“Where are we heading to?”
I look at the companion standing next to me. He/she is about the same height as me. Because we both wear spacesuit-like protection wear, I cannot tell what gender he/she is. With gas mask helmets and earpods on, I assume he/she also hears the amplified white noise in the background. No information nor emotion can be read in his/her eyes.
Taking out his/her tablet, identical to mine, he/she points to our destination. It is not far past the confluence of the surface and the underground. Since the nuclear power plant disaster, the surviving humans have moved underground. Not many of them have the opportunity to visit the surface, except in expedition teams, like us. We do exploration sometimes. The members of our expedition team have one characteristic, or some could call it a flaw, in common: we don’t remember any single cohesive memory from our lives before the disaster. Our past memories are scattered around our brain, fragmented. Some doctors have diagnosed that we are suffering from retrograde amnesia. However, sometimes, we do remember things. The flashbacks only last a few seconds. My memory, if it can be called that, is like a sudden déjà vu. When it occurs, it is as if the current I is being possessed by the past me, an earlier experience of hearing and smelling, as well as tactile sensations crawling under my skin, and taking over my current body. The only problem is that this memory, the accurate replica of the indescribable, fades away by the time the possessed I is about to take any action or have any emotional response to it.
It is not so horrific to lose your memory. I feel pretty calm most of the time. In the resource-scarce underground, people like us own tablets and follow their guidance, which is almost like a privilege. Having no memory, however, is lonely. I barely have any relationship with the other survivors. When they meet up to reminisce together about the fresh air and the freedom of travel, share their fear of the toxic radiation and their worries about having cancer, all I can do is mimic the emotion I am supposed to have. One time I was so involved in the atmosphere that my tears did fall. They came over and hugged me, telling me everything would be alright. But in my mind at that time I only wanted to recall how I had just simulated the shape of fear. What did it look like? Sound like? Taste like? Fortunately, when it comes to complaining about the low frequency buzzing sound made by the machine, I can always relate.
Escalating to the ground, my companion and I do not dare to take off our gas mask helmets. The sky is a faint yellow. On our way to the destination, we pass a Buddha statue, worship table, incense burner and prayer cushion, which are all covered in a thick layer of dust. A subtle background noise continuously hums in my earpods, like the sound we hear when the broadcast system is offline. I hear the inhale of my own breath twice, and wonder if my companion has heard it too. He/she leads me from half a step ahead. After going up a short staircase, we arrive at the destination.
It looks like an ordinary room. But after a short scrutinization, there is something wrong. There is a curtain, but no window behind it, and an umbrella is leaning on it. A bookshelf and an easel stand in the corner. A stereo system is in the middle of the room, with its amplifier and player sitting on a low cabinet. Two speaker cabinets stand either side of a monitor screen on the wall. The most confusing part is that on every surface of the room, even on the front grids of the two speakers, are stuck all kinds of small, strange objects — rusty batteries, tin cans with their labels flaking off, small cones made of clay, and some paper dishes cut into weird shapes. In my earpods, music has started to play. As usual, the tune doesn’t bring any memory to mind. There is only endless emptiness. I look at my companion next to me. He/she is as confused as I am.
Simultaneously, a sentence pops up on both of our tablets –”Adjust for a better listening experience.”
I frown and turn my head to the side. My companion and I exchange baffled looks. Our missions are usually about getting resources or some objects for the underground, yet this time it seems so obscure.
Right across from the screen there is a single sofa chair. I cannot help but walk up to it and sit down. My companion does not stop me.
The song playing in the room is now different. If I have to describe it, I would say that the tune has changed from impassioned to upbeat. A few days before, I had read in the remaining news database that melody and tune are the medium that directly elicits memory. So I immediately rushed to the underground’s music database and binge-listened. If there was an album cover that looked familiar, or a song title that brought up unusual feelings, I listened to it. However, I still became trapped in the quandary of knowing the way but not the destination. The situation had once again turned into a useless attempt to recall my memory. What’s more, I could not just listen to samples from the songs — the tunes would only play in their full duration.
Now, there is a female singer’s voice filling the room. The sentence “Adjust for a better listening experience” is still showing on my tablet. Sitting on the sofa, I hear a subtle, steady heartbeat behind me. I turn my head but do not see anyone, nor any living organism. My companion is standing in front of the speaker, tearing off one of the batteries and then throwing it to the ground.
Strangely, when the battery hits the floor, I feel the melody turn strident. I shake my head, thinking that it must be a glitch in the earpods.
The steady heartbeat continues behind me.
Not knowing what to do next, I stand up and walk to the speaker, exchanging positions with my companion. He/she sits on the sofa now. I pick up the battery and stick it back on.
“I think the voice got smoother.” My ear picks up my companion’s words. This is the first time on the surface that I have heard him/her speak.
The song in the room changes again. This tune feels mellow and melancholic. I tear another strange object off the speaker — a paper plate cut into a virus-like shape. I flip it over, examining it. Dirt falls from it.
“Do you hear that heartbeat?”
“Yes.”
He/she does not say anything after his/her terse answer. My attention goes back to the song filling the room. After a while, I put the paper plate back to where it was. My companion says again, “I think the voice got smoother.”
Looking into his/her eyes, I want to have more information. But the reflection of the helmet blocks my vision. No emotion can be read.
He/she stands up, suggesting that I go back to the sofa. My companion walks toward where I have just stood, tearing off the paper plate again. After about four lines in the song, he/she sticks the paper plate back.
I become more confused. I don’t know if I have been influenced by his/her observation, or if the music did actually change. After the paper plate is placed back to its original position, the voice of the female singer along with the instrumental accompaniment convey a deeper sense of loss.
“Adjust for a better listening experience,” still shows on the tablet.
The tune we heard when we first entered the room starts to replay, a song overdosed with testosterone. I sit back on the sofa, listening to it with my full attention. My companion walks back and forth in the room, with his/her footsteps coupling the sound of the tin can that he/she is picking up and dropping on the ground. Sometimes he/she stands still. I can feel he/she standing behind me, his/her presence blending with that of the unknown heartbeat.
“It seems to be the best right now,” I say after several footsteps.
“It seems to be the best right now,” my companion says slowly from behind me.
As if a spell has been cast, suddenly my so-called memories are summoned up — a sultry smell mixed with almost bursting emotion in the chest, staggered orange and blue light and sounds made by a synthesizer and musical instruments; the scent of dry ice in a narrow space, with red light shooting up towards the ceiling, and the body ecstatically dancing with the heavy beat that expands the pores of the skin; five spotlights shine upon the stage, five men appear in ravishing suits, surrounded by waves of screaming; tears gradually fall.
Overwhelmed by all my senses, I act as if I am a puppet manipulated by someone else. I stand up and turn around, removing my helmet without realising it. Then I reach for my companion’s helmet and take it off as well. I imagine if I can see his/her face, I may recognise who he/she is. The person stands in front of me, with identical eyes, ears, nose and lips as me. Is he/she me? My eyes blur from more tears. I wonder if they are tears from my memory, or tears of this moment.
“It seems to be the best right now.” I take off my earpods, directly hearing his/her/my voice.
“It seems to be the best right now,” I say to myself.
Image Credit: Du Wei, Haiton Audiovisual Room, 2019.
