If the eye could see all the demons that inhabit the world, life would become unbearable. From Talmud I. "The Invisibility": Genesis It's hard to find a black cat in a dark room, especially if it's not there. Confucius "Andrew, do ostriches live in Australia?" "Oh gosh, of course not! How would they get there from Africa?" "Well, what if people had brought them? Then could they live there?" "Then they would be imported species, girl, instead of native Australian fauna! Hence, one could say they don't live in Australia" "Why not in Australia? If they were imported, they could live there! What do you know? Maybe they were and they do!" "They can't live there as native species, I'm telling you, woman! Under special conditions, of course, they could. But, under special conditions even penguins are able to live in African zoos. So would you say they are an African species, you idiot?" Jalia did not reply. She liked to argue. Nothing did a better job of shaking up the stubborn, bed-ridden patient than endless, persistent arguments. Even more so if the patient is slightly deranged and thinks no one can win a debate with him. Could it be that this mentally ill guy, whose symptoms of megalomania were getting worse, once really was the head of the subliminal devices laboratory? Did he really take part in creating a device that greatly influenced the future of humanity? It was hard to believe that now. It was the same every time: just as Jalia was chattering up a storm, she was always silenced by his "logical" arguments and seemed to have received her comeuppance. Actually, she could hardly keep from laughing at his ramblings. Her strategy was very simple: to lift the spirit of the bed-bound patient, to alleviate the depression, almost inevitable in such cases, by pretending to be a complete idiot. That way Andrew, unable to walk, might feel superior to some of those who could. But if she trashed his opinions, the poor guy's mood would plummet. He might even start entertaining the oh-so-original idea of suicide. And that could by no means be allowed to happen. He was too rare, too unique a case, an incredible fluke for her, a mere psychology intern who had not yet defended a dissertation on this topic. So she wanted the sick man to stay busy, even if by his arguing with a dumb and stubborn maid. It was better than to let him sink into despair and melancholy. But she had to be a skilled actress. Pretending to be furious, she would go bustling around Andrew's room, as if to clean it, stirring up clouds of dust that floated towards the helpless guy. Losing his patience, he would swear and throw things at her. She would respond with smart-aleck remarks and medical school students' jokes about cripples. Red with rage, Andrew sometimes would roll out of bed and try to crawl up to the maid that taunted him. It would take his parents' interference to put him back into bed, even as he demanded to fire this "dumb hysterical cow" right away. "I'll kill her", he announced yesterday after a typical blow up when his parents refused to fire Jalia. "I'll kill this abomination of a woman!" When Jalia opened the door of his room next morning, a half-full bucket of water fell on her head. God, how she screamed! She demanded the stunned parents give her an immediate raise, if they wanted her to continue taking care of their "sadistic kiddie".

You didn't know? The world is on the brink of a new mental illness epidemic! In our continually developing, innovating society of the 21st century, mental disorders take on increasingly subtle, sophisticated forms. Because of that, however, their negative impact only grows. A wave of the newest, most dangerous diseases arose just ten years ago, almost coinciding with the spreading use of subliminal mode devices. This may have led some psychiatry experts to suspect these two phenomena may be related. They claimed that while humans typically did not use two thirds of their brainpower, the subliminal devices enabled them to not only use that power completely but even exceed it. A brain filled to capacity with information, needs, roughly speaking, an empty, or free, area (computer professionals may call it RAM) to use for daily activities, for thinking, for processing and analysis of external stimuli. What happens if this "space" suddenly disappears (for example, if you filled it up with a new edition of Encyclopedia Britannica)? The protection mechanism of the thinking organ According to the hypothesis several experts, an unknown brain self-protection mechanism switches on. The brain simply "deletes" an area of memory it needs for normal functioning. Practice has shown that such "erasure" does not take place randomly. That is, not just any information gets deleted: only certain memories and certain knowledge that's interconnected by causal relationships and associations, most of which are negative, by the way. (From Asprilia Bayzand's article for "Your Mental Health" magazine)

Of course, it was just smoke and mirrors. Horrified as they were by Jalia's behavior, Andrew's parents believed that these constant conflicts were the only way to to keep their crazy son from giving up. And the method of treatment was nobody's business but Jalia's, a doctoral candidate in psychology. No later than the next night Jalia counterattacked Andrew's move from yesterday with one of her own. A move that, in her opinion, had to heat up the atmosphere even more and throw the patient off balance. Of course, it was cruel, but perhaps it would make the pudgy boy finally stand on his own two feet? Andrew woke up in strange fear. Hundreds of tiny critters crawled up and down his body. Their stings hurt and itched. The sick man turned on the night light, and screamed in fright. At the foot of the bed stood an anthill. A small, but real, anthill that had been carefully dug out and placed in his bed, with topsoil still attached. It was the work of the maid. The bedroom window was open. Gritting his teeth, Andrew rolled out of bed. Propping himself with his arms, he crawled up to the window, hoisted himself up and looked out. "Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!" he yelled at the night sky, clenching his fists. How could anyone do this to an invalid who's missing both legs? He looked down at two pale meaty stubs that dangled helplessly below his waist. His eyes filled with tears. The snake! How dare she bully him? Tomorrow he would show her! The closet in front of the bed was cramped and stuffy. He had to wait more than an hour before the door of his room squeaked timidly. He heard the person on the other side of the door jump back, as if fearing something might fall on her head. Finally, the schmuck gathered the courage to sneak into the room. Yes! It was the maid, the one that caused so much of his suffering. Jalia advanced slowly, holding a mop out in front of her. Just as Andrew expected, she stopped in front of the bed and stared nervously at the mounds under the blanket, which in reality were nothing but some wadded up clothes -- an attempt to create the shape of a sleeping man. The anthill, untouched, sat at the foot of the bed. Let her think the ants stung him to death! She must have thought exactly that, because she suddenly sobbed, covering her mouth with her hand. Cruel nurse, your games are over! She leaned forward and grasped an edge of a sheet with her fingertips, intending to turn it over. It's time! Andrew burst the closet door open and with all his strength hit the young woman on her head with a crystal vase that he had been clutching in his hands all this time. Jalia collapsed without so much as a gasp. But he lost his balance too. The chair he was sitting on in the closet tipped perilously. The time all but stopped. In horror he watched the floor as it approached fast, waiting for a horrible pain to pierce his maimed legs. Usually as little as one careless move would send unbearable pain shooting through his legs, but this time... Hell, when is he going to hit the damn floor?! Andrew looked down and nearly choked on his astonishment and fear. His legs, or rather what was left of them, hung in the air about a foot off the ground. He stood up straight and, terrified, took a few steps forward on the stumps that dangled in the air. He looked at Jalia. Does she see him? Oh well, looks like he killed her. But no, she still seems to be breathing. So what? If he needs to, he'll finish her off.

