shared his doubts with Florence. ‘They can’t do that, can they? That is impossible, isn’t it? Artificial
intelligences? Simulating consciousness?’
She shrugged.
They went for lunch at the Puzzle bar in the Crossharbour district. Their first night together in her bedroom had ended in a failed sexual encounter. Now they had get to know one another sober
and with their clothes on, unsure of what to do with the memory of that first awkward encounter.
Florence gestured toward the riverside flats.
‘I used to think how glamorous it would be to live up there. Now I look at the balconies and think how lonely they look.’
‘A landscape is a state of mind,’ Raymond observed.
‘Is that from Verlaine? Or is it Amiel?’
The discussion turned to poetry. After interning, Florence had published a slim volume. Economic necessity determined that she apply for work at Monad.
‘I was appalled when they gave me an interview,’ she said. ‘I thought it reflected very badly on me. Obviously they had spied some embarrassing tendency toward corporate
soullessness in my application.’
‘We are not exactly Kafka’s “men of business”, are we?’ said Raymond. He was overdoing the literary references. Florence was only twenty-six. He was the older man.
It was unseemly of him to try so hard. He should be silent like a military man. Yet he couldn’t help rabbiting on.
‘It’s my condition. I get a bit manic now and again.’
‘I remember,’ said Florence.
She guided the conversation back to poetry.
‘Are you still writing free verse?’
‘No. I’m experimenting with form. The sonnet, the haiku.’
‘Do you write as quickly as you talk?’
‘Yes. Everything all at once. I perform my work aggressively.’
‘I perform like a cat’s tail winding around the foot of a bed. Apparently. That’s what a critic said about me. I wasn’t trying to be sexual but some men don’t
require much encouragement.’
From the way Florence was dressed, it was clear she had always been poor. There was a Bloomsbury languor to her outfit. Her blue mac was Chanel, although it had not been dry-cleaned since its
previous owner passed away. Her shoulders did not entirely support its shoulder pads.
Coming out of his manic phase, Raymond had rediscovered his personal style. His figure was once again that of an Englishman during rationing and so he never wanted for good second-hand clothes.
He was wearing a two-button single-breasted Hamish Harris tweed jacket with high-waisted fishtail trousers, braces, and a collarless bib-front grey Wolsey shirt. Raymond and Florence were drawn to
one another; they were a charity shop couple and as close as Canary Wharf came to exoticism. A good relationship needs a conspiracy, and their secret was a longing for the past, a nostalgia for a
period long before they were born, the austerity and integrity of the British nation under the Blitz, from a time before television, before the incursion of the screens. Florence had two spam
sandwiches stashed in her handbag, and she gave one to Raymond. Thus they put their bad first night behind them.
Raymond’s lunchtime conversations with Florence became part of the routine during the orientation training at Monad. The mornings were spent down in the conference rooms
of the Wave Building, attending lectures and seminars such as ‘Why the Map is not the Territory: Simulation and the Self’ and ‘Against Epiphenomenalism: Are You Out of Your
Head?’ During the lectures, speculation concerning the nature of the mind washed over Raymond. Taking notes, he felt strongly that he knew exactly what the lecturer was on about, and how
these profound observations altered his view both of himself and of reality. But as soon as he tried to explain the concepts to Florence, his understanding melted away and it was like trying to
remember a joke he had heard in a dream. After gasping at the revelation that the brain formed second order quantum waves
intelligences? Simulating consciousness?’
She shrugged.
They went for lunch at the Puzzle bar in the Crossharbour district. Their first night together in her bedroom had ended in a failed sexual encounter. Now they had get to know one another sober
and with their clothes on, unsure of what to do with the memory of that first awkward encounter.
Florence gestured toward the riverside flats.
‘I used to think how glamorous it would be to live up there. Now I look at the balconies and think how lonely they look.’
‘A landscape is a state of mind,’ Raymond observed.
‘Is that from Verlaine? Or is it Amiel?’
The discussion turned to poetry. After interning, Florence had published a slim volume. Economic necessity determined that she apply for work at Monad.
‘I was appalled when they gave me an interview,’ she said. ‘I thought it reflected very badly on me. Obviously they had spied some embarrassing tendency toward corporate
soullessness in my application.’
‘We are not exactly Kafka’s “men of business”, are we?’ said Raymond. He was overdoing the literary references. Florence was only twenty-six. He was the older man.
It was unseemly of him to try so hard. He should be silent like a military man. Yet he couldn’t help rabbiting on.
‘It’s my condition. I get a bit manic now and again.’
‘I remember,’ said Florence.
She guided the conversation back to poetry.
‘Are you still writing free verse?’
‘No. I’m experimenting with form. The sonnet, the haiku.’
‘Do you write as quickly as you talk?’
‘Yes. Everything all at once. I perform my work aggressively.’
‘I perform like a cat’s tail winding around the foot of a bed. Apparently. That’s what a critic said about me. I wasn’t trying to be sexual but some men don’t
require much encouragement.’
From the way Florence was dressed, it was clear she had always been poor. There was a Bloomsbury languor to her outfit. Her blue mac was Chanel, although it had not been dry-cleaned since its
previous owner passed away. Her shoulders did not entirely support its shoulder pads.
Coming out of his manic phase, Raymond had rediscovered his personal style. His figure was once again that of an Englishman during rationing and so he never wanted for good second-hand clothes.
He was wearing a two-button single-breasted Hamish Harris tweed jacket with high-waisted fishtail trousers, braces, and a collarless bib-front grey Wolsey shirt. Raymond and Florence were drawn to
one another; they were a charity shop couple and as close as Canary Wharf came to exoticism. A good relationship needs a conspiracy, and their secret was a longing for the past, a nostalgia for a
period long before they were born, the austerity and integrity of the British nation under the Blitz, from a time before television, before the incursion of the screens. Florence had two spam
sandwiches stashed in her handbag, and she gave one to Raymond. Thus they put their bad first night behind them.
Raymond’s lunchtime conversations with Florence became part of the routine during the orientation training at Monad. The mornings were spent down in the conference rooms
of the Wave Building, attending lectures and seminars such as ‘Why the Map is not the Territory: Simulation and the Self’ and ‘Against Epiphenomenalism: Are You Out of Your
Head?’ During the lectures, speculation concerning the nature of the mind washed over Raymond. Taking notes, he felt strongly that he knew exactly what the lecturer was on about, and how
these profound observations altered his view both of himself and of reality. But as soon as he tried to explain the concepts to Florence, his understanding melted away and it was like trying to
remember a joke he had heard in a dream. After gasping at the revelation that the brain formed second order quantum waves
Similar Books
The I.P.O.
Dan Koontz
Doctor Knows Best
Ann Jennings
To Wed A Viscount
Adrienne Basso
Beautiful Bad Man
Ellen O'Connell
Your Magic Touch
Kathy Carmichael
I.D.
Vicki Grant
Unexpected
Lori Foster
One More Little Problem
Vanessa Curtis