Chapter 8
John is tensed towards the crazy idea I carry within me. The darkness should conceal him, and yet his tension vibrates in the air with almost physical intensity.
I know he’s waiting, and let us savour the peculiar taste of expectation. When the moment comes, I speak again.
“I intended the crazy idea as nothing more than a fantasy. Planting its seed out there meant that the realization of the idea could not be absolutely discounted, but it was nonetheless unlikely”, I continue
“So the Leslie Carson in the short fiction you published on the New Yorker is Carlie”, John says and I nod
“Tell me more about the idea”, he says, no longer able to brace his curiosity
In the obscure silence of the room my voice traces the promise of a trail.
“I signed the piece, but as I wrote I made believe that Carlie was the author. Truth be told, she and Rob were. I’ve been nothing but the medium through which Carlie and Neil manifested themselves. You’ve read the plot. Carlie, alias Leslie, is a law abiding woman. Most and foremost though, she is a brilliant scientist looking for new turns in life, and in a crazy discussion with a stranger she figures she wants to be a scientific hacker. Somewhere out there there’s someone looking for her, let’s say someone like Rob Neilson. Rob Neilson is a law abiding man. Most and foremost though, he is a businessman aiming at profit and in a surreal night spent in a hotel room with a perfect stranger he sees some cynical frames on a TV screen, and those frames click with him. He is mesmerized by the actress playing a sexy MIT girl, paid by someone to manipulate a rational man, win his trust and have him reveal all his secrets about a drug not yet released and on which he has worked for years. Carlie Lester wants to meet Rob Neilson. She writes about herself in the short fiction section and includes her contact information in the story. And then I, a perfect stranger, cut off the story from the New York Times, place it in an envelope and send it to Rob Neilson’s company. The name of the company is easy enough to find, the likelihood of my letter being actually handed to Rob, let alone read, is close to zero. Sitting at her desk, swamped by admin tasks she hates, Carlie Lester smiles at the possibilities implied by the infinitesimal gap between zero and close to zero”
My narration subsides, and I let the realm of possibilities shimmer beyond my words.
“Did Carlie Lester and Rob Neilson really meet?”, John wants to know
For a moment I wish John could feed my imagination as I’m feeding his.
“What is your gut feeling?”, I ask
“I don’t know. Perhaps they did”, John says undecidedly
“I didn’t know either for the longest time the same way I knew nothing about the inventor of the chemical of the century, that esthanol substance Rob had told me about. Was the inventor a rational but naïve man? Would Carlie be able to win his trust and secrets if given the chance?”, I tell him
John still needs my words, but I have faith in his potential.
“How do you picture the inventor of esthanol?”, I ask
“As a man at least in part naïve”, John replies, emerging from his hidden cocoon
“Why?”, I want to know
“Because only dreamers can invent what is not yet a reality”, John beautifully says
There’s a lamp on the side table, and I light it. Its dim reflections are soft around John’s features and mine.
The change is unexpected. John’s fingers contract in his shoes for the briefest instant. Then I lock my eyes onto John’s, and his fingers relax as I smile.
“Let me show you something”, I tell him
I take the metal box beside the sofa on my lap and find a story I cut out the short fiction section published on the New Yorker on December 10, 1999.
“Here, John. Meet Steven Meyers, alias Meyer Stevenson. He’s your dreamer”, I say, handing him the story