The lesson

The Earth was not shaking, yet she felt this tremor inside, growing… For him it came to his awareness like a worrying thought, born in the shadow of a graver danger…

The strident, thick, invading noise came closer, too quickly for them to analyse what they felt; before they even realised it a silver reflection had wheezed past them, both dazzling and deafening them, and it is only when it was disappearing at the end of the avenue that they recognised that physical manifestation for what it was: a speeding motorcyclist.

"Jesus!"

There was some admiration and an edge of envy in the young man’s voice. His companion, however, was upset. If she did not have such a balanced and happy life, she might have shed a few tears…

"Bloody idiot…" she only muttered.

A couple of days later, the same motorbike approached a garage entrance at normal speed, even stopping for a minute while the metal door went up. Then it went in, again slowly, like a playful tiger. Only when the engine went off and the rider stood down did it become evident that this was a human being and a machine, not some monstrous phenomenon devoid of reason.

The man removed his helmet and showed to be a young fair-haired boy of slightly chubby complexion. There was vigour in his demeanour, in spite of the leather biker outfit.

He seemed rather content, his rosy cheeks glowing healthily and his red lips pouting in a faintly effeminate way, as if about to whistle.

The tall figure trudged upstairs to the second floor and unlocked his apartment. Behind the door, on the floor, several letters. He picked them up, now whistling, and entered the living-room. He put the helmet down on a low table, opened the curtains to let the four o’clock winter sun warm the room with its orange light and set to examine the letters.

Youri had never entered a police station. He had never even thought of a police station. He had led an honest life, apart from speeding, and his vague notion of police work was of inconsequential speed control.

However, the station still looked different to how he would have imagined it: clean, bureaucratic, oddly homely. The female receptionist with big glasses simply identified him and bade him take a seat in the waiting area.

Soon enough, they came for him. They were two: one lanky balding man, with a dry skin and a dry smile, and a plump middle-aged lady with motherly attractive looks.

"Youri? Please follow us." Said the man.

They went down a few colourless corridors, the man followed by the woman followed by the biker, until they got to a smallish room on whose door there was a sign saying “Beginning”. Inside, a table and one chair.

"Take a seat." Said the man, closing the door.

So he sat down, quite relaxed, letting his perceptive eyes wander interestedly to examine the surroundings.

"Not very cosy, right?" Said the woman. "We shouldn’t be spending very long here anyway. Let me introduce myself to begin with. I am Judy, and my colleague here is Dr Holson."

She paused.

"Here are a pen and a pad. We’ll come back regularly to see how you’re going and hopefully it isn’t too long until you have finished."

She stopped again. As she did not seem to be about to continue and they were both moving towards the door, Youri felt compelled to ask:

"Finished what?"

The man looked at him sternly and coldly pronounced:

"We only want you to reply to one simple question: why are you here?"

Without any more explanation, they left.

Caught in a mixture of amusement and irritation, Youri looked upon the paper and pen with a half-smile on his face. Who were these people? What was this task? Was he to write to Santa Claus, to explain why he still deserved presents for Christmas? Was he to write a confession? Were they police or the Church? Was he supposed to examine his actions from a moral or legal perspective? Should he mention he slept with a married woman? Could he be expected to know all the laws and to immediately recognise which one he may have broken? There were so many questions…

After a while though, his mind settled on a reasonable course of action and he sanely assumed he had been caught for speeding. He thought he could even guess where and when – he was wrong about that.

So he wrote it down: “I was probably speeding, going faster than 30 miles an hour, which is the limit fixed by the law”.

Then he waited, thinking about what he would do this evening…

They eventually came back. It had taken longer than expected, they found him off guard…

Dr Holson picked up the piece of paper, in an elegant swooping movement full of disdain, and peered at its contents critically. He raised puzzled reproachful eyes towards Youri, brought them back to the paper, of which he suddenly parted, handing it over to Judy with an angry gesture.

Not quite as impressed as the ageing man wanted him to be, Youri nevertheless determined to remain focused and cautious, and began vaguely wondering what he should have answered instead.

After reading, Judy gave him a sad look and a regretful smile. “Such actors!” the young man could not help thinking.

Dr Holson started the interrogation:

"So you were “probably speeding”, were you? Tell me, my boy, is that “probable” or “likely” that you were speeding?"

"Likely." Admitted Youri.

"Likely or certain?"

"Certain." Muttered Youri.

"But is it why you’re here?"

A pang of fear shot through Youri, what were they playing at, messing up with his mind like this?

"So you committed speeding – now the woman was talking, her voice soft, tender, full of bureaucratic understanding. How often, I wonder…"

Youri did not answer, unsure of how to react.

"How often?" Snapped Dr Holson.

"I don’t know, regularly I guess."

"You “don’t know”, you “guess”? Are you guessing rhetorically or are you so wild your memory does not register your actions?"

Youri hesitated.

