by Lydia Millet
He did not want to be outside her belief, her fundamental opinion, but he could not help it and at the same time he could not stand to be excluded. He wanted to be in the believers’ club, a member in good standing. He wished her credulousness was open to him, that he did not think, finally, that this was all just a load of bullshit.
—Guess! urged Tamika.
—No thanks, said Ben, struggling to be gentle. —Just tell me, OK?
—Oppie! she squealed. —It’s his birthday!
—April 22nd, said Larry solemnly. —1904.
—So that would make him, what, a century old if he’s a day, said Ben. —And he looks so young!
—I don’t know that he actually celebrates his birthday, said Ann to Larry. —It’s not really his style.
—Especially since he already has a death certificate, said Ben.
—Everyone wants a birthday party! said Tamika. —Everyone likes to get presents, right? On their special day?
—I ordered this crate of, like, the best bourbon you can get, said Larry. —You think he’ll like it?
—No doubt, said Ben.
—What kind of cake should I bake? asked Tamika.
—Oppenheimer doesn’t eat cake, said Ben. —But don’t worry. Szilard will eat the whole thing.
—Who doesn’t eat cake?
—He hardly eats at all, said Ann.
—We’re getting a whole bunch of friends to come over, too, said Larry. —Make it more of a party. You know? Mostly surfing buddies, plus some folks I used to follow the Dead with and Tamika’s friends from the yoga studio. It’s a historic occasion. This guy’s come back from the dead and it’s his birthday. How often does that happen, right?
—You’re kidding, right? said Ben.
—It’s going to be a gathering, said Tamika. —A gathering-in.
—It’ll be special, OK? said Larry, and reached out to pat Ann on the hand. —It’ll be something for him to remember.
—He needs joy, said Tamika. —Joy and light.
Ann went out with Oppenheimer that afternoon, walking down a gravel road in a park of towering trees. They were headed for one of Tokyo’s most famous temples, which the guidebook said was “many hundreds of years old.”
—You know, in Japan, when they say a temple is four hundred years old, they don’t necessarily mean that building is four hundred years old, as we do in the West, said Oppenheimer, sliding a cigarette from a silver case. Ann did not recognize the case. Ever since he’d come back to Tokyo he was immaculately fitted out in expensive accessories, as though Larry had appointed himself personal shopper. He used the new accessories easily, a man accustomed to fine goods who had sorely missed them in the brief period of his dependency on lesser resources.
—All they mean is that this land has been sacred for centuries, he went on.
—So what have you been talking about, you and Szilard? asked Ann. —I know he’s been working on you but he doesn’t talk to me about what he wants. I want to listen to him and Ben just wants him to shut up, but still he talks to Ben instead of me.
—Leo has some old-fashioned ideas about women.
—Yes. He does.
—I had time to think after the visit to Hiroshima. I had time to think on the train, and I had time to think when I came back to Larry’s apartment. I had time to think after Fermi told me about the men who threatened him. I thought about all the warnings we’ve had, the incidents at the house and the men who followed us here. I listened to my instincts.
—And what did your instincts tell you?
—They told me Leo’s on the right path. What he wants to do is what we have to do. It’s what we came here for. If it wasn’t no one would be hunting us. So I’ve made a decision: I’m going to join him.
—Join him how?
—Let’s sit down a minute, said Oppenheimer. —Wait: not here. It’s disrespectful to sit down inside the grounds of the temple. The wooden bench there, out through the gate.
Sitting down, putting out his cigarette, he leaned forward and leaned his chin against the steepled fingers of his hands. Nearby some teenagers sported careful pink mohawks and expensive leather jackets. One of them performed an awkward break dance.
—So what does Szilard want?
—The United Nations.
—Surprise!
—Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Robert…
—Happy Birthday to you!
A crowd converged on them as they came in the door, a pot-smoking crowd beneath a floating island of balloons, white and silver helium balloons clinging to the ceiling, bumping against it as the people moved beneath them, densely packed. It was dark and hot and full, lampshades draped with red and purple cloth giving off a sultry light, music warbling beneath the hum of talk, an old song Ann could not identify.
Then she saw it: projected on a large side wall of the living room a black-and-white mushroom cloud bloomed, looming over the milling people below and in front of it. Heads were silhouetted against the surging billows, and over pale faces the cloud moved sliding and broken, its breakneck rate of expansion slowed into poetry. She recognized the sequence of images almost instantly, famous closing sequence of a famous movie, the soundtrack equally famous, eerie and nostalgic. We’ll meet again, don’t know how, don’t know when.
—I can’t believe this, said Oppenheimer under his breath.
—I promise, whispered Ann, —I told him not to do it.
—OK, everyone, said Larry, clapping his hands and jumping onto the coffee table as Oppenheimer slipped off his shoes, embarrassed, to step onto the tatami. Oppenheimer had his head down, was almost hunkering down, Ann thought, as though he could slip through the throng and melt from sight. Tamika was busy ushering people out of the kitchen, shushing them as she gestured, to hear what was clearly an impending speech.
