Pathological

by Jinkang Wang

  The current speaker was a Russian man, a professor at St. Petersburg University. His English wasn’t very good, and he frequently had to stop to find the right word, but everyone listened intently. His topic was “Energy Sources in the Next Century.” Mei Yin had little grounding in physics, but the man seemed to be proposing the use of micro black holes to consume trash and other “waste matter produced by societal metabolism.” It sounded a bit like science fiction to her, and indeed, at the end of the speech, another participant raised his hand to challenge him, asking how he proposed to keep these black holes under control.

  Mei Yin didn’t hear the answer because an old man who looked Chinese came in then. Sweeping his eyes across the room, he noticed Mei Yin and cheerfully walked over, pulling up a chair to sit beside her. Leaning over, he whispered in Mandarin, “It’s a small world, Ms. Mei. I didn’t expect to see you here.” Seeing her confusion, he added, “Xue Yu’s uncle. I met you in Wuhan last year, while visiting him.”

  Now Mei Yin remembered. His name was Zhao Yuzhou, a retired professor of Tsinghua University, a neurotic, bigoted old man. She’d met him only once, on a staircase at the Wuhan Institute of Virology’s Zhengdian Research Laboratory.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Zhao. What a coincidence. I didn’t expect to see you in America either.”

  “Are you visiting relatives?”

  “Yes, my adoptive father’s heart disease took a bad turn. And you? Is this a family visit or a work trip?”

  “Neither, I came specially to attend this gathering. Self-funded. There’s no help for it, I’ve always been stubborn, and my sense of social duty is just too strong. I’m sick of reading online about these Western thinkers, their religiosity, their so-called ‘be in awe of nature,’ all that old rubbish. I came to have a go face-to-face with these people. This antiscience rhetoric is like opium, poisoning our young.”

  Mei Yin smiled and wondered how Mr. Zhao would respond if he knew she was wearing a crucifix with the very words Be in awe of nature inscribed on it. Hearing that this was her first meeting, Mr. Zhao seemed to feel a need to take care of her, and began explaining the setting, chiefly what sort of people were attending, what sorts of opinions were expressed on the website, which people were “anti,” and so on. Mei Yin felt it was rude to talk about these folks behind their backs, and looked for a way to stop him politely. Just as she opened her mouth, Mr. Zhao fell silent, turning his ears to the speaker. A different person was behind the lectern now, introducing himself as coming from the Santa Fe Institute, which was famous for its studies of complexity, though he was speaking on medical issues.

  Mei Yin stopped paying attention to his presentation, and began keeping an eye out for Zia Baj. Going by the description her father had given her, he was probably the man at the far end of the table, around forty, dark skinned, his features and clothes ordinary, of medium height, a little thin, unlikely to draw attention in a crowd. It was only something about his gaze, which was icy, hard, and unyielding—not meeting anyone else’s eyes, as if keeping himself locked away. Mei Yin’s guess was right, and when this person stepped up to the lectern, he introduced himself as Zia Baj, a virologist from the University of Idaho’s Biology Department. His topic was “The Fundamental Nature of Genes.”

  “Before taking part in this forum, I said good-bye to three Native American friends, who were planning to retrace the Trail of Tears, a peaceful protest to remind white Americans of their historical sins. Thanksgiving began when America’s earliest pilgrims were taught by Pocahontas, the daughter of a Native American chief, to plant tobacco, potatoes, and corn, and to survive the winter. Two hundred years later, they showed their gratitude in concrete ways! In 1836, white people forced the native populations out of the fertile plains, corralling them in the barren hill regions to the west. A majority of the Indians never made it to their destination, but died on the harsh journey there. This was the notorious Trail of Tears. Below the foundations of American history are buried 1.1 million Native American corpses, eighty percent of the native population at the time! Today, Americans despise Hitler for his massacre of the Jews, but actually Hitler’s behavior wasn’t as bad as theirs. And another historical fact we shouldn’t forget: earlier in the eighteenth century, the powerful commander-in-chief of North America, Lord Amherst, had the idea of using smallpox to eliminate natives, thus becoming a pioneer of biological warfare. On January 24, 1763, a commander of the combined forces, Captain Ecuyer, deliberately distributed blankets used by smallpox victims among the North American Indian settlements. He didn’t see a need to conceal his evil deeds, instead recording them proudly in his journal.”

