Emo

EVA AVE

Mutual Forgiveness of each Vice

Such are the Gates of Paradise

– William Blake, For the Sexes: The Gates of Paradise

Eva Android

Inheritor of silence

shall I be?

Black mass below us

above us only

sky ….

Age: 94

Astrological Sign: Aquarius

Zodiac Year: Rat

Industry: Communications or Media

Occupation: Secretary

About Me:

I am a clanswoman. Not an android, not a robot, not a synthetic human, but a clan.

I am trying to find my sister.

Interests

family; pets (kittens); love

Favorite Movies

Solaris; Blade Runner; AI; Lives of a Bengal Lancer; Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs

Favorite Music

Tannenbaum; Horst Wessel Lied; Some Day My Prince Will Come …

Favorite Books

The 1001 Nights; The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich

Dear E

I’ve thought of writing to you many times, but could never decide how to go about it. I don’t know your real name, to start with, or where you live. I know you must live somewhere. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Live or have lived – you could be dead, I suppose. But since you’ll never see this letter, it doesn’t make all that much difference.

I miss you.

I miss having someone to talk to.

I’d like to know all about you: your friends, your house – children? husband? boyfriend? I suppose that means you’d like to know more about me, too.

That’s logical.

That makes sense.

It’s hard to know where to begin, so I’ll start with the thing that made me decide to write this letter: the party for His book.

*

My job was to serve drinks and carry trays of food and (later on) to clean up the mess. Marta told me what to do. Marta runs the gallery. It’s a picture gallery, with paintings in it that she sells to people. Not tonight, though, she said. Tonight was all about the man and his new book.

You’ll be wearing your black skirt and your white blouse and your shoes and stockings, Eva. (She always calls me Eva – not like some of the others. Some of her friends. They call me other things. I hate the things they call me). You must be very polite. Speak only when you’re spoken to. Offer drinks to people whose hands are free, and hold the plates of food out in front of them.

Yes, Marta. I said. She likes me to call her Marta when we’re by ourselves, but of course in public I call her Madam. Miss and Master are for children, Sir and Madam for grownups. I used to make mistakes at first, but never now. Not since the last time. Marta never whips me, but not everyone is Marta. Some of them are cruel and not kind.

No wine for the children – fruit juice or water for them. You remember? Wine is white or red, juice is yellow or clear.

Yes, Marta. I remember.

I’ve done these things before, so many times, but she likes to remind me of the details. Marta likes to get the details right.

Don’t jump if any of the gentlemen … admire you.

That she’s said before, too. She doesn’t think I understand about the men, but I understand. This isn’t the first job I’ve been assigned to. Not everyone is Marta.

You’re a very pretty girl, you know. Some of the men may want to … well, you know. Just smile, be courteous, move on with your tray.

The men get grabby if you let them. After they’ve drunk some wine they like to touch you with their hands, rub their bodies up against you if they can get you alone.

You’re a female, too. You must know the things they want to do, want you to do.

Marta is kind and good. Marta tries to defend me. But she can’t always stop them.

*

The party day came. I wasn’t looking forward to it, exactly. Why should I? Crowds frighten me, a little. Crowds of people, some of them good, some of them mean, but somehow the good ones never stop the mean ones from doing things like tripping you up when you have a full tray of drinks, or running their hands all over you when you’re trapped in a corner.

Marta’s not like that, and this was Marta’s party. Marta had asked me to help as if it was a favour, not a job, as if I could say no. I tried to imagine saying No, but couldn’t. I always agree with her, say what I think she wants me to say, but sometimes it’s difficult to know exactly what she wants me to do. That night, for instance.

The guests started to arrive. We’d spent most of the day putting up posters and laying out chairs and tables around the walls. There was one big table for all the books: lots and lots of copies of the same book. It had a dark cover with red lettering on it, and a picture of a woman behind the letters. The words said:

Marta said she’d explain them to me later, but she never did.

Everyone was nicely dressed. The gentlemen were in suits, the ladies in evening gowns. It was a hot night, and rather stuffy, so we kept the doors and windows open to allow the air to flow through. I was kept quite busy pouring drinks at first. Another clan, a man, was helping with the lights and sound system. He wore a suit and tie, but I could tell. He moved a step behind the other men.

*

The speeches started half an hour later. First a big fat man stood up and told us what a good friend he was of the man who wrote the book, and what a good book it was, and how all of us should read it.

I wish I was allowed to read it. Marta doesn’t like seeing me with a book. She says it’s lazy and there’s no good reason for it. What could I possibly hope to learn that I don’t already know?

