Ghost, page 11
In his mind, he sees a vivid picture of his father. He sees his father on a night long ago. Well past midnight, he woke up to go to the toilet and heard a faint sound from the basement. Opening the door, he saw a dim light below, smelled wood oil and sawdust. When he tiptoed down the stairs, he discovered his father in his basement shop, working his lathe. The lathe made no noise as it spun, his father also moved without sound, it was all like a silent film, and his father’s face glowed in the light. Then he looked up and saw David, gave him a strange smile, almost embarrassed, as if now they shared some secret between them. He motioned for David to join him, but David, feeing a discomfort he didn’t understand, returned to his bedroom. That glowing face of his father David would like to see now. But when he looks at the mirror, he sees only the flickering candle, the dim chairs behind him, the small face of Ophelia. He wants to see his father. He would like to say many things to his father. Do you see anything? whispers Dr. Tettlebeim. No. David continues to gaze into the mirror. He feels as if he is floating, has lost all sense of his body. He floats with the music, the melody over and over, and the melody is like Ellen’s voice when she sings in the kitchen. Sometimes I wonder if your job is challenging enough for you, she said to him last night. You have such a good mind. I learn a lot at the mortuary, he answered. Tell me about it. You see people in extreme conditions, he said. You learn what people can withstand. And there are other things. The place makes me think about life and death, the line between. That sounds so morbid, David. I can’t believe the things you think about. But it’s beautiful, he said. What? Beautiful. Like the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyám. God, David, the Rubaiyat is so dismal. Everything is passing away. Yes, but it’s beautiful too. A flower is all the more beautiful because it lives only a season, don’t you think? Are you ever going to get married again? she asked suddenly. What made you think of that? I don’t know if I’ll get married again. I might. Just checking, she said. Something moves in the mirror. It is the moon of Ophelia in the back. He continues to stare. But he sees nothing unusual. Dr. Tettlebeim whispers again to his assistant. You can get up now, says the doctor. It’s been an hour. An hour? David is surprised. We’re finished for today, says the doctor. Thank you for your participation.
In the back of the room, Ophelia sighs with disappointment. “But he saw a ghost before,” she says. “In this room.”
“We don’t want to leap to any conclusions,” says Dr. Tettlebeim as he begins putting away his equipment. “We will do different tests.”
The next experiment is also performed in the slumber room, a location that may possibly be a gateway, according to Dr. Tettlebeim. “We will wait and we will see.”
The black box, Dr. Tettlebeim explains, contains something called a random number generator. “We at the Society call it the R box,” says Dr. Tettlebeim. “A company makes them for us.” One hundred times a second, a small computer within the R box randomly generates one of two numbers—either a zero or a one—like an electronic coin flipper. The results are recorded and graphed. After a few minutes, the machine has created thousands of numbers. According to the laws of chance, the little black box should spit out an equal number of zeroes and ones, randomly spaced, with no discernible pattern. However, says the doctor, certain people have the ability to alter the outcome of the box merely by the influence of their mind—by their concentrated “intentionality.” Such people can change the string of numbers from random noise to a pattern, or produce a preponderance of zeroes or ones. “Intentionality is a powerful force,” the doctor says. “We in the first world get only inklings. It is possible that some intentionality created the universe.”
Dr. Tettlebeim places the black box on a table in front of David, not too close and not too far away. It is the size of a small book. Wires trail off to another computer and a printer, operated by the doctor’s silent assistant.
“I don’t get this,” objects David. “What does this box have to do with what I saw before?”
“Everything is connected to everything else,” says Dr. Tettlebeim. He takes off his glasses. “Have patience, Mr. Kurzweil. We are proceeding.”
“This stuff is silly. Silly. I didn’t agree to do this.”
“Mr. Kurzweil. Please. We are exploring your powers. When you step into the second world, everything is connected—it is all part of the invisible world, the nonmaterial world. The R box, you see, is an excellent gateway between the two worlds because it is permeated with reason. It is subject to logical analysis. And when that analysis shows an anomaly, it shines out like a floodlight in the dark. A lovely paradox, don’t you think? Please, have patience.”
