Tomorrow

  TOMORROW

  ALSO BY CHRIS BECKETT

  Novels

  The Holy Machine

  Marcher

  Dark Eden

  Mother of Eden

  Daughter of Eden

  America City

  Beneath the World, A Sea

  Two Tribes

  Short Stories

  The Turing Test

  The Peacock Cloak

  Spring Tide

  Published in hardback in Great Britain in 2021 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Chris Beckett, 2021

  The moral right of Chris Beckett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Hardback ISBN: 978 1 78649 935 6

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 936 3

  Printed and bound in Great Britain

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  For Maggie.

  1 THE RIVER

  Tomorrow I’m going to begin my novel. That’s what I came here for. That’s why I gave up my job and my apartment in the city. I was going to make up a story. There were going to be lots of imaginary people in it, and a beautiful wide green river – this river that’s in front of me now, with its soft, cool, almost oily skin – and people would come in boats, like new cards dealt from a pack. It was going to be . . . But why am I saying ‘was’? It is going to be like life, a microcosm of life, but more alive than actual life, so that people can read it and think to themselves, ‘Of course, this is what life really is, and how wonderful this author must be to be able to see all that and communicate it to us.’

  Tomorrow, then. Or if not tomorrow, then next week or, at the very latest, before the end of the month. I ought to get on with it, if only to avoid looking foolish when I return to the city empty-handed, but I have to admit that right now I find it hard to care about the opinion of my family and friends. That’s for another me to deal with. (The barriers we build between our present and future selves are important, I feel, just like the barriers we build between ourselves and others. Infinite empathy would be as bleak as no empathy at all.) And as to those imagined readers who are going to admire me . . . well . . . the truth is, isn’t it, that I’m a fraud? What do I know about what life really is? What purpose is served by seeking the endorsement of people who don’t know me, for an idea of myself that I know to be unreal?

  But still. Tomorrow. Or next week, or certainly the week after, I’ll make a start.

  As the afternoon begins to cool and the swallows start to hunt over the water, I like to take a dip. It invigorates me. On my second day here I swam across to the opposite bank but the river is nearly half a kilometre wide, the current is challenging out in the middle and there were a few minutes there on the way back where I felt I’d lost control. So this evening I swim upriver. I watch the swallows on the way out and the bats in the dusk as the current carries me back. I turn round at a spot where a side channel flows in from a hot spring and there’s a warm and steamy patch in the water.

  When I return, I haul myself out by the big tree that grows right next to the cabin. Its leaves are the size of dinner plates, and its roots divide and divide again until they become strands as fine as human hair, bright red in colour, and spread out in the water to feed. I take a bottle of beer from the plastic crate I keep suspended in the river and sit on my veranda to watch the yellow moon as it rises from behind the trees on the far bank.

  I have spent many hours on that veranda with its pleasant smell of river and sun-warmed wood. In fact, I’ve sometimes passed entire days there, just watching the water go by, the little dents and gradations on its surface, the bits of branch that drift down, the birds that cross from one side to the other, carrying nest materials or food. A few times a day, local people pass in their small boats, staring in at me, waiting for me to greet them before allowing themselves to wave or smile. Sometimes I smoke some weed – there’s a plentiful supply in the overgrown plot behind my cabin – and from time to time I drink a beer, but most of the time I’m happy just to sit.

  Because I do feel alive. This is what life is really like. This is what I so badly wanted to experience, even just in that extraordinarily remote, vicarious and fetishistic kind of way that consists of evoking it in my novel and then being told by others that I have created a vivid world for them. So why would I want to turn away from experiencing it directly, in order to stare at a white page and try to cover it with heavy, clumsy words? I imagine some gaunt starving man – why a man, though, and not a woman? – I imagine some gaunt starving woman laboriously writing out a fantasy for other people about a feast that would satisfy her hunger and theirs, while ignoring the large and delicious meal that’s been laid out right in front of her.

  That image makes me laugh.

  There is no road to my wooden cabin. In these parts the river is the road. Today, Friday, as I do every Friday, I start up the outboard motor on my little boat and set off on the twelve-kilometre trip downriver to the modest-sized provincial seat. There’s a kind of beach there where you can drag your boat out of the water. A tough-looking woman called Dido presides over the place with her three sons. She has one blind eye like a boiled egg. The other eye darts about, ensuring that nothing, however small, happens on her beach without her consent. She and her boys will watch over your boat for you for a small fee. I bought mine from her when I first arrived, fresh off the plane, unloading my cases and my box of provisions from the taxi, looking forward to seeing, for the very first time, my writing retreat up the river.

