"Me? Hah!"
"Because I've heard that maybe anybody could learn how to do it..."
It took Marv a second to realize what she was talking about. “Oh! You've been listening to those eggheads who pop up on the talk shows, haven't you? The ones who talk about how we could all unleash these same amazing powers of memory and expression, if only we could—how do they say it?—learn to suppress our higher mental functions? Yes? Feh!"
"You think they're wrong?” She was leaning forward now, her slightly protuberant eyes locked on his face. Vanessa's sudden intensity surprised Marv. But then she blinked, and her demeanor fell back to simple concern.
"Ms. Kortright-Kingston, the scientists have been talking like that for decades now, but here Dr. Hornblatt is making a lot of money off your friends, yes? If there were some trick, some knack that anybody could learn, don't you think somebody would have picked it up by now? How about me? I've spent nearly a dozen years in this house with three Musicians, so by now I should have caught onto their knack, right? Okay, name this tune.” And with great vigor he began whistling a melody of recent popularity.
Vanessa's expression changed from worry to surprised amusement. As Marv's whistling continued, though, amusement gave way to pained non-recognition. And then simply to pain.
"Well?” asked Marv. “Have I got the music knack?” He shook his head and leaned back. “Talents aren't singing dogs. You can't train anybody to do what they do. A different world, though it's right here all around us"—his arm swept a wide arc above his desk—"that's where they live. Yes, you can buy a ticket to get there. But it's a one-way trip."
Although the mention of singing dogs had Vanessa looking a bit perplexed, by the end of Marv's oration she was nodding thoughtfully. He finally realized what must have been worrying her.
Suppose she got her operation, but then the scientists figured out how to put everybody else in touch with their inner savant. Where would that leave Vanessa and her party invitations?
"Look,” he began, but his phone's shrill ring interrupted. He lifted the handset. “Pennybacker Special Talent Agency. Hang on a sec.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and to Vanessa said, “Why don't you wait for me in the day room? Meet the Talents—they're all friendly enough. I'll be right there."
"Really?” She glanced eagerly over her shoulder toward the door, but stayed in her seat. Her expression puzzled Marv.
Most people were uneasy around Talents, but Marv didn't detect that in Vanessa. Instead, her face combined eagerness with nervous shyness with—what? Anticipatory guilt, he decided. Like some ravenous kid who'd been told to go wait in the candy aisle.
Marv gestured with the handset, shooing her out. She lifted her glossy pink purse and stood. As she turned to leave the room, her profile struck him again with its familiarity. Where could he have met her?
There was something that set Vanessa Kortright-Kingston apart from the others that Hornblatt had sent. An underlying focused purpose. Initially he'd taken it for desperation; now he wasn't so sure. Whatever it was, though, he didn't think it was likely to survive the operation.
Marv shook his head, wondering what else he could say to get the poor kid to change her mind.
He returned the phone to his ear. “Sorry about that. So what can we do for you? . . . Uh-huh . . . What, like small appliances? Toys? . . . Okay, yeah, we can help you. . . . Hey—don't call them that! . . . Just plain savant. Or Talent. . . . Sure, okay, well, now you know. Anyhow, yeah, lots of the swap shops use my guys for repairs. But I gotta tell you up front, they can't handle electronics. Motors, buzzers, light-bulbs, that's all good—pre-digital, you know? Mechanical is even better—bikes, wind-up toys. Say, you got any toasters? ‘Cause you haven't seen happy until you've seen a Tinkerer and a shelf-load of old broken toasters. . . . Right, hang on. Doris!"
After squaring away the order, Marv followed Doris into the day room. Vanessa, he saw, had taken a stuffed armchair by the wall, beside one of the windows and its floral chintz curtains. Despite the yielding cushions, she perched on the front edge of the chair, hands on her knees. Her enthralled gaze followed Oliver as he shuffled past, his head bobbing.
As Doris retook her usual place on one of the sofas, Marv noticed an octagonal scrap of paper in the wastebasket beside her. Above some scribbled text somebody had sketched a frisky pony, its head turned back over its shoulder with a big cartoony grin.
