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A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
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Chapter 14
Giordano rose from the armchair and started walking restlessly about the living-room. Behind the drawn curtains came the beating noise of a helicopter flying by at low altitude. He gestured with his hands, stooping, as if he tried to shake out words.
"I think..." he said, "...no, I know that most people hated or feared Rymowicz. No-one likes a smartass. It hurt just to hear him speak, you know?"
Abram nodded.
"I was living here then, commuting between L.A. where I work, and San Diego. Just to hear his lectures in logic and philosophy. I've got several tape recordings."
Giordano walked over to a stereo cupboard and put a cassette in the tape deck.
"This is from one of his last lectures. I've listened to it almost every day since," he eagerly explained, turning on the stereo. Abram sat up in amazement, when he heard the recorded voice of Patrick Rymowicz, five years younger and considerably stronger. He spoke fast, but with utter clarity of tone...
"The official philosophy of America was formulated in this beautiful way by Abraham Lincoln -- one of the few Presidents who shouldn't have been shot... " (Laughter from the class) "...during our first, great civil war...
"'Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure...' A few wars later, in the year 1948, Norman Mailer formulated America's unofficial philosophy in this beautiful way: 'I HATE EVERYTHING THAT IS NOT MYSELF.'
"To understand these two contradictory quotes, is the key to understanding American politics. Already when the Founding Fathers laid the groundwork of our constantly re-interpreted Constitution, they must have realized the hopelessness of their intentions: to create a society where 'all men' -- they probably meant all 'men' -- are 'created equal', in a society which praised individual competition above everything else. A funny thing is that the phrase 'All men are created equal' can also be interpreted as 'All men are created identical' -- which sounds a little unrealistic. By the way, I want everyone to hand in a one-page analysis of that particular phrase by next week."
(Murmuring of sighs from the class)
"So: in a violent frontier culture, which sets up incompatible ideals of individualism and collective equality... how do the leaders go about accomplishing this ideal state?" (Pause.) "The only solution is to develop political schizophrenia: to officially praise the values one simultaneously tramples in the dirt, and especially by trying to circumvent the power-dividing institutions -- Congress, the Supreme Court, and the media.
(Background noise of forceful chalk scribblings against a blackboard)
"Our latest Presidents have been revealed as being either hypocrites, liars, or conspirators -- but this can be blamed on media attention, rather than the Presidents becoming more dishonest. They have all shown signs of this political schizophrenia. Several of them have tried to form secret, non-authorized government organizations to realize their goals. Let us dissect --"
"Hold it! Stop the tape for a moment!"
Abram had abruptly stood up. Giordano obeyed. Abram peered perplexedly at thin air, tugging at his beard.
"This is incredible," he murmured. "I never got to know there were recordings of his lectures. Rymowicz burned all his writings just before his..." He looked at Giordano, who were standing by the stereo deck. "Have you... is there any tape from that day he finally..?"
"No!" Giordano retorted angrily, but with a hint of insecurity in his eyes. "I destroyed it, and said nothing to the police, or to all those shrinks and journalists who came asking questions. They just would've distorted his words, to make him sound like a psycho killer; and Dr. Rymowicz would've thought I was on their side too. I mean, there were a lot of witnesses in the auditorium, okay? The police didn't need the tape, okay?"
He looked to the floor.
"I know," Abram said in a lower voice, "I've read the reports of his trial. Still... how did he dare saying such things during a philosophy lecture? When I was young, not even the teachers who really were Marxists would be so brazen."
Giordano grinned at him: "Simple. It was listed among the 'junk courses', like 'Practical Witchcraft'. Most of his students had chosen his course to fill their schedule, so they weren't listening to his words, they just read the books. And most of us were so bad at English language, they barely followed half of what he said. Cortez State is one of the lowest-ranking unversities in the country. He used his time to talk about other things he thought we should know... 'I want to teach America's new Morlocks how the country really works,' he said."
"That sounds a bit right-wing. Was Rymowicz a racist?"
"Naah, he meant it satirically, and we understood that! He said several times that American politics was one big joke, 'but you'll die laughing.'"
Giordano quoted his teacher with total lack of humor. Abram walked to the wide back window, and peeked out through the chink between the frame and the blinds. From outside came the distant sounds of police sirens, helicopters, and trucks passing by; sporadic gunshots cracked; fires were still burning in the east.
Still looking out, he asked: "That student who was shot to death... Luis Bonzalero. How would you explain that?"
Giordano crossed his arms over his chest, clenching his fists so that the knuckles went white; he spat out his answer.
"Bonzo? Shit, everyone knew he was the worst drugdealer in Cortez State! Principal Trudeberry and all the teachers were scared shitless of him and his gang, 'Los Terminators'. Rymowicz was the only teacher who dared talk back to him."
"Tell me about it."
