The Egg Code (14 page)

Heavy footsteps crossed the ceiling. The ladies watched as a bare light fixture shook overhead. A steel measuring tape dropped from the landing to the foot of the stairs. The electrician followed, retracting the tape as he went. “Sorry. Just checking how far I’ve got to drop a line.” He rubbed his face, sweaty from the attic. “Those outlets are grounded already.” He stepped out of his work belt and set it on the floor. “You’ve got a free jack up there. If you get around to hooking up a modem, let me know.”

“Oh.” Julian cleared his throat. “No, I don’t believe I’ll be needing any of that.”

“Don’t need it?” The man shook his head. “Take my advice. It gets pretty effing lonely out here. Commute’s a bitch, too.”

“I don’t plan on—”

“Sure you do!” He pointed over his shoulder. “What about those print layouts on the second floor? Your FedEx bill must cost a fortune.” Digging into his pocket, he pulled out three business cards and passed them around. “I’ll hook you up. I also do custom Web-page design. You won’t ever have to leave the house.”

Julian read the card and folded it in half. “Well, Mr. Field, I sure do appreciate it, but I’m pretty old-fashioned.”

Lydia drained her drink, then said, “It’s a strange name for a computer guy.”

“I’m not a computer guy.” Olden took the old man’s seat as Julian left to find his checkbook. “I work with computers. There’s a difference.”

“Do tell.” She tilted her glass, mixing the ice with her tongue. A tiny trickle pooled in the back of her throat.

Olden helped himself to some snacks from the tray. “Okay, then. For example. Your product. Which is . . . ?”

She brought the glass back down. “You’re asking?”

“Or you can make one up. It doesn’t matter.”

“Well . . .” She looked away, trying to think. Outside, a deflated basketball drooped from a dead branch. Too bad Simon never liked to play. A few sports, third, fourth grade. The expensive uniforms. Chichi fabric. The other kids. Meatheads of the world. Drinking in the stands. Everyone’s an alcoholic. Simon in his goalie uniform. Drowning in equipment. Hates the helmet, keeps it up whenever the ball’s not in play.

She turned away from the window. “Does it have to be a
thing
?”

“It can be anything.” Olden’s eyes flashed. “A thing, a person, a—”

“A person!” she said, grabbing the edge of her pedestal. Donna gave her a curious look. “A person. My
son
!” Olden squinted, not getting it. “He’s an actor. I’m working on building his career.”

“TV? Movies?”

“Anything! He’s a very talented . . . very
sweet
. . . uh . . . he’s just a . . .”

“Oh, that’s perfect. We need to get you on the Net. Three thousand hits a day. There’s a lot of competition out there, but I know a few tricks.” He pulled a Swiss Army knife out of his shirt pocket and cut off a square of cheese, placing it between two crackers, making a sandwich. Lydia hid behind the man’s business card, rereading the words, the clever design, the neat, modern type. OLDEN FIELD—NETWORK CONSULTANT. Breathing quickly, she imagined a steady process—three thousand hits a day. Total saturation. Simon-in-the-air.

“So,” she said, pocketing the card. “You do this for a living, hunh? You could put it all together for me?”

Olden finished his cracker, then shrugged. “Maybe.” He dusted his hands and hoisted the tool belt over his shoulder. “We might have to work out an arrangement.”

Julian returned and handed a check to the electrician. Looking down, he saw the cracker crumbs, the missing piece of cheese. He blinked. Crazy day.

Lydia stood up and tugged on her friend’s sleeve. “Donna, I hope you don’t mind if I take you home now.”

“But Lydia, our interview—”

“That’s for another time.” She steered the other woman into the hallway, pushing from behind. Their high heels wobbled on the hardwood floor. “I’ve got to get back to my son . . .”

Confused, Julian teetered after his guests. “I was just starting to enjoy myself,” he said, catching up to them near the front door. Olden stayed behind, inspecting the check.

