This cell is nine feet by six feet. It’s color scheme is pewter on pewter, furnished with but a toilet and cot. When I complained, I was told I should feel lucky—at least I have a window. A more accurate description of the aperture in my cell would be “narrow slit.” For the past week it’s been cloudless, but the glass is so thick that even when my face is pressed into this tight opening I feel nothing of the sun’s heat.
The other day I went so berserk I bit my arm. The outburst of course gained the attention of a guard, who struck me repeatedly with his baton. Strangely, I was overwhelmed by a sense of calm, and I fell into a deep sleep.
When I woke up, I asked for a copy of the Bible, both the Old Testament and the New. Three days later, I can scarcely believe what I’ve encountered. This cruel and merciless God is what so many wars have been fought over? All of this blood spilled on behalf of someone so sadistic and abhorrent? This is who Rachel thinks Julian would go to pieces without? I mean, my God, what horrific stories these books contain! Of all the luxuries my captors could’ve afforded me, it’s God they have to offer.
I once watched a televised celebrity murder case. The defendant was a former Catholic priest who’d taken confessions from a famous actress. Her admissions polluted his ears and shook him to his core: orgies, money crimes, bestiality, the worst sins of pride, avarice, envy. One evening, after a particularly scandalous purge, the priest followed her back to her Topanga Hills mansion, and when she removed her gown to step into her bubble bath, he stabbed her repeatedly in the face, throat, belly, rectum, and genitals. As if ordained by the heavens above, she did not die immediately. The priest had somehow managed to avoid her major arteries. The holy man proceeded to savor his moment like a connoisseur, and when at last she died, he opened a priceless vintage of red Bordeaux and sat before the actress’s 19th-century Steinway playing Fredric Chopin’s “Nocturn op.9 No.2 in E-Flat major.” Never had he played with such precision, conviction, and finesse, he said, astoundingly. Later, I found out on the news that the priest had been sentenced to ten lifetimes in maximum security prison. I think of him now because I just overheard the guards discussing his suicide. Until yesterday, he had been interned only two cells over.
Surely it’s not God who punishes us for our sins, but ourselves. Of my fate I know nothing. The strain of waiting is maddening. I almost feel as though I have more reason to kill myself than did the priest. I, however, possess neither the bravery nor the agency to take my own life. Despite my misery and self-loathing, I can’t force myself to swallow my pill. My cowardice is the only reason I’m alive.
44
It’s been weeks since I’ve seen another human. My cafeteria and yard privileges were revoked after I was caught hording and selling the commissary’s stock of hot chocolate mix. I reaped a tidy profit until one of the other inmates took exception to my entrepreneurial savvy and forced me into a most compromising position in the shower room. For a brute, my assailant showed acute tenderness. It’s amazing what we humans are willing to endure for a bit of intimacy. I am now in solitary confinement.
It’s Horowitz who finally pays me a visit. He’s grown a mustache since I saw him last, which I think must be almost two months back. His manner, however, is chilly. He opens his gram but blocks my view of it completely. That he seems so completely impervious to my well-being makes me instantly attracted to him.
“You must’ve found the contract,” I say. “On my napkin?”
“I’m here, Henri, but to present you with divorce papers.”
I snatch the man by his lapels and watch him wriggle like a worm on a hook.
“She has every right,” Horowitz cries. “You’ve been unfaithful for years.”
“She couldn’t have known about that. I’m the model of discretion!”
“It’s 2036, Henri, there are no secrets.”
“Why did she never confront me?”
“It was all for Julian. Now that you’re here, however, you’re far from any use.”
“Really?”
“You’re a man of the world. You of all people should know that bonds are nothing if not conditional.”
“But what about Julian? What about my rights?”
“You’re in prison. You have no rights.”
“And my money and assets?”
“What about them? A lot of good they are here, eh?”
“You’re right,” I say. “She can have it all. I want to make sure they’re provided for.”
Horowitz scrolls down the gram and points to a line, where I scribble my signature with my finger.
“You’re still going to help me beat this rap, aren’t you? I mean, you’re still my lawyer, right?”
Horowitz laughs profoundly. “Really, Henri? Really?”
“That’s it, then? That’s all?”
“Good-bye, Henri.”
45
I used to believe I’d one day transform into a finished person. Brought up in the only civilization based on science the world has ever known, I came to think of life as one big problem that, with enough time and the right strategy, could be solved liked a geometry proof. Life, I believed, was to be subjugated, overcome, defeated.
It’s only now I see the folly of this view. Life isn’t meant to be lived on rails, aimed in a line at some fixed point, unwavering and resolute. Had fate not stepped in and delivered what could easily have been a crushing blow, I’d still be living with blinders on, practicing medicine, playing the role of a husband and a father. I’d know nothing of adversity, tribulation, woe. I never would have known what it meant actually to live. It’s a mistake to believe that our experiences do nothing to determine whether we are saved or damned. A soul isn’t brought into this world noble or petty. It’s shaped by its encounters.
Existence itself has become my occupation.
This most challenging of vocations has helped me to resolve life’s difficulties—it’s as if my batteries have been recharged, my mind drawing fresh strength and inspiration from mysterious depths.
