So you actually did that?
What I’m saying. I’d never done a bona fide handstand before. I was another man in the Oval Office.
I can tell you that as Andrew wavered there, his arms aching, his feet moving to and fro like the shuttles of a loom, he found himself weeping, either from the effort or from the image in his mind, Briony smiling, her clear blue eyes in their sturdy innocence assessing him. What was she saying? I heard her voice, her soundless voice: Going for a run, Andrew. For her morning snack, Willa likes the applesauce.
And the door closes and then the arc of her balletic leap into the fire.
I think I groaned, the blood pounding in my head, but it seemed to me a matter of honor to remain upside down as long as possible. They, the president and Chaingang and Rumbum, had risen from their chairs, Chaingang stepping behind the president’s desk and shouting into a phone. I collapsed then, landing not the way you’re supposed to, but painfully, with a thud, and I think now that almost simultaneously a pair of marines in dress uniform were yanking me to my feet and twisting my arms behind my back. So one way or another it was a very physical day for me.
Apparently it was.
What did you say?
I was agreeing.
But it was more than that. I doubt if anyone had ever done a handstand in the Oval Office before. Really it was a triumph. I had for a moment risen out of my characteristic humility, my ordinary citizenness, and in one upside-down gesture achieved equity with these governors of my country. I knew the future whereas they didn’t. You might not have known from all I’ve spoken of my life that I was not without a keen political awareness. As I stood there, functionally disabled by the two marines, Chaingang and Rumbum were deciding what would be my fate. They ordered my arrest. Rumbum saying I had threatened the life of the president. Get this fool out of here, he said.
Make that a Holy Fool, I said.
Is that what you felt you were?
What else could I be if my old roommate was The Pretender? Because that’s what he unquestionably was. And never again would I be another man according to the situation. I could feel my brain becoming me — we were resolved as one. As I was led to the door, I turned and said what a Holy Fool would say: You are only the worst so far, there is far worse to come. Perhaps not tomorrow. Perhaps not next year, but you have shown us the path into the Dark Wood. I suppose that was Dante I was doing right there. My roommate didn’t like to hear it. Oh, come on, Android, he called, lighten up. Was he asking me to retract? Was he expecting my blessing? But how could I? What makes a fool holy is that he mourns for his country.
I stood tall, nodded to my guards, and they led me away.
XI
So, Doc, how long have I been here?
It’s been a while.
And you won’t tell me where this is?
I can’t.
It’s not home.
How do you know that?
The air. There’s a softness to it. It gives one a settled sweet earth taste of the spring air. I’ve never experienced that in the New World. I think this is a countryside of low hills and wildflowers and grape arbors. I can’t see over the walls, but in the exercise yard I hear birds and they’re not the birds of home. Also it stays light long into the evening. I think this is Mediterranean Europe you people have dropped me into, and it’s not bad — the torture is not exquisite but only in my reflection of what has happened to me — apart from talking to you I have no one and no lawyer has been appointed and I’m being held without trial and it’s already been indefinitely. That’s celestial time, you know. I’m sentenced to roll round with the planet, to count the suns, the moons, the seasons.… Do you think I threatened the life of the president?
No, actually.
Yet I won’t accuse you of following orders and being a nullity. You know why?
Why?
Without you to talk to I’d be even worse off than I am.
You don’t have to worry.
Although I have my collected MT on the shelf I think how can I keep my mind from going? And if my mind goes can the country be far behind?
So you’re saying there’s a connection?
My mind is shot through with visions, dreams, and the actions and words of people I don’t know. I hear soundless voices, phantoms loom up out of my sleep and onto the wall, lingering there, cringing in anguish, curling up in visible contortions of pain and crying out wordlessly for my help. What are you doing to me! I shout, and fall back into bed only to stare at the black ceiling and my room is a darkened movie theater where another silent horror show is about to begin. I speak of a broached integrity. Only by hoping that there is a science behind this am I able to endure it. Perhaps I’m carrying in my brain matter the neuronal record of previous ages. I know you haven’t gone through anything like this, you’re too accepting of your own experiences. They thrive in you, maxing out to your brain’s capacity. But when you’re as unfeeling as I am—
Ah, we’re back to that?
— there may be an opportunity for the dormant genetic microtraces from earlier times to express themselves in dreams.
So is this cognitive science?
Not quite yet. It’s still only suffering.
Tell me, Doc, am I a computer?
What?
Am I the first computer invested with consciousness? With terrible dreams, with feelings, with grief, with longing?
No, Andrew, you’re a human being.
Well, you would say that.
I see you’ve let your beard grow, your hair. You could indeed be the Holy Fool. But it needs something.
What’s this?
A Yankees baseball cap. Your wardrobe needed refreshing.
How old is Willa now?
Twelve.
And where are they all living?
We’ve been through this—
Where?
They’re in New Rochelle.
In their old house?
Yes.
Martha and Martha’s large husband.
Yes.
And they need my agreement? Why? A judge will rule in their favor — Martha has raised her since she was a baby. And I’m an enemy combatant.
You’re not an enemy combatant.
Whatever I am I haven’t much legal standing, have I?
It’s for the child’s sake. Here are the papers.
So my daughter will have Boris Godunov, that drunk, that Pretender, for a legal father.
He’s in AA. Doesn’t drink anymore.
When did they get back together, the loving couple?
A few years ago, I think. Three or four.
And where did she take my child when she disappeared?
As I’ve told you, Martha settled in a small town in western Pennsylvania. A farm inherited from an aunt and uncle.
Do they have the finances to keep my daughter as she deserves?
They are not without resources. She teaches piano again and he has a master class in voice. They are both at Juilliard.
It says here Willa is not to be told about me. It says I may never approach her, reveal myself to her as her father—
She has no reason to believe that Martha is not her mother. I’m not sure how the status of the husband will be represented in her eyes.
— or that her real mother died trying to save people.
Is that what you think now?
Yes.
I don’t imagine they would tell the child that.
Well, then, the hell with them!
Oh, for God’s sake, why can’t you be reasonable for a change? Think of someone besides yourself.
Oh, Doc. I do. I think all the time of my two girls. I want to read to them like MT did to his little girls, making up stories to help them get to sleep. He says, “They think my tales are better than paregoric, and quicker.”
Andrew, please—