Aquilino

Aquilino wakes one morning to unbearable, irritating high-pitched beeps from the merciless alarm clock. It is six in the morning. Somewhat sluggish at sixty-six, Aquilino drifts away from the silks of sleep little by little, lazily but steadily. Shrill beeps flood the square room where he rests, piercing close to his ears. One of the four walls displays a handsome oil painting of snowflakes, luminous trails, mountains, and valleys sheltered from the wind. A pair of elk admire each other at its center. The opposite wall has bright windows overlooking the street.

Thick sky-blue curtains cover those windows and keep the powerful sunlight from shining inside. A third wall holds the bedroom door, made of sturdy old wood, with a frame of the same material and bronze hinges and handles. Finally, against the fourth wall opposite the door stands Aquilino’s bed. It is a comfortable double bed, in fact far too wide for his small, scrawny, wrinkled body curled into the fetal position. It often feels almost as empty as it does cold, especially on long winter nights.

Aquilino is on the verge of waking. The bedroom lies far from Eastown’s unceasing traffic. His home is spacious, simple, cozy, and solitary. The bed is dressed in sheets faded by use and time; once they must have been pink, like the old wool blankets. Aquilino wakes slowly. The alarm rouses him completely. Little by little he turns from side to side. On either side of the headboard are nightstands bearing books on ancient Rome, the Second World War, and the conquest of space. Other texts lie scattered around the room.

When the alarm falls silent, the still-drowsy Aquilino gropes blindly across the nightstand and takes a remote control. He switches on a holographic screen in a bare corner beyond the foot of the bed. An oval image materializes there as if by magic, brilliantly sharp and clear, illuminating the prevailing dimness. The homeowner has absorbed this routine as a mechanical reflex. Onscreen appears a young man wearing false concern, surrounded by colorful neon lights and framed by slender dancers in scant clothing who also form a vocal chorus.

A noisy morning program begins. Its pitch is so sharp it wakes Kika, the friendly little dog asleep on the bed at her beloved master’s feet. She is almost entirely white except for her forepaws, which seem tucked into light-brown gloves.

"Good morning, early birds! Welcome to a new broadcast of…!" the young man greets them with the brazenness of frivolities forced into fashion.

"Showbiz Buuuzz is super cooool!" the dancers chorus enthusiastically.

Ricky, the show’s host, appears possessed by some stupid unknown deity. The chorus girls, petrified smiles fixed on faces masked by illusory happiness, launch into a disorderly, off-key jingle. They pretend to sing it, though in truth they do not. They try to look seductive and shape melodic voices they could never produce a cappella without technical support.

"Yeees, early birds! Wow! I’m getting too old for all this dancing," Ricky says, bursting into laughter. "Early birds know it: here, the celebrities of show business…" the host continues.

Aquilino feels compelled to turn onto his side. He likes the program, but the host’s high-pitched voice, so often shouting, bothers him somewhat. He is irritated by the same speech he endures each morning; he knows it by heart.

"…tell us aaall their secrets," Ricky concludes.

He tries a few dance steps alone from side to side beneath colorful neon lights that revive deep nostalgia in older viewers such as Aquilino. Newly awakened, Aquilino readjusts himself in bed. He knows the real substance will begin once the unbearable opening jingle ends. Raising the remote, he lowers the volume; he cannot stand the boy’s shrill voice or the scandalous modern music.

"Welcome once again to Showbiz Buzz, dear early birds! Never stop tuning in. I love you all so much," he says without first demonstrating the human need to breathe. "On this morning’s broadcast, I’ll tell you about the scandal rocking the life of young actress and singer Brittany Condon. Know her? Of course you do! If you never miss our broadcasts, you know her very well. Her life is recorded twenty-four hours a day, but"—he raises his index finger and right eyebrow while staring into the camera—"just in case you’ve been living in a cave or at the bottom of the sea and haven’t tuned in, here’s a brief summary. She is a young celebrity who became famous through blockbuster teen films such as A Bitch in My Body, Stains on Your Sheets, and the biggest success of all, Orgasmic Quarantine. Born on Lawrence Island, the young artist made explosive statements early this morning." Aquilino watches the holographic screen intently.

