2+2=5 by Jake Chapman

Author:Jake Chapman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MIT Press
Published: 2021-08-12T00:00:00+00:00

Part 2

Chapter I

It was the middle of the morning, and a solitary figure was walking in the dappled half-light, making towards Winston from the other end of the elongated Ministry concourse.

It was her.

Four days had passed since that evening when she had pursued him deep into the precaristocratic ghetto, only to feign coy disinterest on the threshold of Venus. Now she was striding towards him, deliberately, with undaunted eyes and a malapert grin. Without hesitation, with eyes fixed fast upon Winston’s own captive stare, she took his wrist, rolled up his sleeve, and wrote upon his arm with a red marker, its soft nib snagging in his soft naked skin. Without removing her eyes from his, nor him removing his from hers, she then rolled the sleeve back down, and with just a slippery half-wink and a dandy little leap of the eyebrow, continued along the corridor, peering over her shoulder once to cast a satisfied grin back at the stupefied dope caught in the dappled wildflower-light that shimmered in her scandalous wake.

Winston sat down at his desk, the chair all a-quiver. He held the Dictaphone up to his mouth without any clear idea of what he was intending to do with it. He cast Tilly Tillotson an unreciprocated nod. Fortunately, the rectification before him was a routine job, the alteration of some dubious advice caused by the glitch, but which required nothing particularly taxing.

It not possible to know whether universe, with countless galaxy, star, and planet, has deeper meaning or not meaning at all, but at very least, clear that human who live on face of earth face big task of making happy life for selves, otherwise no point life, no point death, no point carry on, no point nothing—all rubbish, all death, all pointless exhaustion no purpose—must all give up. Give up now.

While amending the gloomy misfortune, he considered the strange manner in which the girl had made her introduction. Was it a political message of some sort? An intervention? It could be an invitation to a sponsored starvation day, or to sleep rough for a night, or to hike, jog, hop, sprint or hold his breath for as long as he could—some charity honey trap that would come to an expensively sticky end. Maybe it was a message from an underground organisation—some new fad for vintage agitprop revival lifted from the distant past—or perhaps the ill-tempered precaristocrats in the winery had got to her and were now demanding an apology for his intrusion—perhaps the old man had sobered up and was seeking vinous remuneration. Perhaps the girl was part of it, perhaps she was related to the old man in the bar?

No doubt the idea was absurd, but it came to mind quite easily—and yet proved nothing. The idea of a dissident conspiracy persisted, and his heart quavered against glockenspiel ribs, and it was with much difficulty that he kept his voice from trembling noticeably and even rising in pitch as he narrated the modified rectification into

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