August (14 page)

‘Yes it does!' the rector agreed. ‘For will then becomes defined as the ability to confound expectations. If I can tell you in advance what you will do, even before you decide to do it, then I have established your will as illusion. And that is why you fit our experiment so well. You have shown yourself to be most wilful. And clever and resourceful. And now you have the last ingredient: knowledge. You know what the experiment is for, and so it cannot be said that you were tricked into your actions.'

‘But what if I attempt to subvert the experiment?' Tristan asked. ‘What if I deliberately behave in ways that are out of character and unpredictable?'

‘But this is exactly what you must do,' the rector exclaimed, showing surprise that this point had not been anticipated. Or perhaps only apparent surprise, for wherever Tristan moved he found the rector already there, pushing back. ‘If you do not attempt to beat the experiment it has no meaning. Habit is easily predicted; no one has ever claimed it isn't. It is the intentional, tactical, motivated mind we seek to expose. That is the prize.'

‘But my knowledge is not perfect,' Tristan objected. ‘I know the what of the experiment but not the why. Do you really want to see me fail? Would that not mean the death of responsibility, the slaying of the soul?'

The rector hesitated, his features for a moment dissolving into uncertainty, but he composed himself again before Tristan could be sure.

‘I want you to try to beat the game; that is all you need to know.'

It was no answer at all, and Tristan sensed a weakness in his opponent.

‘But your experiment is already compromised. I am here against my will, undertaking the experiment only as punishment for a transgression.'

‘And so you wish to destroy the experiment?' the rector asked.

‘Why shouldn't I?'

‘Then you have not been listening. I want you to attempt to destroy it. That is the point. You must choose the behaviour that best suits your goal. My job is to anticipate it.'

‘You will fail,' Tristan said, his body growing tall with certainty. ‘You cannot know my mind. I do not even know it myself.'

The rector didn't flinch. ‘Pick a number,' he said. ‘A number between one and ten. Don't tell me what it is. Here, write it on this paper; turn away, don't let me see what you have chosen.'

Tristan took the paper and turned. At once he felt his mind locking up, as if some grit had got amongst the cogs. It was the scrutiny: his brain turned shy.
Close your eyes and take
the first number you think of
, he told himself, and yet trying made the simple task of thinking of a number impossible. With deliberate thought all ten presented themselves. He cursed his ineptitude and the fact the rector could read his struggle in the time that had passed. Seven. Seven insisted itself on him, but it was too obvious. Didn't everybody choose seven? Impulsively he scribbled a three, folding the paper over before turning as calmly as he could to his challenger.

The rector showed no hesitation. ‘You wrote three,' he said, not even glancing at the paper. ‘Most people, when they are asked, think of seven. And when they are trying to avoid being anticipated they deliberately reject their first thought. You are a tidy person, you enjoy symmetry; the jump from seven to three is a reflection about five. It feels like the least obvious attempt to avoid the obvious. And yet…am I right?'

He took the paper and unfolded it. There was no satisfaction on his face, as if this victory was too small to mark.

‘I guessed, Tristan. I got lucky. This is not how we will proceed. But there is a point to be made. We are creatures of instinct, capable of learning it is true; but that is no more than the process of writing a new instinct over an old one. We feel rational only because of our extraordinary capacity for attributing motivation to actions as they unfold. We are not the players in our lives; we are the commentators. Or such is my claim and you will be my evidence. You have no will. Even your desire to subvert your instincts is based on a deeper pattern of instinctive behaviour, harder to read but not, I contend, impossible.'

‘You are wrong.'

‘Perhaps,' the rector conceded. ‘Either way we shall find out. Look again at the cradle. All is pattern, don't you see?

‘You and I are made of molecules, Tristan. Our brains possess only the unity we bestow upon them as a matter of convenience. Thought is not a linear process overseen by some ghostly homunculus; it is an electrochemical storm, a wild competition between memories and associations from which emerges a winner called action. We misname it decision. The illusion provides us great comfort. The heathens like to believe they have outgrown the need for myths, but here is the one myth even they cannot do without: the myth of self.

‘For a long time people thought that predicting the mind was impossible. But look again at the cradle. From the random emerges the predictable; in the behaviour of the aggregate, the individual can be read. Consider not the ball; the ball is not the prize. Consider instead the collection of balls. We are accurate in our predictions not because we understand the physics of individual collisions, but precisely because we ignore them.

‘This test means nothing if you do not fight it. Do not lose your great capacity for doubt, do not stop probing my tests for their weaknesses. You must make me prove it to you.'

The rector stood and walked ceremoniously around the table. He paused before Tristan and placed a hand on each cheek, leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

‘Make it your business to defeat me.'

‘I already was,' Tristan hissed at him. It was true. Once he had loved this man; in less than a week he had learnt to hate him.

The rector gave an approving nod. ‘We will now conduct tests and take measurements; the trials we have put you through so far have been the games of children. Any astute observer might easily have guessed your path. You will make your confession in your room each evening, for I cannot have anyone claiming my work was made easy by the damaged state of your soul. You will have many questions and you must always feel free to ask them. I will not see you again until the final challenge. Good luck, Tristan. I wish you well.'

Tristan stood slowly, hopeful that the mess inside his head would soon resolve itself, but no coherent thought emerged, and he walked unsteadily to his room.

That night a priest came to Tristan's room to hear his confession. He was a small man, neither young nor old, lined but not sagging, his grey hair just long enough to stand in a small gesture of defiance. He laid out the contrition map and unfolded a stand, placing the holy icon on it. Tristan knelt before the image as he had so many times before. Tonight, though, its hues appeared deeper, more vibrant, and in the careful gaze of the three founders Tristan fancied there was a message just for him, if only he could learn to read it. He gazed on Plato's gleaming locks, caught in the last rays of sunlight, and the proud gold working of the throne on which he sat. He looked down at the crimson robes of the two prophets standing one on either side of the philosopher, Jesus and Augustine, each staring confidently beyond the dimensions of the painting, as if they too could read the future.

