Chapter 20

Other Life

At the last possible moment, Ernest veered aside.

The bull, however, was too slow to react to follow him—or else its night vision was too poor to see the manoeuvre—and kept running in its original direction… until it collided headlong into a fence post, its horns too wide apart to make any contact, its forehead taking the full force of the impact. Moments later, like a classic Bugs Bunny cartoon, the bull’s legs slid slowly apart and it collapsed unconscious to the ground.

Meanwhile, Ernest had managed to fling himself over the fence a few metres away, and, with surprising athleticism, land with a roll on the other side. He lay still on the grass, panting, apparently oblivious of the rain falling on him, or the lightning flashing. He remained there for some time, before standing with obvious effort.

“Tired,” I said, “like I felt after I was transported.”

As if on cue, Ernest yawned.

“Perhaps a side effect of time travel,” said Wilbur. “Like an extreme case of jet lag. Think how many time zones he’s been through.”

Maybe that also explained my falling asleep so suddenly, day or night, for no apparent reason.

“Time to start tracking him,” said Wilbur, “for as long as you’ve been here. Then we can attempt to get you home.”

I nodded blankly, as I watched Ernest look about him, unsure where to head. But then I did a mental double-take. “Hang on,” I said. “That won’t work. All the time you spend tracking him, I’ll still be here. It’s like chasing your tail. I’ve been here four days, so if you have to track Ernest for four days, by then I’ll be here another four days. You’ll never catch up.”

Wilbur’s face melted to despondency—then erupted in a smile. “Have you never heard of a fast forward?”

He tapped a touch-key on the upper half of the front panel, and the viewer’s screen image raced forward: Ernest, having chosen a direction, was walking several times faster than anyone could run. The occasional words he uttered were equally quick, and indecipherable.

“No pianola soundtrack?” I quipped.

Wilbur’s puzzlement did not prevent him manoeuvring a swivel-stick to keep the view on Ernest. “Of course, it will still take a while. I can’t afford to go too fast, I might lose track of him. But with any luck, I’ll be finished some time tomorrow.”

I watched with him for a while, but Ernest wandered almost as aimlessly as I had when I first arrived, and I soon decided to leave Wilbur alone with the task. When I let him know, he responded by warning me not to tell anyone else of my predicament.

“Why not?” I said, surprised.

“Until we more fully understand what’s happened, and ideally have dealt with it, I think it safer to keep this to ourselves. Not many would believe you anyway. I will, however, report what’s happened to the Orlani embassy, just in case they have some scientific advice that might assist us—though I expect they’ll be every bit in the dark as I am.”

“I’ve already told some people part of it—that I’m not Ernest, that I’m dreaming being in the future—Yvette, for instance.”

“That’s not so important, as long as you don’t mention we’ve proved who you really are. Let them continue to think you’re Ernest with false memories.”

Reluctantly, I agreed to his request, then left.

 

Walking to Ernest’s, late in the afternoon, my mind raced. It had been a good day! Not only had I been proved right about my identity, but it even looked as if I might return home.

In the not too distant future! Literally.

Feeling like celebrating, I took the liberty of opening a bottle of Ernest’s wine, as I’d planned on the train. Then, with nothing better to do than wait for Wilbur to finish his part, I decided some entertainment was in order. Some relaxation to compensate for the heavy demands of recent days.

Resorting to old habits, I turned on the TV—only to realise to my surprise that, although I had skimmed through Ernest’s video collection, I had not watched any television shows since the dream had started. Obviously, my attention had been captured very thoroughly by more pressing matters—until now.

