“So, you’re a writer?” asks Thane.
“On most days,” Benja says.
“Anything I know?”
“Not yet. It’s a work in progress.”
“It’s an epic journey, in the vein of the Odyssey,” Aris says.
“Really? Is it almost done?” Thane asks.
“Getting there.”
“There’s only six months left. Sure you can get it done in time?” A small smirk frames the corners of Thane’s lips.
Aris feels Benja’s body tighten. She doesn’t look at him, afraid she would burst out in a fit of giggles from this awkward situation.
Thane looks at his watch. “I must go. Aris, I’ll see you Monday.”
Benja watches Thane’s back as he walks away. “I don’t like him.”
Aris arranges her face in an expression of mock surprise.
“What a jerk,” he says. “Six months left—like I don’t already know that. Who asked you, asshole?”
Aris laughs. “Well, I think the feelings may be mutual. He didn’t seem to like you either.”
“That’s because he’s in love with you, and he thinks I’m competition. You’re not dating him, are you?” He gives her a critical look.
“No! He’s never even shown interest. In any case, I don’t think of him that way.” She is not interested in the complication that comes with dating someone she works with.
“Why was he here?” Benja asks.
“He was on his way from a meeting at the Interpreter Center.”
Benja throws a blackberry into his mouth and looks over his shoulder in the direction of the gleaming white building. “The place gives me the creeps. Doesn’t it give you this weird feeling?”
“It’s just lonely,” she says.
He looks back to her. “Or haunted. You can’t get me in there.”
“No one’s going to make you.” She smirks. “Unless you misbehave.”
Benja laughs. “I’d like to see them try.”
“Yeah, you’re very vicious.”
“I can be. I could have ripped Thane’s face off. But I didn’t want to ruin that beautiful dress you’re wearing with the spray of blood.”
Aris laughs.
“How was your date last night?” he asks.
“Disastrous. He was as interesting as the sidewalk.”
Benja makes a face. “So was mine. What’s wrong with men? Why can’t the good-looking ones be as fascinating as me?”
Aris guffaws. “It’s because you’re so exceptional.”
“That’s why I’ve decided to save myself for something more existential.”
“Like the Dreamers? That’ll be the day.”
“You’ll eat your words when I find them.”
“If they actually exist. You have a better chance of finding a mountain lion than finding them.”
“Mountain lions did exist,” he says, “Seriously. Don’t you ever wonder about your past cycles?” he asks.
“Even if I did, what’s the point? An experience is only valid if you can verify it. And if there isn’t a way to authenticate, did it really happen?” she says.
“Ah, the old tree-falling-in-the-forest argument.”
“Is it any different?”
“The tree knows it fell. Just because no one was around to hear it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” says Benja.
“But what if the tree doesn’t even remember itself falling?”
“The act of falling happened.”
“But did it? If the tree can’t remember and no one else was there?” she asks.
“There would be a mark on that tree, the physical consequence of its fall. A gouge on its bark. Or a broken branch. A trace,” he says.
Aris lifts her arm, turning it side to side, studying it. “Nope, no marks.”
“Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
“An invisible trace. Now we’re talking.”
“I think we’re going to be here a while,” Benja says and drops his head onto her lap. It surprises her, but she does not move. She leans back and follows his gaze to the fluffy clouds above.
He sighs. “There has to be more to this life than the four years allotted.”
“There is. Just because you can’t remember the past cycles doesn’t mean you didn’t live them.”
“Oh, so she changes her argument. So fickle,” he says.
Aris rolls her eyes. “I’m not. I didn’t say the past cycles didn’t happen. It’s just pointless to try to remember your old life, because you can’t prove it. There’s evidence of the past cycles, just not yours specifically.”
“People do try. When I moved into my apartment, I found a couple of ink drawings hidden in a cabinet,” he says.
“Was there a name?”
“Yeah. But that’s useless, isn’t it?”
“You finally get what I mean,” she says.
Benja scoffs.
Creativity is celebrated in the present, but since everyone gets a new name after Tabula Rasa, authorship is futile. Works of art, books, music, technological and scientific advancements are collected after each cycle and become the property of the system. Innovations are shared for the benefit of all.
She bites into a strawberry. Somewhere nearby is Strawberry Field, where there are no strawberries—only the memory of a musician and black and white mosaic tiles encircling one simple word.
Imagine.
It fascinates her how a song can birth an ideology that governs lives. Without it, there would be no Four Cities or their way of life. She wonders if the musician who wrote it thought his lyrics would ever become reality.
Aris hums its melody and watches the clouds make patterns against the bright blue desert sky. A big cloud that resembles a sheep runs into a smaller one, absorbing it in the slow way a carnivorous plant would a fly.
“I wonder what it’d be like to not have Tabula Rasa’s curse,” Benja says, disturbing Aris out of her reverie.
“It’s not a curse. It did what nothing else could. It brought us peace.”
No memories. No attachment. No possession. No one has a need to fight because nobody owns anything. The things they acquire in a cycle become meaningless in the next because they will not remember owning them.
“It takes away all reasons to fight,” Aris says, “All grudges. All prejudices. Each cycle we’re assigned a place to live. Our basic needs are taken care of by the system. The Distribution Council is responsible for equal distribution of goods, Dwelling Council for housing, Police Stations for peace management, Center for Disease Control for hospitals. Everyone gets equal access to education. The same amount of entertainment points. The service industry is entirely managed by AIs and droids. We are free to explore. To create,