First they must calibrate. At the doctor’s instruction, the R box is turned on. It makes a faint humming sound. Across the room, lights blink on the computer, and the printer whines. After five minutes, the printer has produced a graph. Dr. Tettlebeim puts his glasses back on and carefully examines the graph. Totally random, he says. “We are calibrated.”
There’s a knock at the door. It’s Martin. He stands in the doorway, consternation on his face. “I thought we were finished with all this,” he says.
“We have finished the first round of tests,” Dr. Tettlebeim says in a soft voice. “We are conducting a second round now.”
“This is a funeral home,” says Martin. “This is not a hotel where conference rooms can be rented out for this and that.”
Dr. Tettlebeim’s assistant walks to the back of the room, as far from Martin as possible, and sits on the floor.
“We realize that we are interfering with your establishment,” says Dr. Tettlebeim, “and would not be doing so without a good reason.” He pauses. “I believe Ms. Gaignard has spoken to you about our work.”
“She certainly has,” says Martin. “And I can tell you that I’m not happy about it. I’m not happy about any of this.” He waves his arms at the equipment, frowning when he sees the black box, a strange and possibly dangerous object smuggled into his funeral home. Then he turns to David, as if asking his opinion.
David shrugs. “I guess I’ll go ahead and finish the thing up,” he says.
“Two more hours,” says Martin. “That’s it. Two more hours. I think I’m being generous.”
“Thank you,” says Dr. Tettlebeim.
Martin leaves, closing the door behind him. Dr. Tettlebeim puts his hand to his forehead. “Unfortunate,” he says softly. “Let’s take a moment to collect ourselves.” He walks over to David. “These things happen. People don’t understand. Can you concentrate?”
“I think so.”
“Then we will continue.”
Dr. Tettlebeim turns on his CD player—this time it is a nervous little fugue from Bach’s “Well Tempered Clavier,” far less soothing than the Beethoven but, according to the doctor, more conducive to the projection of patterns. Bach was a maker of patterns, says the doctor.
Now please concentrate, Mr. Kurzweil.
But how should he concentrate? What should he think about? Think about the box, says the doctor. The R box. David stares at the R box. It is simply a little black box. How does a person think about a little black box? It looks like a book. He stares at the black box, and he thinks about the William Blake book and the poem that Martin once recited to him. Something about squashing a fly, a little fly on the little black box. He must concentrate. Dr. Tettlebeim is so gentle and kind. He must concentrate. Are we running? Dr. Tettlebeim whispers to his assistant. Concentrate on the box. Faintly, it hums.
At the end of ten minutes, Dr. Tettlebeim switches off the box and walks to the printer. He studies the graph. Then he beckons to his assistant. For a few moments, they confer. “Yes,” says Dr. Tettlebeim, smiling. “Mr. Kurzweil, you have influenced the box. There are far too many zeroes compared to ones. Several standard deviations too many. Congratulations. You have swamped the probabilities of chance with your mind.”
“This proves everything,” says Ophelia. “Isabelle Poole told me she would pay you one hundred and fifty dollars to concentrate on her boyfriend and make him introduce her to his parents, which by the way he’s never done in nine months. And she said I should get your autograph because you’re going to be hyper-famous.”
Distressed, elated, and suspicious, David calls Ronald Mickleweed, the smartest person he knows and a former classmate in school. Ronald was born with an untreatable form of lazy eye, but he read faster with his one good eye than anyone else with two. Furthermore, he didn’t need full binocular vision to think brilliant thoughts. Since a young age, he quietly suffered the inevitable ostracism and cruel jokes that went along with his disfigurement. His sense of humor saved him. Excelling at school and then in college, Ronald went on to advanced studies—science turned out to be his greatest strength among many—and he was now a distinguished professor in the department of chemistry at the university.
