Tom Rachman - The Rise & Fall of Great Powers

“Not always a condition,” she responded. “Isn’t that the point with stuff like marriage and children? It’s supposed to be unconditional.”

“ ‘Supposed to be’ is just a way of saying ‘isn’t.’ The reality is that people marry and procreate because of pressure from friends, from family. But there’s something vital lost the moment couples define themselves by an achievement anyone — good, bad, bright, or boring — achieves with the same simple act. For me, starting a family would be capitulation. Not least because it’d force me to have lunch with uninteresting people whose only point of reference is that our kids take the same dance class.”

They walked on in silence. “I don’t want kids, either,” she said, looking at him.

“Why would you? Children are not remotely interesting till they grow up,” he said. “Even then, few turn out to be.”

“I was interesting, wasn’t I?”

“But you weren’t much of a child. Like I never was. We were hanging around in kids’ bodies, waiting for time to rectify the mixup.”

“Some children must be nice.”

“How many did you like when you were one? I defy anyone to tell me that having them is meaningful,” he said. “It’s supposed to make you more loving and nurturing. But those are things I aim to be irrespective. People who must have a child to be kind are missing something in their emotional setup; they require someone’s neediness to give their lives meaning. Life has enough meaning and beauty already. Discovering that is a proper pursuit. Not just making helpless little organisms. Or marrying whoever once turned you on. Bonds between people form in particular circumstance and times, and ought to end once those pass. But people are so frightened of being left alone that they collect all these malformed relationships. Accepting loneliness is everything.”

“You’re crazy,” she said, laughing.

He chuckled. “I’m challenging my crazy self,” he said. “Testing my limits and getting stronger in the process. Can I go without friendship, pleasures, warmth? Can I walk for twenty-four hours straight through the night? Can I challenge a tyrant? If yes, what have I achieved? An insight? A vanity? A change somewhere in me? To pursue my own life satisfies me in the way that parenthood must for mothers and fathers. Most of them would find my views offensive. But later they’ll find themselves attracted to me.”

Rounding the corner, they confronted a peculiar scene. At the entrance of a closed office building across the street, a bum stood, tottering over a sleeping bag, which he jostled with his foot before unzipping his filthy black jeans and, right there, urinating on it.

“I think there’s someone in that sleeping bag,” Tooly said. “He’s pissing right on them.”

“Stay here.”

“Wait a second.” But he was already crossing the street.

The bum — knuckles covered in blue tattoos, face inked, too — zipped his fly, cursed the sleeping bag and kicked it, provoking a howl from within. He grabbed the end of the nylon bag and dragged it, a body flailing within. Noticing Venn, the bum paused, glaring from under a scabby brow. “Guy’s a faggot,” he said, by way of explanation. “He’s blocking my house.” He hammer-fisted the sleeping bag, prompting another muffled wail.

Venn pointed down the street. “Go that way. Now.”

“It’s my motherfucking door, man.”

A toothless face jutted from the sleeping bag, nose bleeding, greasy comb-over flopping in the wind. “Aren’t you just Mr. Sunshine,” he babbled. “I think we’re in love now.”

“See?” the bum told Venn. “Guy’s a fag.”

“Leave it.”

“Tell the fag to leave.”

“Now,” Venn said. “Or I rip your ears off.”

“What you say?”

Venn didn’t repeat himself.

As the bum unleashed another kick at the sleeping bag, Venn rammed him against the building. The bum struck the wall with a thud and fell to the snowy pavement. Venn dropped atop, knee in his chest, pinning him, muscles straining as he pushed downward.

“Hurting me, asshole!” the bum hollered. “Can’t fucking breathe!” After futile squirming and howling, he went limp. When Venn dragged him to his feet, the bum lunged for a head-butt. Venn caught him by the throat and eye socket, jutted a leg behind his, thrust forward his shoulder, knocking the man to the pavement, against which he bashed his face twice, before pulling him to his feet and frog-marching him a short distance away. “You’re done.”

Bleeding, the bum stumbled off, stopping at the corner to shout back curses.

Tooly knelt before the madman in the sleeping bag: a little person, sweet-faced, effeminate, and so damaged that he could have been thirty or seventy. “You okay?” she asked.

“Why,” he answered, “why don’t you go screw yourselves.” He cackled and pulled his head back inside the urine-drenched sleeping bag.

“A lunatic,” Venn said calmly, and turned to Tooly. “Ready?”

He resumed their walk as if nothing had happened. She hastened to match his pace, shaky but determined to exude nonchalance. “Look.” She held up her hand. “I’m trembling and I didn’t even do anything! You’re completely calm.”

“Does no good to get frightened in a situation like that.”

“I don’t get frightened because I think it’s a good idea.”

“Always best to keep your wits about you — a big man like that could have fallen and cracked his head, especially on a snowy day. Anyway, nobody walked past.”

“You were watching for bystanders during all that?”

“Well, I can’t count on you to be my lookout,” he said cheerfully.

“Venn,” she said, “did you tell that guy you’d rip his ear off? Please tell me I misheard that.”

“I never said that.” He paused. “I said ‘ears,’ plural — there’s no point taking just one.”

“How do you even think of a thing like that?”

He threw an arm around her, pulled her over, knuckled her ribs, earning a squeak.

To witness violence but be spared — to stand behind his shield — always left her giddy. It made her talk and talk. She boasted lavishly of all she’d gathered for him about the students. Venn listened intently — he’d always shared her curiosity about the lives of strangers. Indeed, he was the one who first stirred that interest in her.

“This Duncan likes you?”

“He does.”

“He’s in love with you, duck!” Venn said. “How could he not be! How could he not be.”

“But wait — listen.” She returned to Xavi, detailing his idea for the online currency. Venn knew all sorts of business guys. Could he make something of this?

“Are you saying take his idea?”

“No,” she responded. “Would you want to?”

“Much rather get him involved. Could fit beautifully at the Brain Trust.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“But there’s the fee to join, plus the monthly rental,” Venn reminded her. “The kid has that kind of cash?”

“He’s on scholarships, I think, and gets help from friends.”

“Plus, he’s buddies with your boy-lawyer, who has funds.”

“Don’t know,” she said, hoping to move this away from Duncan.

“Dear me. What are you doing up there?” he teased. “You don’t know if the boy-lawyer has funds? I know already, and I never even met the guy! His father’s an architect in Connecticut. His folks are covering his law school and lodgings comfortably. Is he getting student loans?”

“Not sure.”

“Tooly, Tooly,” Venn said affectionately.

“What?” she replied, amused.

“These are things you should know by now!” Delighted, he told her, “What would I do without you, duck? You’re still the only person who makes me laugh.”