Divergence

“Nonsense!” he called. They went to the bar.

“Whisky, please. That one there for me, that one in the green bottle with the sailor on the front—yes, that one. And some of that children’s drink for Eva. It’s there on the next shelf. Look, it even comes in a pink bottle. Would you like a cherry in it, Eva? Or an ice cream?”

Eva was laughing now.

Ivan took a couple of very grubby Euro notes from his pocket, plastic currency that was almost obsolete everywhere in the world but here. He dropped them on the counter and snatched up his own glass.

“To partings and to music,” he called, downing the drink in one. He slammed the glass down on the bar.

“And again!”

“Ivan, slow down,” laughed Eva.

“Okay. I am not here to get drunk,” Ivan said. “Come on, let’s dance!”

“We can’t,” Eva said. “Not until later. Look, there is another little girl coming to play. It’s Hilde.”

“Ah, Hilde,” Ivan said, his good humor suddenly evaporating. “The child is too talented to be here. The parents are holding her back with their silly ideals.”

“Oh, be quiet. She is about to start.”

Fifteen minutes. Eva, I have to go now!

Don’t worry, Judy. This is it. This is the moment.

Hilde was a slim girl of about twelve. Her long, straight dark hair was parted to one side; it hung shining and lustrous around her pretty pale face. Already could be seen the features of the attractive woman that would soon burst out of her thin body. She carried a cello in one hand, the bow held in the long fingers of the other. She wore a dark sweater and pants and had a silver chain around her neck with a tiny cross on the end.

Someone set a chair center-stage. She sat down on it and wedged the cello between her knees. Unhurriedly she hooked her shining dark hair behind one ear with her bow hand, the palm and fingers of her other hand standing on the neck of the cello like a spider.

Gently she placed the bow on the strings, and eyes half closed, she pulled it gently across. A rich, honeyed note sounded, deepening in intensity.

“Now, she is good,” Ivan murmured.

She was good. Genuinely talented, she was achieving a richness of tone that many adults would struggle to attain. Her right arm moved constantly, bowing a note that rose and rose again.

“The Protecting Veil,” said someone nearby. “The vision of the Virgin Mother.”

Ivan bit his lip, and Eva knew that if she looked she would see a tear forming in his eye. Sixteen minutes. I have to go.

The music went on, a song of Holy Revelation. From somewhere a string ensemble was accompanying, whether a recording or a live performance, nobody looked, everyone’s eyes were fixed on the girl on the stage as the intensity of her tone deepened and deepened again, then the notes rose up, high and impossibly sweet, and then dropped down again to curl around inside one’s stomach before it was jerked up like a hook. Right there and then Eva believed .

Believed in what?

Believed in some transcendent power, believed in the soul, in the rightness and beauty of humanity, in the essence and spirit of goodness and joy. Believed in something more than the recursive algorithms of an AI like the Watcher.

She could see it there on the stage, there in the body of a twelve-year-old girl hunched over a cello, eyes lost in a reverie as she brought forth the pattern of some platonic world and held it out for everyone to see in the form of a song. Dark hair and flawless skin, an easy grace and the taste and control and strength to handle a fragile wooden box, to push her hand deep down into its throat and pull out its song for everyone to see. Veni Creator Spiritus . Hail creator spirit. Eva whispered the words to herself, just as a young man walked in front of her and her vision was burst in an instant. The young man wasn’t so much walking as limping. His feet were twisted at angles. As he raised his right leg, his right arm lifted at the same time. It bobbed up and down twice for every one movement of his leg. He wore thick glasses, their legs hooked over the bubblegum-pink hearing aids affixed around his ears. He carried a cup of cola in his hand, which splashed every time that he moved. He was looking for someone, his head turning this way and that, twitching constantly. He was trying to say something. And