As was my tendency at home, I flicked through the TV channels looking for whatever took my fancy. It was a mixture of the familiar and the outlandish: there were sit-coms, dramas, reality and quiz shows, news and current affairs, sports and weather, children’s shows, soap operas, documentaries, films, and much more—but also strange hybrids of various formats, often dealing with considerably more esoteric subjects. One odd drama I caught a glimpse of used the premise of Beethoven writing jingles for a New York advertising company in what looked like the nineteen-nineties, but the sound of the fate motif from his fifth symphony being used to sell laxatives soon compelled me to switch channels. The strangest viewing, though, was either a soapie called ‘Hospital Hermaphrodites’, or a game show called ‘Beat The Suburban Train’ which, for some reason, accepted as contestants only people who had experience in industrial waste bin manufacturing. I didn’t watch either long enough to decide between them.

The show I ended up watching most was a short film I flicked over to just as its opening credits were ending. It caught and retained my attention, so I stayed with it. Meant to be a fictional portrayal of life in modern Bangladesh, it was obviously not Hollywood, yet it interested me—perhaps because I was already in a strange foreign land. I was also curious how enufism, which the show made obvious very early on was the system in place in Bangladesh, would function in one of the world’s poorer countries. What would my subconscious come up with here, I wondered.

The subtitled film opened with a window-framed view of the red rim of a tropical sun surging over the horizon, briefly silhouetting a distant stork. The view widened to show the foreground side of the window, and the main character, in bed, in the process of waking: eighteen-year-old Khwaja Mannan. His thoughts acted as pseudo-narration: “Monsoon season over… Winter. Better weather… Robin-song! Warblers?… Cinema with Nurjahan tonight—Urdu comedy about family tragedy… Last needay of the week… Bladder alarm—time to get up…”

A supposedly typical day in the young man’s life followed. It showed much of his locale, the old city of Khulna, once home to millions—except it was now the revamped region of Khulna, pragmatically subdivided into renovated component cities of around fifty thousand, covering more area than did the old metropolis, spreading further but thinning as it went in a Bengali version of honeycombing.

Once a Third World country, Bangladesh clearly still had some way to catch up, as evidenced by its three-day working week. Yet there was no sign of famine or deprivation. Indeed, my impression was that Khwaja had only one source of true suffering: the incessant comments of a father who never tired of pointing out how much harder it had been in his day. “Houses,” he mentioned (“as often as he ate rice,” according to Khwaja) “nearly all had more occupants than rooms—much smaller rooms too—and they were made of bamboo, not bambrick.” Which was apparently a unique local invention of mud-brick reinforced with bamboo.

An improved standard of living was evident from the very beginning of the film. Khwaja’s bedroom, shared with a brother, had modern, if rather sparse, furnishings—a typical feature of the Mannans’ clean comfortable apartment on the top floor of a two-storey building shared with seven other families. In less crowded areas of Bangladesh, families lived in their own detached houses, but urban Khulna was still one of the world’s most congested places. Conditions nevertheless were more than tolerable: the positioning of doors, windows, trees, bushes, stairs, double-glazed windows, double-layer walls, and other sound-proofing and privacy-proofing materials did much to avoid a sense of claustrophobia.

Khwaja showered with hot water, drank fruit juice stored in a refrigerator, ate a breakfast of a peculiar muesli laced with chopped banana he picked from a communal garden not far from his door. He heated water for a cup of tea on a gas stove, one powered, as his narrating thoughts revealed, by his building’s biogas/compost system. The building, like more modern ones in the First World, was said to ‘produce’ not just most of the energy its occupants required, thanks to solar paint, but also, via a clever arrangement of sloping roofs, gutters, drains and tanks, as much water as was needed. Hardly avoidable, being inundated with over six metres of annual rainfall! For backup, and to cope with inevitable fluctuations in production and demand, the water arrangements—along with the rest of the eco-energy system—were interconnected with those of seven other similar nearby residential buildings, and through them to a national network.

Still calling itself Bangladesh, the nation now included what in my time was the Indian province of West Bengal. Over the years (my subconscious claimed) Bengalis gradually decided their common tongue was more important than their different religions—at least they did once they got used to living in autonomous cities and regions which left most religious matters largely to towns and localities. Apparently, many old national boundaries had grown irrelevant or had disappeared, groups merging because of dominant linguistic or religious or cultural ties, nations splitting because of irreconcilable differences or practicalities of co-ordination and administration. At one point, perhaps tellingly, Khwaja mused on how there was no guarantee Bangladesh itself wouldn’t eventually mother several new nations.

