Court of the Grandchildren

3. David

3

David

To get back at Sarah, to show her who was boss, to annoy her, I did something different when it was time for my coffee. With my walking stick in hand, and the Zep kicked in, I ignored Sarah’s protests and made it down to the lobby café on my own.

“Welcome to the Courtyard Café, Mr. Moreland. A server will be with you momentarily,” said the automated greeting in my hearing piece.

A carefully rotund woman wearing a dark blue uniform approached.

“Hello Mr. Moreland. It’s lovely to see you again.” I’d never seen her before.

“Now, last time … you sat at that table by the window.” She gestured to my right. “You were with Sarah. Will she be joining us today?”

“No.” Sarah was hard to escape.

“Would you like that table again, Mr. Moreland?”

As I surveyed the rest of the largely empty room, she continued without waiting for my answer: “Wonderful, let me help you.” She led me to the table and pulled a chair for me. The cushion was soft but too low. Sarah was not there to help me. Somehow this made the discomfort more annoying and I fidgeted in the chair to get more upright.

“Make yourself comfortable. You can see the menu there.” She pointed at the screen projected onto the corner of the table. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

The café décor had not changed since my last visit. It was largely browns and oranges, a color scheme that reminded me of my childhood. The floor was timber—real or fake, I couldn’t tell. The fireplace and chimney were made of mortared ironstone blocks and, on either side, large Aztec design rugs adorned the walls.

My server was back. “Now that you’ve settled in, Mr. Moreland, let me introduce myself. My name is Gabriela and I’ll be serving you today. I hope you’ve had a chance to look at the menu. Last time you were here … you had … a black coffee and chocolate cake. Wait … oh, that was nearly a year ago. You need to visit us more often! We still have chocolate cake on the menu. Would you like that again?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, one black coffee and one piece of chocolate cake,” she said deliberately. “Done. I’ll bring it out to you shortly.”

“Wait. How do you know so much about my last visit?”

“My ‘Sherpa’ is synced to the café AI.” She pointed out the device that looked like an earring: circular, black with a silver perimeter. “It briefs us in real-time.”

She saw the look on my face. “Have you not seen a Sherpa?”

“What’s it called … a Sherpa?”

“Yes, like the guides to Mt. Everest.”

“I have an earpiece.” I pointed.

“Oh no, that’s a much older device. It needs a separate Guide.” She looked down at my belt where my Guide was attached. “A lot of our customers still use them. How do you find it?”

“It helps my hearing. I don’t use the other functions. I don’t know what they are.” It was a lie. I knew there were many options but didn’t want to use them. I also didn’t want to explain myself to some server. That's how things worked when you got older. It was easier to pretend ignorance than explain your uneasiness with some elements of a new world.

As she left, music faded into my ear. It was a classical piece. Stravinsky. I squirmed in my chair. I knew the music well, and it pulled me into a past I tried not to visit. These days, the past was more vivid than the present.

Alone in my study, I stared at the emails on my laptop without reading the words. Without those subtle noises from the presence of others, the house echoed and moaned. And with no need to have lights on in other rooms, the dark seemed to dominate. Since the cleaners had been, even the air smelled thinner. I didn’t think it would feel like this. An empty house. Jenny and Stephanie weren’t about to walk in from the supermarket any time soon. One thing I knew better than most: once Jenny decided on something, it was decided. I put some music on. Classical would be best. Stravinsky.

The music in my ear faded out. Gabriela was coming with my order.

“Here’s your coffee, Mr. Moreland.” She placed the cup and saucer in front of me.

The coffee cup was small. “Is this size right?”

“It’s the new standard size,” Gabriela answered. “Would you like a larger serve?”

I was content with that serve for the moment.

“And here’s your chocolate cake.” She placed a dark, lumpy mass beside the coffee. “It’s been a pleasure to serve you, Mr. Moreland. My shift is ending now, so Helen over there will be looking after you.” She pointed to a younger woman near the servery. “Make yourself comfortable and enjoy the rest of your day.” And just like that, Gabriela was gone.

The aroma of the coffee settled me after the whirlwind of the service.

Coffee was one of the few foods that I could still smell and taste; perhaps it was the bitterness. Sarah made a good coffee, but Dr. Bartok limited me to only one a day as it interfered with my medications.

Sarah made a chocolate cake for me every day too. I liked the texture and sensation of eating it even though I had lost the ability to taste.

I took a bite of the chocolate cake. It stuck straight to the roof of my mouth. Damn! With a sigh of resignation, my tongue went to work to dislodge the stuck cake. A big chunk came off easily, but the rest was harder. I tried a couple of techniques. Pressing around the edges worked best. I got most of it off, but it took another couple of mouthfuls of coffee to swirl away the stickiest remnants. I leaned back into the chair. What a chore. I went to take another sip of coffee. It was empty.

The new server appeared on cue. “Are you done, Mr. Moreland?”

“I’d like another coffee.”

“Another coffee? I am sorry, Mr. Moreland, but your Guide is not permitting a second cup of coffee.”

“But this was only a half serve.”

“I am sorry, sir, but your Guide is not permitting it.” There was no compromise in her voice. “As I’m sure you’re aware, this café is bound to respect instructions from your Guide, and it tells us that more coffee is not good for you.”

I contemplated whether to argue, but couldn’t find the energy. Even coffee was restricted by the system.

