LONTAR issue #2 (8 page)

The terraces of Berwick Drive, of Moonstone Lane;

The light roaming and probing

The scaffolds of Alexandra Canal, of Lorong Chuan).

An old man groans as he bumps against the windshield,

Making his way upwards, towards the cumuliform,

Holding on to the woman he loved for sixty-nine years;

The parents navigate their way between the dead and the dying.

7.

I have seen you

Sitting by the porch

Waiting for me, to pick you up.

Our hearts used to break so easily

And still do.

8.

Listen! Listen! Listen!

Open your windows! Turn on the radio!

Beat of my heart mnemonic!

Course of my veins electric!

9.

May they be young;

May they be brave.

May they remember the times I told you I loved you, and the time I thought you

would;

May they find the place, somewhere under a streetlight, brought by the trail of

second-hand smoke;

May they learn what it means to drive without glasses, and drive on regardless;

May they find where the boats go sailing, or the ganders go flying;

May they find the churning canal, dotted by paper lanterns, floating on the water: a

candle in each and a wish to carry.

May they remember the times I moved on, and moved on regardless;

May they remember that I still love you, and love you regardless.

10.

Their time has come

And so have ours:

The time to move in artful slow-motion, to the swell of that electric chorus, neon

signs illuminating the way

(Ever on upwards, rising towards the great cloud)

The lines of the stave never-meeting, but ever-on-going.

Entanglement

Victor Fernando R. Ocampo

Victor Fernando R. Ocampo (Philippines/Singapore) is a Singapore-based Filipino writer. His fiction has appeared in
Apex Magazine
,
Expanded Horizons
,
Lakeside Circus
,
The Philippines Free Press
,
Strange Horizons
,
The Future Fire
and
The World SF Blog
, as well as anthologies like
Philippine Speculative Fiction
(Volumes 6 and 9) and
Fish Eats Lion: New Singaporean Speculative Fiction
. The latter includes the story "Big Enough for the Entire Universe," which shares the same fictional milieu as "Entanglement".

Months later I can still see you from the corner of my eyes, stray pixels of your face burned into my retinas, fragile and cruel as ghosts. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I sit all day drawing, painting, doodling, clawing your memory on every surface; every canvas, every wall. If I stop, you'll disappear forever, and I don't think I could carry on.

I don't trust my memory. I don't trust myself.

I loved that book.
That was the first thought you placed in my head, as I sat reading Borges'
The Maker
on the brick perimeter of Blumberg Library.

 
"I...I love this book too," I stammered, startled by your sudden appearance. Back then you had absolutely no clue how desirable you were. You had no idea just how many people were looking—hunting—for someone like you, for someone
exactly
like you.

But shit, you came to me first. You were gathered so tightly then, bursting with righteous possibility, like a thundercloud. Yet there was something oddly vulnerable about your presence. Something about you was both there and not-there, something a preacher would've called "immanent".

You had the most oceanic eyes I'd ever imagined.

 
Sorry, do we know each other?
you asked, staring at me like a lost calf staring at a new gate. Your eyes, your sweet eyes were the first thing I ever made. I willed them into existence with a word and they were there, like magic.

"My favorite story in this book is
'El Testigo'
...'The Witness'," I said, suddenly confident, hoping that would get your attention. "I saw you first. I can help you, please. Anyone can tell you I'm really dependable. Trust me."

In my mind's eye I never saw you as the shapeless mass of energy that you were, or a lost ghost made from uncertain, unsettled numbers. Through the human eyes I made for you, I could see the power of infinity—of absolute and utter potential, and I knew I could hew your rawness into a true shape.

But on that first meeting no amount of my deliberate and studied gazing could induce you to entanglement. I remember that you just looked at me strangely, saying nothing. Instead you drifted away, tracing the edge of the building's perimeter.

"Wait!" I yelled, as I fumbled to collect my things. But you had already rounded the corner and disappeared. There was nothing in the distance but grass, a ragged patch of bluebonnets, and one of the janitor's calico cats. Somewhere beyond my sight, a train of big-rigs rumbled on the I-10. It sounded almost like a storm was coming.

I saw you again four days later. You were in front of the Mathematics Department at Emma Frey Hall, staring at an empty bulletin board. Even back then, I knew you could be everything I ever wanted, everything I ever needed.

"Hello," I blurted nervously. I'd felt skittish again, like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. "Are you lost? Why are you looking at an empty bulletin board?"

It's not empty,
you said, pointing to a fragment of a poster by the Heart of Texas Country Music Association. I could barely make out the announcement for a Johnny Cash tribute. Only one song title, "Mean-Eyed Cat", was readable and the last four digits of the ticketing line, 5-3-5-4.

As softly as a blackbird's wing you whispered:
Where I come from, that's a bad sign. It means that I am...coalescing...bleeding into one.

"Johnny Cash is a bad sign? I suppose, he only wrote sad songs," I said. I was determined to learn more about you, to groom you for myself. "So where are you from? I've never seen you around campus."

I guess you could say I am from Singapore,
you murmured absentmindedly,
5-3-5-4 is very unlucky. In Cantonese it sounds like 'neither dead nor alive'.

"Did you just transfer recently? I can't believe I didn't notice you before," I blabbered, distracted by your ethereal form and your beautifully endless eyes. "I'm an American-born Chinese myself. I thought I knew all the Asian kids at school. Dang, I would've definitely noticed a fresh freshasaurus like you."

