Authors: Mary Robinette Kowal
Forest of Memory
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:
http://us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.
For Jay Lake and Ken Scholes
Who asked me to tell them a story
My name is Katya Gould. As you’ve requested, to guarantee this is a unique document, I’m typing it on the 1918 Corona 3 typewriter that I had in my bicycle cart when I was abducted by the man known as Johnny. You will receive both these pages and the tyepwriter.
And all of the typos that accompany this account.
The ribbon, incidentally, is a reproduction fab-matter ribbon. My habit, when I take on a new client, is to learn what I can of them, so that I can tailor my offerings to their tastes. About you, I know nothing beyond the fact that your payment cleared.
You might be a single person, or a collective artificial consciousness, or a cryptid represented by an avatar. I do not know if you have requested this document to solidify the provenance of your typewriter, or if you are interested in the possible connection between my abduction and the deer die-off, or if there is some other rationale behind your request, and so I hope you will forgive me if I do not write exactly what you have paid for. I am used to providing unique experiences or items to my clients, not to being one of those items.
On the seventh of April, I biked out to a vineyard in the Willamette Valley. In one of my standard datacrawls through public LiveConnects, Lizzie—
That’s my intelligent system. I don’t know what you call your i-Sys, but mine is named after a character in a book. I gave her the crisp diction of the long-vanished mid-Atlantic.
I’m an Authenticities dealer. This will hardly be my only eccentricity, and I will try not to digress further. So . . .
Anyway. Lizzie had flagged a possible typewriter. It was part of a display, and it was hard to tell if it was a repro printed with fab-matter or a genuine artifact. That’s why you have to go see these things in person.
I wandered into the tasiting room, and the man behind the counter gave me a smile that almost looked genuine. “I’m pouring a couple of idfferent windes today.” He set a glass on the counter. “What can I start you with?”
“Actually, I’m interested in part of your display.” I pulled out a paper busineess card. That was Lizzie’s cue to sned him my contact information. In return I got a data packet that identified him as Autrey Wesselman.
Wesselman took the business card, rubbing his thumb across the letterpress impression as he gave a low whistle. “Haven’t seen one of these since my mom was running the place.”
“Well, when you deal in Authenticities, an actual business card just seems appropriate.”
He snorted. “If someone wants an authentic crappy fork lift, I’ve got one available. Guaranteed to stall at the least convenient moment.”
“If you’re serious, I might be able to find a home for that.” I rested my elbows on the clean pine counter. Dings and scars testified to its lifteime of service in this tasting room. Too bad it was built in. “But I’m actually hoping I can take a look at your typewriter.”
His brows went up. “Typewriter?”
My heart beat a little faster at that. The surprise in his voice sounded as if he didn’t even know he had one. “There’s a display in the member barrel room”
“Huh.” Wesselman folded his bar towel. “That’s my niece’s domain. I just handle the tasting room.”
“May I speak with her, then?”
He shrugged. “She’s out of town on a sales trip. I can take you back there.” He set the towel down and put an old bell in the center of the counter.
It looked to be from the mid-twentieth century, though without picking it up or using my loupe, I couldn’t confirm that. The fine dust caked into the grooves around the base seemed real enough, though. Most people who print fakes know enough to add dust to make it seem older, but they usually put it on too thickly and without regard for the use patterns of everyday objects.
A small blackboard on a miniature wire easel went next to it. “Ring for service. Making wine.”
I raised my eyebrows. “So you’re the winemaker?”
He glanced at the sign and shook his head, wincing a little. “It’s the easiest explanation, but no—not anymore. My niece handles that now.”
“And you just do the tasting room?”
He tapped the side of his nose. “Concussion. Severed my olfactory nerves.”
“Oh. Oh, I—I am so sorry.”
“Years ago.” He turned and walked toward the glass double doors that led to the back of the winery. “Got enough back so food doesn’t taste like cardboard anymore, but not enough to make wine.”
“But enough to do the tasting room.”
“That?” He paused to hold the door open for me, and a wave of dark fruit aromas billowed into the winery. “They all taste the same now. I just rely on memory to describe them to customers.”
