.02

I returned to Janis Joplin the next day. It was a testing journey, as always: 130 kilometres to be covered by the only road that existed. And what a road: narrow, bumpy and full of switchbacks, in some sections it is more track than road. At the beginning, when passing Hendrix Valley’s farms, it’s even pleasant: the traveller is presented with a verdant landscape, full of streams and meadows. And trees, lots of them. Judging by the height and diameter of their trunks, some seem to have been in existence longer than any living person.

The worst part comes later, while crossing the mountains: the arid and rocky terrain, the ravines that have to be bypassed with detours up and down the hills and valleys. Finally, when you are so tired of being rattled around you can’t take it any more, you come to a long stretch of flat land, sandwiched between the mountain ridge and the ocean. It is here, at the water’s edge, that the low, terracotta-rendered houses of Janis Joplin appear.

I generally don’t have a bad word to say about this city where I have always been well received, or about its atmosphere, which is relaxed and cheerful, but I do not think I will ever get used to that name. I remember being a little girl and hearing my mum saying it. ‘Who is Janis Joplin?’ I asked, receiving condescending smiles from the adults present. My dad took me by the arms and lifted me up until our heads were level. At the same time he rubbed his nose on mine, making me laugh with delight.

‘Janis Joplin is a city, my little munchkin, not a person.’

‘But it’s a girly name,’ I insisted, as I grabbed his ears and pulled them towards me, forcing our noses to squash against each other.

‘It really does have someone’s name. I’d never thought about that…’ commented my mum, on one of the rare occasions when she agreed with me.

After all those years, I still didn’t know the explanation for that name, or for any of the many names, apparently once those of people, with which the villages, valleys, mountains, streams, and whatever else in the region of New Shangri-La, were blessed.

I once asked the Network:

‘Network On. What is the origin of the name Janis Joplin?’

But the Network has an uncanny ability to oscillate between being very useful or totally obtuse, though its impartial tone remains always the same.

‘Network: The biographies of figures prior to the fall of the Parliamentary Regime are not included in the database.’

I rejoiced, euphoric to have obtained even this tiny sliver of information.

‘Network On. So there really was someone named Janis Joplin? And the city was baptised in honour of this lady?’

My show of enthusiasm was deemed unworthy of response. Apparently, the Network had exhausted everything it had to say on the subject, leaving me with curiosity largely unsatisfied. I wondered what this Janis Joplin could have done to have a whole city named after her.

Not that it had any relevance for me. After all, these were very old stories: Parliamentarianism had fallen almost 300 years ago and, apparently, that woman had lived even before then. In school, it was taught that in the historic year of 2061, people were freed from the tyranny of elections. Society had ceased to depend on politics in favour of being managed by the Network, a fair and impartial operating system that had replaced other outdated forms of governance. Unfortunately, no information on events prior to that date was now accessible.

 

***** || *****

 

After returning from the farm, I spent the next three weeks immersed in the routine of my work as a hospital nurse, with nothing to report worthy of mention here: only the usual procession of fractures, drug overdoses, children with fevers, childbirths, and every other medical emergency encountered in that building.

From time to time I would call home via the Network, catching up on family news and trying to figure out when the containers with the hashish orders would be ready. After three weeks, on just another Wednesday, a sequence of events began that would profoundly alter my life.

 Dad told me that the hash bars were ready and the following Saturday he would place the containers in the clearing leading to the brook: a flat space with unimpeded access for the drones, but conveniently in the shade of some towering oaks.

‘This must be the third time you’ve asked me about the sale of the harvest,’ commented Dad. ‘You’re very interested in the subject all of a sudden.’

I played dumb.

‘Not really. It’s just that time of year, isn’t it?’

The sound of a distant commotion put me on the alert: paramedics ran to the entrance of the hospital, orders were being shouted and a gurney rolled over the linoleum-covered floor. Someone hovered between life and death and the nursing staff were working flat out. Muffled by the commotion, a voice called, ‘Where’s Julia? It’s still her shift, she can’t disappear like this.’

‘I have to hang up, Dad, they’re looking for me.’

Without waiting for a response, I uttered a hurried ‘Network On. End conversation with Dad’, and ran in the direction of the crash team.

Dr Abboud, a tall, slim surgeon with a dark complexion and short curly hair as black as squid ink, did not allow me time to utter excuses " fortunately, because I had none to give. With a rapid stream of instructions, she directed me and my colleagues in the task of stabilising the patient, while the gurney was rushed to the medical examination area.

The man who lay on it looked pitiful: skinny, covered with bruises, with an infected ankle fracture that did not appear to be recent, his breathing little more than shallow gasps. The shaggy beard and chapped skin, burned by the sun, told a story of prolonged suffering. And that was only what could be seen by the naked eye; we’d need more time for a full diagnosis.

Following routine procedure, I contacted the Network:

‘Network On. Medical emergency. I need to identify the unconscious patient lying on the stretcher next to me.’

Whenever I had asked this question before " and I did it frequently in the course of my work " an image immediately appeared, projected onto my eyes through the rims of the glasses, with the complete file of the person concerned. But this time no such image appeared: instead I received a verbal response only, short and to the point.

‘Network: The citizen in question entered New Shangri-La illegally. All information is blocked. The right to carry out financial transactions is also blocked, with the exception of payment for return transportation to Integralia, his region of origin.’

I confess that I was confused: nothing in that sentence made sense. To my knowledge, it was not possible to travel illegally from one region to another because all were enveloped in an energy field that could not be crossed. There was no one who didn’t know this: you learned it as soon as you went to school. Anyone who wished to change region must submit a request to the Network and follow the proper protocol. And what kind of talk was that, to say that the man had no right to make purchases? In the state he was in, it would be utterly irresponsible to send him back to his own land, and obviously, without money, he would never be able to survive long enough in New Shangri-La to recover and be fit to travel again.

A sharp voice pierced my confusion.

‘Hey! You look like you’re asleep… Who is he? Contact any family members, we have to know what happened to him.’

I looked at Dr Abboud, who had asked the question while busily disinfecting the wound, and at the other figures leaning intently over the patient. I contacted the Network again.

‘Network On. Share with everyone within a three-metre radius the last information given to me.’

The message was given again, this time not just in my ears, as was confirmed by the half dozen glances that swiftly intersected, accompanied by surprised expressions. A trainee grimaced in my direction and shrugged slightly, as if to ask, ‘What does all that mean?’ But the pause lasted only a few moments, and then everyone went back to the previous hustle and bustle. Only Dr Abboud remained motionless. Static and thoughtful, she seemed suddenly oblivious to the patient. After a moment, she turned to me.

‘Julia, go to the arrivals area and find out everything you can: who brought the patient in, what they think happened to him… Everything! Go on, move, what are you waiting for?’

She was brusque in her manner but good deep down, and I respected her. I smiled at her and headed briskly for the reception area.