While Abram remained motionless by the window, Giordano started pacing across the room again: "Well, one or two weeks before... the gun went off, Bonzo'd threatened Rymowicz. Bonzo was always sitting in the back of the auditorium and sleeping during his lectures, when he wasn't smoking weed and crank. Rymowicz used to ignore him, but this particular day Bonzo was in a bad mood and tried to interrupt... I've got a tape of it here somewhere."
Giordano picked out another cassette from the cupboard, switched tapes, rewound the tape a bit, and pressed PLAY. Once more Rymowicz' former voice came from the loudspeakers, sharp and with a hint of suppressed anger:
"...which has created a psychological empty space. The official America unconsciously craves a group it can make invisible, and new groups are constantly trying to get a place in the America made visible. Not because the invisible groups in any way should be 'morally superior', that's beside the point. It is only a question of being seen, because by being seen, one gains influence over the mass media, the..."
Another voice on the tape echoed through the auditorium. Rymowicz ceased speaking for a moment, then went on:
"By being seen, one gains influence over..."
"Hey, Doc! I asked you a question, comprende?"
"Yes, Luis?"
"Are you trying to tell us that we're not being seen, Doc? That Los Terminators ain't the coolest hombres in San Diego? Que pasa?"
"Thank you for making that important question, Luis. I will try to answer it the best I can. Say, how many students are gathered here, right now?
"Ten, twenty, thirty... say, forty students, of which thirty-five are first- or second-generation immigrants from Latin America. According to the new statistics, perhaps one of you has got a decent chance of becoming an MTV popstar, a local politician, or the like.
"Between three and four of you will get AIDS, about ten of you will be full-time drug addicts. At least three of you will be killed or injured in gangwars or drug-related crimes. One of you will, according to statistics, surely be seen on TV -- after being mowed down by a rival gang. Those of you who don't wish to become part of those statistics, perhaps you'd like to pay attention now?"
"You're deadmeat, Doc! Deadmeat!!"
"Thank you, I'll make a note of that. Where were we?"
Giordano switched off the stereo. Abram looked over his own shoulder at him, wrinkling his forehead in sombre seriousness. His forehead was shiny with sweat.
"Did you witness Bonzo saying that?" He nearly whispered.
"No, I was sitting in the front row with my back against him. But several people saw him point at Rymowicz and pretending to shoot him."
Giordano shaped his hand into an imaginary pistol and pointed it at Abram's head on a stretched-out arm.
"When a gangleader makes that sign," he said, "it means the same as a death sentence. Didn't the law report say that?"
"No... and none of the questioned witnesses mentioned that gesture," Abram muttered. "Or Bonzo's words."
"They were probably scared of the gang," Giordano said bitterly. "But of course, you who come from private schools don't know what it's like here," he added with contempt.
Abram gave him a grim look, yawned, held his wrist up to his nose and squinted at his new paper-and-plastic wristwatch.
"Time's flying. Is there any hotel nearby that I can take a cab to? I've got more questions, but we can go through them tomorrow."
Giordano stared disbelievingly at Abram's sunken figure, his hands on his hips: "Are you crazy? There ain't a single taxidriver who'll go out tonight!"
He pointed at the TV screen. They saw a fire brigade, trying to reach the fires. A stone-throwing mob was pressing it backward.
"When I was studying in Virginia in the Sixties," Abram muttered to himself, "there were nights like this one. But I thought we'd left all that behind. Why does it never stop? Where did we go wrong?"
For a moment Giordano was looking at the old man with what seemed like pity. He went to the stereo cupboard again, took out a tape, went up to Abram and offered it to him.
"Take this one, I've already got a copy. It's from his penultimate lecture, where he summed up most of what he'd been saying before. But don't tell anyone where you got it."
Abram took the cassette with a tired smile. He straightened himself, hid a yawn with his hand, and put the tape in his pocket.
"Thanks. But I still think I'll have to leave now. I'll call or write to you later."
He shook Giordano's hand, and went off to pick up his coat and briefcase. As Abram moved toward the door, Giordano suddenly looked worried. He picked up the shotgun from the floor, and pointed it at the door while he was lifting away the iron-bar and locking up.
"You sure you want to walk to the hotel? It's one block further up, I can drive you. Car's just outside."
Abram glanced at the armed man, then squinted in the direction of the curtained window. He made a silent gesture at Giordano. The young man reached for the switch and the room went dark. They both peered out through the front window curtains. The orange firelight was still flickering at the eastern horizon... but stronger, closer. In the silence, a faint crackle of shoes against asphalt sounded outside -- then suddenly, a crash and a burst of light from the parking-lot, followed by a blast that rattled the windowpanes.
Giordano snarled: "Shit! My car!"
He threw open the door and rushed outside. Abram impulsively followed one step behind.