The Last Utopia Page 3

“...okay,” I answered in a tiny voice, overwhelmed by Nate's serious tone.

  “Well, it won't be that tough for now,” Nate hit my shoulder in encouragement, “Today, I just want you to stand aside. Watch me and try to learn as much as you can. Think you can do that, buddy?”

  “Yeah. Let's do it.” My voice had been injected with a hint of energy again.

  A ding from the front reminded us of the screen's existence.

  “Old Theater, Varcera Road, Andberg. Please exit the vehicle. Take care to remember your possessions. This cab is assigned for the work day and will wait on location until your next assignment. Have a productive day,” the cab said.

  “That's our stop. Hang on a sec.” Nate reached over to his briefcase and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to me, but I only offered an unamused look in response. We continued our standoff for all of two seconds, until Nate gave in and bowed down to the modern world.

  “Okay, you win. Pull out your phone.” A sigh on his lips, he retrieved his phone from his briefcase and touched the screen a few times. With a beep, the digital document was transferred over to me. One tap and it opened to give me all the information on my first official ward.

  'Carlos Oraya. Age 42. Suggested profession: Orator. Chosen profession: Painter. No sales, no galleries. Manic depression.'

  When I looked back up from the file, the door had already opened and Nate stood out in the sunlight with an expectant look on his face. I scrambled after him. Nate had done so much for me over the years, I really didn't want to be a burden any more. Still, I had to get something off my chest.

  “Isn't this file pretty bad? I was hoping we could maybe start with someone less... serious.”

  A sad smile answered me. “Well, he's the first on our tour today. I don't make the schedule, the boss does. Plus, this case is pretty normal. You'll see much worse on the job. Don't worry though, I'll do the heavy lifting.”

  I stared at Nate's expectant face for half a second, before I firmed up my features and gave a confident nod.

  “Come on then, let's go,” I answered in a voice of conviction. This was the career I had wanted, my chance to be useful without a talent for magic. No reason to chicken out now.

  In order to reach our ward's home, we stepped past the opulent theater in our front and into the back alley to its side. A weird place for an artist, I thought. Boxed in by walls like this, how would he get inspired? As we marched down the alley, I felt the lights dim us and the walls close in around us, as if we were funneled towards inevitable doom.

  Up a narrow staircase, we reached a grand front door. Like everything else in the city, the paint on the building looked fresh and all our surroundings were nice and clean. Yet somehow, I could feel the gloom escape through the seams and spread throughout the back street. I heard a buzz to my side as Nate pressed the doorbell, but I didn’t look. I just couldn't take my eyes off the door, in anticipation of what I would find within.

  “It's Nate from caretaker services for the monthly checkup. You there, Carlos?”

  Something about the place bound me, so I stared ahead, no matter what. Another buzz opened the gates into a new and mysterious world. With mechanical steps, I trotted over the threshold between the decorous world of Astralis and the chaotic fever dream inside.

  Paint had been smeared all over the walls of the corridor. Large blobs and tiny sprinkles looked as if they had been thrown in a temper tantrum, but there were also clear brushstrokes left for a purpose I couldn't begin to fathom. Some of the paint was so old it had begun to flake and fall off. The wallpaper had tears and holes everywhere I looked, as if banged with a hammer or rake. It was a planned chaos beyond any mess I could have imagined.

  Although the corridor was barely wide enough to accommodate two people at the same time already, it was further stuffed with easels and oil paintings all along its sides. I marched forward in a trance, Nate's steps behind me. Always ahead, eyes towards the steps in the back, the only discernible way to go. After all, the doors on the ground floor had been blocked off by the painter's collected works. Already I had made it halfway through the claustrophobic hallway, when peculiar colors lodged themselves in the corner of my eye.

  My head turned, and I found myself confronted with a frightening force. The bizarre, abstract lines of dark pigment were impossible to decipher at first, but my eyes wouldn't let go. After what had felt like an eternity, I could see it, a glimpse into the artist's vision. A small, isolated room. In the back, a single window, with a perfect world outside, in complete contrast to the chaos invoked in the room itself. All of it felt so foreign, and yet so familiar.

