The Fourth Dimension

By Eduardo Capistrano

The theme for this short story collection by Eduardo Capistrano is Time. Stories inspired by history, set in the past; dystopic visions, dark or well-humored, launched into the future; and narratives about the passage of time, in the contact between generations, in the invocation of memories and in the importance of the briefest of moments.

The tales are ordered chronologically and address the diverse relations of man with Time. The first four are about the past. "Mirrors of the Soul" is a dialogue that exposes the condition of the Renaissance "man of science" and his relation with the average man, not so different as it happens today. In "Opium Kiss" a brazilian on the Victorian Age tells how he let himself be seduced by total moral decadence. "First Lieutenant" follows a military man under an abusive command at the early days of the Brazilian Republic. "Carolina with Glasses" shows the strange visions documented in the diary of a girl with fertile imagination.

The next four tales happen in the present. A boy tries to understand the capacity for stopping time que learned from his father in "Between Seconds". A strange signal seems to be the answer to the monotony of the recluse life of a mathematician in "Greetings From the Future". The title of "Loose Screw" brings the cause to a world coming to its end. "Women and Children First" shows the strength that social conventions have when the cause for a bus accident is revealed.

Six tales occur in the future. "The Electric Apple" follows a lonely programmer of artificial intelligences in emotional conflicts with his creations. "Assured Future" brings a humorous dystopia of a future in which corporations rejoice without limits. "On the Assembly Line" discuss the evolution of technology compared to human morals. "Remote Control" shows the brutal oppression of s society controlled through televisions. "Planet Asphalt" is a world dominated by intelligent automobiles. "The Water of Chroma" is a reflection about the sentimental evolution of humanity.

The collection concludes with "Ouroboros", which discusses the eternal return with the medieval documentation of an interrogatory made with a visitor from afar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jan 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071527511

Book preview

Mirrors of the Soul

The bourgeois, with gestures more than a little affected, dropped a pinch of salt into a small jar, covered his finger, shook it vigorously, and set it against the sun. The liquid inside took on a sanguine color. Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, he quickly spilled the liquid, put away the flask, adjusted his vest and coat, and turned his attention to the prisoner before him. He tried to get his attention:

Hello? Hello?

He had fun waving a delicate handkerchief on the prisoner’s face. The unfortunate man, ragamuffin and filthy, showed insanity both in body and in spirit. For despite these conditions and the fact that he was shackled to the floor while being treated as an object of study, his expression was one of indifference and apathy, observing a fixed point far beyond the walls surrounding him.

The bourgeois was joined by a man of generous bearing — thanks to an ungenerous life — and proud features that, dressed in satin and velvet, were more than enough to make him a man of nobility, but not with nobility. This gentleman seemed quite uncomfortable with the place, which was nothing more than a square cell. Its walls would be only the bare stone of its great blocks, were it not for a few shackles dangling from the walls, the heavy door that was the only way out, and a barred window blocked with rags.

It seems to me, Mr. Quintino, that your toy is broken. It’s like a clock without gears, said the bourgeois.

It is not, in fact, like this, Borges. It’s his temper: he speaks only when he wishes, said the nobleman.

And what does he say? What phrases of unquestionable wisdom they say he pronounce?

You’re being inopportune, Borges. I brought you here because your father said you could see what I don’t see.

What would that be? asked the bourgeois, frowning with genuine interest.

"This man has something in his eyes. It’s a strange glow that speaks for him, when he doesn’t open his mouth."

And... now I can interpret sparkles in eyes?!

Isn’t that your art?

No, my dear Quintino. In no way I can lay my eyes on someone and say what they think. My art is not witchcraft of this nature.

What is, then, the nature of your art?

The voice that broke the discussion had not come from Quintino or Borges, but from the imprisoned.

He spoke!

As I told you, Borges. When he speaks, he only does it to ask.

And what did you ask, that I couldn’t hear right? Borges asked the prisoner himself. Unanswered, he addressed Quintino. What was the question?

I think he asked what the nature of your art was, since it was not witchcraft.

Hmm! Should I answer, Quintino?

It would enlighten me, if for any other purpose.

To satisfy you then. Since I was young I have been dedicating myself to determine if there is any kind of humor or flesh in the body that is responsible for the moods. Although I had some frustration to get a body I could operate on...

Good God, Borges! interrupted Quintino in astonishment.