I don’t believe I could ever go back to my old ways.
Luxuries lull a man into complacency, and thence to sleep.
And love, too, which absorbs too much time, too much emotion—it’s the ultimate distraction. Mostly, though, it’s a burden, a fearful nuisance, and when it’s not that, it almost always proves something worse. I can’t think of anything that provokes more pity and annoyance than a person in the throes of love.
Things are so much better for me now that I’m not obsessed with the endless search for happiness. I’m free now to pursue a true spiritual awakening—a blossoming! The worst thing that could happen to someone who discovers their calling is to stumble into a fool’s happiness and succumb to it, squandering his gift.
Months of inactivity have atrophied my muscles and bones, so that when someone at last knocks at my cell door it’s difficult to reach it.
“I have something to share with you,” says the voice on the other side.
“I’m immune to any troubles you wish to burden me with.”
“Excuse me?”
“The extinction of the three poisons: ignorance, aversion, and passion,” I say. “I’m enlightened!”
“But I really need to show you this.”
A man steps through the door, one of the guards. He’s got a shiny bald head and a gentle, humorous face. He opens his gram to the lead story in today’s news. There are two photographs of me, side by side, one of me in my doctor’s attire, and one of my mug shot, where I’m looking every bit the hardened criminal. The headline reads, “From Healer to Hero!”
The article tells of my struggles as a youth, my ascension to the pinnacle of medical achievement, and my wife and family. All these details are nearly to the letter. Not even I could’ve offered a more truthful retelling of these facts.
However, from there, the story becomes one of pure fiction. It tells how I courageously abandoned my life as an elite to seek out a purer existence, a quest for solidarity with
the common man … how I gave up the spoils of the charmed life—money, admiration, family—to sow the seeds of a coming revolution. The writer crafts a tale where I’m the mastermind behind a tidal wave of Luddite sentiment. Dozens of other terrorist acts have taken place since I’ve been imprisoned, the article says, all inspired by Karl and Lydia’s first triumphant victory, the planning of which has for some reason been ascribed to me. In fact, the article only mentions the two of them in passing, as foot soldiers in my great revolution.
Next, the guard shows me a transcript from a speech by candidate Bradford at a stadium in Texas, to an audience of over one hundred thousand people.
“I stand before you here to ask questions, to point out the ills of our society, to call out those men and women, who’ve sold out humanity in favor of greater efficiency and easy profits, but, I’m nothing more than a mouthpiece, delivering a message we already know in our hearts. Truth be told, what I do is quite easy, because I’ve never actually had to sacrifice a thing. Beyond speaking to the good people of our country, like I am here today, I’ve never put my beliefs into action. I’ve never had to choose between my freedom or my allegiance to what is right and just in this world. But there is a true hero in our movement, a man who’s given up everything to champion a cause greater than himself, greater, in fact, than any one man—a sacrifice so wonderful and selfless he’s practically a living saint. You all know who I’m talking about. Like Jesus or Moses before him, he needs but only one name … Henri!”
There’s yet another article that tells how Bradford has been precipitously falling in the polls, ever since this spree of domestic terrorism began. The pundits say he’s doomed himself by refusing to disavow those responsible for carrying out these acts of destruction. Even his closest advisors are begging him to change course and move toward a more centrist, mainstream message. Yet, when pressed, he redoubles his provocations. The media has christened him the most fascistic politician of the twenty-first century. To support Bradford publicly has become anathema. Anyone who does is branded as backwards and fearful. Even his closest allies in the movement have turned against him, stating his positions to be too “extreme” and “dangerous.”
Despite his abysmal approval ratings, another term for Martinez appears inevitable. Not because of anything he’s accomplished, but simply because his opposition is too unhinged. The pundits are expecting the lowest voter turnout in nearly sixty years. The disenfranchised people of this country, it seems, have finally given up. Content to receive their small allowance of Basic Income, a gram to watch sports on, and a machine to mix them cocktails, they expect nothing more from this life.
This third article demonizes me as the symbol of an evil and reviled movement—a rallying cry turned death throe—one that has brought the Bradford campaign to the brink of ruin. With the election only days away, he’s an insurmountable seven points behind Martinez.
“I’m going to go down in history with my name attached to this madman!” I say.
“Madman? The two of you are like the Lenin and Trotsky of the twenty-first century! Didn’t you read the articles?”
“Bradford’s prospects in the election are doomed!”
“The polls and the media don’t know anything. It’s all lies. Don’t you see? They’re terrified! Our movement is so strong that the only defense they can muster is slander. But soon it won’t matter.”
“How can you say the polls are untrue? Statistics don’t lie. They’re science. And the media, aren’t they the last check and balance against tyranny?”
The guard doubles over with laughter, slapping his thighs with open palms.
“That’s a good one, Henri. Despite all of the injustice you’ve suffered, you’ve managed to retain your sense of humor.”
When next the guard reaches into his jacket pocket, I think that he’s only been toying with me, that his real purpose is to assassinate me.
But yet again, as in so many other matters, I am mistaken. “My wife,” he says as he offers me a slice of pie, “made this just for you. You’re the hero of our generation!”