For the time being, though, it was stable, and flourishing. Its material standard of living had soared, and simultaneously, as had usually been the case elsewhere, its birth rate had plummeted. Indeed, its population was barely increasing.

It still faced occasional hardships, though. Enufism could not end the periodic flooding of Bangladesh, even though much national effort had gone into controlling and diverting the floods, with generous PARE-sponsored assistance especially from the Dutch. But even with the worst floods, although some people still drowned (in far smaller numbers than was previously the norm), national grain reserves built up in good years to supplement regional stockpiles ensured that at least none starved afterwards.

Bangladesh’s plurocratic structure was revealed to be similar to Australia’s, though the considerably greater population density resulted in an intermediate district level (between city and region). Khwaja’s locality consisted of the people in the building he lived in, and those from the neighbouring seven interconnected buildings. Along with the communal garden-park-recreational area between them (with dozens of fruit and nut trees, chickens, ducks, geese, goats, and a large fishpond) they occupied an area less than a sports oval.

Khwaja cycled to his work, on well-maintained paved tracks, along generally verdant shady avenues. Cycling was the main means of transport—even in the wet season when rigid transparent light-weight plastic shells were used. Many elderly and infirmed riders could be seen on modified battery-driven three-wheel cycles. Even specialised bicycle trailers hauled freight, though boats, rail and trucks dealt with the longest and/or heaviest hauls.

The thoroughfares were not as crowded as I expected—and not just because of under- or over-passes at the most congested intersections. A shorter working week, composed of different days of the week for different people and work-places, along with a growing preponderance of work performed at home, was said to keep traffic flows manageable.

Perhaps the most interesting part of the film for me, surprisingly, was at Khwaja’s work. He was the youngest member of a factory with eleven stewards (though on any one day, only six or seven were present). In keeping with the spirit of stewardship, there was no fixed chain of command, the position of manager being rotated among all staff. Likewise, everyone’s duties alternated every month or so, “to discourage boredom and to give everyone the broadest possible overview and understanding of the whole factory’s operations.”

On arriving at work, Khwaja noticed Mujib, “manager of the week”, glowering as his obligations compelled him to listen to a perennial complainer named Nawab register doubts about a metal press. According to Khwaja, Nawab’s fussiness over equipment safety was almost legendary, but he worked as hard as anyone else, and most people liked him (though a few who bore the brunt of his fussiness when they were manager could hardly wait for his turn to come up).

There were no time clocks to punch, no book-entries to sign. “If people start a few minutes early or late,” mused Khwaja, “it makes little difference to the task of getting so much work done in so much time. If we finish early, we leave early. If it takes longer than expected, steps are taken to find out why and prevent it from recurring.”

The factory manufactured the city’s light bulbs, torches, fans, and several other small electrical goods—but not normally simultaneously. For periods of one to four months each year, the factory would gear itself to making one type of product in amounts that slightly exceeded the city’s anticipated requirements for the next year; then it would spend anywhere from a day to a week revamping and refurbishing its operations, adjusting its presses and moulds, to begin making a year’s requirements of the next item in its repertoire. Most small factories, it was said, could do this quite efficiently.

At the time of the film, the factory was devoted to producing LED light bulbs. One team busily pressed out the LED components, while the other, which included Khwaja, dealt with their assembly and packing.

Soon after arriving, the relatively inexperienced Khwaja explained to the manager his thoughts on how to save two work-days per year by changing the factory’s order of production. Since adjustments to presses to suit fan manufacture had to be partly reversed when it came time to make torches, Khwaja argued for a swap. Mujib pointed out this would adversely affect other adjustments, but calculated, using a computer model of factory operations, that an overall saving of one day would still result. When the other stewards were informed of the proposal, they seemed to understand it at once, and voted unanimously to accept it.

