THE HONEST ANSWER

by Alvi Chanti

In my twenty-three years of driving a taxi in Berlin, I've encountered all kinds of passengers. Famous politicians, hardworking laborers, actors, and other celebrities. Often, you don't recognize famous people, even though you've seen them repeatedly on TV or in newspaper photos. It's only when they step out, settling the fare, and you turn on the dim light in the cab that you realize who you've just driven. But one day, I picked up a man who even surprised me. Not immediately, though. At first, I didn't think much of it when he got into my taxi and asked a peculiar question, "How far is the nearest morgue?"

I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Not that I was surprised, a morgue isn’t that big of a deal. I once drove Keanu Reeves. And that other guy forgot his name, he was in ‘The Silence of the Lambs...’

Meanwhile, the passenger added, seeing my hesitation as if I might not know what a morgue was, "A morgue is a place where they keep the bodies of people whose vital functions have recently ceased.

Then he blinked. He was wearing glasses and a strangely crumpled suit. His face was pale. Dead pale, I would say.

"I know what a morgue is. There are five of them in the city. Which one?" There wasn't a hint of irritation in my voice.

"How long to the nearest one?"

"About fifteen to twenty minutes. Maybe more. Depends on the traffic."

"Excellent. Fifteen minutes will suffice. Let's go."

I nodded and started the car, slowly and lazily. Stealthily observing the passenger in the glass with quick eye movements - Mirror, Mirror, Mirror. In Germany, every learner driver makes this movement. It's called the 'Drei S-Blick', because in German, the word for mirror starts with 'S' - 'Spiegel'. In my case, it was: Spiegel, Stranger, Spiegel. Also three 'S's as well. I've been attempted to be robbed more than once in my career. So, had to stay vigilant. What if he's a psycho heading to the morgue?

As soon as we had driven a few hundred meters, the strange passenger asked (try to guess). Yes, an even stranger question:

"Earthling, what do you think," he made a short pause then, "Do mankind deserve to be forgiven?"

I cleared my throat before responding. They say you shouldn't contradict psychos. I mean, you're supposed to play along with them. Personally, I don't believe that, but who am I to understand the delicate strings of the human soul? If psychologists think so, then who am I, a mere taxi driver, to disagree?

"I think so, sir. The answer – yes."

"Why?"

His voice became sharp, almost demanding, like a judge pronouncing a sentence.

"What do you mean, why?" I asked wondering.

"Why do you, as a representative of your species, believe that your kind deserves forgiveness for the crimes it has committed and will likely commit in the future?"

"What representative?" I understood his question, but I asked again just to be sure. The man was evidently educated, using intelligent words – a representative of a species. He?

"Wait, let me adjust my speech emulator."

He sighed sharply and after a couple of seconds continued:

"So, dude, do you really think that for all the crap guys like you have done on this messed-up planet, you don't deserve to be wiped out?"

I was a bit taken aback. Some kind of actor. Are they shooting a movie? Is this a joke? In the morgue? Decided to practice on me?"

"Are you an actor? You filming a here? Right?"

"What made you think that?"

"You can talk normally again. I understood your speech even without that horrible jargon."

"Alright, I'll reset the speech-emulator again." He repeated his strange head movement and sighed.

"So, will you give me an answer, esteemed sir?"

"Let's get onto the straight road first, need to be more attentive here. Traffic, you know."

I waited, gathering my thoughts. If this guy, or rather, this character wants an answer from me, why not play along? My job is boring most of the time. And here's a chance for something creative.

"We've flown to the Moon, conquered nature, all sorts of technologies, Coca-Cola..." I blurted out the last part without thinking. What does Coca-Cola have to do with it? No idea!

"Why should your technical achievements justify your barbaric behavior?" His voice took on a judicial tone again. "You have exterminated numerous species, polluted the entire planet with plastic, cut down vast amounts of forests. But all this pales in comparison to your wars. You kill your own kind and consider it normal! You don’t call it murder – you've invented a special term for it – war! Why do you call murder by another name? To cover and justify the true meaning it conceals?"

"What do you mean? War is war, not murd..." I stumbled at this point. No, war is, of course, murder. Just... What the heck, why is he even asking me? I already have issues with my mother-in-law, my kids are acting up, and here he is talking about some global problems. "Maybe you should discuss this with someone smarter? I'm just a simple taxi driver."

