Floozman Saves a Technician by Bertrand Cayzac	Table of Contents Vers la version originale
part 1 of 2

The moment Gabriel stops looking at the screen, he remembers he is alone. His restless awareness gradually withdraws from the glowing program and flows back to his immediate surroundings: the meeting room with its dull beige partitions, its white false-ceiling squares bordered by polished iron lintels, and its plasticized tables arranged in rectangles.

He tries to catch his breath. Should he go back into the program to verify step by step the processing of an outgoing call or should he go have a cigarette? A diffuse feeling of distaste is associated with the latter idea. The parking lot is far away, it is certainly dark already, and he still has not managed to isolate the problem.

The prospect of launching another test makes him ill. He will have to accommodate his sight again to the tiny signs aligned in the computer’s windows; he will have to put on again the harness of logic and force his mind to understand the minute interlocking functions that are part of the demonstration software.

What is he doing here? How did he manage to end up precisely here? He can't get rid of this nagging question, and that seems ridiculous to him.

He begins to consider all the things which are also here with him at this moment in time. He pictures the computer, all the matter that has gone into this complex object, wrought by layers of atoms and channeled in electric currents.

His vision embraces all the surrounding objects, even the cabinet’s iron frame, the darkness reigning inside the metal castings cooled and constrained in their functional forms. He travels with his mind through the thick concrete walls that separate him from empty space; he is overcome by compassion for the little stones that have been embedded in the blocks for eons. They may not see any light before the universe collapses enough to melt the earth...

As usual, he falls into despondency when he thinks of so many crystallized efforts. The designer’s intention without which this improbable situation would not exist is nothing but a dead language now. What will happen if he gets really petrified while he remains the only being capable of giving meaning to the things around him? Depression, he thinks, as he senses time passing. A clear and certainly correct diagnosis. From the point of view of a sane professional person, what is taking place here would have to do only with the delay accumulated in preparing the demonstration of the inverse multiplexer, a delay that might compromise the sale of ten units to the tune of one and a half million dollars.

The telephone rings shrilly and jolts him out of his daydream. It is a wretched wired telephone sitting on a pile of manuals (model S63).

It is Normand calling.

“Where do we stand on the demo?”

“I still haven’t received mux version 6.0.4. I’m trying to adapt the demonstration software to make the connections manually, but it will never work with the old hardware. Besides, some things in the program interface are poorly documented...”

“Don’t talk to me about technicalities,” Normand interrupts sharply.

Of course! Of course. How did he manage not to be dealing with people who have the petty power to say “Can you validate feasibility with the consultants?” or “Please, no technicalities, just the customer,” or even “I don’t want to hear about problems, I need solutions”? Where did he go wrong?

“We’d better postpone the demonstration,” Gabriel resumes, wondering whether there is still daylight. Maybe he can go home around nine or ten and forget about it...

But he knows right away that his attitude betrays the desire to give up and that nothing could be more suspect. Whether it’s economic war or inverse multiplexer tuning, competition is the norm.

“No, impossible. We won’t find another slot with the BrtzLiqd information technology director for months, and the Osotogari distributor is lending us the terminals for only a couple of days. It comes down to: we lose the deal if it doesn’t work.”

The tone is confident... No really, this is not even thinkable...

“Why didn’t you get the update?” Normand insists.

“I called London back this morning. The parcel was sent yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you do it earlier?”

“Because the...”

“Don’t talk to me about technicalities, I told you. You know that an important demonstration has to be carefully prepared. We’ve already talked about that...”

“That’s why I warned you, Jean-Claude. I tried to reach you, I left a message...”

“Messages! I get one hundred and fifty messages a day! If it’s urgent, you must find a way to talk to me directly. One must know how to go through management.”

“...”

“Well, what do we do? What do you propose?” Normand starts again, sharply.

“I’ll wait for the update. It should be here tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I am trying to make the demo software launch from the PC before the demonstration... Maybe we could call in Steve...”

But how can he stop? How could he pay his bills? How could he explain it to his family? Instantaneously he replays in his mind the trailer of the film he has titled “In life, you must do what you like.”

“OK. Get Steve to come over right now.”

“Can you take care of that? I have my hands full with this program.”

“No. I am to go somewhere. You’re the technical manager, right? You have to deal with that. It’s your job. If you don’t like it, you must do something else. You’re free to go. We’ve already discussed that. In life...”

Gabriel’s cell phone begins to ring. “Hold on a second,” he says.

“No, it’s not necessary. Call me back.” Normand hangs up.

“Hello? This is Gabriel.”

A distant feminine voice is reaching him. A voice from the outside. A familiar voice.

“Anita?”

“Gabriel, are you all right? Your wife gave me your number.”

“How about you? This is a surprise.”

At that moment, the BrtzLiqd technician enters the room and sits on a corner of the table. He stares at the equipment with a mixture of confidence and curiosity. He is dirty, dishevelled and visibly at loose ends.

“Wait, Anita.”

Cousin Anita! He had forgotten she existed. Worse, he does not know precisely whose cousin she is.

“Are you planning to stay after midnight?” the technician asks. “I need to tell security.”

“Yes. This thing isn’t working properly yet. Some trouble with the connection.”

“Still doing the demonstration tomorrow at two? Because if we don’t...”

“Yes, yes. Excuse me, I’m on the phone.”

“Okay, I’ll come back later.”

“Sorry, Anita. You’re in Villabanez?”

“No. I’ll go tomorrow. Your mother is in very bad shape, you know.”

“I know. I was there at Easter. I saw.”

