The day was perfectly cloudy and humid, the streets of the city were crowded with vehicles and citizens who exchanged a glance when they received an external stimulus, as a concrete example, having to stop for traffic signs, thus finding on the other side of the street other people with similar objectives, most of them going to work, knowing that a few seconds later they will forget each other as an infant simply forgets his lost toy. The seats in the courtyard of the academy were cold and deserted, the only company was the sound of silence, so expectant, so lonely at the same time; few people could appreciate it and instead they feared it, ignored it. However, Yashiro had realized the beauty of its smallness.
When the wind blew on her face and made her look away, a mystical apparition left her motionless. It was a figure sitting on one of the stone seats, with one leg over the other and his hands together, staring at the sky in astonishment, as if grey sweetened his whole being. A person who was watching, not looking. At that moment, she was tormented by the acknowledged desire to sit next to him and analyze his reaction. Would he be surprised by the unexpected closeness? Would he walk away from her out of discomfort? Or would he give up telling her all his problems, as many old people used to do in the squares?
And yet, her body moved away from the image her mind kept recording, unaware that she had walked to the library, where she often stayed to pass the time. The human absence from that room was exorbitant, and she adored it. She headed to the science fiction area and picked up a book she had started reading a few days before, which it was still in the same position; evidently, fewer and fewer people were interested in reading or even approaching books, as if the mere presence of these released a terrifying aura.
Like an algorithm following its programming, she first felt the scent of the pages and then succumbed to the pleasure of wrapping herself in a different world, letting her thoughts flow freely until she reached a mental climax. Deep down she longed to convey what she felt with someone who would listen attentively, of his own free will, and as far as possible, show a different opinion, excluded from any outside influence. The books filled the emptiness that was eating away at her, but one way or another, when she took her eyes off the pages, the characters would eventually disappear, and she found no substitute other than her own imagination.
"I am the verb, and my name cannot be pronounced. It is the name which no one knows. They call me Ubik, but Ubik is not my name. I am. I shall always be," a soft voice that seemed from a distant, unreachable dream emerged.
After looking up, she found a tall young man with striking amber eyes and completely snow-white hair. He was dressed in yellow vest and trousers, as well as wearing matching moccasins. Although he would be only a few years older than her, his appearance made him more imposing. She smiled suddenly at his style, but remembered the image of the courtyard and her expression darkened as she realized it was the same man she had seen before. Yashiro merely nodded in understanding, and the stranger proceeded to sit in the nearest chair, in a formal, inquisitive posture.
"The metaphor of God," Yashiro blurted out thoughtfully.
With one leg crossed over the other, he leaned forward as he scrutinized her with his sly, prominent eyes, at once cordial and penetrating. The man kept a look of professional kindness on his face, a firm and determined attention that was immersed in Yashiro, whom he did not know, but studied very carefully, attracted by something she was not aware of, as he raised his head a few inches in a defiant gesture.
"The spray can is only a form that Ubik takes to make it easier for people to understand it and use it," the man concurred. "It's not the substance inside the can that helps them, but rather their faith in the promise that it will help them."
Yashiro half-opened her eyes to the music of his words, one that seemed to sync with her, and she felt her heart tremble with both surprise and fascination. It had been a long time since she had heard that name, and nostalgia invaded every inch of her mind. It was strange for her to talk about those subjects with someone else; after all, who would want to talk about books when there was the network, the CommuFields, where one could be and do what one wanted? Besides, who would spend time reading in person when audiobooks existed?
"Every individual who dares to immerse himself in the works of Philip K. Dick is worthy of my attention," the strange gentleman said, letting a tenuous smile shine on his lips. "I would be glad to talk, to whom do I owe the honor?"
Yashiro frowned. She had a feeling that the young man was not used to spending words with just anyone, was as or more reserved than she was, and the fact that he was there, made her overflow with curiosity. Yashiro knew almost everyone at the Ousou Academy, but she had never seen him.
"Takahashi Yashiro."
In a slow, cautious motion, both strangers shook their hands warmly.
"Shibata Yukimori."
Yashiro stared at him for a long time in silence, like a sculpture whose meaning had to be found. She studied his features and his unruffled appearance, strangely moved. She left Dick's copy on a small table next to her and stretched out on her armchair. Professor Shibata did the same with the book he had, and turned back on the backrest, hands clasped in a thoughtful and certainly proud gesture, while he continued to examine her.