“We’ll take it from here.” Lydia straightened her sunglasses and stepped outside. “Nineteen fifty-two: Boston, a bar, a bunch of junk . . .” She snapped her fingers, clicking off the main points.

Donna turned and waved through the screen. “Thanks a lot, for the . . .” She stammered, then gave up, feeling like an idiot. Her friend was already waiting inside the car. The horn sounded and she hurried across the driveway. Julian waved from the porch; when the car drove off, it seemed to take something with it—something from him.

Back inside, the men toured the place. Olden took the lead, pointing out things that needed fixing. Upstairs, he used a wrench to knock the glass out of a broken storm window. The pieces fell two stories and shattered against a concrete drain. “I’ll stop by next week,” he said, pulling down the screen. “The weather should hold until then.”

“When does winter start?” Julian leaned against the window seat and casually took his pulse.

“Soon. October’s usually pretty cold. Snow, sometimes. Several feet by January.” Olden dusted the glass chips from the sill. His palm glistened with fragments. “I hope you have something to read.”

“Read?”

“Yeah, and snow tires. We don’t mess around up here.”

Julian smelled the cool air breezing through the window. “Nice change, anyway.”

“From the city? Sure.” Olden curled his fingers and looked at his fist. “I like it out here. Interesting people. Takes a certain mentality.”

Julian stared at the young man’s hand and tried to smile. “Well, I hope I got what it takes.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” Olden excused himself and used the washroom at the end of the hall. Pipes groaned between the walls. When he returned, he showed Julian his hands, which were wet and stained with rusty water. “Your plumbing’s shot,” he said. “I’ll fix it if you want me to.”

Staring at the wall, Julian imagined a fat, snaking tube, bright metal leaking at the bends and joints. “Expensive?”

“Yeah.” The electrician clipped his tool belt around his waist and started down the stairs. “But we can work out an arrangement.”

Behind him, Julian clung to the banister; the loose rail shook under his hand. “More than a few hundred, I’ll have to think about it.”

“Well, you’ve got my card.” Olden hit the landing and waited with his arms crossed. “How about a collaboration? Your work for my work.”

Julian laughed. He gripped the newel and the turreted top bit into his palm. “I don’t do anything.”

“Sure you do!” The young man tucked his hair behind his ears. His jaw was sharp, a steep drop. “I need an artistic director. For my Web page. The technical stuff I can handle. The rest is up to you. New format, new type.”

“Well . . .” Julian touched his neck, panicked for a moment, then found a pulse. “I don’t know anything about the . . .”

“Even better. We’ll stay out of each other’s way.” The phone rang in the kitchen—an electronic sound, different from the one upstairs. The even intervals imposed a time limit on the man’s words. “Full control, Julian.” He spoke slowly, thriving on the opposition. Keep ringing, you bastards. “Your design.”

“Just . . . I have to—”

“Your letters.”

“—answer that.”

He scurried into the kitchen and snatched the phone in mid-ring. T. Kenneth West’s voice sounded anxious, more desperate than before. “Gave you a few extra minutes to make that simple yet vital decision.”

“Oh, with the . . . mmmm.” Julian traded ears, moving the receiver from the right to the left.

“My intuition is telling me no. I’m hearing a kind of no implied by your reluctance to respond.”

The old man went out into the corridor, stretching the cord, keeping an eye on his guest. “I certainly do thank you for thinking of me, sir.”

“This is disappointment, Julian. This is the sound of bleak, steel-gray disappointment.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just . . .” The words ran out, and as the other man rambled on, Julian could hear another voice in his ear, a voice recognizable as the voice of his predecessors, those ancient artisans who’d created new alphabets out of circumstances, religious and political and personal. Some of them created because their lives were at stake; others, because they believed God had commanded them. For Julian, the reason was simple. His mother wanted him to do it.

