The Cusanus Game

  “And I don’t understand you.”

  “Hugh Everett is my colleague’s name. A fabulous man. I know him personally. He wrote his dissertation under Wheeler in Princeton. I wouldn’t have thought him capable of it. But his idea is really ingenious. I agree with him, although the united physics community will come at him with Ockham’s razor and tear him to pieces,” said Sam.

  “And what does this boy wonder claim?”

  “Nothing less than the following,” said Sam, raising his side-whiskers toward new horizons. “Every decision made brings into being a new universe—whole, complete. A universe with untied shoelaces and one with tied shoelaces. You’ve actually made things even more complicated, because you relieved me of the decision. Probably we’re now dealing with one or two additional universes. But a couple more or fewer don’t matter anymore at this point.”

  “Are you serious, Samuel—I mean, as a physicist?” I asked.

  “Absolutely serious.”

  “Does that mean that universes are constantly coming into being in which the same people live as here?”

  “Similar people, André, not the same, for they decided differently a moment before. And from that moment on they diverge from each other,” Sam replied.

  “That’s the solution! But where could those parallel worlds be?” I asked him.

  Sam shrugged.

  “A hairbreadth to our right, to our left, above us or below us. A millisecond ahead of us or behind us … Who knows?”

  “You’re frightening me terribly, Samuel,” I said. “It takes my breath away. I’m carrying my doppelgänger around with me like a Siamese twin. What am I saying! It’s not only one twin. It’s many of them. One weighs on my chest, another I bear on my back, they walk to my right and left, cling to me and encumber me.”

  “You can’t feel them,” he said reprovingly.

  “Oh, yes, I feel them, God knows!”

  “That’s nonsense, André. The alternatives have split off from our reality. They’re inaccessible to us.”

  I shook my head. “That’s where he’s wrong, your friend Hugh Everett. The borders of reality are not impermeable—at least not for everyone.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Sam.

  “I’ve experienced it myself with great suffering, all my life. I experience it again and again.”

  “Oho!” Sam replied, raising his eyebrows and pointing to me. “The dream doctor. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” I said, grabbing his arm. “And perhaps I’ll be able to prove it one day.”

  “Be careful, André Goldfaden. You’re on thin ice. I can assure you that Everett would not exactly be pleased with your interpretation of his interpretation.”

  It’s true, Urban Hargitai’s grandfather had written under this. This theory has something monstrous about it. It’s repellent in its unrestrained extravagance, in its boundless inflation. But it’s the only plausible explanation of what I repeatedly experience. Still, when I really try to grasp it, all logic melts away.

  Well, thought Hargitai, it might have seemed that way to him. His grandfather, like many scientists striving for truth before him, still thought entirely in the categories of Aristotelian logic and according to the biblical imperative: “Let your word be ‘Yes, yes’ or ‘No, no.’” But in the face of quantum phenomena, those rigid intellectual templates no longer got one anywhere. Hargitai’s grandfather had ultimately given up and packed the results of his research in a cardboard suitcase and stuck a label on it, on which he wrote Dreams with a fountain pen, thickly underlined twice.

  * * *

  URBAN HARGITAI TOO had to face the fact that with his mathematical skills and with the help of sophisticated programs he didn’t get much further. He had systematized the dream logs and entered them into the computer in order to correlate them with events that had occurred or had been narrowly avoided such as thwarted bomb attacks, near-collisions of airplanes, and similar things. Correspondences emerged. Sometimes it seemed, according to the dream logs, that in neighboring realities such events had not been successfully avoided. Here and there probability clusters formed, but they were hard to interpret. Hargitai could superimpose the framework of virtual realities on the texture of reality and slide it back and forth as much as he wanted, but no matches could be determined. Again and again new intermediate layers appeared that could not be integrated.

  He tried the matrices developed by Bernard de Vyse for the programming of computer strategy games. But he had to capitulate in the face of the nodes, for chains of events proceeded from them that led through various reality planes, over which probabilities of event patterns again smeared.

