Teddy Wayne - Kapitoil

Mr. Schrub said one more thing that surprised me: “I’m furious with you two. You’ve really let me down.” I wondered if this was something all fathers said to their children, or if it was just that my father and Mr. Schrub had similar philosophies, even though my father said he wasn’t angry and Mr. Schrub said he was.

He walked to the door and stopped. “And if I ever, ever hear you talk to Karim, or anyone else, like that again, I’ll be much more than furious.”

Then he exited to the upstairs and I waited for 45 seconds while Wilson and Jeromy were mute before I returned to my bed.

I couldn’t get the voice recorder now, and I couldn’t fall asleep, so I looked out the window in my room at the light from the moon, which was half dark, and at the stars, which are invisible in New York and which I miss seeing when we visit our cousins in Al Khor. I’m not the class of person who believes that my mother is in the stars and observing me from there, but it’s profitable to remember that sometimes your problems are minor and the universe is infinitely larger and ultimately careless of what happens on earth, especially to one person, which can simultaneously make you feel alone.

I still didn’t fall asleep for several hours, and I woke up when Irma knocked on my door and told me it was time for brunch.

Everyone was waiting for me at the dining room table, and I apologized. Wilson and Jeromy both looked more fatigued than I was, so I didn’t feel as guilty.

“How late did you stay up?” Mrs. Schrub asked.

Mr. Schrub quickly looked at me, then looked down, and Wilson also did. It was as if I knew all their secrets but couldn’t say anything, even though I was the one with the real secret. “I stayed up late to read The Grapes of Wrath in my room,” I said.

Mr. Schrub and Mrs. Schrub had drinks of tomato juice with vodka. Mr. Schrub was in a positive mood and made many jokes which even I understood.

Wilson and Jeromy said good-bye after brunch. I shook their hands and they avoided my eyes. Mrs. Schrub told me the car to return to New York could leave as soon as I was ready. My opportunity to get the voice recorder was the opposite of golden. I packed my luggage slowly, because I was hoping Mr. Schrub might leave the house before I did. But I went downstairs and his office was still closed. When I was a few feet past the office, the door opened and Mr. Schrub asked to borrow me for a minute.

I again became panicked that he had discovered me. But he said, “I apologize for the scene last night, and for my sons’ behavior.” I said he didn’t need to apologize, and it was almost as if I could hear the voice recorder a few feet behind me.

Then he said, “Well, in better news, I have a proposal for you. My business people emailed it over this morning.” He showed me two stacks of several papers. “I don’t fully understand it, but apparently they want you to de-encrypt Kapitoil and allow our programmers access to the code, so they can make modifications to the algorithms, too. You’ll still be the point man on all this, and you’ll get a corresponding bump in salary.” He pointed to the number. It was double my current salary. “As far as I can tell, it’s a win-win for everyone.”

He gave me one of the stacks, as they were duplicates. It looked normal to me, and the money would be hard to reject. But more than that, this was my chance to compensate for what I had done last night. “I will sign it,” I said.

Mr. Schrub smiled and said he had a special pen for contracts, and he retrieved a Mont-Blanc pen from a holder on his desk. “Careful, it leaks easily,” he said.

As I was about to write my name, I noticed in the right corner of the front page the date and time it had originally been printed: November 12 at 9:16 a.m., which was Friday morning. Mr. Schrub said they had emailed it to him this morning. Sometimes computers have incorrect dates, but it made me pause.

Then I had an idea. In fact it was a double idea, but I didn’t have time to visualize the stars at night.

I started to sign my name, and I pressed very hard with the pen when writing the K . A large quantity of ink spilled and made the area for my signature a black puddle.

“I am sorry,” I said.

“No harm, no foul,” said Mr. Schrub. “I’ll print you up a fresh back page.”

Mr. Schrub worked on his computer. I walked back to the bookshelves to give him privacy. But I moved to Democracy Through Prosperity on the bookshelf.

Mr. Schrub was still clicking on the computer and the contract wasn’t on the monitor yet. I reached behind the book for the voice recorder. But I didn’t feel it.

The computer monitor now displayed the document.

I moved my fingers behind the books. Maybe he had already discovered it.

The printer began making feeding sounds like a car engine powering on. Then I felt something hard. I tried to pick up the voice recorder, but it was difficult because I had to reach over the line of books. It was similar to those machine games in which the user controls a device that retrieves stuffed animals with its metal talons. Zahira always wanted to play those when we were younger, and I had to tell her that they were designed to make the customer almost always lose money.

“Looking for something?” Mr. Schrub asked. His face was turned over his shoulder at me.

I moved my hand to the top of the book. “This book sounds interesting,” I said.

“It’s a free country, take a look,” Mr. Schrub said. He observed me for several seconds, as if he were deciphering a complex problem. I couldn’t remove it or he might see the voice recorder.

Then the printer beeped, and Mr. Schrub said, “Lousy printer,” and it was a paper jam and he had to remove the malfunctioning sheet and restart the job.

I took down Democracy Through Prosperity with my left hand and with my right hand I reached for the voice recorder and pocketed it and my heart accelerated as much as if I were playing racquetball. The printer respooled. I returned to his desk and he handed me the complete contract again.

The new page had the current date and time.

I looked at it for several seconds. Mr. Schrub asked, “Something wrong?”

“Possibly I should review this further on my own,” I said.

“Take your time,” he said. “Just get back to George whenever you’re ready.”

Mr. Schrub said he had enjoyed my company, and I thanked him and his family for hosting me. He removed a business card from his wallet and said, “In case you ever need to contact me,” although I knew I would be too afraid to contact him directly and would reach him only through his secretary.

During the car ride back to New York I couldn’t listen to the voice recorder of course, because Mr. Schrub’s driver, Patrick, was there. When we were static in traffic, Patrick called Mr. Schrub and told him he would be late returning to the house. After he disconnected, I asked how many days a week he had to work for Mr. Schrub.

“Just a few,” he said. “Mr. Schrub’s very generous with time off.”

I considered deleting everything on the voice recorder at that moment. It wasn’t my business and it was illegal. But sometimes even when you know the correct action, you can’t force yourself to do it.

In addition I felt bad about distrusting Mr. Schrub. It was an obsolete printer, and possibly it or the computer merely malfunctioned and displayed the incorrect date, and Mr. Schrub was telling the truth that he had received it that morning.

Still, I tried to read the contract more thoroughly in the car. It is long and the language is difficult for me to interpret, however, so it will take some time.

When I got into my apartment I immediately listened to the voice recorder, as if it were a present I couldn’t wait to open. I had to rewind through some sounds in the night the voice recorder had powered on for, and then I heard our conversation from last night.