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Harry DuBois covers his eyes with his hand, the searchlight of Archer wakes him. Shooting like a bullet through the window, it doesn't illuminate much -- everything else in the room remains asleep in the dark. Harry sits up quietly. He thinks of Kim, deep in sleep in the next room. It is unnecessary to let him know.
Downstairs, Garte forgot to turn off the disco light. Little light dots float in the empty hall, touching him like soft childish hands. From this quiet explosion of light, he steps into the darkness outside. Smell guides him better than sight: the smell of blood in the plaza; on the right-hand side, the smell of a rotten body. The air is thick, sticking the scents to his body. Harry enters the backyard. A window looking into the yard is still lit, then someone behind it notices Harry and immediately closes it. It is dark and quiet now. But in the quietness, he can hear the whole Martinaise rustling. He climbs into the port from Cuno's shack. Then, he walks into those dormant derricks and mountains of red containers. There, Evrart Claire awaits.
Harry doesn't want to be there. The tribune has already given Evrart what he wants -- the company has withdrawn and the Union has taken over the port. He doesn't know what else Evrart could want from him, but here he is. "Why did you ask to see me?"
"I didn't think you would come!" the man giggles in Harry's angry gaze, fat on his chin trembling with his sound: "Don't be so emotional, Harry. It's bad for your health." The air is so thick and humid as if Evrart is swelling and melting into it. Harry feels like if he breaths, he will inhale Evrart Claire -- he suffocates: "They are dead! And the company could be back with an army!" Evrart tilts his head, almost appreciating Harry's anger, then he suddenly puts on a serious face: "I know what you are thinking. Hopeless war, impossible to win, all the deaths will be for nothing..." He puts his fingertips together like a steeple and shakes his head fondly: "Harry, Harry, Harry. It's never about war."
"What is it about then?"
"Unmasking them," Evrart leans backward on the squeaking sofa, his voice parodying a Coalition bureaucrat reciting his speech: "Their mask of peace, progression, and civilization. Killing a principle." Then his voice lower, almost giggling again: "They have been using mercenaries for decades. Beating, torturing. But none matches this: eight deaths, firework of guns. Not in some remote village of Qohor, but in Martinaise! We've forced them to kill their principle."
"How dare you..." Something chokes Harry. It's blood, welling up from his throat. He closes his eyes swallowing, and sees the face of Titus behind his eyelids. That fool-hardy man treated those mercenaries with ceramic armours like drunks in a bar. He didn't what they can do. "How dare you."
Evrart looks at him with his steeple hands. It is funny how human memory works. In a moment, he feels himself back to twenty years ago: Edgar was pacing, the air in the container buzzing with his loud voice. It was a time when the two of them could still fit into the same container. Of course, it was not this container -- the luxurious wood desk and leather coach were not there yet; instead, they had piles of books.
"We must do this!" Edgar halted, shooting his fervent gaze at Evrart. Evrart, the mirrored image of Edgar, sat on a broken chair with Crime and Punishment in his hand. He had been reading this book for days. He saw his fate in Raskolnikov, but his repentance puzzled him. Was it really that painful to kill a loathsome, harmful louse for the right course? Must one kill himself while killing the louse?
It's not that Evrart didn't want to do this, but he needed more to convince himself. He was only familiar with killing theoretically. But killing the current Union representative needed more than a theory -- even though she was a puppet of the company and she made the Union a puppet as well. He needed to guarantee that he would not break down like Raskolnikov. And this was just the first step.
Following Evrart's sight, Edgar looked at the raggedy old book and sneered: "Raskolnikov, where do we go?" With their identical faces, Evrart again felt the dizzy of watching himself through a mirror. Evrart watched Edgar pace around him, and he paced around him. Until the two turned into a whirlpool, stepping closer and closer into each other.
"Kill her, we stain the Union with her blood." "We wash away the stain of money with blood."
"We can win the election ourselves." "We can't, not with her throwing company money at workers."
"The workers just don't know what they want." "They don't know what they can want."
"And us? Do we know?"
"Do we?" Edgar's voice softened. His eyes became the eyes of a snake, and his tongue a hiss: "Ordinary men know not their ordinariness, for they endure their suffering and happiness like those are inevitable. Neither do extraordinary men know they are extraordinary. They see their will as History and don't even realize themselves wielding it. But there is one kind Raskolnikov neglects. Himself, who is no longer ordinary because he has realized this division of men, yet is not extraordinary for the lack of will. Gone is the blessed ignorance. So where do we go, Raskolnikov?"
Evrart remained silent. Their spiral tightened, like two snakes entangling together. Noises broke out outside their container. He wasn't listening -- his eyes were fixed on Edgar, but sounds and visions pulled into his mind.
"Look who is back!" Leo, a worker whose arm was smashed a few days ago, raised his right arm in display. "Damn, look at this fake arm! It worths more than you motherfucker." Mañana leaned forward all mysteriously, poking, and Leo playfully slapped him away: "Get your dirty hand off my high-end stuff. " Dockworkers crowding around Leo burst into laughter. They were marching towards the bar -- tonight they would feast and drink in Leo's compensation money.
"Are you Sonya? Repent and suffer! Everyone is equal in the eyes of God, and we should suffer equally." Edgar spoke into his ear.
"Hey Mañana, you should let the container crush your dick next time. You don't need it anyway!" The sharp laughter of Glen. He could see Mañana punching him in his mind.
"Or are you Dunya, would rather be raped than shot Svidrigaïlov?"
"They should put a price list on our body parts!" That's one-legged Seurat.
"Who made me a judge or a divider over you, is that what you think?"
"My hand worths much more than your dick!" Another laughter.
"Neither do you, neither do I." That was his voice.
Price has been set on them, each and every one. Entangling in the eternal whirlwind were no longer Evrart and Edgar, but the bodies of two dockworkers, with their valuable arms, legs, and torsos. Evrart felt himself drunk too, intoxicated by a bliss of comprehension. He turned towards his mirror and smiled: "We must do this."
The killing of an old woman breaks Raskolnikov, but not Evrart. The eternal whirlwind of crime, he embraced it. He embraced it when he bribed, threatened, and stole, when he monopolized Union leadership, funded the strikes with drug money, and set up the lynching of that mercenary. The whirlwind has become him, and one day, maybe one day he will willingly hand his fat head to an unstained future. But not now.
"Must?" Evrart giggles again in Harry's disgusted gaze. Evrart Claire is a fat walrus, but his eyes are beaming with light, just like when he said children of Martinaise shouldn't be playing with feces. "I have been above Köln, you know? I could have stayed." Evrart's smile turns from playful to serious, too serious for him to be believable: "I came back because there I was an individual. A human. But in Martinaise, I'm a part of History."
The air grows thicker in silence. In the dizziness of suffocation, the face of Evrart Claire merges with Dolores Dei in his eyes. Harry opens his mouth to breath, to inhale.
And then, it rains. All of a sudden, millions of raindrops are hitting the mountains of containers. The thickness of the air is dispelled. The inside of their container buzzes with the sound of heavy rain beating its iron walls. Harry imagines a river pouring from the sky, overflowing the floor of the plaza, the smoker's balcony, and the monument of Filippe III. Carrying everything, rushing unstoppably into the sea.