Timewalk

Lia asked for the timewalk in mid-March, herself.

She came to me in the kitchen in the evening, on Monday, with the notebook open to a clean page on which in advance, at the top in pencil, in her hand, was written one word “conversation” (since age ten she had developed the habit of writing on the page the title of a serious conversation before it began — like a heading in a lab journal, before the experiment, so that later, if the conversation began to drift, one could go back and check). Sat opposite, placed the notebook on the table, the pencil beside it. Looked at me.

— Dad.

— Yes.

— I want to ask Noma to lead me through the timewalk.

I set the cup of tea down. Very slowly.

(The timewalk at our Academy is performed once in the entire life of a subject, and usually — at fourteen or fifteen, after the teenager’s own angle of observation has settled in. Before this age the timewalk is not recommended, because the forks of future instances a child has nowhere to fold: he will feel these instances, but he won’t be able to assemble them back into a single signature, and from the timewalk will return fragmented. Then three months of stabilization at the Academy, with Noma, with risky nights. Ten-year-olds are not led through the timewalk. Not once in the past two hundred years, by Olga’s records, has it been done.

I knew this. Lia, judging by her posture at the table and by the fact that the word “conversation” was underlined from below, also knew.)

— Lia.

— Yes.

— You’re ten.

— Ten and eight months.

— Usually at fourteen.

— I know. I looked in your notebook last August. You wrote about the timewalk in summary, with a reference to Olga’s journal of 2029. The age of the child is indicated. I read it.

— You looked into my notebook.

— I looked. Once. On one page. It’s not a habit, it’s reconnaissance. I’m confessing to you now; you’ll reprimand me for it; I’ll accept the reprimand. But on the substance — I still want to ask.

I was silent for ten seconds. Lia did not press.

— Why now?

— I need to see how it’s set up ahead. I have with Karl a joint thing. It leads me in one direction. In it I am at ease, but because of this ease I might go into a direction where with him it will turn into the wrong one. I want to see two or three versions of the turning. If I see them — I’ll be able to avoid those that are not ours. If I don’t see — with us it might come out not ours.

— That’s — your formulation.

— Mine.

— Did Wei Lin hear it?

— No. I want you to hear it first. You for us are — the first instance of family consent.

I looked at my daughter. At ten and eight she formulated the task more cleanly than I did at twenty-five. The old, quiet rage rose in me again, the one that appears every time she laps me by three or four circles. I’m familiar with it; it’s a working one in me; I didn’t release it today.

— Did Mom talk to her?

— I’ll ask Mom in a separate session. Today — you. Mom — tomorrow evening.

— Why in turn?

— Because if I tell you both at once, you’ll start discussing, and the conversation will go about something else. If in turn — each answers himself.

(That was, as far as I understood, her first adult argument. I had nothing to counter it. At that minute I understood that my daughter, for some structural reasons, already knows how to negotiate with adults. I didn’t have this skill until twenty-eight. From where, I don’t ask.)

— All right.

— Will you think on it?

— I’ll say now. My consent is — conditional. First condition: Noma decides herself whether this is possible at ten. If she says no — you wait until fourteen. Second condition: Wei Lin doesn’t object. If he objects — you wait. Third condition: Mom is at the session next to me, through the wall. Fourth: after the session you don’t work alone with us for twenty-four hours. We’re with Mom in the same room with you.

— Accepted.

— Fifth condition.

— Yes.

— What you see is — yours. You tell as much as you want. We — don’t ask.

Lia gave me a long, very attentive look.

— Thank you.

— You’re welcome.

— I’ll go to Mom tomorrow.

— Go.

She closed the notebook. Carried it to her bedroom. I remained in the kitchen with cooled tea and the sense that she had just placed before me her own boundary task, and I had not missed it.