sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 1

GENE 22

I write for the few young people left in this wizened land. Not so long ago, they still had the right to read, write and act as wisely or as foolishly as any of their fore fathers before them. How quickly it all changed! This new self imposed bondage, that is leading a free thinking people to nestle comfortably on the soft bosom of a languishing limbo-land, began soon after the disruptive consequences of the ‘We’ll show them vote’.

The purpose had been to shock the nation silly, so that radical changes would flower in spring-time parades, like thistle-down on hot air. A sure way to get yesterdays leftovers dished up again in a different sauce. The fiercely annoyed, who had aimed to upset the established apple-eaters, as they strolled breezily through exclusive market places; the unthinking mono-toned, pledged to tightening their country’s many stringed identity; and the luckless careworn, who could bear no more; together, they all provoked a far greater pandemonium than their short sighted vision ever imagined. Those who longed for a Little Mother of the People; a Big Brother; or a Jack-in-the-Box Grand-Dad, soon discovered what big shadows lurked, waiting behind these childish games.

Leaderless, fiery riots followed hard on the down trodden heels of the widespread panic they called into being. It was as if the obscure dens under the brightly decorated arena had suddenly been forced wide open, to let years of

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 2

accumulated discontent and misunderstandings spring out, all set to draw blood and enjoy terrorising, with their savage roars and brutal charges, the sleek matadors proudly prancing ‘sous-cape’. Finally, with the help of neighbouring mediators and strong armed forces of order, the surviving leaders, agreed to coalesce and create a new brand of state control that is now secretly envied (and you might be surprised to learn which) by more than one anxious government facing unpredictable violence, economic challenges and nature’s on-going mercurial tantrums, in the chaotic second decade of the twenty-first century.

They came knocking on the door of my little council house, these newly grown rebels, for they needed somewhere to meet and plan unheeded. At the time, I was plodding on quietly in a forgotten, little cul-de-sac that had been built like a modern version of a Cathare fortress, against a steep, scooped out hill side overlooking the river; Château H.L.M. as one of my sons baptised it, on his first visit. I had even ended up becoming a protected member of this neglected community. It had happened by accident or rather it was due to a foolish presumption on my part, believing I was still capable, at my age, of dashing after a passing bus. Having twisted my knee, I was limping and swearing to the nearest bench when, God’s gift to silly old biddies, strode out of the public transport, insisting on calling a cab to take me home. M. Diousidon, the enthusiastic leader of the local choir: “Such a success! So many would like to join us, that we just can’t accept them all! Such a long waiting list too!” he boasted proudly on the way to my house, and wouldn’t let me go until his do-goody conscience had succeeded in

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 3

palming me off with some volunteers to help me cope with every day practicalities. I was suitably outraged at such an imposition and said so loud and clear, all to no avail. However, this very, same, strong resistance, proved to become an asset when the young people sent to set me right, turned out to also be in great need them selves. Rapidly the five o’clock tea time sessions were organised, and with the authorities blessing into the bargain.

These muzzled youngsters, (we still haven’t learnt any lessons from our past mistakes, for those who were supposed to guide them, have been turned into wary warders) talked and talked, their stilted speech coming out in sudden gushes, gradually filling up the small, enclosed space like one of those intermittent fountains that fascinate curious travellers who have the patience to wait and see it happen.

I listened and nodded, hoping they would eventually find their own way, not only in this lopsided world, but also to a place that would hold some sense and meaning for them. They touched me to the quick with their plain questions, shrugs of doubt and the first, hesitant steps they took to heave themselves out of the common pools of moonshine that have been drained of live symbols, to leave only foul smelling dead letters and the clanging repetitions of rusty ideals. “You’re a bit harsh, aren’t you?” ventured Jenny, one of the students. “We’re not as pessimistic as you are.” “Yes, you’re quite right to knock my snappish pride down a peg or two,” I agreed, glad to see them more sanguine about their future than I was.

