup, the man explained. Which was impossible for you to know, and yet you chose to trust us. Which means you’ve qualified.
—For a special assignment, Stella said.
—Okay. What’s the assignment?
—It’s a test of confidence like the one you just passed. You’ll offer someone the possibility to betray us, he said.
Stella, again:
—You should know that success, on your part, will lead to possibilities for you.
Cathy savored the silence for a little while.
—Okay. I’m ready.
IX.
She learned who the target was the next day. A boy wearing green shoes with red laces carried three canaries in a cage while whistling a tune in a minor key:
“Christina Levin.”
Cathy started making plans. To lure Christina into betraying the network, she needed to be trustworthy and evoke feelings of fear, anxiety, and desire. She pictured Christina in her mind, tried to think and feel like her. The boys were the key. There should be some kind of threat to them. Or rather, a threat to Christina’s relationship with them. Something that erased the bond between the mother and her children.
Yes. She would tell Christina something like this:
—You’ll give the boys up. You’ll abandon them, and you’ll think it’s in their best interest. The network only wants you for the boys. You’ll lose them forever.
Cathy practiced her intervention in the bedroom. She recorded it, watched the recording, took notes, and did it all over again, adjusting her tone of voice, wording, and body language with each iteration. She tried out various looks and ended up going for basic clothes in warm earth colors.
She invented a mountain retreat for Christina. It was run by defectors and, she would claim, provided a safe hideout for people who wanted to leave the network. Here, everyone shared the labor of tending the crops, crafting, mending, cooking, educating the children, and caring for the sick and elderly. Cathy found pictures online to show Christina. A dirt road, a dark green forest, snow-covered peaks, fields, and pastures. Community and stillness. They were photos of a Swiss mountain village.
—Life up there is simple. The days are long and sometimes hard. But it’s—
Cathy paused. This sequence was pivotal. She had rehearsed it many times.
—We’re open to each other. We share our thoughts and feelings. We tell stories, play music, share our knowledge and our experiences. We’re not afraid. We’re safe. We’re…connected.
Christina started to tear up. Cathy went on to talk about the education the boys would receive. The retreat had an elementary school, where the children were divided into small groups and the teachers—they were all defectors—had substantial experience from various professions and previous teaching positions. Over and above standard school subjects, the teaching centered around ethics, oral and written communication, and critical thinking. The children were equipped to shape their lives away from the retreat and beyond the network’s grasp.
—When they’re fifteen, they’ll move to a foster home, Cathy said, so that they can attend a regular high school. We have a network of carefully selected families across the country. They’ll return to visit during summer break, of course. The summers we have up there…they’re beautiful. And all of a sudden, they’ll be grown-ups.
She paused, pretending that an unspeakable thought was crossing her mind. She glanced at her watch.
—Sorry, we’ve been talking for too long. It’s time for you to decide. No one knows I’m here. A word from you, and it’ll be as if this encounter never happened. But make up your mind quickly because if you do want to come, we have to leave now.
They were sitting on squeaky chairs by the kitchen table. The light from the pendant lamp was yellow. Shadows and objects. The windows distorted the room. The night sealed the world.
And Cathy knew that Christina would come with her because, for a brief moment, she, Cathy, had also believed in the vision.
Christina went upstairs to pack and wake the boys.
Cathy drove them in a rental car for almost three hours in the middle of the night until they reached a motel room far away from any major city. Christina, weary and careless, hugged her. They had been talking in the car, and Cathy had revealed more details about the retreat, improvising as she went along. She held back her enthusiasm, careful not to oversell, and made sure her story was consistent.
The boys crashed on the twin bed that occupied most of the room.
—Thank you, Christina said.
It was over. Their hug lasted nine seconds. The door closed behind Cathy as she stepped into the electric wasteland of the parking lot.
X.
Cathy waited for confirmation that she had successfully carried out her assignment. But there were no coded messages anywhere. The network was mute. Everything signified nothing.
The silence lasted years. But that didn’t worry her. She had paid her dues and would be ready when they called upon her.
Meanwhile, life continued. She also started seeing a new therapist. (The woman who had taught her code was nowhere to be found.) The therapy helped Cathy stop relating to everyone through the prism of her mother’s controlling rage.
She met her friends more often and tried new things, like an amateur acting course, where people met weekly to improvise roles and scenes. Cathy was good at it. To be immersed in a stage world and to inhabit someone else came easy to her. The course instructor even invited her to a smaller, more advanced group. But she politely declined the offer. For her, acting was nothing more than a fun distraction.
She met Luke at a dinner party. He was a fit guy her age who worked in real estate. He was intelligent, confident, and quiet. Cathy felt comfortable around him.
After going steady for a year, they bought an apartment by the river together. It was during one of Cathy’s runs along the river, as she was about to cross it to head back home, that a yellow balloon tied to a bridge railing within thirty feet of a blue Renault minivan appeared before her:
“Get ready.”
She began rehearsing code, drawing on memory alone, as she didn’t have access to any textbooks or an instructor. Silently—in the shower, at work, in the gym, before going to sleep—she went through all the combinations she could remember. She carefully concealed the effort. Luke suspected nothing.
Although she quickly brushed up her knowledge, she kept on rehearsing, whereupon new combinations emerged, ones she was sure she had never been taught but that followed from the ones she already knew. She tirelessly expanded her knowledge, building on the endless possibilities of increased complexity and precision.
Six months later, Cathy drove down Christina’s street. She and Luke had begun looking for a bigger home. They spent evenings and weekends at house viewings around the city. The house they were headed to was, incidentally, located in the same neighborhood as Christina’s.
She parked outside Christina’s house. I watched her sit in the car with Luke. She said something to him. I was on the second floor, with Christina. She got out of the vehicle and approached the front door. I heard it open and shut. I heard her walking up the stairs. I turned around to face her as she entered the bedroom. I was pleased with how quickly she regained her composure.
She walked up to us and stood opposite me, studying Christina with a curious gaze.
After a while, she said:
—She’s so still.
—For the time being.
—She moves?
—There are occasional spasms and groans, but she doesn’t dream. Her movement and the sounds she makes are unconscious.
She touched Christina’s forehead.
—You did this, I told her.
She looked at me. I continued.
—She’ll be like this forever. But you’ll move on.
—She was disloyal.
—And your performance was extraordinary. Could you give me a hand? She needs to lie on her side for a while.
She joined me on the other side of the bed and helped me roll Christina’s body. Cathy held her body firmly while I massaged it. I propped some pillows behind Christina’s back to fix her position.
I gestured at Cathy to follow me. She tailed me down the stairs and into the kitchen. I brought out three brown cups and filled them with water, juice, and beer. She slipped the watch off her wrist and let it fall onto the table.
Outside, the dogs were barking. I watched her walk toward the door, I watched her open it. I caught a glimpse of Luke and the dogs. They circled him, tails wagging. He had exited the car and greeted Cathy with a big smile.
XI.
This account ends here.