As it turned out, that was as much of the film as I saw—because of a knock at the front door.

“Care to resume where you left off, Steven?”

I stared at Yvette for some time, not knowing what to say.

“You are Steven, still?” she said, her smile fading a little.

I nodded blankly, but otherwise remained motionless on the doorstep, uncomfortable.

“Well,” she eventually said, “aren’t you going to ask me in?”

That snapped me out of it a little—I gestured her inside with a muttered “of course”.

My mind was in turmoil. Resume where you left off? Previously, it had taken some effort of will, and copious amounts of alcohol, for me to view a liaison with this Yvette as a wet dream, a welcome distraction from confusion and alien dilemmas. But now Wilbur had proved I was not of this time…?! Infidelity? How could I explain this to her, since I could barely explain it to myself. If I knew this was all a dream, how could anything I did in it be unfaithful to Yvette—my wife Yvette? Was some part of me secretly convinced it was not a dream? Occasional doubts did surface, but it always seemed the best bet. And yet, when put to the test…

We moved without words to the lounge. She sat on the three-seater, I followed suit on a single-seater. She watched me studiously, but said nothing, her smile fading further until lost.

I was soon desperate to break the silence, preferably with something tangential to the situation. “How were your lectures?” I said, finally, relieved to have remembered her note.

“About as usual,” she replied. Then, without pause, “You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?”

I groped without success for the right words.

She soon saved me the bother. “What happened?” she glowered. “Had your fancy taken by a nice male arse, and forgot all about me? That’d explain you not Babling. I expected a call at least.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly guilty. “A few things have happened and I just didn’t…” I was on the verge of saying “didn’t think of it,” but was alert enough to stop in time. “I just didn’t find the time,” I said finally.

Perhaps the distinction was true—I had been busy—perhaps not. But I didn’t want to hurt her feelings any more than I already had. “How can I make it up to you?” I said, in genuine earnest. (But not genuinely Ernest.)

She smiled, though bluntly. “I think you know how. Just doubt you will. Or can.”

I almost blurted out, “O, I can, I just shouldn’t,” when I recalled Wilbur’s request to keep the truth hidden. Better not to reinforce any doubts in Yvette’s mind that I was really capable beyond Ernest’s inclinations to give her what she wanted. When all this was settled, Ernest might have enough other bridges to repair—if this wasn’t a dream—which of course it was.

“I can’t, Yvette. I’m sorry, I truly am. I’m just not the unfaithful type. I need to remain true to my wife.”

“O, her again, Steven. I thought you decided this was a dream and infidelity not an issue.”

“Well, yes, it is a dream. It has to be a dream. But what if it isn’t? As tempting as you are, I don’t want to take that chance. I’m not sure how I could live with that on my conscience.”

“But you just said it is a dream!”

“Yes, but then, well, maybe it’s a test for me—to resist temptation even in a dream might be a way of strengthening my marriage.”

“Does it need strengthening? Is it so fragile?”

“No. It’s a good strong marriage. A little weakened by its length perhaps, but no more than any other, probably less.”

“Maybe it would benefit from a resoundingly earth-shattering affair. Maybe that would rejuvenate it, bring its advantages into sharper relief. And without guilt too if the affair’s only a dream.”

She wasn’t giving up without a fight.

I felt myself wavering.

“No,” I said, after a lengthy pause, more to convince myself than her. “I just can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

“And was it more right last night? When the only reason it didn’t happen was sudden narcolepsy?”

I sighed. “I am so glad that happened.”

“Thank you!” she said, affronted and angry.

“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant I’m glad I was faithful, to Yvette—to my wife. Not that I wouldn’t have liked to… or wouldn’t like to now… Perhaps I should just shutup, before I make it any harder.”

