Adjacentland Read online

  About the Book

  Today is a new day but yesterday was the same day.

  A man awakens with no memory in a strange, rundown institution. Struggling to make sense of his surroundings, he begins to piece together the story of his life from clues someone has left for him – drawings that line the walls of his room and fragments of letters hidden in the lining of his jacket. When he leaves his room to venture into the surrounding Compound, he encounters a group of oddly familiar people that urge him to undertake a desperate mission.

  In dreamlike prose, award-winning novelist Rabindranath Maharaj weaves a story of fragments in which our narrator comes to believe he was once a comic book writer who warned against humanity’s reliance on artificial intelligence. Meanwhile, his caretakers try to convince him he’s insane. Soon he uncovers more clues that suggest memory is stored outside the body, and he learns of Adjacentland, a primitive land of outsiders where human imagination still survives. Together with a motley group of inmates from the Compound, he decides he must make his way there. In this brilliant, unsettling novel, Maharaj asks us, “What happens to the soul when all minds are tied together?”

  ALSO BY RABINDRANATH MAHARAJ

  The Amazing Absorbing Boy

  The Book of Ifs and Buts

  Homer in Flight

  The Interloper

  The Lagahoo’s Apprentice

  A Perfect Pledge

  The Picture of Nobody

  The Writer and His Wife

  RABINDRANATH MAHARAJ

  In memory of my parents

  We can make no distinction between the man who

  eats little and sees heaven and the man

  who drinks much and sees snakes.

  - Bertrand Russell

  Contents

  STAGE ONE

  1 THE UNSTABLE WORLD

  2 THE THREE HEADS

  3 BALZAC THE BRUTE

  4 THE WET NURSE

  5 THE SOLICITOR

  STAGE TWO

  6 THE WATCHER AT THE WINDOW

  7 THE SHERIFF

  8 THE WORLD OUTSIDE

  9 THE DISAPPEARING BODIES

  10 THE HARLEQUIN SPIN

  STAGE THREE

  11 THE GIRL BEHIND THE DOOR

  12 KOTHAR THE MAGNETICIAN

  13 THE OTHER MAN

  STAGE FOUR

  14 THE TRAIN STATION

  15 THE REST OF THE CAST

  16 THE MAN IN THE CARRIAGE

  17 THE CONDUCTOR

  18 THE GIRL WITH THE BOOMERANG

  19 THE TOAD, THE IMP AND THE SORCERER

  20 THE BATTLE

  21 THE DELUGE

  EPILOGUE: THE BEGINNING

  Acknowledgements

  STAGE

  ONE

  1 THE UNSTABLE WORLD

  Nine days ago, I awoke with a hum in my left ear that sounded like the steady strum of a bass guitar. I must have lain still for half an hour, fearfully watching the door and the jalousie, trying to establish some familiarity with my environment, passing my fingers along the two tiny bumps at the base of my skull, wondering at my situation. My neck and limbs felt as if I had been pressed into a tiny box. When I got up, I immediately fell to the floor and it was another half an hour before I was stable enough to fully appraise my surroundings. I noticed an unevenly stained closet stocked with clothes and a sum of money in the slim drawer of an escritoire with teeth marks on the right corner. Beneath the escritoire, I discovered two wicker baskets, one with an assortment of fountain pens, well-used pencils and some sort of boomerang-shaped bamboo totem nestling in a circle of incomplete illustrations and the other stacked with spiral notebooks and hard-bound sketchbooks with oilcloth covers. Between the books were three envelopes, each stuffed with onion-skin pages.

