—I thought you were in the business of being radical.
—I’ve seen enough fire. To answer your question more specifically, the kind of young people who will be there tomorrow night—see, there I go again, grouping them together!—this audience will be ready for seduction. The question remains, are you a fascinator or a seducer? You are going to have to choose.
—I’ve never been either.
—Then they’ll make you one or the other.
The teams emerged from the locker rooms in bathrobes with their caps already knotted. Wolf Wigo led the American team with an even pace, eyes straight ahead. In team-issued slide-on sandals they shuffled to the pool’s edge. Looking closely, Burr could see the latent shouts, the microsecond of fast-twitch in each stride, the tightly bottled-up wide-eyed action that was about to spill into the pool.
The second-half sprint went to Serbia and Montenegro. Their lead was moving from formidable to insurmountable. The crowd quieted. Baudrillard cleared his throat.
—There’s a lot to learn from this sport, actually. The greatest seducers are magicians of course. Do you think Claudia Schiffer was a fluke? No, my friend, that’s the rule. Don Juan is nothing compared to Copperfield. On the other hand, our greatest fascinators are fascists. The former hides cause and effect, the latter’s power hinges on an elaborate narrative of causation: Jews stole your country, the ruling class is corrupting politics. As soon as the narrative falters, the regime fails. A magician loses his seductive power when we see how the cogs are connected. Much like why everyone is still watching this game, even though the pretense of it being a winnable contest has passed.
—And this sport is magic because we have no idea what’s happening beneath the surface?
—That’s better than what I was thinking: it’s magic because I have no idea what the rules are! The experience is not unlike feudal serfdom. The respective phatic capacities of fascinators and seducers are noteworthy: fascists talk as much as possible; magicians only talk when they have to. All I hear is whistles and shouts. But the officials do appear to whistle at fouls underwater, what they don’t see.
—I’ve never understood that either. Owen explained it to me in terms of probability: it’s most likely that someone who sinks was pushed down; we cannot say for certain, but we are comfortable blowing the whistle and saying a foul was most likely committed.
—The role of officials itself is fascinating.
—Quantum officiating. The judges are always liminal.
—Magic.
The clock expired. A Serbian field player rose high from the water and launched the ball into the stands. Baudrillard had the last word of the match:
—An entire sport founded on the possibility of levitation.
Reluctantly, they entered the postmatch scrum. Shoulder to shoulder with the victorious Serbian/Montenegrans, they squeezed through the dark concourse, were temporarily blinded by the late afternoon glare, then weaved into the Metro.
On a westbound train to their hotel, two young Americans drank blue drinks from foot-long funnel glasses. Burr smiled.
—These young men would be fascinating? Certainly not seductive.
—We, as non-blue-drink-drinkers, are the smaller bundle on this Metro, my friend. We can be fascinating to them, which I don’t think is true in the present case, but they cannot be fascinating to us. What is your talk on tomorrow night?
—The genealogy of shame and guilt. I also hope to explain my conception of liminality.
—I’ve read a bit of your early academic work.
—I would have brought more copies of Hapax for your colleagues. I understand the European distribution has faced several setbacks.
—Thank you. No, I mean the first essays you published. They were really out there. That mumbo-jumbo about world harmony is almost indistinguishable from the writing on those hemp soap labels you have out there.
—My only excuse is love.
Baudrillard laughed.
—Then all is forgiven.
—I keep forgetting that tomorrow night may not even happen. Do you know anything about the venue, or lack thereof?
—These things have a way of working themselves out.
They returned to the hotel to find the organizer, George, sitting with a man whose long, thin hair nearly reached the shoulders of his suit. Baudrillard raised his eyes at the newcomer but spoke to George:
—It looks like the calls to supporters worked.
George introduced them to Petros Spadzos, socialist mayoral candidate in the forthcoming election, then waxed revolutionary:
—Those calls weren’t to supporters. They were to our opponents. The mayor was smart, at first, and managed to shut us down without making it news. I needed to threaten them into making a public statement. Once it was officially declared that our protest was being muzzled, the people realized that this was another example of their government caving to American pressure rather than having the balls to show a free and democratic Greece to the world.
—When my office got the call, I initially thought it was worth a press statement, not a rally. Then Konstantinos singles you out on the nightly news as the type of insurrectionists that could destroy the Olympic spirit and wreck our tourist industry for decades.
George laughed.
—I told him the one thing we wouldn’t stand for was being swept under the rug. He said if we wanted to be his scapegoat, so be it. He lived up to his word. Konstantinos declared his animosity as publicly as possible. We must respect that.
Burr, a little drunk from the sambuca and the sun, called Konstantinos a fascist.
—He gave you a lever for the young vote, Baudrillard added.
—He gave me a reason to meet you two.
—If you can find us a stage, it’ll be Berlusconi, Bush, and your incumbent rival versus us—and you’ll have the people’s vote.
—The stage isn’t a problem.
Baudrillard had seen this before.
—The stage is always a problem.
—I’m president of the Hellenic festival committee. I can get you the Herod Atticus.
This meant nothing to Baudrillard. But it meant everything to Burr.