Memory.
It seems like such an unreliable thing. I am so
used
accustomed to using my i-Sys, Lizzie, to recall recorded memories for me, yet she can only do that for audio and visual memories. What I smelled, or tasted, or felt, is another story. And what I thought?
I can use the saved record to remind myself of these sensory details, but my thoughts change based on the new viewing. I re-examine and revise my perspectives.
And without a recording . . .
We live so little of our days without a LiveConnect to record it. And the three days you are asking about are among those. I wonder if, in part, what youa re intetersted in is the very fact that I have memories unemcumbered by a verified record.
The part I’m telling you now, of course, occurred while I was still on the Grid. I don’t have to remember the winemaker’s words; I
can just ask
just asked Lizzie to do playback for me.
As I type this, I can see the winemaker’s faded red hair catch the light in the late afternoon sun as we leave the wine room.
I can hear the sound of our footsteps tapping in and out of sync as we cross the vast space of the winery proper. The way the industrial white walls frame the rounded wood barrels and the purple stains on the cement floor are all part of
the record
my LiveConnect record.
We walked to a lacquered-wood door set into one wall of the winery. It was made of reclaimed barrel staves, straightened in a steamer and polished so the stain of pinot noir gleamed under the cool LED lights.
The interior of the member barrel room was dimmer than the working winery. Each barrel lay in its own cradle with a the member’s name branded into the head of the barrel. A long table and library chairs turned it inot part laboratory, part reading room.
As we entered, Lizzie spoke in my ear. “The south wall has the display.”
I turned south, and the wall matched the image she’d spotted on a member’s public LiveConnect. An alcove had been set into the wall—probably to hold an old-style television at some point in the past—and it was filled now with someon’es imagining of what an office might have looked like.
It was the sort of mishmash of eras that treated the entire twentieth century as if it was all one thing.
The typewriter (this Corona #3 from 1918) sat next to a cordless phone (Bell from the mid-eighties), and an office plaque that, by its font, probably came from the 1950s. A stack of floppy discs sat atop a Samsung printer from the late nineties. And . . . wonder of wonders—a battered paperback
Webster’s Dictionary
.
I do remember that my hands itched to pick it up the moment I saw it. The angle of the image Lizzie had snagged didn’t show the paperback; it was beautifully worn, as if someone had really used it.
Wesselman cocked his head and wandered over to the alcove. “Huh. That looks nice. Not that I’m surprised. Amy has good taste. Literally.”
I can hear my own laugh on the recording, and I probably smiled. “And in more than one area, apparently. May I?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
I picked up the dictionary first. The pages were yellowed with age, but not brittle. I opened the cover, taking care not to add any of my own imprints to it, and stared. Three different names had been written inside.
David
Autrey
Leopold
Wesselman
Amy Casteel
I had heard those names in conjunction with the family. “Relatives?” I tilted the book so he could see.
He cocked his head. “Yeah . . . my great-grandfather, granddad, and Mom.”
I thumbed through the pages, which carried a record of the past. “This is gorgeous.”
Wesselman’s brow crinkled. “What? Really?”
“My clients are most excited by wabi-sabi—” I paused as the confusion on his face deepened. “It’s a Japanese term. Something that witnesses and records the graceful decay of life. See? Someone underlined ‘autocratic.’ The ink is the same green as Leopold Wesselman’s name, so he probably did the underlining. It’s a tiny peek into his thoughts.”
“Huh.”
I turned to page seventy-four. “That coffee stain tells us that they were probably staying up late working.”
“Or reading it over breakfast.”
“Exactly. The question is more interesting than the answer.” I closed it and thumbed the rough punctures on the cover. “Teeth marks. Someone had a dog. The hints are what make it so intriguing. Each piece of wear shows a part of the lifecycle of the book.”
“Terroir.”
“Pardon?” I looked up and to the left. Lizzie tracked my eye motion and supplied the definition.