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 4

“To tell the truth”, added Angus her friend, “in spite of all you say, I don’t feel as if you’re either wholly with us or totally against them! It’s difficult to fathom out what you really believe or even who you really are!” I smiled. They presented a heartening couple, as they stood bravely together, boldly colourful, against a background of misery and gloom. I admired their energy and determination to make a go of it, here and now, when so many of their generation had either been thrown out of the country, or scurried away to some other, precarious paradise. It was largely due to their efforts that the ‘Slamming Matches’ started. These not only helped us to let rip, under controlled conditions, but also forced us to work through the many prejudices we entertained, including those concerning each other. That day, Micky quickly took up Angus’ remark, making a song and dance of it, loudly accompanied by the cries and clapping comments of the others:

Doubting Mama Big Mama two shoes Hopped round her bed With one foot in red The other in blues For she had no clue On which to stay So she spent the day Trying hard instead To stand on her head

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 5

At the end of the queue.

As I wasn’t quick witted enough to answer immediately, I delegated a willing champion, Sylvere, to do it for me:

The Little Big Home No scorn No lip No honking horn No sour pip No prim laws No spitting talk No crawling on all fours No goose like walk Only an open door And room for more. In a four- square place With a human face.

It was all good fun and I leant a great deal, not least, I discovered just how low I had sunk before their coming. The interfering choir master seemed to have inadvertently given a helping hand to heave me out of the bleak hole I had gradually slip into, which, I must concede, was no mean achievement. I was also very amused to learn what an awful reputation I had gained in the area since, to justify the frequent visits of different people, the youngsters complained to

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 6

all and sundry, putting it about that, as I was such a cantankerous old baggage and an unsociable recluse to boot, they had decided to devote their obligatory community service to the difficult task of revamping my ugly soul. As M. Diousidon had been on the receiving end of my ungrateful anger, he could well believe it and encouraged his protégés to do their best or worse, depending on which side of god’s fence you happen to be. I do believe we could have continued merrily on till death did us part, had it not been for the Gene 22 people, popularly known as the ‘Cul-Crux-Chroms’, wanting to jump onto our ready-made bandwagon.

It was a great shock to me when I realised I was ‘one of that lot’; or rather, it happened the other way round for, I’d been told in a dream, years before it was officially discovered, about 'Cette part de mystère' as one carrier poetically described what soon became a real thorn in the neatly fitted sides of government apprentices. Twenty two percent of the genomic history unaccounted for; it was a lot, too much in fact, to shrug away in a ‘We-must-know-it-all society’. Laboratory technicians had tweaked out all the useful titbits that concerned European, Asian, Amerindian and the other traceable origins of modern mankind. Now, this unqualified, impertinent heritage that stubbornly refused to yield its provenance, like an alien arriving from the Antipodes without a reference, worried sick the world’s efficient classifiers. Had there been just one or two or even three out of tune players in life’s Big Bazaar’s Performance, no one would have given the matter a

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 7

second thought. They would have graciously allowed the odd human being to keep his or her ‘Petit coin dans l’ombre’ unmolested.

The problem was that some bright spark, determined to be distinguished by the ever moving beams of scientific limelight, had run to ground quite a considerable number, scattered throughout the globe, of these sly bundles, hidden in mankind’s genetic haystack. Luckily for me, the fact that I hadn’t under gone any medical tests for ages and ages, and that nobody was bothered enough to notice, meant I got away with a great deal in this fanatically busy world, where commercial research projects flourish like molehills on a once much loved children’s playground. Funds taken from social and cultural associations ‘récession oblige’, fell squarely and massively into private money bags, all in the good cause so many of us blindly contributed to with well-intentioned, marathon-like dedication.

“The challenge presented by subjects with twenty two per-cent of their genes unidentified, opens the way towards exciting and yet unexplored fields of discovery,” the newly appointed Professor explained when interviewed on television. “These carriers appear perfectly normal and lead very ordinary lives, just like you and…” Here the brilliant expert paused, unable to associate himself, even for a joking second, to what was rapidly being cast as a sinister anomaly. “…and everybody else”, he concluded with a thin smile.