His telephone beeps repeatedly. Someone is trying to reach him.

“No. She is very ill. They’re taking her to the hospital. You have to come.”

Gabriel stares at the telephone in the palm of his hand. It has turned off. The battery has run down. In the silence, he imagines the route and the perfumed freshness of the mountains. He doesn’t have to imagine it: he knows that the night sky is clear and that travellers are walking under the Milky Way. He knows the smugglers’ paths that disappear in the bush. Without having ever taken this journey, he is ready for it, as he is ready for his mother’s. He must go.

He must leave now, there’s not the slightest doubt about it. But for how long? Will he have the courage to come back? Did he have the courage to leave before?

He can see himself, at a moment that is bound to come, telling Normand about his mother’s illness and her impending death, all those things he doesn’t bring up at work. The idea of this simple conversation throws him into deep distress.

A great filth clings to him, as if Normand’s crassness and the events of his own life were oil and water. Suddenly the vision of this stain overwhelms him. He leans back and weeps silently.

* * *

At the same moment, Fred Looseman is leaning over the on-line analyzer’s parameter screen with a blank look and a strained jaw. He is getting ready to simulate the automatic teller’s network connection.

Gabriel’s image of the captive stones comes to him as a disturbance. Then he sees hot, glorious galaxies falling in towards the point of origin of the universe. He shakes his head and hears Gabriel’s sorrow.

* * *

Gabriel’s Lament

If I could only be a machine and be
Cursed to labor under tyrants
With no flame within me,
With no inner voice to silence,

I would produce prose like any other
And cease dreaming of time and my mother.
I would produce goods and services, too.
My spirit is a foot in an ill-fitting shoe.

Blow out this fire! It sheds too much light.
Let me be matter, and ashes tonight.

Fred knows he can save Gabriel. He remembers he is Floozman. He makes a move towards his telephone and changes his mind. Nothing is forcing him to stay in this cramped cabin. He will call in the open air.

“Marinella!”

“Floozman! At last! Be careful, it is a difficult case. I don’t know what he will do when his depression is over. Do you want to intervene right now or do you want to let him leave first?

“Nay. I want to see him at this very moment. He has built bridges to others.”

“Others? What?”

“Send me the Floozboys, please Mrs. Marinella. And remind me to invite you later. Ah, don’t forget, I need my large satin coat.”

“Floozman... I don’t like this.”

* * *

The Floozboys briskly take Floozman to the BrtzLiqd Headquarters. After a few problems with his coat in the entrance turnstile, Floozman and his followers make their way to the information desk.

“Hello... we come... err...” Floozman hesitates.

“We’re here to see Mr. Vivid, production manager in the IT department,” says a Floozboy after a quick scan of the BrtzLiqd company in his decision-making viewer. “Or someone on his team. We need to talk to the engineer who is currently working in his department for the RevMux company. It is urgent.”

“Whom do you want to see? And who shall I say is here?”

“It’s a bit complicated.”

“We don’t have to see anyone, actually,” says Floozman. “The BrtzLiqd takeover shouldn’t take long, will it? Young man, please accept a billion dollars and allow us in. Someone is desperate up there.”

“Er... I’d rather announce you to Mr. Vivid’s secretary.”

A security guard is closing in, with his walkie-talkies abuzz.

“How much do we have?” Floozman asks a Floozboy studying a computer terminal.

“13.5% of the capital, no more. This may take a while. The markets are puzzled.”

The security guard is upon them. At the same time, Gabriel is walking through the vast lobby like a zombie, unnoticed.

“A problem? What’s all this money for?”

Curses are heard from the turnstile. Normand bursts in with a very young engineer.

“What is this? I cancel my dinner, I decide to visit you, and you’re leaving? Thanks for notifying me!” he shouts at Gabriel.

Floozman and the Floozboys are suddenly made aware of Gabriel’s presence. They throw themselves at him and give him a warm welcome.

“Gabriel, we are here to set you free!” Floozman announces.

“Who are you?”

“Yes, who are you?” Normand says as he breaks into their circle. “Security! Sir, I am asking you where these banknotes come from.”

With his coat wide open, Floozman steps back to face Gabriel. The group moves with him involuntarily.

“Gabriel, you have had a great vision! Your infinite compassion for this place aroused a wave of compassion in the world. And here I am! I am surfing this wave, Gabriel! I am the silver surfer!”

Meanwhile the elevators are depositing small groups of employees into the lobby. Bing... Bing. They look disconcertedly at the scene.

“39 percent!” A Floozboy calls to Floozman across the room. “We’re cooking now. The pension funds have sold! WITS holds 39% of BrtzLiqd. I am the biggest stockholder!”

“WITS”? asks a second Floozboy.

“The ‘Why Is There Something’ Company.” We founded it when we set out for this job.”

“Oh. What sort of name is that?”

“Better than nothing.”

“Let me go!” Gabriel shouts. “I can’t take it any more.”

“Gabriel, I want an update on the demonstration’s status.”

Floozman rummages in his immense pockets. He extracts a large handful of precious stones and drops them into Gabriel’s hands. Innumerable gems fall and roll noisily on the marble floor.

“Trust me, Gabriel. Don’t listen to them. We are not gangsters. This is not a happening. This is not a team-building test. Believe in me, Gabriel! You are free. Your family is free. You don’t have to work any more. You shall lack for nothing. But before we leave, I beg of you, let’s bring some peace to this place.”

“I’m calling the police!” the guard barks. Everyone stares transfixed at the precious stones gleaming on the floor.

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2009 by Bertrand Cayzac