A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall (21 page)

—I suppose we can't smoke in here until a Serb lights the first road flare.

—You're thinking of soccer.

—These guys certainly look capable of swinging road flares. The only reason they're not is because it's a day game.

—It's one of the biggest sports in the Balkans. A lot of these young men will go on to play professional water polo in Greece, Serbia, Hungary, Italy . . . a future that for some reason I always feared for Owen.

—Do they play much water polo in America?

—Only in California.

—Because of the climate, I suspect. But it's also consistent with the role of appearance and disappearance. California is a state that wants to do both. Like Eastern European countries where the sport has also taken a hold, yes? Plunge and resurface.

The second quarter provided a few stoppages for them to talk about what was happening above the water
contra
what was happening below. Neither was remotely interested in pursuing a psychoanalytic interpretation, so they dropped it and enjoyed the rest of the half.

The teams filed into the locker rooms, and the PA music began. Baudrillard spoke:

—You and I are very similar, you know. I admire the fact that you don't try to reconcile antagonism. Why pay attention to the resolution of conflict? Inconsistency reveals everything.

—Yes, but are you so sure consistency even exists? I view it as an illusion. In reality, everything is inconsistent—which is of course a paradox that makes perfect sense.

Baudrillard pulled a mini bottle of Campari from the side pocket of his coat.

—I thought like you when I was twenty.

The comment could have been taken as malicious, but Baudrillard's tone was whimsical. And he said it while offering Burr a second mini bottle: sambuca.

He continued:

—All of the pataphysicians were interested in paradox, but paradox as a disruptive force rather than a unifying one. I'm more positive than that.

—Can you give me some sense of what the crowd will be like tomorrow?

—A lot depends on you. You have two choices when confronting an audience: fascinate or seduce. I would argue that these two are opposites. Fascinating speakers group the audience into one bundle. The bundle is flammable, but it is not in itself disruptive. A speaker who seduces, however, isolates each audience member and whispers in her ear. It is impossible to seduce a room. You can, however, seduce a man or woman. Disruption. And, depending on who you are whispering to, potentially very explosive. Even though I am a Frenchman through and through, I am not seductive. I am fascinating.

—So long as you're not boring or repulsive, which, as an American in Europe, is my constant fear.

—Yes. I am focusing on the positives here.

—I thought you were in the business of being radical.

—I've seen enough fire. To answer your question more specifically, the kind of young people who will be there tomorrow night—see, there I go again, grouping them together!—this audience will be ready for seduction. The question remains, are you a fascinator or a seducer? You are going to have to choose.

—I've never been either.

—Then they'll make you one or the other.

The teams emerged from the locker rooms in bathrobes with their caps already knotted. Wolf Wigo led the American team with an even pace, eyes straight ahead. In team-issued slide-on sandals they shuffled to the pool's edge. Looking closely, Burr could see the latent shouts, the microsecond of fast-twitch in each stride, the tightly bottled-up wide-eyed action that was about to spill into the pool.

The second-half sprint went to Serbia and Montenegro. Their lead was moving from formidable to insurmountable. The crowd quieted. Baudrillard cleared his throat.

—There's a lot to learn from this sport, actually. The greatest seducers are magicians of course. Do you think Claudia Schiffer was a fluke? No, my friend, that's the rule. Don Juan is nothing compared to Copperfield. On the other hand, our greatest fascinators are fascists. The former hides cause and effect, the latter's power hinges on an elaborate narrative of causation: Jews stole your country, the ruling class is corrupting politics. As soon as the narrative falters, the regime fails. A magician loses his seductive power when we see how the cogs are connected. Much like why everyone is still watching this game, even though the pretense of it being a winnable contest has passed.

—And this sport is magic because we have no idea what's happening beneath the surface?

—That's better than what I was thinking: it's magic because I have no idea what the rules are! The experience is not unlike feudal serfdom. The respective phatic capacities of fascinators and seducers are noteworthy: fascists talk as much as possible; magicians only talk when they have to. All I hear is whistles and shouts. But the officials do appear to whistle at fouls underwater, what they don't see.

—I've never understood that either. Owen explained it to me in terms of probability: it's most likely that someone who sinks was pushed down; we cannot say for certain, but we are comfortable blowing the whistle and saying a foul was most likely committed.

—The role of officials itself is fascinating.

—Quantum officiating. The judges are always liminal.

—Magic.

The clock expired. A Serbian field player rose high from the water and launched the ball into the stands. Baudrillard had the last word of the match:

—An entire sport founded on the possibility of levitation.

Reluctantly, they entered the postmatch scrum. Shoulder to shoulder with the victorious Serbian/Montenegrans, they squeezed through the dark concourse, were temporarily blinded by the late afternoon glare, then weaved into the Metro.

On a westbound train to their hotel, two young Americans drank blue drinks from foot-long funnel glasses. Burr smiled.

—These young men would be fascinating? Certainly not seductive.