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 8

“So”, enquired one of the hand picked journalists, a rare species nowadays, since few have survived whispering blogs and wily censures, “In which direction are you looking? What do you think lurks behind this mystery some of your collaborators and many politicians believe to be a serious defect?” “And a potentially dangerous one to boot!” added another who dealt in the spectacular only. This very same question, which just goes to prove that big guns and small, battering cudgels do have a lot in common, had been playing havoc with the researcher’s little grey cells during many a sleepless long night. He now looked down on his captive audience like a farther who has learnt how to zigzag through a grown ups minefield. “This is the most vitally important ‘raison d’être’ of our teams continuing trials”, he hammered on each syllable so that the noise would make up for the lack of information. Some things never change! “Are you implying, Professor, that you still haven’t the faintest idea whether there is a real purpose behind this difference?” a questioner risked copying the ancient art of trying to get to the truth. “What is the point of it all? These people do not seem to have any particular use!” For, of course, that is the be all and end of all activity today. There are shrines to speed, usefulness and efficiency in every modern board room. The new darling of the masses laughed good naturedly to show he wasn’t above joining in a bit of harmless fun: “We will!” he declared becoming serious again, “That’s a promise! Well, ladies and gentlemen, duty calls!”

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 9

As he swept out of the studio with a curt wave, some thought they’d heard a hoary, old free-lancer murmur: “They have replaced yesterday’s, cheap horoscopes with the new, occult practice of Gene readings! I fa coumo se fioulabos a la luno!”, and he wasn’t far wrong, for in private, the technicians did feel as if they were whistling to an out of reach moon. They were so bothered, troubled and bewildered, that the ruling powers decided to keep all the detected subjects on multiple files, criminal or otherwise, and granted no questions asked, any expenses remotely connected with that sphere of research.

The arrow head of the local Gene 22 group, was the farther of one the students. I was both impressed and not a little annoyed with their forceful methods; but there again, they needed to be bold and enterprising in order to progress. Very quickly, they completely took over our fumbling discussions, arguing that they, at least, had a definite aim, and a plan of action. They didn’t just meet for the fun of it, they had a mission to accomplish.

Although I’d opened my door and welcomed them gladly, when they landed on my doorstep, they got not much further than making free use of my small sitting room, since I didn’t reveal how closely linked we were. I wasn’t quite sure why: partly good, old, natural self preservation; but I suppose it was also due to my being so fiercely independent, always prompt to question and distrust, especially now, any bunch of followers dedicated to one, single minded purpose, however attractive it might seem. I was a citizen of no particular country; had lived in countless houses; tackled numerous jobs and felt shut in by anything ending with an -ism.

I

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 10

belonged nowhere and to no one. Only once before had I come close to feeling at home amongst similar thinking companions, but even then, a vital part of me remained outside, too fearful, I presume, to consent to complete immersion. And so there is always a fair bit of me sticking out of any situation I happen to be involved in, like a square crow in a round flower bed.

Over the weeks that followed the first visit, the new group increased, causing me much worry despite my privileged status, for there were now thirteen would be adventurers, ready to abandon everything and set off on a wild goose chase, as some called the proposed expedition. The latest theory put forward by M. Batayon, one of the three leaders, not only soon caught the attention and imagination of the people concerned, but also, rumour had it, was being tried out as a working hypothesis by various laboratories.

After much searching and poring over what ancient documents were still available, the specialist became convinced that the problem of the twenty two percent unclassified genes, implied the existence of an unknown, yet to be discovered continent: “It’s the obvious, the only logical deduction we can reasonably make! We come from somewhere else!” he argued. “Our ancestors lived outside the recognised limits of this carefully mille-metered earth.” Thus began the quest for what the group named ‘a tremendous land… where second-to-none beings’ would not only offer them asylum, but more importantly,

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 11

reveal to this gone-astray race, their true roots. They named the lost land: Nomedia and each man, woman and child was ready to stake his or her life: “In cérca d’une tèrre que se trapa pas su la mapa dèls omès.” « A la recherche d’une terre introuvable sur la carte dessinée par les hommes. » “In search for a land imperceptible on a map drawn by men.”

I was fairly sceptic but interested to discover what varied ideas and visions, each member of the expedition nurtured concerning the character of this legendary destination. What did they expect? Was it the kind of place to make your heart swing, your toes start to tap and your arms wave in rhythm to a brand new melody? Did they imagine it wreathed in violet smiles or jutting out like a rude question mark?