Do you like cats?

"Er...yeah I love cats. I have one at home. Why?" I was amused by your attempt at misdirection.

Cats dislike change without their consent. I think we end when I follow a cat.

"What? So did you have a cat where you're from, um...Singapore, right? Are you Singaporean Chinese?"

No, I am Filipino Chinese,
you said unexpectedly, confident of your mythology,
but born in Singapore, raised in Singapore too.

"So does that make you Singaporean or Filipino?"

Both and neither; does it matter? I am like Schrödinger's cat.

"Yeah, well in these parts your identity's very important. I mean with the new immigration laws and everything," I said. "You are a gorgeous Chinese girl. You're now American and living in America. Let's fix on that before someone else is all over you."

I am Filipino. I am Singaporean...I am confused
, you told me, as your inner light started to dim. When you looked into my eyes, I knew I had your soul dead to rights. We were now entangled.

"Just listen to my voice," I repeated gently. Programming deep structures was about repetition, iteration, introjection. "You are a girl, a dang pretty one. You're also an ABC like me."

I...I am a...I am a gorgeous Chinese girl. I am an American in America.

Truth to tell, I first thought you had Asperger's or some weird mental wallering going on. To deal with your baggage, the remains of your mind, was challenging. Yeah, you were quite the cattywhompus, playing your shattered angel bit very, very well. I guess it was your way to firewall me, to resist me, a smoke screen to keep your pretence of identity.

Too bad for you; I knew you were a blank slate, and I was
El Hacedor
, the Maker.

The days stretched to weeks and then to months. Every time I saw you, we became closer. You became more fixed, more real. By nature I was a loner, but your mystery drew me irresistibly towards you. I was addicted. I could never get enough of you.

Do you remember that special evening last July? We were walking by the abandoned railroad tracks, watching fireflies fool around the bluebonnets.

I fear being forgotten,
you told me, as we watched the cold yellow flashes appear and disappear into the darkness.
No one remembers the fireflies of Singapore. They're not part of the program anymore.

"What program?" I asked, losing myself in your eyes once again. "You can trust me. I'm an English major so the only program I know is Word."
Then you can know me,
you said.
I am flesh turned into numbers, turned into words. But are you certain you are certain you want to know me?

"Hell yeah, I'm certain. You know, I've been wanting to...umm...
know
you for months now."

That was the night you finally became a real girl, my perfect girl.

I led you to a quiet spot under an ancient live oak. Beneath branches dripping with Spanish moss, mistletoe and resurrection ferns, we made love like cats in the night.

What do you know about what happened to Singapore?
you asked afterward, as we lay naked on the damp grass.

"Very little...I just read about it somewhere," I fudged, hoping my fictive chickens would never come to roost. I had to hold on to you, to the here and the now of you. God, how I quivered all over from the strange sensations we shared. Your hands, your body felt so...electric. I could hardly talk. "I remember something about a nanotech accident, grey goo exploded on the island. I reckon a couple of million people died, serious shit."

No, no one was killed
, you told me cryptically.
It was genocide by Mathematical Singularity. We were all turned into something...something else, numbers, equations, algorithms. An island of standing wave forms...floating, drifting Hantu Raya, nanotech sprites moving in and out of time and space
...

"No need to think about that, my love," I said softly. I had never called you my love before. That night was the very first time. "Just stay with me. If you think too hard you'll disappear. I'll be your physical memory. I
will
be your witness, girl. Be here, be real."

And for a while you did and I was happy. We were happy.

Then came Chinese New Year. Why did I ever bring you home with me? I kick myself every day for doing that. The night, that
damned
night, when we went home was the worst one of my life.

Please understand, baby. I'm a proud American but my parents are still Chinese. I am still Chinese. It's written all over my face, branded and burned in my genes. I can never erase it, not completely, even if I wanted to. You
know
that reunion dinner was just as important as Christmas, and I needed to bring my mother and father the perfect Chinese girl.

And it had all gone so well, at least at the start. My folks loved you.

Where is your cat?
you asked me after dinner. I pointed you to my black shorthair, Pruflas.
His name,
what does it mean?

"Oh, that one's a game baddie from Ogre Battle 64. He's the demon of discord and falsehoods. I thought it was a cool name. Just call him Proof for short."

It is a most appropriate name.

Why, oh why did you follow my fool cat to my room? You should have waited for me, respected my privacy.

(Or maybe I should have remembered to tell mother to hide my books away.)

• The Dangers of Nanotechnology: The Singapore Grey Goo Disaster
  
• Big Enough for the Entire Universe—A Story of Lost Singapore
  
• A Computer for the Mind/An Algorithm for the Soul: Reconstructing the work of Dr. Joyce Xīn
  
• 80 Proven Techniques for Building Your Perfect Mate
  
• Creating Identity—A Hantu Raya Sprite Programming Manual
  
• The Dummies Guide to Hunting Singapore Nanotech Sprites
   
  
• Reprogramming Singaporeans for Fun and Profit
  
• Possession, Ownership and Rights of Digitized Humans
  

Yeah, so you found me out. Yes, I lied. So sue me, beat me like a hired donkey, I don't care. I lied for love and I'm proud of it. I would do it again and again and again.

But your milky face turned stormy. Your body flared so brightly it burned out pixels from my eyes. Whenever I close them now I see the cold ghost of fireflies, our fireflies, each one holding a fragment of your precious, perfect face.