Ignoring reality Another school of psychiatric experts are of the opinion that there is no "erasure". It's just that the brain, instead of "making room", simply limits the amount of the stimuli received by the senses, or ignores a part of them. For instance, you stop hearing the chirping of the birds, can't recognize the color brown, or you stop seeing clocks for the rest of your life. The brain can choose anything as the "object to ignore". It's impossible to guess the motivation behind its choice. This "ignoring real objects" has been observed in two forms. The milder form, while making the object invisible, nonetheless allows it to remain in memory. You may realize you can't see flowers anymore, but you remember what they look like or that they exist. A more severe form causes the object to disappear from your consciousness altogether. For example, not only can you not see the television set, you don't even remember that there is such a thing. The official psychiatric doctrine does not acknowledge research in this area In any case, whatever may be the cause of this impairment, both schools of psychiatry agree that this is one of the most dangerous, and most likely the fastest growing mental disorders of the 21st century. If we are unable to stop the spread of the disease soon, it may become a global epidemic. The official psychiatric doctrine still does not acknowledge the conclusions of both groups' research. Both theories are viewed as "hypotheses that call for more research". (An excerpt from the same article by Asprilia Bayzand)

Stumbling across the void, Andrew walked over to the door. He opened it and went into the hallway, wondering how surprised and happy his parents will be when they see him like this. The sudden fall from the chair scared him so much, it must have awakened some secret mental powers lurking in his brain. He always knew he was no ordinary human. Now he had a proof of that! He defied gravity! He would teach others to walk on air, too. The first one will have to be this poor maid, who prompted -- accidentally, yes, but still -- his psychic powers to manifest. Andrew turned around and went back. Yes, he'll work on her first, and then they'll appear before his parents together, like two deities, walking on air. Jalia was still on the floor. He lifted her easily and laid her down on the bed. To teach her to walk on air he had to do something unpleasant first. Yes, quite unpleasant. He took a steel scalpel out of a cabinet where he kept it just in case he grew too tired of his bed-bound life. Focused and attentive, he bent over the girl's unconscious body. The fountains of her blood suffused the whiteness of the sheets. Having finished his work, he tossed two large bloody worms into the corner. It was done. Now he just needs to wake her up and teach her to walk on air. He shook her by the shoulder, but Jalia didn't wake up. This wasn't in his plans. Oh well, he would have to teach her later.

The name of the mental AIDS is Invisibility Meanwhile, mental disorders, due to their nature dubbed "invisibility", continue to ravage our society for decades, spreading in a geometric progression. It's here, the "invisibility" is all around us, and even though the talk about it does not progress beyond rumors, the disease kills in a very real way. Yes, it kills: according to unofficial data, at least ten percent of the victims of car crashes and other accidents had this type of impairment. Jalia Robertson, a professor at Mindaugas University in Vilnius, Lithuania, and one of the first investigators of this sneaky illness, as well as a victim of one of her patients, has said: "The ossified doctrines of the official science do not dare, or do not want, to acknowledge certain facts, while the industry and the state are profiting from the sale of subliminal toys." Of course, it is very convenient, very efficient to go to sleep with a "bug" in your ear, and wake up next morning with full knowledge of social anthropology or the genealogy of British monarchy. So what if you may forget what is, for instance, a chair? Any bus driver, any blue collar worker can cram a couple encyclopedia volumes into his head overnight, but what would happen if next morning his brain starts "ignoring" pedestrians, or, say, all green cars? (Ibid.)

He slipped back out into the hallway, pushed the living room door open a tiny bit and heard the low, muffled voices of his parents. He froze and listened, trying to make out what they were saying about him. "Doctor Jalia says it's a very strange, unique psychosis. After the accident at the factory of subliminal devices, he can't see his legs. He thinks he has been crippled. He thinks his legs have been cut off. If only someone could force him to take just one step, maybe then he would see... Or maybe he would think he's stepping on air." "But her ways of healing, this Jalia's, are really bizarre. Honey, how can it be right to stress him out so much? But maybe she knows best..." Andrew closed the door quietly. He didn't need to go to the living room anymore. He looked down and saw a pair of solid, firm, slightly hairy legs. His psychic powers! That's what restored his legs! Andrew hurried back to his room, since he heard Jalia moaning. The first thing he was going to do was to regrow her legs as well.

