A Brief History of Living Forever


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
 Copyright © 2023 by Jaroslav Kalfař
 Cover design by Lucy Kim
 Cover images © Shutterstock
 Cover copyright © 2023 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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 ISBN 978-0-316-46320-1
 E3-20230215-JV-NF-ORI
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Copyright
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 The Year Is 2029
 The Year Is 1978
 The Year Is 2030
 The Year Is 1982
 The Year Is 2030
 The Year Is 1984
 The Year Is 2030
 The Year Is 1987
 The Year Is 2030
 The Year Is 1988
 The Year Is 2030
 The Year Is 1989
 Meanwhile, On Markyta…
 The Year Is Eternal
 Acknowledgments
 Discover More
 About the Author
 Also by Jaroslav Kalfař
 
 
 
 
 Begin Reading
 Table of Contents
 
 
 
 
 For my mother, Marie
 
 
 
 
 
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 In an ever-changing, incomprehensible world the masses had reached the point where they would, at the same time, believe everything and nothing, think that everything was possible and that nothing was true.
 —Hannah Arendt
 
 
 
 
 THE YEAR IS 2029
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ON A COLD morning in late November, I arrived at my physician’s office to discuss the results of my annual health exam. From the grim tone of the nurse who’d booked my visit and the dreams of abyss haunting me as of late, I knew to expect bad news, that the time had come at last to face the perilous consequences of my long years on Earth.
 I came in early, hoping that old Dr. Škvoreček might see me before my appointment time so as not to risk being late for work. Alas, the room was already filled with a dozen patients, chattering about their aches and pains. Can u com in now?? my shift manager inquired in a text message as the nurse led me into the examination room one hour later. With no sense of urgency, Dr. Škvoreček poured me a cup of tea, leaned back in his chair, and revealed that an illness had taken root in my body. I was likely to die within a year, give or take a month. The doctor showered me with helpful leaflets on grief and offered to speak with my family to ease my burdens. A great poet of the macabre, Dr. Škvoreček described all the ways in which my body would devour itself—crumbling bones, renal failure, death by brain bleed or fungal infection—and I nodded with appreciation for his honesty as I watched the clock mark the beginning of my work hours.
 Only as the doctor launched into a digression about the latest immortality research coming from America—as if suggesting I might be saved by some last-minute God pill—did I reclaim my time, thanking him for a life of service. Rumor had it that my workplace was planning to replace its employees with robots, I explained, and I’d vowed to become the perfect worker to show that I could compete with any machine. I took a polite sip of lukewarm tea, stuffed the leaflets into my purse, and rushed out of the office. The findings of my illness had come from tests mandated by insurance, invasive examinations I would’ve otherwise skipped. I felt no pain, no new sensations in my body aside from the mild nosebleeds. The abstract diagnosis of death lacked any physical urgency. My need for a paycheck, on the other hand, was concrete and immediate.
 As I rushed out of the waiting room, the encouraging farewell of Dr. Škvoreček followed me out to the street: “Don’t trouble yourself, Ms. Slavíková! You’ve lived a beautiful life.”
 MY NAME IS Adéla Slavíková. Join me on this usual path to work during the final winter of my mortal toil! An early, weeklong blizzard had taken our county hostage with a barrage of snow and hail, shutting down morning commutes, derailing trains, chilling the bones of the children and the old. I warmed my hands inside the pockets of my coat as I hastily shuffled my feet along the black slush covering the pavement of Louny, the northern Bohemian town to which I commuted for work.
 My employer was Kaufland, a blockbuster chain of German hypermarkets. I had been a cashier for six years, hating the work but feeling content in knowing I could support myself, pay the bills, enjoy a few basic comforts until age left me dependent on retirement checks issued by a government grudgeful toward its “unproductive” senior populace.