  It was clear to Hargitai that an event could take place simultaneously in several—indeed, in a great many realities: The train crash on the Arlberg could not possibly have taken place only in this reality, but at least in numerous others as well. He had—if his vague memory did not deceive him—boarded the train going in the opposite direction in Innsbruck. But he might just as well have boarded it in Wörgl and returned to Vienna—or already in Salzburg, in Attnang-Puchheim, in Wels or Linz—or even already in St. Pölten or in Hütteldorf. He might have declined Christian’s invitation and not taken the journey to Bregenz at all. Or Christian might have forgotten to invite him or decided not to have a party in the first place. In all those virtualities the train crash would have occurred on the evening of August 11, 1995, and in 10100 universes in addition.

  Urban Hargitai realized that polyreal mathematics was beyond his abilities. He packed his grandfather André Goldfaden’s documents back in the old cardboard suitcase, put his CDs and disks in with them, used scotch tape to stick the yellowed label with Dreams written on it back on the lid, and pushed it under his bed.

  * * *

  A FEW WEEKS later he received an e-mail from a Dr. Misrun Ardita, who was staying in Vienna for a conference.

  Dear Herr Hargitai,

  In a roundabout way it has come to my attention that you are the grandson of Dr. André Goldfaden and are in possession of the research notes of the deceased. In insider circles—I too work in the field of extradimensional empathy—your grandfather is regarded as a pioneer, even though he never published his findings. I am also aware that you too have become active in the field. As I am currently staying in Vienna, I would very much welcome the opportunity to meet you and speak with you. Please suggest an appropriate place and time.

  Many thanks in advance for your kind response.

  I’m looking forward to our conversation with great interest.

  With best regards,

  Dr. Misrun Ardita

  Urban Hargitai wondered what sort of “roundabout way” that might have been. After all, his mother had said that her father had spoken only within his closest circle of friends about his gift and his inquiries into the phenomenon of parallel world empathy. And that was even truer in his case. His curiosity piqued, he agreed to the meeting.

  * * *

  URBAN HARGITAI AND Dr. Ardita met on a warm spring day at Café Schwarzenberg. The weather permitted them to sit outside. Dr. Ardita was a Dutch man of Indonesian descent, about thirty years old, and had an engaging, straightforward nature that instantly won over Urban. He wore a brown-and-red-patterned sarong and a blousonlike white shirt. His thick black hair fell over his ears. He had drawn one leg under his behind, a common sitting posture among Asians. Several patrons as well as the waiter seemed to find that somewhat too casual, but Dr. Misrun Ardita ignored their disapproving looks and spooned a cup of chocolate ice cream with whipped cream. On the chair next to him was a travel bag made of a colorful exotic fabric. Dr. Ardita jumped up and greeted Urban Hargitai like an old friend. Hargitai placed the cardboard suitcase on the table and snapped open the locks. Dr. Ardita flipped through the material and read one page or another. The chocolate ice cream melted.

  “Most of it I’ve transferred to disks,” declared Hargitai.

  Dr. Ardita nodded. “That’s very helpful,” he said. �
��How would you feel about publication?”

  “I’ve spoken to my mother. She can’t decide whether to give her consent regarding the personal … well, experiences of her father in the concentration camp.”

  “I understand. But they are, of course, of particular relevance. Your grandfather had—in my view—a remarkable narrative talent. May I ask you to speak with your mother again about that point?”

  Out of the corner of his eye Urban caught a movement in the travel bag on the chair between them. He turned his head and glimpsed an unusually large spotted rat that had climbed halfway out of the bag, its front paws resting on the zipper. It sniffed in his direction and scrutinized him with intelligent eyes.

  “Beautiful day today,” it said.

  Urban Hargitai very nearly dropped his cup.

  “Allow me to introduce,” Dr. Ardita said, without looking up from his reading material, “Don Fernando.”

  The rat had withdrawn again. None of the patrons seemed to have noticed anything.

  “Did you train the animal?” Hargitai asked in shock.

  Dr. Ardita raised his eyebrows. “Don Fernando is no animal. He’s my friend and partner.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “That’s no joke,” replied Dr. Ardita, laughing cheerfully.