  When I first opened the envelopes, I saw that the pages were filled with scratchy charcoal drawings of men and women frozen in a moment of action or just standing with their arms folded over their muscular chests and gazing heroically at the silhouettes of devastated cities. On one of the sketches I saw the word Adjacentland. I cannot say if this is a real place and if, in fact, these illustrations are representative of actual cities. Nor have I been able to confirm their authenticity from the inked versions of these sketches, some of them framed, on each wall. Beneath every illustration was the same phrase: Today is a new day but yesterday was the same day. On one of the odder drawings situated above a locked cast-iron safe with a sturdy knuckle-shaped handle in the middle of a spiral of fingers was the declaration: Nothing exists until we deliver our verdict. This sketch, in watercolour, seemed out of place in that it depicted a scene that, on the surface, appeared serene and normal. A mother is holding a child in her arms. The child, a girl of around three or four, is frightened and the mother, well, her expression – and her gaze – changes from day to day. I have tried to understand what is so terrifying in the foreground but all I can see are fallen leaves that are so detailed I can count all the nested loops. Each day I have returned to the vaguely familiar patterns on the leaves before I turn to the scribbles at the bottom of the sketches. So far, I have been able to distinguish just one; this, attached to a watercolour painting of a child, her back turned, gazing at the air. At either side of the drawing, which seems to be cropped, are two pairs of feet and beneath, a scribbled line that is also cut off: The child –

  I will add here that although there is some familiarity about the drawings and their subjects, I can feel no real connection with either. Nor, initially, with the clutch of letters I discovered hidden in a jacket hanging in the closet. They all instruct me to record my impressions and “my range of emotions” but there was one that described a relationship characterized by manipulation, bullying, jealousy and, not surprisingly, betrayal. The tenuous relationship, I worked out, was between a writer and an artist. It took a full week before I worked out the identity of the artist and that of the writer and decided to record what I have learned. This may sound desperate but a man with little to remember is forced to remember everything.

  But you, my friend, already know all of this.

  Are you disappointed that I am, here, referring to you? If so, you will be even more distraught to know that I have determined – from your manner of evoking accusations in an abstract and indirect way – that you are secretive and sly. Here is this sentence from one of your letters, for instance: “Once we shared the same thoughts and beliefs, complimented each other’s views, made fractions whole but all of that was ripped in half. We each went our separate ways, walking away from ourselves, never looking back.” In another letter torn into six pieces and scattered within the inner lining of my jacket were these cryptic instructions. “Look to the drawings. I have disguised my writing and it is my hope that by the time you determine my identity you would have understood enough to forgive me. We are the only ones left. Trust no one. Least of all yourself.”

  I have gone over that last injunction several times, trying to understand your meaning. Did you leave me here? Will you soon return and explain everything, elongating my recollections beyond the nine days since I have found myself in this place; beyond my only memory of the unstable world outside? Or maybe it’s the memory that is unstable. I am in a single-carriage train. Or perhaps it’s a bus with a high, sloping roof, I can’t be certain. In this reconstruction, I am gazing through the oval window of the vehicle. The clouds are lower than usual, forming a latticed ceiling that resembles a drooping cobweb. I feel I can touch it if I stick my hand outside. The vehicle comes upon a row of derelict buildings – theatres, casinos and an abattoir – with billboards turned the wrong way. A flock of iridescent birds with scabbed wings have perched on all the eaves and they seem to follow us into the night, which falls suddenly. The moonlit night sky is a mellow
greyish-brown and this tint, repeated in the fields beneath, makes it look as if the melting sky is rippling downward. We pass a child standing alone and when she shrinks from the vehicle I hear a shuffling behind me and realize there is another passenger.

  Now there is a town ahead. In the front yards of the stuccoed mansions are alabaster statues haloed with rings of dull light. The hands of the figures are raised to the sky and from the bus, the scene looks like a conjuration of frozen ghosts. There is an odd intimacy to the positions of the statues and I think of a city destroyed so swiftly its residents were preserved in their last acts. The trees seem to be afflicted with an infestation that renders the leaves cottony and pale. In the distance, the headlights illuminate a black speck. We get closer and I see it is a child, dressed in dark green, standing alone. She is holding a bow-shaped toy with which she swings as if to strike the vehicle.