VII

A Brief History of the Printed Word

The Flow

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The following text was composed by the fifteenth-century German scholar Meister Weisskopf, a contemporary of Erasmus and one of the founders of Christian humanism, a Northern European branch of the Italian Renaissance. Weisskopf studied in Florence, and the classical form he employs reflects his travels abroad. Though he was a man of some intellectual skill, Weisskopf’s reputation has diminished over time, and little of his work remains. At the start of the fragment, the character named Hannah approaches her mentor, whom she finds gazing into an aqueduct. As their discussion progresses, they walk along a path until they encounter an urchin selling teeth to a cloaked patrol of brigands. At this point, the text breaks off.

HANNAH: Herr Weisskopf, I am glad to see that you are well, but I regret your absence from our weekly convocation. I have longed for your presence, and I had almost lost all hope.

WEISSKOPF: Hannah, my astute pupil, I knew that under your observation I could not remain hidden for long. May the God of all men preserve your judgment.

H: But why have you come here? This is a foul and fetid place.

W: Legal troubles have driven me from my chambers. The suit recently won against the technician from Mainz is a worrisome affair, and I find myself in need of a partner to help construct my argument.

H: I am yours, my professor.

W: Well put. As I am your instructor, it is only proper for me to begin with a summary of the events. In brief, then. The defendant called Gutenberg is a German subject of some advanced years, and a citizen of this town. Years past, a vicious dispute forced Gutenberg into a long exile, broken only by a brief trip across the border to beg at the coffers of a former partner, Hans Riffe. In 1438, the two men, along with the Andreases Heilmann and Dritzehn, drew up a mutual contract, keeping the terms unresolved. Within the year, the second Andreas had passed on to his true, unearthly duty, leaving a fleet of relatives to squabble over the inherited fourth. Gutenberg, destitute but never desperate, denied them their rights, and a trial ensued. In the course of the investigation, certain secrets regarding Gutenberg’s activities were brought to light. During the trial, lawyers produced one hundred guilders’ worth of receipts for the purchase of a new shop in town.

H: A sizable allowance for a man in debt to put forth.

W: Your comments, my dear, are largely without substance, but they do lighten the density of my sometimes abstruse text. Yes, a sizable allowance, and a strange purchase too, strange enough to warrant Gutenberg’s surveillance over the next decade. By 1448, he had acquired a new associate, Johann Fust, who agreed to loan first eight hundred and then another eight hundred guilders in exchange for a share of the business. But Gutenberg was a perfectionist—an artist, if we acknowledge such a thing to exist outside of the university. He was slow in his methods, and spent seven years working on his secret contraption. Fust’s motivations were the motivations of all patrons—to secure a quick return on his investment, and to create further glory for his family’s name. Gaining none of these, he brought the man to court, enlisting the aid of Peter Schöffer to help in the proceedings. The court agreed with his complaint and ordered Gutenberg to relinquish his property. The defendant known as Johann Gutenberg is alive today in this city of Mainz, and yet he is without credit and possesses no means of making a living. It is the rightness of this that you and I have gathered beside this channel to debate.

H: It could be argued that Gutenberg simply received proper justice for his offense against mankind.

W: Are you making this argument?

H: If that is what you desire.

W: Let me hear it first.

H: The proposal is this. The mechanized press credited to Herr Gutenberg is an unnatural device, unnatural in that it violates the three-tiered principle of law first alluded to by the ancient Stoics and later confirmed by Saint Thomas Aquinas. Aquinas spoke of the law’s division into three parts: the law of the cosmos, the natural law of man, and the positive law, that is to say, the practical application of God’s will onto everyday matters of peace, war, and commerce. An ethical flow, downward in its grade, connects the three layers, and the path is always the same. The positive law will never influence the Way of God; ours is an eternal supplication.

W: Your thesis, while pleasing in its rhythms, seems to dance before our senses like a young coquette tickling an old man’s nose with a feather. Its purpose is only to elude and annoy.

