Malcolm James Thomson - TheodoraLand

The photos Dirk had downloaded from Wiki and Flickr were impressive, and some of the architectural plans looked very similar to those in the Fortezza file from 1939. A Swiss file concerning an Italian fortress?

“It has been renovated and given extensions by a daring post-modernist architect a few years ago. It is now the venue for cultural festivals and avant-garde art events. We should visit…” Dirk concluded.

“I’m not sure if Thea actually wants to be visiting Italy at the moment, Dirk.”

True. I wanted to visit the toilet, or maybe a bar. Aunt Ursel kept little in the way of drinks apart from her beloved Pflümli. Most guests passed when she offered it. I think that’s one of the reasons she stocked the potent sweet plum brandy.

It was as if the three of us after being cooped up together needed an alternative to each other’s company. At Wystübli I introduced Bea to Martin, one of the regulars and a nice guy whose problem is that he is a total petrol-head, unable to talk for long about anything unrelated to cars. The photos on his cellphone were impressive, loving portraits of the vehicles he had created, power-enhanced versions of automobiles which were already quite devastatingly potent. Bea knew her stuff when it came to something called engine remapping which (I learned before leaving them to it at the bar) had to do with fuel supply, ignition timing, injector opening times and other alterations in order to provide a more efficient combustion. I think they were glad not to be obliged to explain stuff to an ignoramus. Inevitably, on the eve of the Grand Prix in Canada, they would be sharing their enthusiasm for Formula One racing.

Not that I have anything against wheels, but I prefer them to be on my skateboard or inline skates. At the far end of the bar I spotted Renate and her new husband, Eddi, who always had an oafish grin when he saw me. Renate, the owner of a shop selling lamps and electrical fixtures, was also the captain of the local women’s rollerblading club, Weinfelden Gone Wild . There were enough members to field two five-a-side roller derby teams. Once a year we ritually watched the 1975 movie Rollerball , horrified by its ultra-violence but also thrilled by it. I made a favourable impression when I informed the girls that much of the action had been filmed in Munich.

I had run often with Weinfelden Gone Wild during previous summers. Renate was disappointed when I said that my stay would be a short one and that I could not be counted on for the upcoming flat-track derby against the crew we called the Floozies , although our local rivals were officially the Frauenfeld Furies .

Eddi Zimmermann was an incomer from Zurich, assistant manager of a small Weinfelden hotel. His smirk was explained by his familiarity with and frank appreciation of the video of my nude downhill chase.

I drifted across to give Dirk some moral support. Chatting up the nubile hairdresser, Vroni, was not going well. Wheels again! Dirk was trying to get her to understand the rush of riding a fixie. There was a moment when Vroni showed interest, but she had misheard. The word fixie sounds very much like a vulgar German term for copulation. I wondered if I should allude to Dirk’s hidden asset. Aunt Ursel had apologized for not believing me about its signal merits. Vroni complemented me on my skin-tight black jeans; she had a pair which were similar, also with rivets liberally applied. I nodded my thanks. My jeans were decorated rather garishly with Swarovski rhinestones, not rivets made of plastic looking like metal.

Martin ‘the Motor’ passed me in a hurry to get to the men’s room. I wondered if he had become conscious that Bea wore the blue dress and yellow high-top Chucks and nought else. He would understand; I thought. His track race cars were stripped of anything superfluous to reduce their kerb weight.

Bea joined me.

“Martin reckons I can get even more push out of the Corolla.”

Ridiculous! Only the first and last few metres of the drive from Säntisblick to the Marktplatz had been below the speed limit.

“You’re a very good driver, Bea. Did you have special training?” I asked, making conversation while Martin was gone.

No tell. Bea two-point-zero, avid tuner of engines, owner of a super-duper smart cellphone, was as inscrutable as the greige ghost had been bland.

“I did. Advanced driving courses are available for civilians as well, you know.”

Now that was a tell. Although, I felt, no accident.

“Tell me something of your work. Dirk had his moment, recounting for us the milestones of his career. Aunt Ursel was fascinated.”

Less by his stories, though. And I had heard them all before, in his bed. The ‘old’ Bea had insisted that her job was too specialized and so very boring that it was not worth speaking of. The relevant section of the Segirtad website gave nothing away apart from windy platitudes about ‘leadership in the knowledge business’ and ‘full spectrum dominance’ in ‘advanced niche areas of cyber expertise’ which remained unspecified.

Bea still seemed reluctant.

“You’re something of a spook, right?”

“Only very vaguely,” she dissembled.

“You’ve learned to drive fast and shoot straight!”

“Basic skills,” she said modestly.

“Of course. Your weapon of choice is the computer!”

“Things are changing fast, Thea. People communicating with other people using their laptops… that’s so yesterday. There was no panting Peeping Tom with old-school binoculars at the gravel pit, right? More and more we have things communicating with other things , artificial intelligence learning much faster and much more than any human could ever equal or deal with. Segirtad keeps pace with all that and watches how in parallel humans themselves are changing, interfacing with the world through augmented reality, escaping in large numbers into virtual existences, simulating vanishing human relationships with digital avatars. Inanimate companionship is enfolding us, grasping us in its binary embrace.”

Did Bea know of my inanimate Bob? That stands for battery-operated-boyfriend , like the Duracell bunny untiring and never unfaithful.

“Hold on! You lost me at ‘binary embrace’! But… just to keep things simple… what I am faced with is a mystery concerning three old books. Each one is very different, all three are inanimate. They are not able to tell us their story, however, nor are they able to communicate with each other.”

A look of sympathy crossed Bea’s features.

“Maybe they do communicate! You might find the idea far-fetched but it intrigued my supervisor enough for him to approve my request for leave.”

Martin was on the way back. Might he spare a glance for Bea’s derrière, so tight and shapely and veiled by mere gossamer? No!

“You know, Bea, I think there might be a compressor which is compatible. But it would call for a slight dome on the car’s bonnet.”

MONDAY 11 JUNE 2012

A trinity? A trifecta wager? Three books. One message?

I had slept badly and endured a lurid, swirling dream. The setting was my wardrobe, which had expanded to assume vast proportions. My sisyphean task seemed to be to remove from the rails any garment which might look better on Bea than on me. Which might have resulted in an empty wardrobe but I was constantly having to deal with Renate and Eddi Zimmermann, both naked on inline skates, Eddi with an erection as well as his oafish grin. Martin made a blindingly fast drive-through on my skateboard which he had motorized. Vroni the hairdresser sat weeping in a corner. The person who loomed in front of me wearing the single long evening dress I possessed (by Chloé) turned out to be Rudiger Reiß, of all people. I was throwing my clothing into Bea’s Corolla which was driven by Louie Lessinger who was trying to tell me something but the sound of the engine was too loud.