The Roamers

PART ONE

THE PULLDOGS

‘This life, which is such a fine thing, is not the life we are acquainted with, but that of which we know nothing; it is not the past life, but the future.’

G. Leopardi, ‘The Dialogue Between an Almanac Seller and a Passer-By’ in Moral Essays, 1834 (from the translation by Charles Edwardes, Edwin and Robert Grabhorn, San Francisco, 1921)

‘There is no longer any need to talk about that which exists.’

Le Monde, September 19, 1987

Humanity spent centuries seeking out sunlight, sunlight that had been trapped inside the Earth for millions of years in the form of vast quantities of coal, oil and natural gas. This seemingly unlimited resource was first used in the steam engine, then in the dynamo, and finally in the internal-combustion engine, ushering in what was known as ‘material progress’.

However, to better continue to exploit these sources of energy, millions of human beings were uprooted from their lands and homes and forced to resettle elsewhere in the hope of making a better living. That illusion crumbled in the face of poorly lit factories and cramped offices, far removed from the changing seasons and the ancient customs of rural civilization.

This period, called the Industrial Age and recognized as the final stage of the Fossil Era, lasted for five centuries. It spread over every continent, radically altering human lifestyles as well as the planet’s homeostatic equilibrium. However, during the final decades of this historical period, a new and revolutionary approach to human labor and diet was born. It arose from a series of phenomena that went far beyond any prediction, which were destined to alter mankind’s very relationship with the Earth. At the beginning of the third millennium, two events occurred which, in acknowledgement of their singularity, came to be known as the First and Second Logical Mutations. These Two Logical Mutations were followed by the period in which we are now living, the Drift.

The causes of these phenomena, which gradually expanded beyond their local origins, lie in the dissemination of the first Public Matter Compositors (PMCs) and the home- and portable-nanomats that soon followed but, most importantly, we can trace their beginnings to the invention of nems (nano-electromechanical systems), also known as nanites.

The first symptom of radical change manifested as a shift in attitude towards paid employment. Work had stopped being capable of helping man to achieve their desires. It served to satisfy either exclusively those needs which occupy the tier that is the first and lowest of the hierarchy illustrated in Maslow’s pyramid (i.e. the physiological needs: breathing, food, sex and sleep) or extended to include the second (i.e. safety needs: security of body, of employment, of the family, of health and of property). According to statistical indices dating from that time on numbers of marriages and divorces, social volatility and family resilience, only a tiny percentage of the global population could feel assured it would achieve the third tier (i.e. friendship, family relationships and sexual intimacy). Cases of people who could say they had been able to attain the fourth tier (self-esteem, self-control, achievement, respect of oneself and others) and remain there for more than a few years were rare indeed.

The fifth level (morality, creativity, spontaneity, problem solving, acceptance, lack of prejudice) was not believed to be achievable through work. In fact, anyone who enjoyed that rarest of conditions had certainly arrived there by other routes, the first among these being the opportunity to give up work as it had always been understood – or perhaps misunderstood.

The second change involved human diet. For thousands of years, food had remained a reflection of the societies that harvested, produced and consumed it. It provided the substance and the ideas needed for the evolution of every known civilization, but it also supplied the unique mechanisms that allowed for their eventual divorce from it and resulting transformation.

Many of the things people thought of as pleasurable – family relationships, cultural identity, ethnic diversity – were all intimately linked to food preparation and consumption. However, these had begun to undergo a rapid transformation as a result of habits such as dining out in restaurants or eating in company cafeterias. Not only had people begun to cook less, but the number of people who knew how to cook at all was growing steadily smaller. The ‘outsourcing’ of the food preparation process to manufacturers and multinational companies like Nestlé, Kraft, Unilever and Dannon was the first step towards the disappearance of culinary traditions. The Internet could provide no help in reversing that trend. The recipes it offered were based on abstract instructions, citing ingredients hardly anyone was familiar with anymore and techniques that had fallen out of use among large swathes of the population. To whisk, to nap, to let meat become high, to brown, to parboil – this lexicon lost its meaning once the manual skills associated with it had vanished. What’s more, the wait (meaning the time needed to cook a given food) was a foreign concept in that modern culture. Botched attempts ended up in the trash, replaced by a product from the fridge or a local delivery restaurant.

The number of people who saw food preparation and consumption as a pastime or a means to socialize and amuse themselves continued to shrink. At that point, food preparation time ranged from five to fifteen minutes, while the number of meals not cooked in a microwave or composited by a nanomat grew progressively smaller.

