Ghostwritten (43 page)

“I was afraid the good director was going to start thundering at you.”

“Being thundered at by Heinz is like being flogged by a lettuce.”

He reached into his shirt pocket. “You don’t mind if I smoke, Doctor?”

“Light Box has a no-smoking policy.”

He lit up, tipped the contents of a bowl of potpourri onto a Light Box folder, and used the bowl as an ashtray. “I overheard a joke at my expense the other day: no in-tray, no out-tray, just an ashtray.”

“Forgive me for not believing you.”

His smile told me that it wasn’t very important whether I believed him or not. “Dr. Muntervary, I’m a Texan. Did you
know that Texas was an independent republic before joining the union?”

“Yes, I did.”

“We Texans are a proud tribe. We pride ourselves on being straight shooters. Let us do some. The Pentagon requires that Quancog see completion.”

“Then go ahead and complete it.”

“Only Light Box Research can do that. We both know why. That is, we both know who. Light Box Research has Mo Muntervary.”

“As from yesterday nobody has Mo Muntervary.”

He blew out a plume of smoke, and watched it unfurl. “If it were that simple …”

“It is that simple.”

“Kings abdicate, cops turn in their badges, directors of think tanks can slam all the doors they like and storm off, and nobody gives a damn. But you, Doctor, can never leave the ballpark. This is a fact. Accept it.”

“Is this plain talking? Because I don’t understand what I’m hearing.”

“Then I’ll phrase it differently. Light Box is only one research institute in the marketplace. Syndicates in Russia, Indonesia, South Africa, Israel, and China are headhunting scientists like you. There’s a new confederation of Arab countries that really doesn’t like us. There are three freelance military consultancies who want quantum cognition, one of them being our British cousins. The marketplace is getting crowded and cutthroat. The Pentagon wishes to invite you to work with us. Our less democratic competitors will coerce you. Wherever and however you hide, you will be found, and your services employed, whether you like it or not. Am I talking plain enough for you now, Dr. Muntervary?”

“And how exactly can anyone ‘coerce’ me?”

“By kidnapping your boy and locking him in a concrete box until you produce the required results.”

“That’s not remotely funny.”

He lifted a briefcase onto his lap. “Good.” The briefcase clips
thwacked open. “Here is a file, containing photographs and information on the techniques employed by headhunters. Verify them through your own channels: your Amnesty friends in Dublin will know the names. Look at it later.” He passed me the file. “But not before you eat. One more thing.” He threw me a little black cylinder, the size of a camera film case. “Carry this.” I looked at it, lying on my lap, but didn’t pick it up. “What is it?”

“It’s a chicken switch, programmed with your right thumb-print. It flips open like a lighter. If you press the button then one of our people will be with you within four minutes.”

“Why should I swallow this hogwash? And why me?”

“The New World Order is old hat. War is making a major comeback—not that it had ever gone anywhere—and scientists like you win wars for generals like me. Because quantum cognition, if spliced with artificial intelligence and satellite technology in the way that you have proposed in your last five papers, would render existing nuclear technology as lethal as a shower of tennis balls.”

“And how do these phantom headhunters know about my research at Light Box?”

“The same way we all do. Old-fashioned industrial espionage.”

“Nobody’s going to kidnap me. Look at me. I’m middle-aged. Only Einstein, Dirac, and Feynman made major contributions in their forties.”

The Texan stubbed out his cigarette, and tipped the potpourri back into the bowl. “A lot of people kiss your ass, Doctor, and if I thought it would do any good I’d kiss your ass too. But listen really good. I can’t make heads or tails of your matrix mechanics, your quantum chromodynamics, and your nothing turning into something by energy borrowed from nowhere. But I do know that no more than ten people alive can make Quancog a reality. We have six of them, now, in Saragosa, in West Texas. I’m offering you a job. Come this fall, we were going to relocate Light Box’s Quancog project there wholesale, and offer you a package of incentives the usual way. But your resignation letter has forced our hand.”

“Why should I work for you? Your president’s a shallow crook.”

“Doesn’t take an egghead to see that. But of all the shallow crooks with fingers on buttons today, who would you rather own Quancog?”

“Quancog as a military application? Nobody should own it.”

“Come to Texas, Dr. Muntervary. Of all the agencies who want you, only ours will respect your conscience, and the rights of your boy Liam, and John Cullin. You see me as your enemy, Doctor. I can live with that. In my world enemies and friends are defined by context. Understand that I’m on your side before it’s too late.”

I looked out at Mercury.