... I have resolved, while this gross and anachronistic barrier is not broken down, to concentrate my studies on the external aspects of the body.

Your father had mentioned, specifically, the eyes.

Yes, I produced an essay about it. Unfortunately, I will not be able to publish it. After a not so meticulous analysis, they decided it could not be availed. The bourgeois stepped back a few steps and, assuming an unmistakably theatrical pose and voice, brandished his handkerchief and said, In my minute scrutiny of the human body, I have come to realize that, though they also manifest themselves through hands and other movements, the expressions of the face are the most used to transmit moods.

The Venetians, then, are right, Quintino quipped.

Indeed. And of all the elements of the face, I believe the most expressive are the eyes. For aren’t the differences between interest or disdain just a fraction of an inch of closed eyelids? Does not the mere raising of an eyebrow express doubt, fury or regret? Can I not see in the bright eyes of a loved one satisfaction or joy, and in similar brightness greed and lust, sadness and melancholy, and madness? However, the eyes are the focus of the spirit, my good Quintino. The whole spectrum of mood is their neighbour. And —with what words will I say?— maybe in them there is a spark of all emotions. Maybe even the essential Emotion!

In this last thought I could not understand you.

Well, then, Quintino, isn’t it true that if I say myself cheerful you will understand? And similarly, if I say myself angry or hurt you will know what I mean? And if before I said it, you detected in my behavior something that denoted such emotion, would it not be enough? If my face expresses more emotion than anything else in my body, if my gaze expresses more than the rest of my face, if the eyes are the main elements of the gaze, will it not be possible to analyze only these to understand each and evey emotion?

Intriguing, Borges.

Anything else?

The prisoner’s unexpected voice sounded again. They both turned to him. Borges answered the question, but for Quintino:

Yes, there is more. My research deals with humors and fleshes, that is, fluids and viscera, because this interest was born eminently from my medical instruction. The body, Quintino, is bathed in all sorts of fluids, the most important of which is blood. But not even by far it is the only one. We have saliva, mucus, cerumen, sweat, urine, semen, pus, bile, cranial fluid, and feminine fluids such as breast milk and parturient water. We have learned that these fluids have characteristics that indicate body problems. And we have the tears, which wet our eyes all the time, but which in certain circumstances of strong spirits, abound and precipitate. I believe that in tears there is substance that bears some relation to the mood of the person who poured them.

That’s why I heard from Marco, the Genoese, that you were devoting yourself to poetry. I did not understand him then, but now I understand. That’s what you are doing: you are looking for pain in tears!

I appreciate Marco very much, but he understands nothing of what I do. If I know him well, he said what he said with despisement, as if I were searching for something in the ether, as poets do.

Anyway, I brought you here to examine this interlocutor of ours, if we can call him that. Fairer would be listener, something for which he is always willing. As you have seen, he rarely says anything, and when he does it is to ask. Our attempts to extract any kind of information from him were in vain.

What is your interest in this man? And by the way... what did he do to be so fettered?

Well, Borges, this is an interesting story. As you know, I learned about this beautiful building when on the way to Seville, and I fell in love with it to the point where I moved all my activities here. It is a showy and large building, and after some investigation, I discovered that its former owner surrendered to the religious life and ceded it to be used as some kind of monastery. However, the place was later abandoned and those responsible for it were so receptive to my offerings that it seemed that the Church was anxious to be rid of it.

Such nebulosity, Quintino!

It thickens. What was my surprise when inspecting the dungeons of the castle to find this man, tied to those same chains, left to oblivion! And I can swear to you that I personally accompanied the seneschal when he unlocked the heavy iron gates which, I later found, were the only means of access to the prison!

How long could he be there?

This residence has been without owner for decades!

Ah... you have always been a superstitious one, Quintino! I tell you this bum must have betrayed his fellow bandits, who left him locked up in the first abandoned fort they found! They just didn’t know that a madman like you would find beauty in place to the point of acquiring it.

Call me crazy, but you don’t know what that is. See what madness is, said Quintino, pointing at the man.

You exaggerate, Quintino.

I do not exaggerate. And it was to prove it that I asked you to come. Ever since I met this man, I have a feeling I’ve made a big mistake. The first conversation he followed, that of two servants I placed to keep him on guard, received his troublesome mysterious inquiries. Knowing this, at first, I allowed him to be close to my own conversations. He... amused me. But my company always became disturbed! Especially my wife, whose admonitions made me move him to this remote room. When I look at him, I feel an immense bitterness, an incredible sorrow, which his temperate and serene voice does not convey. Which his quiet face do not express, Borges!