Do you see all you're supposed to see? Some call "invisibility" an intellectual disease, although there had been no official proof of correlation between it and cramming one's head full of information with the help of the subliminal mode toys. And if you encountered at least one instance of this "mental AIDS", you would never be sure of anything again. The vice-premier was caught accepting a bribe? What if the chunk of his brain responsible for ethics and morality was totally erased?

"COFFEE!!!"

A child stabbed his mother with a knife? But didn't he just yesterday download two violent games to his brain, so that he could while away a spare minute playing them? Even I myself felt better before writing this article. You see, a colleague has just invited me to visit him in the countryside...

"JUNGLE COFFEE!!!"

...where he offered to treat me to white rowan berries. I'm sure there's no such thing. Or is there? (Ibid.)

II. The Epidemic If you don't run while you're healthy, you'll have to run when you're sick. Horace "COFFEE!!!" "Here you go. This is for you. Manory, here's yours. Right, no sweetener. Caaaareful, you'll get burned! Herbie, take this..." Like a soft cloud of wilted leaves, Gordius swirled around the noisy office, giving out cups brimming with bland, synthetic coffee. According to an unwritten schedule, this afternoon it was his turn to fetch coffee from "Jungle Jazz", a little coffee bar one floor down. "OK, who else wants JUNGLE coffee?", the portly man shouted, convinced he came up with a great epithet for the product of the dingy little place that existed since 1955. The king of the afternoon, shielding his worm of inferiority under his overly outgoing manner, he would come to life in moments like this, when he was needed by everyone, praised by everyone, patted on the back. If only for a mouthful of coffee. Jalia Robertson, or Asprilia Bayzand, as she was known in the workplace, cringed reflexively at the sound of the guy's voice. This disgusting individual, always underfoot and in everybody's face, self-styled friend and neighbor to all... Wasn't he infamous for his habit of "accidentally" grabbing a woman's breast or butt in an elevator or a crowd, especially if she was of a lower rank than he? His face glowing, Gordius was heading in Asprilia's direction, but she was only halfway through her right-handed, semiconscious, automatic typing of an editorial for a local monthly psychology magazine. An electronic "bug" hummed in her left ear in high speed mode, whispering 30 German phrases a minute. In addition, every five seconds her computer screen flashed updates from the latest sociological survey. Yes, on a typical afternoon Jalia was one busy person. Only at night her brain would have time to archive, analyze and sort the data. In the morning, though, Asprilia would know the conclusions regarding the popularity of "Green" toothpaste in the key cities of the country. She would also know how to decline German nouns and adjectives. Wonderful. Rather, it would be, if not for the... "Coffee. Add your own sweetener", the chubby guy chopped his last words like firewood, apparently trying to make his voice sound more authoritative. Then he perched on the edge of her desk, positive that the head analyst of the sociological research department was dying to chat with him. "You're still cramming stuff into your unconscious? Unafraid of 'invisibility'?" For emphasis, Gordius accompanied this sprinkling of small talk by kicking the air lightly with his short, sausage-like legs. The steel desk under him squeeled for mercy. "What language is that droning in your ear? Go ahead, drink your coffee, honey, you won't find better in the whole JUNGLE", and he giggled in an unbearably shrill voice. "One day I'll rip your eyes out", Jalia thought gloomily, and was terrified of her own thoughts. Hard to believe what a reaction this guy could provoke in her. She lightly struck the Escape key with her left index finger, shutting off the stream of survey responses. She hoped that talking with Gordius would not require more than one hemisphere, so she left the "bug" on. "Vielen Dank", the professor muttered, taking the hot plastic cup from the man. "German, then", Gordius's face fell, betraying the state of his accomplishments in this area. "Well, like I said, aren't you worried about the 'invisibility'? After all, the time when humans only used one third of their brain is over and is not coming back." "Invisibility", Robertson growled, "you think you know much about it? There's no limit for learning, and there will always be room for new data." "Carpenter quit smoking", sensing her mood, the man tried to change the topic. "Can you imagine? I bring him his coffee, and his ashtray is empty! After twenty years of puffing!" "And it's far from proven", Asprilia for some reason was getting mad, "that 'invisibileness' is caused by overstuffing the brain with information! I knew a..." "Invisibility", the guy corrected. "I'm telling you, Hubert quit!" "... no one can say for sure when a cranium begins to choke. The changes are so slight that it's easy to take them for ordinary forgetfulness. I knew a guy who on a Saturday morning got a craving for a smoke and turned his whole apartment upside down searching for his favorite cat-shaped porcelain ashtray. Too bad it happened on a weekend, so the guy could not figure it out until he came to work next week. And there he saw, to his horror, that there were no more ashtrays, and his coworkers drop their ashes right into neat piles on their desks. This would imply smoking on Saturday mornings causes "invisibility", wouldn't it?" "It would", said Gordius irritatedly, and finally got off the desk. "You could have warned me, or what...", he mumbled as he walked away. "I bust my ass bringing coffee to you guys, and then someone dumps their bad mood on me like a bucket of dregs." He almost succeeded in laying a guilt trip on Jalia. With a sigh, the professor brought the survey review back up on her screen. As for the brimming cup of coffee, she carefully dropped it down a garbage chute beside her desk. Still, she was unable to concentrate on work. Old Hubert? She could not believe this, could not steel herself for what she had to do. Finally she collected herself, and down the chute rolled a crumpled ball of paper, scribbled by an unsteady hand: "Hubert Carpenter? Cigarettes?" Asprilia Bayzand sincerely hoped she was wrong. * * * Some cures are more dangerous than the diseases. Seneca At the end of the day, when everybody was in the process of leaving the office, she bumped into