  I went deeper, deeper into the painting. I had to find the artist. His desolation. His rage. His impotence. Towards what I did not know, but I was determined to uncover all the mysteries of the eerie piece. The play of color and form invited me for a visit. I was ready to step inside and find the terrifying truth hidden within.

  “Calm down buddy. Breathe.” A familiar voice brought me back from the brink. I turned to Nate, a worried frown on his face. At once the walls released their embrace. The picture retreated, out of my brain, out of my eyes, away from my face and back to the wall. Cold sweat had formed on my face. I felt as if I had only just escaped catastrophe.

  “I'm fine,” I tried to fake a smile, ”just nervous.”

  “It's bizarre, isn't it?” Nate answered with a finger aimed at the painted gateway. “I don't get it, but then again: I'm just some uncultured slob anyways.”

  “Yeah, it's weird,” I replied without another look.

  “Let's go. Work is work.” Nate forced his body past me, while I had to press mine into the mangled wall. Only now did he realize that I shouldn't have walked ahead. Once the voluminous caretaker had passed, my position pitted me against the uncanny painting again. I wouldn't give the image a second chance to suck me into it's unknowable wonders. Instead, I chose to march ahead. This time, I focused on Nate's steps in my ears and his broad back in my sight, the only familiarity in this outlandish world we had entered.

  “Best not to mention the paintings. Carlos gets a bit troubled if you're not careful. Just let me do the talking,” Nate whispered.

  Past spiderwebs and over dried flecks of paint, we made our way up the creaky, winding stairs. A tingle in my neck made me look up. High above, I saw the bizarre creature who had painted all those worlds, his appearance as shocking as it was mundane.

  Carlos Oraya was a middle aged man with his hair covered under a gray, puffy cotton hat. His clothes were snow white, but the ever-present paints had covered him even more than the rest of his domicile. With sad, sunken eyes and a haggard face, he stared down at us from atop the stairwell. His claw-like hands grasped at the balustrade as he waited for us to climb up towards him.

  “Hey there Carlos,” Nate's chipper voice came from ahead, “how are ya?”

  “I'm fine. You really don't need to come over all the time, Nathaniel,” the man replied back in a raspy voice. He might have been a smoker, I thought. I looked around, but couldn't find any yellowed spots. No suspicious smell either.

  “Carlos, I wanna introduce you to the new caretaker I'll be working with from today. The name's Brayden.”

  After I had climbed the stairs, Nate shoved his hand into my back and gave me a nudge towards the bizarre figure of the painter. I tried my best to sound confident as I gave the man a firm handshake.

  “Hello, Mister Oraya. My name is Brayden Rovis. I hope we will get along in the future.” I imitated what I remembered from my first meeting with Nate. Although my delivery was stiff, Mr. Oraya seemed unfazed.

  “There's no need to be so formal, Mister Rovis. Honestly, at this point there's barely any reason for your visit.” His smile revealed the crow's feet around his eyes. Suddenly, he seemed a lot more approachable, despite the chaos around us. “Please, come in,” he finished.

  We followed past more canvas and into one of the rooms on the upper floor. Even without all the paintings, the
apartment seemed rather small. Not something I was used to from my own living conditions.

  “Would anyone like a coffee?” When I entered behind Nate, I found the old painter rummage around an old cast iron stove.

  What a strange apparatus.

  It seemed right out of a historical novel. Before I could ask any questions, the always alert Nate looked back and gave me a stern look. Once he had made sure I wouldn't ask anything improper, he shoved me to an old collection of sofas around a living room table.

  “Yeah, that'd be great. You want one?” Nate asked me.

  “...sure,” I answered with much less confidence than before. To me, Nate seemed overprotective. Didn't this Mr. Oraya seem pretty nice? Sure, his place was a mess, but I remembered the occasional chaos in grandma's old study as well. In my mind, all artists were slovenly, so his neglect was understandable. In front of me, I found further evidence for my assumption. The coffee table was covered in disorganized coal sketches on paper. It looked like the painter had been hard at work.

