Red Pill Read online

  “Hello Professor. What brings you here?”

  The gamer was already back to destroying the solar system, a pair of massive headphones clamped over his ears. On his main screen a swarm of light attack craft buzzed around a mothership. The video editing interface was open again, and so were the surveillance views, though they seemed different, all the screens showing externals of the house and grounds.

  The architect looked at the back of the gamer’s chair and gave an apologetic shrug. “Lunch break. So how can I help?”

  “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “Oh yes? In general, email is better for us.”

  “Sure, but the internet is down.”

  “Where, in the Workspace?”

  “Upstairs in my room. I can’t get online.”

  “Ah, yes. We know about that.”

  I waited, but instead of explaining or offering to help, he picked up one of his drives and turned it over in his hands, squinting at the ports on the back.

  “I’m trying to work,” I said. “This is kind of inconvenient.”

  “Of course.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “I can tell you I am sorry for the problem, but I don’t think it will be fixed today.”

  It’s always hard to judge tone when people aren’t speaking their first language.

  “Why not?”

  “A technical issue. A hardware issue.”

  It was no good. Involuntarily I began to project forward into a possible future in which I was screaming at him, trying to make him see how vital it was for me, for my creative process, for my book, a very important book on poetry, you could say important for poetry, perhaps even for art more widely, to have uninterrupted internet access. I could feel the present connecting itself to this future, setting up links, exploring the route.

  “This makes my show very difficult,” I said. “I mean my work. I’m at a crucial stage in my work.”

  “Of course. May I suggest the shared space? The internet functions very well there. Actually there is a fast line, a fiber optic cable. It is much better than the connection in the main house.”

  “That’s out of the question. I can’t concentrate in there. I can’t think.”

  “The connection in the shared space is very good. The rest of the house has a wireless network but we always get problems. It is not easy to amplify the signal so it reaches well everywhere. Under the roof, in your room, is always the worst place.”

  “I had no difficulty until today.”

  “I can only say you are lucky. It is very unreliable.”

  “Let’s keep it simple. Just tell me, exactly, when will this new hardware be arriving?”

  “Soon, I hope. In the next days.”

  “Days? How many days?”

  He could not say. I went back up to my room, defeated. Because I still had no Wi-Fi, I couldn’t do the various diverting and quasi-important things I did on the internet—reading Wikipedia pages, downloading pictures of people in war zones—all the subtle and mysterious components of my not-writing. I was thrown back on my own resources, into myself, or what took place in the space where a self ought to have been. The fate of Carson’s children was very important to me. If he saved them, it meant that all was still well. By “well,” I meant that it was what I would expect to happen. It would be the conventional narrative move. But if Carson’s children died, what then? The show was fixated on forcing me to see shocking images of violence. But it wouldn’t show that, would it? Once I would have been certain. Now I wasn’t so sure. Of course it would have taken a couple of minutes on the internet to find a Blue Lives plot synopsis, but somehow I didn’t go down to the Workspace and look. There was an element of self-protection in this. The more I considered it, the more I was afraid that the answer would open a trapdoor and send me falling through into a new level of hell.

  I made all this—whatever it was, this mental garbage—very important. I bustled around in it, kicked it about like a pile of leaves, all to distract myself from another disturbing question—had I really seen video of Edgar walking naked across his room? Why would someone want to capture that? I lay down on top of my freshly made bed, with my arms by my sides. This seemed to me a visually unremarkable way of being in a room, a neutral position, postural camouflage. If Edgar was being watched, it was logical to assume that we all were. And by “we all” I meant primarily me. They could be watching me. I settled on the plural because it seemed unlikely that the gamer would watch a surveillance feed in an office with his manager, unless that manager had condoned or even ordered it. Thus it was more than likely that the surveillance, if it existed, and wasn’t just some kind of mental misfire, a figment of my imagination, was being conducted on behalf of the Deuter Center.

  Reluctantly, I decided that I had to check. I took a look round my room. I examined the underside of my desk, the frames of the pictures, but I could find no sign of a camera. Even looking felt absurd, the beginning of a slippery slope that would end with me surrounded by splintered drywall and pried-up floorboards. As a last resort I tried reading, but I couldn’t even settle myself in the armchair, let alone focus on a book. I sat down at my desk and considered things. It wasn’t just the lack of internet, the practical inability to perform the various routines I’d invented to fill my time. Somewhere in his writings about prison, Foucault describes the cells in the Panopticon, calling them “small theaters in which each actor is alone, perfectly individualized and constantly visible.” So it was for me, with the possibility that the all-seeing eye of a twenty-year-old gamer was scrutinizing my movements. As long as I sat there, I would be forced to perform myself for him. Everything I did would take place against an imaginary headwind of adolescent gothic snark. I got in bed and pulled the covers over my head.

  I must have slept, because when the knock came at my door I was profoundly disorientated. It was morning, at least that’s what my phone said. The knock was insistent, official. I was a fool to answer it. As usual, Frau Janowitz was very smartly turned out, in a business suit with a pearl necklace and matching studs. She looked as if she were on her way to make a presentation at an investment bank. How could she fail to notice the smell of stale Singapore noodles wafting about the eminent scholar, the five-day stubble? I was the epitome of middle-aged male dereliction. It was hard to meet her eye.

