A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall (22 page)

—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.

B
urr 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 out 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.

Baudrillard was still looking down at his paper when Burr pulled out the chair, but he smiled.

—You look well rested.

—I heard some news about Owen last night. They found him. Or at least I know where he was three months ago. It's a start.

—Great.

—He came in as a John Doe at a hospital in Berlin. An intern took the time to track him down. This was all in May, but the hospital just got hold of Owen's surgeon this week. It seems as if Owen might have been drugged. He was admitted with advanced bacterial meningitis. There's a direct flight to Berlin this afternoon. And I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to cancel tonight's speech.

—Of course.

—I'm sure it's inauspicious to cancel one's debut, but my son comes first.

—Of course.

—You understand?

—Of course.

—Of course he was in Berlin three months ago, and he left the hospital unofficially headed for god knows where, but I still have to see if I can find him.

—Bien sur.

—It could be argued that I would greatly improve my odds of finding him if I put up a flare so that he would know how to find me.

—That was my thought. Sort of. He's been gone six months in total, you say? And he could very easily find you if he wanted to, just by logging on to his e-mail. Or by picking up the phone. That technology has been around for a while. You can't lose contact anymore. You shouldn't presume otherwise.

—There's also a direct flight tonight that gets in a few hours later. Right after my speech. Either way, I'm afraid I'm going to miss yours.

—There's no great loss there. You probably don't want to hear what I have to say about Liminalism anyway. I wasn't kidding about that. Not that I think it isn't the perfect thing for you to be preaching as a nonacademic philosopher.

—Why do you say, “perfect thing for me”?

—Why Liminalism, Joe? Because you were meant to sail, not anchor. I am old enough now to look around and see mainly waste. But I am still young enough to see potential. There's a reason you're here. You wouldn't have been any more likely to find him by going to Berlin a day earlier—even weeks earlier; it's already been three months since he was in that hospital. You also won't be any more likely to find him by staying and firing a flare, as you say. It is impossible to find someone who doesn't want to be found. And it is impossible to lead a search party when you're staring at your shoes. You need to change your relationship, which is almost impossible to do. You know that. Which is why you want to stay.

—That's what kept me up last night. I want to stay and speak. And there's no way I could get there faster. It's just . . . I feel like I should be praying or something.

—You should go breathe. Seriously. Go upstairs and take ten deep breaths.

Burr excused himself because there was nothing left to say. He hung the Do Not Disturb sign on his door then fell onto the rayon comforter and stared at the lazy ceiling fan. He slept, then watched
Scarface
on the TV. He had never seen the film, but could see how the hyperbole would polarize a crowd.

He opened his computer and chose his seat assignment for his evening flight to Berlin.

Burr settled on an old black polo shirt, no logo, and khaki pants. He looked different in the mirror, less innocent. He was surprised to find a tan on his cheeks. He lathered up for a shave, paused, and washed it off. He grabbed his windbreaker and turned out the light.

Tanned, stubbled, revolutionary, Professor Burr walked the stairs from his third floor room to the hotel lobby. George was waiting.

—I'm ready to go when you are, Professor.

—Let's have a drink until everyone else is ready.

—I'm afraid you are everyone else. Jean is wrapping up a speaking engagement at the University of Athens and will not be accompanying us to the Odeon.

—Oh.

—But let's have a drink. It will help with the nerves. Beer?

—Whisky. For a number of reasons.

They doubled their drink order and then left for the venue. As George lifted the seat of the coupe and crammed into the backseat with two of his friends, he added:

—Jean told us to be sure to record tonight—that your speech was going to be historic. No pressure!

The whisky wasn't helping with the nerves. His stomach had already been hot and jumped up. Now it was picking fights. He felt less present and more flushed. He tried to recollect himself, reconsidering his assumption that presence was a good thing. Perhaps this occasion demanded that he be absent. Like Owen.