She whispered, “Terroir is the characteristic taste and flavor—”
Wesselman’s answer overpowered hers and she trailed off. “It’s the unique expression of the terrain on the wine. Clone a grapevine and plant it somewhere different and the grapes change. Then the weather in a particular year changes the expression still more, so every wine is unique. Well . . . without weather control.”
I laughed with delight. “Yes! We deal in very much the same concept, but different expressions of authentic experience.” I set the dictionary down and ran my finger over the platen of the typewriter. “My clients can print anything they want, so what they crave are things that are truly unique.”
“How about the typewriter?” He gestured with his chin toward the machine.
“Do you know its history?”
“I thought that was your job.”
Sighing, I picked up the typewriter without asking for permission. Even though I’ve handled them before, I remember being startled by how light the Corona 3 was compared to some of the desktop typewriters. “I can tell you if it’s a real typewriter, and make some guesses about the sort of use it saw, but that’s not the same as a full provenance.”
“Well. It’s not a family piece. It belonged to a friend of my grandfather’s, but I don’t know who owend it before that.”
“Did they werite on it?” I set it on the big library table in a puddle of golden light. The enamel on the edges of the chassis
were
was worn where the folding mechanism had banged into it.
“Dunno. Before my time.”
What I want, in a situation likke this, is a complete oral history of the object. If there is a receipt o f purchase, that’s even better. I rarely get that.
And I have clients who don’t need it. Some of them are interested in the machine tiself and less so in the story that comes with it.
You seem to want both.
Or perhaps something else entirely. I can offer you a time-stamped LiveConnect record of everything I experienced up until I went off the Grid. There seems to be no need to tell you about the chipped enamel on the chassis. You can see that, well enough. Do you care that the wear pattern on the percentage symbol likely means that a previous owner worked in accounting?
I think it most likely that what you want to know is how the typewriter relates to Johnny. So I am going to suit myself, since your wishes are opaque to me, and jump ahead to after I negotiated for the typewriter and dictionary, and began to ride home.
One of the things I pick up when I’m on my shopping trips are Captures. You might have even bought one of mine. The one of the farmhouse in southern Oregon, where I found a nest of kittens in an old clothes dryer? The audio of their purring and tiny mews still gets mixed into dance scores, even after all this time. You should see what I got for the dryer itself, since after the Capture it had a popularity provenance to boot. Between Captures and Authenticities, I don’t have to turk myself out with a lot of little freelance jobs.
Sometimes that unique record is an experience, like this.
I always keep my Lens on, even when I’m just cycling from our homestead into Salem to catch the train or a blimp, and I pay for extra bandwidth for high-rez Captures.After I haggled for the typewriter, I rode my bike through the woods on the narrow road that led from the vineyard toward Salem. This first part is visible on my LiveConnect.
It starts with me on my bike. My plan was to ride up to Salem, hauling my cart of Authenticities, and hook up with the high-speed rail at the node there, then take that the rest of the way into Portland. Lizzie whispered in my earbud, “Deer crossing. Please check your progress.”
“What’s the penalty charge?” I had a meeting to get to and could NOT waste time out here. I mean, protecting species was great and all, but there were times when I wished the online community didn’t place quite so much importance on noninterference with natural habitats. Would the deer really freak out that much if I biked in front of them?
“One hundred and fifty vinos.” Anticipating my next question—I do have her well trained—the i-Sys whispered. “It is a small herd with five registered individuals in their corporate entity. Estimated wait time is three minutes.” The fine was almost as much as my co-op fees for a month, so I decided to wait. I figured I could make up the delay.
It’s important to understand, through this next bit, that I didn’t know that I was offline already or that I was talking to Lizzie’s buffer on my inboard system.
None of the warning indicators went off to indicate that I’d lost connection to the net.
I doubt my own mind, at times.
I’ll tell you that it’s strange trying to remember without being able to pull up the recording and just look at it.
I keep turning those three days over in my head so that, in some ways, they’re sharper than any other memory in my life. In other ways, I think I’m wearing the edges off the memory by looking at it so much.But perhaps that wearing away is a form of wabi-sabi.