“I always liked that one,” said the Texan, following my gaze. “Lived by his wits.”

The pub sign of The Green Man squeaked as it swung. Maisie was leaning on the stone wall, looking out to sea through her telescope. Brendan was around the other side, pottering about in the vegetable patch. Maisie’s last gray hairs had turned white.

“Afternoon, Maisie.”

She swung the telescope at me, and her mouth opened. “As I live and breathe! Mo Muntervary come back to haunt us! I saw a funny hat get off the
St. Fachtna
,” she lowered the eyepiece, “but I thought it was a bird-watcher come for the Thewlicker’s geese. Whatever happened to your eye?”

“It got hit by a rogue electron in a lab experiment.”

“Even when you were knee-high you were always bumping into things. Brendan! Come and see who it isn’t! Now Mo, why weren’t you back for the summer fair?”

Brendan limped over. “Mo! You’ve brought some grand weather back with you this time! John was in sinking the Guinness last night, but he nary breathed a word of your homecoming. Holy Dooley, that’s a black eye and a half! Put a steak on it!”

“I didn’t want a fuss. But aren’t the roses a picture! And how do you get honeysuckle to run riot at the end of October?”

“Dung!” answered Maisie. “Good and fresh from Bertie Crow’s cows, and the bees. Keep a hive, Mo, when you settle
down. Care for the bees and the bees care for you. You should have seen the runner beans this year! Beauties, they were, eh Brendan?”

“Aye, they turned out well enough, Maisie.” He inspected the bowl of his dogwood pipe, the same one he’d smoked for half a century. “You see your ma in Skibbereen, Mo?”

“I did.”

“And how was she?”

“Comfortable, but less lucid. At least she can’t do herself an injury where she is.”

“That’s true enough.” Maisie let a respectful silence go by. “You’ve lost too much weight, Mo. I thought you live on fondues and Toblerone chocolate in Switzerland.”

“I’ve been on a trip, Maisie. That’s why I’m on the lean side.”

“Lecture circuit, no doubt?” Brendan’s eyes gleamed with pride.

“You might call it that.”

“If your da could see you today!”

Maisie was better at spotting half-answers. “Well, don’t stand over the garden wall. Come in and tell us about the wide world.”

Brendan shooshed with his antique hands. “Maisie Mickledeen, give our goddaughter a chance to catch her breath before plying her with liquor. Mo here’ll no doubt be wanting to get straight up to Aodhagan. The wide world can wait a few hours.”

“Come by then later, Mo, or whenever, so. Eamonn O’Driscoll’s boy is back with his accordion, and Father Wally’s organizing a lock-in.”

Lock-ins at The Green Man. I was home. “Maisie, don’t lock-ins need the odd night when you actually close at the legal time? And a lock to lock?”

“Desist your logification right now, Mo! You’re back on Clear now. It’s only sheep, fish, and the weather here. Leave your relativity back in Baltimore, if you please. And if John brings his harp I’ll crack open my last bottle of Kilmagoon. Mind how you go.”

“Mowleen Muntervary, you are an eight-year-old aberration who will be lashed by devils with nettles in hell until your bottom is
covered with little lumps that you will scratch until they bleed! Do you want that to happen?”

My memory of Miss Thorpe veers towards an eyebrow mite through an electron microscope. Shiny, spiky, many-eyed. Why are primary schoolteachers either Brontëesque angels or Dickensian witches? Do they teach black and white so much that they become black or white?

“I asked you a question, and I did not hear an answer! Is it your wish to be damned as a liar?”

“No, Miss Thorpe.”

“Then tell me how you got your grubby mitts on the algebra test answers!”

“I did them myself!”

“If there is one thing in this world that I loathe more than little boys who fib, it is little girls who fib! I shall be forced to write to your father, telling him that his daughter is a fork-tongued viper! You’re going to be shamed in your own village!”

A toothless threat. No Clear Islander took a non-Gaelic-speaking teacher seriously.

There was a trail of these exposé letters, all the way to Cork Girls’ Grammar School. When my da came back at the weekend he used to read them out to Ma in a funny English accent that crippled us with laughter. “It is inconceivable that your daughter scored a hundred per cent in this examination honestly. Cheating is a serious transgression.…”

Da was a boatyard contractor who spent the week traveling between Cork and Baltimore, supervising work and dealing with buyers from as far as Dublin. He’d fallen in love with my mother, a Clear Island girl, and was married in St. Ciaran’s church by a middle-aged priest called Father Wally.