One young man brought a poem he’d found on a second hand book stall (for yes, strangely enough, they still exist). He movingly shared a few lines with us:

“Parler d’un lieu à soi… …d’un étrange paysage en constant mouvement… Parler d’un lieu qui n’existe pas sur la carte Lieu absent nulle part indiqué Comme un feu qui s’éteint Dans la nuit. ” (Joan-Pou-Creissac)

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 12

On another occasion, an unexpected contribution was made by Professor Gérard Malivois, a university lecturer, when he claimed to have dug out a document in the attic of his great uncle, who had been a captain in the merchant navy. Here’s the passage that put the backbiting cat among the cooing pigeons:

“In Nomedia, people are selected before they are born, according to their genotypes. Nomedians invented biology before religion (actually, they could not see the point in religion and discarded it right away) and they just know that every human character is linked to a specific gene. Whenever a Nomedian comes of age (that is when he/she chooses to) he/she goes to a civil lab facility where the chosen genes are allowed to express themselves in public. As a consequence, Nomedians are not supposed to go against their chosen natures and therefore they can’t afford failures in their field of experience. This is why professional mistakes are punished by instant death. Nomedia is a place for competent people only.”

We all stared at him disbelieving, mouths wide open, not because this solemn declaration was sensational or violent, on the contrary, the awkward silence troubled by nervy coughs and much clearing of irritated throats, was due to the deadening effect it had on every one present. We had been led to expect news, good news, inside information that would boost anxious hearts and act like a hope giving bulletin or a startling tonic. Instead, all we got was a cold dollop taken out of last night’s factory made, defrosted packet. A few looked round the room at no one in particular, trying to decide if it wasn’t some sort of clever ‘mot pour rire’, or worse still, a wilful attempt to sabotage the whole project.

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 13

“But… but… well, that’s a thundering anti-climax if I ever heard one! Where’s the attraction in that! What’s the point in going if that’s all there is to it!” cried Bringuiboul, a chemist, looking very disappointed. “That’s just what’s beginning to happen here!” took up Juanita, a mother, “It’s all we’re trying to get our children away from!” “I can’t understand it,” grumbled Brenda a nurse, “he’s always been dead against that sort of rubbish!” They avoided looking at the dream breaker, and talked as if he was no longer with them. “A skiff in peril needs to lash on to something bigger than itself, if it wants to keep afloat”, commented Abdul-Din-Zigami, a pilot. “What does that mean?” The professor managed to get a word in. “That it just goes to prove what stupid solutions we can come up with, when fear’s the problem.” “Has he made it all up?” asked Jim Sullivan, a business man familiar with strategic moves. “No!” Djilan, one of the young one replied, “I fink ‘e’s sniffed somefink that’s gone to ‘is ‘ead!”

I nodded in silent assent. A whiff carried by a passing breeze, that suddenly provoked a feeling of homesickness. Over the years, I’d learnt that it worked both ways: the communications I mean. Countless messages were exchanged, with volumes of information criss-crossing the yawning gap that still separated us from

sue 2 (01/04/2007) ¤ 14

our goal. I’d often had proof that the stuff we sent was taken into account, if not always approved or welcomed. Unfortunately, a great deal that we receive in return is misunderstood, misses its mark or slips through clumsy fingers and is left lying around, at the mercy of fishy intriguers. This recent document could well be genuine or the result of a panic reaction from someone who’d been startled by an unexpected experience, which he now wanted to hide under a bluffing bushel. It often happens, when you’ve been frightened by something you don’t understand because it’s so different from what you’re used to, that you quickly create a controllable storm in a tea cup, in order to pass the alarming effects on to other people.

As their plans took shape and started to materialise in the form of a very unusual craft, my own affair was also coming to a head. I felt more and more hounded, and forced further along an invisible path that wound its serpentine ribbon between the devil and the deep blue sea. I had read about the different ways into the lost land. Each one of us had to follow a journey corresponding to his needs. For some, no ships, no maps, no fabulous machines would be necessary, since we already were knee-deep in everyman’s dreams and nightmares.