  His voice remained absolutely steady as he continued to recite more bloodstained events, as if he were a robot reading from a history book. “The British biologist Richard Dawkins said that genes are selfish, and he was completely right. Those three Native American friends of mine are at this moment undertaking a peaceful protest, but what good will that do? Will it chase the white people out of North America, and return the land to the Indians? Pocahontas’s kindness was rewarded with the near extermination of future generations of her tribe. As for the English settlers, they neatly accomplished the task of spreading Anglo genes far and wide, expanding their lebensraum, and now not only are they the owners of North America, they rule the world. They can wash the blood from their hands, pull on white gloves, and bestow democracy, human rights, charity, and good works upon the weaker peoples of the world. But actually, we shouldn’t just blame the Americans. The history of humankind is, on the whole, a chronicle of murder. Those of us alive today are all the descendants of killers.”

  The next few minutes were set aside for questions, but no one raised their hand. His words had obviously incurred the anger of the audience—not that he’d spoken nonsense, no, his historical examples were all accurate, but true history doesn’t necessarily lead to true conclusions. Taking one step past the truth leads to error, and he seemed to be publicly advocating racism and genocide, while cloaking himself in a veneer of rationalism.

  Yet Mei Yin was confused. What was the point of coming to this forum and making such a speech? And what had her father meant about him being of use?

  The mood of the room was restrained, and although this man’s speech had aroused their ire, no one stepped forward to attack him. Zia Baj walked calmly back to his seat amid the audience’s stony silence. A few more people spoke after that, and Mei Yin said a few words too. After the meeting, those who knew each other left together, chatting, and no one paid any attention to Zia Baj except Mr. Zhao, who beckoned him over. Mei Yin overhead him praising Zia’s speech. “. . . your points were so sharp, ripping open these Westerners’ old wounds, the syphilitic sores they’re trying to conceal! It was cathartic to hear you speak, but I have to warn you, your final conclusion was too extreme . . .”

  Zia watched expressionlessly as Zhao prattled on. Mei Yin shook her head at his pedantic tone. He was a born teacher, but you had to consider the aptitude of your students. How likely was Zia to be talked out of his viewpoints? Seeing that Mr. Zhao was just getting started, and not wanting to say good-bye to him, she slipped away behind his back. It was Zia Baj who spotted her and, cutting Mr. Zhao off, went over to say hello.

  “You’re here representing Walt Dickerson, I take it. You were sitting in his usual place, and I know he has a Chinese daughter.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that was his seat, I just sat there because it was empty. But yes, I’m here in place of my adoptive father. He’s not well, and I’m visiting from China.”

  “He was a good teacher. I learned many useful things from him. Please pass on my best wishes and gratitude.”

  “Thank you—he mentioned you too. When he’s out of the hospital, please come visit us at home. His condition has stabilized.”

  Zia shook his head. “There won’t be time, I’ve already decided to go back to my country, and will leave at once. This was my last social engagement in America. In fact, my plane tick
et is for this afternoon.”

  He waved good-bye to Mei Yin and departed, leaving behind Mr. Zhao, who had lingered in the hopes of imparting more of his wisdom.

  September 2016—Fremont County, Idaho

  Agent Rosa Banbury of Idaho’s Fremont County FBI dispatch center had been busy all day, and got home very late. It was the fifteenth anniversary of 9/11, and several terrorist outfits had been creating trouble on the Net, talking about commemorating the day with blood and fire, as a result of which every intelligence organization in America had been on red alert. Yet the actual day turned out to be perfectly calm, with not a single attack on American soil.