Larry’s guests were people with an abundance of hair, Ann noticed, the men more than the women but the women too, long braided hair, exuberant hair, hair in various streaks of color. They had beers and glasses of wine in hand and munched ploddingly on carrot sticks and crackers. She stood there nodding and smiling as they ambled past and set their eyes on Oppenheimer, standing beside her.
They looked like transients, she thought, grateful to have a place to be, she thought, a comfortable apartment, anywhere, roof over their heads, free food and drink. Possibly some of them were rich and aimless, too rich to care how poor they looked, heroin chic, spending their money on drugs and sleeping wherever they fell. The room grew fuller, and she felt claustrophobic despite the size of the place, which had always seemed bland and vacant. There was goodwill in the crowd, warm and boneless. All was well as long as the deep smell of marijuana pervaded the air.
A man who survived the bombing of Nagasaki said later: “I walked around my ruined house looking for my daughter. After two days I found her at last. I dug the gutter and found her pants that had partly escaped the fire. So I picked up her bones in a small burnt bucket.
“After my wife’s death I carried some dead trees into the hollow of the emergency crematory, put on some petroleum and cremated her by myself. I picked up her bones in the evening.”
—I have some introductions to make! cried Larry. —Today is the birthday of our new friend Robert, my new friend Robert that I want to be your new friend too!
—Happy Birthday, Robert! echoed the crowd.
Larry consulted a wrinkled piece of paper.
—And his full name is Dr. Julius Robert Oppenheimer, Father of the A-Bomb, Director of the Manhattan Project—
—Whoo-hoo!
—Born in 1904 and risen from the dead!
—Go Robert!
—The Dead?
—What I want to say is this. Seriously. Robert came to me without, like, advertising who he was, right? He didn’t claim to be anyone. He didn’t claim to be, like, who he is. I did some research and found out. This was totally by chance, I mean it. I just got curious one day after I met
him—he actually wasn’t even here, he had already left—and I did my homework. Otherwise I never would have known. Which to me is proof he’s not a scammer. Right?
—Go for it Larry!
—So I found out who he was from the history books. And when he called me up I go, Are you the Robert Oppenheimer? Are you the famous scientist who invented the nuclear bomb and died in the ’60s? And he goes—this is all he said—I am Oppenheimer.
—Oppie!
An arm pumped somewhere nearby and Ann thought she noticed a slight shift in the crowd, a movement from festive jeer toward idle speculation.
—And you know what? I believe it. This guy is Robert Oppenheimer. I like to call him Oppie.
—Go Oppie! …
—Can you believe this? asked Ben audibly, coming up with a glass of beer in hand. —He’s sincere. He actually wrote a speech. Where is he getting this stuff?
—And what I wanna say to all of you, my good friends and those of you I’ve just known a little while —
—And my friends from Yoga Zone! put in Tamika. —I’m so glad you guys came!
—… all of you guys, check the pictures, look at the books over there on the sideboard. These guys are the real McCoys. I’m not kidding. They’re not ringers. These guys are authentic. It’s something you feel in your gut when you talk to these guys. There’s nothing like authenticity, you know?
—It’s so real, said a woman next to Ben, nodding pensively.
—So I talked to Oppie about how he got here. All he knows is he left 1945 and showed up a couple of months ago. And all I know is: today is this guy’s birthday!
Faint cheers in the crowd and people drank and smiled. Ann wondered if it was an elaborate joke. Her own belief did not surprise her but Larry’s public belief was absurd, Larry’s belief and his gullible friends.
—And this has meaning, you know? This is historic. He’s come here to tell us something, right?
He turned around on the coffee table, nodding at the assembled crowd, and held his arms out to Oppenheimer, who smiled a close-mouthed smile and looked down at his clasped hands, standing with his head bent solemnly as though attending a funeral. Someone sucked audibly on a large bong, bubbling the water, and it passed in front of Ann’s face, hand to hand.
—Where’s my chocolate chip cookie, man? urged a thin man in camouflage pants with a stringy pigtail.
—I think these guys are here for a reason. And I wanted to give you guys the chance to meet them and decide for yourself.
—I choose to believe! cried Tamika to a chorus of applause, and Ben, incredulous, shaking his head, turned and made for the bathroom, through the crowd, abandoning his empty beer glass on a tabletop as he went. Ann followed him partway, pushing past shoulders and greasy ponytails until she got to Fermi, leaning over to say into his ear, over the hubbub, —Are you OK?
Fermi gazed down into his glass, blinking rapidly. She was afraid he would cry.
—From this day forward I’m a soldier in the army of Oppie! cried Larry, as the clapping petered out. —Plus a token of my esteem.
Someone hefted the crate of expensive whiskey, stamped with the maker’s mark on the side. To a new swell of applause Oppenheimer looked at the crate, smiled his thanks and took a glass of champagne offered to him by a bystander. He raised the glass to Larry.
—Speech! Speech! Speech! goaded the crowd.
—Eyes of the world! said the man in camouflage, swaying until he almost stumbled. There was beer froth on his handlebar mustache. — Thighs of a squirrel!