"Rousseau was ahead of his time in stating that man is condemned to be free, but he is everywhere in chains," he declared, gesturing with his hands. "What are we willing to sacrifice for welfare, order, peace? As John Stuart Mill anticipated centuries ago: today's society is fully aware of individuality, and the danger that looms over human nature is no longer excess, but a lack of personal impulse and preference. And a human being without desire or impulse has no more character than a steam engine."
Yashiro's eyes twinkled filled with complicity and bewilderment, she felt the hatred within him in her own flesh, melting her into the whirlwind of words she knew so well, which took her breath away with the force of a blow. When she decided to join the current, she did so with the same impetus like an avalanche of ideas, and she was no longer able to contain her speech gestures and the indignant tone of her voice.
"The tyranny of custom," she pointed out, grimacing with her lips. "Any singularity of taste, any originality of conduct is avoided as if it were a crime—"
"Because it really is!" the young man lashed out, stretching out one of his hands. "As soon as the social order is broken, price is paid by everyone: both by those who corrupt it to do harm… and by those who decide to take the risk of being different by creating something new. Because the Sibyl System finds no difference, it only regulates the entities, each and every one of them, as if they were one."
Freedom has consequences, as there will always be someone who steps out of line, who breaks the barriers imposed by the system. The fact that each brain is a complex and mysterious universe full of stars, makes the carrier a unique entity within society. And that implies that there will always be someone who holds a different view of what well-being represents. Was that the end of humanity, in every sense of the word? Were they really to sacrifice their nature for the sake of order and peace? Yashiro remembered Ouryou Roichi and his intriguing paintings, which would then be dusty and lying in some room, with no audience to give them recognition and credit.
"An anthill where each individual comes to belong to society, serving his neighbor with a function that exploits his possibilities, but which is not conscious," Yashiro agreed in a whisper. "And for people to develop, they have to live in an atmosphere of freedom. Otherwise, there will no longer be breakers of all traditions, calm, universal paradigm—just as Charles Darwin or Galileo Galilei was in his time…"
Yashiro regretted being born in that century. She dreamed of seeing completely free the inhabitants of a country, capable of controlling themselves without an external authority, but she saw it as difficult, there were still centuries to go; and in spite of this, she kept imagining superior humans walking around in museums and watching, amidst laughter, the dominator, the murders, the religions—until they felt ashamed of their predecessor and turned away from such an aberration.
She discovered one detail they had in common, and that was that neither of them was bothered by moments of silence. Many of her companions preferred to talk about anything rather than find that fearful void—a true companion for those who really knew how to listen. As a result, the greatness of words had diminished to the point that people said too much, but talked little. The man turned to the window overlooking the outside and faint rays of light fused with the amber glow of his eyes.
"People can choose, but they are unable to act based on their individual interests. They have freedom, but they can't exercise it," he refuted softly, making a long pause. "The value of a State is that of the individuals who compose it, but when it dwarfs its members, when it postpones their intellectual expansion to increase that of its administrative abilities, it realizes that the perfection of the mechanism for which it has sacrificed them lacks of vital power, since in order for the mechanism to function, it decided to destroy the source of that power—the individual."
When he finished his speech, silence came between the two of them for a few moments. Yashiro sought inspiration in the distance with an enigmatic smile on her face, as the young man studied her features in a profound way as if he were trying to see through her eyes. A dreamy, somewhat thoughtful expression that seemed beyond her reach. In a certain way, it conveyed hope.
"You are an inhabitant of Kafka's castle," she guessed, narrowing her eyes. "You chose to stay and protect it even though you could leave, even though… the doors were closed to you from the very beginning."
Yashiro frowned at the man's analytical gaze, which at the time denoted a weight that while he tried to hide, she could recognize as her own. For a split second a lopsided smile escaped him and his gaze returned to the bookcase behind Yashiro, as if he were unable to exchange another glance with her.
He must have felt different and excluded, but he still loved that city from the depths of his heart. An indescribable feeling that he could not explain in words, he could only feel it inside him pulsating gently and slowly, in a constant way. Perhaps it was true that everyone, before they died, returned to one place—the place where they had been born. For no matter how dangerous, small or dirty it was, the memories of childhood that lived there would remain buried forever.
"I was born in this city, and so I feel the responsibility to do something about it, not to let it perish," the young man confessed with a bitter sigh. "If you had everything at your disposal, wouldn't you be willing to free society?"
Yashiro widened her eyes slowly, trying to hide her amazement. That was a hint she did not miss. That man, who seemed to enjoy dressing in a formal manner and speaking with obvious elegance to appear older than he really was, was inviting her to what she always knew would happen at some point. The way he expressed his ideas, the simplicity with which he changed the subject to take the receiver into another field, everything he appeared to be was tempting. He did not seem ordinary at all—in fact, what was terrifying about him was his intelligence.
