Anamnesis by Zorina Alliata (ebook reader ink txt) đź“•
Excerpt from the book:
Tap into the anamnesis - the collective memory of the human race -in this story of two very different people looking for meaning in their lives. They go through their own personal journey through Hell - even though it sometimes looks like a corporate office. In the end, they will find divinity and magic and confront the universal truth.
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- Author: Zorina Alliata
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mind; although he was pretty certain this was all a mistake, there was also this uncomfortable – the feeling that something might escape him, that he had not counted all possibilities.
“Are you Valois’ assistant?” the manager asked as soon as Dante stepped in.
He was sitting alone at a long, wooden table. At his right, a large, dark wizard was combing his white beard.
“That’s my lawyer, son”, the manager said, following Dante’s eyes. “So, where’s the stuff Valois sent?”
“I’m sorry”, answered Dante, “I think I am not the person you’re expecting.”
“Don’t you leverage your position, boy”, the manager yelled. “I’ve developed business processes since before you were born.”
“Sir,” Dante tried again, “my name is Dante Portinari-Guelph, with one dash. I don’t know who Mr. Valois is. I am here to ask you about my mistakenly being recorded as a shareholder.”
“Huh?” the manager screamed. “We make no mistakes here in the Medieval, son. If I say you’re a shareholder, then you’re a damn shareholder. There, let me see.”
He pulled out a Palm Pilot from somewhere underneath his black cloth and rapidly moved the stylus up and down.
“What’s your name again? Da Vinci?” he asked.
“Dante Portinari-Guelph”, Dante answered patiently. “With one dash.”
“Yeah”, the manager said after moving the stylus a few more times, “you’re a shareholder all right. You’re on my list. 500,000 shares, exactly. Awarded on June 3rd, 1969.”
“Sir”, Dante sighed, “there’s gotta be a mistake. I have no shares whatsoever. All my investments are in the 401(k) plan at the Company and they just lost all value with the market going down and all. How can I be on your list when I don’t own any shares?”
“Wait a minute”, he manager said. “There’s some flag set out here in the database. Wait a minute, let me cross-reference it.”
Dante waited patiently, curiously peeking at the big wizard. The wizard peeked back.
“Son”, the manager said, and his voice had trembled a bit, “you’re right and I’m wrong and this is all a mistake. You don’t own any shares. See, this flag in the database was changed as if you were a shareholder; but you’re not.”
“That’s what I thought”, Dante said, relieved. Now that that was settled, there was a nice possibility that the Low Life secretary had sent a completely wrong memo.
“However”, the manager continued, “there’s a guy in here called Christian Portinari-Guelph who is a shareholder. 30 million shares, awarded November 1st, 1968.”
“Is that last name with two dashes?” Dante wanted to know.
“Yep”, the manager answered. “Wait a minute, wait a minute”, he continued. “Ah, the damn flag is set for him too. Sorry, son, he’s not a shareholder either. What the hell has happened to my beautiful database?!”
Turning his head back in fury, the manager yelled: “Where’s the jester?”
“Wait just a wee bit more”, he told Dante. “I’m gonna straighten this out in a jiffy. See, I’m new here and we’ve just implemented this database change last week.”
“Oh, okay”, Dante approved, understandingly.
Two security guards bolted through the door carrying a tired, dirty jester between them.
“What did you sabotage this time?” the manager yelled at him. “Did you switch flags in the database just to confuse all these people and make me look bad? Didn’t you have enough time in the Tower to regret all that you’ve snitched to the HR department?”
“I did all and I did nothing”, the jester answered. Underneath his colorful dress, Dante could see remains of a cheap business suit. The jester’s hat had felt backwards, giving him the appearance of a crazed drunkard.
“I was in your computer and I am still there. You are bad boss. You are bad boss.”
“Take him back!” the manager yelled. “Yo, Oz,” he turned to the wizard, “maybe you can teach him some business etiquette, damn jester.”