  The town’s main business is the onward shipment of products from the surrounding forest: latex, timber and certain minerals. Just downstream from Dido’s beach the river turns sharply right to head east towards the sea, and there are docks with cranes to load and unload the barges that come up from the coast. The town has four banks, a produce market, a supermarket of sorts and (surprisingly) a fine, if modest-sized, cathedral in the Manueline style that would grace a much larger and more important city, and which makes me think, when I go inside, of a kind of coral, as if all of these elaborate columns and arches were the secretions of some sort of highly specialized polyp whose particular characteristic is that it quite naturally forms representations of . . . well . . . of something I vaguely feel I remember, as if from another life, or from that early period of childhood that everyone says they can’t recall. (I think myself the truth is quite the opposite: we remember our experience of that time so well and so thoroughly that we just don’t recognize it as a memory at all, but rather as the surface on to which all our subsequent experience is projected.)

  A few streets from the cathedral there is a rather pleasant colonnaded promenade built more than two centuries later in the same pinkish, coral-like stone. Arranged in an elongated circuit like a Roman hippodrome, around a row of five fountains, the promenade was bequeathed to the city by a rubber millionaire who, having made himself rich by
forcing indentured labourers to harvest latex for him for almost no pay at all, wished in his later years to be thought of as a good man, and so, along with a hospital and an orphanage, built this central meeting place that brings the whole town together. Some are inclined to sneer at the motives of a man like that. I am more cautious. We’re all hypocrites. A common way of dealing with that is to loudly denounce the hypocrisy of others to distract attention from one’s own, but isn’t that hypocrisy squared?

  In the middle of the central fountain stands a twice life-sized statue, not of the rubber millionaire, but of his friend, hunting partner and hero, the novelist Mago Barca, wearing what purports to be ‘Carthaginian’ armour, and staring boldly into the distance. The inscription below it comes from his novel, Atlantis Rises:

  The Upper River is our nation’s heart.

  Master it, and we will master the world.

  Large numbers of townspeople like to parade around this promenade in the cool of the evening wearing their best clothes. Others sit outside cafés watching them while small bats swoop and dive around the streetlamps. I have a friend called Amanda I sometimes meet here – we have a drink together, spend the night in her small apartment just up the road and return to the promenade in the morning to have breakfast in our favourite café – but today I buy what I need and, stopping only for a coffee and a pastry, return upriver at the end of the afternoon.

  It’s dark by the time I get back, but I keep a small blue light on the veranda to guide me to my mooring, its battery charged by sunlight during the day. When, after travelling for some while among dark, silent trees, I see it on the right-hand bank in the distance, a kind of happiness rises inside my heart that I feel I never experienced before I came here. This is what it feels like to come home.

  It’s only in the middle of the night that I worry about the precarity of my situation. Sometimes – and this was particularly the case in the first week or two – the thought that haunts me is that I’m all alone, and that at any point robbers, or guerrillas from any one of the dozen ragtag armies of the insurrection, or just impoverished locals with every reason to resent someone who has enough spare cash to take six months away from work, could arrive and do what they wanted with me. I lie and listen to the creaks and groans of my wooden cabin and the sound of the water, imagining small changes and odd silences, and piecing these together into very precise and specific images of enemies creeping towards me.

  These days what haunts me more often when I wake at 2 a.m. is the thought that soon I’ll have spent all my money, and then my time by the river will be over, and I’ll have to return to the city and my old life, having not only failed to do anything constructive about building a new one, but having blown all the savings that I set aside for that purpose – and all of this will just be a small and shrinking memory, which, after a time, I will have to stop talking about to avoid boring people, but which I will idealize and fetishize for the rest of my life until nothing of the real experience is left, only a sense of a door, now beyond my reach, that I could have opened once but didn’t. I’m already thirty-four, after all.

  I can sometimes lie awake like this for several hours, appalled by my own lack of responsibility, yet in the morning I shrug it all off without the slightest effort. For surely the matter is quite straightforward. If you have a choice between writing a novel and being a character in a novel, you’ve got to choose the latter, havent you?

  A character in a novel. That’s exactly what I feel like. Smiling to myself, I make a pot of coffee and carry it out to the veranda.

  When she brings me my slops in the morning, Guinevere squats down beside my cage, her machine gun across her knees, and clears her throat. ‘So, are you keeping well?’ she asks gruffly.

  It strikes me that, in spite of herself, she likes me, or at least finds my company more diverting than the very limited alternatives. (The truth is that my captors are almost as much prisoners as I am, forced to hide away underground in order to avoid detection by government helicopters. The only difference is, I am confined to a cage, and they have the slightly larger area of the cave floor in which to move.)

  Yes, Guinevere likes me. She wouldn’t admit it, even to herself, but she finds my company more congenial than that of her comrades. We certainly have more in common than either of us has with any of them. She talks, as I do, with the unmistakable accent of the educated professional classes of the capital. The rest of them are unschooled peasants, fighting not for a principle but for themselves.

  ‘So you came upriver to find yourself and write a novel.’

  ‘That was the plan.’