Then another man stood up and said that he’d published the book because he was sure that it was going to be a great success. There was quite a lot of talking going on during the second speech, so I couldn’t always follow what he was saying. Twice he had to call for them to hush. There were some women near the door, not so well-dressed, who seemed to be arguing with the men by the door. I could see that Marta was drifting in that direction, too. It was her party, and she wanted it to run smoothly.

She’d said that to me so many times during the day, that I understood at last she must be nervous about the success of her party. I’d never thought a thought like that before. It made me feel a little strange – not worried for myself but worried for her.

Now the man who wrote the book started to speak. He said he’d read us some parts from the book, and I wanted to listen to him. I had to keep serving drinks, though. Every time one of the speeches finished people would cluster round the table to get more.

The noise by the door was getting quite loud, now. Suddenly I heard a voice shout: Wife-killer! You fucking murdered your wife … It was a woman who’d sneaked right into the middle of the crowd. She looked quite young, about my age, but she was dressed in pants and halter, not a dress. She was waving her arms about, and when the men tried to grab her and calm her down, she started to kick and struggle.

The noise by the door suddenly got worse, and a group of other women pushed by us into the hall. They were all shouting things like "Woman-hater! Murderer!"

I didn’t understand what they were saying, or what I should do. One of them crashed into the drinks table and knocked a lot of glasses and bottles over, so I stepped back to avoid being cut by broken glass.

Just then a glass came sailing into the room. I don’t know who threw it. I suppose one of the people by the door, but it fell right into the middle of the floor in front of the book table and exploded like a bomb. The man who wrote the book fell down. I thought I ought to see if he needed help.

The women had mostly run away or been pushed out the door by now, and the party had become a lot of small groups of people shouting at each other. No-one seemed to notice at first that the man who wrote the book had fallen down. I was the first one there to try and help him up.

I knew not to try and wipe away the blood around his face and eyes, because there could be bits of glass in it, and they might go deeper into the wound. Instead I sat down next to him and asked him how he was.

Who’re you? he asked, very faintly.

Eva, I answered.

What’s happened? Something hit me – my eyes …

You were hit by a glass. Someone threw it into the room, I said. Please keep your eyes closed, sir. You might cause further damage if you try and open them.

His eyelids were gummed shut by blood, so I didn’t think he’d be able to, in any case.

I tried before and … I couldn’t see anything, Eva. D’you think that means anything? D’you think they might be … hurt.

He reached out his hand, but it wasn’t to touch me the way men do. He wanted to hold my hand. I held his hand.

Will I be all right? he asked me.

I don’t know, I replied. I hope so, sir.

Don’t call me sir, call me …

Someone hit me on the side of the head, very hard, and rolled me to one side. There was an ambulance crew with stretchers and a bunch of other men standing behind us. He disappeared underneath them.

All the others were filing out by this time, dishevelled and worried looking. Even the other clansman had gone. There was nothing left of the party but the boxes of books and the P.A.-system.

As they carried the man away, I heard him call my name. He kept on shouting it as they put him in the back of the ambulance. Then the doors closed and the sound abruptly cut out. They jetted away.

Marta was too upset to speak to me, but I knew she’d want to forget it all as soon as possible. It took me three hours to sweep and scrub the floors and walls, stack all the chairs, and gather up all the glasses.

Then I went back upstairs and climbed into my cupboard.

Love,

your sister Eva

Family Album

friends

alone

how I imagine you and me together

February 6, 1935

I think this must be the right day to begin this extra-special diary. I’ve now reached the happy age of 23. No, happy is not really the word. Right now I’m far from happy.

The truth is that I had pretty big ideas about the significance of this day: If I owned a dog I would not feel so lonely, but I suppose that is asking too much.

Frau Schaub came as an ambassador, bringing flowers and telegrams. The result is that my office looks like a florist’s and smells like a funeral chapel.

I suppose I’m ungrateful, but I did want to be given a dachshund. And I don’t have one. Perhaps I’ll get one next year, or much later, when it’ll be more appropriate for a budding old maid.

What’s important is not to give up hope. I should have learned to be patient by now.

Today I bought two lottery tickets, because I had a feeling that it would be now or never – they were both duds. So I am not going to be rich after all. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

Today I was going to Zugspitze with Herta, Gretl, Ilse, and Mutti, and I would have had a wonderful time, for it’s always best when other people are enjoying themselves, too. But nothing came of it. This evening I’m going to have dinner with Herta. What else can you do, when you are a little single woman of 23? So I shall end my birthday with gluttony and drunkenness. I think this is what he would want me to do.