  I hear a low, melodious chuckle at the back that eases into words I only decipher as we enter a tunnel, its sides glistening like freshly cut tissue. “Let it be known, brethren, that the unknown is simply a place not yet visited.” The walls of the tunnel seem to be closing in. The other passenger does not appear concerned. I hear him singing, “You cannot hide it any longer. We know what you have and we shall pluck it out one fibre at a time. And yea, we shall hold it up to the morning light and when a newborn witnesses it, mysteries shall live and die in the span of a single tingle. You have brought this upon yourself, brethren. You have taken the fire with you and there’s no stopping it now. A great turbulence is before us.” The voice gets closer and I am seized with panic. “They know what they are searching for but cannot recognize it. Advantage is yours.”

  I have used the word reconstruction because this retrieval has the quality of a vivid dream. I am recording all of this with the hope that, as I write, I will eventually come to some greater understanding of the man I once was and will understand my condition not from disconnected episodes, but will grasp eventually a complete life. Perhaps this is what everyone wants at the end. A quiet understanding. But there are more immediate concerns.

  The room I now occupy is devoid of mirrors – or any type of glass – so I cannot describe any new disfigurements that may have altered my appearance. The wrinkles and spots on my mustard-coloured limbs and my shallow breathing suggest I have passed the point of middle age, though I cannot tell how far along. It’s not simple vanity that causes me, each morning, to examine the visible parts of my body but rather a curiosity about the extent of the shrouded years that have slipped by and the portion remaining. Since I cannot see you, too, I am unaware if you are surprised or simply amused by this ignorance, this darkness about my prior life. But here’s something that might surprise you; it’s more than darkness because each time I recall an event, another, of equal importance, is lost. My mind is a leaking crucible and sometimes this image is so stark I instinctively feel my forehead and the back of my neck for some discharge. I awoke nine days ago, as I mentioned, so I am certain that my memories are relatively stable for this duration, at the least. The flashes of non-sequential events and pliant faces from the preceding period might as well be interpretations of overheard conversations because I can feel no connection with them. Furthermore, these random, recurring retrievals are puzzling because they cannot be placed into any context and, more significantly, because the emotions associated with these memories constantly vary. The slices of déjà vu are confounding, too, because I often get the sense that I can affect the outcomes; as if my memory is one aspect of a reality waiting for completion. Perhaps this is a form of overcompensation and all those who share my condition might assume they possess this odd power. My condition. Forgive me for using this word but I can think of no other that is so vague and all encompassing.

  In spite of what I have mentioned so far, I would like to assure you that I am not completely without resources. My loss of personal memory has not affected my ability to think, plan and write. Moreover, the retrievals to which I referred show glimpses of a shy but imaginative man. Imaginative: the word brings an unease, or rather, a bubbling fear that is puzzling to me. In any event, I would like to believe I am this man.

  To preserve my sanity, I have tried to establish a routine. In the mornings, I spend an hour looking at the sketches on the walls, another hour gazing out from my jalousie, memorizing my observations of the Compound, a sprawling structure with three or four dozen wretched people roaming about. There may be fewer or many more, I can’t recall counting. In spite of everything, the Compound is an intriguing place. Consider the view with which I am presented each morning.

  It never varies. There are two groups marching until they are alongside each other. Sometimes I imagine they are marching to the tune of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. It’s odd that I should remember something so obscure but nothing of myself. The group assembled by the sage sandbush is dressed in military blue and the other, coming from the direction of the sentry box, is orange-clad. They could be going to a parade but once they are alongside each other, they stop to engage in an odd choreograph of imaginative salutes and little pirouettes that give the sense of taunting buffoonery. Both groups seem oblivious to either the jeers or the encouragement of the loiterers. They keep this up for an hour or more and when my eyes begin to burn from the glare, I shut my slit jalousie. When I reopen the slats a few moments later, I notice the teams seemed to have exchanged some of their players and a couple of the loiterers are now leading the charge with mops and brooms. Sometimes I feel the marchers are doing this only for my amusement, like auditioning actors. At other times, I imagine that some of them are familiar, particularly a tall man whose height and heft is disguised by his slouch and another jumpy man in a long overcoat, but I have concluded that my faulty memory is stringing along arbitrary addendums, elongating details and events and faces to fill in the gaps. Maybe the mind creates meaningless distractions to fill the gaps and breaches. Or perhaps it’s like the intricate nested loops I observed on the painting of leaves.

