Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

I nodded.

Copley flexed the fingers outward, cracking them. “Don’t be shy, Doctor. Tell me your opinion of Andy’s state of mind.”

I paused and stared off thoughtfully for a moment. “Andy’s a prodigy, right? I mean, even for a computer whiz, he’s a prodigy?”

“Bachelor degree at seventeen. Graduate degree, age twenty. Could’ve had his pick of jobs. Apple, IBM. Microsoft, for that matter. I think he’s as good at programming as engineering. Tell you the truth, he’s something of an underachiever. You could have knocked me over with a feather when he said yes to our offer.”

“I understand him choosing a young company, an underdog, if you don’t mind my calling Minotaur an underdog.”

“Not at all. We are underdogs. We try harder.”

“Well, that would appeal to Andy. Prodigies are lone wolves. They’re usually resented by other children while growing up, and often resented by adults, too. It’s hard to deal with, the spectacle of a child doing something better than most of us could ever hope to. Hostility toward prodigies is understandable and easy to dismiss as envy if you have a sound ego and some life experience. But that hostility is directed at a child, who, also naturally enough, expects praise and love for his abilities. So prodigies learn to work alone, or at least as outsiders. Often they also learn to hide what they can do, to underachieve, as you call it. Unfortunately, this can sometimes lead to self-sabotage.”

“Self-sabotage?”

“Yes, self-sabotage. As opposed to self-destructiveness. The distinction might seem academic, but it’s significant to me. Self-sabotage isn’t an act of self-punishment. Rather, it’s an act of self-protection.”

“You mean, they unconsciously fail so people won’t resent them?”

“Very good.” I raised my wine glass and toasted him. “I shouldn’t be surprised. A man who runs a large successful company must have a delicate feel for psychology.” Copley shook his head, about to shrug off my compliment. I prevented him by continuing, “I don’t know enough about the structure of Andy’s family relations. For example, his Oedipal dynamic. Was Gene a substitute father figure? If so, defeating him, taking Gene’s job, might be very troubling, especially since Andy’s victory is the Oepidal nightmare: Gene died.” I stared up at II Cantinori’s excellent restoration of an elaborate tin ceiling and mused, almost mumbling, “Perhaps there is an element of self-destructiveness. Andy might be unconsciously punishing himself for his triumph.”

“Punishing himself how, Doctor?”

I returned my attention to him, with a startled look, as if woken from a reverie. “Please, call me Rafe. I feel uncomfortable being addressed as Doctor.”

“Okay. I’m sorry, Rafe, but I have to insist you be more specific. I’ve got a fiduciary responsibility to Minotaur stockholders. If Andy is psychologically unstable it could fuck up a lot more than just his life.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s that serious.” I smiled at him, a forced artificial smile, and looked at my watch. “I’m sorry, but I’m leaving early in the morning. I should be getting to bed. And you have a long ride home. Luckily, you don’t have to drop me off. I’m staying six blocks from here, so I won’t need a ride.” I twisted in my chair to look for our waiter. He saw me, I made a writing motion, and he nodded.

Turning back, I found Copley’s dark eyes on me. “They have great desserts here,” he said in an ominous tone.

“I’m full.”

“Well, we’re always full, aren’t we?” Copley slapped his nonexistent belly as though he were pounding an enormous bass drum. “That’s no reason to stop eating.”

“Were you overweight as a child?” I asked. The question was absurdly posed: presumptuous, pompous, and grave. It should have gotten a laugh.

Instead, Copley stared at me. He cocked his head after a moment and drawled, “Yeah. I was a fat kid.”

I nodded as if that were obvious. “Not for long, I bet.”

“Soon as I hit puberty, I made sure to get rid of it.”

“Exceptional,” I commented in a schoolteacher’s tone.

He grinned. “Exceptional?”

“Very rare for that cycle to be broken in adolescence. Shows enormous strength of character.”

“You believe in concepts like strength of character?”

The waiter appeared. “No dessert?”

“We’ll have two decaffeinated cappuccinos,” Copley said and added to me, “Okay?”

“Sure,” I agreed. The waiter left.

“You believe in innate qualities?” he asked. “Genetically encoded personality traits?”

“Of course. It’s just that it’s impossible to know exactly where heredity leaves off and environment begins. Or, for that matter, how much one distorts or influences the other. That’s why we often treat the whole family unit, especially in child psychology.”

“Hmmm,” Copley considered this carefully. He smoothed his hair down and commented, “A company is like a family.”

“Yes!” I leaned toward him, excited. “That’s just what I was thinking when Andy showed me your labs. This is a family. That was the flaw with how I treated Gene—” I caught myself. I covered my mouth, embarrassed. “Please,” I said, “don’t blame Andy for showing me around.”

Stick, who had been staring intently with a thin-lipped smile, broke out laughing. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind. I’m sure you’re not an industrial spy. Anyway, I knew. Andy told me he gave you a tour.”

“Really?” I stroked my chin thoughtfully. I understood why Freud grew a beard. Without one, the gesture doesn’t quite work. “And yet he seemed so frightened about you finding out. That’s fascinating … You really are their father. It’s an unfair burden on you. To be an effective manager you can’t also be an emotional support. That’s why … I see now …” I trailed off, pensively.

“What?” Copley asked. I looked at him absentmindedly. “What are you thinking?”

“Well, I didn’t understand, at first, why a man like you, who doesn’t really know computers …” I let that go and shrugged, “I mean, you don’t really have any creative ability, so why are you running a company that has to reinvent itself every year or so? In theory, someone like Gene or Andy ought to be CEO, not a salesman like you. That’s your background, isn’t it? You were head of sales for Flashworks, right?”

The amusement and self-assurance were gone from Copley’s face and body language. He sat stiffly now, eyelids half-closed, waiting, warily, for me to go on.

“But it’s leadership, isn’t it?” I continued. “In fact, now that I think about it, this isn’t an uncommon pattern in today’s complex world. Presidents, for example, especially in this century, are rarely men of exceptional intelligence. And that has long been the case with armies. The era of brilliant tactical generals also being the political leader faded once we got past Napoleon. I think the skill you possess, the father-figure who can bring the best out of his brilliant children, is underrated. It isn’t intellectual genius or creative genius as we understand it, but rather a kind of emotional — No!” I snapped my fingers, excited. “No, it’s a genius of character. That’s where your will, the strength of purpose that allowed you to get rid of the weight as you entered adolescence, comes in. It’s a talent, an intelligence.” I shook a finger at him. “What perhaps you don’t appreciate is the extent of your emotional impact on people.”

“You’re wrong,” he said mildly.

“Really?” I was cheerfully curious. He nodded. “Tell me. I know this must all seem silly to you, but it’s important to me. I think there may be a major theoretical book in this notion of character intelligence.”