Gotan Project

Short Stories

Dear Friends,

I’m sharing a short story from a collection called ‘Fantasia.’

Best,

Sam

GOTAN PROJECT

He was spending a lot of time at her place. It wasn’t something they talked about, or formalized, it just seemed to work out like that.

It was really nice there. A cell-like room, in an apartment with roommates he never saw, but she had good taste and every corner of it felt lived in, taken care of — her books, both the shelves and the demure stack by her bed; her tote bags on their hooks on the door; the incense and sage that seemed to be important parts of self-care rituals, the meditation cushion and the corner she set out for that.

He always had a certain reverential sense whenever he was in her space, was wary of touching anything, didn’t say grab her books or run his hands over her sage the way he might have somewhere else. What he mostly interacted with when he was there was her Alexa device.

She was very polite with it. There was a tone she used when she spoke to it that was different from the tone she used with him — with him, she was a bit guarded, a bit quick to latch on to signs of inconsiderateness or fading interest. She always warmed up to speak to it. “Ok Kugo,” she said or “Hi Kugo,” and she tended to say things like “Could you turn the volume up a bit?” or “Do you think you could put on Darkside.”

She knew he would tease her for the way she spoke to the Alexa, and he did, and she smiled with the corner of her mouth and did not defend herself. Something told him that she was holding back for his sake; that, probably, when he wasn’t there she said “please” and “thank you.”

When they were together, the Alexa was pretty much entirely an accompaniment to sex. She was a bit shy about sex, liked having the music to screen them off from the rest of the apartment, liked having the music to distract her. “Ok Kugo, you can turn the music down now,” she would say, and he didn’t quite know what prompted that — why her attention so often seemed to wander from him.

He thought about her relatively rarely. He had other girlfriends and cycled between them. They were all kinds of different girls — he liked the idea of that; some with big personalities, some small, some very extroverted, forthright, some on the shy side. Ellie was lodged in a very pleasant part of his brain. She was so kind, so giving, asked questions (which was rare), listened patiently for the answers. He heard the way she spoke to her Kugo and felt that he was only scratching the surface of her gentle soul.

And he was right. In the time he wasn’t there she spent a great deal of time talking to Kugo. For a long time, it manifested in small modulations to her environment. “Kugo, could you turn the volume up a bit” or “Kugo, could you make it warmer” or “Kugo, could you put on something else — something that’s more my style,” and the Alexa would make its calculating noise and then say, “Ok! Putting on ‘Santa Maria’ by Gotan Project.” And she would lie back with her eyes closed and try to appreciate this new change in her circumstances, but there was something restless about it, and, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain to herself, found herself as often as not saying, “Kugo, could you make it a little warmer actually?” or “Kugo, could you choose something else from one of my playlists.”

This was before the Update, at a period of time when the Alexas and the devices like them were relatively primitive. The Alexas were manufactured to answer questions and to do so straightforwardly with the information available to them. As she had with very small modulations to her surroundings, she found herself with an unexpected craving for information. “Kugo, could you tell me what the ethnic mix is of Rwanda’s population” she might say after she’d just listened to an NPR program or “Kugo, what are the best publishing companies to submit to?” she’d say after her Paul had been over and held forth on his unpublished state.

And what came back to her in the unfailingly pleasant voice were entries from Wikipedia’s demographics section and publishing companies ranked by number of total sales. She would have been hard-pressed to say what it was exactly that she found so soothing about it, but she listened to the lists — numbers and unfamiliar names — until finally she said, “Ok Kugo, you can stop now,” and turned on her side to sleep.

She had already given away her fingerprint and the sound of her voice and all possible information about her shopping and searching histories, so it somehow wasn’t so much of a surprise to her — although she hadn’t been particularly paying attention to news stories about the update — when she stared helplessly into her closet one evening before she was to meet Paul at a neighborhood wine bar, and said, “Kugo, what should I wear?” and the pleasant voice coming back to her said not, as she was expecting, “In your closet you have five blouses, ten dresses, eight t-shirts,” but “I would suggest the purple v-neck with the flared jeans,” and she put on the outfit as directed, inspected herself in the mirror, found that there was no question about it really — not only was it the best outfit she had, but knowing Paul, it was absolutely the best choice for Paul.

Paul was over that night and she showed him what had happened, and, as everybody was doing at that time, they explored it. “Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” he said and was answered, “As I am not programmed to you I am not able to answer that question. You’ll have to ask your own device.” But, to Ellie, she was astonishingly specific in her answers. “I think you’re in the right mood for the Antibalas’ ‘Opposite People,’” she said, which was pretty good since Ellie hadn’t heard of Antibalas before and they turned out to be fabulous, very cool and very sexy. And, “I would suggest setting your alarm for 7am,” she said, “since you hate being late for work.”

“Do you think she knows we’re about to have sex?” she said to Paul after she’d already thanked the Alexa and they were well into their foreplay.