I understand. And you want to know if it’s his eyes.

At least to rule out one more hypothesis.

I see no harm in your concern, Quintino, and I will serve you. But know that in my heart I disapprove of your conduct. If I found myself in your place, I would hand this man over to the authorities.

I bought the castle, Borges, and everything that came with it, Quintino quipped.

You can’t buy a man.

Why not, Borges?

It was the third line of the mysterious prisoner.

This time he used my name! Now I will be concerned if this man is of bad character and misuses my name if he gains freedom.

Answer him, Borges. Why can’t you buy a man? The ancients did it.

The ancients did many things, Quintino, and not all of them were correct. See what resulted from slavery, for the Romans.

A great empire.

And a great defeat! An unfortunate and torturous agony, upon discovering that power was a boat rowed by hundreds of slaves who, if revolted, would easily overwhelm the captain and cast him overboard. You don’t buy a man, my dear Quintino and my dear prisoner, because you can’t determine how much he is worth. I would say more: you cannot determine what must be paid, what must be considered to set a final price, for each man is a complex amalgam of flesh and spirit. Since they are unlinked only in death, and thus unlinked we no longer have a man, one cannot buy a man as flesh, and one cannot buy his spirit without knowing him.

But, Borges, if we buy an egg without knowing if from it will come rooster or chicken, why can’t we buy a man without knowing if we are buying flesh or spirit?

Keep treating men like eggs, Quintino, and you’ll have big surprises in your life. Now let me work.

Borges turned away from the chained man, who had always been sitting cross-legged on the floor. He went to the bag he had left on the stone floor and took out a telescope.

The man’s eyes are here, Borges! Not in the stars! And it’s still day! What will you do with Galileo’s toy?

Control your exaltation, my dear. I know it’s day because sunlight is essential for this experiment. You may not know that this instrument works both ways. In the absence of the appropriate instrument, and of the patience or knowledge to make one, I will use this, even though the results are not nearly entirely satisfactory.

Do what you have to do.

What do you want to know exactly?

Every thing possible to obtain about this person.

Very well.

Borges walked to the window and removed the coverings, letting in the powerful sunlight. The prisoner turned his head and groaned before covering his face with his hands.

Now you know why it was closed, said Quintino.

I do not care. I asked earlier if he had been burned and you said no. So there is no danger.

Approaching the prisoner, Borges turned his head so that the light hit it on the sides. He then placed the smaller end of the telescope over one of the prisoner’s eyes and examined through the other end. He was ridiculously bent, and in this position he began to take small steps back and forth, turning his patient’s head as well, as if to regulate the amount of light. Suddenly he rose and stared at the prisoner for a long time, studying his features.

From his bag he took a capped bottle with which he approached the prisoner. He turned the bottle upside down quickly, turned it back up, took off the glass lid and blew it toward the prisoner, throwing a shimmering white powder over his face. He immediately writhed his face as he squinted and tears came from his eyes. Borges quickly collected tears with a strip of cloth. Leaving his patient, he took a vial and a stick from his purse, inserted the stick into the vial and dropped a few drops on the strip. He placed his hand with the cloth in the sun, and the areas where the drops had fallen gained a reddish tint.

Here’s your answer, my good Quintino!

It’s rosy... almost red... what does it mean?

I will not lie: this man is prone to violence.

Good God!

His temperate appearance and quiet demeanor conceal a fierce beast, an avidness for blood and death, oh! —at this moment, the color of the cloth completed the transition to a bright red— unmatched!

Is that right, Borges?

Absolutely, said the doctor. The more sanguine the color of this reaction, more cruel the intentions.

Amazing, Borges! Tell me, this result... are there worse?

My good Quintino, I confess to you that I have never seen this color so red!

Came from God, then, the good judgment of sending for you. My wife, as always, was right. This man will not see another night as my guest.

Well, Quintino, Borges was starting to pack his things in his bag. If I served you correctly, sir, let me explain a question that plagues me.

Your father anticipated me the problem, and until now I was judging the validity of my participation.

And what was your conclusion?

