The Word Exchange (37 page)

But as Dr. Thwaite came toward me, so close he stepped on my foot, it took me a moment, even after he pulled a light cord I hadn’t noticed, to understand the room’s true purpose. In part because the light came on only slowly, with a gentle hum. But as it began to mood the room in murky orange, I made out a black curtain rilled back from the door, a ventilator near the ceiling, a metal shelf along one wall, and the specter of sinks, torn out. And I realized I was in a former darkroom, the word “safelight” floating through the fog of my memory.

“Nadya’s,” Dr. Thwaite said, waving the remote. “I built this for her, a long time ago.”
²
He switched on a monitor mounted to the wall. The gray screen fizzed for a second, then revealed the downstairs lobby. Clive stood behind a large desk, facing the entrance, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. Wintry paintings flanked the doors. And soon I saw a tall, narrow, dark-skinned man appear, walking briskly with a cane. He wore a cap, glasses, and a peacoat. He and Clive spoke. Then Vernon glanced up at a spot high on the wall and, with the most economical of gestures, flashed a thumbs-up and vanished through the exit.

Less than ten minutes later—I’d barely had time to wash the blood off my face, dress my knee, make my way to the kitchen—I heard the urgent bleating of the downstairs buzzer, and I jumped, spilling tea from the mug Dr. Thwaite had just handed me. Dr. Thwaite flinched, too, but maybe only in reaction to me; he was standing near the door and seemed to have been expecting the visitor. He disappeared instantly. When he came back a minute later, he looked a bit sheepish.

“I’m going to have to ask you to do something now. And I’m very sorry,” he said.

“What?” I asked, immediately on guard, carefully patting my broken lip.

“I just have to be very sure that you’re not wearing a Nautilus … anywhere on your body,” he said, looking down at the floor, his drooping cheeks turning lightly crimson.

Before I could respond, the doorbell rang. And on the other side, her face pale, her dark, shining hair pulled tightly back, was Victoria Mark, from the Mercantile Library.

Dr. Thwaite seemed even more hangdog with her than he’d been with me. His greeting was an apology: “I called Susan first, of course—”

But she just leaned toward him, which seemed to make him tense, and silenced him with a gentle kiss on the cheek. “It’s all right, Phin,” she said softly.

Turning to me, she remarked with distress on my injuries. Then, taking both my hands, she explained, “I’m very sorry to have to do this. But this really is the best place for you, and for Phin’s peace of mind …” Even she, self-possessed as she was, seemed ill at ease. But after a moment, when she said, “Will you come with me, please?” her tone took on a kind, firm competency, like a doctor’s, and I found myself following her down the hall.
³

After confirming that I didn’t have a Nautilus or Meme, Victoria stayed only a few minutes. Dr. Thwaite offered her a cup of tea, but she smiled—a little sadly, I thought—and said, “I have to be getting back.” Then she squeezed his hand, and mine again, and she left.

I thought I’d be at Dr. Thwaite’s no more than two days; I wound up staying two weeks. Although I nearly left soon after I arrived, on December 7—the night of Synchronic’s Future Is Now gala. Not to attend the party but to hole up at my grandparents’ house in East Hampton with Vera.

Vernon had promised he’d try to persuade my mother to go away for a while, without Laird, and, true to his word, he convinced her. I still don’t know quite how—neither of them would tell me—but some recordings
Vern had kept of a couple visits Laird made to Hermes’s Red Hook office during early Synchronic negotiations may have been instrumental. I’ve since listened to them, and Laird seems to have been at least indirectly involved in the acquisition; he was friends with Synchronic’s CEO, Steve Brock, from his bond-trading days. (And he was also, apparently, a Synchronic shareholder.) During those conversations Laird had waxed prosaic on a number of subjects: e.g., Doug, the Dorans, the strategic value of his and Vera’s “partnership,” etc.

Vernon also suggested that Vera take a bodyguard and warned her not to use a Nautilus or Meme; not to interact with anyone manifesting aphasia; even to avoid sims, telecasts, streams, radios, and phones—although this last suggestion may have been at least in part to protect her from bad news. He also advised that while reading infected messages could potentially be dangerous, reading books, especially those requiring abstract thinking and memory, was actually encouraged: it was thought to be therapeutic.
⁴

None of us knew then of the disaster that would begin on the night of December 7. But when I proposed that maybe I should go with my mother, Vernon and Dr. Thwaite presciently resisted, saying that as certain Synchronic employees seemed to be looking for me, she and I would both be safer if I stayed on Beekman until I could “escape.”