A three-tiered cake came in from the kitchen, floating between the heads and shoulders, aflame with numberless candles. For the first time Ann noticed there were caterers in the room, small Japanese women meekly working the crowd with trays and glasses. She felt her cheeks flush with a rising shame, whether for herself or Oppenheimer she didn’t know. She could not bear to hear him make a speech: she was afraid for him. Stiff, bombastic, poor old stuffed shirt, she thought, and without wanting to think it, poor dear. She couldn’t watch him humiliate himself.
She decided to escape and made for the bathroom.
Ben watched Oppenheimer step onto the coffee table to loud whistles and claps, half-pulled by Larry, half-pushed by Tamika.
—I haven’t prepared any remarks, he said nervously.
The noise died down.
—Don’t worry about it, man, said Larry. —Just be yourself, you know?
—I want to thank you for your generosity, Larry, said Oppenheimer, and cleared his throat. —If someone could hand me an ashtray?
He had lit a cigarette and the ash was already long.
—We are grateful for your good faith, he began. —I can’t tell you how we came to be here—only that we are. And we find ourselves in a bankrupt society—
—Hear hear! said the man with the pigtail, and nodded as he reached for a tray of champagne glasses.
—He pulled these people off the street and paid them to come in, didn’t he, said Ben to Szilard.
—a society, went on Oppenheimer, —that has done nothing since we left it, nothing since the split-second after the flash of the Trinity device—
—The first bomb, stage-whispered Larry, standing behind Oppenheimer with Tamika at his side. —The one they tested in the desert in New Mexico before they dropped it on Hiroshima.
—Nagasaki, in fact, said Szilard. —The bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima was never pre-tested. It had a uranium gun trigger, not plutonium implosion. It was as close to a sure thing as you get in applied physics.
—but die a long death, said Oppenheimer. —A death that continues today. And this society, this complex of societies is dying because it has failed to learn—with all its newfound information and its high technology, its vast systems of data collection and analysis, its high-speed communication—that the world was not made to be the plaything of men.
—I can’t believe this, groaned Ben. —He’s a preacher now? He’s going to deliver a sermon on modern morality?
—Oppie can be a little sanctimonious at times, said Szilard. —But of course he’s entirely correct.
—That was what shocked us most, said Oppenheimer, and raised his cigarette to his lips, agitated. —That it does not shock you, that it does not stun you all and send you reeling with horror, this long death of civilization unrolling before your eyes. And it is not enough for man to kill his own kind: he has to take the rest of life with him too.
—That is so true, said Tamika. —Right?
—Right, said Larry, and a few guests behind him nodded.
—Trees! said a woman beside them. —Trees only give to this world. What crime has a tree committed?
—And so we do have something to say to all of you, all of you who are willing to listen, went on Oppenheimer. —Leo and Enrico and I all have a message for the citizens of this new world we’ve been, as it were, reborn into.
—I do not have a message, said Fermi softly but firmly.
—We’re only men of science. None of us are politicians. We can only speak from the heart, as people who entered into this desecrated landscape from another time and who may be able—I make no boast, but this is what we feel—who may be able, for that reason, to see the state of things with greater clarity than those who have lived within this prison all their lives.
—We’re all prisoners of the man! someone yelled.
—Because all around us we see signs of imminent catastrophe. We see commerce run rampant. We see the rich devouring the poor …
—This from a man with a brand-new platinum cigarette case, said Ben.
— … and even worse, devouring the land we all depend on for sustenance, the land and the waters and the life they give us. We also see factionalism and greed building to a fever pitch …
—Fever pitch, repeated a fat man in a greasy tanktop. —Damn right!
— … and to all of this, because we see crimes against God and man everywhere, crimes like the proliferation of these weapons t
o which we helped give birth, these weapons of mass destruction whose terrible legacy—
—I can’t stand this, said Ben. —I’m stepping out for a breath of fresh air.
—Good luck, said Szilard.
—… see avarice building toward an apogee of extinction, a great and horrible end in which the vices of the human race literally consume the earth.
Ben, on his way to the apartment door, stopped in his tracks because of a contortionist sitting on the carpet in front of him. He was twisted up like a pretzel. Ben stood there gaping, barely listening to the speech behind him.
—… that all the countries of the world, both rich and poor, abandon their nationalistic fervor, said Oppenheimer, and stubbed out his cigarette while fishing in his breast pocket for a new one with his free hand. —In short we want to propose that the United Nations, that much-maligned body, that body that has apparently been so undervalued and so underused—
—United Nations? asked the man with the pigtail, confused.
—propose that that body full of noble potential act to bring all countries together to form a global peace, a global union that works for the good of all men …
—And women! put in Tamika.
—across the world. This is the only way, I repeat, the only way, to even attempt to control the spread of nuclear arms to what politicians in so-called nuclear powers are now calling “rogue nations.” This is the only way to control the growing global trade hegemony of corporations, which as you all know, I’m sure, are increasingly taking on the power, but not the responsibilities or accountability, of government—
—Fuckin’ A! said the fat man in the wifebeater.
—And the only way to establish lasting security and realize—we dare to dream—a world free from the threat of imminent and total destruction, a world without a sword of Damocles suspended above it on a fine thread, a world that has among other things abolished, for the sake of a glorious future, these weapons we know to hold all of humanity—and more than that, all living things on earth—hostage.