Песах Амнуэль - Zion's Fiction - A Treasury of Israeli Speculative Literature

Did he intentionally torment me?

“Farewell,” I said and closed the door quietly behind me. Three of the prophet’s secretaries sat at their computers, not even lifting their eyes to me.

“The office hours are over for today,” a ceiling speaker screeched, and dozens of people crowded into the waiting room sighed as one with disappointment.

It was windy outside, and a drizzle soaked my hair. The rented car was parked two blocks away, and by the time I sat behind the wheel my shirt was plastered to my body, and thoughts had deserted me entirely, all thoughts but one: Who needs a life like this?

I drove slowly in the right lane without knowing where I was, in what part of the city, until I saw a Dead End sign. I turned toward the curb and killed the engine.

We had debated once, with Oleg. Not just us; it was a popular question, fifteen years ago, in theoretic everettics: Is there a limited number of events in the world of continuous branchings? I said yes, it is limited, and my arguments…. God, I had no idea I could win the debate and lose my own life!

Rain. It will always be raining now.

The phone rang, its ringtone a Hungarian dance by Brahms. I fumbled in my bag and brought the phone to my ear.

“Dima!”

I did not recognize the voice at first: it was Mikhail Natanovich, the doctor who treated, but could not save, Irina. “Dima, I’ve been calling you all day!”

“My phone was off,” I said.

“No matter! I wanted to tell you: today’s test results are much better than before. Much better! This new drug, it’s really…. Dima, I think it will all turn out for the best, now. Do you hear me, Dima?”

Will turn out for the best. New drug. Ira.

“How is she?” I asked, squeezing the phone as if I wanted to break it.

“Slept well all night.”

“Ira?”

“Irina Yakovlevna had breakfast this morning, for the first time….”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you for calling. I will be at the hospital no later than nine this evening, as soon as I can get there.”

I dropped the phone on the seat next to me.

Oleg succeeded? How? He said himself—not quite an hour ago—that there’s a limited number of splices, that if she died, then….

Was he mistaken? Or did he accomplish that which he himself considered impossible? Or found an infinity of branches and among them, one in which everything, simply everything, works out?

I lifted the receiver and dialed his number. It was my duty to thank him, at least.

“I need to speak with Oleg Nikolaevich,” I said when one of his secretaries answered.

“Unfortunately…”

“This is Mantsev, his old friend and colleague. I was just with him and want to…”

“Unfortunately,” repeated a voice as gray as the rain beyond my window, “it’s impossible. Oleg Nikolaevich passed away immediately after you left.”

How could that happen? He had appeared healthy and acted perfectly well when….

“I do not understand,” I muttered. “How is this…”

“The police are here now,” the secretary said. “I think they might want to speak with you. You were his last visitor of the day. Ten minutes after you left…”

“Out with it!”

“Oleg Nikolaevich threw himself out the window. And we are…”

“On the sixth floor,” I finished for him.

This is how it ends , I thought. He pushed the white curtain out of the way and stepped through.

Rain ended. I drove to the airport as fast as I could go. At nine I had to be at the hospital. With Irina. My Irina.

I was right after all: there is a limit to the number of splices. Oleg proved it, conclusively this time. He said he could do nothing with his fate. Of course. Except for one thing: he could interrupt it. Only then could my fate where Ira died be spliced with the branch where she survived.

You can extend one branch by cutting off another. The law of conservation. Oleg knew.

Why did he do this? He had every reason to hate me. What would I have done in his place, knowing there was only one possibility? What am I? A theoretician. Oleg worked in practical, experimental everettics. He did what I could only guess at. Or calculate.

I sped up, no longer watching the speedometer.

I knew that Irina and I—that all will be well.

How can I live, knowing that?

“Rina! Rina!” Galia screamed at the top of her lungs, trying in vain to climb out of bed. The man at her side was fast asleep. She already knew there was no point in trying to wake him up. Only Rina ever managed to do that.

“Rina!”

She heard a toilet flush in the bathroom and then the familiar tapping of Rina’s shoes.

“Yair!” Rina screamed. “Wake up, right now! Wake up!”

The man on the bed stirred, and Galia felt that the invisible barrier that had enveloped her had dissolved. She quickly jumped out of bed.

“I was driving!” she said with tears in her eyes. I was driving on Namir Avenue, and there were pedestrians.”

“Oh, poor thing,” said Rina softly and hugged Galia. “Let’s get you into this robe and find out what happened to your car.”

A few minutes later Galia sat at the kitchen table, dressed in a robe and holding a hot cup of tea. Rina sat next to her, talking with the police over the phone. Yair fell asleep again; the two of them preferred to let him sleep as long as Galia was there.

“I understand,” said Rina into the receiver, “so except for the old man who was startled, no one was hurt.”

Galia wrote on a note: Ask him what happened to the stuff in the car .

“I understand. Yes… yes, let her insurance company fight it out with ours—It’s not her fault, poor thing. It’s my husband’s fault.”

She looked at the note while listening to the voice on the other end. “Thank you… yes. She wants to know what happened to all her belongings in the car…. Aha… thank you.”

She put down the receiver. “He said your bag is at the police station, and they don’t think anything was stolen. And he said you should take the police report to the insurance company, showing that it was a Dreaming accident. The insurance has to compensate you for the damages. Worst case, they can talk to our insurance company.”

“Even though you weren’t involved in the accident?” asked Galia.

“But Yair caused it,” said Rina.

“I don’t know what to do,” said Galia. She looked pale and confused. “I’m going crazy. Have you been to your psychiatrist?”

“Yes. And he gave us pills, but they gave Yair an asthma attack. The psychiatrist is consulting now with his colleagues about an alternative medicine.”

“And what about the traditional treatment? Talks? Find out why he keeps dreaming about me in the first place?”

Rina sighed and held her head in her hands. “I asked him,” she said. “He told me that many men dream about women they’ve seen for a moment. It’s natural and usually harmless. Most men who dream about a woman dream about her for one night and usually don’t even remember the dream the next morning. At most, they may create an alternative dream duplicate, and then it disappears when they wake up. Sometimes they don’t even remember it. But Yair? He’s so utterly uncreative. So when he first dreamt about you, instead of creating himself a dream duplicate of you he simply pulled you to him, which created a sort of self-perpetuating effect. Since you appear next to him and he knows you really exist, it makes him go on dreaming about you. It’s an endless cycle.”