The Memory Artists Read Online Free PDF

one will be for stupidity. Yes, I’m afraid those trousers look inane. Did you look in the mirror today? An orange prison jumpsuit would’ve looked better. It’s the fashion? I’m afraid that’s another fine—for herdism. Now don’t let me catch you on the street again in this outfit. Try to think for yourself. Eat salmon oil, which they say is good for the brain. Study yourself carefully in the mirror before going out, think very hard, and if you can’t come up with anything inoffensive, stay in your apartment. Which probably looks as bad as you do. Order out for food. Call the Ministry and someone will come and advise …”
    The interior monologue stopped when Norval entered the Experimental Psych Building and saw someone standing by the elevator. Someone whose attire he approved of. He quickened his step. The elevator doors opened, the woman got in. Norval’s brisk walk turned into a dash. He made a lunge for the car, like a deft fencing manoeuvre, inserting his hand between the doors as they were an inch from closing.

Chapter 3
    “SD”
    W ith an aching that began in her toes and ended in her skull, as if metal doors were closing and re-closing on her temples, Samira Darwish climbed up the black marble steps of the U of Q Experimental Psychology & Chemistry Building. She hesitated before pushing the revolving door, and hesitated again before entering the elevator, whose doors were wide open. She pressed nine and the doors closed. Almost. Some imbecile stuck his hand in to prevent them.
    As the man entered she looked down at the floor, determined to ignore him. But when she darted a glance his way, something happened. A mesmeric field of some sort inside the car. She literally could not take her eyes off him. He seemed to be of another, higher race: sable curls in wild profusion swept back from a high brow above dark liquid, brooding eyes; a steel-buttoned black-and-silver greatcoat of irreproachable fit; narrow-flare slacks of grey-brown suede; black ankle boots of the supplest leather. A kind of nineteenth-century Parisian elegance … as he knows all too well, judging by the look of princely conceit smeared all over his face.
    Not exactly a stunner, thought Norval, but not below average either. He stared right back at her, deep into her dark eyes. Fey and dreamridden eyes, as though she’d just bid farewell to Galahad or Lancelot … He looked closer. No, more like Gilgamesh or Sindbad. “Middle Eastern, am I right?”
    Samira had a roller-coaster sensation inside her stomach, as if the elevator cables were stretching like rubber and about to launch them into space. “Very good.”
    “I see we’re both going to the ninth floor. You’re seeing Dr. Vorta?”
    She shook her head. “Dr. Rhéaume.”
    “You’re one of her students?”
    Samira grabbed onto the handrail for support. “Yes. But that’s not why I’m seeing her.” Why did I add that last bit? she wondered as the elevator stopped and the doors opened.
    With a lordly flourish, Norval invited her to exit. “What’s your name, by the way?”
    From the hall she watched the doors rumble shut. “Must I tell you?”
    “Yes. Your first name. Is it … Zubaydah? Gulbeyaz? Nefertiti?”
    Samira half-smiled, shook her head after each name.
    “Scheherazade?”
    Her smile widened. “This could go on forever. It’s Samira.”
    “Beginning with an s ?”
    Samira looked ceilingward. “Uh, yes, Samira begins with an s .”
    “Perfect. S is what I require. Come. I’ve a few things to attend to with Dr. Vorta, to whom I’ll introduce you. Then we’re going for lunch. No, this is the right way—the open door on the left.”
    As they approached it Samira glimpsed a fluted wooden pedestal on a grey filing cabinet, which supported a plastic human head divided into numbered sections. Two men stood on either side of it, as if engaging it in conversation. Amidst a faint smell of carbolic acid and monkey stool.
    “Look, there’s old man Vorta