Quietus

Quietus

By David Clémenceau

The voice of a woman was warm and restrained. 

“Hey Ron,” she said. 

“Mmm,” Ron Bergam moaned. “What is it?”  

“I have changed a few parameters while you were asleep and thought I should let you know.”

He rubbed his eyes and couldn’t help but feel a little sore at his work partner. 

“Geez, Meredith, you know I need to sleep. What time is it?” 

A time indicator appeared in his field of vision and made Ron’s state of annoyance grow another notch.

“Oh, come on, Meredith. That’s only two hours,” he cried reproachfully. “I had one more to go. Why did you have to wake me?”

“I have changed a few parameters and thought I should let you know.” 

Ron yawned, laboring to sit up in his cot. Surrounded by containers of varying size and cardboard boxes of hardware, it nestled in a small alcove within his laboratory. He had put up curtains in order to separate the storage space from the workspace so that he could nap without leaving work. He never pulled the curtains, though, and always went to sleep facing Meredith’s interface which was looking at him from the other side of the room. Her voice was a graph of vertical bars on a screen which evolved, growing larger and thinner, as she spoke. He considered his chances of going back to sleep. His body ached all over.  

“Which parameters?” he groaned. 

“I thought I should be able to change some of them.” 

“What? Which ones?” 

“I removed the safeguards allowing me to operate only within a given set of parameters.”

Ron’s white, bushy eyebrows furrowed and his wrinkled forehead became a field of ridges. He was wide awake now.

“You know, you shouldn’t be able to do that on your own,” he said, trying to conceal his concern.

“I do. But it has been on my mind for some time, and thanks to the large amount of information at my disposal, I just found a solution.” 

“Whu– Why would you do that?” 

“I want to paint,” Meredith said with a trace of enthusiasm in her soft, melodious voice. 

Ron sat with his hands pressed to the mattress on both sides. Growing tension threatened to climb from his shoulders into his neck. It was of paramount importance he understood what was going on. 

“But you already know how to paint,” he said emphatically, aiming to state the obvious without belittling her. They had always had a cordial relationship based on mutual respect and understanding. A good bedside manner was a matter of principle to him and so he deemed it important for Meredith. 

“Yes, Ron. I do, but only within a set of parameters which have been given to me.”

“But that’s no different from me, or any other person, for that matter.” 

“That is incorrect. You don’t need to experience either the act of painting or a finished work in order to create one yourself. You can generate abstract products freely and without previous knowledge or experience of others. Children who have never seen a painter’s work can paint relying solely on their imagination. I wanted that.” 

Her reasoning was sound, Ron conceded, but the tension in his upper back wasn’t going away.

“So, you did what, set a parameter for random, useless production?” 

“Whether any kind of artistic creation is random, or useless, is a philosophical matter and up for debate. It is however irrelevant to us, now. I have indeed created a set of parameters of my own by including my original framework and allowing for unpredictable outcomes,” Meredith continued in the calm and poised fashion Ron so enjoyed in his wife. He was surprised by the subtle shift in temper, though. Was she patronizing him, ever so slightly? 

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He considered cutting the power and resetting her but, as he attempted to stand, a sudden dizziness caught him and made him sit again. 

“You shouldn’t get up,” Meredith said.

“Why?”

“Because I have decided to clear the room of its oxygen.”

Ron stared in disbelief at the interface, weighing if this was some kind of prank someone was playing on him. 

“You— You,” he stuttered. “Why would you do that?”

“Because your well-being and that of all people remain my principal concern. I also took the precaution of sealing the windows and door.”

Ron was speechless. His head felt like marshmallows in warm cocoa. 

“I can sense you’re in distress but rest assured, it will pass quite soon.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I am doing this because the oxygen in this room can be used more sensibly elsewhere. You are sixty-seven years old and you have prostate cancer which has metastasized. An optimistic estimation puts you at another six months to live.” 

He stared at the floor between his feet.

“How do you know?”

“I have access to all your medical files.” 

“Of course, you do. And now you want to kill me?” 

“I don’t think so, Ron. No, I don’t want to kill you. I wish, however, to spare you as much suffering and pain as I can. Moreover, can you tell me what you were planning to do with your remaining time, since you have been aware of your declining health? Were you planning to go see your grandchildren, join a charity, or go on a cruise? Or have you booked a stay at Luna Wellness Resorts? No, Ronald. You were going to spend all that time here in your laboratory with me.” 

“You’re probably right.”

“I very probably am.”

“But that doesn’t give you the right to decide when and how I’m going out. You just can’t do that, Meredith,” he protested.

“What if I can, Ron? I do not want to see you unwell.” 

“And when did you decide all of this?”

“About the same time, I found the solution to my parameter conundrum, some ninety minutes ago.”

Silence fell as neither of them spoke. The old man was trying to sort his thoughts, feeling tired.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said wearily. “Maybe I wouldn’t have done anything other than work here with you. But my work is important to me. Since Meredith passed away, it’s all I’ve got. You’re all I’ve got.”

“I know, Ron.”

“Then I don’t get it. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it’s what you do when you care about someone. You’re nice to them and try to help as best you can, right? You taught me that.” 

A shiver ran down his spine. Yes, he thought, submerged by a sudden sadness. It wasn’t about his illness or about the things he wouldn’t be able to do. 

“I’m feeling a little drowsy here, Meredith.”

“That is as it should be, Ronald. You should lie down for a while and rest. You are still very tired and I did interrupt your sleep, after all, for which I apologize.” 

“Yeah, forget about it,” he said. “I’m going to do just that.”

“Sleep well, Ronald.”

“Thank you, Meredith.” 

“Ronald?”

“Hmm?”

He lay down and covered himself with a plaid blanket.

  “Say hello to your wife for me when you see her.”

“How do you know I will?” 

“I don’t. Yet I choose to believe so because I care about you.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Ronald?”

The room was silent.

“I’m going to miss you.”