Collective Mind (18 page)

“Yeah,
infinity’s mighty stuff,” Bikie declared. He had listened to the theory of God
with genuine interest. “You know, Isaac, they should put you on a stake! I’d
even lend them my Zippo lighter to light it.” Just a second ago Bikie was
serious too, but now he started hooting with laughter in his usual manner.

“A
gaping black hole has just appeared in your karma, and the remains of your
clueless brain have started evaporating out through it, Bikie.”

“No
problem, it was you who just said that my brain is infinite. And even after it
has evaporated almost to a frazzle there’ll still be something left. A handful
of thoughts and my last three hundred Spartan soldier thoughts will kick ass on
your legion of Persian fantasies.”

“That’s
right, a battle of

minds.
Only be more accurate your last three hundred thoughts will all be about
chicks. So your regiment is Spartan women, not Spartan warriors.”

“Please
stop fucking with my brain!”

They
roared with laughter and cracked jokes, teasing each other although the
conversation had supposedly started with a serious subject. God probably
invented humor and jovial people especially so that we wouldn’t go gaga trying
to understand what comes after the universe or die of boredom.

“Isaac,
tell me how does your idea of God and infinity fit together with karma?”

“I
don’t know, I haven’t thought about it.”

“Well,
I’ll tell you. Karma is your identification number, your coordinates in
infinity, God can see you after all in the context of infinity, and you’re
totally insubstantial. You’re a tiny piece of space and an empty space.”

Isaac
couldn’t tell if Bikie was serious. It could easily be a joke. After two hours
of traveling the van eventually reached Genoa and the road divided. Driving
straight on led into the city, then towards Pisa and on to Rome. The road going
left led to Milan and Turin.

“The
great Genoese were born in this very city,” thought Isaac, remembering
Christopher Columbus. “The man whose curiosity and love of adventure, combined
with impudence gave the world the discovery of America and brought gold
flooding into the treasury of the Spanish crown causing the deaths of thousands
of Indians.”

At
first what they saw looked like a fairly run-of-the-mill port and an industrial
city but when they reached the historical center everything changed and the
city became magnificent. Leaving the van in a car park, the two friends set off
to Ferrari square to have a cup of coffee and a light snack. There was plenty
worth looking at here.

“Isaac,
the spirit of pioneering endeavor dwells in this city,” said Bikie, obviously
thinking about the same thing.

“Our
goal is different. On the contrary, we want to halt a certain pioneering
endeavor. And we’ll do it too, despite its massive upside.”

This
was the first and last large city on their route and they felt they couldn’t
deny themselves the little joys of a journey. Their mood was excellent, the
jokes were as feeble-minded as in the morning and the sun was scorching,
forcing them to squint or shut their eyes. Isaac and Bikie were on a high. As
for the goal of the journey, it could wait after all, they were not in the
army, they did not have precise schedule to go by and were not expected to be
stern and serious, with no right to down a couple of beers along the way. So
they did. The mug of beer invigorated their philosophical mood.

“Bikie,
we have a chance of becoming heroes or anti-heroes. The world has become
cleaner and less aggressive; there are no wars, less crime, a whole heap of
achievements. Even the fact that Veggies’ children are stupid doesn’t mean that
it cannot be fixed. We now see the world striving towards an ideal utopia.
Should we fight that? We’re certain to be regarded as terrorists or villains.
The funniest thing is that a couple of months ago I would have tried to stop a
pair of schizos like you and me.”

Bikie
was already getting used to his friend’s fits of self-doubt. Unlike Isaac, he
had no second thoughts; he was calm as a boa constrictor.

“The
world won’t lose the technologies it has already gained from OE and there’s
nothing else good left to look forward to. And don’t quail, before we hack in,
we’ll weigh everything up one more time. Now, why don’t you just take a look at
those lovelies?”

At
that, Bikie strolled rakishly toward two female tourists and introduced
himself.

The
girls turned out to be Swedish from Stockholm, Stephanie and Carla. They had
arrived in the morning on a cruise liner that was leaving for Rome tomorrow. In
three days of sailing they had become thoroughly bored and were glad to keep
Bikie's and Isaac’s company. They had a great time as Bikie spun tales about
the dangerous journey through Africa that the guys had ahead of them, all the
way down to Johannesburg, and invited them to look over the van, in which he
and Isaac were going to live, sleep and cook as they cut across the dark
continent, all the time bewailing the fact that they’d probably miss European
women terribly on the journey.

It
wasn’t clear if Stephanie and Carla believed in the African trek, but they went
to look at the van. Isaac preferred to leave the van and the free-and-easy
socializing entirely to Bikie despite the beer he had drunk and the obvious
interest he could feel from Stephanie. Michelle Blanche was firmly stuck in his
head… and Vicky too. He definitely wasn’t interested in other girls. Isaac
tried to drive away his lustful thoughts of Vicky by recalling memories from
their childhood, telling himself that they were friends and virtual brother and
sister. “No, a confession of that sort will definitely shock her,” he thought.
And the last thing he wanted to do was to unsettle Vicky and drive her away
from him. He had to admit that even when he started thinking about her, when
thoughts of love came up, he caught himself switching back to Michelle. That
was probably for the best.

Isaac
went for a stroll through Genoa Old Port.

In
the meantime, Bikie, without batting an eye, raked both girlfriends up in his
arms, promising to tell them about the dangerous hippopotamus well as the
cannibalistic customs of some tribes. He began by saying that a male lion
usually had several females at once and they made love up to seventeen times a
day. The last thing that Isaac heard as he clambered out of the van was the
beginning of a story about how girls in Africa often didn’t wear any blouses,
preferring the natural look of nakedness.

