The Divers' Game

A Novel

Jesse Ball

• Publisher: Ecco
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9780062676115
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

From the inimitable mind of award-winning author Jesse Ball, a novel about an unsettlingly familiar society that has renounced the concept of equality—and the devastating consequences of unmitigated power The old-fashioned struggle for fairness has finally been abandoned. It was a misguided endeavor. The world is divided into two groups, pats and quads. The pats may kill the quads as they like, and do. The quads have no recourse but to continue with their lives.

The Divers' Game is a thinly veiled description of our society, an extreme case that demonstrates a truth: we must change or our world will collapse.

What is the effect of constant fear on a life, or on a culture? The Divers' Game explores the consequences of violence through two festivals, and through the dramatic and excruciating examination of a woman's final moments.

Brilliantly constructed and achingly tender, The Divers' Game shatters the notion of common decency as the binding agent between individuals, forcing us to consider whether compassion is intrinsic to the human experience. With his signature empathy and ingenuity, Jesse Ball's latest work solidifies his reputation as one of contemporary fiction's most mesmerizing talents.

Ogias’ Day

I heard a song once: at the moment of my despair someone was singing on the other side of the fence, a young voice, a voice that could hardly have known what it was singing, what the words meant, or who they were meant for.

1

Lethe! If we look for her, if we run up the stairs, cast open her door, and look in her bed, she is not there. If we dash down the steps, turn a corner, pass her befuddled father (who cannot see us), and go to the little table that she loves so well, the one by the window, she is not there! She is not there! A plate and some crumbs, an empty glass. Out we go into the street, and up ahead—can it be?—we see her, beneath linden trees, swaying as a child does, because the morning sways, because when it is the morning, isn’t everything swaying? It is only the old who are stiff, who can no longer feel the world’s slight breath.

Lethe! She is looking at her feet as she walks, watching them—how unpredictable they are, are they hers?—and thinking—what will she do today? Her feet move beneath, and we with them, and suddenly we have reached the train. Nimbly up the steps she goes, the train doors open, and there is a place for her, between two men who stare straight ahead, as if into nothing. They are not alone. The train is full of such as they. Lethe takes her place among them. She looks straight ahead, but her mind is humming. This is a trip she takes each morning, and meanwhile, always meanwhile, she is elsewhere.

The doors close, the train shoves forward, and over the loudspeaker comes a voice she has heard a thousand times. Instinctively, she grasps the gray rubber device on her belt and straightens up. She stares ahead, chin up, almost proudly. A deep and reassuring voice, the ever familiar voice, one she has heard her whole life, it shudders the speakers and everyone in the car chants softly:

A citizen

For the life of him

Or her or he or she

That keeps a mask

On the belt or arm

Need never fear the streets.

If trouble comes

Like quad scum—

Your mask put on!

Your mask put on!

The gas shall flow

A cloud to grow

And lay them low

The lowest at our feet.

A chorus of horns plays, and the car is quiet again. It travels on, ever forward. That is the direction of society: forward. All those who try to send it back are ground beneath the wheels. Hasn’t it always been so?

At every station, the joyful chorus peals. When you are so used to saying something—isn’t it a kind of gladness to let it roll unexamined from your lips? They stood in that tincture, a thin gladness to be sure—you could never touch it, or really feel it, until the train doors opened at the center exchange, and out the passengers poured, so many—you would never think the train could hold so many. They were not in wild colors, these citizens, although of course they wore the latest fashions. And each, to the last, bore a finely made mask upon the hip. Have you ever seen so many gas masks in one place? And every one nicely worn from use, every one the tool of an expert. It was a kind of modern-day Sparta, wouldn’t you say that? Wouldn’t you agree?

And today, it was the day before Ogias’ Day. There hadn’t been an Ogias’ Day, not for fifty years. So no one knew how it would go.

LETHE MANAGED HER WAY DOWN THE STAIRS FROM THE platform, and ducked under a rail to take a shortcut along a green bank to a side street that ran out hurriedly from the rail exchange. This was the way to her school, for she was grown now, sixteen or seventeen, and could take her place at a college, where she would be taught everything a person might want to know, everything about anything. Lethe was the kind of clever that doesn’t say much. She was liked and praised and left alone. Her future was assured. But today she was late to school, only just late, and ran in the front door through a sort of absence—the throng had passed through three moments before. She could almost feel them there, a wild mass of arms and legs, of shoving and nearness. One, two, three—and then she!