—We, as non-blue-drink-drinkers, are the smaller bundle on this Metro, my friend. We can be fascinating to them, which I don't think is true in the present case, but they cannot be fascinating to us. What is your talk on tomorrow night?

—The genealogy of shame and guilt. I also hope to explain my conception of liminality.

—I've read a bit of your early academic work.

—I would have brought more copies of
Hapax
for your colleagues. I understand the European distribution has faced several setbacks.

—Thank you. No, I mean the first essays you published. They were really out there. That mumbo-jumbo about world harmony is almost indistinguishable from the writing on those hemp soap labels you have out there.

—My only excuse is love.

Baudrillard laughed.

—Then all is forgiven.

—I keep forgetting that tomorrow night may not even happen. Do you know anything about the venue, or lack thereof?

—These things have a way of working themselves out.

They returned to the hotel to find the organizer, George, sitting with a man whose long, thin hair nearly reached the shoulders of his suit. Baudrillard raised his eyes at the newcomer but spoke to George:

—It looks like the calls to supporters worked.

George introduced them to Petros Spadzos, socialist mayoral candidate in the forthcoming election, then waxed revolutionary:

—Those calls weren't to supporters. They were to our opponents. The mayor was smart, at first, and managed to shut us down without making it news. I needed to threaten them into making a public statement. Once it was officially declared that our protest was being muzzled, the people realized that this was another example of their government caving to American pressure rather than having the balls to show a free and democratic Greece to the world.

—When my office got the call, I initially thought it was worth a press statement, not a rally. Then Konstantinos singles you out on the nightly news as the type of insurrectionists that could destroy the Olympic spirit and wreck our tourist industry for decades.

George laughed.

—I told him the one thing we wouldn't stand for was being swept under the rug. He said if we wanted to be his scapegoat, so be it. He lived up to his word. Konstantinos declared his animosity as publicly as possible. We must respect that.

Burr, a little drunk from the sambuca and the sun, called Konstantinos a fascist.

—He gave you a lever for the young vote, Baudrillard added.

—He gave me a reason to meet you two.

—If you can find us a stage, it'll be Berlusconi, Bush, and your incumbent rival versus us—and you'll have the people's vote.

—The stage isn't a problem.

Baudrillard had seen this before.

—The stage is always a problem.

—I'm president of the Hellenic festival committee. I can get you the Herod Atticus.

This meant nothing to Baudrillard. But it meant everything to Burr.

—The Odeon of Herodes Atticus is a stone amphitheater on the southern slope of the Acropolis. Herod built it to commemorate his wife . . .

Burr drifted for a second then continued.

—We heard Shostakovich under Mravinsky's baton in 1982. My . . . wife was in her second trimester. Mravinsky. His great arms flapped like an eagle. Each player in his orchestra was terrified, absolutely terrified, of that beak turning in his direction. Mravinsky on the proskenion of the Herodes Atticus, the same stage that we . . .

Burr opened his eyes to a perplexed group. George's head was in his hands.

—You're going to have to watch those tangents, Professor Burr.

Spadzos was content enough, ready to get on with his day.

—We needed something to class up this campaign. How perfect will that be? Konstantinos and his fascist friends silence you guys because you're too revolutionary. How weak, I ask you, is an administration that fears a middle-aged professor? Nothing personal.

—It's fine.

—Most of the people will be there to see Baudrillard. And he's more radical and attracts a more radical crowd than you suppose. Are you sure about this?

—Learn to take yes for an answer, George. I just came by to make sure you guys weren't wearing leather pants.

Baudrillard took a step forward.

—We are working class. We leave the leather pants to the politicians.

Spadzos chose to laugh at the remark.

—George, you get your guys to the show on time. I'll take care of the rest. Are you going to have trouble filling the theater? That would be bad for press. I can plant some campaign volunteers in the crowd.

—Your volunteers might already be there as fans. It won't be a problem. I texted my team to start printing the posters fifteen minutes ago. They'll be up all over the city in hours, and our graphics guy is amazing. Meanwhile, I'm making the rounds at cafés tonight. How do you want to work the box office?

—Tickets will be free, but it's better for press, and tax purposes, if we have a definitive head count. Let them print out tickets online or get them at the performance . . .

The conversation continued past the word
performance
, but Burr didn't hear it. Commencements, lectures, symposia, readings—not quite as many of those as he would have liked—talks, these were all familiar species in his world. He couldn't recall ever giving a performance. Save for seventh-grade viola, which went so well that there was no eighth-grade viola.

—Good day, gentlemen. Professor Burr, get some rest. You look tired. These summer days can be draining.

Baudrillard took this as an excuse to walk the stairs with Burr.

—What was all that shit about Mravinsky? You said you didn't know about high culture.

—I don't know anything about the actual music. The conductor simply looked amazing up there. It's one of the most indelible images I've ever seen. A real magician: tuxedo, white tie, wand.

—You were seduced.

—I was worried my wife was! I was still so spellbound when we returned that I lectured about the eagle of Zeus,
Aetos Dios
, for the entire week.