By 2019, the most common ‘meal’ in the world was the sandwich. Meals became snacks, restaurants shrank into snack-bars, cafeterias were replaced by vending machines, and offices were furnished with 3D food printers. When the first ‘squeeze-packs’ arrived, complete meals you could carry in your pocket and squirt down your throat, it became clear that, in the future, the act of eating would be purely incidental.

When it had ceased to serve its original purpose, the act of human reproduction had been transformed into a game, a recreational activity. Human nutrition underwent the opposite evolution, in that people no longer ate for the pleasure of it, but only to resupply themselves with nutrients and energy.

Beginning in the third millennium, food gradually and inexorably began to vanish. The first signs of this date back to the late nineteen- hundreds, when multi-course meals began to be superseded by the single course, fast food by microwave cooking, fun food the single-serving meals served on trains and airplanes, delightful gifts/diversions whose enjoyment lay chiefly in discovering what was inside them as opposed to in eating them – by the finger food typical of happy-hour buffets and caterers’ trays. The end results of this process were rapidly metabolized nutraceuticals and foods composited by 3D printers. Paradoxically, this transformation went hand in hand with the phenomena of obesity and malnutrition, which were a continual torment for over half the world’s population.

This is the story of a group of people, the Walkers, but it is also the story of an anthropological transformation that would forever alter civilization as we know it, giving rise to a new – though in some ways ancient – form of culture, a nomadic and creative society that revolved around the sun.

PHASE ONE

THE FIRST LOGICAL MUTATION

‘Too much speed is like too much light…we see nothing.’

Paul Virilio

‘If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.’

Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Miriam Farchi

Chapter One

Globalzon

In the month of March the skies of Rome offer up an incredible show, free of charge. Not the usual haze of smog, but thousands of birds – swallows, sparrows and starlings – gather above the city’s roofs and umbrella pines for a respite from their journey, a stopover before continuing on their migration.

Their swooping encounters trace fantastical choreographies in the sky, acrobatic evolutions, mosaics whose patterns are ever changing, aerial itineraries of astounding fluidity and vitality. Suddenly they veer, breaking cleanly into two or three neat flocks. They follow the updrafts, each knowing exactly when to glide and when to climb only to once more join and blend into the whole.

Miriam Farchi’s face is tilted skywards. Each time she finds herself tracking those perfect movements – coordinated by goodness knows what instinct, order or rule, without any sort of leader or flight director to issue instructions – she forgets to chew.

One day, she had been watching a swallow, a specimen with a ring of red feathers around its throat. She had seen it swoop in to take the head of the flight and, for a short while thereafter, guide its wheeling. It had been a commonplace scene, one doubtless repeated untold times, yet somehow both extraordinary and moving. At that moment, Miriam had come to the realization that any group as dense and compact as that of the birds functions because each one of its components, whether at the center of the formation or at its fringes, takes a turn at making the decisions. Later, she had done some research and she had learned that no one knew how to explain the dynamics of those airborne acrobatics. They could be a sign of harmony within the birds’ society just as easily as they could be an expression of internal strife.

Miriam finally swallows her mouthful of Cocorich – a bar enriched with nutraceuticals and composited, as the wrapper informs her, in a laboratory called U46G-PRC – and recalls the passage of time. Her lunch break is about to end. A pair of street cats circle around, taking turns rubbing up against her legs to collect the crumbs from her snack-bar.

Miriam opens her purse, takes out her smartphone and switches it off silent mode. Nearby, on the other stone benches that line Piazza Bernini all’Aventino, some of her fellow World Food Programme colleagues are doing the same. Four missed calls in a quarter of an hour, the last from two minutes ago. Such persistence would suggest that it’s something important.

When she reads Alan’s name on the display, she starts to worry. Her son has often told her that there’s no point in calling him at work, since it’s forbidden to take smartphones into the warehouse. All personal items have to be left in external lockers, on pain of receiving a reprimand. He has told her, resigned, that the scanners at the entrance to Globalzon ensure compliance with that rule. The ones at the exit, meanwhile, check that no one makes off with a game console for their children or a pair of sneakers or some undergarments for themselves.

It is with apprehension that Miriam dials Alan’s number. She’s alone now, the only one still lingering in the square.

Hello?

The voice she hears on the other end of the line does not belong to her son. Who is this? Where’s Alan? This is his mother.

Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Farchi. You see…my name’s Giulio. I’m a colleague of Alan’s.

Hello, Giulio. Why are you answering Alan’s phone?

Alan told me to call you, but when I tried before you didn’t answer.

Instinctively, Miriam gets up from the bench and starts to walk, without knowing where she’s going. What’s happened? Pass me my son, please.

She makes her way across the street, blindly. A rickshaw driver – one of many who have added their services to Rome’s range of transportation offerings in recent years – launches a curse in her direction. The passenger, a businessman with an air of confusion, most likely an executive visiting from abroad, glances at the time, looking annoyed.

You see, Alan’s had an accident.

Miriam falters. She sits back down, on the bench nearest to hand. What sort of an accident?

It was an electrostatic discharge. I’ve been hit by quite a few myself.

So it’s not serious, then. Is he all right?

I don’t know. He was up on level D, twenty feet above the floor. I was behind him and saw him lose his balance. He tried to find something to grab on to but then…he fell.

Alan has always hated that job. Every time they see each other, every time he complains, Miriam tries to persuade him that working – even in a distribution warehouse like the one owned by Globalzon – is better than sitting at home, shaking the remote control and cursing the economic crisis while wasting away. Not even playing the guitar, his greatest passion, is a comfort to him any longer.

How did he fall? Did he get hurt?

That’s the problem. He hit the arms of the freight hoist going down, the one we use for lifting pallets. He hit his back.

Miriam squeezes her eyes shut in an effort to stave off panic. She takes a deep breath before speaking. Where is he now? Is he at the hospital? Can I talk to him?

No, he’s here, at the warehouse. When I went to help him, he told me he doesn’t have any insurance, so he can’t be transported. He told me to call you. Hang on, I’ll pass him the phone.

Miriam listens, trying to make out what’s happening. In the background she can hear the sounds of tracked vehicles and irregular beeping noises.

Alan has only been working at Globalzon for a few months. Its Roman hub lies inside one of Tiber’s loops, near the Marconi Bridge. It’s a shipping company but, unlike its competitors, it has invested next to nothing in machinery, opting for more inexpensive human labor. Well, at least that’s what Alan told her, when he first accepted an on-call contract to help cover the Christmas-holiday peak times.

Mom….

Alan, how are you? What happened?

A disaster. His voice is fractured, pained. Listen, these assholes say they won’t call me an ambulance. They say…that they can’t let anyone into the warehouse.

But, how are you? Can you stand?

No, my legs…I can’t feel them.

The fear of what may have happened renders Miriam speechless.

Call someone, Mom. Hurry! They say that the most they can do is…leave me outside the gate. That’s already doing me a favor. They can’t stop working.

Miriam gives herself a shake, gets up and starts to run towards Viale Aventino. There’s a cab stand near her office.

What’s the exact address?

Lungotevere Dante, number 34.

The immense flock of birds has disappeared. Maybe the presence of some predator has forced them into an emergency landing. Only two pairs still linger in the sky to the south, somewhere above Ostiense Station.

I’ll be there as soon as I can.

Miriam ends the call then pulls up the contact information for Cecile, her supervisor in the WFP’s food analysis division. A brief explanation why she’s late coming back from lunch earns Miriam her boss’s understanding in the form of a half-day off. When she sees the traffic lined up at the info-signal in Piazza Albania, she changes her plan and types into Google, ‘fast transport Rome’. Up pop ads for the Speedy Boys, Bartolini and UPS. Beneath those is an ad for the Pulldogs. Miriam opts for the least orthodox but most efficient solution.

A rickshaw picks her up in front of the Piramide subway station three minutes later. Miriam is shaken, sweaty from running. As soon as she recognizes the Pulldogs’ symbol – a stylized dog with a tow harness fitted to a bit in its mouth – she climbs aboard.

And the other one? The one for my son?

It’s waiting for us, further along, on Via Ostiense. From there we’ll go on together.

Please hurry. My son has had an accident.

You told us that, ma’am. Now hold on tight.

The girl behind the push bar of the rickshaw – a ramshackle contraption the color of dirty silver – is tall and brawny. There is something masculine about her toned and well-defined bands of muscle, visible beneath skintight cycling clothes. On her head she wears a white bandanna with a floral pattern. An anti-smog mask covers the lower half of her face. With a shove against the push bar, she surges out into the traffic, or rather, into one of the open passageways between cars.