  Mr. Oraya came over with two cups and took place across from us. With the cups placed in our front, he leaned back into his seat.

  “There you are.”

  “Thank you, Carlos,” Nate said.

  “You don't want anything, Mr. Oraya?” I asked.

  “Oh no. I'm taken care of,” the painter said as he pulled a green glass bottle out of his back pocket.

  “Carlos, you've been drinking?” Nate's voice turned stern again. At least I wasn't the victim this time.

  “I know, I know. No need to worry, Nathaniel.” The painter lowered the bottle onto the table with a soft thunk. “I'm not drugging without a plan.”

  “Haaah... Carlos, last time you drank, we had to pump your stomach. You really need to stay away from this stuff.”

  “Nonono, not this time.” Mr. Oraya waved his finger. “It helps me visualize. Just a little. Just until... until I can unleash my creation. I'm almost there Nathaniel, almost there.” Halfway through his sentence, the painter's gaze lost hold of his caretakers and focused on the mess of coal sketches instead. With unsteady fingers, he picked up a drawing and stared, his eyes shining a bright blue. From the print-through on the back, all I could make out were some wild lines. I wondered what the painter's eyes saw in them, and wished I could do the same.

  “So your work is going well then, Carlos?” Nate took a sip of his coffee. “You wanna maybe start selling your pictures soon? Some good stuff in there, I'm sure a lot of people would love to show your work.”

  For the fraction of a second Mr. Oraya looked over, before he once again focused on the seed of his creation.

  “Yes, yes. I will. I just need to... just one final step. Just... capture the destruction. The chaos. It's always so clear in my head. Why can my hands not obey?” He looked back up with tears in his eyes. The paper crumpled underneath his fingers. “Why give me my visions but not the talent to bring them to light? Why are they hazy, why would they flee my grasp?”

  “Sometimes, the greatest challenges are the most rewarding. With all your passion, you'll get there eventually, Carlos. Though I wouldn't be this harsh on myself. Just keep at it, and you'll make something even you will be satisfied with.” Nate had gone into full consolation mode, but even he didn't seem convincing. I had the feeling they had gone through similar exchanges many times before. Still, the caretaker continued to try.

  “Even if your hands make you trouble, worst case? You can still leave your work for a successor to finish. Have you thought about that?” Nate continued.

  “An apprentice?” The painter's eyebrows raised together with his voice.

  “Yeah. The apprentice program always looks for capable mentors. I could get you in there by the next time we show up.”

  The old painter leaned his forehead into his hands. As he pondered over the idea, I could see his body lose tension. The thought of a successor must have taken some pressure off the old man. With an apprentice, he wouldn't have to worry that his work might go unfinished. I couldn't even imagine what sort of relief that must have been for him. After a while, Mr. Oraya seemed to have come to a decision. For the first time since we had entered the room, the painter focused his full attention on us.

  “Not for now. For now, I want to focus on my paintings. I'm far too close. And I'm sure my apprentice would prefer his master competent and successful, rather than just a crazy old man.”

  “Sounds good, Carlos. Sounds good,” Nate answered with a sad smile.

  - Three

  With a deep sigh, Nate sank into the cab's seat and set our next destination. I responded with a probing stare. He really owed me at least a few answers. After Mr. Oraya had declined Nate's offer for an apprentice, we never mentioned the paintings again and had a nice chat for a bit.

  Before we left, Nate also worked down a checklist for Mr. Oraya. Weight, regular schedule, drug use, standard procedure for caretakers. When I had first seen the apartment, I hadn't expected things to end up this... calm. The document had said 'manic depression', after all.

  “Okay, I know what you want to say.” Ever the mind reader, Nate explained. “It's not that simple, Brayden. Carlos isn't a raving lunatic. None of our wards are. If they were, we wouldn't be the ones in charge. Caretakers only handle people who can't adjust to society. Most only need a bit of help or some company to get them through a rough patch.

