Jon Bilbao - Still the Same Man

“Where is he?”

“Your husband? He’s gone to look for a telephone.”

She tried to sit up, and Joanes helped her, arranging the pillow she was leaning against.

“You’re very gentlemanly.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You’ve been very kind to us, and I still haven’t thanked you.”

“Forget about it. I wish I could have gotten you to Valladolid. And I wish you had a better place to get some rest.”

Despite having closed the door, the hotel noises could be clearly heard. Footsteps, voices, laughter. Doors were repeatedly being slammed.

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Don’t you wish there were some kind of gadget that could give us absolute silence? Headphones, or something like that. Something connected to a container filled with silence.”

“It already exists,” said Joanes. “They’re called earplugs.”

The professor’s wife shook her head.

“You misunderstand. I’m not talking about preventing sounds from entering you, but rather introducing silence into your body. Having it fill up your lungs, course through your veins.”

It seemed to Joanes that the most appropriate response to a statement like that was to keep his mouth shut. She stared at him intensely.

“You were a student of my husband’s.”

Joanes nodded.

“Did he make your life miserable?”

“No.”

The speed with which he answered made her smile.

“You’re too polite. Come on, you can tell me. I won’t tell him. He fucked up your life?”

Joanes was silent.

“Of course he did,” she continued. “He loved doing that. Fucking with his students. And even those who weren’t his students. He liked that, too.”

Joanes didn’t respond.

“Come on,” she insisted. “He made things really hard? You still have nightmares about him? I know that lots of you do. Even I have them.”

“No,” answered Joanes. “He didn’t fuck with me more than anyone else.”

“Well, that makes you one of the lucky ones, I can assure you.”

She groped around on the bed for her eye mask, like a blind person, and put it on, her hands shaking. Then she sighed and went still.

With the door closed, the heat was even more intense. Joanes felt the sweat dripping down between his shoulder blades. He tried to open the window, taking advantage of the breeze before the wind became too stormy, but as he wrestled with the handle, the professor’s wife told him to let it be. She’d lifted one end of the mask and was looking at him out of one eye.

“If you open it, the mosquitoes will get in. They’re worse than the heat.”

“I think I have some repellent in my first aid kit.”

“It smells terrible. Makes me dizzy.”

And with that, she pulled down her eye mask, concluding the conversation.

The professor was back before long.

“Did you get ahold of a phone?” asked Joanes.

“Yes, in exchange for every last dime I had on me. But given the circumstances, I wasn’t about to start haggling.”

“Any luck?”

The professor shook his head.

“They were right — the lines are down. I tried three times.”

Over on the bed, his wife, who had taken off her eye mask on hearing him enter the room, turned and looked over at the window.

“I’m sorry,” said Joanes. “Maybe you’ll have more luck later.”

“I can’t imagine how,” muttered the professor, taking a seat.

But he wouldn’t be defeated. That wasn’t his style. He straightened up, took a deep breath, and in a split second was back to his normal self.

“No doubt you’re regretting having stopped to bury that monkey now. If you hadn’t done that, you’d be with your family in a real hotel by now. Not putting up with our rotten company.”

“I did what I thought was right at the time.”

“And do you still feel the same?”

Joanes looked around their sad little hotel room — its badly aligned walls full of cracks that had been filled in with plaster, the faded print of the Virgin of Guadalupe hanging above the bed.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I’d do the same again.”

“Interesting,” said the professor.

Joanes thought it best to change the subject.

“What was your conference about?” he asked.

“I’m sorr y?”

“The conference you came to give in Mexico City.”

The professor thought for a second, as if trying to remember something that had happened years ago, not the week before.

“It was called ‘Ethical Considerations On Artificial Intelligence.’”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It is,” the professor answered categorically.

“Would you tell me a little bit about it?”

“I don’t think now is the time.”

“Why not? It’s not like we have anything else to do.”

The professor thought about it for a second then nodded, clearly unconvinced. He began with a kind of telegraphic listing off of the main points of the conference, but the more he went on, the more he seemed to settle into his own words, as if they filled him with confidence, and his speech became increasingly exhaustive. He talked about the possibilities and risks involved in creating a machine that might “think too much,” about whether the process of building a thinking machine qualifies as a form of reproduction, whether that machine should therefore be considered “natural” or “unnatural,” and about the ethical implications of each and every one of these cases.

Joanes had sat down on the floor, his back against the wall. With him in this position, and the professor sitting in the chair, it was as if he were being given a lecture, something that neither of them failed to notice.

Once the professor finished his overview, they went on discussing the matter in more detail, keeping their voices down so as not to disturb the professor’s wife. Joanes was feeling more and more at ease. He was enjoying their sophisticated tête-à-tête, such a welcome change from the mind-numbing and intellectually undemanding discussions over costs and energy efficiency that he had in his day job. He hadn’t felt that animated for ages, and he had the impression that the professor, too, was enjoying himself. The conversation acted as a bubble that isolated and protected them from their surroundings, shutting out the woeful hotel, the hurricane, and all their worries. The professor even seemed to have forgotten about his son’s accident. With nothing but words, they’d created an intellectual environment, a warm microclimate of contemplation familiar to them both and in which they felt safe and sure of themselves.

The conversation grew livelier by the minute, and not even an intermission when the professor had to help his wife to the bathroom diminished their satisfaction at the moment.

“The conference was, on the whole, an extremely agreeable experience,” the professor explained as he returned to the room. “It was a shame that in the Q & A session someone had to lower the tone.”

“What happened?” asked Joanes.

“An audience member, someone with a clear antagonistic streak, explained what he thought would happen if further developments in the field of AI led to the creation of a intelligence surpassing that of human beings. As he saw it , such an intelligence would prompt a new moral order, one based on the machines and more elevated than man’s. He suggested that such a moral order might well represent the origin of a new religion.”

“What did you answer?” asked Joanes after an expectant pause.

“I spoke to him about Hans Hörbiger and his World Ice Doctrine.”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know who he is.”

The professor nodded and cleared his throat before speaking again.