He curls again into the fetal position, cold despite the prevailing warmth, and rests his head on the pillow. Sleepily, Kika rises and nestles against her master’s chest. He embraces her, smiles, and returns his attention to the program, fighting lethargy while the host prolongs his rapid torrent of words without regard for vital oxygen.

"Oh, that Brittany. How could anyone not love her? With a solid, well-earned fame, she is followed by thousands—millions—of fans. Downloads of her songs number in the billions. Live concerts and films featuring her saturate our networks."

In bed, Aquilino feels himself dozing; morning sleep is defeating him, but he resists, knowing that if he falls asleep he will not wake again before noon at the earliest. That is a luxury he cannot afford. He looks at the screen and tries to pay closer attention.

"Now we turn serious. As I said, a true tragedy erupted during the night in our lovely Baybeach neighborhood. Reports have saturated the media. Perhaps it was premeditated, not an isolated incident; perhaps it was terrorism. We do not know yet, and the authorities have not clarified it. Brittany was in Baybeach for a megashow we promoted beforehand. The concert was staged in the street for thousands of tourists and residents. The incident began in the midst of it. The singer and actress celebrated for films such as Infinite Pleasures was rescued near dawn, just before an airtight quarantine was imposed on Baybeach. She was rushed by ambulance to Stormport Medical Complex. Reliable sources assure me that her manager paid more than—can you hear me?—more than three million eCoins to have an exception made for her. That’s how they let her leave the area. Three million, friends! Brittany’s life is recorded constantly, so, as usual, we have exclusive footage. We were there when the doctor treated her in the ambulance. Pay very close attention to her scandalous statements on the way to the hospital—and to what happens afterward. Let’s watch!"

The image moves inside a traveling ambulance whose windows reveal it leaving the quarantined zone. Heavily armed militarized forces struggle to contain uncontrollable human masses. Aquilino shifts in bed, still embracing friendly Kika, deeply interested in what happened to the young star. The screen first shows a close-up of Brittany, seemingly disconnected from the world. A dark-skinned doctor examines her while a nurse beside them tries to remain standing despite the vehicle’s movement.

Nearby float three spherical cameras recording and lighting the ambulance from different angles. Without exception, they follow Brittany wherever she goes. Behind them, near the rear doors, stands her manager. Unable to contain his curiosity, Aquilino puts aside the pillow and sits up. The sheet falls forward, uncovering him; he no longer feels cold. He rests his right hand on Kika’s hindquarters and lets her lie in his lap, intent on the program.

"Brittany, can you hear me?" the doctor asks.

Brittany nods barely and slowly, staring vacantly with wide, unblinking eyes. From time to time they roll so far upward only the whites remain. The doctor fights this, shining a small flashlight into her emerald pupils while holding her face in both hands. Admired and desired by people of every age—especially the young—for her talent, charm, and beauty, she now looks disheveled, exhausted, hollow-eyed, and pale, perhaps excessively so. Aquilino finds her very different from the flawless superstar image her diehard fans usually see.

"Should I administer the sedative, Doctor?" the nurse asks.

She tries to position her ample cleavage within the close-up framed before one floating sphere.

"Better wait," the doctor cuts in, showing genuine concern. "Brittany, Brittany, please try to speak to me," asks the white-coated physician.

He holds her face with both hands, determined to keep her from fading. The artist continues staring vacantly.

"I must look awful," Brittany finally says.

She raises her gaze toward the cameras floating around her. Intense artificial lights dazzle her and hurt her eyes. Her words draw laughter from her jovial manager Gabriel, whose repeated guffaws ring loud and disproportionate to the moment.

"Hello, Tichi." Brittany waves her left hand at one sphere recording her. "Hello, Bichi," she greets another in a different position, forcing a smile her face cannot form properly. "Hello, Nichi," she finally says to the third, which captures a distant perspective from a corner.

"Who are you greeting, Brittany?" asks the doctor, unable to understand. The young woman tries to answer.

"I missed them…" Brittany admits without finishing.

"Who?" the doctor asks again.

"The b… chk… blob…" Her incoherent babble worries him.

"Please tell me, Brittany, does anything hurt in particular? What do you feel?" the doctor insists, still concerned, taking her pulse, temperature, and blood pressure. "Her pressure is extremely high," he remarks to himself.

"Depends, Doctor. Is it bad to be multiorgasmic?" she asks before revealing crooked grimaces that vainly attempt to become smiles.

