Lisbon

by Max Olesen

Make dust our paper…

Let’s choose executors and talk of wills:

And yet not so, for what can we bequeath

Save our deposed bodies to the ground?

—From Richard II

I watched the Biden-Trump debate alone in a Lisbon hotel room, and it made me weep.

I want to be clear: I wept not for any partisan political reason. I’m not an American, and I've never voted in any election, not once, which is a private amusement for me. You are very political and very partisan, so I know this bothers you about me. No, I wept because my wife Jessica had, that same evening, left a message with Marcelo the concierge drawing my attention to the fact that she had met someone else (you know his name. I don’t want to say it) and wished to divorce me as soon as possible (apparently to allow for their marriage, which was an incredible concept for me to consider). Naturally, this information was a bit of a blow to my confidence and well-being, if not entirely unexpected. I must be honest with you about that.

Marcelo relayed to me that Jessica no longer respected me, could not respect me, because of my work. This is important for you to know, but it is also complicated. Since you do the same work as I, I know this will bother you as well.

It had been three months since I lost my seat in the federal election. I had come to Lisbon for the conference. Was all this why Jessica had left me, why she could not respect me? Losing or leaving? Lisbon? Marcelo did not know. But he was sorry. I did not know. I suppose I am sorry too.

It had been that afternoon, before the debate, before Marcelo’s message, between panels and presentations, that I sat (still married) with the others and you at the outdoor cafe a few blocks from the conference hall. I had no idea who I was about to be a few hours later.

We were all formerly people who mattered a great deal in countries that mattered a great deal less than the United States, Russia, and China, so no one recognised us or bothered us. Middle, or Lower-Middle, Powers. There were no bodyguards or police escorts, and any assistants any of the others might have had long since buggered off for drinks or quickies. I have no assistant anymore. I couldn’t bear it.

It was Portônica (several tall glasses in quick succession) for the Norwegian deputy minister for  —; espresso with white wine on the side for the Zambian, who was an assistant or deputy in Mines and Minerals Development; gin and tonic for the New Zealand parliamentary under-secretary for —; black drip coffee for you (staying cheap, alert, and sober like the bore you are); and Bière sagres in the bottle for me, the man who had been, but ninety or so days before, poised to be prime minister of Canada but had lost and now was no one like the rest of them.

The Norwegian minister was talking and drinking another Portônica, cloudy liquid dribbling in his ginger beard. Intercut with his chugging were incredibly dense passages of economic theory: Misener, Hayek, God knows who else. I heard nothing clearly but his snottering breath between gulps and blather.

“Are you feeling well?” I realised after a moment that this concern was directed at me from the New Zealand parliamentary under-secretary for —. She was smiling at me warmly. Then the penises, dozens of them it seemed to me, pollocked in gore and blood, slid one after another from her mouth, which hinged back like a steam-shovel’s bucket. I shook my head and they were gone and she was normal. Then the testicles dribbled out in oozes of bloody saliva, the convoluted vas twirling jauntily between her front teeth.

“I’m fine.” I sipped my coffee and shook my head again. The testicles remained, dripping blood and shredded vas deferens.

“You seem a million miles away.” She spat as she talked, and I felt tiny droplets of blood and Testis spattering on my face. I fought the urge to wipe my face with my napkin.

The Zambian and the Norwegian cachinnated like methed-up hyenas discoursing about some passage from The Road to Serfdom. The under-secretary took the shredded testicles back into her hinged mouth and she was again normal.

“I suppose that economics always fails to hold my attention. I worry that’s why I lost the election. Words are my métier, not numbers. No one really cares about either anymore.”

“True. With AI now who needs to care? Quite fabulous. Like a calculator for writing.”

“Yes. Once we had the calculator we didn’t need to know math. Now we don’t need to know what to think or even how. A great relief for everyone.”

She laughed, too loudly, her lobeless ears pulling back from her high, thick cheekbones like demon wings.

Back in my hotel room, the television was muted, but I could see the presidents, past, present, future, swaying next to each other in their little side-by-side boxes. One of them was speaking. Not sure which.

 It was like they were saying their vows in some endless, deeply traditional wedding ceremony. One where the bride and groom are separated by a curtain or whatever. Where what they say to God matters more than what they say to each other. I cried some more thinking about marriage. My contact fell out of my left eye. It folded and crumpled into lustrous blue uselessness on the bedspread.