—The Odeon of Herodes Atticus is a stone amphitheater on the southern slope of the Acropolis. Herod built it to commemorate his wife . . .
Burr drifted for a second then continued.
—We heard Shostakovich under Mravinsky’s baton in 1982. My . . . wife was in her second trimester. Mravinsky. His great arms flapped like an eagle. Each player in his orchestra was terrified, absolutely terrified, of that beak turning in his direction. Mravinsky on the proskenion of the Herodes Atticus, the same stage that we . . .
Burr opened his eyes to a perplexed group. George’s head was in his hands.
—You’re going to have to watch those tangents, Professor Burr.
Spadzos was content enough, ready to get on with his day.
—We needed something to class up this campaign. How perfect will that be? Konstantinos and his fascist friends silence you guys because you’re too revolutionary. How weak, I ask you, is an administration that fears a middle-aged professor? Nothing personal.
—It’s fine.
—Most of the people will be there to see Baudrillard. And he’s more radical and attracts a more radical crowd than you suppose. Are you sure about this?
—Learn to take yes for an answer, George. I just came by to make sure you guys weren’t wearing leather pants.
Baudrillard took a step forward.
—We are working class. We leave the leather pants to the politicians.
Spadzos chose to laugh at the remark.
—George, you get your guys to the show on time. I’ll take care of the rest. Are you going to have trouble filling the theater? That would be bad for press. I can plant some campaign volunteers in the crowd.
—Your volunteers might already be there as fans. It won’t be a problem. I texted my team to start printing the posters fift
een minutes ago. They’ll be up all over the city in hours, and our graphics guy is amazing. Meanwhile, I’m making the rounds at cafés tonight. How do you want to work the box office?
—Tickets will be free, but it’s better for press, and tax purposes, if we have a definitive head count. Let them print out tickets online or get them at the performance . . .
The conversation continued past the word performance, but Burr didn’t hear it. Commencements, lectures, symposia, readings—not quite as many of those as he would have liked—talks, these were all familiar species in his world. He couldn’t recall ever giving a performance. Save for seventh-grade viola, which went so well that there was no eighth-grade viola.
—Good day, gentlemen. Professor Burr, get some rest. You look tired. These summer days can be draining.
Baudrillard took this as an excuse to walk the stairs with Burr.
—What was all that shit about Mravinsky? You said you didn’t know about high culture.
—I don’t know anything about the actual music. The conductor simply looked amazing up there. It’s one of the most indelible images I’ve ever seen. A real magician: tuxedo, white tie, wand.
—You were seduced.
—I was worried my wife was! I was still so spellbound when we returned that I lectured about the eagle of Zeus, Aetos Dios, for the entire week.
—That reminds me. Two things: One, you’re not a teacher anymore. These are not your students, and there are no more lectures. Two, and this is far more important, it’s not liminality, it’s Liminalism. There are some really smart people who have been talking about this for a while now. You need to stand on their shoulders and tell us what living with your mind feels like. Give us radical theory, not a book report.
Burr shook Baudrillard’s hand.
—Out of curiosity, what are you going to be speaking on?
—I’m going to be denouncing Liminalism.
Baudrillard winked and said good night.
Burr cleared his head with a shower and then began outlining his performance. What does a performer wear? He tried every combination of shirt and pant. Nothing worked. Thank god he didn’t have time to act on his instincts, or he would have looked like rhinestone Elvis.
—Let’s define performance, he said to himself, as a public event intended to draw an emotional response. No, that excludes an artist painting in his studio.
Burr studied the etymology online and then looked for e-mail confirmation of his next performance in Madrid. The organizers had yet to respond.
He was then arrested by the following message, subject heading “URGENT: Owen Burr”:
Dear Mr. Burr:
Please call Dr. Galetto’s office at (831) XXX-XXXX as soon as possible. The doctor wants to discuss an UPDATE on the status of your son.
Several attempts have been made to contact both you and your son for a follow-up to globe rupture and subsequent operations on December 3, 2003, and February 28, 2004. URGENT information has arisen that is vital to your son’s successful recovery.
The doctor has instructed the answering service to forward your call should you be unable to contact us during our normal business hours of 8:00 a.m.–3:00 p.m.
Yours sincerely,
Jenna Baker, Office Manager
Galetto Globe, Strabismus and Orbit Surgical Center of California, LLC
42 Cypress Way
Carmel by the Sea, CA
(831) XXX-XXXX
Confidentiality Notice: This e-mail contains privileged information intended for the designated recipient. If you are not the intended addressee of this message, please delete without circulation and notify sender by E-Mail at the address shown. Pursuant to HIPAA Security Rule requirements at 45 C.F.R. § 164.530(c), all safeguards have been taken to ensure Patient Privacy.
He called the doctor at once and was patched through to a cell phone.
—Professor Burr?
—Doctor.
—Thank you again for the book. I look forward to reading it when I get some spare time. Listen, some serious news reached my desk after the holiday.
Burr wasn’t sure which holiday the surgeon could be referring to. Independence Day? Ramadan? Burr put all his effort into not shouting: “Where is he?”