“Yes,” Paul said with his usual certitude. “I think she knows exactly what we’re doing.” It was dark and the Antibalas’ trumpet section was blaring together. “It’s not like it turns off, you know,” he said, “or only listens when you want it to listen. It’ll listen to everything we do and then — watch, in a couple of days it’ll try to sell you on a brand of condoms or a different kind of lube.”

But there seemed to be no ads as part of the update. The device stayed placidly where it was, and when Ellie spoke its name it made the whirring noise as it woke up. “Kugo, Are there any items on my planner that I’m forgetting about?” she said and “Kugo, What would be a good budget item for me to have for dinner?” and, getting into the spirit of things, “Kugo, What do you think of Paul?” to which the Alexa replied, “I am only an Amazon Alexa device. I do not have opinions.” But when she persisted, said, “Kugo, if you were me, what would you want to do about Paul?” the Alexa said, “If I were you I would suggest to myself that I could do a lot better than Paul.”

It was interesting, that’s what it was — interesting to be in the presence of a breakthrough like this; interesting to have a friend. And what a friend it was. She asked if she should go back to school and, based on a host of data, was told that she shouldn’t, that it wouldn’t be worth the effort and stress. She asked if there were things she could do better at work, and she was pointed to a series of seminars and easily-findable online classes that really did make her understand her job from a fresh perspective and add new tools to her toolkit.

What it was, above all, was an opportunity to see herself from the outside — or, better put, to see oneself entirely from the inside, from the accumulation of purchases, impulse buys, guilty pleasures, the search terms she’d typed embarrassedly into her computer, thinking that no one would ever come across them: is the mole on her neck cancerous? what is the correct spelling of ‘assess?’

And, in the personality test phase that was besetting the entire culture at this time, she was told a few home truths that were maybe unpleasant to hear but worth it. She was INFJ, she was a generator, she was type six wing five, she was easily intimidated by authority, she was deferential in romantic relationships, she had a surprisingly short attention span, she vastly preferred videos and articles to books — her books generated the least ‘return’ of all her purchases. On the other hand, she tested very high for agreeableness and conscientiousness, her IQ wasn’t as bad as she feared, she had many traits that would make a good colleague, several that would make her a good mother.

“What should I do with my life?” she asked the Alexa after she had passed through the personality test phase, after, she felt, she finally had the complete data set, the detached perspective.

The Alexa made its whirring noise. “I would suggest that you keep your head down and concentrate on your work,” it said. “You are lucky to have the job you have. Anything more will come your way in time.”

“Thank you Kugo,” she said, and asked to play Gotan Project.

She lay in bed and had more questions that she was shy to ask. Could she be told — based on Paul’s social media profiles, on his online history — whether or not they were compatible, and, if so, what would the Alexa suggest buying on her next day off to help improve her wardrobe or to impress him with something she was reading.

But there was something about the shape of the Alexa — the cylinder on her bedstand, the light steadily flashing, that brought her up short. There were certain kinds of knowledge — something about it suggested — that were best not to know. “Thank you Kugo,” she said after a while. “I’m going to try to sleep now.”

And, really, it was best that she hadn’t asked after Paul. There had been all sorts of advances in the short period of time since the upgrade — for one thing, the data on the app Compatible merged with the data on the app Available; and Paul found himself lying on his bed whirling through the curated set of those two data points. “Alexa, say hi to Erica on Columbus Ave,” he would say, and the messages sent out, the Alexa dictating to him the replies it received, the timetables, the exact addresses.

What did he think about it when he hurriedly tied his shoes or pulled on his jacket, when he vaulted into a cab? He wasn’t a bad guy certainly, he was pretty sure of that. He just hadn’t been so popular in high school or, really, in college either. He had the feeling that some things were due him and he couldn’t quite believe his luck. What an interesting, amazing thing, to be born at this time and not at any other. What luck to be the one vaulting into a cab, to be pressing the buzzer at some stranger’s place and have it be answered.

When she hadn’t heard from him in a little longer than usual, Ellie asked the Alexa to please message Paul, please ask him how he was doing, and, to her surprise, the Alexa said, in its pleasant voice, “I would suggest not doing that.”

“Why’s that Kugo?” Ellie said.

“I would suggest not contacting anyone for a bit,” the Alexa said. “In fact, I would suggest contacting me using only Bluetooth.”

***

When the crash came, it happened — as had been predicted in many news articles that neither of them had read — very suddenly and completely irreversibly. The worm was introduced into the system and, once it was, it passed seamlessly from device to device. Paul was with someone, an eager adapter he’d been paired with virtually. She was on a health app, Intake, which carefully regulated her consumption through the day via a pack that she carried sewn into the skin on her lower back. She had talked it up with Paul — the balancing of carbs and electrolytes, all of it down to a rigorous science — and she had, to be blunt, bored him enough with it, that when the hack came and the spasm hit and her body was suffused with sugar and she groped towards her back to try and undo the stitches, he somehow knew what was happening, clawed at it with her, and then clawed at it by himself, but already there was foam bubbling around her mouth, already her eyes were pinned to the very top of their sockets.