Her voice is clumsy, as though she were drunk. She frowns, then laughs in a conspicuously forced manner. Gabriel laughs genuinely. The nurse, meanwhile, smiles at the camera with her back to the patient. Brittany speaks weakly in scarcely audible murmurs. The nurse covers her lips with both hands, overacting a Marilyn Monroe–style scene of surprise. She misses no chance to squeeze her cleavage with her elbows for the camera. When her display blocks the angle, the sphere quickly relocates, never losing sight of the artist. The doctor remains grave, his concern evident.

"She’s hilarious, absolutely hilarious. That’s my Britney!" Gabriel cheers energetically from the rear of the ambulance, pointing at the singer and applauding noisily.

The man’s laughter continues without pause; he often celebrates Brittany’s jokes and comic remarks. As stipulated, the cameras never leave the deplorable image she presents—an image Aquilino finds alarming and striking rather than amusing. The young woman appears on the verge of collapse.

"Doctor, shall we administer the intravenous sedative?" the impatient, smiling nurse insists, syringe in hand.

Taking advantage of a brief silence, she angles her bust toward the camera once more and glances sideways as though distracted. Her bright-red lips form an O.

"Not yet," the doctor snaps, his patience limited. "This isn’t funny, Brittany. Please, can you tell me whether something hurts, and where? You’re burning with fever, child. Are you dizzy? Headache? Blurred vision?" His firmness makes the young woman more serious.

"I feel, yes… dizzy?"

"Good, dizzy. Anything else?"

"Nauseous, definitely. Ugh, I’m going to throw up," she announces, clicking her tongue.

Her eyes open extremely wide and her hands rise slowly to her mouth. In the same motion Brittany turns left, props an elbow on the gurney, and spills onto the vehicle floor thick, disgusting, steaming effluvia climbing from her entrails. Organic fragments of something indefinable shoot from her mouth amid gastric juices. Yellowish foam spreads across the restless floor, producing a powerful, penetrating, unbearable smell. When the viscous cascade stops, the artist sees the scandalized faces around her. No one wants to be splashed. The nurse releases a visceral scream.

"Oh! That’s disgusting, Brittany!" the woman in white cries.

The cameras exploit their floating condition to avoid the ambulance’s movement and its occupants. They change position whenever people block them, dodge questionable splashes, and intelligently relocate without human intervention to keep the artist framed. After moving away momentarily, the doctor returns and holds the patient’s head and hair. As the vomiting ends, it changes from yellowish to red.

"Do we sedate her now, Doctor?" the nurse insists, no longer as cheerful, seductive, or elegant.

"Brittany, we’ll run tests and take samples of that. Hold on, all right? Hold on. We’ll reach the hospital very soon. Bring her water," the doctor orders a nurse who has no intention of moving away from the camera.

The young woman wipes her lips with disposable tissues the doctor hands her, then convulses in an attack of dry, violent, uncontrollable coughing. Each cough sprays reddish plasma.

"Doctor?" the nurse whispers, syringe in hand.

"All right, all right… Do it," the doctor orders.

This fills the eager nurse with enthusiasm and pride. Smiling, she hurries before the camera with elegant, feminine, seductive movements, determined not to waste her seconds of fame. Approaching the young woman’s arm, she makes sure to display legs clad in red thigh-high stockings beneath her short skirt—and, of course, her cleavage. She swabs the girl’s left arm with alcohol and inserts the needle into smooth, pale, supple skin. The injection should calm the famous singer and gradually put her to sleep. Instead, Brittany falls abruptly backward onto the gurney.

Her head bounces and her eyes roll white, frightening the nurse into a scream louder than the last. Tension inside the ambulance accelerates. The floating cameras dart about as Gabriel insults the doctor, who responds as best he can. Aquilino cannot take in everything before the vehicle apparently strikes something. The images move outside the ambulance. One sphere exits, showing Baybeach’s streets steeped in chaos, mass hysteria, and anarchy. Near dawn, the entire district resembles a war zone.

Riot forces attempt to isolate and contain people desperate to escape quarantine. There is upheaval and weeping; screams sound everywhere. Two electric aircraft race overhead. Nichi, as Brittany called the camera, captures apocalyptic images of the luxurious coastal zone beneath intense rain. Human multitudes stampede in every direction through Baybeach’s streets, avenues, and boulevards. Those who fall are trampled; others kneel, vomit, cough blood, collapse onto asphalt, or faint. Vehicles driven without control crash into one another in desperate attempts to flee.