These days the primary school kids are taught in English and Gaelic in Portakabins down in the harbor. The older ones go on the
St. Fachtna
to a school in Skull that has its own planetarium. Miss Thorpe went to propagate her Manichean principles in poor, multishafted African countries. Bertie Crow stores hay in the old schoolhouse now.

If you look in through the window, that’s what you see: hay.

•  •  •

I told the Texan I would reconsider my resignation over the weekend. I drove to the bank, and withdrew enough U.S. dollars in cash for the manager to invite me into the back office for coffee while they checked me out. Driving back to the chalet, I caught myself glancing into the mirror every fifteen seconds. Paranoia must often begin as a nasty game. I phoned John to ask his advice. “A thorny one,” said John. “But should you decide to”—he switched to Gaelic—“take an unscheduled sabbatical, try to get back to Clear for my birthday.” John usually hid his advice in its wrapping. “And remember that I love you very much.”

I packed briefly, and left a note on the table asking Daniella to look after my books and plants. The hardware, like the chalet and the car, belonged to Light Box. I downloaded my hard disks onto the CDs I planned to take, erased everything else, and emptied zoos of my most virulent viruses on the disks I’d leave behind. My farewell present to Heinz.

How do you disappear? I’d made particles disappear, but I’d never disappeared myself. I would have to watch myself through my pursuers’ eyes, find blind spots, and move into those blind spots. I telephoned my usual travel agent, and asked for a flight to Petersburg in three days’ time, no matter the cost, to be paid by credit card. I e-mailed the only web site in Equatorial Guinea, telling them that Operation Cheese was Green. I went out for a stroll, and found a Belgian yogurt lorry in which to chuck my cylindrical chicken switch.

Then I sat in my window seat and watched the waterfall, as the evening thickened.

When it was dark I began the long drive north on the Berlin autobahn.

I could see the beginning.

The track has wildflowers growing down the middle.
AODHAGAN CROFT
, says the sign, painted by Liam. Another sign swings underneath: “home-made ice cream,” painted by me. Planck dozes in the late sun. The windows in the house are open. The yellow sou’wester in the porch, the watering can, Planck’s lead and harness,
the Wellington boots, the rows of herb pots. John comes out of the house: he hasn’t heard me yet. I walk to the vegetable garden. Feynman sees me, and bleats through his beard. Schroedinger leaps onto the mailbox to get a better view. Planck thumps her tail a couple of times before getting up to bark. Lazy tyke.

My journey ends here. I am out of west to run to.

John turns. “Mo!”

“Who else are you expecting, John Cullin?”

A latch clicks in the murk and I fold upright and where the hell am I? I slip and judder. What ceiling, what window? Huw’s? The poky hotel in Beijing? The Amex Hotel in Petersburg, is there a ferry to catch? Helsinki? The black book! Where’s the black book! Slowly now, Mo, slowly … you’ve forgotten something, something secure. The rain drumming on the glass, fat fingertips of European rain. The smooth edges, unclutteredness, the wind chime, you recognize that wind chime, don’t you, Mo? The bruises down your side are still aching, but aching with healing. A man downstairs is singing Van Morrison’s “The Way Young Lovers Do” in a way that only one man you know sings Van Morrison, and it definitely isn’t Van Morrison.

I felt happiness that I’d forgotten the feel of.

And there’s the black book on the dressing table, where you put it last night.

On John’s side of the bed was a John-shaped hollow. I rolled into it, the cosiest place on Earth. I twitched open the curtain with my toe. A sulky sky, not worth getting up for yet.

When did I become so jittery? That night I left for Berlin? Or is it just getting old, my organs getting fussier, until one of them says “I quit!” I belly flopped back into the shallows of sleep. A lonely horn sounded, from one of my ma’s gramophone records, a cargo ship out in the Celtic Sea, a memory junk across Kowloon harbor. We rounded the west cape of Sherkin Island, my black book and I, and after a trip of twelve thousand miles I could see the end. Would they be waiting here? They let me get this far. No, I got this far myself. The pillow of John, John the pillow, St. John,
hemp, smoke, mahogany sweat, and deeper fruits deeper down, my heart jolting, hauling carriages, grasslands rising and falling, years and years of them, Custard from Copenhagen, inured to loneliness, gazing out of the window, I wonder what happened to him, I wonder what happened to all of them, this wondering is the nature of matter, each of us a loose particle, an infinity of paths through the park, probable ones, improbable ones, none of them real until observed, whatever real means, and for something so solid, matter contains terrible, terrible, terrible expanses of nothing, nothing, nothing.…