"I don’t follow speed limits."

"Ever?"

"Never."

He lifted his head and his gaze met Judy’s: her eyes were distressed and full of the deepest concern. “Such actors!” he thought again.

"Yes, the old man pursued, you were saying, in here, that you had “gone faster than 30 miles per hour, which is the limit fixed by the law”."

There was a silence. Youri noticed the disappearance of the “probably” in his statement.

"Now my boy, I’m curious to hear it: what is the speed limit in this country, and why?"

"Well, began the young man, one can travel up to 30 miles an hour in town, usually. Then on the big roads, it would be 70 miles per hour. And 80 for the fast roads?"

"The “fast roads”? I should think all roads are fast roads for you!" Ejaculated Dr Holson.

After a silence, Judy asked in a soft voice:

"Youri, what do you call “fast roads”?"

"Well, am not too sure to be honest. Things like motorways, I reckon, would be what you’d call fast roads."

"I would not call any road fast." Punctuated the old man. "You should go at the appropriate speed on all roads and it should never feel fast."

"But… Isn’t that a bit subjective?"

"What?"

"This notion of fast and adequate. I mean, some drivers go slowly but they are more dangerous than “fast” drivers."

"This may be." Replied Dr Holson. "This may be, but a slow poor driver is infinitely safer than a fast poor driver. And a fast “good” driver is infinitely more dangerous than a slow “good” driver."

He paused.

"Would you agree with that Youri?" Asked Judy.

"I suppose so."

"You suppose?"

"Well I don’t know the science behind it."

"The science?"

"The stats for instance. Or the difference in the force of the impact speed would make, that is in case of a collision."

Judy nodded in appreciation:

"You’re quite smart Youri."

Youri half-smiled, awkwardly.

"Yes I’d have to agree with that." Said Dr Holson. "You’re quite quite smart, for a brainless young lout. Now that we know that you are so “smart”, have you ever considered the practical implications of the concepts of causes and consequences?"

Youri seemed to search for an answer, but the old man did not let up:

"You know like, a collision at 20 miles an hour may break your leg, a collision at 30 miles an hour may break both legs, a collision at 40 miles an hour may leave you paralysed, in this world or the other?"

Youri twitched on his seat uncomfortably.

"I guess you do not really mind killing someone else, becoming a murderer, if you do not even know the speed limits in this country!"

Dr Holson had a strange way of stressing each word, as if he was constantly de-constructing and analysing every single one of his utterances, to the last syllable. It made it rather hypnotic, like some sort of scientific rap. He went on unwaveringly:

"Basically, if we’re talking about cars, cars, never mind bikes, a collision above 30 miles an hour has got a 50% chance of killing you or someone else. And that’s for a collision car to car. Now imagine the car collides with a pedestrian. Or worse… with a speeding biker! Have you ever seen a road accident?"

He had almost shouted the question.

"As a matter of fact, no." Answered the young man, still cool in appearance, although distress levels were internally rising.

"Ha!"

This was Dr Holson. Now Judy asked:

"Would you like to?"

Her tone was strange, a mixture of compassion, commiseration and steel, saying “poor you, I am asking this question, but you will have no choice over the matter”.

Youri did not reply…

So they left, the two law-enforcers pushing Youri out of the room first, making him feel uneasy with their critical gaze on his back. They led him like a blind man to a door with a “Keep out!” sign on it. Dr Holson opened it, using a code and his fingertip.

They were in a very small ante-room, devoid of any furniture, all of a beige colour and smelling of cleaning product.

"What do you think is on the other side of that door?" Viciously asked Dr Holson.

"I don’t know."

"Well you’ll soon see!" He said gleefully. "Let’s go!"

They entered a large high-ceilinged room, containing row upon row of rectangular-shaped pieces of furniture. They took him to the nearest one. Dr Holson pushed a button and the top of the large box slid open, slowly revealing… a mess of a (barely) human shape.

Youri caught his breath; his face had gone singularly pale.

"This," explained Judy, "is, was, Mr George Benton, a successful lawyer just turned 40. He was driving  back home to his wife and two young children. He was tired, in a hurry to get there, the motorway was busy… You can imagine what happened…"

There was a brief silence. Dr Holson now spoke:

"We are collecting bodies from car crashes, because we want to better understand the relationship between speed, collision force and injury. On another room in this building, we store other corpses: the unfortunate cars destroyed by suicidal homicidal drivers. Mr Benton was driving at 76 miles per hour when the collision occurred. You see, the right shoulder is where the hip should be: that’s because under the force of the impact, the car frame went in and crushed his right-hand side. You’ll appreciate that the right half of the head is mere pulp, whereas on the left there is only a skull fracture. Why one can even recognise the eye! What else? Thanks to the airbag, few ribs got broken, but both lungs got punctured through the squashing of the torso. As for the legs, I can guarantee you this man only had two of them before the accident…"

After this little preamble, Dr Holson went on in this vein through three cadavers, detailing each injury and the speed that caused it, giving measurements of collision force, the weight of the impact force…

By the end of it, even though he had not vomited or fainted and had kept up the appearances pretty well, Youri was full of an aching numbness.

