Ахмед Рушди - Quichotte - A Novel

“I am still unclear as to why this is relevant to me,” he said, and Lance Makioka nodded slowly, accepting that it was time to provide some significant information.

“The head of Legion made a number of YouTube videos threatening various forms of aggressive cyber-interventions. In those videos he used a voice-changing device and wore a mask which we have identified as a piece of vintage merchandise from the 2002 Broadway revival of the hit musical Man of La Mancha .”

“He wore a Don Quixote mask? Okay, that’s weird, but it doesn’t establish any link to me. Don Quixote has been around for what, four hundred years?”

“He used the pseudonym of Quix 97. Is this name meaningful to you?”

“No. Yes. 1997 is the year my son was born.”

“I must regretfully inform you,” Lance Makioka said, “that the person behind the Man of La Mancha mask is in fact your son. Your absentee son, I believe.”

“Oh my God,” Brother said.

“Your son, with whom ostensibly at least you are no longer in touch, now goes in his personal life by the name Marcel DuChamp.”

“He really does that?”

“The apple, sir, would not appear to have fallen very far from the tree.”

Brother was silent. Then, “Tell me the story,” he said.

Lance Makioka appeared inclined to take his time about doing that. “I’ve been reading your books, sir, including this new work in progress,” he said. “I’m no critic, sir, but I estimate that you’re telling the reader that the surreal, and even the absurd, now potentially offer the most accurate descriptors of real life. It’s an interesting message, though parts of it require considerable suspension of disbelief to grasp. This imaginary child, for example. Sancho. Where would you come up with a notion like that?”

“I assume you’re going to answer the question yourself,” Brother said, his face grim now.

“If the character of the old fool is based on you,” Lance Makioka said, “meaning no disrespect, sir, just trying to decode your way of communicating…then it may follow, may it not, that just as your Mr. Quichotte is accompanied by the phantom son Sancho, so also you are in fact in contact with your apparently estranged son. Who is using, as I mentioned, very similar iconography to that being employed by you.”

“It does not follow,” Brother said. “It’s a coincidence.”

“Good, good, thank you for clearing that up. You’ll concede that it’s a forgivable conclusion to draw, if one were to draw it. I’m more puzzled by the idea of the old gentleman’s lady love. In your story. Who might be the model for her?”

“There’s no model.”

“There is no lady love in your life?”

“Am I being interrogated? Am I suspected of something? Because maybe I should call a lawyer. You’ll allow me to do that, I hope. This is still, as you pointed out, America.”

“Sir, please be assured you are not at present a suspect in any investigation of which I am aware. This is just a friendly talk.”

“Then please tell me what you came to tell me.”

“But there is a lady in your life about whom you’re thinking, am I correct? A lady, if I don’t miss my guess, presently residing overseas.”

“Why are you asking me questions to which you already know the answers?”

“An estranged lady as well as an estranged son,” Lance Makioka reflected. “Two family members. Do you ask yourself why it might be that people close to you become so frequently estranged from you? I’m sure you do. You’re a writer, so no doubt you pride yourself on leading an examined life. You will be familiar with the dictum of Socrates that the unexamined life is not worth living.”

“You came here to insult me.”

“On the contrary, sir,” Lance Makioka said, moving into apologetic mode. “I came here to tell you a story.”

“Which you have not done, so far.”

“Your estranged lady overseas,” Lance Makioka said, as if remembering something. “How much do you know about her present condition?”

“What do you mean by that? What’s her condition?”

“I should have said ‘situation,’ ” Lance Makioka corrected himself. “Her current situation.”

“Less than you, plainly. Is that what the story’s about?”

“And your son. Marcel DuChamp. You’re certain there has been no contact.”

Brother did not answer. Lance Makioka nodded, slowly, stood up out of his chair, and clasped his hands together at waist level, in the elocution position.

“To tell a story to a professional storyteller,” Lance Makioka said. “It’s daunting, sir. One feels almost ashamed. Permit me to collect my thoughts.”

IN THE CITY OF MUMBAI (pop. 21,300,000), on Rustom Baug in the locality of Byculla, across the street from Masina Hospital, in a large high-ceilinged salon in a crumbling old Parsi mansion whose slow demise was attended by many gravely watchful banyan trees, two well-known photographers had installed nothing less than the cockpit of a Boeing 747, and surrounded it with state-of-the-art flight simulation equipment featuring video screens on which a wide range of international airports could be projected, so that they and their guests, helped by a friend who actually was a jumbo jet pilot, could practice landing and taking off. This eccentricity was popular in their circle, but word of it reached ears in the American embassy in Delhi, which caused foreheads in that embassy to frown and heads in that embassy to be scratched, and as a result, one fine afternoon, there arrived at the gate of the crumbling old Parsi mansion, asking to speak with the owner slash residents, a Japanese-American gentleman in a blue silk suit, an imposing figure of a man, perhaps six foot three or six foot four in height, and weighing, what?, two hundred and sixty, two hundred and seventy pounds. He introduced himself to the two photographers as Trip Mizoguchi, and said that the ambassador would be grateful if they agreed to answer a few questions; which, instantly understanding that they were in the presence of U.S. intelligence, they immediately agreed to do.

They had purchased the cockpit of a decommissioned old 747 and installed it in these premises, was that information correct?

It was.

They had further purchased computer programs and ancillary equipment to create an advanced flight simulation system, was that information correct?

It was.

They utilized these materials purely for the amusement of themselves and their associates, was that information correct?

It was.

One such session was scheduled for that very evening, was that so?

It was.

Would there be any objection to himself, Trip Mizoguchi, being present at that session?

There would not. He would be most welcome.

Did they understand that airplanes had been flown into the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City several years previously, and that therefore this elaborate and costly piece of eccentric private amusement might strike certain persons as highly suspicious, and if, in fact, it were to be found to be nefarious in intent, certain persons might wish to put a damn great fist right into the middle of it ?

Very reasonable. Yes, they perfectly well understood.

After Mr. Trip Mizoguchi left the premises, promising to return at the appointed hour that evening, the two photographers, whose mobiles, it should be admitted, were being listened in on, telephoned the forty most beautiful fashion models in Mumbai and said, please come over tonight, there’s a person we would like you to charm. When Trip Mizoguchi returned, there was music playing, and drinks were flowing, and the forty most beautiful fashion models in Mumbai were telling him how much they liked a man of such imposing size, how much they liked his suit, his pocket square, his Hermès tie, his square jaw, his smile. At the end of the evening, Trip Mizoguchi thumped the two photographers on their backs, saying, “You guys sure know how to throw a party. Let me know the next time you’re having one of these affairs. I’ll come down from Delhi to be here. And don’t worry about anything. I can see you gentlemen are on the up-and-up. You’ll have no difficulty from us.” With that, he took his leave, and neither the two photographers nor the forty most beautiful fashion models in Mumbai noticed that at one point in the evening Trip Mizoguchi had briefly been in conversation with one of the male guests, an unimpressive, tall, skinny, nerdy, bespectacled fellow, a recent arrival in Mumbai whom the two photographers had befriended at a nightclub and invited along so that he could make some friends. What was the young fellow’s name? The two photographers had trouble remembering. It was like the name of a famous artist. Picabia, something like that. But maybe young Picabia hadn’t had a very enjoyable evening, and maybe Trip Mizoguchi got transferred out of India. Anyway, neither of them ever showed up at any of the photographers’ soirées again. But Trip Mizoguchi was a man of his word, at least. There were no further inquiries about the flight simulator.