There is no way to repay for the peace of mind you gave me. But if that is enough, I will be honored to sponsor your work.

Thank you, my lord, said Borges, leaving the room with the nobleman.

At a signal from Quintino, guards waiting outside entered the room. On the prisoner’s face, only indifference.

Opium Kiss

I’ll die young, but it’s like kissing God.

— Lenny Bruce

From the journal of Felipe Manoel B____.

Rio de Janeiro, October 19, 18__.

I write these lines in the twilight of my days, enclosed between invisible walls, chained to comfort. However, there is no tranquility born in this place that can dispel the terrible truth I hold. Recently information has come to me concerning my health from the very helpful medical men who treated me, which urged me to caution. I fear that my condition is such that the men I mentioned made a particular effort to tend to myself. I do not wish to forget about them here, and I leave my considerations recorded for them at this very beginning, in which I can still be treated with the same respect and dignity, for they will certainly be polluted with the course of this narrative.

Prior to the narrative itself, I immediately command that this last annotation of my written memoirs, unbound from its binding or in full copy, be forwarded to the authorities to use whatever they can in repairing all the tragedy to which I have contributed, with both certainty and misfortune.

This story begins, like a man’s own story, with a woman, certainly the most beautiful I have ever laid eyes on. A lady of exquisite manners and reputation that, nevertheless, prevented only those traits to shape her image. She was endowed with hardly-found brilliance, with an elucidated rationality that would emerge great, were not limited by the weight of tradition imposed by her husband.

I was fortunate to find her free from the presence of the man who had crippled her freedom, and I am proud to be able to say that many of her sparkles since then have come due to my support. She came from a distant land, most often forgotten by the inhabitants of the lands at opposite latitudes, and bore in her womb the seed of a new life. To many this could be the cause for astonishment, to imagine that such a fact should or would actually cause me shame. I assure you, moreover, that the truth is different.

She came from a Crown colony that her husband had served in arms. The same bullet caused her both weeping and hope. Do not think that the death of any other living being gladdens me; but there are times when the fortuitous serves causes greater than those of its random touch. The officers sought her to show the corpse, but also to chain her to its fate. They did not succeed in meeting her before I did it myself.

It was night at the port when I boarded, and the tide carried the remains of wrecked ships in distant battles against unknown men and gods. The boxes, the contents of which I had acquired, were already safely packaged in the appropriate compartments of a ship heading for the Brazilian Empire. The perspective of every neophyte investor is that his activity will earn him a profit, which would go hand in hand with the true income, this being the intelligence and ability that would be imputed to him by his colleagues and future clients. My perspectives, however, were from a opposite point of view, or at least a distorted one. Due to the illicit nature of my burden, I was only hoping, truly, for the pecuniary profits, and the more substantial they were, the more I would know my efforts were worth.

Although I detected right in the first week of travel that several of the crew, especially those in charge of cargo checking, were disturbed by something, the rest of the passengers did not know the reasons until exactly three weeks later. This was made possible by the general conference of cargoes in a port, coupled with the impossibility of proceeding due to a storm whith which the skies prevail over the seas. More than once I had seen the sea veterans coming out of the womb of the ship invoking for themselves the protection of the sign of the Cross. Even the Captain, Scott Lent, a Breton hardened by naval battles and often honored for bravery, crossed himself so much that if I had not talked to him during our voyage, I could say that he was no more than the Chinaman cook, who at the slightest sign of a storm prostrated himself in the kitchen and for that received the infamous nickname Scrub-brush.

The boat was reputed haunted. Several of the boxes, bags and barrels had been breached and closed again. Figures were seen among the goods in the cargo hold. Screams and shrieks came on a sudden to shut up identically, as if coming from an aerial, ephemeral body. Ghosts were never part of my intimate mythology, for the course of the souls of men to me was quite enlightened by Science and faith in Christ. Moreover, the blind faith on this hypothesis by my boatmates eventually infected me with the germ of dread, and as soon as we docked at the harbor, after the four weeks I referred to, I still masked my fear that all the hubbub would have some foundation in the material world.

But, disgrace of disgraces, a fiction has been woven! The sailors, greatly shaken by the events on board, realized my practiced coldness and set me on a mission to investigate whatever was their cause. As in a materialized biblical proverb, I was struck by my own deceit, by refusing and acting against my own limitations. Being treated as a respectable gentleman from overseas eventually required proof of