Quichotte

by Salman Rushdie

  That rang a bell. “Is it something like Anonymous?”

  “Anonymous we believe to have entered into a possibly terminal decline,” Lance Makioka said. “Legion was potentially in a position to replace it, until recent actions by ourselves, which have put a damn great fist right into the middle of it.” His voice had risen dramatically, and he slammed his right fist into his left palm, the mask of calm courtesy slipping for a moment to reveal the man of action beneath. Brother found himself thinking of James Bond.

  “I am still unclear as to why this is relevant to me,” he said, and Lance Makioka nodded slowly, accepting that it was time to provide some significant information.

  “The head of Legion made a number of YouTube videos threatening various forms of aggressive cyber-interventions. In those videos he used a voice-changing device and wore a mask which we have identified as a piece of vintage merchandise from the 2002 Broadway revival of the hit musical Man of La Mancha.”

  “He wore a Don Quixote mask? Okay, that’s weird, but it doesn’t establish any link to me. Don Quixote has been around for what, four hundred years?”

  “He used the pseudonym of Quix 97. Is this name meaningful to you?”

  “No. Yes. 1997 is the year my son was born.”

  “I must regretfully inform you,” Lance Makioka said, “that the person behind the Man of La Mancha mask is in fact your son. Your absentee son, I believe.”

  “Oh my God,” Brother said.

  “Your son, with whom ostensibly at least you are no longer in touch, now goes in his personal life by the name Marcel DuChamp.”

  “He really does that?”

  “The apple, sir, would not appear to have fallen very far from the tree.”

  Brother was silent. Then, “Tell me the story,” he said.

  Lance Makioka appeared inclined to take his time about doing that. “I’ve been reading your books, sir, including this new work in progress,” he said. “I’m no critic, sir, but I estimate that you’re telling the reader that the surreal, and even the absurd, now potentially offer the most accurate descriptors of real life. It’s an interesting message, though parts of it require considerable suspension of disbelief to grasp. This imaginary child, for example. Sancho. Where would you come up with a notion like that?”

  “I assume you’re going to answer the question yourself,” Brother said, his face grim now.

  “If the character of the old fool is based on you,” Lance Makioka said, “meaning no disrespect, sir, just trying to decode your way of communicating…then it may follow, may it not, that just as your Mr. Quichotte is accompanied by the phantom son Sancho, so also you are in fact in contact with your apparently estranged son. Who is using, as I mentioned, very similar iconography to that being employed by you.”

  “It does not follow,” Brother said. “It’s a coincidence.”

  “Good, good, thank you for clearing that up. You’ll concede that it’s a forgivable conclusion to draw, if one were to draw it. I’m more puzzled by the idea of the old gentleman’s lady love. In your story. Who might be the model for her?”

  “There’s no model.”

  “There is no lady love in your life?”

  “Am I being interrogated? Am I suspected of something? Because maybe I should call a lawyer. You’ll allow me to do that, I hope. This is still, as you pointed out, America.”

  “Sir, please be assured you are not at present a suspect in any investigation of which I am aware. This is just a friendly talk.”

  “Then please tell me what you came to tell me.”

  “But there is a lady in your life about whom you’re thinking, am I correct? A lady, if I don’t miss my guess, presently residing overseas.”

  “Why are you asking me questions to which you already know the answers?”

  “An estranged lady as well as an estranged son,” Lance Makioka reflected. “Two family members. Do you ask yourself why it might be that people close to you become so frequently estranged from you? I’m sure you do. You’re a writer, so no doubt you pride yourself on leading an examined life. You will be familiar with the dictum of Socrates that the unexamined life is not worth living.”

  “You came here to insult me.”

  “On the contrary, sir,” Lance Makioka said, moving into apologetic mode. “I came here to tell you a story.”

  “Which you have not done, so far.”

  “Your estranged lady overseas,” Lance Makioka said, as if remembering something. “How much do you know about her present condition?”