It’s the warmest, richest, most crumbly apple pie I’ve ever tasted. I don’t want to utter a word or even breathe as I eat it, for fear the deliciousness will escape.
“In times like these,” I say at last, “the world needs heroes.”
“My wife makes pumpkin pie, as well, Henri.”
“Bring it to me!”
“It will be the best pumpkin pie you’ve ever tasted, I promise.”
“A slice won’t do,” I say. “You must bring the entire pie.”
On my cot, I consider the importance of letting people cling to their hopes and dreams, even if they’re rooted in falsehoods: it helps them to cope with all the things they’ll never have.
46
It’s increasingly difficult to stay focused on a single abiding idea or notion. For hours, I’ll lie on my cot, twiddling my thumbs or making shadow puppets on the wall, my mind working meantime on two juxtaposing thoughts so unrelated that I’m baffled how they share space in my brain.
I never learned to cook a soufflé, I realized this morning, for instance, while simultaneously concluding that things change because it’s too entertaining for them not to. Later, the guard brought me a piece of red velvet cake. This, no doubt, is a tremendous development. His wife has expanded her menu to the point she fantasizes about one day owning a pizza shop. But as quickly as this good news brightens me, I’m torpedoed into yet another crisis.
The guard saw my wife and son on the news. Their savage attacks, he said, spared me no semblance of dignity. Truth be told, their ire left no mark. What got me is that before the guard had mention them, I hadn’t spent so much as a minute thinking about my family since I signed the divorce papers. It’s as if my mind had erased them. What’s more, not even this—the realization that my love could disappear so quickly—affected me in the least. My torment stemmed from the notion that my memory was deficient. My razor-sharp mind had always been my greatest attribute. Now I wasn’t so sure.
I couldn’t remember the details of their faces, nor recall their voices, nor even say that they were short or tall or skinny or fat. Either I have always misjudged my abilities, I thought, or they have simply gone to pot. Neither of these was easy to swallow. Later, after spending the better part of the afternoon weeping, I had an epiphany: the twin gifts of forgetting and detachment are reserved only for the wisest of minds. It’s this that enables their productivity. Thoughts of the past are wasteful, for the past is not the future and the future is what matters! I’m stunned it took so long to reach a conclusion that any third-rate child would’ve stumbled on in minutes. I take off my pants, twist them in a knot, and flagellate myself until I bleed.
Now the guard has returned, hysterical, his words a jumbled mess.
“No need to worry,” I say, “your hero has once again triumphed!”
“Bradford has won the election!” the guard says.
“Impossible!”
“It was a landslide! He even won California and New York!”
“It can’t be!”
“I prayed to God, and he delivered us this victory!”
“But the mathematical models had his odds at one in a thousand!”
“You more than anyone should know that science, math, and technology can’t be trusted. Look at the world they’ve given us.”
“But if not for science, how do we arrive at truth?”
“You must fight the impulse to think rationally, Henri. Have faith in the spirit of mankind.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You’re the one who’s inspired millions of people to cast off all they know in favor of our glorious past!”
Democracy, I realize, being subject to the idiocy of the masses, has doomed the world! “I suppose the only way to avoid revolution is to introduce reforms over time. Otherwise, for the powers that be, catastrophe is inevitable.”
“Inevitability, yes—the divine!
I’m going to get us a pumpkin-walnut cheesecake to celebrate!”
The guard prances off like a fawn in a meadow, singing a tune from a Shakespeare tragedy I once saw performed as a musical.
47
Minutes after Bradford is sworn in, I’m issued an official pardon and summoned to Washington.
I collect my singular belonging, Mr. Toczauer’s suicide pill, and place it in the pocket of my wallet, which has been returned to me, empty of its former contents.
FBI Agent Steekhelm escorts me to my private jet, silent until the moment I open the door to leave.
“The blood of civilization is on your hands!” he says.
Across the plane’s hulking belly is a sun-faded and peeling light blue Pan Am Airways logo. Many of the rivets securing the wing to the fuselage are missing, the holes filled sloppily with epoxy adhesive and duct tape.
At the foot of the rollaway staircase I’m greeted by a woman whose good looks alone have surely ruined the lives of countless men. She sports a slim-cut, powder blue skirt and a cleavage-busting three-button jacket. She’s even got a pillbox hat, white gloves, and six-inch stilettoes. She takes my arm to lead me up the stairs. Even so, halfway up, I slip and nearly bring my escort tumbling with me.
The plane’s interior is equally dilapidated—the carpet is worn, frayed, stained. My safety belt is nothing I’ve seen since boyhood, something from a forty-year-old Wesley Snipes film. The woman takes the two ends of the belt and secures them, grazing my crotch as she does. Against my will, I become as erect as a flagpole, at which the attendant grimaces.
In the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me is a magazine dated from 1989—a year before I was born—whose cover exclaims, “Miami Vice’s Don Johnson Is the World’s Hottest Leading Man!”
“What’s going on with this plane?” I ask the attendant when she returns with a drink.
“It’s quite retro, isn’t it?”
The Absolved Page 19