One of those vehicles struck the ambulance. Aquilino sees violence, looting, fires, indiscriminate bloody attacks, people fleeing from other people. Beyond the perimeter barrier erected by riot forces, journalists scramble to document everything. Stampeding crowds overwhelm both the journalists and the beleaguered riot forces. Suddenly the disastrous footage stops. Aquilino sees the image return to the central studio. In jarring contrast, the Showbiz Buzz jingle he cannot stand begins again, and Ricky and the dancers sing and dance without rhythm.

The studio’s floating cameras again show the coquettish host in an expensive white suit and glossy shoes as black as his shirt. His tie matches the suit. His blond hair is styled like porcupine quills. His face looks anguished, distorted, even disgusted—then instantly changes into something festive.

"You saw it, felt it, heard it! You have witnessed this exclusive scoop thanks to UHR Channel and"—his expression abruptly changes as he recovers the expected rhythm—"Showbiz Buzz!" the women behind him conclude.

"Yeees! Early birds, do you realize the scoop we just showed you? Do you? Three million eCoins to rescue Brittany, and she still ends up in that accident. What do you think of that mess? This Brittany gives us no rest, does she?" He laughs loudly. "And that nausea? What do you think, early birds? Could she be pregnant? Hmm. I’ll plant the seed of doubt. We’ll investigate on future broadcasts."

"Showbiz Buuuzz is super cooool!" the chorus sings behind him while dancing.

"If this is how we begin the day, how will we end it? It will be very eventful. Don’t worry, early birds; we’ll capture the scoops and show you. By the way…"

"Tomorrow morning, on Showbiz Buuuzz!" the chorus girls sing, interrupting him.

"…Well, nothing, never mind. Thank you, girls." He laughs twice. "Goodbye, early birds! Don’t forget to write to our account; I’ll read you. I leave you with DJ Brutus’s musical selection. Oh, did I mention that Brutus hates Exotics Covers? Well, not as much as he also hates Smoking Ministers—and the feeling is mutual in that case. They told me in confidence," he whispers excitedly. "Have another great day! See you tomorrow! Love you!" The shrill jingle returns with unbearable farewell songs blasting as if the volume had raised itself.

Shaken, Aquilino uses the remote to switch off the television. He cannot bear the modern music videos and shrill melodies now playing. Relief comes when silence again reigns in the bedroom. He sighs, sincerely wishing Brittany Condon well and hoping she recovers soon. He strokes Kika and kisses her head, then detects an unpleasant smell and wrinkles his nose. She will need a bath shortly. A few days ago he bought a special lotion for her short coat. Much as he wants to remain in bed with her, however old he feels, he must begin the day. He dreams of retiring at last; perhaps the time is near.

He casts off the sheets and blankets covering his bent, tired body. The images he just saw still strike at his mind. They recall the quarantines of his youth, when he was barely twenty and Covid-19 ravaged the world. Such absolute isolation from the rest of the city is unprecedented. He thinks above all of the young people who had been at the concert enjoying a pleasant night. Wearing only undershirt, underwear, and socks, he sits on the bed and adjusts the cheap glasses on his face. He reflects on what he saw, feeling too old to digest such terrifying news.

Once somewhat calmer, deep within he hopes nothing bad has happened to his dear former student. He misses her in class; she was charming, funny, quick-witted, though very rebellious—considerably so, even for a teacher as patient as he believes himself. He sets aside the sorrow and prepares for work. After two failed attempts, he rises from the bed. Kika does likewise, wagging her tail. Aquilino scratches the reddish hair remaining on his head. He notices that waking early, leaving bed, and resuming routine grows harder each time.

He approaches the nearest nightstand, reaches for a half-finished glass of water, and drinks it in one gulp. He snorts; some time has passed since the alarm rang. His weary, sleep-narrowed eyes are scarcely two poorly drawn lines on his face. He readjusts his thick brown-framed glasses, yawns, tired, his head aching slightly. Lazily moving feet encased in wool socks, he puts on cloth slippers and slowly shuffles across the polished floor toward the door.