Into the classroom, and she sought for Lois. In her mind in the door she saw Lois, imagined her in some chair, with a free space beside her. Then, into the lecture hall, and Lois was there, just as she had seen it, just as Lois always was, beckoning with a thin arm, an arm that looked almost precisely like Lethe’s. I could not tell them apart, though they were not sisters. Have you ever met someone and felt they were some reflection of you? Have you felt reflected? Lethe and Lois sat and held hands beneath the desks, identical in gray skirts and dry yellow sweaters, bare at the shoulder. The light at the podium flickered on, and their lecturer, Mandred, was there. His old eyes raked the room, and he smiled slightly.

And shall we begin?

YOU ALL REMEMBER WE WERE SPEAKING LAST WEEK about the circumstances that led to the transformation of our society. The famous influx of refugees—so many they could not help but change us. We were forced by them to change. Everyone remembers the lesson? How did we change?

That’s right, the Firstmost Proposal. This was the subject of our test last week. Can someone tell me the substance of the Firstmost Proposal? You?

That’s wrong. It’s not entirely right, and what we say is, what is entirely right is right, everything else is wrong. The Firstmost Proposal, I remind you, was made by Eavan Garing. A minor elected official at the time, he would later be chancellor. He said, we can welcome them, as long as we can tell them apart. As long as we can tell them apart. Many of them, wherever they were from, they had red hats, a kind of long knit hat, a red hat, no one remembers why, and so Garing said, This will be their symbol. We’ll tattoo the red hat on their cheeks, and then we’ll know who is who. Then we can welcome them.

Did this work?

Yes, it worked, the refugees were admitted, and they were told apart. What else did it mean? What else did the red hat mean?

That’s right: They shall have red hats so you may know them, and they shall therefore have no legal standing as persons. It was the kindest thing that could be done, to admit them, because they had nowhere to go, but they were different than we are, and that fact couldn’t be forgotten.

So then they were among us, and bore their red hats, but there was trouble. Who remembers what the trouble was?

Yes, they had no safety; they were not persons, anything could be done to them. Certain low elements, citizens to be sure, but low elements, well, they were taking advantage. It was causing trouble. It wasn’t any good to see, especially not within the nation. And of course this made others become partisan. Some were actually sympathetic to the newcomers. Groups were organized, a kind of vigilante militia, to protect them, to protect the refugees from other citizens. Do you recall the names of any of them? This was material from a previous class. Someone should know it.

That’s right, Lambert Ma. He was among the first. He murdered several citizens before he was arrested and executed. There was a good deal of blood shed, the blood of full citizens, as well as a great deal of attrition among the refugee group. Their population declined measurably at this time. But it did not go away.

What happened then?

Yes, the government suppressed these partisans, in effect supporting which position?

That anything could be done to those without rights. There is a philosophical position that came into vogue, it is what we call in philosophy an awakening, a large-scale shift in belief: that things done to those beneath are not properly violence. It was a new definition of violence, and helped to create a vibrant morality, one that infuses our nation to this day. Our morality is what we do. Do you all understand that? But if what we do ceases to be violence, let us say it is the same, but it is no longer violence: then we are not violent; we are no longer doers of violence.

Nonetheless we have hearts, we are a good and fair society. It was clear the refugees could not simply live amongst us without trouble. So someone thought of the first quad, the very first quadrant. The government at that time surveyed areas that they called quadrants, outside of each city, and within the quadrants, these who had no rights, the refugees—how did it go? Did they have rights? It was a new kind of land, one that had never existed before, a new designation. Did they have rights there?

No, that’s correct, they did not gain rights within their quadrants, no, the quadrants were surrounded by walls, as they are today, with guards, to see that there could be no organized revolt. But the guards don’t keep anyone in place. Anyone can pass in and out, as you know, but within the walls, and here is the point—this is why there was suddenly safety, a kind of ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Ogias’ Day
• Row House
• Letter
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Also by Jesse Ball
• Copyright
• About the Publisher