“I cannot sing anymore!” screamed the jester as he was dragged out. “I was hired to sing and to dance while giving my stock report in the morning! I loved dancing for the king!”
The wizard bowed and followed the jester out of the room, with a last long look at Dante’s muscular arms.
“I don’t think you can treat your employees like that”, Dante said indignantly.
The manager shrugged, looking again into his Palm Pilot.
“This jester has sabotaged me ever since I took this position”, he said. “First, he gives me stock tips in rhymes. I mean, that’s not what I expect from my employees. Then, he criticizes every move I make, and praises the old manager. Next thing I know, he’s sneaking into the mainframe room and changes bits here and there, just enough to cause trouble to honest young men like yourself.”
Dante could not find anything else to say.
“Now, it's all taken care of”, the manager said triumphantly, closing the cover of his PDA with a click. “The mistake is corrected; none of you Portinari dash da Vinci folks owns any stock in the Company. Okay?”
“Okay”, said Dante. “I have one more question. How can anyone have shares awarded in 1968?” he wanted to know. “At that time, the Company probably didn’t even exist. I think I’ve learned that in was created in January 1969.”
“Hmm...”, the manager wondered. “I couldn’t tell you, son. I told you I'm new here. You can inquire, I guess, at the Department of History and Archives. They ought to know.”
“Okay”, said Dante, preparing to leave. “Thank you for correcting that error.”
“No problem, son. Say, if you go to the History department, could you do me a favor and give Valois this letter?”
Dante took the folded document from the manager’s hand. On its back, his fingers felt the warmth of the red wax seal.
“I sure can, sir. Thanks again.”
Dante closed the gate after him. Near the elevators, the wizard was waiting for him.
“Hi”, he said.
“Hi”, answered Dante. “You know, I hope that jester will be okay.”
“We are all nothing but slaves of our contracts”, the wizard shrugged. “I am not happy either since the new management changed my job description into Black Magic instead of White Magic. I used to help people; now I just punish them. People used to like me and invite me to their parties and Happy Hours. Now, all I get is a reduced salary and loneliness.”
“Can they do that?” Dante asked. “Can they just change what you do and you have to take it?”
“It’s in the contract”, the wizard said. He opened his arms with a majestic gesture of impotence. “It was written and we can only follow.”
“Have you read the fine print?” Dante asked. “I was just talking with someone today about the importance of fine print. Have you checked it out?”
The wizard looked puzzled. “Why, I didn’t even know there was some fine print in our contracts.”
“Of course there is”, Dante said helpfully. “There always is.”
“I’ll look”, the wizard said. “Where are you heading?”
“The History department”, Dante answered. Do you happen to know what floor that’s on?”
“It’s right upstairs, 7th floor”, answered the wizard. “So, would you like to have lunch sometime?”
“Oh, thanks”, Dante said in a hurry. “I can’t stand lunch.”
And with that, he stepped into the elevator that Officer Kampf had dutifully brought up for him.
It was already 4:00 PM and all departments were closing at 5:00. But Dante felt full of energy and ready to take the next step. He decisively pushed the 7th floor button in the elevator.
At the Medieval floor, the wizard dug out his contract from his dark office and read the fine print; it was clearly stated that he should not perform any Black Magic. With a cry of joy, he passed the Dragon and ran to the Tower to free the jester. By that evening, he was at a party having beer with his grateful colleagues, telling tales of a man who came to free up all sufferers.
*-*-*
I woke up with burning eyes, out of breath. I had fallen asleep watching TV; Lou was nowhere to be seen. I coughed harshly, trying to clear my throat of a dry, fearful sensation. The images then came back to me straight and at once, violent and raw, just as they had been born out of my chaos of memories only a few minutes ago. I had been dreaming of myself as a baby – but I was my paternal grandfather, looking at me from a different body and another mind; the memory must have been deeply buried inside him, to dissolve into my consciousness only this late and unexpectedly.