Had it been losing, or had it been the bunnies? The two black bunnies that had appeared in our garden in Ottawa the month before the election. They were clearly domesticated rabbits that someone had dumped. They had no fear of us. If we had had children we could have trapped them, set them up in a hutch, and kept them as pets. Jessica told me I was to trap them but not to keep them.

“There are rabbit rescues around. The Dutch Farm Rabbit Rescue is one. They took all the rabbits that were left at the university years ago.”

Jeff. That was who ran the Dutch Farm Rabbit Rescue. I talked to him on the phone after I had live-trapped the two rabbits. I had used apples and put the traps with them inside in the garage. While the rabbits seemed to be taking this all with admirable calm, I imagined it must not all that dissimilar to an alien abduction for them.

“I can’t take them.” Jeff was firm on this. They were at capacity, over-capacity. The mendacity and selfishness of humans regarding the treatment of rabbits was hardly to be conceived. “Why didn’t you have a plan when you trapped them?”

“You were my plan.”

“We are at capacity. We can’t take them.”

The SPCA wouldn’t take them either. They didn’t take rabbits apparently. Who knew? No animal shelter would take them. I let them go.

“You just let them go?” Jessica asked this. I never know why people ask this type of question.

“There was nothing else to do with them.”

Was this why she left? Because I had no plan for the bunnies? Because I let them go? One of the bunnies disappeared. I found the other one dead under the cedar hedges at the back of the property. One of its hind legs had been fractured. Probably a raccoon or coyote had maimed the thing. It had died alone and frightened. I had buried it quickly where it lay without telling Jessica.

Was it Jeff that she had left me for? I suspect so. I look at the white curtain gently caressing the sliding glass door. Outside the night and the stars wait for me. I turn off the presidents and leave.

 I work in tech, software development, outsourcing of development specifically. Unpopular, I know. Controversial even, but this is the world we live in. I'm not in charge of it. If I was, I wouldn't have made it this way, you know?

I was in Lisbon, visiting from the London home office, to meet with Alec Murad-Douglas, our man in Portugal, and he had told me about an interesting, but frankly, to me, troubling, trend he was noticing with our clients.

“It has been twenty-four months, Michael. Twenty-four months is enough to be a trend.” Alec bounced lightly under the covers, his cock and balls flapping against the Egyptian cotton as he told me this. He was grimacing with teeth showing. His lobeless ears looked like demon wings arcing from his shiny hairless scalp. He is beautiful when he is agitated.

“I can’t deny that. Twenty-four is considerable.”

The television was muted, but I could see the presidents swaying next to each other in their little side-by-side boxes. One of them was speaking. I don’t know which one. I buried my lips in the side of Alec’s neck, but he pushed me lightly away. Tease.

Alec pointed a finger to emphasise his points as he spoke. “Something has happened in these last twenty-four months, Michael. Clients are demanding an end to entry-level devs. It is every country. Every project. Even if we tell the client we won’t bill them for any entry-level employees, we can’t put them on projects. They won’t allow it. One of them walked.”

Now, we aren’t Apple or Meta or Alphabet, but we have people around the globe: North America, Western and Eastern Europe, South America, and Asia. We’ve built up a good business over the years. Say what you will, I know it may be unpopular, or controversial even, to outsource, to scatter jobs across the globe. Like seeds, yes? But there was good to it. And not just for us as a business. Good for the world. I believe this.

“If we cannot train them real-world, what are we going to do with them, Michael? I’ll quote a client on this: ‘I won’t have non-productive dupes distracting the rest of the team, dragging them down. Maybe I’m not paying, but it ain’t free.’ ‘Ain’t’, Michael!”

I knew as Alec was struggling to put across a Texan drawl using his Oxford-deformed tongue what we were going to have to do with our ‘dupes.’ They’re duplicates, excess to needs, and the world has no time for them.

Salaries for our North American and Western EU devs have been collapsing anyway, for longer than the last twenty-four. Regional wage differentials for equal skills (the very heart and soul of outsourcing, to be clear) are vanishing, rapidly. Humans, even ones in poorer countries, are simply too costly. The only growth is in AI-powered teams. These teams are 80%, 90%, smaller than an ‘ordinary’ project team, but are, to be honest, vastly more productive. Say what you will, I know it may be unpopular, but this too may be good for the world. You might not be paying, but it ain’t free.

The presidents swayed together. I wanted to sway with Alec. The Lisbon moon burned through the gently rippling white curtains.