“Perhaps you should.” She shook her head bitterly. “Always words, Ernest. Words but no action. I should have known.” The bitterness rapidly faded, and her face resumed more characteristic qualities, though sterner. “Your narcolepsy was probably inevitable. Whatever inner motivation pushed you to the point of almost sleeping with me, clearly it wasn’t powerful enough to hold sway over other, apparently more fundamental, desires. I don’t know what sort of inner conflict it is you’re dealing with, but I’d rather not be involved any more. Not directly, at least. Better I just give up on you completely. Again. I managed it there for a while, until your behaviour last night resurrected my fool’s hope. Now I’m starting to realise, even if I were to somehow get you into bed, you’d probably just fall asleep at the last moment. Only a bit earlier than some men admittedly, but considerably more frustrating.”

For some time, I could not think what to say, but I had to end the daunting silence. “We can still be friends, though. Right?”

Briefly she resisted, until her stern expression gave way to a sudden sigh. “Of course. That much at least I can rely on.”

“So how about two friends have a night out?” The thought just popped into my head. “Are you free?”

She tilted her head, but didn’t answer for several seconds. “I did have other plans,” she finally said, without expression. Another silence, almost as long again. “But since you’ve spoilt them, I guess a night out’s the next best option. What’d you have in mind?”

“Nothing really,” I said after a confused pause. “I don’t even know what’s available. One thing I haven’t seen anything of in this future is its night-life. Does it have any or do you all go to bed at sunset?”

“Put away the act, Ernest. If you won’t sleep with me, at least be yourself.”

“It’s no act, Yvette.” After a belated memory surfaced, of Wilbur’s cautions, I made a suitably ambiguous qualification. “As far as my memory is concerned, as far as I know, I really am Steven Stone. Ask Wilbur.”

“I have. I called him from Uni this morning. He may be convinced, but I’m not.” She scrutinised me long and hard before continuing. “O, what does it matter? Might even be a good conversation piece. Come on,” she said, standing. “You can drive. After your performance last night, any excuse to limit your drinking seems worth taking.”

I wasn’t keen on the idea of getting behind a joystick, but I also felt I’d caused Yvette enough inconvenience already. “Okay,” I finally said, with some trepidation. “Do you have a car? Ernest doesn’t—or at least his carport’s been empty ever since I arrived.”

“You’re really into the part, aren’t you?”

Her meaning was lost on me.

“I suppose I’ll have to explain how this future of ours handles cars,” she said, in a resigned voice.

Her explanation revealed that cars were not owned by individuals. Instead, to more efficiently use resources (and reduce costs for individuals), plurocracies pooled cars—about one for every four or five houses. She claimed this was nearly always more than enough to suit modern lifestyles, but on the rare occasions it wasn’t, additional backup cars were available via a Babel call.

Anyone needing a car simply found the nearest one not in use (identified by a small phosphorescent flag on the bonnet that retracted inside the car body when in use), and passed their Babel over a sensor in the dashboard to start the engine (and simultaneously record the car’s use against their account). A dashboard button turned off the engine. Without a driving license, Babels could not start a car—but with one, once in use, no other Babel would be able to start it. When finished with the car, another pass of the Babel over a different dashboard sensor recorded the use as ended, and protruded the “not in use” flag. The car was simply parked in the borrower’s carport or more often on the street for the next person who wanted to use it. Now I understood why Wilbur’s car changed colour and why he sometimes parked on the street—as he said, I thought cryptically at the time, he used more than one car.

“I can’t use Ernest’s Babel,” I explained to Yvette after her explanation concluded. “It would be like stealing.”

“Now you’re getting too far into the role,” she said, eying me sceptically. “The only other option is for me to pay for everything. How does that sit with your high morals?”

I grappled for words, recognising the truth of what she was saying. And then I suddenly realised—belatedly—that I’d been eating and drinking Ernest’s supplies and treating his home as my own almost since the dream started.

Before I could fully digest this, though, let alone respond to Yvette, she had more to say. “It doesn’t matter. I owe you for the last time we went out. My shout. But you’ll still need your Babel—all right, Ernest’s Babel—to drive.”