Carpenter -- "accidentally", of course. Old Carpenter didn't look good. His cheeks were yellow and sunken, his wheezing heavier than back when he smoked. The two of them strode down to the underground garage in silence. A few years ago they spent a night together, which didn't have a deep impact on their feelings, but still... "I heard you quit smoking?", she asked when they stopped in front of a door that opened without a sound. "Uh-huh", his eyes wandered off. "Would you mind lighting a cigarette for me?" she asked, pulling one hand out of her pocket. He halted. "I don't think I have a lighter", he objected in a hoarse, different voice. "That's OK. Here's mine", unfazed, she handed him her lighter. "A lady should not have to light her own cigarette when a man is standing nearby." He hesitated a little, but did not dare to refuse. Watching her extended arm, her middle and ring fingers, with great concentration, he brought the flame roughly to where the cigarette tip was supposed to be. "Thank you", she raised her fingers to her lips and took a whiff of air. With a sigh, Carpenter gave Jalia a strange look. "You think I don't know what you're trying to do?" he asked in a low voice. "Everybody does. But do you know it yourself?" "I don't understand what you're talking about", she said coldly. "You understand very well. You play the difficult role of a jackal: finishing off the sick and the wounded, so that..." "So that the rest can continue to function, so as to prevent the epidemics, and... Or, would you perhaps like to fly on an airplane whose pilot suddenly lost the concept of a runway? Would you like to take a cab whose driver... We are the immune system of society. We remove the ailing cells..." "And still, you are the jackals", Carpenter repeated in the same low voice. "Are you sure you yourself see everything? You no longer see people, only the healthy and the sick. You no longer see destinies, personalities, only defective cells that need to be removed... You no longer see the soul... What will you do when one day this illness affects you? Will you propose to fire yourself? Or haven't you thought about it yet?" Jalia didn't know what to say. "Bye", Carpenter turned around and slunk away to his car. Jalia brought her empty fingers down and shook her head sympathetically. That smart Carpenter, an old hand, fell for such a simple trap. He really had quit smoking, since he couldn't see cigarettes anymore. As for all that sentimental prattle... Oh, to hell with all that! It wasn't pleasant to feel like a jackal. * * * Reality is inside the skull. G. Orwell, "1984" That evening, like many others before, she suddenly felt as if she was being watched. This time, though, it wasn't a remote, vague sensation, an indescribable, soft shadow of a feeling, like when someone senses not so much a sharp, stifling, direct observation, rather more a warm, friendly presence of SOMEBODY. Like a grandmother's kind gaze from Beyond, or a light flutter of invisible butterfly wings at your cheek. This time it was all different. An annoying stranger kept staring blatantly at her through the half-empty shelves separating two pasta aisles of the "Vilnis" supermarket, where she often used to stop by late at night on her way home from the university. Jalia turned and walked the other way, and the stranger headed in the same direction, grabbing a pack of Italian spaghetti from a shelf as an afterthought. He was a dark-haired man of about thirty with a short, neatly trimmed beard. He wore a sports coat in fine green-brown plaid, and a pair of black jeans with a wide vintage leather belt. And while he looked decent enough, he didn't look like a person who would roam around a supermarket at almost midnight FOR NO REASON. Stopping by the candy aisle to pick up her favorite antidepressant, a chocolate bar, she could clearly hear the man's anxious footsteps from behind. "Miss Asprilia Bayzand?" she heard a soft, velvety voice. The last two words were her latest journalist alias that she hoped no one knew yet. Exasperated, Jalia grabbed another chocolate bar and turned to face the man in the plaid coat. He was watching her with brown, unblinking eyes, as if it wasn't he who had just asked her a question. For a while they both stood in silence. When it became unbearable, Jalia brazenly stuck out her tongue at the pursuer and turned to walk away. But no sooner she took her eyes off him than his voice rang out again, buttery-soft. "I was sent by the head of the Public Research firm. He would like to invite you for a visit." Slightly embarrassed, Robertson turned around and took a laminated business card he offered her. "It would be best if you could come right away." But the business card was completely blank. The professor, now furious, raised her eyes and the voice fell quiet immediately. The man continued to look at her with the innocent curiosity of a young calf. "You must be out of your mind if you think you can stick a blank card at me and get me to go somewhere! Second, you have not yet introduced yourself. Third, why do you only speak when I'm not looking at you?" The man pressed a finger across his lips, asking her to be silent. She looked around. The store was quiet and empty except for a bored salesperson at the fish counter who watched them from afar, propping up a long-unshaven chin with his hand. "Scratch it with your fingernail." "What?" she stared at him, and the guy turned into a mute statue. "The card, with your fingernail. And it will come to life." The air rang with velvet as soon as the professor remembered to look away. "I am Alastor, right hand to the director of Public Research, and... a guardian angel in my free time." She laughed. They both slowly walked to the checkout. "The card is digital and it's programmed for a particular person. Laugh some more. It looks good on you." Surprised, Jalia raised her eyebrows. A digital card? She had heard about them, but... wait a second, what else did he say? "I speak only when I can be heard. Heard, not seen, do you understand? It's been like this for ages. Because, you see, I am not always visible." * * * "Yuri, there's a fly sitting on your cup", Jalia said, and nearly fell on the floor laughing when the guy fixed a terror-stricken gaze on his glass of milk, which, truthfully, did not have any insect sitting on it. But Yuri didn't care, he ignored the reality, disbelieving his eyes and appearing even more funny because of that. "Is... Is that true?" he babbled, eyes darting between the scowling faces of his coworkers. He raised the glass up to the light. "Is it really sitting