Most of the Talents were out on jobs; the room's only other occupant was Roz, across the room near the glistening baby grand piano. Hunched over a small electronic keyboard, dangling brunette hair hiding her face, Roz played intently. Marv stepped to her side and tapped her shoulder. After a second she looked up. Finding Marv, she stopped playing and pushed back her earphones.
"Go ahead,” he told her, tipping his head toward the baby grand. “I don't think anybody will mind."
Roz grinned at him as she shifted to the piano's bench. She paused a moment, then launched into a barrage of shimmering runs up and down the keys.
Marv lowered himself into the seat beside Vanessa's. She was leaning forward now, captivated by Roz's playing. Marv had trouble putting a name to her expression. Hunger?
"Listen to her,” whispered Vanessa. “She's no older than me, but when she plays this Beethoven stuff—"
"Chopin,” Marv corrected absently. “Prelude in G major, opus 28, number 3."
"—it's like she's been practicing forever! I bet she only heard it once, right? And now she can repeat it any time she wants. A human parrot."
"No,” said Marv. “That's not it at all.” He faced across the room. “Hey, Roz, how about jazzing it up a little?"
The pianist grinned, and—without a break—the music fell into bluesy, Gershwinesque syncopation. But it was still Chopin.
Vanessa shook her head in wonder. “Soon maybe I'll be able..."
Marv groaned. “Maybe,” he said. "Possibly. But probably not. Look, kid, I wish the scientists did know how to teach us all to be Talents. Then you wouldn't be wanting somebody to crack your head open and scoop out a piece of your brain. Believe me, this is a Bad Idea."
"But it's okay for them?” Her arm's sweep took in the room's occupants. “They seem happy!"
"Sure,” he replied. “They've got me.” He watched Oliver pace to the room's end, then turn around and retrace his path, never once looking up. Oliver's lips opened and closed like the mouth of a hyperventilating fish, making a soft “pat-pat-pat” sound. “Most of them I found wandering the streets, abandoned by their recruiters because their particular talents weren't flashy enough. Or—later, as the Depression was winding down—because a traveling carnival had folded, or a business could finally afford to replace its old broken-down computers and stop relying on Counters. Out on the street you think they were happy, with nobody looking out for them?"
Indignant, Vanessa said, “I'll have people to look out for me! Like Ryan—he's got a valet now."
Marv shrugged. “People you hire to care about you—well, I suppose that's something."
She started to reply. But then she looked around the room, and back at Marv. Her head tilted to the side and she said, “You really do care about them, don't you? It's not just a business for you."
He rubbed his cheek as he looked away. Watching Doris flipping through her census report, Marv said, “I used to run the other kind of talent agency. During the Depression, though . . . well, let's just say that some of my priorities rearranged themselves."
For a moment they sat without speaking, listening to Roz play. Then Oliver wandered over. He stopped before Vanessa. Her surprise was no greater than Marv's when Oliver looked her in the eye and with a big smile announced, “Eighty-six million, twenty-eight thousand, three hundred and seven.” He waited, still smiling.
Vanessa glanced at Marv. She faced Oliver, then licked her lips. “Um. Thank you.” Her voice quivered slightly. Then she grinned. “Thank you very much!"
Oliver nodded. To Marv's further aston
ishment, as Oliver turned away to resume his pacing he gave Marv a clandestine wink.
Marv shook his head. “He never talks to strangers...."
Vanessa's eyes tracked Oliver, but her focus seemed elsewhere. “Why don't you want me to get the operation? It might give me so much, and what would I lose?” She pointed across the room at Oliver, and lowered her voice. “Or do you think of him as less than human?"
Marv sighed. “Of course I do. The Talents, they've forgotten how to connect with other people. They can't see into our world of abstract ideas and relationships. Sure, they know something we don't—how to reach right into the world of numbers, or the worlds of music or images or machines. That little spot in our temporal lobes, it blocks you and me from touching those worlds. So we have to get there the long way around, which means language and reasoning and dealing with other people. But that's all good stuff, kid—especially the people part. Took me a long time to figure that. I'd hate to see you miss out."