At that point, I gave in. Soon after, Yvette led me out of the house and along the street, until we found an available two-seater car only a few doors down. With the new knowledge that the car was, in effect, communally owned—like the neighbourhood garden, and its shed’s tools—I half expected it to be dirty and uncared for (despite that not being the case for the cars I’d been in already). Instead, it was immaculately clean.

“I’m a bit surprised we’re going by car,” I said, not long into the trip, and already getting used to the joystick controls. “Wouldn’t it be more environmentally responsible to use the train? Or are we heading to a train station?”

“We could if you prefer. But there’s little difference for this length of trip, not for two people. Modern cars are very clean, and very efficient, especially the two-seaters.” And very light, I soon realised. A little more instruction from Yvette revealed they were predominantly made of moulded carbon-fibre and had been completely redesigned compared to what I knew (though she alleged the basic design was prototyped in the 90s). Their average lifetime expectancy was believed to be at least thirty years, possibly fifty—but none had yet achieved the milestone of actually outliving their usefulness.

We settled on driving almost the whole way, much of it along the main traffain. It took less than ten minutes to reach the central area of Chord, which Yvette said contained most of the entertainment available in the city in an area two blocks wide.

We parked in an above ground car park on the edge of the city centre: totally obscured by screening vegetation, it was spacious but less than half full. She convinced me to turn on the ‘not in use’ sign of the car, certain from long experience that we would have no trouble finding another when it was time to return.

But as we left the car behind, I was struck by how all of them looked alike—only the variation of colours seemed to distinguish them. They did not even have number plates. “If you did want to re-use the car, how would you find it among all these clones?”

Yvette again sighed. “When you first use a car, its electronic identifier is stored on your Babel. You can use that to track down the car if you’re not up to the task.”

We walked into the city centre along broad footpaths dotted with periodic bicycle racks, strategic shade trees and greenery, not one car or garish advertising sign in sight.

The rest of the night flew past. It might have been forty years in the future, but people still entertained themselves much as they’d been doing for generations. Restaurants, bars, clubs, dance halls, cinemas, live music, theatre, performance—all pretty much familiar fare.

But with subtle differences. Virtual reality game halls were more common, and more sophisticated, but there were no strip joints, lap-dancing bars, or other meat-fests. Even film banners were relatively tame (to my surprise, none included what had become the ubiquitous cliché of a character holding a gun at arm’s length in both hands, aiming and ready to begin the inevitable blood bath). My curiosity was piqued.

“What was aptly named the sex-industry barely exists now,’ said Yvette, to my question, during a four-course dinner at a theatre-restaurant—in between a stand-up comedy act that only half lived up to its title insofar as the performer stood throughout, and an astounding set by a stunningly talented six-piece band who played rhythmically complex, melodically rich music impossible to categorise.

“There’s still plenty of nudity and pornography on the Net,” continued Yvette, “though most of it’s fairly ancient. And films still depict sex, as well as violence, though it’s rarely prurient or gratuitous. There’s also the odd private non-commercial performance at buck’s or hen’s nights by chronic exhibitionists. But that’s about all. There’s certainly very little prostitution anywhere. In Chord and most of the region, none at all.”

“How come?” I immediately frowned at my choice of words. “Has it been banned?”

“No!” she said, with a mixture of shock and amusement. “It’s just that there’s little capacity for it to be provided. Think about it. CAPE requires planning not just for what’s needed but for who’ll arrange it. Some people might be inclined to identify so-called ‘adult entertainment’ as something they require, but there might also be a level of reticence to admit it. Prostitution even more so. As a result, in the early days of enufism, there was only a small identified demand for pornography and commercial sex, but the issue then became who would provide it. Those who had been providing it were no longer compelled by economic hardship, and so most didn’t want to continue, and opted instead to be retrained. Which left too few willing sex workers for the identified demand. In that situation, the next step with CAPE is to call for volunteers. There were a few but not nearly enough. Which left a dilemma. Randomly assign the leftover work, like is normally done? You can imagine the uproar that would have caused, forcing people into pornography and prostitution. Instead, people opted to live with less of it. Demand reduced.”