there?" Jalia doubled up in laughter. She didn't give a damn about anything, because she was drunk: work was over half an hour ago, and today was her birthday. "Chill, Yuri", others said. "There's nothing there." "Maybe you can't see it either", he whispered in near hysteria. "Maybe no one does!" Someone caught a fly and brought it up to his face, so that he could be sure his vision was normal, but Yuri would not calm down. He was nearly thirty, this was his first job that he got after several grueling competitions, and he was panicking at the thought of losing it. Even Jalia didn't expect his reaction to be so hilarious. "There's a fly, Yuri... A fly", she snickered, choking on her gin and tonic, while the poor guy continued to tremble. "That's a different kind of fly!", he cried, pushing his colleagues' hands away. "I guess I don't see just the kind that was sitting on the glass! And you don't see it either! Nobody does! Don't lie! Only she sees!" he jabbed a finger towards Aspril. "She sees EVERYTHING!" "That's enough", Jalia thought, and discreetly flicked a tiny wad of paper into the guy's glass. "Yuri! Hey, Yuri!", she shouted. "I'm... I'm sorry... I was wrong... It wasn't a fly, it was this tiny piece of paper right here." "But... I... I didn't see it before either!" he stammered, embarrassed. But eventually he calmed down. He even downed a glass of whiskey, although he used to be a teetotaler. Much later, when the short birthday party at work was over and Jalia was cleaning her desk, she tossed a note into the garbage chute that said: "Yuri Pernovski. Mentally unstable." * * * They were at the cash register. A young, conscientious checkout worker tried the best he could to suppress a yawn. His left ear was sporting the black head of a subliminal bug -- maybe the guy was learning foreign languages in his free time? "I'll pay cash", the professor extended a handful of euros at him. The clerk blinked sheepishly and smiled, embarrassed. For a second he even looked like Alastor's twin. "Ma'am, you must be joking", he said. "Since when does an empty palm means paying cash?" Puzzled, Jalia looked at her hand. No, the blue notes were still there, she could clearly feel their weight, however small. "You can pay with a credit card", the salesclerk offered, suddenly alarmed, and quickly pulled the "bug" out of his ear. Unexpectedly relieved, the woman opened her wallet compartment where she kept credit cards. "Does your store accept Magisterial cards?" "But... I'm sorry, but... your wallet is empty, too!", the clerk stuttered, very perplexed. "I can see it clearly!" "Empty, right...", the professor shook her head sadly. "Did you notice anything strange in your life recently? Please call the store director." She turned her head and exchanged conspiratorial glances with Alastor. The latter, smiling, traced a word "invisibility" with his finger in the air. She had no doubt that's what it was. The sales clerk had clearly overdosed on subliminal gadgetry. "What are you looking at?" The clerk was getting more anxious, but Jalia paid no attention to the poor guy's question. Life is hard when you can't see money. The director took her credit card no questions asked. The moaning clerk, who was beginning to realize what had happened, was taken away to the back of the store by his coworkers. "Third incident this week", the gloomy-faced director hit the keys on the cash register. "The first one stopped seeing tomatoes. We noticed it only when customers swept the sauce shelves clean. The store suffered a four-digit loss. Then just yesterday we saw a trainee ignoring, you know what? Chocolate!" Jalia instantly regretted not coming here yesterday. "Again, the losses were in the hundreds", the director handed her a receipt. "But today takes the cake: to stop seeing money! Good thing we found out almost immediately." She put the groceries in a bag and stepped away from the checkout, waiting for Alastor to pay for his purchases. Why didn't she end the conversation with him by strictly refusing to go anywhere? Or at least postponed it until tomorrow. And only if he's really from Public Research, the largest firm doing sociological surveys in Northern Europe, and a de facto monopoly in this country. But the director gave the store a cursory, empty-eyed look and turned to her. "Do you have a minute?" he said. "Can I ask you for some help? I remember you by your pictures in the newspapers where you described the mental epidemic..." "Yes", Jalia murmured, swearing silently to herself. "What should we do? We can't control each individual salesperson! What if one of them this very moment starts ignoring, let's say, shrimp? Our losses will be in the thousands! You, as a psychologist, must be seeing this phenomenon every day..." "Well", she didn't search her brain too long for a stock answer. "First, you need to somehow limit the use of subliminal devices by your entry-level staff. One way or another, as long as it's legal. You see, although it hasn't yet been completely confirmed, some tendencies clearly point to..." "But how would we limit them, how?", the director cried, dispirited. "The laws guarantee a right to subliminal learning. Even at work, if the work does not require more than one hemisphere. And no wonder: it's in their interests to sell more "bugs". And the people, too... Everybody wants to improve themselves! Any salesperson can take a management course in a week and apply for a manager's position. Nowadays, even the cleaning ladies are studying, you know! Fortunately, "bugs" are not yet cheap. If they were cheaper, our business would go under, I'm telling you, it would crash!" "There's one more way", Alastor said in a low yet clear voice, taking advantage of Jalia's distraction. "Yes, go ahead", but for some reason the director was still looking at Jalia. "If you help us, your chocolate will always be on the house." "You could hire a psychologist", the dark-haired man continued. "For full-time work. A professional." "Yes, and...?" The director's eyes lit up with hope. Still, the strangest thing was that he had not taken them off Jalia. Does he think...? "He could become your eyes in the team. He could watch who's doing what, because a professional does not overlook the smallest detail. I think such a person would be able to prevent further incidents." "Indeed", the director rubbed his hands cheerfully. Now it was clear he thought this velvety voice belonged to Jalia. "The team, of course, should not know anything about the psychologist. Ostensibly, you could hire him, for example, as an assistant appraiser of the goods. Of