  “What do you mean by that? What’s her condition?”

  “I should have said ‘situation,’ ” Lance Makioka corrected himself. “Her current situation.”

  “Less than you, plainly. Is that what the story’s about?”

  “And your son. Marcel DuChamp. You’re certain there has been no contact.”

  Brother did not answer. Lance Makioka nodded, slowly, stood up out of his chair, and clasped his hands together at waist level, in the elocution position.

  “To tell a story to a professional storyteller,” Lance Makioka said. “It’s daunting, sir. One feels almost ashamed. Permit me to collect my thoughts.”

  * * *

  —

  IN THE CITY OF MUMBAI (pop. 21,300,000), on Rustom Baug in the locality of Byculla, across the street from Masina Hospital, in a large high-ceilinged salon in a crumbling old Parsi mansion whose slow demise was attended by many gravely watchful banyan trees, two well-known photographers had installed nothing less than the cockpit of a Boeing 747, and surrounded it with state-of-the-art flight simulation equipment featuring video screens on which a wide range of international airports could be projected, so that they and their guests, helped by a friend who actually was a jumbo jet pilot, could practice landing and taking off. This eccentricity was popular in their circle, but word of it reached ears in the American embassy in Delhi, which caused foreheads in that embassy to frown and heads in that embassy to be scratched, and as a result, one fine afternoon, there arrived at the gate of the crumbling old Parsi mansion, asking to speak with the owner slash residents, a Japanese-American gentleman in a blue silk suit, an imposing figure of a man, perhaps six foot three or six foot four in height, and weighing, what?, two hundred and sixty, two hundred and seventy pounds. He introduced himself to the two photographers as Trip Mizoguchi, and said that the ambassador would be grateful if they agreed to answer a few questions; which, instantly understanding that they were in the presence of U.S. intelligence, they immediately agreed to do.

  They had purchased the cockpit of a decommissioned old 747 and installed it in these premises, was that information correct?

  It was.

  They had further purchased computer programs and ancillary equipment to create an advanced flight simulation system, was that information correct?

  It was.

  They utilized these materials purely for the amusement of themselves and their associates, was that information correct?

  It was.

  One such session was scheduled for that very evening, was that so?

  It was.

  Would there be any objection to himself, Trip Mizoguchi, being present at that session?

  There would not. He would be most welcome.

  Did they understand that airplanes had been flown into the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City several years previously, and that therefore this elaborate and costly piece of eccentric private amusement might strike certain persons as highly suspicious, and if, in fact, it were to be found to be nefarious in intent, certain persons might wish to put a damn great fist right into the middle of it?

  Very reasonable. Yes, they perfectly well understood.

  After Mr. Trip Mizoguchi left the premises, promising to return at the appointed hour that evening, the two photographers, whos
e mobiles, it should be admitted, were being listened in on, telephoned the forty most beautiful fashion models in Mumbai and said, please come over tonight, there’s a person we would like you to charm. When Trip Mizoguchi returned, there was music playing, and drinks were flowing, and the forty most beautiful fashion models in Mumbai were telling him how much they liked a man of such imposing size, how much they liked his suit, his pocket square, his Hermès tie, his square jaw, his smile. At the end of the evening, Trip Mizoguchi thumped the two photographers on their backs, saying, “You guys sure know how to throw a party. Let me know the next time you’re having one of these affairs. I’ll come down from Delhi to be here. And don’t worry about anything. I can see you gentlemen are on the up-and-up. You’ll have no difficulty from us.” With that, he took his leave, and neither the two photographers nor the forty most beautiful fashion models in Mumbai noticed that at one point in the evening Trip Mizoguchi had briefly been in conversation with one of the male guests, an unimpressive, tall, skinny, nerdy, bespectacled fellow, a recent arrival in Mumbai whom the two photographers had befriended at a nightclub and invited along so that he could make some friends. What was the young fellow’s name? The two photographers had trouble remembering. It was like the name of a famous artist. Picabia, something like that. But maybe young Picabia hadn’t had a very enjoyable evening, and maybe Trip Mizoguchi got transferred out of India. Anyway, neither of them ever showed up at any of the photographers’ soirées again. But Trip Mizoguchi was a man of his word, at least. There were no further inquiries about the flight simulator.

