in Nature Magazine, January 2006)
The coppers smashed my fatherâ€™s printer when I was eight. I remember the hot, cling-film-in-a-microwave smell of it, and Daâ€™s look of ferocious concentration as he filled it with fresh goop, and the warm, fresh-baked feel of the objects that came out of it.
The coppers came through the door with truncheons swinging, one of them reciting the terms of the warrant through a bullhorn. One of Daâ€™s customers had shopped him. The ipolice paid in high-grade pharmaceuticalsâ€”performance enhancers, memory supplements, metabolic boosters. The kind of thing that cost a fortune over the counter; the kind of thing you could print at home, if you didnâ€™t mind the risk of having your kitchen filled with a sudden crush of big, beefy bodies, hard truncheons whistling through the air, smashing anyone and anything that got in the way.
They destroyed grandmaâ€™s trunk, the one sheâ€™d brought from the old country. They smashed our little refrigerator and the purifier unit over the window. My tweetybird escaped death by hiding in a corner of his cage as a big, booted foot crushed most of it into a sad tangle of printer-wire.
Da. What they did to him. When he was done, he looked like heâ€™d been brawling with an entire rugby side. They brought him out the door and let the newsies get a good look at him as they tossed him in the car, while a spokesman told the world that my Daâ€™s organized-crime bootlegging operation had been responsible for at least twenty million in contraband, and that my Da, the desperate villain, had resisted arrest.
I saw it all from my phone, in the remains of the sitting room, watching it on the screen and wondering how, just how anyone could look at our little flat and our terrible, manky estate and mistake it for the home of an organized crime kingpin. They took the printer away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies. Its little shrine in the kitchenette seemed horribly empty. When I roused myself and picked up the flat and rescued my peeping poor tweetybird, I put a blender there. It was made out of printed parts, so it would only last a month before Iâ€™d need to print new bearings and other moving parts. Back then, I could take apart and reassemble anything that could be printed.
By the time I turned eighteen, they were ready to let Da out of prison. Iâ€™d visited him three timesâ€”on my tenth birthday, on his fiftieth, and when Ma died. It had been two years since Iâ€™d last seen him and he was in bad shape. A prison fight had left him with a limp, and he looked over his shoulder so often it was like he had a tic. I was embarrassed when the minicab dropped us off in front of the estate, and tried to keep my distance from this ruined, limping skeleton as we went inside and up the stairs.
â€œLanie,â€ he said, as he sat me down. â€œYouâ€™re a smart girl, I know that. Trig. You wouldnâ€™t know where your old Da could get a printer and some goop?â€
I squeezed my hands into fists so tight my fingernails cut into my palms. I closed my eyes. â€œYouâ€™ve been in prison for ten years, Da. Ten. Years. Youâ€™re going to risk another ten years to print out more blenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats?â€
He grinned. â€œIâ€™m not stupid, Lanie. Iâ€™ve learned my lesson. Thereâ€™s no hat or laptop thatâ€™s worth going to jail for. Iâ€™m not going to print none of that rubbish, never again.â€ He had a cup of tea, and he drank it now like it was whisky, a sip and then a long, satisfied exhalation. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
â€œCome here, Lanie, let me whisper in your ear. Let me tell you the thing that I decided while I spent ten years in lockup. Come here and listen to your stupid Da.â€
I felt a guilty pang about ticking him off. He was off his rocker, that much was clear. God knew what he went through in prison. â€œWhat, Da?â€ I said, leaning in close.
â€œLanie, Iâ€™m going to print more printers. Lots more printers. One for everyone. Thatâ€™s worth going to jail for. Thatâ€™s worth anything.â€
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