course, it's not cheap to maintain a specialist, but this position should pay for itself soon. Besides, that's the only way I know to LEGALLY fight the consequences of this disease." "Thank you", the director said earnestly to the frightened professor. "Would it be too presumptuous if... if we offered this position of a psychologist-observer to you first?" This was going too far! Dumbfounded, Jalia opened her mouth to reply, but the soft voice was faster. "Thank you, but I have recently accepted a similar offer." What? She whipped around and saw Alastor's innocent smile. "Oh well... Once again, thank you for your advice. My promise regarding chocolate is already in effect." The director seemed to be genuinely grateful. "Why don't you pay and let's get out of here!" Jalia hissed at Alastor furiously. She didn't even understand why she was still standing there, waiting for this brazen individual. "Excuse me?" the director addressed her, alarmed. "Did you say something?" Her eyes wide, Jalia watched Alastor walk right past the cash register with a huge basket of groceries without so much as a glance at the director. And the latter paid him no notice. Can it be...? "Let's go, then", Alastor gently took her arm. "Where's your car?" * * * "Maria? Bananas?" She breezily flicked the note into the garbage chute. She knew that the sturdily built, bony woman with fifteen years of work experience now had a big shimmering electronic question mark hanging above her head. They went out for lunch together to a little cafe nearby to eat a pastry, and Jalia had an opportunity to confirm her suspicions. The two of them stopped by a produce vendor's cart. "Would you like some bananas?" She pointed a finger at a big bunch of yellow fruit. Maria just gave her a puzzled look and smiled uncomprehendingly: "What's that? Some Asian food?" "No. Would you like these instead?" "These what?" Poor Maria was completely bewildered. "There's nothing there!" The question was solved instantly, and the question mark turned into an ominous exclamation sign, heralding the onset of her illness. That's why the last survey "Popularity of fruit among city residents in summer" did not even have a question on bananas! Returning to work after lunch, Jalia dropped another note in the garbage chute: "Maria! Bananas!" and again immersed herself in computer surveys. Maria wasn't fired until a month later, when she was spotted drinking coffee outside of a coffee break. * * * "A tough guy like you doesn't know how to drive a car?" She took a jab at him while they rode the elevator down to the underground parking garage. So far she felt safe enough: security cameras all over the store territory allayed her fear that Alastor might attack her, in case this suave guy turned out to be a sexual maniac. But... if the store director didn't see him, would the cameras? "I DON'T WANT to know", he replied. "There's a big difference. You would be surprised to know how many other things I don't know. However, this gives me an ability to say with near certainty that next week a sinkhole will open at the entrance to the store garage. If you're not careful, you may fall into it too." "I don't see a connection between these two things", the professor mumbled. "No, you just DON'T WANT to see, even though your unconscious has known it for quite a while. The brain is not made of rubber, my dear, and our Creator gave it only as much primary information as needed. But humans always had their damn Freedom Of Choice. And they started stuffing their heads with more: little by little at first, tiny bits: how to make a fire, roast meat, make a spear. Freedom of choice! The Creator had nothing against people changing the knowledge He imparted by the one they acquired themselves. But you pay your price for that." They got into Jalia's Ford Devil. "You are saying that the 'invisibility'...?" "Yes, exactly, the 'invisibility'! You noticed it just now, but it's been around since cavemen. Will you ever realize that the more you know, the less you see." "The current 'syndrome of ignoring' is very different from the one that began at the dawn of the civilization. Back then you swapped the thoughts given by the Creator with your own. And now you have nothing left of His to replace. Now you overwrite your thoughts with your own. That's why all the noise about the 'invisibility'. You've come the full circle and now you are returning, only the difference is that you are all blind like newborn kittens, void of any divine spark..." "So what is it we don't see?" Jalia said, unnerved. "Please, tell me. I mean it. For example, the sinkhole. How do you know about it?" "Only a blind or deaf man, or one of you, could not know about it", the dark-haired man retorted. "Even as I sit here, I hear it being dug." "By who?" "By demons", the man replied with a strange smile. "The very real ones, believe me. So, shall we go?" "To Public Research? At half past midnight?" "Yeah", the guy nodded nonchalantly. "You're an 'owl' anyway. So why not now?! I gather you've understood the nature of the offer by now, and we can discuss the particulars along the way. I'm fully authorized to do that." "I won't move until I check one thing", Jalia announced. "What thing?" Without replying, she pulled out the business card the guy gave her. Feeling like a total idiot, she gave it a scratch. The card suddenly filled up with blue light that slowly revealed the massive features of the Public Research president's mustachioed face. "Are you convinced now?" Alastor asked impatiently. The light in the card started to fade. "All right. Let's go", Jalia grumbled. "I must be nuts to go God-knows-where with a stranger in the middle of the night", she thought to herself. * * * "You know, everyone has their quirks", the vice-president of Public Research had pronounced once when Jalia and he rode the elevator together. "Take you, miss Asprilia. I would not be exaggerating if I said the last ten elevator malfunctions were your fault. We eventually put up a mini security camera in here. Can you please tell me why do you always press buttons three and five together? Do you want to go to both floors at the same time? And, what about your habit of always adjusting the sign on the smoking room wall? Say what you want, you can be odd sometimes." "That's just the way I am", Jalia had already recovered from her momentary loss of composure. She could only imagine how this man's jaw would drop if he knew that one third of her body -- her legs -- was made of highest quality steel! "But I heard I'm not the only one like that here. Aren't you the person who