  “I wanted to satisfy myself that he was the asset we were searching for,” Lance Makioka told Brother. “Mr. Marcel DuChamp, definitively ID’d by me, previously unmasked by us as Quix 97. That was what it was about. We didn’t give a damn about the flight simulator. That just got me in the door. Once we had a positive make on Marcel, we were all systems go. We acquired him later that night.”

  “Asset,” Brother repeated. “Acquired.”

  “Correct,” said Lance Makioka.

  “Is my son alive? Did you hurt him?”

  “He is in excellent health.”

  “And you. What is your real name? Steve Sayonara? Ricky Fujiyama? Rock Mishima? Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’ve heard,” Lance Makioka said, “that your mother, accusing you of being secretive, would sometimes ask you that question.”

  “You’ve heard a lot,” Brother said. “No point in asking how, or where, or from whom.”

  “As a gesture designed to encourage trust,” Lance Makioka said, “I am meeting you tonight under my real name. I can show you ID if you so wish. Sir.”

  “I’m sure you have many IDs.”

  Lance Makioka did not reply.

  “What did you do with him after you ‘acquired’ him?” Brother demanded. “The ‘asset’? My son? You were on foreign soil. What did the Indian authorities have to say about an American kidnap carried out on their turf?”

  “We didn’t see any need to trouble the Indian authorities, sir,” said Lance Makioka. “Mr. Marcel DuChamp is a U.S. citizen, so we see him as one of ours. We have him in a secure holding facility.”

  “In India?”

  “In the United States.”

  “Oh my God,” Brother said, “it’s the plot of my seventh book.”

  “Reverse Rendition,” Lance Makioka said, actually clapping his hands in delight. “I hoped you’d recognize the similarity. We’re all big fans.”

  In his seventh novel Brother had imagined a scenario in which the American secret state needed to extract an asset from a safe haven in a neutral country and bring him onto American soil for questioning.

  “If my information is correct, it was your most popular book,” Lance Makioka said. “I took a look at the sales figures. They were pretty impressive. For you.”

  “This story you came to tell me,” Brother said. “How much of it is a fairy tale?”

  “It’s a good story,” Lance Makioka said. “You wrote it.”

  “But you do have my son. And now you want something from me.”

  “This is where I mention Blind Joe one more time,” Lance Makioka said. “We want you to talk to Marcel DuChamp and invite him to change sides. That’s what we want, just like with Joe. We’re offering him a ‘poacher turns gamekeeper’ scenario. A term dating back to the fourteenth century, I believe. If he accepts, he will have financial comfort, health insurance, a government pension, all of it.”

  “Why would he listen to me? We haven’t so much as spoken in years.”

  “Using you as the messenger adds the element of surprise. He won’t be expecting it, so it will put him off balance. After that it’s up to you. It’s my guess he’s carrying an amount of anger, aimed at society, sure, the corrupt system, the fat cats, the power structure, no doubt. But mainly anger at you and maybe at his mom a little bit also, and he’s going to need to let that out. You being there, taking him by surprise like I say, that’s going to help him let off that steam. You can take it. You’re his dad. You want him back in your life, so you’re going to let him say what he has to say. Once the steam is out of him, he’s going to be able to hear the message you’re going to deliver for us. And the message to him is, he plays ball, he does the right thing for his country, and he’ll be well taken care of. Alternatively, he’ll face cyber-terrorism charges and we’ll make sure he goes to Guantánamo Bay for the rest of his fucking life.” Again that sudden climactic roar and the right fist thumping into the left palm. The agent wore a fine suit and had a cultivated manner, but under all that, the naked guy under all that expensive clothing, was the scariest individual Brother had ever met.

