Page 68 of The Champion
The smiles and compliments that I used to get when I was in public had been replaced with angry stares and disappointed glares.
There were no more of the usual comments such as, “I love your work” and “You’re so amazing, Victor.” Instead, I had lost count of how many had called me “traitor” and “psychopath.” A few had even sneered “I hope you die.”
I tried to mind my own business and use my time in making plans for Wisdomia. The black spots of mold on the walls in the apartment disappeared behind sketches and lists of all the things I came up with. I would have preferred using an electronic pad or computer, but I no longer had access to any electronic devices since mine had been in my old penthouse apartment and technically belonged to my workplace. With all my bank accounts frozen, I was left with a minimum for survival and couldn’t afford to buy a new computer.
On the seventh day when I hadn’t showed up for work, Celeste came to see me. We had known each other since we were chosen as delegation members thirteen years ago when we were teenagers. She was a scientist like me and had moved up the ranks fast. Unlike me, she didn’t mind administrative work so while I had declined the role as head of the environmental department, she had accepted the position.
The way she wrinkled her nose and hesitated before she took a seat on one of the three chairs in my apartment said it all. She was as disgusted with this place as I was.
Sitting on the edge of the chair with her hands on her knees as to make herself small and touch as little as possible, she asked, “Why are you doing this to yourself? We need you back at the lab and this is stupid.”
“I’m not working for people who keep me a prisoner.”
“Victor, you committed treason. We all swore an oath of loyalty. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Of course. I never intended to betray my country, but the work we could do in Wisdomia would benefit the entire world.”
“Be realistic. You know what would happen if Moreau allowed you to start another country. Our best brains would leave with you. People look up to you. Or at least they used to.”
I ignored her last comment. “Moreau hasn’t been serving as prime minister for months. He’s not the one keeping me trapped here. It’s Joseph and all the others who want to keep me as their trained puppet to make them look good. Sorry, but I’m not interested in any of that anymore.”
Celeste drew in a heavy breath and pulled on a lock of her blond hair. “I’m not here to argue with you. I want to help, but there’s not much I can do until you come to your senses and make a public apology.”
Raising my eyebrows, I hardened my tone. “You’ve seen the outside world. Why shouldn’t we be allowed to have free choice to travel and live the way we choose to? Freya has opened my eyes to what I’ve been missing. What everyone else in this country is missing, Celeste. You included.”
She turned her face away, no doubt feeling uncomfortable that I mentioned the forbidden subject of love.
“Celeste, I feel like I’ve lived a life colorblind and now that I can see how vibrant and wonderful the world is, I’m refusing to wear a filter that makes my world gray again. I would rather die.”
“Victor, don’t say that. I’ve lost too many. Please don’t end your life because of this.” Her eyes darted around the gloomy room.
“We’ve all lost too many people we cared about. It’s time we stop accepting our high suicide rates and admit that with an average lifespan of fifty-eight years, we’re doing something wrong in this country. I’m done pretending that the loneliness and detachment from our emotions aren’t killing us.”
“We are a nation in crisis,” Celeste said in a defensive tone.
“We’ve been in crisis for four hundred years now. The best we can strive for in life is working to leave France better for the next generation. It’s not even in our culture to demand freedom for ourselves. Why do we accept the rules of a loveless society and make fun of other cultures for valuing something that we don’t understand? What if the Motlanders and Northlanders are right, and love and connection is the most important part of life?”
Celeste crossed her legs and tucked her hands between her knees. “Motlanders don’t marry either, Victor. At least it’s uncommon. They always agree with us that binding yourself romantically to another person isn’t logical.”
“Sure, but Motlanders bond and have deep relationships in family units. We have none of that.”
“We connect in a different way.”
I recognized her arguments as the same I had used a thousand times, before I knew better. “Having sex and making love are two different things. Freya taught me that.”
Celeste sighed. “Maybe you’re right, but either way, there’s nothing I can do about it. Zola and I tried to argue with Joseph and Frédéric, but they’re set on making an example of you. I’m not allowed to let you work on your research. All I can offer you at this point are assignments for a level two employee. It will be boring and monotonous, but at least you’ll get out of this apartment and above ground.”
In the end, I swallowed my pride and agreed to do work that was mind-numbing but gave me access to a computer.
Passing my office door, I noticed that my nameplate was gone. Colleagues and assistants that used to stop me for advice now looked down or scowled when I passed them. And yet, I found myself whistling in the basement lab because working here gave me access to my personal files, which included all my correspondence with Freya. The mind-numbing work I was expected to do took no more than two hours a day, which left me with plenty of time to run calculations and organize my ideas on Wisdomia.
Although I couldn’t communicate with anyone outside of France, I still wrote Freya long letters to clear my mind and keep myself sane.
I told her about the mouse that lived in my apartment and how I had named it Molly. I described the feeling of walking past the Blue Tower and seeing light in the penthouse wondering who lived there now. Because I couldn’t send the messages to Freya, describing what she meant to me came easier. I confessed that during her five weeks living with me, I had often woken up in the middle of the night and lain awake, admiring her beauty.
Writing about my feelings was therapeutic and helped me get past my programmed fear of talking about love. If Freya could be here to experience my clarity about my emotions, she would have been proud of me. But at least she didn’t have to suffer a moldy old apartment. Every day, I wondered how she was doing and if she thought of me as much as I thought of her. As weeks turned into months, my mood dropped, and my whistling stopped. If Freya had caused pressure on our government, I didn’t feel it. One day replaced the other and after four months I worried that Frédéric’s warning might come true. Maybe he had been right when he said that Wisdomia would never be more than a fantasy of mine.
CHAPTER 19