Kika follows closely, watching happily and wagging after stretching first her front legs, then her hind legs. Aquilino reaches the door, turns the handle, opens it, leaves the bedroom, and heads toward the bathroom. On the way he remembers overdue building fees and other bills. Entering the corridor, he feels dizzy, assumes it comes from severe migraines, and attributes them to the sad images and shrill music, as well as recent overwork. It is examination season at the university where he teaches, and he has graded papers late into the night.

He has less than an hour to rise, wash, prepare, and reach the train station for work. Once there, as every morning, he will teach his usual first-period history class. He shuffles farther down the corridor, lifts his glasses, rubs both eyes with his fists, replaces them, and continues through the narrow hall. In the bathroom he removes his glasses, brown wool socks, vertically striped long underwear, and yellow undershirt, then steps beneath the shower. He hates cold in every season, especially winter—too much icy air for worn bones. He often feels cold even on summer mornings like this one.

He enjoys the warm, pleasant, relaxing shower falling upon his wrinkled skin. The drops caress him where no one else does. He relaxes for several minutes, perhaps five, but soon loses his peace upon remembering everything awaiting him today: another day of routine torment, unbearable loneliness, and profound monotony. Impatient Kika barks outside. Hearing her clearly, he smiles; she does the same every morning.

"I’m coming, Kika! I’m coming!" he calls from inside.

Hearing his voice calms the little pet. When he leaves the shower, she greets him with celebration, jumping, yelping, wagging. Aquilino returns to the bedroom, puts on long horizontally striped underwear, his customary gray pleated trousers, and a shirt of indeterminate color buttoned over his stooped torso. He covers his feet in gray wool socks and slips into poorly polished black loafers worn from frequent use, then replaces the thick glasses on his face. Kika follows him out, celebrating his movement, leaping against him and wagging the tail others have amputated.

Smiling, Aquilino crouches, pets and kisses her, then hurries out into Stormport. He has neither time nor appetite for breakfast. He crosses the cramped corridor again toward the dining room; his apartment sometimes recalls the tight quarters of submarine cabins. There he gathers folders and holographic papers left the previous night and places everything in an old metal briefcase. He closes it, pauses, thinks, reopens it, and inserts virtual-paper bills written in electronic ink; they must be paid today.

He closes the briefcase hurriedly. It automatically projects the time on its luminous surface, and Aquilino despairs. As quickly as possible he says goodbye to Kika, crouching as his knees crack. He kisses her muzzle affectionately, receives two licks, and rushes from the apartment. He locks the door, calls the elevator, and waits. Although his building is in Eastown, it is rather old and poorly maintained. The elevator takes far too long, making him anxious.

When it finally reaches his floor, he rides down to the ground level. The antiquated elevator descends and opens a few steps from the street door. A few more steps take him outside into the old housing complex where he lives, perhaps dating to the beginning of the century. As an educator, the apartment is the best he achieved in life; his salary would barely sustain him if he had to pay rent.

Aquilino hurries along crowded sidewalks. Eastown is always like this at such an hour. At the first corner he descends stairs, crosses underground galleries packed with people of every known human race, climbs another staircase, and emerges at the diagonally opposite corner. The growing rhythm of traffic is constant; at rush hour everyone races the clock. Reaching the other sidewalk, he descends different stairs and finally enters a crowded subway station. Beyond the platform, polygonal rails emit vibrations and hums: the train is approaching.

Relieved he has not missed it, he remains impatient, anxiously waiting. After moments that feel eternal, the train reaches the platform, gradually brakes from supersonic speed, and opens its doors. Aquilino feels tons of solid-steel carriages materialize before him. Thousands board while others leave different cars. He battles the human tide exiting until he enters one carriage, grasps whatever support he can, and stands squeezed among people nearly twice his height.

Relieved, he feels the train begin slowly, like roller-coaster cars climbing toward a summit. After several kilometers it shoots along electromagnetic rails at supersonic speed. Two hundred people share the carriage, likewise desperate to reach their destinations. The ultrafast journey ends in just under five minutes. Inside, neither hyperspeed nor intelligent automatic braking is appreciably felt. He descends amid the crowd, hurries, quickens his step, and grows winded.

At last he reaches Stormport Independent School. Now he need only arrive at the classroom on time and ready.