Andrew's Brain: A Novel (15 page)

H
E DID KEEP
a neat desk, the president, a few papers aligned under a little snow globe that served as a paperweight. You shook the globe and the snow drifted over a child sledding down a hillside. I had begun to feel sorry for my old roommate. He lived with his ineptitude. From my basement window I could see a more or less constant procession of limos driving up: generals and admirals, diplomats, cabinet members, visiting foreign dignitaries, all of whom he had to see because he was said to be the leader of the free world. He seemed more relaxed in those arts awards evenings where performers sang and medals were given out to film directors, playwrights, and actors. I was invited to one of those and sat in the rear where no one noticed me.

I
had begun to savor my role there in the White House, having accepted a lieutenancy in the little war between the president and his closest advisors. It was as if right there in the Oval Office the prevailing contentiousness of the world outside had to be honored. It was as if the wars
they were conducting were to be symbolized in their own relationships. I thought how contention makes us human. How every form of it is practiced religiously, from gentlemanly debate to rape and pillage, from dirty political attacks to assassinations. Our nighttime street fights outside of bars, our slapping arguments in plush bedrooms, our murderous mutterings in the divorce courts. We had parents who beat their children, schoolyard bullies, career-climbing killers in ties and suits, drivers cutting one another off, people pushing one another through the subway doors, nations making war, dropping bombs, swarming onto beaches, the daily military coups, the endless disappearances, the dispossessed dying in their tent camps, the ethnic cleansing crusades, drug wars, terrorist murders, and all violence in every form countenanced somewhere by some religion or other … and for its entertainment politicidal, genocidal, suicidal humanity attending its beloved kick-boxing matches, and cockfights, or losing its paychecks on the blackjack felt and then going back to work undercutting the competition, scamming, ponzi-ing, poisoning … and the impassioned lovers of their times contending in their own little universe of sex, one turgidly wanting it, the other wincingly refusing it.

Have you left anything out?

So I had been brought here, I thought, to give my old roommate some measure of satisfaction in his peculiar
struggle with Chaingang and Rumbum. But there was a country to be run and they were the president’s two closest advisors, and after all he needed them just as they needed him. So after a few more of Android’s reports of neurological developments around the world, I detected a shift in the dynamic: I’d been there for a couple of weeks. At a certain moment one day they all had the same look on their faces, an effort not to laugh, and I understood that a new alliance in the great diplomatic tradition had been effected. I was alone versus the triumvirate and the joke was on me—the three of them in collusion to put me in a foolscap with bells—and all this while the world waited for the next civil war, the next tanking of the market, the next suicide bombing, the next tsunami, the next earthquake, the next leakage of radioactive material from the next defective nuclear plant—this game of seeing how long Android would go on with the show before he realized that he was their cruel sport, that they were taking a break, the three of them, right there in the White House—and I, the fool, was bringing a bit of comedy to their dark, contentious, power-charged, world-ruling day.

So there came that moment of realization and it was time to let them know who they were dealing with. I gave them Android’s last lecture on neurological developments around the world. I told them the great problem confronting neuroscience is how the brain becomes the
mind. How that three-pound knitting ball makes you feel like a human being. I said we were working on it, and if they valued their lives, or life as they knew it, they would do well to divert whatever government funding there was for neuroscience and add it to the defense budget. More rockets, landmines, jet fighters—all those things you love, I said. Because if we figure out how the brain gives us consciousness, we will have learned how to replicate consciousness. You understand that, don’t you, Doc?

I do.

So what, you mean computers who talk back?, Chaingang said. I’ve seen that in the movies. Computers, of course, I said, and animals genetically developed to have more than the primary consciousness of animals. To have feelings, states of mind, memory, longing. He means like in Disney, Rumbum said, and they laughed. I laughed as well. Yes, I said, and with all of that the end of the mythic human world we’ve had since the Bronze Age. The end of our dominion. The end of the Bible and all the stories we’ve told ourselves until now.

Andrew, you really think that?

How insulated these men were. They were imperial in their selfhood, these corporate culturists running a government. They lived, heedless, infallible. They understood contention and expected nothing else. I told them it depressed me to be in the same room with them. The president looked at me—did I mean him as well? You all
live unquestioningly inside the social reality—war, God, money—that other people invented long ago, I said, and you take these things for raw existence. It was quite a speech I gave them.

Apparently.

They were careless of life, I said, they were prime examples of human insufficiency, I said, and I told them I spoke as an authority on the subject. Then I took a deep breath and did a handstand.

A what?

It just came over me, I was up on my hands almost before I realized it. Perhaps it was the image of Briony on the high bar—my first glimpse of her—that animated me, my brain having decided that this was the thing to do, a mimetic act to bring her into resolution there in the White House. At least that is my interpretation now. At the time it was possibly no more than an act of inspired madness. Or maybe it was just my brain saying if it’s a fool they want it’s a fool they will get. Or maybe I just wanted to be out of there.

So you actually did that?

What I’m saying. I’d never done a bona fide handstand before. I was another man in the Oval Office.

I
can tell you that as Andrew wavered there, his arms aching, his feet moving to and fro like the shuttles of a
loom, he found himself weeping, either from the effort or from the image in his mind, Briony smiling, her clear blue eyes in their sturdy innocence assessing him. What was she saying? I heard her voice, her soundless voice: Going for a run, Andrew. For her morning snack, Willa likes the applesauce.

