Lenny pauses, and the audience, wildly revved up, bursts into applause, pierced by two-fingered whistles. Cass is reassured about the chaplain, he’s doing fine, he’s just overexcited, and Cass can get back to worrying about himself.
“Felix Fidley is the Manfred Mannessen University Professor of Economics at the University of Chicago. He did his undergraduate work at Princeton and received his doctorate from Harvard. He received the Nobel Prize in Economics for his pioneering work combining military and economic strategies of rational decision making. His book Welfare Warfare Wherefore was cited by both the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Times as the best book of the year, and Nathan Paskudnyak of Provocation wrote that if he believed in evolution he would say that Felix Fidley is the most highly evolved thinker alive today. Professor Fidley will be affirming the resolution ‘God exists.’”
There is a round of applause.
“Cass Seltzer is a professor of psychology at Frankfurter University with a specialty in the psychology of religion. He did his undergraduate work at Columbia University and received his doctorate from Frankfurter University where he has been a professor ever since. He is the author of The Varieties of Religious Illusion, which spent forty-three weeks on the New York Times best-seller list, and has been translated into twenty-eight languages. The New York Times praised Cass Seltzer as being a different species of atheist, giving every indication that he intimately knows the world of the believer from the inside, calling him the William James for our day, and Time magazine christened him ‘the atheist with a soul.’”
Sy Auerbach is flanked by his Boston and Cambridge clients: Roz’s hero Luke Nanovitch on one side, and the cognitive scientist Arthur Silver on the other. The philosopher Nicholas Duffy, the physicist Eliza Wandel, and Cass’s old colleague Marty Huffer are also there with him. Auerbach must have put out the word, demanding their attendance. He’s been speaking into Silver’s ear throughout Lenny’s introduction, but the rest of the audience is applauding with gusto, and there are more ear-stabbing whistles, and Cass sees that his friend with the ponytail is pumping his fist. Cass knows that he should feel buoyed by the wave of good will, and he would be if only he felt he were going to perform in such a way as to earn it retroactively, but he doesn’t, so instead he feels pummeled by the wave, sickened by the thought of how much disappointment he may yet inflict on the ponytailed student and his tender-armed lass and all the others who are recklessly giving him the benefit of their doubts. He glances sideways at Fidley, who has a slit of a smile slicing into his left cheek, the one closer to Cass.
“Professor Seltzer will be negating the resolution ‘God exists.’”
Another burst of applause. Cass smiles wanly, catching Roz’s eye, and she is staring at him steadily, as if she has caught the worrying current of his mood, and she smiles slowly and nods her head with a confidence that seems considered, as if she’s taking to heart his implied admonition in the car and is not only resolved to think before she speaks but to think before she nods.
“Professor Fidley will be opening. He has fifteen minutes to make his statement, which will be followed by Professor Seltzer’s fifteen minutes. Then Professor Fidley and Professor Seltzer will face off and ask each other questions directly. They’ll have the chance to ask three questions each and shouldn’t spend more than five minutes answering each question. I will be keeping time. And now may this historic moment commence, with the spirits of Ralph Waldo Emerson and William James smiling down on us… or not!”
Lenny has scored again, and he savors the audience’s laughter and then undulates back down into his seat, and Fidley rises and moves to his lectern. Everything he does has a tone of authority.
“I want first of all to thank the Agnostic Chaplaincy of Harvard for organizing this debate, and thus, as the chaplain put it, giving Professor Seltzer and me a chance to decide this issue once and for all.” He pauses for a brief soft chuckle. “I am particularly delighted to have the chance to debate, of all the atheists who are suddenly taking their responsibilities to enlightenment seriously enough to write best sellers, the one atheist who comes equipped with a working soul.”
Cass is trying to pay attention to Felix Fidley’s words, trying to keep his mind focused, but the strangeness of his being Cass here is threatening to carry him away.
“I can’t help but believe that this will make my task easier. If Cass Seltzer has a soul, then he already knows that God exists, even if he doesn’t yet know that he knows. And that is what I’m going to convince him of tonight, and you will be here to witness it.
“In my spare time I’m a military-history buff,” Fidley is saying, which is the kind of thing that he would be and Cass wouldn’t be, and wouldn’t it be nice if Cass could just sit back and admire the man’s towering presence and assurance. “And so you will forgive me if I take my analogies from that sphere. My strategy tonight can be compared to Khalid ibn al-Walid maneuvers at the Battle of Yarmouk, a great and decisive battle that took place in August in the year 636, between the Islamic Caliphate and the Christian Byzantine Empire.”
Cass Seltzer is thinking about how many times during the past year he has had the strange impression that he has been wearing somebody else’s coat.
“Many military historians believe this to be among the most decisive battles of all times, since it was the first of the Islamic victories outside of Arabia, and was followed by a wave of triumph that carried the Muslim conquest to the very shores of Europe. Khalid ibn al-Walid was one of history’s great military strategists, and the strategy he used at Yarmouk is a classic three-pronged attack,” Fidley is saying when it occurs to Cass that Felix Fidley is the man whose coat Cass has mistakenly been wearing.
“That three-pronged attack is precisely the one that I’ll employ tonight.”
And tonight’s the night when the legitimate wearer is going to demand his coat back.
XXXIII The Argument from the Violable Self
He was still holding the New York Times Op-Ed page in his trembling hand.
“My God,” he had answered the phone.
“You’ve seen it then, the Klop-Ed.”
It had been a slip of the tongue that she hadn’t even realized she had made until he laughed, grimly.
“Are you okay?” was what she mainly had wanted to know.
“I’m shaken. I’m really shaken.”
“I can only imagine. Even I’m shaken.”
“I wouldn’t have predicted how important he still is to me, how much it all still hurts.”
“You’re obviously still important to him, too.”
“That hurts, too.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know exactly. It’s horrible to think of him thinking of me as his nemesis.”
“Not to belabor the obvious, but he’s stark-raving mad. How can anything he thinks about you bother you?”
“You’d think not, wouldn’t you, but there it is. I wish I didn’t have any part in his current story. I don’t want to be in his story.”
“That’s the thing about people. They’re free to use you in their stories as they see fit, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
“Most of the time we don’t even know how we’re being used.”
“Better that way.”
“But that he’d cast me as his Judas!”
“His is the kind of story that needs a Judas. You’ve done him a favor.”