The Ministry for the Future

91

Zurich’s Kongresshall had been built for meetings like this one, big as could be. And right down on the lakefront. Every day of this big conference, there would be speakers and display booths celebrating the emergent accomplishments. It was going to be hard to fit them all in, in fact there would have to be some compression, by nation or project type, to get a proper overview of the effort. Looking at the lists of people who were coming, Mary could begin to believe that they were actually gaining some traction, making some progress.

Then it was time to visit Frank.

He was there in his little apartment. He told her that the doctors had determined that he had a brain tumor, and had just recently identified it as a glioblastoma.

“That sounds bad,” Mary said.

“Yes,” he said. His mouth tightened. “I’m done for.”

“But they must have treatments?”

“Average survival time from diagnosis is eighteen months. But mine is already pretty big.”

“Why did it take so long to affect you?”

“It’s not hitting anything too crucial yet.”

She stared at him. He met her gaze unflinchingly. Finally it was she who shook her head and looked away, as she sat down at his side. He was on his apartment’s little couch, looking slumped in an odd manner. She reached across the coffee table and put her hand on his knee. It was like the first moment they had met, when he had grabbed her arm and scared her, terrified her. Turnabout fair play.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s shitty luck. You—you’ve had some really bad luck.”

“Yes.”

“Do they know why it happens?”

“Not really. Genetic maybe. They don’t really know. Maybe it’s too many bad thoughts. That’s what I think.”

“That’s another bad thought.”

“Doesn’t matter now.”

“I guess not. What will you do?”

“I’ll take the treatments for as long as they tell me they’re helping. Why not? Something might work.”

She was encouraged to hear him say this. That must have showed, because he shook his head very slightly, as if to warn her to give up any hopes.

“Tell me about how your plans for this conference are coming,” he said.

And so she did.

After a while she could see he was tired. “I’ll come back later,” she said.

He shook his head.

“I will,” she insisted.

Actually that turned out to be hard to do. Not that she couldn’t clear the time, because she could. And the safe house she was still living in was relatively nearby. Everywhere in Zurich was pretty close to everywhere else, really; it was a compact city. Although if you had to stay off the trams and streets, moving around in cars with tinted windows, it got harder.

But it wasn’t the logistics. It was knowing what she would see when she got there. Frank May had never been an unguarded person, not since she had known him, anyway. The blaze in his eye, the set of his jaw, he had been easy to read, ever since that first night, when violent emotions had torn across his face like electric storms. Now he was closed. He had checked out. He was waiting for his time to come. And that was hard to watch. It was how she would be if she were in his situation, she guessed, but still. She kept finding reasons not to go.

But also she felt a duty to go. So eventually she would realize it had been ten days, two weeks, and she would send a message.

Can I drop by?

Sure.

She would be let in by his housemates, polite but distant people, and go in to see him. He looked bloated and unwell. He would look up at her, as if to say, See? Here I am, still fucked.

She told him about what was happening, talking away nervously to keep the silence at bay. Things were happening, as always. The big conference was looking good, coming soon. The Mondragón cooperative system was spreading through Europe, and it was reaching out to make connections elsewhere. Spain itself was slowest on the uptake, because in Madrid they didn’t like the Basques having that much influence. But elsewhere it was catching fire, it was the latest thing, the obvious thing. Turned out each European nation had a tradition of working communally around their old commons, which had lasted until suppressed by Napoleon or other powers, but still there, if only as an idea, now put back in play.

“Good,” Frank said.

Also, Mary went on a little nervously, the upcoming COP was going to propose a detailed refugee plan that used some of the principles of the Nansen passports of the 1920s. Some kind of global citizenship, given to all as a human right. Agreement had been signalled by all Paris signatory nations, which meant all the nations on Earth, to grant legal status to this global citizenship, and share the burden equally, with the historical disparities in carbon burn factored into the current assessments of the financial and human burden going forward. Some kind of climate justice, climate equity; a coming to terms at last with the imperial colonial period and its widespread exploitation and damage, never yet compensated, and still being lived by the refugees themselves.