I replayed the scenes one by one, slowly. I was 2 months old, asleep in an old wooden crib. I was also standing near the crib, an older man, smiling; I was looking at myself with love, a feeling I had never known before. Painfully aware of both sides, I let the feelings come up in plain view, slowly, clearly. That love felt good; I was able to grasp it through my sleep, with that instinctive accuracy children have. I also recognized the chimney in my grandparent’s 2-room house, the familiar smell of bread and milk of their kitchen; the minuscule, fine numbers floating around my crib like a light-blue spider web – a spell my grandparents had woven for me as a child.
Suddenly, I slipped into a trap. I held my breath a fraction of a second longer, caught in a colored dream; it felt so soft and relaxing; out of curiosity, I held my breath again, following the beautiful rainbow deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. By the time my grandfather noticed that something was wrong, I was clinically dead.
My grandfather let out a horrified scream; my grandmother and my aunt Virginia ran inside. I was not moving; I was cold and my face was blue; the numbers stumbled, starting to change into a rigid diagnostic. My aunt Virginia whisked me out of the crib onto another room; my grandfather helped her by opening the doors and frenetically searching through the dresser’s drawers. My aunt violently pushed everyone out of the room; when I woke up in her arms, there was a strong smell of lavender in the air; she was crying loudly, holding me tight. She had brought me back.
I caught my breath, shocked by this unexpected fact that materialized right into my quiet evening. I had never known that I was once dead for 35 minutes; nobody ever mentioned this amazing information to me. That could explain some traits that were not inherited and that seemed like gifts made in error by some ironic force – like my ability to keenly remember the lives of all dead people. It could also explain the fury, the anger, the disbelief I was receiving from any form of life primitive enough to remember what really matters.
“Lou!” I called weakly. “Lou, are you here?”
He came, worried; he brought me the blanket, the red pillow; he took my hand and tapped it softly, lovingly. “What happened?” he asked, “What happened?”
“I just remembered that I died”, I cried. “My aunt Virginia used some kind of spells to bring me back, but I was truly dead for a little while. I had gone deep down, so deep I couldn’t find my way back.”
“That’s okay,” Lou smiled. “Many people die for a few seconds and they are brought back.
“Are you Valois’ assistant?” the manager asked as soon as Dante stepped in.
He was sitting alone at a long, wooden table. At his right, a large, dark wizard was combing his white beard.
“That’s my lawyer, son”, the manager said, following Dante’s eyes. “So, where’s the stuff Valois sent?”
“I’m sorry”, answered Dante, “I think I am not the person you’re expecting.”
“Don’t you leverage your position, boy”, the manager yelled. “I’ve developed business processes since before you were born.”
“Sir,” Dante tried again, “my name is Dante Portinari-Guelph, with one dash. I don’t know who Mr. Valois is. I am here to ask you about my mistakenly being recorded as a shareholder.”
“Huh?” the manager screamed. “We make no mistakes here in the Medieval, son. If I say you’re a shareholder, then you’re a damn shareholder. There, let me see.”
He pulled out a Palm Pilot from somewhere underneath his black cloth and rapidly moved the stylus up and down.
“What’s your name again? Da Vinci?” he asked.
“Dante Portinari-Guelph”, Dante answered patiently. “With one dash.”
“Yeah”, the manager said after moving the stylus a few more times, “you’re a shareholder all right. You’re on my list. 500,000 shares, exactly. Awarded on June 3rd, 1969.”
“Sir”, Dante sighed, “there’s gotta be a mistake. I have no shares whatsoever. All my investments are in the 401(k) plan at the Company and they just lost all value with the market going down and all. How can I be on your list when I don’t own any shares?”
“Wait a minute”, he manager said. “There’s some flag set out here in the database. Wait a minute, let me cross-reference it.”
Dante waited patiently, curiously peeking at the big wizard. The wizard peeked back.
