Robert Sawyer - Quantum Night

Menno Warkentin didn’t come in to the university on Thursdays, so after my morning class, I headed over to his apartment in the heart of downtown. As always, the CBC was on in my car, this time with news that did surprise me.

Hayden Trenholm, the same pundit I’d heard interviewed yesterday, was speaking with Piya Chattopadhyay.

“So,” Piya said, in her bubbly voice, “former Calgary city mayor Naheed Nenshi has just thrown his hat into the ring, running as the federal NDP candidate in the riding of Calgary Southwest. Hayden, what do you make of that?”

“It’s a coup for the NDP,” said Trenholm, “since there has long been speculation that Nenshi was being wooed by the Trudeau Liberals. The fact he went to the NDP might be seen as an indication he has bigger ambitions than Cabinet. I wouldn’t be surprised if the caucus declares him the acting leader in the next few days.”

“And what about the riding he’s running in?”

“It’s the perfect choice if Nenshi is being positioned to lead the New Democrats. Calgary Southwest is Stephen Harper’s old riding; the folks in it know well the perks that go with being the home base of a prime minister. But people all across Calgary love Nenshi, and they enjoy that he’s become an international star. Back in 2013, when Rob Ford was the butt of jokes in Toronto, Nenshi was doing a conspicuously spectacular job in Calgary—so much so, as you’ll recall, Piya, that Maclean’s named him the second-most-important person in Canada, right after the prime minister.”

“True.”

“And in 2015, the City Mayors Foundation awarded Nenshi the World Mayor Prize, naming him the top mayor on the planet. The only other North American contender, Houston’s Annise Parker, came in seventh.”

I made a right turn onto Portage and started looking for a place to park.

Piya said, “When he was first elected in Calgary in 2010, Nenshi became the first Muslim mayor in North America.”

“Yes, that’s right,” replied Trenholm. “He practices Nizari Ismaili, a branch of Shia Islam.”

“But mayor is one thing,” said Piya. “Prime minister is something else. Is Canada ready for a Muslim at 24 Sussex Drive?”

“Well,” replied the pundit, “that’s for the people to decide—four weeks from today.”

As they moved on to the next story, I found a spot on the street—a rare find this time of day—and even though it was three blocks from Menno’s apartment, I took it.

I’d dropped him off a few times before but had never been up to his second-floor suite (no point paying extra for a view, he’d quipped). I was somewhat curious about how—or if—he’d decorated the place.

In fact, it turned out to be nicer than my condo; the living-room furniture, in silver and cyan, was clearly a matching set, and each wall had a lovely framed Emily Carr print showing the British Columbia coast. Replica Haida totem poles—dark, unpainted wood—flanked the door to the kitchen.

Menno was dressed as old professors usually were, in slightly baggy beige slacks and a brown cardigan. He had his dark glasses on; I wondered if he normally wore them when alone or had put them on when I’d buzzed from the lobby.

“Jim!” he said when I’d arrived at his unit’s door “Welcome! What brings you here?” He motioned for me to come in. Pax was eyeing me from across the room. “Have a seat.”

I did so, settling onto the couch. Menno sat in the easy chair that faced it at an oblique angle. There was a little table next to it on the left; Pax sat down beside him on the right.

“I’ve seen the video interviews with me,” I said.

“About the Devin Becker trial?”

“What? No, no. The ones you did. In 2001. With me. In the old physiology building at Fort Garry.”

Protracted silence, then: “How did you find those?”

“The truth? I had a look around your office.”

Menno was quiet again. “Oh,” he said at last.

“I’d asked you what had happened during that period. Why didn’t you show me the tapes?”

“I know it was news to you that you’d lost your memory, Jim. But it wasn’t news to me.”

“Jesus, Menno. How long have you known?”

“Since 2001. Since you lost it. I’m sorry, but, well, it was obvious back then. I didn’t realize you’d lost six whole months, but it was clear you’d lost some amount of time.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Because you were on the mend.”

“The mend? From what?”

“I don’t know,” Menno said. He couldn’t see my expression, but must have sensed I was going to object because he held up a hand. “Honestly, I’ve tried for twenty years to figure it out.” He exhaled loudly. “You know what? It’s a relief to get to talk about it. Since Dominic moved away, I’ve had no one to discuss this with.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Dominic Adler and I were working on developing a device to detect phonemes that hadn’t been spoken aloud—that is, for detecting articulated thoughts in the brain. You’d responded to our notice in The Manitoban, looking for experimental subjects.”

I did a lot of those sorts of things back then; anything to bring in a few extra bucks. “I remember. Some sort of helmet contraption…?”

Menno nodded. “We had two of them, actually. We started out with the first one, and we could indeed pick up the activity in your brain, but it was very faint, and it was being drowned out by what we thought was noise. So we developed a second helmet that added transcranial ultrasound. The idea was to see if we could boost the signal we wanted in your primary auditory cortex, make it more of an internal shout rather than a whisper, so we could pick it up better with our scanner. But instead you and—you lost consciousness.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, you did. TUS stimulation was completely new back then; we didn’t expect it.”

I put a hand on my chest. “What I do remember from that period is the knifing, but…”

“Yes?”

“Well, from what I can tell, I was here in Winnipeg on New Year’s Eve 2000, not in Calgary.”

Menno lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know where you got the idea of the knifing from, but it didn’t happen, at least not then. But… yeah. You were here that night—and got knocked out by our helmet, and when you came back, well, you didn’t come all the way back.”

I looked at him quizzically, but he couldn’t see that. “What?”

“You’d had an inner voice beforehand—I’d seen it on the oscilloscope—but, as we soon discovered, it was gone afterward.”

“What do you mean, ‘an inner voice’?”

“Just that: an internal monologue; articulated phonemes in the brain even when you weren’t speaking. But after you blacked out, it was gone. The lights were on—”

“—but nobody was home?” I said. “Seriously? Really?”

“Yes.”

“A fucking p-zed? A philosopher’s zombie? Jesus. Not just amnesia, but…” I shook my head. “No. No, that’s just a thought experiment. A philosopher’s zombie can’t really exist.”

Menno was quiet for perhaps thirty seconds. Then, in a soft voice, he said, “They do. They’re everywhere.”

“Oh, come on!”

“ Most of the people we tested didn’t have inner voices.”

“Then your equipment must—”

“Stop! You think we didn’t triple check? What I’m telling you is true.” He waved generally in my direction. “The only thing remarkable about you was that you had started out with an inner voice, then lost it for a time after you blacked out.”