Splendid Isolation

There it is. At least I think that’s it, though it might be a cloud bank. Or land, shrouded in mist. Anyway, it's beautiful, and it’s my future.

It’s only eighteen miles away, but at this very moment it might as well be eighteen thousand. I’ve heard that people used to swim there in the old days – cover themselves in goose fat against the cold, then breast-stroke the whole distance. They’d have a boat beside them for support, which seems a little senseless; why didn’t they simply get in the boat?

I’m going by boat myself, not sure when. I’ve got my deposit down – a thousand creds, which isn’t cheap. There are people that’ll do it for half that, but I’ve heard of bodies washing up on the shore, and I’m not so keen on dying just yet. My man, Maurice – I’m sure that’s not his real name – has a good reputation. You won’t find his name on the I-net, obviously. The necessarily scant word-of-mouth that finds its way to me says he only uses the best-quality boats – safe and quick. And not overloaded; at the price he charges, he can afford to keep numbers down.

If I get a bit nearer the edge … careful, careful, the ground’s very crumbly here. Yes, that’s it, I think, down there on the right – that little cove, with the grey waves lapping in. Perfectly hidden from the patrol boats. Not sure how we’re going to get there. Rope ladder? Secret tunnel? Search me. I’ll find out nearer the time. Mustn’t get too impatient. That’s when the slips come; a loose word might mean the difference between escape and the clink. Or worse.

To be honest, I can hardly contain my excitement. I think about it every minute of every day, although my thoughts are rather vague. No one knows for sure what’s over there, except, I imagine, those at the very top of the regime, or in the Ministry of Splendid Isolation. Or Maurice.

I asked him; all he would say was “It’s different”. I wanted to know what that meant. He said he didn’t want to expand. I could see from his face that it was different in a good way. One thing I couldn’t work out – if it’s so different, and in a good way – was why he doesn’t take one of his boats and just stay there. I asked him that, too. He simply shook his head, then patted his heart.

Apart from his ferrying activities, the MSI would arrest him if they caught him extolling the virtues of anything other than what we have here. Our countryside is the best, they say. I must admit that the sooty-grey hillsides, the plains, the coast, all have a certain austere beauty. Our music is the best, they say. It’s not a lie – I don’t think I’ll ever tire of pipes and drums. Our food is the best, they say. I do quite like cod-meal and oats, but my tongue and tummy protest sometimes. I must never say that out loud, however.

Nor must I ever show anyone my paintings. When I’m not at the factory, I take my paper and vegetable-dye paints down to the riverside; the smell is sometimes bearable when the wind’s blowing in the right direction. I paint the dark, skeletal trees that grip desperately onto the bank; I paint the slate-grey rainclouds crawling across the sky; I paint the birds that perch in the branches of the trees, then take flight to swoop along the river. I like to paint their bright colours, which is highly illegal, of course.

When anyone passes, I hide the work in my fishing bag and grab my rod. I’ll have already used it to cast a float out into the dawdling waters. I’m taking a risk with this subterfuge, naturally; everyone knows there are no fish left to catch in the rivers. I bank on people imagining that I’m an old eccentric, to be pitied, no more. So far it seems to have worked,

I’d like to hang the paintings on my wall, but that would be far too risky. I keep them rolled up under the floorboards. I know it’s a crime to produce the paintings – and to store them. However, I can’t begin to describe the curious, irresistible impulse that enters my being at times. I do know it’s stronger than me.

This is the main reason I need to leave. I want not to have to think twice about every idea I have, every word I say, every painting I produce. Plenty of people seem quite happy with their lot, that’s fine. But I’m sure – I don’t know how – that this is not all there is. That the reason we’re here in this world is not merely to serve the regime.

Yes, I’m eager for the days when I don’t have to hide … anything. When I can sit with a friend to discuss painting, relationships, the weather, and not be afraid that an unfriendly ear will report it as sedition.

The woman in the room next to mine, Catherine, who I liked very much, was caught in this way. A neighbour from down the corridor was fond of her too. When she rebuffed his advances, he engineered a meeting between her and a teacher from his son’s school, who he also held a grievance against. A word to the MSI and they quickly discovered the two – simply talking. That was enough. She was jailed for fifteen years for conspiracy. The teacher disappeared.

Of course, while it’s important to heed these threats, it’s equally important not to give them too much weight. Dwelling on them can drive a person mad – a man from the next block took his own life last week, for instance. I’m determined not to go that way. And so the boat…

I asked Maurice how I should prepare for the journey. He told me to travel light, which is a little ironic because I possess next to nothing. According to him, I should wear warm, waterproof clothes; I have two sweaters, which I’ll wear one on top of the other, and I’ll fashion a cagoule from bin-bags. He said that creds can easily be traded for local currency (though I won’t have much money to trade – even less after paying the rest of the fare).

When we met, he briefly taught me some of the local lingo to get me started, and I’ve been turning it over in my head ever since. Just short phrases, like:

Bonjour. Je m’appelle Philip.

Simple words that feel like freedom on my lips and tongue.