At last he got a break. They took him for lunch to the station canteen. This was a fairly cheerful cafeteria, where the pleasant smile from the girl behind the counter made Youri feel a bit better. He ate slowly, resenting the presence of the other two. Neither spoke: both were checking their phones. He got the impression that outside of work, where they formed a redoubtable partnership, Dr Holson and Judy had little to share.

Finally Dr Holson stood up:

"Let’s go to the gym!"

It was not really a gym, more like a scientific lab. Some strange apparatus furnished the place, nothing looking much comfortable.

They took him to a sort of one-armed bandit, made him stand in a circle painted on the floor in front of the machine.

"This is the game of survival. Will you or will you not live?"

Dr Holson paused.

"Do you have good reflexes?"

"Pretty good." Replied Youri eagerly, perhaps thinking this was a redeeming fact.

The doctor just smiled.

"See my boy, the principle is very simple: you have a certain time to react depending on the speed you’re driving at. In the first mode, speed is pre-defined, you cannot change it, and you either hear or see a warning before the accident. What you have to do is brake using this handle. If you brake in time, you live. If not, you die. Understood?"

Youri nodded, relishing the challenge.

"Let’s start then!"

Judy introduced a chip in the bandit and the roar of a starting engine could be heard. On the screen, there was only an empty road, and as the car began to move, the white lines commenced to pass before Youri’s eyes, picking up speed. The light was changeable, at times Youri faced the sun, later it was raining , foggy, night-time…

The car meter showed he was going at 23 miles an hour when a woman’s voice with an American accent suddenly cried out:

"Watch out!"

He braked, immediately. The car stopped, silence.

"Quite good." Commented the doctor.

The car was moving again. Barely two second later, as the meter was showing a paltry 16 miles per hour, a flashing red light spelling STOP in capital letters warned Youri of an impending crash. He braked, immediately, or almost immediately as he did not expect to have to stop so soon. There was a loud collision noise and the following message was displayed: “You have suffered mild to severe injuries, your sequels can include partial or complete paralysis, but rejoice and thank God: you live on!”. Youri cursed under his breath. The two acolytes did not say anything ; Judy introduced a new chip.

Now Youri lent his whole attention to the game and his focus could not have been sharper. The car started, accelerated. Several minutes passed, speed and luminosity changed on a regular basis. Suddenly, at the speed of 42 miles per hour, both the American passenger and the providential screen warned Youri: he braked, immediately.

It was immediate, in his brain, in his limbs, in his heart. However, as his fingers pressed the handle, his ears were registering the sinister and deafening sound of the accident that would rob him of his life…

"42 miles an hour, it does not sound fast, does it?"

Judy was looking at the crestfallen Youri.

"Surely you never even go this slowly, right?"

She was smiling, inviting confidence. Youri did not fall in the trap though, his instinct told him to be quiet.

They made him play again, and again, and again. Even the seven lives of a cat would not have sufficed. At last, they seemed satisfied with the effect this experiment had had on Youri: he was upset, nervous, irritated and his self-confidence was clearly shaken. Sometimes, for tougher customers, they used other modes, or other machines. One in particular was most efficient to beat down the unwavering pride of an alpha male: a woman-shaped robot with a nice figure, slapping your face at irregular intervals. You could dodge it, of course, if you were quick enough. But one never was…

"This was a simple enough game, said Judy. In real life, when you’re driving, there are countless more elements to reckon with: traffic, passengers, personal state… The conclusion is that, although your reflexes are good, they would never be good enough to save your life. Or someone else’s for that matter. Would you agree with that?"

"Have to." Grudgingly admitted Youri.

"You’re a clever young man." Pursued Dr Holson. "I don’t think we need to spell out what conclusions you will have reached today, is that right?"

"That will not be necessary."

"Good! We’ll take you back to reception now, where you’ll be able to pay your fine. Then you can go, and we hope we won’t need to see you again."

The was an edge of menace in that last sentence, not lost on Youri.

The three of them trouped around the reception desk where the bespectacled young woman looked up to them inquiringly.

"Our young friend here needs to pay his fine, cheerfully announced the doctor. No further appointment needed. At this stage."

Judy and Dr Holson accompanied Youri to the door and watched on as he got into his leather biker suit and put his helmet on. They did not speak, but in the way they shared a sort of relaxed sense of superiority and duty done, they could have been Youri’s parents…

Finally, with a clicking sound and a roar, the young man kicked his mount alive. He turned it slowly and rode it to the car park exit. There he stopped to look at the traffic ahead, right and left. Then, “Yoohoo!” Youri shouted, as he sped off…