H: Then hear this. This structure of three does not limit itself to the law of the Creator. All structures presume a multiplicity of layers. The stability of our layered society needs these definitions to preserve the flow of reason from the cosmos to the courtroom. Our learned men distinguish themselves from the ignorance of the crowd, and in so doing, they reinforce the divisions necessary to save the Christian people from the terror of chaos. The course of learning demands a sensible direction. Like coinage, it has no value unless rare. Gutenberg’s strange device will lend an unhealthy speed to what was once the slow duty of the cloistered hand, and in this way, the whole earth will drown under a pool of unwanted words. The trusty aqueduct will balk at the demands of a rising flood. None shall benefit from this democracy.

W: This is the policy you seek to bring before your tutor?

H: Perhaps. There is another view. The defense maintains that Gutenberg is a hero, an icon of the times. This new tool has launched us upon the crest of a new era. At last, publishers may edit and duplicate documents in a uniform fashion. From one centralized location, a host of reproductions may flow across the land. No longer restricted to the quartered realms of the university, this fabulous wave of information may offer its riches to all interested men. Our culture, once defined by its concentricities of knowing and not knowing, now includes the lowly peasant, newly literate, able to obtain cheap books, printed by the thousands. The kingdom is a network of machines, and Gutenberg’s device is the transmitter of the flow.

W: Of course, I might suggest that the cause of the lower class should be of no interest to the successful monarch. That an ignorant and illiterate peasantry is best suited to serve the needs of our economy. The man in the field knows his scythe. He need not know how to forge the blade from iron. The issue that troubles me, Hannah, is that of choice. Who chooses these roles that society deems necessary for our survival? The one Church itself has acknowledged the free choice given to us by our common Master and Creator. To what degree, I wonder, does this mandate extend? Is our choice limited to a simple election of good over evil? Or does God intend, by granting us this liberty, to plant within our lives a tree of choice, with each branch revealing a new and crucial binary? Soldier or physician? Beggar or monk? Peasant or patrician? Informed or illiterate? Are these choices really ours to make? At what point does such social mobility mutate into sin?

H: You seem troubled. I fear for the security of your convictions. W: A conviction is a guarded fortress, dear pupil. Slots designed to launch the shaft of an arrow are unlikely to accept a similar blow from the outside. It occurs to me that our discussion has strayed from its original premise. My concern, once reserved for Gutenberg alone, has spread to encompass all of mankind. As a nation, we should fear the impulse that causes human hands to supplant themselves with chains and pulleys. Left without this new device, languages will die; and as the language dies, so will the people. This thing that Gutenberg has done should both be welcomed and never trusted by any careful man. The truth of life is the truth of God. The machine has its own truth, and it must be censored.

H: Your warning is not irrational, for already Herr Schöffer has taken to using sacred and traditional models for his letter-forms, drawing upon familiar examples such as the texture and recasting them as cuts of lead and brass. All of the old features are preserved, the ligatures, the florid initials. It is almost as if, knowing the time-trusted preferences of the reader, the new designs have consciously sought to cultivate these allusions. We believe the attractive word.

W: Is this what we have done, Hannah? How do we represent such a grievous sin to our Father and only Maker? Jesu, Son of God, forgive us for our evil machine. Its sole food is politics, and it excretes only propaganda.

H: If there is a penance best suited to the crime, Herr Weisskopf, then it lies in the just behavior of the vigilant man. You and I, sir, we are intellectuals. God bless us for our better judgment! We must serve as filters to the flow. Like a fine mesh, we handle the current, straining away poisons and delivering only the purest element to the garden beyond. The peasants know only their thirst; lacking discretion, they will gape and swallow at anything. Our alliance is with the invisible word. The truth has other children, but they are corporeal and therefore base.

W: Your optimistic words cheer me, my sweet Hannah. Ah, but see this smudge-faced boy selling his goods by the edge of the river. Let me make a gift to you of his wares, and in so doing, reward the boy with the same transaction. If there is but a shred of flesh left on these teeth, you may take them home and boil a stew.