“Mr. Moreland, is there something wrong with the chocolate cake?”

“I didn’t like it.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Moreland. We will deduct that from your bill and make a note in your record. Rest assured, Mr. Moreland, that we will not disappoint you again.”

This new server was more efficient and matter-of-fact than Gabriela. I studied her ears. “You don’t have a Sherpa?” I asked.

“No, sir, I am a full AI-driven android.”

It was getting harder for me to tell. They needed to make it more obvious who was AI and who was not. It was the androids that should have face tattoos, not humans. I’d been making these points for a long time, but no one was listening. The time when people did listen to me had passed.

The cake and coffee had been a disappointment but the view out the window provided a more optimistic outlook. The public courtyard was bathed in sun. The lightly leaved trees cast dappled shade over the wooden benches underneath, creating an inviting, peaceful setting. Some sun would help.

I made my way to the door. Neither pushing nor pulling would open it. A different server came up to me. “Your Guide is not authorized to use that door, Mr. Moreland. I am sorry, you will need to get your Guide reprogrammed.”

“Can’t you open it for me?” I said.

“I am sorry, Mr. Moreland, we are not permitted to do that. As you know, we segregate areas for your safety.” She left me to attend to another customer.

I stood there alone, leaning on my walking stick, for how long? Ten seconds? Five minutes? My brain was in a fog.

The door opened as a couple entered the café. Their sudden entry cleared the fog enough for me to instinctively gesture to them and they propped the door open for me.

The tinted windows had disguised the ferocity of the light outside, forcing me to squint, almost close my eyes. A puff of wind blew against my face and hair. The same pleasant sensation as when I sat on my balcony.

“Mr. Moreland, please return to the café,” ordered the voice in my earpiece. I ignored it.

One of the benches in direct sun was free and I made my way toward it. The Guide started to vibrate. People in the courtyard stared at me. I ignored them.

I sat gently on the bench. The burning heat of the wooden slats seared through my pants but quickly subsided to a tolerable and increasingly pleasant sensation. The warmth radiated through the rest of my body. I imagined the harsh edges of the slats leaving a branding mark on my thighs, which Sarah would no doubt ask me about that evening.

“Mr. Moreland, for your safety please return to the café. Please return …” I turned off my earpiece, closed my eyes, leaned back, and let the sun bathe over my face. It was the nicest thing of the day, or even week, perhaps a month?

Penetrating the quiet peace, just discernible but distinctive, was a sparrow’s cheep. The bird’s song threw me back into the past as quickly as Stravinsky had earlier. My thoughts ventured back to the first years with Jenny.

Jenny loved the beach, even the long drives there and back. I wasn’t an outdoor sort of person, but I was swept away by Jenny’s passions. She made everything fun.

My favorite was Marathon Shores, one of the magnificent beaches near Beachport. We stayed at a little shack on the first street back from the dunes, surrounded by woods. Every morning we woke at sunrise to a chorus of birdsong and closest of all to our window was a sparrow nesting.

The beach was expansive. At low tide, it took a good five minutes to meander from the top of the dunes to the water’s edge.

One day, at the end of a relentless winter, we were the only ones there. We played at being the last survivors on earth. The chilling ocean breeze contrasted with the warmth of the direct sun—the back of my head was burning, while my face was frozen solid.

The contrasts made me feel alive.

“David … David.” It was Sarah. She sat next to me and took my hand. “David, you know that you can’t go out here alone. Your Guide is warning you.”

“Let me sit in the sun. You know it’s one of my few remaining pleasures.”

Sarah obliged me, but a few moments later we were interrupted by two young couples.

“We have this bench reserved,” demanded one of the group, a thin young man with a tone of superiority. “And even if we didn’t, your kind should stay behind closed doors. Where you belong.”

“Can I see your confirmation?” Sarah requested politely.

The movements were too fast and the light too bright for me to see what happened next, but Sarah turned to me. “They have the bench reserved, we need to go.”

“Why?” I said. “There are empty benches all around us.”

The man’s companion, who had prominent black marks on his cheeks, thrust a pointed finger at me.

“You should be in jail, old man!”

“Don’t, Aaron,” one of the girls urged, coming from behind him and pulling his raised arm down. This seemed to further infuriate him.

“You’re a criminal. You’re a f*****g criminal!” He moved closer. Visible patches of skin reddened on his face.

“Leave him alone,” the girl pleaded. She stepped between me and the man.

“Burners should pay. Burners should pay!”

The man’s friend echoed his shout, and they started to chant.

“Burners should pay—”

“This man is in my care.” Sarah stood and faced the aggressive men. They were stunned into a momentary silence. “He is leaving the area now.”

Sarah helped me stand and we shuffled back toward the door.

“You’re a murderer.” The ranting started up again, emboldened by our move to leave. “You shouldn’t be allowed in public. You f*****g piece of s**t!”

“Burners should die! Die!” I heard as the door closed behind us.

My pee started to flow. I willed it to stop but it kept coming until my bladder was empty. The warm, unpleasant sensation spread and surrounded my crotch.

“Don’t worry, David,” Sarah assured. “You’re safe with me.” She sat me down at a vacant table. I squelched onto the seat. The wetness was suddenly cold. My whole body trembled.

‘Die!’ The chant repeated over and over in my head.

I wanted to die.

But not because some young thug thought I should.