“Just like that!? They just copped it on the chin. Did without?”

“Not exactly. Don’t forget, we have true community now. And we’re less pressured, less stressed. So people who are doing without are usually comfortable enough to make it known, if it isn’t obvious already. And with a whole community at one’s disposal to act as matchmakers, people rarely miss out for long.”

“So what’s the result? Not a single partner for life, surely? I gather you’ve had a few.”

“Yes, a few. Like most people. Some happily settle down with their first and only partner, but most practice serial monogamy until they find the right one, if they ever do. Some never settle down, though, or play the field, although they’re a minority. And some are comfortable with multiple partners, especially in early adulthood. There’s plenty of diversity, though the family unit’s still the most dominant arrangement. And there’s little sign that will change. Not with the wider community providing the equivalent of an extended family.”

“And is everyone always faithful?”

“Of course not. People still have affairs. Relationships still grow tired and couples become bored. But people are more understanding and forgiving, and they have more time to spend on each other rather than on careers. Even when fidelity is broken, it’s not the guaranteed death knell to relationships it used to be. Certainly, divorce is at its lowest level for well over a century. Same for domestic violence.”

We talked about much else during the meal. Afterwards, Yvette suggested we go dancing. I resisted but she was insistent that it was our custom. Fortunately, the dancing was the old-fashioned, mostly slower and more casual variety, and the music not glaringly loud. There were no teenagers at the venue, so I assumed younger people still danced as frenetically as they did in my time, but according to Yvette, the dances I witnessed were popular with all ages. This surprised me at first, but then I realised the close physical contact probably explained it.

I did not take to it, however. I’m not much of a dancer, always too self-conscious to relax enough to develop any skill, but with new steps to learn, as well as the ambivalent distraction of close physical contact with Yvette, I was even worse than usual. Much worse, apparently, than Ernest, who had a reputation for sure-footed grace.

“Perhaps you aren’t Ernest, after all,” she said, tongue-in-cheek, after I stepped on her toes a third time.

Several toe-crushes later, she gave up and took me to a film based on the sacking of the federal government in 1975 by the governor general (played by an ancient if well preserved Chris Hemsworth). Unsure what to expect, it proved to be a subtle and sophisticated parody of democracy, complete with a fair share of slapstick. No gratuitous sex and violence, though it sometimes hinted at and seemed to lead up to it only to veer away at the last moment to various other quite different events. More parody no doubt.

By the time the film ended, it was getting late, but Yvette was keen to continue. She took me to a virtual reality parlour. While I was strapped in, marvelling at the increased visual resolution and enhanced tactile and olfactory sensations, I could not help but think of our earlier discussion.

“I’m surprised no one’s tried to set up virtual sex,” I said to her when my time was over.

“They have. It was even thought it might be a way of making up for the lack of willing prostitutes. But it turned out VR’s fine for most senses but limited when it comes to touch. From all reports, virtual sex is a crude imitation, and for most people not especially satisfying.”

Next to the VR parlour was a curious establishment with blackened windows called ‘Trips Inc’. Its function shocked me: it was for the taking of the many recreational drugs it sold, only a few of which sounded familiar. It did not seem especially popular, though I saw at least one person (middle-aged and utterly unremarkable in appearance) enter its doors while I was nearby. To my further questions, Yvette explained in essence that the war on drugs had been lost: there was now not a single banned substance, though nearly all drugs had restrictions on availability and use.

“It was simply hypocritical,” said Yvette, “to have alcohol and tobacco commercially available, while other, often clearly less harmful drugs were outlawed. It wasn’t like bans ever stopped people from using them either: they were just pushed underground into seamier environments where the risks were greater. Nowadays, recreational drugs are treated as something many people are interested in at some stage, at least in their youth. The need then is to ensure they can experiment as safely as possible, with all the facts at their fingertips—whether at home or in establishments like ‘Trips Inc’, which are designed for safe comforting settings. I doubt it’s a coincidence that levels of drug use are much lower now than they were half a century ago. And addiction’s virtually non-existent. You want to see inside?”