Bikie
didn’t bother to call or text Isaac when the girls left, he fell asleep right
there in the middle of the van on top of a crumpled sleeping bag. That was how
the furious Isaac found Bikie, all alone, after freezing outside until four in
the morning. He was forced to go back to the van, even though his friend hadn’t
answered any of his calls or texts.

***

The
next morning Isaac and Bikie boarded a ferry to Sardinia.

“Just
look at that view! I wonder how some Monet or Picasso would have painted it.”

“He’d
have painted it wonderfully. He’d have painted you yesterday pretty well too.
With your pants down in a van littered with all sorts of garbage and beer
bottles.”

 “No
one drove you away yesterday. You went yourself. You have no damn reason to be
angry. Why don’t you just look how beautiful this is?”

“I
think I’ll postpone the nature for a while and get a couple of hours’ sleep.”

But
Isaac couldn't go to sleep, the van was stinking of hangover and in the end he
had to join Bikie on the deck.

“Nature
is an infinity of masterpieces, and any work of art attempts to create a
composition, colors and depth that are equal to nature,” Bikie said with a
wink, emphasizing the word “infinity”.

“I
don’t agree. The artist often doesn’t attempt to produce anything like that.
For instance, I don’t understand the phenomenon of Picasso. He definitely
didn’t aspire to reproduce the beauty of nature.”

“Well,
Picasso’s case is obvious, he’s a genius.”

“If
it’s so clear to you, explain to me, stupid as I am, what makes Picasso a
genius?

“Picasso
has real masterpieces that show his talent. For instance, Girl on a Ball and
the famous Peace Dove. The entire pink period. You know what that is, I hope?
He has drawings that seem completely childish but still cost crazy money.
Picasso is at the very minimum an absolutely brilliant manager. As for his art,
I bet you won’t find a single authoritative art export bold enough to criticize
Picasso out loud, he’d be torn to pieces. The same with common folks:

“Do
you like Picasso?’

“Oh,
yes he’s a genius!’

“What
do you see in his works?’

“Well,
I see colors, interesting ideas…’

“And
what ideas do you see in those squiggles and large daubs? I don’t see any…’

“Who
are you to criticize Picasso? You just don’t understand him!’

“And
you do?’

“Yes,
I do. And other people do too.’

“No
one understands him; they all think there are some ‘other people’ who do. But
there aren’t any other people. Yes, there are fans that get a real kick out of
his works.

“
I suppose, Picasso might have not sought to inject any sense into his work —
just painted from his ‘gut feeling’. Only Pablo is dead now and you can’t ask
him: ‘Do I understand you correctly?’ In India there’s an elephant that picks
up a brush in its trunk and trails it over a canvas or a piece of cardboard.
Some smart-ass expert would probably ‘understand’ it if he wasn’t told the
picture was painted by an animal.”

“I
wonder,” said Isaac, interrupting this dramatic monologue, “how many HITs
Picasso had? Must have been a bazillion.”

“It
would be funny to find out that he was average, while the people who promoted
him have a really high one. Now that would be a hoot.”

“Remember
the artist who only became famous after he became a Veggie? After the fact it
turned out that he had had a super load of OE, he was one of the highest rated
downloaders. The journalists trumpeted the story about, and people started
admiring his paintings. He was immediately declared one of the greatest
geniuses of modern times.”

“It
have always been that way, people often started idolizing a genius only after
he died in misery. Not just painters. It happened with Mozart, who died totally
destitute. And since he was writing a Requiem when he became fatally ill, a
popular rumor spread that he was writing it for himself. Public Relations,
although it wasn’t called PR in those days. If people weren’t so fond of
spoofs, who knows, maybe all his brilliant compositions would have sunk into
oblivion.”

“Wouldn’t
it be great to find out Mozart’s rating?”

“Forget
about the dead. We’ve got to worry about the living.”

***

When
they reached Sardinia, Isaac and Bikie went straight to Porto Cervo. The cigar
shop was located somewhere in its vicinity. Their stomachs were rumbling and
they decided to eat something before putting their plan into action.

They
took a table at the veranda of a little restaurant that caught their eye and
started discussing once again what the connection between Professor Link and
his assistant might be.

The
sickly aroma of gossip hung in the air, but the two friends felt that they were
obliged to understand the role of the Japanese woman Yoshi, not out of
curiosity, but for the good of the cause, and so they could not avoid the
subject.

Everything
suggested that the professor was bound to her by more than just sex. She bought
his cigars for him, so she could not be just a plain call girl. A lover,
friend, assistant? What?”

Isaac
suddenly stared, wide-eyed, and his lips stretched out into a broad smile.

“I
think that’s her,” he said, jabbing his finger towards a woman walking past
nearby, who looked Filipino or Malaysian.

“Ohure,
the first Asian woman we see will turn out to be the very one we’re looking
for! Of course, you’re a flukey bastard Isaac, but not that flukey.”

“What
does flukiness have to do with it? It’s just analysis and precise calculation.
You can’t really understand me with your four miserable stars,” Isaac snapped.

“Right,
right, definitely. If you multiply the length of the equator by the number of
Japanese and divide it by the number of Chinese, take away the square root of
ginseng, then you’re bound to get thirteen. If you get bullshit, it means your
calculations were fuckin’ bullshit too.”

“Hey,
cut the swearing!”

“I’m
not swearing even though your calculations make me feel like it.”

“No
Bikie, swearing is really the lowest of the low.”

“Stop
bitching, you’re just jealous of me.”

“Why,
I wonder, would I be jealous of you?”

“You’re
jealous of my light-blond locks.”

“What
blond locks, you’ve got dark hair.”