“Son”, the manager said, and his voice had trembled a bit, “you’re right and I’m wrong and this is all a mistake. You don’t own any shares. See, this flag in the database was changed as if you were a shareholder; but you’re not.”
“That’s what I thought”, Dante said, relieved. Now that that was settled, there was a nice possibility that the Low Life secretary had sent a completely wrong memo.
“However”, the manager continued, “there’s a guy in here called Christian Portinari-Guelph who is a shareholder. 30 million shares, awarded November 1st, 1968.”
“Is that last name with two dashes?” Dante wanted to know.
“Yep”, the manager answered. “Wait a minute, wait a minute”, he continued. “Ah, the damn flag is set for him too. Sorry, son, he’s not a shareholder either. What the hell has happened to my beautiful database?!”
Turning his head back in fury, the manager yelled: “Where’s the jester?”
“Wait just a wee bit more”, he told Dante. “I’m gonna straighten this out in a jiffy. See, I’m new here and we’ve just implemented this database change last week.”
“Oh, okay”, Dante approved, understandingly.
Two security guards bolted through the door carrying a tired, dirty jester between them.
“What did you sabotage this time?” the manager yelled at him. “Did you switch flags in the database just to confuse all these people and make me look bad? Didn’t you have enough time in the Tower to regret all that you’ve snitched to the HR department?”
“I did all and I did nothing”, the jester answered. Underneath his colorful dress, Dante could see remains of a cheap business suit. The jester’s hat had felt backwards, giving him the appearance of a crazed drunkard.
“I was in your computer and I am still there. You are bad boss. You are bad boss.”
“Take him back!” the manager yelled. “Yo, Oz,” he turned to the wizard, “maybe you can teach him some business etiquette, damn jester.”
“I cannot sing anymore!” screamed the jester as he was dragged out. “I was hired to sing and to dance while giving my stock report in the morning! I loved dancing for the king!”
The wizard bowed and followed the jester out of the room, with a last long look at Dante’s muscular arms.
“I don’t think you can treat your employees like that”, Dante said indignantly.
The manager shrugged, looking again into his Palm Pilot.
“This jester has sabotaged me ever since I took this position”, he said. “First, he gives me stock tips in rhymes. I mean, that’s not what I expect from my employees. Then, he criticizes every move I make, and praises the old manager. Next thing I know, he’s sneaking into the mainframe room and changes bits here and there, just enough to cause trouble to honest young men like yourself.”
Dante could not find anything else to say.
“Now, it's all taken care of”, the manager said triumphantly, closing the cover of his PDA with a click. “The mistake is corrected; none of you Portinari dash da Vinci folks owns any stock in the Company. Okay?”
“Okay”, said Dante. “I have one more question. How can anyone have shares awarded in 1968?” he wanted to know. “At that time, the Company probably didn’t even exist. I think I’ve learned that in was created in January 1969.”
“Hmm...”, the manager wondered. “I couldn’t tell you, son. I told you I'm new here. You can inquire, I guess, at the Department of History and Archives. They ought to know.”
“Okay”, said Dante, preparing to leave. “Thank you for correcting that error.”
“No problem, son. Say, if you go to the History department, could you do me a favor and give Valois this letter?”
Dante took the folded document from the manager’s hand. On its back, his fingers felt the warmth of the red wax seal.
“I sure can, sir. Thanks again.”
Dante closed the gate after him. Near the elevators, the wizard was waiting for him.
“Hi”, he said.
“Hi”, answered Dante. “You know, I hope that jester will be okay.”
“We are all nothing but slaves of our contracts”, the wizard shrugged. “I am not happy either since the new management changed my job description into Black Magic instead of White Magic. I used to help people; now I just punish them. People used to like me and invite me to their parties and Happy Hours. Now, all I get is a reduced salary and loneliness.”
“Can they do that?” Dante asked. “Can they just change what you do and you have to take it?”
