The Wakeful Wanderer's Guide to Disillusionment

Instantiation

It was still hot when the sun went down. Marto had wandered south to gaze at the St. Lawrence River at sunset. The remains of an old park afforded him a view of the meandering waters as the sun descended west into Ontario. Thin high clouds reflected the fire of the refracted light, throwing copper streaks of painted vapor across the dimming sky. Minutes after the sun had hidden itself completely, its radiation remained in evidence above the city. Marto was troubled.

The interview had begun in a promising enough way, but ultimately exposed a truth he hadn't wished to face. He had to leave. To remain here was to become known, and if he was to avoid being exposed, he would have to lie. Eventually, his lies would fail and he would be caught. Then he would end up untrustworthy and alone in a place he didn't belong. As he reviewed the interview with Coralie, Brooke, and Randolph, he felt ashamed. In order to remain in hiding, he had created a completely false history, based on nothing but a comical representation of his former tribe members. It was shameful and duplicitous and a disaster waiting to happen. He would slip up eventually at a party or at work or in a cafe somewhere and tell some truth about his past that contradicted his official testimony. Doubtless, the threads would unravel. It was only a matter of time now.

The color left the clouds. They stood now as pale gray brushstrokes across a dark, star speckled sky. The lights of Montreal prevented Marto from seeing the infinite embrace of the Milky Way, and it made him long again for the dark night skies of his home.

What were the possibilities for re-entry to the Interconnected? First seemed obvious; he should arrive quietly and go unnoticed as long as possible. Perhaps he could pretend he had been on a sort of hiatus to get a new perspective on his beloved tribes and reflect that back to them. Already in his mind, he was bucking the idea of anonymity and solitude. He longed for recognition, but that was dangerous for him. Perhaps returning and keeping his family heritage secret was not impossible. He had created a fiction from whole cloth for his interview and that was easier than expected. Continuing not to mention his true origins, something he almost never thought about and never spoke about, would be easier than trying to pretend he was ever going to be happy hammering out a life among people who didn't believe in Merit. Marto shook his head. They had made it illegal here to show appreciation for good works. It was astounding.

A large man appeared to his left. He was smoking what smelled like cannabis. "Bonsoir," he said. Marto couldn't see his face clearly until he inhaled on the cigarette and his beard and nose were faintly illuminated by the coal at the end. "Good evening," Marto replied.

"Pardon for intruding, bonhomme," the man said, "and I mean no offense by this boucane." He gestured with the lit cigarette. "Mais, s'il vous plaît." He offered some to Marto.

"Non, merci," Marto responded, hoping it would be okay not to accept. The man didn't seem to take offense.

"You seem to be amidst a reckoning of the soul. A seeker of sorts. I am also such a man," the stranger said. "Can I inquire as to the name of such a seeker?"

"Matthew," said Marto. "Or Marto, if you like." It was the first time he had used that name since he had fled north. He was tired of being someone other than who he was, and likely, this man wouldn't remember his name come morning.

"I am Jean," said the man. "Jean Brun, to be proper about it. I'm a traveler from the east and north and round about through south of there, on my way to I know not where. I sense you are a traveler too."

"You sense correctly, Jean Brun. I am indeed a traveler. That is what I am," said Marto, feeling refreshing clarity from this brief conversation.

"Well, it would be right to share a smoke with a fellow traveler, but you don't seem to care for cela?" said Jean, looking a little put out in the dim light. He was a large man, a little over two meters tall, and heavy or covered with so much clothing that he appeared that way. Lights had come on at the edges of the park that hid the stars now but illuminated the company.