I wanted to see Seri. I wanted Lareen to go away.
'But I'll have no memory,' I said. 'They'll destroy my memory.'
'It can be replaced. That's my job.'
In the fugue the dream dispensed, leaving a void. Life returned later, in the form of this calm-eyed, patient woman, returning my memories to me as if she were a hand writing words on blank paper.
I said: 'Lareen, how can I know that afterwards I'll be the same?'
'Because nothing in you will be changed, except your capacity to live.'
'But I am what I remember. If you take that away I cannot be the same person again.'
'I'm trained to restore your memory, Peter. To do that, you've got to help me now.'
She produced an attractively packaged folder, containing a thick wad of partially printed pages.
'There isn't as much time as we would normally have, but you should be able to manage this during the evening.'
'Let me see it.'
'You must be as frank and truthful as possible,' Lareen said, passing the folder to me. 'Use as much space as you like. There's spare paper in the desk.'
The papers felt heavy, auguring hours of work. I glanced at the first page, where I could write my name and address. Later, the questions dealt with school. Later, with friendships, sex and love. There seemed no end to the questions, each phrased carefully so as to promote frankness in my answer. I found that I could not read them, that the words blurred as I flicked the pages across.
For the first time since sentence of death had been pronounced on me, I felt the stirrings of revolt. I had no intention of answering these questions.
'I don't need this,' I said to Lareen. I tossed the questionnaire on to the desk. 'I've already written my autobiography, and you'll have to use that.'
I turned away from her, feeling angry.
'You heard what the doctor said, Peter. If you don't co-operate they'll make you leave the island tonight.'
'I'm co-operating, but I'm not going to answer those questions. It's all written down already.'
'Where is it? Can I see it?'
My manuscript was on my bed, where I had left it. I gave it to her. For some reason I was unable to look at her. As it was briefly in my hands the manuscript had transmitted a sense of reassurance, a link with what was soon to become my forgotten past.
I heard Lareen turn a few of the pages, and when I looked back at her she was reading quickly from the third on fourth page. She glanced at the last page, then set it aside.
'When did you write this?'
'Two years ago.'
Lareen stared at the pages. '1 don't like working without the questionnaire. How do I know you've left nothing out?'
'Surely that's my risk?' I said. 'Anyway, it's complete.' I described the way I had written, how I had set myself the task of expressing wholeness and truth on paper.
She turned again to the last page. 'It isn't finished. Do you realize that?'
'I was interrupted, but it doesn't matter. I was almost at the end, and although I did try to finish it later, it seemed better the way it is.' Lareen said nothing, watching me and manipulating more from me. Resisting her, I said: 'It's unfinished because my life is unfinished.'
'If you wrote it two years ago, what's happened since?'
'That's the point, isn't it?' I was still feeling hostile to her, yet in spite of this her strategic silences continued to influence me. Another came, and I was unable to resist it. 'When I wrote the manuscript I found that my life formed into patterns, and that everything I had done fitted into them.
Since I finished writing I've found that it's still true, that all I've done in the last two years has just added details to a shape.'
'I'll have to take this away and read it,' Lareen said.
'All right. But take care of it.'
'Of course I'll he careful.'
'I feel it's a part of me, something that can't be replaced.'
'I could replicate it for you,' Lareen said, and laughed as if she had made a joke. 'I mean, I'll get it photocopied for you. Then you can have the original back and I'll work with the copy.'
I said: 'That's what they're going to do to me, isn't it? I'm going to he photocopied. The only difference is that I won't get the original back.
I'll be given the copy, but the original will be blank.'
'It was only a joke, Peter.'
'I know, but you made me think.'
'Do you want to reconsider filling out my questionnaire? If you don't trust the manuscript--'
'It's not that I distrust,' I said. 'I live by what I wrote, because I _am_ what I wrote.'