  The world Brother had made up had become real. There was a black Cadillac Escalade waiting outside his building. Lance Makioka held open a door—rear door, near side—and ushered Brother into his seat. The blindfold requirement was delicately alluded to and Brother, having little choice in the matter, acquiesced. If he had been a real spy, he thought, he would have been able, even blindfolded, to follow the movements of the vehicle and know, at the very least, in which direction they were headed, east along the 495 for example, or north past the stadium, and on upstate. But he had no idea. Blindfolded, he experienced a certain dizziness brought on by the merging of the real and the fictional, the paranoiac and the actual outlook. Even the son he was going to meet felt fictional in a way. The Man of La Mancha mask! Like a dime-store Darth Vader who had escaped from Brother’s story and gone over to the dark side. His doubly pseudonymous life, Quix 97, Marcel DuChamp. His son had become an imaginary being—two imaginary beings!—by the force of his own will. So also Brother had brought Sancho into the world, and then Sancho had willed himself into being real, live. These doubled births echoed one another, deafeningly. If he said to his son when they met, I have longed for you so much that I dreamed of an old fool giving magical birth to the son he never had, how would Son react? Was there any love left in him that might lead him to react lovingly? Was there a chance of a reconciliation? Estrangements, reconciliations…again, the dizzying union of the real and the imagined. A third party, reading these accounts, might even, at a certain point, conclude that both were fictional, that Brother and Sister and Son were imaginative figments just as Quichotte and Salma and Sancho were. That the Author’s life was a fake, just like his book.

  They drove for two hours, or what felt to Brother like two hours, and all the way the Japanese-American gentleman spoke in soft conversational tones, briefing him. A team of genius-level cyber-warriors had been assembled and was being expanded, to fight the growing force of cyber-attacks emanating from Russia and North Korea and their proxies from the early identity-theft days of CarderPlanet to the full-fledged assault of Guccifer 2.0. The present leader of the group, which went by the code name of Anthill, was a Bulgarian hacking genius who had turned himself in to the FBI two decades ago and had h
elped them set up the counterforce. He called himself Hristo Dimitarov, but that was a nom de guerre constructed from the names of two celebrated Bulgarian soccer players, Stoichkov and Berbatov. Anthill had been built slowly but surely, and almost all its members were hackers who changed sides. “They understand,” the Japanese-American gentleman said, “that this is the third world war, and the future of the free world, of untwisted social media and unfixed elections, of facts and law and democracy and freedom as we understand the word, depends on winning it. Tell your son this. I suspect him of being a patriot. Currently wrongheaded, but a patriot below the mask. I note that he chose to disguise himself as the fictional character from whom we derive the adjective quixotic. He’s an idealist. Right now he’s charging in the wrong direction, let’s say at a windmill, but he can be turned. There are real giants out there for him to fight.”

  Cyberwar was the attack on truth by lies. It was the pollution of the real by the unreal, of fact by fiction. It was the erosion and devaluation of the empirical intellect and its replacement by confirmations of previously held prejudices. How was that any different from what he himself was doing, Brother asked himself, how was it different from the fictions he was making and which were now ensnaring him? Except that he was not trying to bring down Western civilization, excuse me. That was a small difference. And he was tying nobody up in knots except himself.

  When the blindfold was removed Brother found himself in a low, anonymous structure surrounded by thickly wooded hills. The contemporary architecture was confusing. He’d have expected a shingled wooden house, characteristic of the region. This concrete-and-glass edifice belonged nowhere, so it could be anywhere. In this respect the house was like him, Brother thought. He belonged nowhere too. The Japanese-American gentleman led him into a comfortably furnished living room, with settees and armchairs upholstered in floral patterns. There was a pool table and a dartboard, backgammon and chess. He couldn’t see a swimming pool but thought there might be one around the back. This didn’t feel like a jail, Brother told the blue-suited agent. “Of course not,” was the reply. “We are here to make friends.”