"You are an average representative of your species. The most common and therefore a representative 'specimen.' It's your answers that interest me."

"So, you want uneducated and not very smart people to answer your intelligent questions? Professor?"

I mentally rubbed my hands together," I can hold my own in a conversation, even though I'm a taxi driver."

"No. Only you. Your answers are important. Consider me, for now, a statistician scientist, collecting data from representative subjects."

"Ah, a scientist! You could have said that right away. Instead, you're acting like, I don't even know what to call it, an alien."

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

He seemed surprised. That is, I sensed a slight surprise in his behavior and in his next remark.

"Consider me an alien if it helps you answer the questions."

I glanced at him again through the rearview mirror.

"And where's your blaster and space armor, Mr. Alien?"

"Leave your clichés for the movie industry. We wasted two minutes on pointless bickering. Answer the question! I'm giving you another chance. Your first answer was no good."

I collected my thoughts again. His pressing somehow spurred me on to try and find an answer.

"Well, we have a great culture. Humanity, I mean. Mozart, Stravinsky. Various writers. Philosophers. Gandhi!"

"Does that justify wars?"

"No, of course not. It's just that wars are..." – and then something clicked in my head, I remembered a phrase from the TV about this – "Wars are conflicts, and without conflicts, there would be no development of humanity. Technologies that have saved many lives wouldn't have developed. It's a poor engine, but still an engine of progress."

"Good. That's not a bad answer. Conflicts in the universe are inevitable. While being evil, they also lead to good in the end. Though, I would prefer if you didn't repeat others' words heard on television."

"But you're judging all humans based on me. So, I can use the words of all people!"

"Accepted," he noted a bit grumpily, shifting in his seat.

I mentally patted myself on the back. One – one! You're not that much of a professor!

"I'm not a professor."

"My apologies," I glanced at him again. Ah! I see, he's a lip reader.

"You read lips?"

"And not only that. Let's not get sidetracked. You have ten more minutes until the final verdict.

"Next question, why do you constantly lie to yourself and those around you?"

What final verdict? Oh, right! Until we reach the morgue, apparently!

"Well, that's simple. We lie to survive. If you don't lie, you don't live. Sometimes you need to lie to ease the suffering of others."

"That's nonsense. Lies can never be beneficial in any form."

"I object. What if someone is dying of cancer, let's say, and it's better for them not to know to spare them the suffering?"

I mentally smirked again. Now I've got him! Some professor he is! With the unvarnished truth of a simple taxi driver.

"Nonsense. He needs to know. And if you don't tell him, you also won't be able to find out if he wanted to be told."

I fell silent. Well, yes. Essentially, he's right. I would want to know, to give some last pieces of advice to my family and do a couple of things I wanted before kicking the bucket.

"It's easy for you to say, you're an alien, but we're here on sinful Earth. If everyone around lies, you either have to adapt or be labeled a freak."

I tried to turn this into a joke against him, but he pressed hard, like a weight:

"I repeat; a lie cannot be a justification for anything. Deliberately incorrect information leads to consequences in the future much worse than you might anticipate. You don't even realize that mass murders, which you call wars, are the consequences of these very lies. A lie is like an avalanche in the mountains, growing as it rolls down the slope. To spawn a lie is to spawn war and suffering in the future. This is the second question to which you have failed to give a correct answer. You only have eight minutes left."

I protested:

"How is it the second question? I did say about the conflicts..."

"Blah-blah. You gave an answer, but that doesn't mean it's the RIGHT ANSWER."

"What right answer then?" I felt uneasy. Something was off. I argued with the man like an idiot as if he truly were a representative of aliens. And I got heated as if it was real, not just a pretense.

The strange passenger suddenly rummaged through the pockets of his crumpled jacket, and found a wallet, and a pen in the top pocket. He twirled it, examining his own belongings. Freak! Then he took a business card from the wallet and wrote something on it. He then informed me with the serious demeanor of a final-stage psycho, in my eyes:

"Here, I've written the correct answer. The one you should give for the decision to be in your favor, Earthling. Look at it later. Before the end. If you're curious."

Then he asked a very peculiar question:

"Why don't you appoint scientists as leaders of your countries? I mean scientists who have made discoveries and inventions for the benefit of your entire species. Doctors who have invented medicines, and engineers who have developed green technologies. Why are your presidents, chancellors, mayors – people who have done absolutely nothing useful?"