—What sort of news?
—Well, it seems that an intern at the . . . Charité Campus Mitte . . . not sure why they have a French name if it’s a Berlin hospital. Anyway, a John Doe, Max Mustermann as they call them there, presented on May fifteenth, at two a.m., with acute meningitis. Etiology was assumed to be from postoperative complications following implantation of a hydroxyapatite globe. As we discussed in December, an integrated implant, like the HA, has a very low risk of infection and gives Owen the best motility and ultimately the best prosthetic motility. Which is my first question: Why hasn’t he scheduled the follow-up appointments for the prosthesis?
—He said with a patch, people would look away rather than stare. But you’re absolutely right. Where . . .
—That makes no sense to me. Even if you have a patch, get a prosthetic. All of this is completely insured. It’s not even an option in my book. He needs to complete the process or he’s at greater risk for socket shrinkage.
—Exactly. The contact information that your office has for—
—That’s not even why I’m calling. A German charity hospital was presented with this young male, just over two meters tall, but only eighty kilos. Less than one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Acute bacterial meningitis and attendant confusion, memory loss, phonophobia, no petechial rash, but otherwise a classic presentation.
—And you think this Max Mustermann was my son?
—Now here’s where this gets interesting. The patient fully recovers. On the afternoon of Tuesday, June eighth, the rounding interns come by, and our man has vanished, which was bad timing for Mr. Mustermann, since the attending physician that day was a well-respected neurologist who would have asked some difficult questions about how bacteria made it to the meningeal space in the first place. I mean maybe there’s some attendant inflammation from the implant, but for that infection to progress there has to be severe neglect along with drugs for the pain.
—The patient was gone before they could find out what happened?
—Vanished. But not without a trace. Toxicology was negative. But one of the interns noted high levels of scopolamine. Ever heard of the drug?
Burr reached for a mechanical pencil.
—How’s it spelled?
—Like it sounds. Sco-po-la-mine. Has two legal uses: scopolamine patches are used for motion sickness; scope solutions are used in ophthalmic surgery. The drug’s not first-line for postoperative trauma, but the drops are very common. It is totally natural to suppose that anyone looking at his blood screen would make the link between scopolamine and enucleation. The timing is a little off, but not enough to raise a red flag. However, I want to be perfectly clear about this, I never use scopolamine.
—Why?
—One, atropine is more effective. And two, scopolamine, though unscheduled, has a severe criminal subtext. I don’t keep so much as a sample in my office.
Burr underlined the name on his notepad.
—Scopolamine was first used during the Cold War as a “truth serum.”
—Does it work?
—It’s a nasty drug. Colombian drug lords swear by it.
—How does all of this affect my son? Are you saying he was in Colombia? Couldn’t he have gotten some prescription drops from another doctor?
—The levels in his chart are orders of magnitude higher than what you would see with prescription dosages. This is why our clever intern contacted me in the first place.
—How did he know?
—She noticed the tattoo of the rings on the proximal aspect of the patient’s left biceps and figured it wouldn’t be too hard to find a six-foot-eight Olympian who had recently undergone enucleation of the left eye. The hydroxylapatite implant confirmed it—most of the integrated implants o
ut there are Medpor or alumina. Their Max Mustermann was without a doubt your son. As for the scopolamine, that didn’t come from my clinic or any other semi-reputable clinic. So far as I can tell, there are two possibilities: either your son met with a very bad physician, in which case he’s in some danger, or he met with some very bad people, which means he’s in a great deal of danger.
—So what happens next?
—We have to get Owen out of Germany and back into my office. He could be hallucinating from scopolamine toxicity, uncured meningitis, or complications from surgery—although, as I said at the time, the procedure couldn’t have gone better.
—That’s in the book you recommended—phantom eye syndrome?
—Yes. It occurs in about thirty percent of patients. The charity hospital report describes Owen as severely hallucinating. Even if his physical health is fine, his mental health is at best an open question. You’ve got to find him. The clock is ticking. The longer he waits to schedule a follow-up, the harder it is going to be for us to ever get a prosthesis.
—Thank you, doctor. I’ll get to work.
Burr cradled the phone.
A heap of clothes took Burr’s place on the bed. He slept on the floor for the first time in a decade. He rolled back and forth, scratching his temple on the carpet when he thought of his speech, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling when he thought of Owen in Berlin.
He thought of how he could get there immediately. Though he had spent a great deal of time on the continent, European cities still seemed tightly bunched. He was shocked to find out that the train to Berlin took forty-five hours and had at least three layovers. His calculations had it taking him at least twenty-six hours by car. Whereas if he took the direct flight after the speech, he could get there in three hours. He tried to tell himself that this was the math. These were numbers. You can’t argue with numbers, even if they support an ulterior motive. It would have to be a flight. And at that point, he might as well deliver the speech.
Sleeping on the floor had done his back some good, but his head was knotted up. He trudged downstairs to the tail end of breakfast.
After filling a small plate with what remained of the scrambled eggs, he surveyed the room: two empty tables or a free seat opposite Baudrillard.
A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall Page 16