“No thanks,” I said, starting to move off. Her words had not eased my shock or sense of discomfort. Even though I’d used marijuana in my university days and for a while afterwards, and at the time recognised the same hypocrisy Yvette spoke about, I thought of myself as one of the lucky ones. I was never tempted by other drugs but I saw many friends abandon their hopes and aspirations as they became increasingly entrenched in the culture. How the measures Yvette had spoken about could prevent the same thing happening, I could not fathom.

“I’d have been surprised if you had gone in,” she said, walking with me. “You always said your first experience with cannabis put you off all drugs for life.” She smirked. “I’ve never seen anyone’s face take on that particular shade of green.”

Soon after, walking casually along the street, ‘window-shopping’, we almost literally bumped into Nance, an old friend of Yvette’s—and Ernest’s. She invited us to a party she was heading to, and Yvette was keen to take up the offer, reasoning that the entertainment would not be available for much longer.

“Isn’t it open 24 hours?” I asked, confused.

Nance gave me a puzzled look, but Yvette smiled, and said to her, “Just a little game Ernest is playing—he’s pretending he’s new here, a time traveller from forty years ago.” She turned to me. “Hardly anything’s open 24 hours—hospitals and emergency services like police are about all I can think of. And they’re usually quiet by this time of night.”

“But…,” I began. I had simply assumed that even with a reduced working week, some businesses would be open round the clock. “What about factories? Surely the largest have to function 24 hours a day.”

Nance muffled a laugh.

“Hardly,” said Yvette. “There’s no need to produce around the clock unless you consume around the clock.”

“So you’re saying there’s no such thing anymore as evening and night shifts. Just day shifts.”

“For most people, yes. Except hospital staff and a few others. But not long regular shifts like in your time. It’s a seven-hour working week after all.”

“Which must mean there are an awful lot of hospital workers for the work to get done.”

“Quite a few,” said Nance. “I’m one. But there’s not as many as in the old days. Much of the hack work has been automated, and there aren’t as many sick and injured.”

“Life’s much healthier and safer,” said Yvette, “than it was forty years ago.”

I did not respond, reminded again of just how out of place I was.

Yvette then suggested we head to the party with Nance, but I was not in the mood. I made the feeble excuse that it was getting too late for me.

“You time travellers!” replied Yvette. “No stamina.”

It didn’t take long to agree that she should go with Nance without me. I would have to rely on a car’s GPS to find my way back to Ernest’s, but Yvette’s instructions were clear enough for me to feel confident I could handle it.

“A good thing I convinced you about bringing your Babel along, eh?” she whispered as we parted. I still had qualms about using Ernest’s, but again decided I had little option. I could catch a train—there was one very close to the city centre, I knew—but I had no idea where to get out, or how to get from there to Ernest’s house. A car, it would have to be.

For a few minutes after Yvette left, I continued to wander the streets, watching people, young and old, their clothes, their expletive-free language, advertising-free shop-fronts, litter-free streets, subtly different architectural styles, and all the rest that made it such an alien environment to me. It was not that I found it threatening or even unattractive—indeed, increasingly I found there was much here to admire. It was just it was clearly not where I belonged. It was not home. And home was where I really longed to be.

I soon found a car park with an available car and used Ernest’s Babel to start it. It didn’t take long to get its GPS working and programmed for Ernest’s address (spelt out for me by Yvette just before we parted). Yet my mood remained low as I began driving, slowly and carefully. I felt tired and alone.

The car’s joystick controls lowered my mood further—despite them being easy enough to use, I could not help dwelling on their unfamiliarity. Ditto the car’s automatic speed restrictions which forced me to stick to the agonisingly slow limits. The drive seemed to take forever…

About halfway to Ernest’s, I grew dimly aware of having trouble staying awake. It was my last memory of that trip.