  Her husband, John, and granddaughter, Emily, were watching television. John asked if she’d eaten, and Rosa wearily answered yes, she’d grabbed a quick bite at her desk, so she was going to head straight to bed. After quickly washing up, she changed into her pajamas. Emily was happily watching TV, laughing to herself. Their son and daughter-in-law had just left for India to set up a software company, leaving their seven-year-old daughter behind, saying they’d send for Emily when they were settled. Emily was adorable, a lively, playful child. When the time came to send her away, she and John would miss her. Now Emily pointed at the screen and cried, “Look, Granny, three Indians are doing the sun dance!”

  The TV news was reporting on the three Native Americans and their tour of remembrance. Only the Idaho local news was reporting regularly on them; the national news seemed uninterested. They’d begun three days ago, driving a Ford station wagon, traveling the Trail of Tears and making speeches at various locations along the way. They said they’d organized this tour of remembrance not to revisit old grudges, but as a gesture of reconciliation, symbolizing the hope Native Americans held for the future. They visited many elementary schools along the way, performing for the kids with puppets and jokes.

  Now they were on an Indian reservation, with its scattered wooden houses containing wooden beds, low tables, benches, fire pits, and water tanks, with wooden-handled hoes hanging from the walls, the entire area surrounded by a wooden fence. There weren’t many people on the reservation, the young people having long departed for the big cities. The few remaining Native Americans clustered around the car, smiling as they listened to “Big Chief Sealth” speak.

  The sides of the station wagon were colorfully decorated with all the totem animals worshiped by the various tribes. On its front was a Gamma symbol, to represent a century-old prophecy from Wakan Tanka to the Hopi tribe, about a “Great Purification,” which stated that a purge would destroy the whole earth, including the white people, but that afterward the white man and the native would both gain new life in a harmonious new world. The trio in the car wore traditional garb. Their leader was dressed like Chief Sealth: straight black hair, a high feathered headdress, bare torso, scarlet and brown diagonal lines painted across his face and chest, and around his neck a bone necklace with silver and turquoise ornaments and a jade pendant. The other two were similarly clothed, but their headdresses were simpler and they wore bows and arrows slung across their backs, and held long spears. The trunk contained several objects made of bison hide, used for ceremonial worship, including drums, insignias, scabbards, and so on. The camera turned away to show a sixteen-foot-high half-body statue of an Indian chief at the village entrance, his head lowered in thought. A close-up showed exaggerated teardrops running down his cheeks. Needless to say, this wooden figure had been created to mark the Trail of Tears.

  On Chief Sealth’s face, though, there were no tears, only a joyful smile. The drums were beating wildly, and the other two travelers were executing a wild sun dance, which, according to legend, was taught to the Indian people by the great spirit Wakan Tanka, and had been popular among the tribes in the nineteenth century as an expression of rebellion against the white man. At that time, the officials appointed by the American government to herd the Indians into reservations had two important duties: first, to prevent anyone from doing the sun dance, and second, to prevent their children from speaking native languages. “Infractions” were severely punished.

  These two didn’t seem especially practiced at the dance, but they were throwing themselves wholeheartedly into it, staring up at the sun, their entire bodies shaking vigorously, as if intoxicated or mad. “Sealth” didn’t dance, but looked on smiling, speaking in English to the Native Americans surrounding the car. “My fellow tribespeople, do you acknowledge me as your big chief?”

  His audience smiled, and answered raggedly, “Yes!” “We do!”

  “Very good, tomorrow I’ll represent all the native people in the United States—the Navajo, the Iroquois, the northwestern tribes . . . and I’ll parlay with the American government, asking them to sell us the land that belonged to us, the entire country, for a good price! Do you believe me?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good, we’re off now. May Wakan Tanka protect you!”

  He waved, and his two companions stopped their dance. One of them leaped off the roof and got into the driver’s seat, and the station wagon slowly moved off. When they were out of sight, the camera turned to a white woman of about thirty, who smiled at her viewers.