  “As for why I didn't want you talking too much? You probably saw how the old Carlos got as soon as we talked about his paintings. And that was me asking the questions. You can't just jump in head first and ask whatever strikes your fancy. Our first goal is to calm our wards and make them feel comfortable, always. Agitation is the enemy.”

  “Got it, Nate.” I wrung my hands and nodded my head. I was here to learn, after all.

  As a relieved breath escaped his throat, Nate leaned back into his seat. “You must have tons of pressing questions in your head. We have some time now, so ask away.”

  “...okay, so...” Since I found the question be a bit rude myself, I hesitated.

  “Go ahead.” In the end, Nate's encouraging nod made me swallow my anxiety.

  “We didn't really do anything in there, did we? I mean, we barely tried to help at all.”

  In response, Nate's smile faded. Before I could see what it turned into, he faced the window.

  “I've already said it, but in many cases some normal human contact is gonna work wonders, and that has to be enough To be honest, we're already doing more than the upstairs wants us to. They call us caretakers, but we're only supposed to make sure they're still alive and... 'functional'. The manual's words, not mine,” he added as he looked back over, now armed with a grimace of disgust. Although I had never seen him like this, I was glad Nate was this open with me. “Still, I spend as much time as possible to try and help my wards. Most caretakers do, it's sorta part of our code.”

  “...but Mr. Oraya wasn't doing too well I think. I mean, what was up with his house? Doesn't he clean?”

  “The man is busy in pursuit of his passion. He'd never waste his time on something trivial like cleaning,” Nate answered with a crooked grin.

  “But... the holes-”

  “Look, I said he is more dangerous than he seems. You know what Carlos has been trying to paint? What his 'creation' is?”

  A shudder ran all over my body as I thought back to that impossible, dark painting in the hallway.

  “What?” Almost too afraid to ask, a whisper escaped me.

  “The theme of his work is 'chaos'. Can you imagine that? Chaos, here in Astralis.” Again Nate turned to the window. I followed his gaze and saw the clean roads of the city, straight as a razor. In my mind, I compared them with the impossible disarray of the painter's apartment. No wonder his place had felt like a different world. Never had I seen a mess like that before. I hadn't even known something like that was possible.

  “Carlos has spent years ruining his place, just to make it look like that. That's because th
e cleaners don't work the private rooms.” Just as Nate spoke, a small blue bird swooped from a tree and picked a loose leaf off the pavement.

  “Behind his own walls, he can make the mess he needs for his work, because that's what he wants to paint: Anything Astralis is not.”

  “And he can't sell his stuff to get a second, clean apartment? I guess no one wants to show something that depressing, huh?”

  “You'd be surprised. About a year ago, I brought a connoisseur over to have his pictures appraised. I might not know a thing about art, but that guy told me Carlos could get his paintings into almost any gallery, if only because of how unique they are.”

  Eyes large in surprise, I turned to my colleague.

  “Then why doesn't he do that? He seemed really skinny, like he wasn't getting enough food.”

  Nate still looked down as he began to rummage in his worn-down suitcase.

  “Yeah, well, Carlos wants it to be 'perfect' first. Carlos Oraya is a very typical case for a ward. We call them ‘the Obsessed’.”

  “Obsessed?”

  “Well, the manual calls them ‘Type one’.” By now my colleague had found his phone in his messy suitcase, so he sent me another beepy message.

  Probably our next assignment, I thought.

  However, I was too preoccupied to check. Nate's voice had become serious, so I righted my posture to listen in earnest.

  “The Obsessed are a pretty big part of our clientele. Usually, they spend too much time by themselves and, well, obsess over something. They neglect everything else. It's our job to make sure they don't lose themselves in their work, or their hobby, or whatever else. And to make sure they don't starve themselves to death when they forget to eat.”

  “...so that's why Mr. Oraya was that thin.” I nodded in understanding.

  “No, Carlos doesn't forget about food. Rather than get something to eat, he goes out and trades all his monthly credits for canvas and color. As far as he's concerned, there's never enough material and never enough time. Never enough anything. You remember how he said he's almost done? I've been coming to this place for six years and heard the same countless times. That's what it means to be obsessed.”