  I saw no way I could invite Frau Janowitz into my room, though it was—relatively speaking—in a good state. The thought of her pacing about, examining my desk and my unmade bed, was too traumatic. So I had to weather her visible offense at being forced to hold our conversation in the doorway. Was I sick, she wanted to know. Would I like her to call a doctor? I assured her that I was in good health.

  Frau Janowitz told me that she wanted to discuss the letter she had sent. I said I didn’t think that was necessary. Sleeping dogs, I said, trying to keep a pleading tone out of my voice. She disagreed. It was part of the ethos of the Deuter Center that matters “like the one between us” had to be addressed face-to-face. In a Deuterian spirit of openness, she wanted to offer me an opportunity to tell her about any personal problems which might factor into her assessment. I told her that I had no desire to factor anything into her assessment, because I was actually on my way to the Workspace. I had come to the end of a period of reflection and now felt ready to take my research to the next level. I heard myself using the phrase take my research to the next level.

  “I’m also going to be at dinner tonight.”

  “That is good.”

  “Thank you for your understanding. And for your concern. I mean to say, thank you for your consideration.”

  I was stuck in a loop, repeating phrases that sounded as if they’d sprung from the pages of a business English manual. I am grateful for your. Your attention to this matter is highly. It was a tone I hoped might resonate with Frau Janowitz. I wan
ted her to conclude that we had communicated fully and professionally and now she could leave me the fuck alone. But I couldn’t find an elegant way to exit the situation and I was beginning to sweat and feel dizzy, so I muttered a curt best regards and closed the door in her face.

  Looking at my phone I saw I had two missed calls from Rei. I texted her don’t worry all fine u ok and since that did not seem to be adequate can’t talk rn explain later, but she immediately texted back pls call me, which I found very stressful. I didn’t think I could speak to her. She’d hear something in my voice and pick away and I would find myself, as I always did when we argued, skewered on some barb of logic, repeating I don’t know I don’t know as I tried to work out how I’d failed yet again to convey how I was feeling. But I told myself to be an adult, and called her number. Though she wouldn’t be able to see me, I turned instinctively away from the bed.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “So you still exist? You sound very far away.”

  “Just a moment. I’ll change position.”

  I went into the bathroom. The idea of being watched as I made the call was making me nervous. Even as I spoke, I was scanning the room, looking for places where a camera could be hidden.

  “Is this better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you hear me now?”

  “There’s an echo. Are you OK? I’ve been calling. I left messages.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why don’t you switch on the video. I want to see you.”

  “I can’t. The internet’s down. I’m not sure how long for.”

  “I just wanted to know if you were OK. Everything’s OK, right?”

  “I’m great.”

  “Really? Are you sure you’re OK in that place?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t want to come back? Come home, if it’s not working out.”

  “Where’s Nina?”

  “It’s Wednesday. She has dance class. Paulette’s picking her up.”

  “So everything’s fine.”

  “Are you really OK? You sound strange.”

  “Sure. Just working. Do you have the number?”

  “For what?”

  “Sorry. For Nina’s preschool.”

  “Sure, but why do you need it? Has something happened? Did one of the teachers email you or something? They usually go through me.”

  “No. I just—I mean, I know it’s stupid. I just wanted to make sure she’s OK. That you’re both OK.”

  “We’re fine, honestly. What’s up with the internet?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like they’re messing with me.”

  “They’re what?”

  I changed the subject, said something about my book, how I was making progress. There was a silence, then she swore under her breath and I could tell from a series of creaks and exhalations that she was sitting back in her chair at the office, sighing and dragging the fingers of her free hand through her hair, as she often did when she was exasperated.

  “When your writing is going well you usually want to talk about it, tell me stories.”

  I tried for that tone, that elusive upbeat tone. “You’re fine. Nina’s fine. That’s the main thing.”

  “Why aren’t you talking to me?”

  “I am. I totally am. Look, I’m glad you guys are OK, someone’s calling me. One of my colleagues. I have to go. Love you.”

