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Why not? Because it would rob him of his identity. For sixty-five years, the tug on his thoughts of that one night in Hamburg had been as constant as gravity; everything he'd done since had been shaped by its influence. To tear out the entire tangled strand of his psyche -- render half of his remaining memories incomprehensible -- would be to leave himself a baffled stranger in his own life.
Of course, any sense of loss, or disorientation, could be dealt with, too, subtracted out . . . but where would the process of amputation end? Who would remain to enjoy the untroubled conscience he'd manufactured? Who'd sleep the sleep of the just in his bed?
Memory editing wasn't the only option. Algorithms existed which could transport him smoothly and swiftly into a state of enlightened acceptance: rehabilitated, healed, at peace with himself and his entire uncensored past. He wouldn't need to forget anything; his absurd fear of incrimination by mind-reading would surely vanish, along with his other neuroses-of-guilt.
But he wasn't prepared to swallow that fate, either -- however blessed he might have felt once the transformation was complete. He wasn't sure that there was any meaningful distinction between redemption and the delusion of redemption . . . but some part of his personality -- though he cursed it as masochistic and sentimental -- baulked at the prospect of instant grace.
A
On his "deathbed," as his illness had progressed -- as he'd flirted giddily every morning with the prospect of ordering his final scan -- he'd felt certain that witnessing the fate of his body would be dramatic enough to purge him of his stale, mechanical, relentless guilt. A
But the murderer had never really died. The corpse consigned to the furnace had been nothing but shed skin. Two days before being sca
So the dying human had never woken, never known that he was facing death. And there had been no separate, mortal Thomas Riema
+ + +
Thomas had met A
The cafe was crowded, they shared a table. A
She looked him over appraisingly, then said, "I'd kill for a shirt like that. You have expensive tastes. What do you do to support them?"
Thomas lied carefully. "I was a student. Engineering. Up until a few months ago. It was hopeless, though; I was failing everything."
"So what do you do now?"
He looked doleful. "My father owns a merchant bank. I went into engineering to try to get away from the family business, but --"
She wasn't sympathetic at all. "But you screwed up, and now he's stuck with you?"
"And vice versa."
"Is he very rich?"
"Yes."
"And you hate him?"
"Of course."
She smiled sweetly. "Why don't I kidnap him for you? You give me all the inside information, and we'll split the ransom money, fifty-fifty."
"You kidnap bankers for a living, do you?"
"Not exclusively."
"I think you work in a record store."
"You're wrong."
"Or a second-hand clothes shop."
"You're getting colder."
"Who are you meeting in Berlin?"
"Just some friends."
When her train was a
For the next few months whenever he was traveling north, be phoned her. Three times, she made excuses. He almost gave up, but he kept recalling the mocking expression on her face, and he knew he wanted to see her again.
Early in November, she finally said, "Drop round, if you like. I'm not doing anything."
He'd pla
Thomas, still on the couch, asked her if the powder was heroin, or cocaine.
"Heroin."
"Do you use that shit?"
"No." She regarded him with mild amusement; she didn't care if he believed her or not.
He woke again at half past five. A
He phoned from the hotel, paying for the night he hadn't spent there, knowing that his father would scrutinize his expenses. A
The next time, he came on a Saturday afternoon, with no need to be anywhere else in a hurry. They met at the Alsterpavillon, drank their coffee looking down on the buffoons in rowboats on the Bi
Later, in a nightclub with a bad live band who dressed like the Beatles and did Sex Pistols covers, they ran into Martin, a tall wiry blond youth who A
A
While A