When she didn't say anything for a few seconds, Marv glanced over. She didn't look happy.
Her voice was wistful. “Maybe if I had just a little bit of surgery...?"
Marv ached to give her a big hug. “Sorry, kid. All of the brain operations, no matter what they give you, they also take away something you need for connecting with other people. It's never worth it, believe me."
Roz had eased into quiet, soothing tinkling. Doris sat on her couch, slowly flipping pages. Oliver had wandered out of the room for the moment. Sunlight streamed through the front window, painting a bright slash across the worn carpet.
Marv always liked the day room on afternoons like this. He let his weight settle deeper into the chair's cushions.
Softly, Vanessa asked, “What did you mean, all of the brain operations?"
"Well,” said Marv, in his growing relaxation paying only half attention to the conversation, “you know about the temporal lobe surgery. A few people have tried the opposite approach, sort of, hoping to become great thinkers. Went after a spot in their frontal lobe—the spot that the temporal lobe tries to suppress."
She sounded intrigued. “Did it work?"
"Turned them into the most boring, tedious, thinking-inside-the-box people you've ever run into."
"Oh."
"Then there's the right parietal lobe.” He tapped the side of his head. “That's where we separate ourselves from the rest of the universe. A little snip in there and when you wake up you'll remember that somebody just had brain surgery—but it won't occur to you to wonder who."
"Really?"
"A big snip, and you're looking at an out-of-body experience for the rest of your life."
"So,” Vanessa said slowly, “if I had that operation—the little kind—and then somebody said a name, I wouldn't even know whether it was mine?"
"Right."
"And if I heard people talking about me..."
Marv nodded. “No different than if they'd been discussing the weather."
Vanessa seemed more animated now. “So even if they said really mean things, it wouldn't bother me at all?"
Marv's languor abruptly vanished. “Now wait a minute—"
She leapt to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Pennybacker!"
He struggled from his chair. “Slow down, kid! You're not thinking this through."
But she was already reaching for her purse.
Marv wanted to throttle himself. He'd nearly had this one talked out of following a fad he hated, and now it looked like he was going to be personally responsible for the next, even worse, craze.
"Let's talk about this, okay? First off—"
From his office came a shrill jangle.
"Damn! Listen, kid, just give me a minute, okay? I'll be right back."
He waited for her impatient assent as the phone rang again, and then he hurried to his desk. He took the call standing up, keeping an eye on the day room.
"Pennybacker Special Talent Agency."
It was a guy wanting a band for his son's bar mitzvah. Marv kept the number of one of his former colleagues taped to his desktop for such moments; he'd never been any good at remembering phone numbers. Marv passed along the number, but then the guy wanted to know what was so Special about a Special Talent Agency.
As Marv tried to steer the conversation to an end, his gaze fell upon a stack of news magazines leaning against the wall. And he finally realized what had been nagging him about Vanessa.
"So you're saying that people call you up to hire—"
"And mazel tov to your son,” said Marv. He dropped the phone into its cradle.
Must have been two years ago, he thought as he pushed his chair over to the magazines. Maybe two and a half. He lowered himself into the squeaking seat and tilted forward to dig though the stack.
A waving, big-haired senator—mere months from the scandal that was about to end not only career and marriage, but also send all three of her lovers babbling to the tabloids—grinned from a cover that struck Marv as the one he sought. Marv flipped pages impatiently until he found the image he'd belatedly recalled. Behind a podium, a tall, smartly dressed figure addressed a roomful of young women. Recruiters from government intelligence services, the caption began, urge elite college women to join the nation's efforts.
Marv dropped his forefinger onto the photo. Second row, ninth from the left, Vanessa Kortright-Kingston stared at the speaker, rapt. She could have been modeling for a cartoon—one in which her head would have been topped by a sudden light-bulb.
Marv tipped back in his chair. He pondered the photo for a long moment, his palm sliding back and forth across his stubbly cheek.
