Instead it freed up the bosses to stop giving peasants any money at all. You drink water from the canal; you soak up sunlight from the ever-generous air, and you never need to eat. You may get odd cravings for insects or dirt, but you can scratch around in the mud for that. Otherwise you’re pretty much self-sufficient.’
‘Sure,’ said George.
‘And if you’re a monk , or something like that, then sure, it makes you free – free to sit stylites for decades and commune with God. If you want. But if you’re an honest-to-goodness peasant, all it does is free the bosses to squeeze more money for themselves from your labour. I know what you’re thinking.’
If George had had more gumption he might have riposted: ‘Even I don’t know what I’m thinking.’ But instead he sat silently, and peered at the little glistening circle of fluid in his cup. By tapping the side of the shot-glass he could make a transient circle appear in the middle of the circle.
‘The bosses still need people to do the work, of course,’ Dot was saying. ‘So, you’re thinking: why would any peasant work for any boss? Right? Why don’t they just go off together and start a new village – or rise up and throw the oppressors in the canal? What’s stopping them? They don’t need the bosses for anything, after all – not for money, I mean. They can live by light alone.’
‘Sure,’ said George.
‘It’s the question. It’s the question, actually. And there are three answers. And the third of those three answers is really germane to your unhappy situation, Mr Denoone. I’ll come to that. But let’s do it in order. The first answer has to do with the inertia of the peasants, especially the men. I mean, a deep-dyed ontological inertia. But that sounds a bit racist. Peasantist. I know it does. So people don’t like talking about it. Not like that.’
George knew as much about peasant life as he did about life on the moons of Jupiter, so he held his peace.
‘Another answer, more practical, has to do with the bosses’ power. They can shave your head in a minute. How long would you last with a bald head?’
‘How long?’ George asked. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Hair grows at half-an-inch a month’
‘Half a what?’
‘A little over a centimetre a month,’ Dot said. ‘Less if you’re not well-nourished. So how long until you had enough hair to generate enough energy to keep yourself alive, from a bald standing-start?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Something like a smile, or at least a half-inclination of the corner of her mouth, touched Dot’s expression. George hadn’t seen that before. ‘Well, the answer is,’ she said, ‘it depends. But it’s a long time; half a year, nine months, something like that. And, of course, if you’re getting your energy from your hair, then you want that hair to be as long as possible – really you need a three- or four-year growth of New Hair to give you enough energy to work properly. So, if the boss’s men hold you down and shave your head, well – then you’ll die. You’ll die unless somebody supplies you with nutrients – milk say – for the whole course of the intervening period. Do you know anybody who’d be prepared to supply you with milk and meal for half a year? Imagine the cost of it! Remember you don’t have a single cent. Remember you don’t have any means of obtaining money. No one will gift you or loan you a penny. Half a year’s supply of real food – you’d need to be rich as a banker to even contemplate it. So, mostly, you’ll die.’
George thought of the bald-headed corpses he had seen lying by the trench on the trip he’d made to that village. He couldn’t remember the name of the village. He remembered the commissioner describing the whole trip as wild-goose chase . He’d eaten goose in a Tokyo restaurant once. Or gosling, which amounted to the same thing.
‘OK,’ he said.
‘But there’s a third reason,’ Dot said, ‘why people don’t just
‘Sure,’ said George.
‘And if you’re a monk , or something like that, then sure, it makes you free – free to sit stylites for decades and commune with God. If you want. But if you’re an honest-to-goodness peasant, all it does is free the bosses to squeeze more money for themselves from your labour. I know what you’re thinking.’
If George had had more gumption he might have riposted: ‘Even I don’t know what I’m thinking.’ But instead he sat silently, and peered at the little glistening circle of fluid in his cup. By tapping the side of the shot-glass he could make a transient circle appear in the middle of the circle.
‘The bosses still need people to do the work, of course,’ Dot was saying. ‘So, you’re thinking: why would any peasant work for any boss? Right? Why don’t they just go off together and start a new village – or rise up and throw the oppressors in the canal? What’s stopping them? They don’t need the bosses for anything, after all – not for money, I mean. They can live by light alone.’
‘Sure,’ said George.
‘It’s the question. It’s the question, actually. And there are three answers. And the third of those three answers is really germane to your unhappy situation, Mr Denoone. I’ll come to that. But let’s do it in order. The first answer has to do with the inertia of the peasants, especially the men. I mean, a deep-dyed ontological inertia. But that sounds a bit racist. Peasantist. I know it does. So people don’t like talking about it. Not like that.’
George knew as much about peasant life as he did about life on the moons of Jupiter, so he held his peace.
‘Another answer, more practical, has to do with the bosses’ power. They can shave your head in a minute. How long would you last with a bald head?’
‘How long?’ George asked. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Hair grows at half-an-inch a month’
‘Half a what?’
‘A little over a centimetre a month,’ Dot said. ‘Less if you’re not well-nourished. So how long until you had enough hair to generate enough energy to keep yourself alive, from a bald standing-start?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Something like a smile, or at least a half-inclination of the corner of her mouth, touched Dot’s expression. George hadn’t seen that before. ‘Well, the answer is,’ she said, ‘it depends. But it’s a long time; half a year, nine months, something like that. And, of course, if you’re getting your energy from your hair, then you want that hair to be as long as possible – really you need a three- or four-year growth of New Hair to give you enough energy to work properly. So, if the boss’s men hold you down and shave your head, well – then you’ll die. You’ll die unless somebody supplies you with nutrients – milk say – for the whole course of the intervening period. Do you know anybody who’d be prepared to supply you with milk and meal for half a year? Imagine the cost of it! Remember you don’t have a single cent. Remember you don’t have any means of obtaining money. No one will gift you or loan you a penny. Half a year’s supply of real food – you’d need to be rich as a banker to even contemplate it. So, mostly, you’ll die.’
George thought of the bald-headed corpses he had seen lying by the trench on the trip he’d made to that village. He couldn’t remember the name of the village. He remembered the commissioner describing the whole trip as wild-goose chase . He’d eaten goose in a Tokyo restaurant once. Or gosling, which amounted to the same thing.
‘OK,’ he said.
‘But there’s a third reason,’ Dot said, ‘why people don’t just
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