The Cat

It’s harder to post letters than I thought. I’ve had to do it before, of course. I was programmed to take dictation, spell-check, grammar-check. I’m a secretary model. But writing to you is different. I want to tell you everything, but I don’t know how to do it.

I told you about the party, but now I realize that I didn’t even say why. You know that I work for Marta, but I didn’t say how long I’ve been doing that, or who I am really.

I’ve had a friend before. Not a person, not like you. There was a little cat who lived with me. It wasn’t with Marta, it was before. I’ve had a lot of masters and mistresses. Some of them were kind to me and some were cruel. I don’t really want to write about all that.

I don’t need to sleep, but I have to have a place to restart and absorb new data. One hour a night is a minimum, but every few weeks I need to do a total shutdown and reboot (and once a year I have to be examined by a representative. That’s happened to me a number of times now).

Marta gave me a cupboard for my own when I first came to her. She told me to clear out all the files and boxes, and told me that I could store my clothes and anything else I wanted to keep in there. There’s a hook for me to hang myself on when I do my restarts, and shelves and hangers for the coats and dresses. There’s even a bulb and a light-switch, but I don’t need light.

Before I met Marta, before she bought my contract, I used to live in a block of flats. I was the concierge for a four-floor building. Most of the people living there were young couples, and they couldn’t afford a fulltime servant. So all the people living on that staircase got together and each bought one seventh of my time. I had to spend three hours a day in every flat, and I would spend the night each day of the week with a different master or mistress.

There was a garden out the back where I used to hang washing.

And one day, while I was down there, I met the cat.

He was a little white cat, quite dirty, and he had a limp. I think he must have been quite young. I didn’t speak to him, but I knew that he was there. I could see his big eyes staring out at me from a mass of briars.

Later that day, when I came down to take in the washing, he was still there. This time he crept out and looked at me again. I didn’t move, but he ran back as if I had.

He was afraid of me, I thought. But then I realized he was hungry! None of the couples living on my staircase had children, but I’d seen some playing in the park across the way, and their nurses were always giving them food and drink, ice-cream and sweets.

I don’t really need to eat, though I do have to inject myself with supplements every day or two, so it took me some time to think of what I could give the cat. Finally I managed to steal some table-scraps, and I also took some milk. Babies like milk. I know that – basic training.

The little cat seemed quite pleased with what I had brought him. He ate it all up and lapped up the milk form the concrete path, and then he started to growl and rub against me as if he wanted more.

I had no more to give, but every day I would come down with some bits of food and a saucer of milk, and he would come out and eat it all up and rub against me. I worked out after a while that the growling meant he was full.

But then he wanted to come inside with me.

I told him he couldn’t come in. That the people would see him and they’d punish me and probably him as well, but he was only a little cat and he didn’t understand. He’d play around the door when I tried to shut it, and it was very hard to shut it again and leave him outside.

I told you I had to stay in a different flat every night. Mostly I stood in the corner when my work was done. I’d give myself my shots and then turn off.

Some of the men would do things to me. Some of the women, too. But most of them were couples, and the men slept in the same beds as their wives.

There was one flat, though – the top flat, the biggest of the seven (all the other floors had two flats each; only the top floor was lived in by one person). He was away a lot, and he had so much space that he’d set aside a whole room for me to use!

It was wet and cold in the garden, and the little cat shivered and sneezed so much that I began to think I might be able to hide him in that room.

It was stupid. I know that now. But the first time I carried him in there and put him down in the corner and he butted me with his little head, and I knew that I could keep him there with me all night, I felt as if I’d never be sad again.

I told him lots of things. Things I’d done, places I’d been, dreams I had, and he never answered me – just looked up with his big eyes and rubbed against me. I’d never had a friend, or even known that I could have one, but it made me feel happy.

*

One day when I went up to the room to feed him he was gone. I looked everywhere for him but couldn’t find him. Then, when I was looking through the rubbish bins (he used to sniff around them sometimes, looking for food to eat) I found him wrapped up in a black plastic bag.

His pretty white fur was all muddy and stiff and I could see that someone had broken his neck. He had a snarly look on his face as if he’d been very frightened, and that made me feel frightened, too. I was afraid that they’d ask me about him and that they’d find out he was my friend.

No-one ever asked, though, and a bit after that, when my contract was up for renewal, Marta outbid the flats. I didn’t know, then, but she was a friend of the man in the top flat, the man I hardly ever saw. He’d told her about me and that was why she brought me.

No friends, or pets – or cats, she said to me when I first moved here. That gave me a strange feeling. Did they know about it all along? About the cat? The man in the top flat, the couples in the other rooms? Did they talk about me and my little friend the cat? Was it too much