  Urban Hargitai wasn’t completely certain, but he thought he heard a chuckle from the bag.

  IV

  The New Clothes

  Visitors from the future cannot know our future any more than we can, for they did not come from there. But they can tell us about the future of their universe, whose past was identical to ours.

  DAVID DEUTSCH

  The delivered clothes had a strange charm—hard, durable, a bit cool and rough on the skin, but well made and of a simple elegance.

  I wore them in my apartment in order to get used to them. Without underpants, however, I felt like an exhibitionist—a bit perverse and shamelessly accessible. Not even two or three skirts helped with that; nor did a cloak. I simply felt naked. The basquine was slit open in front. It slid down on its own when you undid the band under the chest. What refinement! Sleepwear with a quite special attraction! But I would have to remove it, and it would take a tremendous amount of willpower for me to sleep with three or four completely unknown naked women in one bed. The thought alone already plagued me.

  A skirt made of fustian, one of wool, one of calico—all earth-colored, brown, gray, discreet. The cloak was made of dark brown wool, cut wide, roomy; it felt almost like a dwelling and was lined with rabbit fur for the cold days. “Just in case the transition doesn’t work out in a punctual fashion and you arrive in winter,” Grit had said. “But what’s a botanist supposed to do in winter? If everything goes according to plan, you’ll simply take out the fur.”

  The boots too were lined with rabbit fur. The stockings scratched. They felt somehow greasy. Sheep’s wool. Had the beasts rolled in thistles before being sheared to take revenge?

  “You’ll get used to it,” Grit reassured me. “And always keep a close eye on your clothing! Make sure no one steals it from you! The people at that time steal like ravens.”

  Yes, the ravens! They particularly enjoy eating the eyes of the hanged, sprang to my mind. As I gave vent to my unease, Grit warned me again: “It’s better not to get too close, if you see gallows—or even a gallows tree, from which they hang by the dozens in all stages of decomposition. It’s not only a horrific sight; feral dogs often prowl there, which can be rabid.”

  A wave of dizziness came over me. I would have so much to get used to. Oh God, what had I gotten myself into?

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT I was again visited by the frightening dream. I stood on the high dune in the endless desert. I looked up. The sky was empty and illuminated by the first glow of dawn. Below me, in the oasis on the shore of the vanished sea, a light could be seen. There must have been people there.

  Suddenly a roar rose behind me. When I turned around, an arc of fire burst from the sand, a vaulting eruption. Lava flowed from the gaping opening and spread to both sides; it flooded the dunes and buried them underneath it. And then the edge of a massive sun ascended over the horizon, threatening to fill the whole sky. The photon storm of its light lashed the dune ridge, dispersing the sand like smoke. I felt the impact of the solar wind on my skin like a sudden hot gust. Horrified, I turned away and stumbled down the flank of the dune toward the oasis.

  “Help me!” I shouted. “Oh God, help me!”

  But I saw no one and heard no reply.

  * * *

  ON ONE OF the days that followed I had spent the morning at the Botanical Institute on the Nieuwe Keizersgracht. At noon I had called it a day and walked toward the Centraal Station to have chili con carne at the Havana Social Club on Geldersekade.

  I had just taken a seat at a table under a sun umbrella on the sidewalk and ordered a soda when three electric wheelchairs turned from Prins Hendrikkade onto Geldersekade—an assault squad of militant seniors. Something must be in progress again, I thought. They were the spearhead of the senior movement, the grays, as they called themselves. Often they were veterans with war experience from UN operations in crisis areas around the globe.

  At breakneck speed they hurtled—almost soundlessly; only the soft whine of the electric motors of the wheelchairs could be heard. Shortly before the club the formation dispersed. One of them came shooting toward me, whirled his vehicle around 180 degrees next to my chair, and stopped. The two others took position nearby. He communicated with them via his ICom, which dangled next to the corner of his mouth; meanwhile he was listening to some sort of radio device.