  ‘How very middle class.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘This whole “find yourself” thing, this idea that there is something virtuous about expending surplus wealth on something so self-centred and indulgent. And then writing a book, no doubt celebrating that same self-indulgence for the benefit of others, while secretly hoping it will be a bestseller – you’ll deny this, but I bet you were – so you can get rich and be famous and live even more comfortably on the back of a book about giving up comfort and wealth for the “authentic life”.’ She offered those last two words as if with tweezers. ‘That’s the middle classes all over. You not only have to be more comfortable than ninety-five per cent of the people on Earth, you have to be self-righteous about it, too.’

  I shrug. ‘Whatever you say. I’m the one in the cage. You’re the one with the gun.’

  The cage is lined with chicken wire, nailed to a wooden frame. I can just stand up in it, though my head touches the wire above me, and I can just lie down. They’ve given me an old mattress, a blanket, a plastic bucket and a tin mug. Once or twice a day, they let me out to walk up and down the cave under supervision. There’s no daylight, obviously. We’re deep underground, and the only light comes from the gas lamp they keep burning all the time about ten metres away from me in the direction of the cave mouth, surrounded by their sleeping bags and cooking things. But I can tell when it’s evening because the bats wake up further down the cave and come rustling by a few metres above my head as they set off for the world outside. A few hours later they return. About then my captors settle down and fall silent, except for the periodic changing of the guard at the cave mouth.

  ‘You can say what you like to me,’ Guinevere says. ‘You know that perfectly well.’

  ‘Okay, I will. I think you’re every bit as middle class and self-indulgent as I am.’

  As I intended, this riles her – it’s the one bit of power I still have – but she doesn’t want to show it. In the gaslight that comes from further up the cave, I can see the struggle in her face.

  ‘Oh?’ she says, with careful indifference. ‘So how do you work that out? I’ve given up my family, my career, my rights as a free citizen, all for the struggle.’

  ‘It must feel amazing to know that you are completely free of responsibility for any of the evils of the world.’

  She studies my face through the chicken wire and, after several seconds – I can see the moment when it happens – she makes a decision to ignore my sarcasm. ‘It feels good to be fighting for a better tomorrow, yes. You should try it sometime.’

  ‘But can’t you see that “fighting for a better tomorrow” is a performance for your own benefit, no more and no less than my “finding myself”? Your little group won’t change the world. Come on, you know that. You must know that! Name me one guerrilla group like yours that didn’t in the long run either disappear or become a criminal gang, or, in very rare cases, make itself into the government and sink into tyranny and corruption, like every other government.’

  ‘Try saying that to Carlo.’

  Carlo was the leader of their little group.

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t say it to Carlo. He’d get angry, and he might have me taken out and beaten.’

  ‘Carlo has every reason to be angry. His family were thrown off their smallholding and left to starve. His father was killed by the poli
ce. He had to—’

  ‘He had to look after his own younger siblings from the age of nine, and they had to pick up garbage in order to eat. Et cetera, et cetera. I know all that. He’s told me at length, as if he was presenting his credentials, the proof that everything he says must be right and everything I say must be wrong, since I’ve never experienced poverty in my life, and the worst violence I’ve ever encountered up until now was when I was nine years old and a little boy called Roy, who was having problems at home, came up and punched me in the face.’

  ‘The powerless see things that the powerful have the luxury of looking away from.’

  ‘And yet Carlo wants power. I dare say if he’s lucky he’ll find a niche for himself. As a drug baron maybe. Or the ruler of his own little tinpot state. The absolute dictator of the People’s Democratic Republic of the Upper River. I can just about imagine that. He’d have his own little harem of young girls from the villages that pay him tribute, his own little corrugated-iron throne room, young Jaco there as Minister of Defence on one side of him looking pretty in a fancy uniform, and shouty Rubia on the other as Minister of Foreign Affairs. That’s what he wants, really, isn’t it? Not a new tomorrow, just the power over others that he longed to have when he was small and helpless, and others had power over him.’

  Guinevere regards me with an expression meant to indicate pity. ‘You’re very defended against the idea that it’s possible to make the world a better place.’

  But then Carlo growls something from over where the rest of them gather round their hissing lantern, and she moves away.

  Next week I’ll get down to it. There’s plenty of time. It’s not as if I’m short of material. All kinds of themes pass through my mind as I sit and watch the water, and many different settings suggest themselves: a coastal town far to the south, where the days are short in the winter and the clifftops are high and bare; a small city apartment whose sole dying tenant alternates between dreams from the past and present pain; a dark cave . . . I just don’t feel ready to pick, from all these riches, the mere handful of items that I could make something with, and place them on an anvil, and beat them out of their natural shape in order to work them into the artificial form that we call a story. It would mean throwing away so much. You dream of building a mighty palace with towers and halls and courtyards, and you end up with a modest shed. I need to take my time with it, or I will be hamstrung by my own disappointment about everything I’m having to let go.