Miriam clings to the central handrails – two barbells without their weights, wrapped in red leather. How long till we get there?

It depends, but no more than five minutes.

The other rickshaw, a streamlined model with chrome wheels and a seat designed for a race car, is waiting for them like a relay runner. It’s already begun to move when Miriam picks out its canopy from a distance. A boy is pushing this one, his face pitted by teenage acne. He’s so skinny that it’s hard to tell where he gets the strength to haul his rickshaw from morning to night. Still, both drivers keep on, agile and quick, never stopping.

Ahead, along a loop in the Tiber where the old dog-racing track once stood, Miriam can make out the nondescript outline of Globalzon, transit point for every sort of product under the sun. Once it had absorbed the manufacturing sector’s supply chain, it had gone on to swallow up the food industry as well. Outside there are no signs or indications to distinguish it from any other warehouse. Alan says that’s for security, to protect the company and its employees. There have been reprisals and revenge attacks, after all. Every so often, management drops by for an unannounced inspection. Ignorance maintains apprehension and apprehension keeps people on their toes.

Giulio is kneeling in front of the bar that blocks the entrance, keeping watch over Alan, who is lying on the ground by the edge of the street. On high, the seagulls cry and wheel above the warehouse. A number of forklifts stand parked in the service area, while stacks of pallets are being unloaded from a pair of tractor trailers.

When he sees Miriam, Alan finally stops trying to keep it together. He’s been holding on for nearly an hour, but he just can’t do it anymore. He smiles at her, a bit of happiness clinging to his lips, then he faints. She wishes she could to talk to him, check how badly he’s hurt, but that hope is denied.

Where do we take him? San Camillo?

The girl’s voice sounds distorted, as though it’s coming through a dead megaphone. Everything has been happening so fast that Miriam hasn’t even stopped to think about which hospital is closest.

Yes, you’re right. San Camillo.

Miriam is about to lift her son, but the two Pulldogs get there first.

Let us do it. Come on, Little Simon. You drive the lady and I’ll take him. He weighs more.

Together, they lift Alan and ease him down into the first rickshaw. His feet roll back and forth, then lie still. Miriam has to resist the temptation to pull up his shirt and look for something, a cut or an injury of some kind on his back. Instead, she thanks Giulio and climbs into the other rickshaw, her foot already on the running board as she waves.

The girl takes the bandanna from her head and knots it around the antenna like a white flag. Then she’s off, lunging forward.

What happened to him? she shouts, pulling alongside Miriam’s rickshaw as they slow down at the entrance to the Marconi Bridge.

She must be the same age as Alan. She’s covered with tattoos and, now that nothing is covering her head, Miriam can see that its sides are shaved, leaving only a thick black strip of hair, a mohawk-style crest that gives her a fierce look, well suited to her profession.

I don’t know for sure – just that he fell and he hit his back. He can’t feel his legs.

The girl looks down at her own legs, two powerful pistons propelling her nimbly through the traffic on Lungotevere degli Inventori – legs that dodge left and right, brake and bend. Every once in a while they jump up onto the sidewalk, swerve suddenly, veer into the opposite lane going in the wrong direction. The legs of the second driver, behind them, do the same.

I’ve heard a lot of rumors about that place.

Miriam doesn’t know how to answer. She jolts up and down and holds tightly to the handgrips.

From what I hear, it’s run like a military base. They give you objectives every hour, and if you achieve them, they either change them or increase them. Plus, they hire the fewest human beings they can to fill the day’s orders. When they’re done with you, they fire you.

Miriam isn’t capable of adding anything to the conversation. She’s almost not listening, but her silence seems an expression of assent.

What bastards. If it were up to them, they’d just leave a person to die.

A few hours later, the rickshaw girl is still waiting outside the San Camillo hospital. She’s alone there. She’s been passing the time drinking red wine from a plastic bottle without a label.

How’s your son?

Miriam’s expression leaves no room for illusions. Not well, but he’s alive. The diagnosis will take a few days. They need to give him a CAT scan and an MRI. That’s what they told me.

I’m sorry. Listen, ma’am, hop aboard and I’ll give you a ride home. Where do you live?

Thank you. You’re very kind. I live on Via Satrico, near Porta Metronia.