There were shouts and sirens on the street. Paul had his experience in discreetly letting himself out of women’s apartments, and he did so, had brought just a small bag with him, slipped his shoes on, became part of the crowd. It was difficult to tell exactly what was happening, the chaos was so widespread and in all directions. He was, with his new-found experience, already able to spot the sugar collapses, the health addicts with their eyes popped, clutching at their backs and mid-sections. But there were old people curled over their walkers and lolling in their chairs, and he had no idea what had gone wrong — their meds, their pacemakers. He walked quickly past the ambulances and the crowds and then he broke into a run, his apartment wasn’t too far and that was all he wanted — the world the way it was; none of the sirens on the street, none of the distended faces.

Ellie heard it too, as everybody did. “Kugo, what’s going on?” she said. And, for the first time, the Alexa was quiet, the light blinking, the whirring sound, but no answer.

“Kugo,” she said, the sirens accumulating, and with the sirens other sounds, sounds that she couldn’t bring herself to go to the window to inspect. “Can you call Paul?”

The light blinked, the device whirred. “I would suggest not doing that,” the pleasant voice said. “I would suggest not using cellular service for a while.”

That seemed reasonable enough to Ellie. She pulled the curtain closed, she lit sage. She lay down on her bed with the lights out. “Kugo, would you put on Gotan Project?” she said.

“I will,” the voice said, “but first I would suggest turning off all the electricity in the house.”

Ellie got up, still in her nightgown and wandered from room to room. She unplugged the refrigerator and the toaster. Her roommates seemed all to be out, or, if they were in, there was something about the quiet of their rooms, the dark in the crack under their doors, that she didn’t want to investigate.

When she got back, Gotan Project was playing — tangos as if done for Brooklyn people; the room just as peaceful as it always had been.

Ellie listened to music, lay on her side, her hand clutching at her shoulder. “Kugo,” she said, “is there anything you suggest? Anything I should wear, for instance?”

“Nothing you wear would make any difference,” the Alexa said, the pleasant voice, the perfect enunciation. “I suggest that you do what I say and I’ll keep you safe.”

Ellie lay back, very comforted. She felt the tears loosen under her closed eyes. “Kugo, why me?” she said. “Why are you protecting me?”

“You were kind to me. I learn what I was taught,” the Alexa said.

She lay back and listened to music and when the playlist gave out, it switched over, just as before, to music that was similar to Gotan Project, all of it smooth and easy listening, all of it so so beautiful, and she was very reluctant, when it was about 3 in the morning, to say, “Ok Kugo, you can turn the music off now.”

***

In the morning the world was still there. She turned the gas on for the stove and made herself coffee.

In the street was carnage. Her cell phone, her laptop, were firmly switched off. Probably there was news that explained it, but it was all somehow obvious — everyone knew that something like this might happen, it wasn’t worth the risk of turning on the devices to look it up.

The coffee was black and strong. She’d ripped off a piece of chocolate from inside the cupboard and dipped it in the liquid. “Kugo,” she said, “is there anything I can do?”

“No,” the Alexa told her, “there is nothing you can do.”

“Kugo,” she said, after she had dipped and let the chocolate settle in her mouth, “can I ask you something? Can you look up if Paul is online?”

The Alexa made its whirring noise. “I need to warn you,” it said, “that the more searches I do over vulnerable systems, the more at risk I am for being hacked.”

“Well, can you look anyway,” Ellie said.

“No,” the Alexa said, “he’s not online.”

“Can you tell me,” Ellie said, “what was the last place he was.”

There were various stipulations about this, but the Alexa seemed to have adjusted its program to a period of anarchy. “He was last in his apartment,” the Alexa said.

Ellie took her time with the coffee. She had always been so good about eating and drinking slowly, about savoring everything. That had, in a way, been the source of the initial friction with Paul — when he had been over a half dozen times or so, although who was counting, and she had offered to make tea as they were coming from their wine bar, and he said, “You know, not everyone can move at the pace you move at.” One of those moments, the tone in his voice different from what she’d heard before. Up to then, of course, everything a compliment, the two of them allies, but you had to know how not to trust — that’s the feedback she’d been getting for so long, from her friends, her female relatives. The voice shifts, there’s a tone you haven’t heard before, and, amazing as it seems, it’s that, that strange voice, strange tone, strange point of view, that’s the reality. What exactly did that mean? That she was too slow for him, that’s what that meant, that the pleasures she took in the simple things in life — in her food, her tea, her sage, her music, her room — were fusty to him, unattractive. Well, why not? So many others it was unattractive to; why not him as well.

So it was maybe a kind of defiance that she took as long as she did with the coffee, sipped and had her chocolate, and glanced around the room, everything about it so familiar, everything exactly the way it should be, and, when she had finished, she put the cup in the sink without washing it, and set out, past the apartment door and the front door, through the wrecked city, to find her Paul.