  The old man turned his face to me, bared his implants, and tapped his petrol-colored baseball cap with his finger. DEATHHUNTER BRIGADE was stitched onto the brim in large red letters. He wore a bulletproof vest of gray-green Kevlar. FUCK YOU! was written on the back. Like a thin brush his bristly white hair stuck up horizontally in the back between the edge of the cap and the elastic band. He must have been eighty-five, maybe ninety.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Ha!” he croaked. “A whole lot.”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes when he folded back the checkered blanket on his knees. I knew that these militant seniors were frequently armed—gas sprays, flash grenades, electric batons, so-called stunners—but what he had lying on his bony thighs was a short double-barreled pearl ceramic shotgun. He fished large shells out of the breast pocket of his vest, snapped open the barrels, and loaded the two chambers. SLAAPSCHROOT was written on the bright yellow cartridges.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked, taken aback.

  “Don’t worry, young woman,” he replied with a grin. “Everything’s under control.”

  “Pray tell!”

  “First of all, today a few suspicious young people entered the city,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “Obviously something preconcerted. But it’s not directed against us this time. No matter. Fascist riffraff. There are Belgians among them, Germans too. Second”—he raised his forefinger—“refugees arrived in Rotterdam yesterday. Six thousand. On a tanker. And they’re going to fly them up to the camp in Landsmeer. The flight heads directly over the city—just about right here.” The old man stuck out his chin combatively. “One and one … Aha! Something’s up here, right? Some misdeed by the KICOB, no doubt.”

  He twisted his leathery neck, looked searchingly up to the sky, and hid the shotgun under the blanket with a sly sidelong glance.

  Suddenly a large silver jeep turned from Prins Hendrikkade onto Geldersekadel; slowly it rolled up and finally parked on the bike path under the trees on the canal. The driver ignored the ringing bells of the bicyclists, who had to swerve onto the street and the sidewalk. The bed of the jeep was covered with a blue tarp. At the wheel sat a man with a pale helmet; through the tinted window he could scarcely be made out.

  Two minutes later, two heavy Kawasaki motorcycles appeared from the other direction, from the W
aag. The drivers wore mirrored black helmets.

  “They intend to use the vehicles to escape, wanna bet?” the old man croaked with a grin. “Ha, we’ll foil their plans.” His teeth clicked nervously. Might he have been afraid? I felt more and more uneasy as I heard in the distance, in the south of the city, a dull pounding sound growing gradually louder.

  “What do they want? Are they planning an attack?” I asked the waiter who brought me my drink. Frowning, he looked over at the motorcyclists, who were now blocking the promenade along the canal as well. He made a worried face as he opened the bottle and poured the foaming bitter lemon over the ice cubes in the glass; then he shouted something in Spanish into the establishment. The owner, a tall black man, appeared in the entrance.

  “Merde. I’m calling the police,” he murmured, disappearing inside the club.

  The motorcyclists had dismounted when the door of the jeep opened and the driver climbed out. He wore a white EuroForce steel helmet and mirrored sunglasses. Slowly he walked around the jeep and folded back the tarp on the bed. I couldn’t make out exactly what was under it; it looked like a bunch of thick gray pipes. The thundering in the air got louder and louder. Suddenly the two motorcyclists had automatic weapons in their hands. At that point, the old man folded back the blanket on his knees.

  “Verdomme! Jullie fascistische klootzakken!” he bellowed, firing both barrels.

  I couldn’t tell whether he had hit them. The old man grabbed my wrist with unexpected strength. With a jerk he knocked over his wheelchair, tearing me from the chair. As I was falling, I saw one of the men swing his weapon toward us, but suddenly he was holding up only a bloody arm stump, while the severed hand flew through the air. I didn’t know whether we’d been fired at, for the noise in the sky was now infernal. I felt no pain apart from the viselike grip of the old man clasping my wrist. And then I watched as one of the motorcycles suddenly disappeared in a fireball. The other motorcyclist staggered away with burning uniform from the exploded vehicle down the bike path and plunged into the canal, while the third man, the one with the white steel helmet, kneeled in front of the bed of his jeep and slowly sank forward.