Yes, yes, of course, he’s been reading about David’s “exploits” at the mortuary, Ronald says on the telephone in a good-natured manner. The newspaper people have certainly blown it way out of proportion, but they’re having fun. I’ve hallucinated myself after too much grog to drink, Ronald says, laughing.
I’d rather not talk about that, says David. But there is another matter, and he explains the experiment with the R box, the ones and the zeroes. What does Ronald think? One experiment doesn’t prove anything, says Ronald. Those people get excited over one atypical result, but they never mention the hundreds of typical results before and after. I’d be impressed if they repeated the experiment five times and got several standard deviations away from the norm every time. But it won’t happen. It won’t happen? asks David. No, says Ronald, because it’s a random number generator. But Dr. Tettelbeim says that some people can alter the results with their minds. Come on, David. You don’t believe that, do you? No, says David. Actually, I’m not sure. That’s why I called you. Could there be some kind of mental force, or something like that? It’s a random number generator, David. It produces numbers in random sequence. At times it will produce more zeroes than ones. At other times it will produce more ones than zeroes. It all averages out. In the long run, it produces an equal number of zeroes and ones. It’s exactly like flipping a coin. On rare occasions, you’ll get a long run of heads. And vice versa. It all averages out. But, asks David, doesn’t it seem a little surprising that a rare occasion should happen just when I’m sitting in front of the box? But, David. Listen. Somebody is going to be near the black box every time a rare event occurs. Rare events do happen once in a while, you know, and somebody is going to be near the box. This time that somebody happened to be you. Do you understand what I’m saying? I can tell from the sound of your voice that you’re upset about this. I can sympathize with that. Maybe I’m not explaining it well enough. I’m trying to understand, says David. I want to understand. We agree that a rare event happened. Yes, says Ronald, from what you’ve told me. Yes. A rare event happened. Why are you so sure that it didn’t have anything to do with me? asks David. If you’re asking me if I think that you can affect a little box or anything else outside of your body with your mind, with mental telepathy or whatever, absolutely not. We have a good understanding of the forces of nature, and that isn’t one of them. But you weren’t there, says David. How can you be sure? Dr. Tettlebeim was there, and he told me that I was influencing the box. It’s a bunch of baloney, David. They’re using you. Who are these people? They call themselves the Society for the Second World, says David. You’ve gotten mixed up with some nuts, says Ronald.
BUT SOMETHING DID HAPPEN with the R box. David feels it. After all of his misgivings, he did finally concentrate on the box. Something passed from him to the box like an electrical current leaping through space. He felt it, and no one can tell him he didn’t. The experience was so extremely intense—with the jittery throbbing of the Bach fugue and Dr. Tettlebeim staring at him through his spectacles and the black box there on the table—he felt that he had a power. And then the announcement by the doctor that he had indeed “swamped the probabilities” with his mind. Isn’t that possible? A force unknown to science? Isn’t that possible? If he has the power to control a small box, what else can he control? But…now he’s thinking nonsense. He is a mortal man, flesh and blood, nothing more. There is nothing more. There are atoms and molecules and the known forces of nature, as Professor Mickleweed says. He is deluding himself. Yet…that feeling will not go away. Surely there must be some things unknown, some things as yet uncomprehended.
When the letter from Ms. Gaignard arrives, asking him to attend a conference of the Society, he hesitates only a moment. It is a two-hour bus ride, barely longer than the trip to his mother’s. He can leave on Friday afternoon and be back on Sunday in time to have dinner with Ellen at their favorite Indian restaurant.
On the bus trip to the conference, David is scarcely bothered by the unpleasant diesel fumes, the uncomfortable seats with the torn vinyl coverings, the rolling glass bottles on the floor. Instead, he is setting off on an adventure, and he has something to learn. Certainly, Ms. Gaignard and Mr. Mewhinney will be there, as well as some of the accomplished members and scholars of the Society whose résumés he has read. Absently gazing out of the window at the dingy gray towns streaming by, he wonders whether any of the gathered experts will be able to explain his “brief glimpses.”