The same priest returned each night for the next two years. He spoke the words prescribed by the ritual, and listened attentively as Tristan gave the full account of his weaknesses. He did not share his name, and never lingered after the ceremony or gave any hint he was interested in conversation.

Tristan didn't mind—he had Simon for company when he needed it, and most days he didn't. The hours were full: each morning he was taken to a laboratory and subjected to testing. People interviewed him, poring over the smallest scraps of his memory like beggars gleaning at a dump site. Others took measurements. They shone lights into his eyes and attached wires to his scalp and chest. They tested his reflexes, asked him to invent stories or tell lies, and took his temperature. They showed him pictures and asked him what he saw. They submerged him in water, recording his physical responses as the panic took hold. They gave him long lists of words to memorise and made him recite them while they tried to distract him. They extracted blood and opinions, frightened him and lied to him and recorded his hormone levels and neural images.

Tristan complied. He was determined to beat the rector, but not through trickery. He had no shortage of motivation. He was competitive by nature: his instinct to rise to any challenge had propelled his unlikely journey from the workers' quarter to the secret laboratory. Then there was the matter of time. Like thousands of prisoners before him, he sought to keep himself busy, to blunt the edge of his incarceration with routine and activity. And, being on the cusp of manhood, he was easy prey to fantasies of heroism. To beat the rector, he dimly hoped, would be to strike a blow for all that was good and worthy. It was to take the side of two young women and make amends for his cowardice. Most of all, though, Tristan was motivated by fear. To lose this challenge would be to lose his self.

He had been through the arguments at the college, but they had retained an abstract quality. They were just points to be made and unmade, to be wrapped in eloquence or hurled as weapons. Somehow they never managed to leak into the life he lived. No matter how vehemently he argued otherwise, Tristan never lost his faith that it was he who was doing the arguing. He, this soulful self, was choosing when to attack and when to block, when to yield and when to divert. His will was real, and it was free. It made no more sense to doubt this than to doubt sense itself. Even within his small room he could live a life woven from choices. He could choose when to walk, when to pause, when to turn, when to sit, even when to breathe. Didn't he choose each night which thoughts to confess to the priest and which to keep secret?

So Tristan knew he could not lose, and yet at the same time he understood victory wasn't certain. The rector was a formidable opponent. Not even in his proudest moments had Tristan ever believed he might be a match for him. He was left with no choice but to grow stronger, shake his thoughts free of the easy ruts of habit and instinct. He dwelt on the number he had been asked to pick. The rector was right: three was the obvious choice. But how to make the unobvious choice? That became the question, the obsession.

Tristan reasoned that if he could come to recognise the patterns of a forming decision, he could also learn to intervene before the intention became the deed. This simple plan buoyed him, and gave shape to the hours he spent alone. Each evening after his confession was heard, he turned to the meditation he had practised at the college.

In those days the aim had been to leave the self behind; now Tristan was interested in the boundary between knowing and being, where he might experience the whirring of his mind from the outsider's perspective. Initially his efforts were fruitless. Each time Tristan thought he was getting close his awareness grew too heavy and collapsed the meditative state. In the third month his tenacity was rewarded. He received the first hints of the machinery behind the screen. A simple decision, say to sit in a chair or turn over a pillow, did not arise from nothingness. Each time the pattern was the same. First there came the jostling: a competing choir of choices, a fuzzy noise of possibility so brief that only a trained mind would notice it. The resolution then emerged like a sudden tilting, every new thought sliding down the same slope, pulled there by the increasing gravity of a decision. It was in that instant, Tristan saw, that the other possibilities were written out of existence. The mind closed over them as water closes over when a rock is removed from a stream.

The trick was to look away at precisely the point that the decision tumbled into place. It began with a cup of water. Tristan was feeling thirsty and automatically filled a cup with water. He realised at once that an experiment presented itself and began to meditate. He closed his eyes and made a mantra of the two alternatives.
Drink, pour out
the water. Drink, pour out the water…
He relaxed and let the two paths cycle through his mind. Soon the familiar loosening began, as if somewhere within his head the tension was being released. The hum grew stronger, and shards of impulse pierced his unconsciousness. He slowed his breathing and the contradictory instructions sped to a flicker:
drink, pour out
the water, drink…

As he departed his mind he felt the decision carrying on without him, tilting in favour of discarding the water. The tipping point was reached and Tristan was aware of his hand reaching down to the cup. In an instant he seized control, dropping to his knees and pouring the water down his throat before a drop could be spilt. He fell to the floor as a madman might, clutching the empty cup to his heart and laughing out loud at the strangeness of his new power.

There was no telling how long the road would be between the first step and mastery. Subsequent attempts showed that timing was everything. Move too soon and the decision would evaporate before Tristan could be sure he had identi-fied it. Leave it too late and awareness came on only after the act itself was completed. The window was small, if it existed at all. In his weaker moments he began to believe he had invented his first victory. Even then, though, there was one thing that could console him, a small indulgence he allowed himself before falling asleep.

Each night as his thoughts turned lazy she would return to him, painted in the unworldly colours of an oncoming dream. The voices of the choir became more heavenly with each replaying, and her face became more beautiful. He whispered to her, feverish words of desire, and she whispered back her delight, warming him to slumber. He remembered and he imagined, letting his mind roam where it would, but with his fists clenched by his side. All was will. All was training.