  I ended the call. Sitting on the clean Deuter-white tiles of the bathroom floor, I could be honest with myself. I found scrutiny stressful, even from Rei. Particularly from Rei, because I wanted to seem admirable to her, for her to be happy that I was her man. I was obviously not ready to go home. I would have to find some way to stay. I went to the Workspace and watched the cursor blink at the top left corner of my document. Paralyzed by self-consciousness, I tried to relax by inventorying the things I actually wanted to hide. There was sexual stuff, of course. What I liked to do, what I fantasized about, the pornography I sometimes looked at on the internet. Not that any of it was very interesting. My coordinates were unremarkable and my preference was for images that weren’t particularly explicit. I’d done some drugs, but I wasn’t a police officer or an airline pilot. No one cares about a writer getting high. I’d committed some petty crimes. As a teenager I’d had a phase of vandalism, breaking windows and tearing the aerials off cars. Once or twice I’d shoplifted small objects. The weekend before I went to Germany, as I pushed Nina round a phone store, I’d impulsively stolen an overpriced charging cable. There was no reason to do it. I had the money to pay. What other secrets did I have? I’d cheated on a couple of girlfriends, though never on Rei. I’d dented more than one person’s fender while trying to get into or out of a tight parking space and then driven off without leaving a note. To my knowledge, I had never seriously hurt anybody. I had no offshore bank accounts, no hidden second family. I had no insider knowledge about anyone high up in government or business, had nothing to reveal that would move a market or strike a blow against the interests of the ruling class. The paltriness of my secret life was disappointing, and as I contemplated it, I realized that my fear of exposure didn’t stem from shame, or even the importance I attached to my little secrets, but from their inconsequence. What I wanted to hide was my ordinariness, the fact that I was nothing special, not very bad or very good, not inventive or daring or original. The tracks on which my mind ran had been rutted over centuries by the wheels of my forebears.

  Dinner turned out to be a special occasion. Schnitzelnacht was a tradition. Very popular with the foreigners, said the waiter, as if daring us not to enjoy it. There were several new fellows present, and though Edgar was dining in, my hope was that he’d be fighting on so many social fronts that I’d be able to talk more or less uninterrupted to Finlay about some undemanding and not terribly personal topic, cinema or art. We’d developed a habit of doing this, the conversational equivalent of standing side by side flipping through the bins in a record store.

  A gong was sounded, and from the kitchen came the chef, followed by his staff. He was a gaunt, angular man, without a trace of the stereotypical sensuality of his profession. He looked as if he subsisted on cigarettes. Greeting us without warmth, he launched into a speech (in English) about the origins of the schnitzel, touching on the struggle for ascendency between the Wiener Schnitzel and its Italian archrival, the Cotoletta Milanese, the disputed involvement of Field Marshal Radetzky (of the Strauss march) who may or may not have ordered Emperor Franz Josef’s chefs to dredge a piece of veal in egg and breadcrumbs, and the opinion of certain food historians that the Arabs had brought the schnitzel to Europe when they invaded Andalusia in the eighth century. Personally, he did not find the story of a Moorish origin convincing. As a proud native of Berlin and a Berlin chef, it was natural that he should care most about his native tradition. During the Second World War, when meat was scarce, schnitzel had been made from cow udder. In the East, before the fall of the GDR, it was common to make a dish called Jägerschnitzel, from a kind of spiced pork sausage. Tonight, his kitchen would offer Wiener Schnitzel, Cotoletta Milanese and Berlin pork schnitzel, so we would be able to try all three. Here he ended, and the table broke into uncertain applause.

  As we ate our schnitzel medley, Edgar was focused on jousting with Per and Alistair about income inequality, until Per unhorsed him with a statistic—I didn’t hear what it was—and he changed the subject to the regressive nature of privacy, wagging a reprimanding finger as if someone had made a dubious and easily falsifiable claim. No one, as far as I could see, had made a claim of any kind—Edgar had unilaterally introduced a new topic—but I’d now spent enough time at the receiving end of his table talk to recognize this as one of his regular tricks. The right to privacy was no more or less than the right to lie, he said. To misrepresent yourself to the world. It incubated fraud
and corruption, and despite what liberals claimed it was not some sacred universal that all humans needed in order to survive. The Chinese didn’t even have the concept. I was staring at the tablecloth thinking shut up shut up shut up when to my surprise, I heard Laetitia correcting him.

  “No Edgar, I know that’s something people repeat, but it’s just old-fashioned Orientalism. The character ‘si’ which is generally translated into English as ‘private’ or ‘privacy,’ has a lot of different meanings. Some are to do with selfishness, so it’s hard to talk about it in an altogether positive way. That’s all. Nothing more.”

  “Precisely what I’m saying. Privacy is purely a Western cultural construct, perhaps a product of the industrial revolution or low nuptuality west of the Hajnal line, and so really we can discount it. The implications—”

  “No!” Laetitia’s voice was firm. “On this, Edgar, you don’t get to speak.”

  Edgar’s head swiveled round like a gun turret on a battleship. Laetitia met his gaze. There was something glassy and yet final about her stare. I realized she was more than usually drunk.

  “Saying privacy is culturally inflected is not the same as ‘having no concept of privacy,’ like little ants or robots. I know these distinctions are very trivial to you, but they are not to me.”

  Seeing that he’d lost, Edgar changed the topic, without missing a beat. People, he opined, had an irrational fear of numbers. Fear of numbers was a malaise, particularly among liberal arts types who didn’t have the most elementary grounding in mathematics. It led to all kinds of mystical nonsense. Per suggested gently that not everything was amenable to a quantitative approach. Finlay, who should have known better, joined in, saying that there were good reasons to be skeptical about quantification, for example big data and the intrusion of the state into personal life.

  Edgar turned to him and scoffed. “You, sir, strike me as exactly the type who’s given to signing petitions and open letters. Free this or that, asking the government to fix things for you. How would you do your diversity surveys if you don’t let the government collect information?”