After they had raved about the scenery and architecture, particular that of the many well-preserved and charming old Polish towns, the conversation turned to fled, whom they had only just learned about. I reported, “She told me this morning that she’s pregnant, and that the father may be human.”
Bill stopped chewing. “That’s a little far-fetched, isn’t it? Maybe she’s just pulling one of your legs.”
“What motive would she have for lying about it?”
“Who knows? To get attention, maybe. To achieve a degree of sympathy or popularity with the patients. Motherhood is still a powerful force, even in a mental institution.”
“And it sells a hell of a lot of magazines,” his wife observed.
“Not to mention newspapers and TV programs,” Karen added.
That kind of deviousness hadn’t occurred to me, but it probably deserved serious consideration. I’ve learned never to take lightly anything Bill tells me. It was he, after all, who got me into psychiatry. Then I told them about her website.
“She’s recruiting?” Bill asked, incredulously. “Why would she do that?”
“She says she’s trying to help people who aren’t happy here.”
“But won’t we just screw up K-PAX like we did the Earth?”
“Claims she’s not taking the ones responsible for that.”
“We’re all responsible for that,” Eileen pointed out.
This led, inevitably, to politics (with the Siegels, something always does). They were no more fans of the current administration and the party in power than we were (though none of us were thrilled with the opposition, either). “What we need,” Bill opined, “is a third party.”
“What we need,” countered his wife, “are responsible news media that aren’t beholden to their advertisers. Otherwise a new party, or even a new idea, doesn’t stand a chance. The news has become a form of propaganda.”
“Even so,” I put in, “two parties would be enough if the Democrats had any guts. I don’t know what they’re so afraid of.”
“Same thing as everyone else,” Karen answered. “Losing their jobs.”
Perhaps I shouldn’t have had a second glass of wine, but I found myself telling the Siegels about Dartmouth and Wang, and their theory that the best way to protect us from terrorists is to bug every home in the country. “In fact,” I confidently assured them, “they could be listening to every word we’re saying.”
Bill raised his glass. “To Dartmouth,” he toasted.
“And Wang,” seconded Eileen.
I took part in the toast and merrily carried on. “They suggested that any one of our neighbors could be working for them, keeping their eyes open for the terrorists.” I couldn’t resist the urge to ask, with a stupid little laugh, “You guys aren’t spying on us, are you?”
Bill, who possesses an arid sense of humor, made no response to this, but pulled out a little notebook and jotted something into it. Without putting it away he asked, “What is your opinion on the nuclear weapons programs in Iran and North Korea?”
I hoped he was joking.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Karen and I had planned to do some gardening on Thursday, but the rain was still coming down so I spent most of the day (after the hangover wore off) trying to track down the primatologists I had found. Two of them worked for state universities, another at a primate sanctuary for retired chimpanzees. (For those who don’t know what a chimpanzee can be “retired” from, many have spent most of their lives living in research institutions, the subject of various stressful medical experiments.) The others were retired or deceased. I didn’t reach any of them at first—they were all teaching classes or out in the field—but one of them, Dr. Ellen Tewksbury, an ethologist from Texas, returned my call within the hour. As luck would have it she had read the K-PAX trilogy, and she proclaimed that she would give a “limb” to speak with fled.
I explained the situation: our visitor apparently harbored at least one alter ego, who appeared to be a chimpanzee, and we needed a primate who could both speak with another ape and use sign language to communicate any messages to Dr. Tewksbury, who would then relay the information to me.
She seemed barely able to contain her anticipation, so I asked her if she could get to New York by Monday.
“Filbert and I will be on our way tomorrow!” Though she seemed older, the enthusiasm in her voice reminded me of Giselle Griffin, the former reporter who was now on K-PAX with prot and the others.
“Good! You can stay with my wife and me if you like. We need to preview the session you’ll be participating in, as well as discuss your expenses and so forth.”
“Well…”
“Yes?”
“I’m not sure you want to accomodate a chimpanzee in your home, Dr. Brewer.”
“Oh. Yes, I see what you mean.”
“But that’s not a problem! I have a friend in Jersey who would be happy to put us up. He’s quite familiar with chimpanzee behavior. I’ll have to drive the van, though, so it will take us a couple of days. I’ll call you when we get in, okay?”
“Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble for you?”
“Are you kidding? This is my job. If I passed up an opportunity like this, I’d never forgive myself!”
How I wish the people down at Wal-Mart felt that way about theirs.
* * *
The government-appointed neurobiologist came early, and was considerably annoyed when Officer Wilson at the gate wouldn’t grant him entrée until I could get to the hospital. As a symbol of protest, I suppose, he stood in the drizzle like a statue until I arrived. He was bald as an egg, the man, and wore a soaking wet knee-length lab coat as he waited in the rainy street clutching an ancient medical bag as if he were planning to do a few house calls after seeing fled. Presumably it contained whatever equipment he needed for her neurological exam. He was still fidgeting and seething as I escorted him into the building. Though I had been told he was ‘nameless,’ he nevertheless glumly introduced himself as “Dr. Sauer,” which, he hastened to inform me, was an alias. “I find that people are more comfortable when they can call someone by a name,” he noted, by way of official explanation. “Even a fictitious one. Like your bogus construction barricade,” he added approvingly.
Judging by the speed with which he crossed the foyer and took the stairs (I took the elevator), it is probably safe to safe to say that he enjoyed his job. But, of course, so did the people who did medical experiments on humans in Nazi Germany, I suppose. When I got to the fifth floor I found him taking pictures of the empty corridor. As soon as he saw me he stuffed the camera (disguised as a toy giraffe) back into his “medical” bag.
Fortunately, fled was waiting for us in her usual place in 520. Though he had undoubtedly been apprised of the subject he was going to examine, Sauer was noticeably shaken by her appearance. In contrast to Smythe’s interview, I wasn’t permitted to stay and observe—if I had, I suppose I might possibly have learned some secrets that were certain to become classified. I didn’t mind; he gave me the creeps. Anyway, I was confident that fled could take care of herself in this, or any other, situation, and would probably be only too happy later on to share them with me.
I left them alone and returned to the first-floor lounge, where I discovered Phyllis invisibly sitting by herself. When I spoke to her she pretended, as always, that she hadn’t heard me. In fact, though she was looking directly at me, she didn’t move a muscle.