"It's society the one that must do it of its own free will."
She noticed that the professor further opened his eyes, stunned by her words even though seconds later he returned to the same seriousness as before, as if it were not usual for him that someone would surprise him and deep down, he did not want to admit it—not even to himself.
"While you wait for people to become aware of themselves, I act as soon as I have the opportunity to give them the power they need," the strong-willed man declared.
"While you blame the Sibyl System, I blame the people," she confronted him with a different conception, gesturing with her index finger as if she were touching her head. "Rational beings waiting to be judged by a weapon when reason should be enough to direct them. A free people would immediately create a government if it were taken away from them, carrying out public affairs in an intelligent and orderly manner."
This time he was really astonished, and he did not know what to say. He seemed that for the first time someone had denied him something in his life, and he did not mind showing it off in his eyes at all. Yashiro was internally bewildered, for they appeared to have much in common. It was a shame that they would probably never see one another again. Because when they leave that library, they will meet thousands of faces and they will play at being one more. They will have to put on the costume in which—and as which—they were known, esteemed, and sought, and dressed like that, they will appear in society, that is, among people in disguise who do not want to be told that they are. She also acted with a discreet mask, and got rid of any curiosity that tried to go beyond the limits. However, for some reason, she had the feeling that this was a person she could talk to for hours, without getting exhausted or bored.
At that moment, a sharp and repetitive sound intruded into the surrounding environment, separating them from the strange trance in which they had succumbed. Yashiro blinked at the realization that it was coming from Professor Shibata, and it took him a few seconds to look away from her, as if he were persisting in searching for meaning in her words. He rolled up the left cuff of his white shirt and checked the time on his leather watch, disabling the alarm. The dial was shaped like a gear, and added to the rounded hands and Roman numerals, it gave it a Victorian style that brought a smile to Yashiro's face.
"I'm afraid our talk has come to an end," he said slowly, his lips parting in a gesture that expressed annoyance. "I have a class to teach in ten minutes."
Yashiro leaned forward intuitively, unable to believe that time had passed so quickly. She had lessons too. She had forgotten it entirely, though she was not sorry for it at all. She knew that the teachers would not be angry with her, and in extreme cases she could always come up with some excuse or other. She was often warned that she had to be careful how she spoke, as she would beat about the bush unable to control herself, but there was always someone by her side to change the subject. On this occasion the opposite happened—neither of them was able to stop in the presence of the other, like wind and tide fighting for control of an ocean.
"I am sorry to have delayed you so long…"
To Yashiro's surprise, the man tilted his head to the side with a frown, as if he had heard the greatest of nonsense, and took the book he had left on a table. After a faint, pleasant smile he stood up and Yashiro did not know why, but she was drawn to the movement, which she imitated seconds later. When she raised her eyes again, she was surprised once more by the young man's right hand, which was extended in her direction. Yashiro looked at it with a slight puzzlement, but the sincerity in his eyes made her yield and they shook hands one last time, though more delicately, as if he were showing respect to her.
"For this kind of conversation, I'd make it a habit to be late."
His voice sounded so natural that what puzzled Yashiro most was the truth behind his words, the absence of any joke. Only then did she realize that, like her, he had not allowed his mind to wander in public in total freedom for some time, particularly in front of a complete stranger. They put the books on their respective shelves, and before leaving the library they bid farewell to the kind woman who was dusting the books, although in reality this was an obsession, as the atmosphere was always in perfect condition and the books were arranged according to their gender. One of the things that Yashiro would miss most about that academy.
"If there is a god playing dice with the world, I do hope it will be in our favor again next time," he commented, with his eyes lost in the sky.
A gleam in his eye told her that he was being honest and Yashiro stared at him for a few moments, perhaps surprised at the fact that she thought the same. There was no doubt that the man emanated a different aura, no matter how many hundreds of others she might know around him. In another context, she dared to think that they might even have been friends. Yashiro did not regret listening to him. The words flowed as if of their own free will, and she realized how much she had needed it.
With a last look of farewell, their paths parted. Yashiro would still digest all the conversation they had had when she walked across the courtyard of the academy. She turned back to peer through the pile of students and she easily spotted the tall, slim figure in the distance, like a ghost that no one noticed. She decided to continue on her way, but she could not help wondering if he would have looked back as well as she did, if he would have the slightest curiosity to know about what she would do next. It was too late to find out, for when she turned around for the second time, she found transparent faces. His had gone down in history. What was his name? Shibata Yukimori. Though she was likely to forget it quickly as much as he would with a simple face he met in the library.