every morning taps out the Morse alphabet with your ashtray against your desk? And don't you water the cactus on your windowsill with a cup of coffee every Friday? The vice-president blushed profusely. Jalia figured she was right: there were many doors to the secret level of "invisibility"! * * * Even in the middle of the night the Public Research building glowed like a Christmas tree. Many windows on various floors radiated amber light, boasting the dedication of its employees burning the midnight oil. "The night shift", was Alastor's succinct reply to the professor's questioning look. "Let's go." They stepped into an elevator bathed in silver light. The walls in this place were covered by the same soft green carpeting as the floors. "Did you say the upper management headquarters are on the 35th floor?" Jalia was surprised, seeing that the elevator keypad had only ten buttons. "Oh, believe me, ten buttons are perfectly enough", Alastor assured her with a smile. He reached out with his right hand and pressed buttons 3 and 5 simultaneously. The door closed and the elevator took off with a barely audible hum. "It's simple, yet few would think of this", Alastor grinned again, incredibly smug. "Here we are." They came out right into a very long, wide corridor, filled with the same blue-metallic glow of lights. Suddenly Jalia felt as if she was walking down into the bowels of a giant alien ship whose inhabitants were long dead. Everything seemed unreal. The ease with which she got entangled in this mad adventure made her wonder if this was nothing but a dream, and if she couldn't extricate herself from it by something as simple as a hearty kick to her companion's shin! They had been walking for a good five minutes, and still there was no end to the corridor. Its walls hinted at vague outlines of doors, but all of them seemed to be veiled in grayish mist, as if they were not real but penciled onto the wall at the last minute. "Here". For some time now Alastor had been rather quiet, as if he too was nervous before meeting his boss. Jalia looked around, mystified. They were at the end of the corridor, facing a few bulky potted palms, a wooden table and a couple of rickety benches with peeling paint. A tilting sign on the wall said this was a "smoking room". "The sign is askew. Don't you think it needs to be set straight?" Alastor muttered and did so, not waiting for an answer. "What a show-off", Jalia groaned in her thoughts and almost managed not to be surprised when a part of the wall slid aside and opened up to a passage leading into a little office. A fleshy, round-faced, old man with eyes as black as boiling tar was sitting at a desk. "Abbadon", he introduced himself tersely and gave Jalia's hand an energetic shake. "Oh", she murmured, surprised, "I thought the president of Public Research was..." "That's what he thinks", the old man waved dismissively. "What we'll be talking about today will make it clear for you that some things here are not as they seem. But that's not what we're going to talk about. I hope my deputy explained the crux of the matter to you? She nodded her head, thinking. Abbadon! She heard the name somewhere. Was it perhaps in the semi-amateur lectures on demonology given by a certain weirdo professor back when she was in college? "Recently Research has had a whole slew of sad misunderstandings of the kind you might call 'invisibility'. I hope I don't need to tell you how negatively it has affected our company, and the worst may be yet to come. A minuscule error in the sociological research surveys and analysis can blow up in a huge scandal. What if, let's say, a manager of a survey on various politicians' popularity starts ignoring all the bald politicians? The results would be horribly embarrassing, we would be mistrusted, company's reputation would plummet -- and the competitors are holding their breath waiting for that to happen! Second, we can't ban subliminal devices: we need educated, qualified workers! Our only solution lies in you. A psychologist who can control the team and remove the, uh, the foci of contagion, in good time. What do you think, Miss Bayzand?" "What would be the conditions of this employment?" she asked, her voice cracking with excitement. This was the opportunity she dreamed about on dark lonely nights, stroking the skin of her legs that concealed steel prosthetics. 'Invisibility' took her legs away, now she'll take people away from invisibility! The clever Abbadon must have known the professor had a personal score to settle with this disease, or rather, with those who contracted it. "You'll join the team under the most ordinary circumstances. Your story will be that you have read our employment ad for a qualified, experienced analyst of sociological research. You shall win the competition hands down -- we'll take care of that. But of course, this position will be just a cover. Your real duties will be watching over Department Three. Every time you suspect a new case of the disease, you'll let us know about it by dropping a note down the garbage chute by your desk, with the candidate's name and the object you think he or she ignores. I see you are laughing, but this system has been in place for a while. If the suspicion is confirmed -- and it's your business to catch the 'blind' person in the act -- you'll toss a second note down the chute with the confirmation." "My salary?" Jalia asked dryly. "Every month a big sum of money will be transfered to a bank account in your name in London. Plus you'll get a typical salary of a social research analyst. Also, a bonus for every, umm, case of disease you uncover. Does that suit you?" She just nodded her head, as if rendered speechless. "Don't try to contact us. We are visible only when we want to be. Unfortunately, a person can see us only when he or she sacrifices some part of his or her memory. Not always voluntarily. In your case it's... something entirely unimportant, a tree of the rose family... They are completely useless. I won't tell you its name -- what's the use? You'd still think you heard it for the first time." Jalia nodded again, unconcerned. III. Immunity? 'Does he exist in the same way as I exist?' 