It is only now, when her stomach growls for the umpteenth time, that Miriam realizes she hasn’t eaten since lunchtime. As soon as she’s sitting in the rickshaw, she opens her purse and takes out a Cocorich bar. Meanwhile, the girl is plowing through the traffic on Circonvallazione Gianicolense, a badly maintained ring of asphalt populated by resigned vehicles. Their drivers, however, are agitated, a herd of furious commuters who refuse to be resigned, cursing, laying on their horns and fuming. With pointing fingers and wide-open mouths, people urge each other forward with gestures and hostile glares. The more civil drivers use music to numb themselves or else lost in their smartphones, shrewdly avoiding any sort of exchange of emotion with their fellow motorists.

The rules of the road apply only to human beings. Cars, left to the guidance of apps installed in their dashboards, the first Traffic Intelligence Agents, have no need of them.

At the first red info-signal, the girl turns around and notices the wrapper left in the trash container. You like that stuff?

Miriam stops chewing. She doesn’t really eat those bars. She just uses them to keep her stomach from growling and to give her enough energy to get over the hump between lunch and dinner.

I’m used to them. I’ve been getting them for years. This brand is my favorite. They fill you up because they contain more protein, which gets time-released into your stomach at a rate of four calories per minute. The others are all full of sugar and after an hour you’re hungry again.

Ah, you’re an expert.

I work for the World Food Program, analyzing foods.

What can you tell me about fats?

They’re treacherous, because they have a rate of two calories per minute, but the signal to tell you you’ve had enough is slow to arrive, so you can keep eating without feeling full. It’s a conundrum.

I’m sure you’re right, but I’m still against nutraceuticals. You know what really gets me? My mother runs a restaurant in Trastevere, called Il Romoletto. It’s on Via della Lungara. Have you heard of it?

Il Romoletto? Yes, I know it. I’ve been there with my coworkers. Roman cuisine.

"Yeah, right. All farm-fresh ingredients."

Her tone is mocking. Miriam would like to ask her why she doesn’t work at the restaurant instead of driving a rickshaw, but judging from her attitude and appearance, it’s likely there’s some sort of conflict surrounding the issue. Whatever the case may be, the girl is clearly feeling talkative.

It’s a shame that I can’t stand that stuff, either.

Why not? The ingredients are all natural.

Because my mother and father – he ran the place before she took over – have never really cared about quality. Sure, the ingredients come from the country. They’re even ‘organic’, to hear her tell it, but that’s only because that’s how you make money off stupid tourists. If it were up to her, she’d just order mass quantities from China or make everything up herself with one of those 3D printers. You know the ones I mean?

So what do you eat? You must get your nutrition somehow.

Me? Well, if the food industry had to depend on me, it wouldn’t last very long. People who buy food at the supermarket eat to keep the industry going, not the other way around. I eat—

The girl hauls on the brake, leaps forward and braces her feet against the ground.

Miriam has to grab onto her shoulders to stop herself from flying out of the rickshaw.

Fuck you, you piece of shit!

Just past Ponte Sublicio Bridge a car has cut right in front of them without signaling. It’s a sports car, a BMW, with wheels that extend beyond the chassis and a spoiler that lights up when the driver brakes. Like every other motor vehicle, it’s wrapped in a thin, greasy coat of hydrocarbons – you would be able to tell just by running a hand over it – and with every acceleration it releases fumes that are imperceptible to the eyes, but not to the nose.

Sorry, the girl says, but that, right there, is something else I hate – car drivers who think they own the road. But getting back to what we were saying, I only eat what I grow myself. Me and some friends of mine grow vegetables outside of Rome, on a little abandoned farmstead in Serra Spino where we’ve been staying for the last few years.

The girl doesn’t seem tired after fifteen minutes of running up and down the hills of Rome. She’s sweating and she’s a little out of breath, but not so much that she has to stop to rest. What’s more, she clearly couldn’t care less about traffic signs or the warning messages flashing across the screens of the info-signals. She doesn’t pay attention to stop signs, nor does she concede the right of way to anyone except for her fellow rickshaw drivers – who shoot past on both sides of the roadway every so often – and the poor pedestrians, forced to humbly prostrate themselves before all the rest. Any vehicle with a motor seems to have a black mark in her personal traffic code.

The first rickshaw service, a cooperative venture set up and run by ex-convicts, had appeared in Rome as a tourist attraction, an odd and whimsical means of moving around the city. The old horse-drawn carriages of yesteryear, a protected and anachronistic business, had not been able to compete with the new ‘people porters’ in terms of manageability and cost. Once upon a time, the job was viewed as humiliating and underpaid, but now, in a labor market