  “This is Elizabeth Ginsburg, continuing our report from the Lakota reservation. Tomorrow, Big Chief Sealth will continue on to Fremont County, where in 1877, Joseph of the Nez Percé tribe led an uprising. In this significant location, Chief Sealth will formally demand reparations from the federal government. What astronomical sum will he ask for? Tune in tomorrow to find out.”

  The TV crew’s vehicle went off in the same direction as the Ford, and from the jostling interior of the news van, the reporter gave out more background information. The man dressed as Chief Sealth was Robert Thomas, an employee of United Mutual and member of the northwestern Tlingit tribe, though he’d always lived in the city, and didn’t speak any native languages. The other two men had remained silent and refused all interviews, so their real names and tribal affiliations were not known.

  After the report, a commercial came on. Emily turned to her grandfather, exuberant. “They’ll be here tomorrow. Will they come to my school?”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “I like Big Chief Sealth. He’s handsome and looks friendly. Don’t you think so, Granny?”

  On the sofa, Rosa had been drowsing off. “What? Oh, yes, he does look nice.”

  It was getting late, so they sent Emily up to bed and came to tuck her in. After saying good-night, the child suddenly asked, “Is it true, what they said?”

  “Is what true?”

  “The American land—that we white people stole it from them?”

  John and Rosa exchanged glances. Rosa said, “From a historical angle, it’s true. But history is very complicated, it’s not black and white. You’re young. You’ll understand, bit by bit, as you get older.”

  Emily snuggled beneath the covers and stared at the ceiling. The adults kissed her good-night, then as they were leaving, they heard the child mumble to herself. “Weren’t our ancestors the worst people in the world? They stole the Indians’ land and killed a million of them, then captured all those black people from Africa as slaves.”

  The couple’s hearts lurched. These were surprising things to hear from a seven-year-old girl—impossible to explain, but impossible to deny . . . Instead of responding to Emily, they slunk away quietly.

  That night, hearing his wife stir, John asked, “Can’t sleep? Is it because of what Emily said?”

  Rosa rolled over. “No. I was thinking of the three Native Americans on the TV—two of them looked very familiar, the two who didn’t speak. But where have I seen them before? I simply can’t recall.”

  “Maybe they’re not Native American at all.”

  He was teasing, but this touched off something in Rosa. The two men had black hair, but didn’t otherwise seem particularly Native American. The paint on their bodies and faces almost completely obscured their actual skin, but where it showed, it was darker than that of
their chief. Their eyes were sunken, their noses high, neither of which were typical of indigenous faces. Now she imagined them without their native markings, trying to ferret out their original appearance, and felt they must be Central Asian or South Asian. So where had she seen them?

  John was asleep, his breathing level. Rosa abruptly bolted upright, startling him awake. “What is it?” he cried out.

  “I remember. I know where I’ve seen them before. A small farmstead near the entrance to Payette National Forest. They’re not Indian at all, they’re a pair of Pashtun brothers from Afghanistan.”

  “You mean . . . those two men you investigated fourteen years ago?”

  “Yes, they were under surveillance for two or three years, but nothing suspicious ever came up, so the investigation was called off.”

  “It’s been fourteen years. Are you sure it’s them?”

  “There’s too much greasepaint on their faces to be sure. But—I’m fairly certain. Let’s leave it. I’ll get to the bottom of it tomorrow.”

  “All right.”

  Her husband rolled over and was soon asleep again, but Rosa tossed and turned. Afraid of waking him, she slipped away to another room, cradling her head in her arms as she thought back to the past. Fourteen years ago, the day after seeing Mr. Hoskirk, she’d paid a secret visit to the farm he’d described. She found the gate locked, and dialing the number he’d given her, she said she was there for a termite inspection. The person who answered the phone didn’t seem to understand what she was saying, and in a heavy accent insisted, “If there’s a problem, please call Mr. Zia Baj.” He then gave her a number in Moscow, Idaho. When she phoned that other number, she spoke to someone with perfect American English, who said he was the titular owner of the farm, but had always worked at the University of Idaho in Moscow. Only a couple of workers usually lived on the farm, his cousins from Afghanistan.