'You do not exist,' said O'Brien. G. Orwell, "1984" At first there was nothing unusual about this young, gray-eyed man with sharp cheekbones, except perhaps being too dedicated to his job. He seemed to be all but literally immersed in his computer screen. But this was hardly an indication of any flaw other than near-sightedness. But then all of a sudden old Arvydas was fired. And only because he didn't wear his uniform jacket at work. You would have had to be stupid not to understand the real reason was the 'invisibility'. But Jalia could not remember ever taking an interest in old Arvydas, much less dropping a note down the chute. Later, without her knowing, another employee was fired. And then it became completely clear that another ex-psychologist had infiltrated the team. Of course, Jalia's suspicions fell on the rat-faced rookie. But his behavior was impeccable. The real fear came only when, for the first time in her employment, a "blind" man uncovered by her wasn't fired. Adamson, the janitor at Department Three, even after losing the notion of soap, continued to work as if nothing happened. Despite her dropping at least two notes regarding his illness. The professor now clearly felt storm clouds gathering above her head. Adrian was the youngster's name. Everyone, smiling timidly, would get out of his way, although he was a mere analyst. Jalia watched, disturbed, how he accumulated more and more independence and self-confidence; she noticed her coworkers giving her looks of sympathy mixed with sneer. They understood very well that the old favorite had fallen out of favor. By that time, the young man hardly bothered to conceal his actual occupation. He showed unending interest in the hobbies and pastimes of everyone around him, absorbing every minor detail like a sponge. At first glance he was just an outgoing, personable guy. "The new generation has arrived", Jalia thought bitterly. "This style of work must be fashionable now." Unconsciously she was already prepared for the day when the guy approached her and started an innocent conversation about apples, rowanberries and, for some reason, nylon hose. Jalia briefly hesitated before sending him to hell. The next day she asked to resign due to health problems. The last time she went to smoke a cigarette in the smoking area, she saw Adrian there. Standing on the table, he kept twisting the tilted sign on the wall with both hands. "It... was a little crooked", Adrian mumbled, embarrassed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Are you looking for a door to the beyond?" she asked in an even voice. "Well, well." And she walked away, leaving the guy a bit startled. * * * I'll come back to people to cure them from knowledge that doesn't know love. Buddha "There's everything here. It's the country", the old man with a mellow voice was puffing on a cherry wood pipe. "Come, I'll show you the garden. We have plums as big as apples. And so sweet, you won't be able to stop eating." "Yes, Pop, show me your garden", Jalia echoed, amazed at the strange relief that washed over her. What a good idea it was to come to the country for a vacation. Everything was real here: the trees and the grass, the people, their unhurried speech without duplicity or artifice. A dog barked outside, chickens clucked. A stooping young man was chopping firewood behind a shed. Something had still remained free of the uncertainty, of the constant doubt in reality itself, of the painful mistrust of one's own mind. Untouched by the mad rush forward that made you use your own and others' intellects as mere rungs of a ladder, trampling the minds and feelings of the weaker ones, ruthlessly disposing of the ones who fell in the race towards knowledge gluttony. "These are strawberries, and over there, raspberry bushes", the farmer was telling her. "Rows of cucumbers to the left. We grow all of our own vegetables for the hotel. There's plenty", he said proudly. Jalia bent down to pick a ripe red strawberry. "And these are white rowan trees. Would you like a bunch of berries? What's the matter?" She froze, holding a strawberry to her lips. And quickly turned away, hiding the tears in her eyes. "Oh God, my Carpenter, you were right, you old monkey..." She wiped the tears with the back of her hand as they were welling up and found courage to face the old farmer. After all, deep in her heart professor Jalia Robertson knew this day would come for her too. This was what Abbadon, the head of the Public Research, and his assistant excised from her mind so that the professor could see demons, whose existence she now doubted. "Where are those... white rowan trees?" she stammered shyly. "Right here", the old man, surprised, pointed to a completely empty spot near him. "Go ahead, have some. The berries might be a little bitter, but sweet nonetheless". He made a noisy gesture in the air and extended an empty palm, leathery from years of farm work. "Th... thank you", Jalia's quivering voice wasn't all that different from the stuttering of her victims at Public Research. Still, there was a difference. This old man wasn't her executioner, and she had paid for the hotel for the whole summer in advance. "But you know... I don't see any white rowan berries", she mumbled, defeated, when the farmer poured a handful of invisible berries into her palm. The old man cocked his head and smiled at her a smile of a person who's been around for a long time. "Does it matter?" he asked. "What matters is that you can see another person has a soul, and you believe him, instead of screaming how there can't be any white rowan berries because you don't see them. You know, I can't see your soul, but I believe you have one, and not a bad one." She smiled with the corner of her mouth, picked up an invisible berry with her fingertips and put it in her mouth. She thought she could even taste it, bitter and yet sweet. The farmer continued, surveying his garden, cherry and apple trees rustling in the light wind. "You must be a city person, then. Don't deny it. Someone from our village got an education and now he works here as a veterinarian. I heard he can't see rainbows. By the way, my grandson came home from the city to help us with the farm. He's now chopping wood behind the shed. Here he comes. Hey kid, we have a guest!" Jalia put another berry in her mouth and turned around. The guy walking straight at them, smiling shyly and wiping his sweaty palms on his shirt, was Yuri Pernovski. EPIL GUE They call it INVISIBILITY. D y u see the letter " " in this text? Will y u remember, when y u turn 55, t g t ffice Z (the ne n M lehill R ad) t fill ut a f rm R-198 that entitles y u t breathe, t have a n rmal heart functi n and t be cancer-free? Is this the first time y u heard ab ut it? Really? Well then, since when did you st p seeing angels?.. All right. I'll tell y u ( r rather, I'll write t y u) what y u need t d in rder t see the wh le invisible w rld. F r that, y u d n't need much. First f all...

Translated from Lithuanian by Elze Hamilton