“Mr. Kurzweil.” It is Ms. Gaignard, dressed beautifully as usual and carrying a handsome umbrella, although no rain is predicted. “I wasn’t sure that you’d come,” she says, and gives a little laugh. “I admire your courage.” She touches him on the shoulder as if he were an old friend. “This is a challenging group we have here, fascinating but challenging. Now you’ll see us in our full glory. We have so much to share with you, Mr. Kurzweil. May I call you David? Everyone is thrilled by your experiments with Sam Tettlebeim.” David nods, remembering how Ms. Gaignard always manages to flatter him without being superficial. “Sam is actually here, to present the results. I hope you won’t mind.”
“I didn’t know…”
“You shouldn’t worry,” says Ms. Gaignard, seeing his concern. “Sam is very professional.”
“I won’t have to say anything, will I?”
“That’s completely up to you.”
Does he sound like a whining schoolboy who’s afraid to get up in front of the class? What does Ms. Gaignard think of him? Is he simply Exhibit A? He looks into her face and can see only confidence and sincerity. She has an intelligent face. And she takes care of herself. The inevitable age lines have been artfully covered by makeup, while her hair has been left to turn silver naturally. To David, Theresa Gaignard is a woman in control of her life, and at peace with it. Never, he thinks as he watches her gently twirl her umbrella, has he been at peace.
“We want you to be comfortable, David,” she says. “It must be difficult for you being here by yourself. I really don’t like traveling alone.” She pauses. “My husband never comes to the Society’s events. Not that he doesn’t support me one hundred percent. It is just…you know. I wish he would come, but he won’t.” She hesitates, as if she were about to say more, but then excuses herself to greet another arrival.
In the hallway, David sees Dr. Tettlebeim. The doctor smiles and nods, but only in a formal way, as if he were a psychiatrist acknowledging the acquaintance of a patient outside the office. Wearing his customary tan suit and bow tie, Dr. Tettlebeim paces back and forth down the corridor with his hands in his pockets, mumbling. Apparently, he is practicing for his presentation. Yet when each attendee passes, he stops and smiles and says a few friendly words.
Before the opening session, the guests gather in the ballroom for cocktails, complemented by grilled mushrooms and tiny salmon cakes—all served on elegant pewter plates. Soft, atonal music wafts over the speaker system. The music drifts without recognizable melodies but establishes repeating patterns of its own, like a waterfall. At the front of the ballroom, flowers adorn the podium. There must be two hundred people, clustering in threes and fours, many obviously having known one another already, drinking and eating, laughing or talking thoughtfully. People range in age from their twenties to their seventies. Some wear suits and dresses, others jeans and flip-flops. The gathering is a bazaar. It is a cross between an outdoor school picnic and a symphony audience at intermission. But David senses something serious here as well. There is an expectant buzz in the air. One man, apparently an academic of some kind, holds forth to a group of admirers circled about him, pausing every once in a while to gaze off into the distance. People seem spellbound by whatever he is saying. Two young women stroll past David drinking wine, deep in conversation. In the corner, a man in a pinstriped suit leans against the wall tapestry and ponders a manuscript.
David sees no one he recognizes. He tries to listen in on conversations, but he feels awkward and misplaced. Where are Ms. Gaignard and Dr. Tettlebeim? Within a few moments, however, he finds himself in conversation with a sympathetic Asian man named Jason Chee and his wife, Ling. “My third conference,” says Mr. Chee, dabbing at the wine he’s just spilled on his navy-blue blazer. “It is a stimulating occasion. I look forward to it every year.” David says that this is his first. “Oh, you’ll find these people delightful,” says Mr. Chee.
“I don’t find them as delightful as you do,” says Mrs. Chee.
Mr. Chee is a stout, shortish man. The pink color of his fat cheeks rises up to his forehead, where it scatters in red splotches and contrasts with his glossy black hair. His eyes gaze out eagerly behind the polished lenses of his glasses. Mrs. Chee also wears glasses. Hers are decorated with a flower design on the rims. She is taller than her husband, and sinewy, with brown weathered skin. Holding a straw to her lips, she sips a soda.