“It’s in the contract”, the wizard said. He opened his arms with a majestic gesture of impotence. “It was written and we can only follow.”
“Have you read the fine print?” Dante asked. “I was just talking with someone today about the importance of fine print. Have you checked it out?”
The wizard looked puzzled. “Why, I didn’t even know there was some fine print in our contracts.”
“Of course there is”, Dante said helpfully. “There always is.”
“I’ll look”, the wizard said. “Where are you heading?”
“The History department”, Dante answered. Do you happen to know what floor that’s on?”
“It’s right upstairs, 7th floor”, answered the wizard. “So, would you like to have lunch sometime?”
“Oh, thanks”, Dante said in a hurry. “I can’t stand lunch.”
And with that, he stepped into the elevator that Officer Kampf had dutifully brought up for him.
It was already 4:00 PM and all departments were closing at 5:00. But Dante felt full of energy and ready to take the next step. He decisively pushed the 7th floor button in the elevator.
At the Medieval floor, the wizard dug out his contract from his dark office and read the fine print; it was clearly stated that he should not perform any Black Magic. With a cry of joy, he passed the Dragon and ran to the Tower to free the jester. By that evening, he was at a party having beer with his grateful colleagues, telling tales of a man who came to free up all sufferers.
*-*-*
I woke up with burning eyes, out of breath. I had fallen asleep watching TV; Lou was nowhere to be seen. I coughed harshly, trying to clear my throat of a dry, fearful sensation. The images then came back to me straight and at once, violent and raw, just as they had been born out of my chaos of memories only a few minutes ago. I had been dreaming of myself as a baby – but I was my paternal grandfather, looking at me from a different body and another mind; the memory must have been deeply buried inside him, to dissolve into my consciousness only this late and unexpectedly.
I replayed the scenes one by one, slowly. I was 2 months old, asleep in an old wooden crib. I was also standing near the crib, an older man, smiling; I was looking at myself with love, a feeling I had never known before. Painfully aware of both sides, I let the feelings come up in plain view, slowly, clearly. That love felt good; I was able to grasp it through my sleep, with that instinctive accuracy children have. I also recognized the chimney in my grandparent’s 2-room house, the familiar smell of bread and milk of their kitchen; the minuscule, fine numbers floating around my crib like a light-blue spider web – a spell my grandparents had woven for me as a child.
Suddenly, I slipped into a trap. I held my breath a fraction of a second longer, caught in a colored dream; it felt so soft and relaxing; out of curiosity, I held my breath again, following the beautiful rainbow deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. By the time my grandfather noticed that something was wrong, I was clinically dead.
My grandfather let out a horrified scream; my grandmother and my aunt Virginia ran inside. I was not moving; I was cold and my face was blue; the numbers stumbled, starting to change into a rigid diagnostic. My aunt Virginia whisked me out of the crib onto another room; my grandfather helped her by opening the doors and frenetically searching through the dresser’s drawers. My aunt violently pushed everyone out of the room; when I woke up in her arms, there was a strong smell of lavender in the air; she was crying loudly, holding me tight. She had brought me back.
I caught my breath, shocked by this unexpected fact that materialized right into my quiet evening. I had never known that I was once dead for 35 minutes; nobody ever mentioned this amazing information to me. That could explain some traits that were not inherited and that seemed like gifts made in error by some ironic force – like my ability to keenly remember the lives of all dead people. It could also explain the fury, the anger, the disbelief I was receiving from any form of life primitive enough to remember what really matters.
“Lou!” I called weakly. “Lou, are you here?”
He came, worried; he brought me the blanket, the red pillow; he took my hand and tapped it softly, lovingly. “What happened?” he asked, “What happened?”
“I just remembered that I died”, I cried. “My aunt Virginia used some kind of spells to bring me back, but I was truly dead for a little while. I had gone deep down, so deep I couldn’t find my way back.”
“That’s okay,” Lou smiled. “Many people die for a few seconds and they are brought back.
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