  In the late afternoons when I am watching from the same spot, I notice the gaps between the ivy-covered single-room cabins and the wobbling lanes leading to the cemetery on a hill collapsing into implausible angles and the light scrambling around the glutinous trees appearing alive and combative. Perhaps I should add that the old men and women on the pathways are always losing their mooring and caroming forward and backward like rubbery toys. This disorienting vision, thankfully, recedes with each passing day. As do my bouts of dizziness.

  I will mention here that I have not yet convinced myself that it is prudent to reveal all of this to you. You, my imprisoner. Faceless and nameless. And curt, too, judging from the letters I found in the jacket and from these two sentences, more clearly visible, written in block letters and left on the escritoire: You are in possession of your notebooks and letters and the drawing implements. You need nothing further. I have wondered during every one of the last nine days why you chose not to go beyond this. Nothing about your reason for doing so and more worrying, no clues as to why I acquiesced. Why did you leave the hidden warning I should trust no one, not even myself?

  Perhaps I am relating this also with the hope that you will suddenly show yourself and accompany me during one of my surreptitious evening strolls. And as we walk together, avoiding the main areas of congregation (along the barrack-like enclosure that houses a canteen, a dispensary, a launderette and a stockroom), you will explain why you left me here. We will walk side by side to the cluster of single-cell buildings that serves as living quarters and just beyond, the derelict pavilion dotted with rusted spears and iron balls and at each building you will remind me of something I have forgotten. A date, a name, a place, an event. When we arrive at the chapel built like a capsized boat and decorated with copper snakes on the stern, you will pause to reassure me that my stay here is temporary. You will reassure me that I am not crazy and as my memories become more stable, I will understand everything and I will no longer worry that I am in a prison or a madh
ouse or an unwilling participant in some horrible experiment. But I know you will do none of this; your cryptic instructions left on the escritoire do not suggest a lingering friendship.

  And so, I walk alone. I have seen the congregants milling about and a few standing reverentially before the Compound’s massive front gate, designed to imitate the outstretched wings of a ridiculously stylized albatross clutching a leaking hourglass in its claws. From a distance, the worshippers resemble crustaceans gazing from beneath their carapaces at the town outside. These gazers or acolytes, I have noticed, soon get bored and shift their attention to one of the many billboards, empty but for the signs of age: mildew, rust, frayed paint and a few tantalizing letters hanging like lopped-off limbs. The gazers stand apart from each other, making no attempt at cooperation; nothing to communicate what the missing words might signify. For my part, I try to avoid any eye contact and whenever I slip up, I see dullness, hostility or a flickering curiosity that is so brief it barely registers. Once, I spotted an old man, immaculately dressed, holding a suitcase as if he planned to leave and another day a little man afflicted with blepharism who pointed to me and muttered, “It’s your fault we are struck here. You made us do it. Over and over.”

  Another day, a stutterer, dressed in the clothes of an unemployed auctioneer, told me, “There are-are...”

  “There are what?” I prompted him.

  “Two of-of every-every...” I could see his frustration both at his difficulty in completing his sentence and at my inability to help. “L-look.” He pointed to the sky and I saw a circling bird, its revolutions remarkably unvarying.

  “I can see just a single bird,” I told him. “It seems stuck in a particular orbit.”

  He seemed excited with my observation but unfortunately this did not help his stammering. When I eventually walked away he was still grunting.