The two of them then spent twenty minutes “convincing” me to go to the U.K. We were stived up in the study, surrounded by stacks of books and academic journals:
Lexikos, It Beaken, International Journal of Lexicography
, talking over Chopin’s Preludes, which hissed from an ancient record player. Dr. Thwaite offered to help me get a passport expedited so I could leave early the next week.
⁵

“Why the U.K.?” I asked, feigning ignorance. Face aching from the lie.

“Well, for one, Memes have never been sold legally there,” Dr. Thwaite
lectured, “so they have far fewer of them. And far fewer cases of the virus as a result. We all feel we haven’t seen the outbreak’s peak, and that things are likely to get worse before they get better—if they get better.”

How prophetic those words have come to seem.

“And Vernon is headed to the U.K., too,” he continued, “to work on a project. He’ll set you up with friends.”

Like the “friends” Doug is staying with? I nearly said. But didn’t.

Vernon had been anxious to leave New York during the two days since he’d brought me to Dr. Thwaite’s. Soon after I’d watched on the darkroom monitor as Vern limped from the lobby, he’d gotten a call from Max, just off the set of PI and badly shaken about Johnny. He’d asked Vern to come to SoPo. But when Vern arrived at the bar, Max was belligerently drunk—and barely intelligible for other reasons. He accosted Vern with a handful of Diachronic pamphlets, raving that no one but Vern could know the things they accused, that government investigators had been asking him questions. “Tanee not the only ones,” Floyd added a little coldly. Finally Max yelled, “Don’t chosset the launch! I don’t want to see you zyvo.” Vern had already planned to miss the gala—his ticket to London was for that night—but he tried to reason with Max, calm him down. That, though, was impossible, and Max soon began ranting that if Vern didn’t leave, he’d beat the shit out of him. He
spit
at Vern. And as Vern headed for the exit, Floyd called, “Watch your back.”

That turned out to be excellent advice. Vern tried to take the B train home to Fort Greene, but crossing the Manhattan Bridge had proved harrowing: a slim man dressed all in black had sat down right across from him, hand in a pocket with a prominent bulge. In the DeKalb station Vern managed to slip away—he’d been a track star before the accident that wrecked his knee—and board the Manhattan-bound train. Since then he’d been staying at an aunt’s in Harlem. But it didn’t seem safe, and he didn’t like putting his family in danger.

Vernon was with us that night because he’d come to say goodbye; his flight left in a few hours. He hoped I’d agree to go to the U.K., too, he said, and that he’d see me soon. Tired of my charade, I nodded, consenting to go as soon as I could get a passport.

That was when a casual remark sparked a pyrotechnical fight.

Dr. Thwaite asked, offhand, what time Vernon would arrive in Oxford the next day.

“Not until late,” Vernon complained. “I have a six-hour layover in Montreal.” Then, flexing his long fingers, he added, “But better that than an overnight in Reykjavík.”

“Wait—what?” I said, ears perking up at mention of the last city in which Doug had been seen.

Guiltily Vernon glanced away. Took off his glasses to avoid my gaze. Blushingly buffed them. “Nothing,” he said. But by then it was too late: he knew they’d have to tell me.

“Jesus Christ!” sputtered Dr. Thwaite.

That was how I learned that Dr. Thwaite had known Doug was in Oxford for weeks—since the night Doug had arrived there, in fact, fresh from Reykjavík, on a private jet owned by Fergus Hedstrom. He’d gotten in late on Saturday, November 17—just one night after he’d gone missing. As the news came to light and I learned they’d kept my father’s whereabouts from me, I became so upset that I surprised myself—and both of them—by throwing the closest thing at hand: a photo of Nadya.

The frame grazed the desk, flurrying papers before shattering on the floor. Canon erupted in a volley of barking. Dr. Thwaite grimaced. Grimly he bent to try to soothe the dog and collect shards of glass. Reproached, “You led me to believe that you and Max—”

“That’s not true,” I quickly interjected, turning my back on Vernon so he wouldn’t see my face redden. Crouched to help. Remorseful but no less mad.

“—and I just wasn’t sure,” Dr. Thwaite was still saying, “if you could be trusted not to say something to Max. Not that I thought you’d betray Douglas on purpose—”

“
Betray
him?” I bristled.