I chuckled. What a naive fool! And he calls himself a professor! A lousy data scientist!

"Well, any fool knows that. Politics isn't science. It's the art of the possible!"

"I warned you not to speak in media clichés you've heard in the mass media."

"Alright, alright. It's just that politics isn't a science. It requires the ability to work with people. What kind of politicians would scientists make? They have their own profession, their own niche, so to speak. Almost everyone knows this. It's a silly question."

"Childish!"

"So, you're saying that the inventor of a polio vaccine would do worse in government work than your current president, who was a former haberdasher? What's your opinion based on?"

"What do you mean, based on what?"

"Have you ever tried appointing a Nobel laureate in chemistry as the head of state to have a negative experience with such governance?"

"No, we haven't tried."

"Then where does the opinion come from that politicians are some kind of super-humans, the only ones capable of managing the society of your species?"

"Well, that's just how it turned out,” I was irritated with his logic. ‘What a strange idiot!”

"The next question: Why do you torment your children in those so-called schools?"

"I beg your pardon? What do you mean by 'torment'? Please elaborate. Your question is peculiar."

"The education system on your planet is based on gathering large groups of children together, where they are constantly under the stress of suppression by elders, conflicts, and competitions. Educational information should be delivered to young, intelligent beings, individually. In quiet and solitude, allowing them the opportunity for maximum analysis and concentration. Independent work and research. Your schools are not systems designed for real education. They are systems for training to live in society. A cruel, deceitful society of competitive suppression of peers or conforming to others' vices. Education itself is merely a side effect of such a system. A bonus. ‘gratis dazu’, so to say! (German) The main thing is to raise a cog in the system, accustomed to suppression and lies. Because for the state machinery, hence your 'dynasties' – if using your term – such subjects are exactly what's needed for ruler classes."

"No. That kind of thinking can lead you too far. What are you suggesting? That we just give up and die?" I got worked up, somehow offended by his demeaning tone towards my kind.

"Fourth question. You have five minutes until Earth detonation…"

"Go to hell!" I cut off his question. "I'm not answering any more of your questions! Some professor you are! I slave away from morning to night, sometimes even through the night, just to feed my family and get my kids on their feet! I don't have time for your philosophical crap games!"

I fell silent, scowling. And so did he. For the rest of the journey to the morgue, we rode in silence.

For some reason, I felt uncomfortable. A strange depression had taken hold of me. Anxiety built in my heart with every second. My passenger, just as he had a minute before, began rummaging in his pockets to pay the fare. Again, as if they weren't his pockets. Pale hands. I began to feel a sort of pity for him, even. I lost my temper. Unforgivable!

"Are you alright? Should I take you to a doctor?"

"No. It's pointless now."

Another foolish answer! Yet, the anxiety wouldn't leave my heart.

He paid and reached for the door, ignoring the change I offered and climbed out of the car. That's when I lost it. "NO!" I got out of the taxi and shouted:

"Wait!"

He stopped and turned, tilting his head, ready to hear my final arguments.

"You're right about us. War is just mass murder. And lies are future murders. I never thought about it, but it sounds like the truth. And our education is rubbish! I don't know how or if we can justify our actions, the crimes of humanity. We've polluted the whole planet! We consume animals! I know, you wanted to ask that too! And you're right there as well! We don't deserve anything. Losers! Cruel and completely clueless." I fell silent again after the barrage. What the hell came over me? Whom am I justifying myself to?

…

"Very well, Mr. Delaney. That's a good answer. When you acknowledge you're wrong, you always have the option to make amends. It's the right answer. I'll reset your 'counter' until next time. Make those amends. Farewell."

The next instant, he collapsed onto the asphalt, as if his legs had been cut out from under him. Like some wooden doll. My heart dropped, and I rushed over to turn him over. His glasses had shattered from the fall, his face down on the ground. He was cold when I touched his neck, trying to find a pulse. I screamed desperately, "Call an ambulance! Somebody!"

Maybe I could get him to the morgue. There are doctors there too, after all! I knew how to perform CPR, but he was cold and pale as if he had been dead for hours, wasn't just sitting in my car a moment ago, asking silly and strange questions. Suddenly, I noticed that clutched in his hand was the very business card on which he had supposedly written the right answer. I took it, looked at the back, and read: "THE HONEST ANSWER"