When he returned to the day room, Marv discovered Vanessa sitting on the piano bench beside Roz. His jaw dropped as Vanessa picked out a few notes and then turned to share a triumphant grin with Roz.
Vanessa noticed him gaping. “Look, Mr. Pennybacker—Roz is giving me a piano lesson!"
He nodded, speechless. Roz was the shyest of his Talents; her usual method of coping with other people involved sticking a piano between them and herself.
Marv approached the baby grand as Roz played a little phrase and Vanessa labored to repeat it. They grinned at each other.
"Mr. Pennybacker, do you suppose that I could come back for more lessons?"
He leaned against the piano. “Sure, Ms. Kortright-Kingston. Of course, once you get that surgery you're not going to want to anymore."
Her smile faltered.
"But I don't get it,” he continued. “Couldn't you have taken piano lessons in college?"
She didn't seem to know how to respond to that.
"You did attend college, didn't you, Ms. Kortright-Kingston? No, wait, let me guess . . .” He squinted for a few seconds, then suddenly leveled a finger at her. “Barnard. Am I right?"
Her half smile seemed frozen to her face. “Now, how—"
Marv pressed on. “So what was your major?"
"Why—"
"Humor an old man, yes?"
By now she was down to maybe a quarter of a smile. “English, at first. Senior year I switched to political science."
"Political science.” Marv nodded. “Very nice. And back when you were studying English, did you maybe do some drama? Maybe an acting class or two? Because I think you're pretty good at it."
Her widened eyes were response enough.
Marv had noticed Roz's concerned gaze shuttling back and forth to follow their volleys. Behind him, Doris's steady page-flipping had paused.
Marv beckoned Vanessa with a finger as he turned and headed back to his office.
He was settling into his chair by the time she caught up. Spying the magazine lying open on his desk, she sucked in a breath. He watched her naive, open expression shift subtly then, growing more shrewd and—as her gaze lifted to meet Marv's—more guarded. Her posture improved, too.
"So, Ms. Kortright-Kingston, you're not here on your own time, are you? Who's your employer? FBI? CIA? DHS?"
She stood even str
aighter. “I'd prefer not to say, Mr. Pennybacker."
"I see. Well, why did they send you to spy on my Talents?"
Her gaze fell. It gratified Marv that she at least had the consideration to look embarrassed.
But her answer took him off guard. “Not the Talents.” She licked her lips. “You."
As an astounded Marv floundered for a response, Vanessa continued, gradually regaining her newly evident poise. “One of our analysts has been studying accounts from family members of natural savants. He thinks that some of them, after spending decades caring for their relative, might have acquired some skills of their own."
Marv shook his head. “I already told you,” he said, “it doesn't work like that."
She shrugged. “The rest of the analysts agree with you. Still—what if he's right? What if ordinary people could acquire these skills? Imagine an agent with the powers of a savant! No need to carry around a codebook full of random numbers if you can simply memorize them all. Nor a camera, if later you can sketch all the details of a glimpsed scene. Even the abilities of your Tinkerers—imagine what one of them could do to sabotage a factory."
"Ah,” said Marv. “So that's why you were so interested in piano lessons. Because with a Musician's talent, you could—what? Identify an enemy combatant's favorite tune?"
Again her gaze dropped. “No,” she said. She pointed toward the chair beside her and raised an eyebrow. Marv waved her into it.
For a moment she just sat there, one hand fiddling with a button of her cardigan. Then—her voice quieter, and some of her earlier innocence returned to her face—she said, “Savants, especially musical savants—I've always been fascinated by them. Since I was little, and a friend's parents hired one for her birthday party. A pianist. A tall, thin red-headed woman. She wore such a pretty yellow dress. When she played . . .” Vanessa's voice fell away, her expression momentarily easing into blissful recollection.
Once more, thought Marv, she could be acting. But he doubted her skills were this good.
Vanessa let out a long breath and shook her head. “Me, I've never had any facility for music or art.” She looked up. “Last month I learned about this investigation. It took some work to get myself assigned."
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