“—and then, when you started showing signs of aphasia, I was afraid that if you and he spoke, that he—he might also be put at risk. Or, even more likely, that he’d be worried enough to come back, which seemed dangerous for him, and perhaps for other members of the Society. And, crucially, that it might jeopardize his efforts in the U.K. So it just seemed best, given the circumstances,” Dr. Thwaite continued, eyeing the large, jagged piece of glass in my hand, “for him to believe that you were perfectly fine and safe. But just … unavailable for a bit. Given the circumstances,” he repeated.

The circumstances, I pointed out, were that for three weeks I hadn’t known whether my father was dead or alive.

“I
told
you he was all right,” Dr. Thwaite muttered, folding a glittering cache of glass into a square of paper. Wearily, he righted himself and placed a trembling hand on Canon’s jouncing back. “Stop that racket,” he said gently to the dog. The upstairs neighbors had started banging. I heard a muffled shout.

“No,”
I rejoined, standing abruptly. Said, maybe louder than I meant to, “You told me you didn’t know where he was.”

“Please,”
Dr. Thwaite said. He looked beseechingly at Vernon, who was fumbling to turn up the record player. “Just
be quiet
.”

“Why? You really think Synchronic is monitoring you? You think they have your apartment bugged? You think anyone gives a
shit—
”

But Dr. Thwaite had closed the space between us and covered my mouth with his shaking hand. It smelled of camphor and vinegar and Canon.
“Yes,”
he menacingly hissed in my ear. “That’s exactly what I think. Am I worried about bugs?” he scoffed. “No.
Drones
.” All at once I understood why he had blackout curtains that were always closed. Music going all the time.

Later I’d start to believe that his fears were well founded, when we received an unwelcome guest. Later he’d give me a letter that shed light on nearly everything, which he made me vow not to read until I was safely on the plane. But that night, over the sandy sound of glass sucked up by the vacuum and the dolent chords of Chopin, he just reassured me that my father was safe.

When I asked him what he’d told Doug about why I hadn’t been in touch, he confessed that he’d said I’d gone up to my grandparents’ house in East Hampton before Thanksgiving, to spend a quiet holiday with friends, and had stayed on. It didn’t really make sense as an explanation—the Hamptons aren’t exactly off the grid—but I tried to let it go.

He also admitted, after a long, crackly pause, that Doug had been expecting me to join him in Oxford for several days. Dr. Thwaite was supposed to have relayed the message that Doug wanted me to fly to meet him.

I gritted my teeth. Worked to stay calm as I asked Dr. Thwaite what he’d told Doug to explain my absence. Uncomfortably, he looked from me to Vernon, who was studying the clock. “We told him—
I
told him,” admitted Dr. Thwaite, “that you hadn’t made up your mind to go.”

And again I lost it. I couldn’t help myself.

Dr. Thwaite winced. Placed his hands on his ears. “Yes, I know,” he lamented, face pinched. “But—”

“Listen,” Vernon cut in. “I’ve really got to go.” He hitched his thumb at the clock.

Embarrassed, I tried to swallow my anger as we saw Vernon off. I asked him, choking up a little, to give Doug a hug for me. “You can hug him yourself soon,” Vernon said softly, “but okay.” He pressed me close. Then he was gone, departing on what would be one of the last flights out for days. His 787 ascending through mild turbulence as the first revelers arrived at the Future Is Now gala downtown.

We now know far more, of course, about what happened that night. But at the time we knew only that it was catastrophic.

After Vernon left, Dr. Thwaite and I sat down to eat—thin tomato soup and cold roast chicken—and silently cleaned the dishes. Then, in his study, I secretly went online.

I wasn’t watching the gala coverage, but I later learned this was near the time that the party’s live Meaning Master contests and word auction were getting under way. After Synchronic’s two-week publicity blitz, which had started on Black Friday and culminated in Max and Laird’s PI interview two nights before, PI had managed to pull in a surprising number of viewers. Which was especially remarkable given that some must have avoided the broadcast because of infection fears.

But far more people logged in to the event not through PI but via Synchronic’s websites. Because the real draw for viewers—aka “players”—was the Meaning Master contests: $100,000 each for words deemed most (1) original, (2) efficacious, and (3) “pleasing,” purportedly by players themselves. Millions of people had beamed in to play live during the event using brand-new Nautiluses bought that day, Memes, smart screens, computers, and sims. Perhaps as many as 10 million people, estimates suggest (although at this point it’s of course impossible to know if that number is accurate).