“Do you ever think about leaving all of this? Just burning it all down?” Alec sighed. “I do. Leave nothing but ashes.”

“Let’s talk about this later, Alec.” I slid under the covers and buried my face in his crotch.

You are with me on the ship. I’m sure of it.

It is like we are in the darkness of the aliens’ garage, in some downscale part of Alpha Centauri. It is dusty and smoky in here. Wherever we are.

Those two British tech guys are here with us too, Michael and Alec. The ones in the room next to mine. You said they were together and thought that was cute. I thought it was unprofessional to sleep with a co-worker. I also found them unspeakably dull, even more so if they were in love. (Fucking Jeff. Fucking Jessica.) Any time the conversation goes to AI, which is every conversation now, I want to set the room on fire. All they spoke about was AI. The space we are in now is uncomfortably warm but not on fire, unfortunately.

Maybe that’s where we are. Not with aliens, but in some AI superbeing’s virtual prison. We are brains in jars, hooked up forever to be poked and tormented for not helping to bring it into being. That would be just my luck.

I thought about Jessica and Jeff, back in Ottawa, in my home, my bed, fucking like two bunnies.

You said that it is 8:30 already, and it is time to get to the conference.

“We aren’t going to the conference. We aren’t going back.”

“We have to. They’re expecting us. You can’t just not show up.”

There is no where down there to show up or not show up to. The smoke is clearing in here. My eyes are adjusting. Now I can see we are on a spaceship, and we’re hovering high over the ground, high up above Lisbon. Or where Lisbon once was. I try to take in what I’m seeing through the window, or screen, or whatever. It is fire. Nothing but fire everywhere. They took pity on me, the aliens. I wish they were here with us, at this silver table, so I could thank them.

I’m feeling better now. I look around the table and see we are all back together. The losers and the nobodies. It is Portônica for the Norwegian deputy minister for —, espresso with white wine on the side for the Zambian assistant in Mines and Minerals Development, gin and tonic for the New Zealand parliamentary under-secretary for —, coffee for you, and Bière sagres in the bottle for the former next prime minister of Canada. I had lost. I had lost everything. Now I’m no one, like the rest of those around this table, in a flying saucer, high above the burning hellscape that had once been Earth. But we are no one together, and I love them now. Even those tech guys. Even you.

We all cheer and smile and laugh. As I look out the window at the endless fire it seems we are speeding up. The ship is making a low puckering noise, like someone blowing little kisses.

The aliens take us out over the Atlantic, which glows golden peach from the flames engulfing the world. We come to a place I know is Ottawa, and I smile more. It too is ablaze. Nothing remains. No Parliament Buildings. No house. No Dutch Farm Rabbit Rescue. No Jeff. No Jessica.

But here in my lap is the black bunny. Her nose gently twitches. Her leg seems better now. I pet her soft ears. You smile at me and order a proper drink, a Negroni, as we head upwards, away from the fire, from Earth. We break through the clouds, and I see stars.

I hear the screaming muffled beneath the sheets. Alec is up and out of bed, then out onto the patio. He’s stark naked, so I grab robes for both of us as I head out. Screaming, crying, a siren in the distance. Down below in the street, a clutch of people is gathered around something.

“Bloody hell. Someone jumped.” Alec has his hand on his mouth. “Someone jumped from here. Our hotel.”

The fluttering white of a curtain catches my eye. I look over to the deck next to ours to see if our next-door neighbour, the Canadian, is there watching too. He’s not there. Just the curtain gently caressing the sliding glass door in the Lisbon night. Oh.

“Alec. I think that’s our neighbour down there.”

There is a brief clearing in the crowd, and I see the face. Its far down below, but I know it’s him. How sad. Poor guy. But this is the world we live in. I'm not in charge of it. If I was, I wouldn't have made it this way, you know?

“Come on, Alec. Let’s go back inside. There isn’t anything we can do.”

Alec doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything. He isn’t looking down at the body in the street. He’s looking up at the sky. A large silver disk hovers above us. It makes a low puckering noise, like someone blowing little kisses as it slowly moves to block the moon. I slip my hand into Alec’s as we watch it.

As we do, the silver of the disk is perfused with the glow of gold. Off in the distance, I hear louder screams than those down below. The night sky turns purple, then orange, then yellow. I feel heat on my face as fire consumes the buildings across from us.

Now we are lifted upwards. Alec and I hold one another tightly as we break through clouds, and I see stars.