"Aldridge, Ray - The Spine DiversV1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Aldridge Ray)

I shut down my recorders and unfolded the big monitor.

For a while I just flipped between tracks, getting a sense of the material trying to slip into that strange double-minded state that I must adopt in order to work with my own memories. Not everyone can relive an experience while simultaneously retaining a useful awareness of the here and now. It's like a disorienting drug, that mental state, a kind of purposeful delirium. It's like dreaming, except that one's recorded memories are far more vivid and concrete than any dream and they can easily overwhelm an unpracticed person. In fact, some must resort to filters which scale back the intensity of the recorded experience. But I've been doing this for a very long time now. My consciousness easily splits into the two streams that the work demands.

It struck me that so far the unifying emotional coloration in these segments seemed to be desperation. In a moment of whimsy, I said, "Begin at the beginning, from the outside in."

I set up an experimental track and I ran the call from my agent.

I've never given up, here was the evidence -- an external shot of me, wearing a dirty pair of shorts, gray-fleshed and unbarbered, hunched over the viewscreen of my phone. Except when I'm editing past experiences and don't want to risk a possibly fatal experiential heterodyne, I always keep the recorders running, that's why I can claim I've never given up. I watched my slightly younger self have his guarded conversation with Cleame, noticed for the millionth time what a small and unexceptional-looking man I am. My hair is black and straight, an d when I'm well-groomed it lies dose to my skull. My face is faintly predatory, with hooded blue eyes set deep below high-arched brows. My mouth sometimes has a malicious curve. My hands are long and bony, and despite Teeg's remarks about "soft white persons," my musculature is well-developed and I am strong for my size.

I dissolved the long shot, moved inside, let the desperation and reluctant hope emerge clearly from the emotional mix.

Then I made a clean jump-cut to the trail that first day . . . .

When I grew tired, I realized that with this tentative track I had made a major departure from my past work. Always before, I tried to be, as best I could, a blank tablet, an empty skin. Such neutrality in an emotigogue recording is, I've always believed, essential. And my agent and editors had always reminded me of one of the industry's primary taboos: don't make memories about remembering. "Until you get to be a mega-star," Cleame told me one day, "nobody's going to give a damn about your working methods or esthetic philosophies or artistic angst. Remember this."

Now I was allowing my personal concerns to seep into every sequence, so that the work had become a story about me, and not about the nameless village and its dwellers.

I was disturbed and frustrated, but for some reason, I preserved the track. Maybe change was necessary, maybe I was wrong about what my fans wanted, or perhaps the thing they wanted had changed.

I met Odorini at the appointed time. The restaurateur wore a dark cloak, the hood pulled close around his face. He looked a bit sinister in the dim lamplight.

He glanced at my feet. "You're wearing sensible shoes, I see. Very good. Shall we go?"

He took me to the nearest cave mouth and pressed his palm to the identiplate. A chime rang out and then the iron gate swung back, making a rusty screech. It was all very atmospheric. Odorini played to this effect shamelessly. He turned and beckoned me in, staring wide-eyed. "Come with me. . . down, down, down into the darkness," he said, and then cackled wildly.

As we went inside the cave, automatic lights came on, to reveal an artificially smooth walkway. Odorini nudged me with his elbow. "How was I?" he asked.

"Too much," I answered. "I'll have to cut you from this segment."

He took this with good humor. "I imagine you're right. I'm not made for melodrama. My face is too serious."

I began to think I'd made a mistake in hiring Odorini. His constant awareness of my purposes was distracting.

"Listen," I said. "Would you do me a favor, would you pretend you don't know me? Pretend I'm just another tourist."

He looked abruptly solemn. "Of course. I should have known better."

As we went deeper into the caverns, I realized that the primitive village above was only a consciously quaint facade. The cavern was thoroughly modernized -- well-lit, with cushioned walkways and steel railings. At some junctions were small automated kiosks, where directions could be obtained, as well as hot drinks and snacks.

"'You're surprised?" Odorini asked.

"Well, yes," I said. "My room has a washbasin. The bathroom's down the hall."

He laughed. "We're a tourist attraction. Didn't your agency in Skull promise you The Real Experience? Most visitors are content with that; we take them down to the Well of Rebirth by a different path. The stone sweats, torches flare, eerie music plays. You see?"

"Oh."

"But you should know the truth about us. Do you know why the village has rio name? Because the Tourist Development Council can't seem to come up with a name that pleases everyone. We'd have a name if we could; can you imagine how difficult it is to advertise a nameless place?"