And the door closes and then the arc of her balletic leap into the fire.

I think I groaned, the blood pounding in my head, but it seemed to me a matter of honor to remain upside down as long as possible. They, the president and Chaingang and Rumbum, had risen from their chairs, Chaingang stepping behind the president’s desk and shouting into a phone. I collapsed then, landing not the way you’re supposed to, but painfully, with a thud, and I think now that almost simultaneously a pair of marines in dress uniform were yanking me to my feet and twisting my arms behind my back. So one way or another it was a very physical day for me.

Apparently it was.

What did you say?

I was agreeing.

But it was more than that. I doubt if anyone had ever done a handstand in the Oval Office before. Really it was a triumph. I had for a moment risen out of my characteristic humility, my ordinary citizenness, and in one upside-down gesture achieved equity with these governors of my
country. I knew the future whereas they didn’t. You might not have known from all I’ve spoken of my life that I was not without a keen political awareness. As I stood there, functionally disabled by the two marines, Chaingang and Rumbum were deciding what would be my fate. They ordered my arrest. Rumbum saying I had threatened the life of the president. Get this fool out of here, he said.

Make that a Holy Fool, I said.

Is that what you felt you were?

What else could I be if my old roommate was The Pretender? Because that’s what he unquestionably was. And never again would I be another man according to the situation. I could feel my brain becoming me—we were resolved as one. As I was led to the door, I turned and said what a Holy Fool would say: You are only the worst so far, there is far worse to come. Perhaps not tomorrow. Perhaps not next year, but you have shown us the path into the Dark Wood. I suppose that was Dante I was doing right there. My roommate didn’t like to hear it. Oh, come on, Android, he called, lighten up. Was he asking me to retract? Was he expecting my blessing? But how could I? What makes a fool holy is that he mourns for his country.

I stood tall, nodded to my guards, and they led me away.

So, Doc, how long have I been here?

It’s been a while.

And you won’t tell me where this is?

I can’t.

It’s not home.

How do you know that?

The air. There’s a softness to it. It gives one a settled sweet earth taste of the spring air. I’ve never experienced that in the New World. I think this is a countryside of low hills and wildflowers and grape arbors. I can’t see over the walls, but in the exercise yard I hear birds and they’re not the birds of home. Also it stays light long into the evening. I think this is Mediterranean Europe you people have dropped me into, and it’s not bad—the torture is not exquisite but only in my reflection of what has happened to me—apart from talking to you I have no one and no lawyer has been appointed and I’m being held without trial and it’s already been indefinitely. That’s celestial time, you know. I’m sentenced to roll round with the planet, to count the suns, the moons, the seasons.… Do you think I threatened the life of the president?

No, actually.

Yet I won’t accuse you of following orders and being a nullity. You know why?

Why?

Without you to talk to I’d be even worse off than I am.

You don’t have to worry.

Although I have my collected MT on the shelf I think how can I keep my mind from going? And if my mind goes can the country be far behind?

So you’re saying there’s a connection?

My mind is shot through with visions, dreams, and the actions and words of people I don’t know. I hear soundless voices, phantoms loom up out of my sleep and onto the wall, lingering there, cringing in anguish, curling up in visible contortions of pain and crying out wordlessly for my help. What are you doing to me!, I shout, and fall back into bed only to stare at the black ceiling and my room is a darkened movie theater where another silent horror show is about to begin. I speak of a broached integrity. Only by hoping that there is a science behind this am I able to endure it. Perhaps I’m carrying in my brain matter the neuronal record of previous ages. I know you haven’t gone through anything like this, you’re too accepting of your own experiences. They thrive in you, maxing out to your brain’s capacity. But when you’re as unfeeling as I am—

Ah, we’re back to that?

—there may be an opportunity for the dormant genetic microtraces from earlier times to express themselves in dreams.

So is this cognitive science?

Not quite yet. It’s still only suffering.

T
ell me, Doc, am I a computer?

What?

Am I the first computer invested with consciousness? With terrible dreams, with feelings, with grief, with longing?

No, Andrew, you’re a human being.

Well, you would say that.

I
see you’ve let your beard grow, your hair. You could indeed be the Holy Fool. But it needs something.

What’s this?

A Yankees baseball cap. Your wardrobe needed refreshing.

H
ow old is Willa now?

Twelve.

And where are they all living?

We’ve been through this—

Where?

They’re in New Rochelle.

In their old house?

Yes.

Martha and Martha’s large husband.

Yes.

And they need my agreement? Why? A judge will rule in their favor—Martha has raised her since she was a baby. And I’m an enemy combatant.

You’re not an enemy combatant.

Whatever I am I haven’t much legal standing, have I?

It’s for the child’s sake. Here are the papers.

So my daughter will have Boris Godunov, that drunk, that Pretender, for a legal father.

He’s in AA. Doesn’t drink anymore.

When did they get back together, the loving couple?

A few years ago, I think. Three or four.

And where did she take my child when she disappeared?

As I’ve told you, Martha settled in a small town in western Pennsylvania. A farm inherited from an aunt and uncle.

Do they have the finances to keep my daughter as she deserves?

They are not without resources. She teaches piano
again and he has a master class in voice. They are both at Juilliard.

It says here Willa is not to be told about me. It says I may never approach her, reveal myself to her as her father—

She has no reason to believe that Martha is not her mother. I’m not sure how the status of the husband will be represented in her eyes.