“Good,” Frank said.

Mary regarded him. “You don’t seem very opinionated today.”

He almost smiled. “No.” He thought it over. “I’ve been losing my opinions,” he concluded. “They seem to be going away.”

“Ah.” She didn’t know what to say to that.

“It’s interesting to see what goes first,” he remarked, still looking inward. “I’m presuming it moves from less important to more.”

“Seems likely.”

Mary didn’t know what to say, how to respond. She felt foolish and helpless. She wanted to stick with him, no matter where his line of thought took him; but it was hard to know how to do that when moments like this one came. Ask questions? Speculate? Sit there silently, uncomfortably?

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Sick,” he said. “Weak. Fucked up.”

“You still sound like yourself though?”

“Yes. As far as I can tell.” He shook his head. “I can’t remember what I felt like before. I’m betting I wouldn’t score very high on any tests right now.” He thought it over. “I don’t know. I can still think. But I can’t think why I should.”

Mary shied away from understanding that, or tried to. But she couldn’t; it was too obvious. A black weight in her stomach began to pull her down. She stifled a sigh, she wanted to get out of there. It was depressing.

But of course it was. She hadn’t come there to get cheered up, but to do some cheering up. The difficulty of that was a given. That was why she avoided coming. But since she had come, it was a duty. But what could be said?

Nothing really. And he didn’t really look like he expected any answer from her, or any encouraging words of any kind. He looked calm; desolate; a little sleepy. If she stayed quiet for a while, it looked like he would drop off. After which she could slip away.

He stirred. “Hey,” he said, “I wanted to introduce you to someone who lives here. Let me see if he’s in.” He tapped at his phone, put it to his ear.

“Hey Art, can you drop by my room for a second? I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine. Okay good. Thanks.”

He put his phone down. “This guy is hardly ever here, but he’s one of the original co-op members, and they let him keep his room. I just met him a while ago, and I like him. He flies an airship all over the world, following wildlife corridors and wilderness areas, basically looking for animals. He takes people along with him.”

“What, like nature tours?”

“I think that’s right, but there are only a few passengers. They do some citizen science and the like. And he gives what he charges the passengers to the World Wildlife Fund and other groups like that.”

Mary tried to sound impressed.

A quiet tap came at Frank’s door. “Come in!”

The door opened and a slight man entered, nodded at them shyly. Balding, beaky nose, blinking pale blue eyes, looking back and forth between Frank and Mary, attending to them with a diffident gaze.

Frank said, “Art, this is my friend Mary Murphy, she runs the UN’s Ministry for the Future here in the city. Mary, Art here is the owner and pilot of The Clipper of the Clouds, a blimp—or is it a dirigible?”

“A dirigible,” Art said with a little smile, “but you can call it a blimp if you want. Many people do. Actually airship seems to be becoming the usual term, to avoid that confusion.”

“And you take people up to see wild animals.”

“I do.”

“Mary and I went up to the Alps a while ago and saw a little herd of chamois, and some marmots.”

“Very nice,” Art said. “That must have been lovely.”

“It was,” Mary said, trying to join in.

Art attended to her. “Do you go up to the Alps often?”

“Not really,” she said. Not in ways I like, she didn’t say. “I’d like to go more.” As long as it isn’t to hide from assassins, she didn’t say.

This man seemed to be hearing her unspoken sentences, perhaps, or noticing the spaces they left in the air. He cocked his head to the side, then exchanged a few more pleasantries with Frank, and pulled up Frank’s schedule for helpers that week, so he could add his name. Then he nodded to Mary and slipped out the door.

Frank and Mary sat there in silence.

“I like him,” Frank said. “He’s a good guy. He’s been helping me, and when he’s here he’s always pitching in around the place.”

“He seemed shy,” Mary said.

“Yes, I think he is.”

More silence.

Mary said, “Look, I have to go too. I’ll drop by again. Next time I’ll remember to bring you one of those orange slices dipped in chocolate.”

“Ah good.”