ceiling. He turned, hesitated, then looked at them as though on a dare. He smiled warmly and said, 'Get the fuck out.'
Thomas and Sam could only stare.
'Which word seems to be the problem?' Gyges asked. 'Get? Fuck? Out?'
The two of them hurried to their feet. 'Can we call you, Mr Gyges?' Sam asked. 'We really—'
'Jeeesuss!' the burly man cried. 'Get! The fuck! Out !' With each word he stomped forward, like a silverback broadcasting an imminent charge.
Thomas stumbled on the curled edge of a Persian. Sam steadied him. His arms wide, Gyges herded them toward the foyer. They paused before the door.
Thomas looked up, saw the three of them reflected in a heavy, rococo-framed mirror.
'Three strangers,' Gyges said with a calm that seemed frightening given the savagery of moments before. 'Do you know what it's like, Dr Bible, to live nowhere? To look and look and find yourself nowhere?'
In a curious sense, Thomas did, but he wasn't about to say so. 'You're standing right here, Mr Gyges.'
'Am I? I'm not so sure.' A contemplative scowl. 'But you don't realize what it's like, do you? You think I see you, that I know you, that the problem is that every time I look away I forget who you are. But it's not like that. Not at all. When I stare at you—like this, like I'm staring at you right now—I don't recognize you from one second to the next. And it's not like your face becomes something new every moment, something that I've never seen before. It's just unknown. Unknowable…'
Gyges turned from the mirror to Thomas.
'When I look into the mirror, Dr Bible, I'm not there. But the kicker is that you aren't either . For me, there is no you . Just a voice. A voice from the dark.'
For a moment Thomas could only stare at him. 'You're suffering a brain injury,' he said lamely. 'You need to underst—'
'Brain injury?' the bearded man replied. ' Brain injury ? Is that what you think this is?' Shaking his head, he strode past them and yanked open one of the oak-stained doors.
Thomas turned as he crossed the threshold. 'Then what is it?'
'You're not a priest,' Gyges snapped.
The door pounded shut, swallowed the world before Thomas's face.
Neither of them said anything until the elevator doors closed.
'What do you make of that?' Sam finally asked.
'I don't know. He was drunk, for one. But beyond that? Could be he's suffering some post-traumatic stress…' he trailed, struggling to make sense of what had just happened. 'One thing's for sure.'
'What's that?'
'Did you notice how he behaved around us? The utter absence of any eye contact. His body language. Almost cringing from our presence.'
'So?'
Thomas breathed deeply. 'So, we were monstrosities to him. Faceless monstrosities.'
'What are you saying?'
Thomas found himself looking at his hand, at the missing wedding band on his ring finger, thinking of all the neural machinery churning away underneath, making this experience possible. That was where Neil was striking. Not at the heart, but at the soul.
'That Theodoros Gyges lives in a world of boogeymen.'
Other than in the back seat of a taxi, Thomas so rarely drove through Manhattan that he found the trip downtown to Federal Plaza vaguely disconcerting. Manhattan had always (and there was no other word for it) flummoxed him. The scale was nothing short of geological, as though the streets and avenues were river beds sunk canyon-deep into some ancient Martian plain. But the feel … At once archeological, like a vast inscription with Central Park the indent of some God-King's seal, and yet statistical, like a great 3-D bar graph, charting the sum of human hopes against the GDP of nations—a Powerpoint presentation frozen in monumental stone.
New York, Neil had once told him, was braille for a blinded God—the one place where the bumps of human ingenuity towered high enough for divine fingers to read. When Thomas had asked what it spelled out, Neil had replied: 'Three words: " Fuck. You. Too ."'
'So what do you think,
Thomas and Sam could only stare.
'Which word seems to be the problem?' Gyges asked. 'Get? Fuck? Out?'
The two of them hurried to their feet. 'Can we call you, Mr Gyges?' Sam asked. 'We really—'
'Jeeesuss!' the burly man cried. 'Get! The fuck! Out !' With each word he stomped forward, like a silverback broadcasting an imminent charge.
Thomas stumbled on the curled edge of a Persian. Sam steadied him. His arms wide, Gyges herded them toward the foyer. They paused before the door.
Thomas looked up, saw the three of them reflected in a heavy, rococo-framed mirror.
'Three strangers,' Gyges said with a calm that seemed frightening given the savagery of moments before. 'Do you know what it's like, Dr Bible, to live nowhere? To look and look and find yourself nowhere?'
In a curious sense, Thomas did, but he wasn't about to say so. 'You're standing right here, Mr Gyges.'
'Am I? I'm not so sure.' A contemplative scowl. 'But you don't realize what it's like, do you? You think I see you, that I know you, that the problem is that every time I look away I forget who you are. But it's not like that. Not at all. When I stare at you—like this, like I'm staring at you right now—I don't recognize you from one second to the next. And it's not like your face becomes something new every moment, something that I've never seen before. It's just unknown. Unknowable…'
Gyges turned from the mirror to Thomas.
'When I look into the mirror, Dr Bible, I'm not there. But the kicker is that you aren't either . For me, there is no you . Just a voice. A voice from the dark.'
For a moment Thomas could only stare at him. 'You're suffering a brain injury,' he said lamely. 'You need to underst—'
'Brain injury?' the bearded man replied. ' Brain injury ? Is that what you think this is?' Shaking his head, he strode past them and yanked open one of the oak-stained doors.
Thomas turned as he crossed the threshold. 'Then what is it?'
'You're not a priest,' Gyges snapped.
The door pounded shut, swallowed the world before Thomas's face.
Neither of them said anything until the elevator doors closed.
'What do you make of that?' Sam finally asked.
'I don't know. He was drunk, for one. But beyond that? Could be he's suffering some post-traumatic stress…' he trailed, struggling to make sense of what had just happened. 'One thing's for sure.'
'What's that?'
'Did you notice how he behaved around us? The utter absence of any eye contact. His body language. Almost cringing from our presence.'
'So?'
Thomas breathed deeply. 'So, we were monstrosities to him. Faceless monstrosities.'
'What are you saying?'
Thomas found himself looking at his hand, at the missing wedding band on his ring finger, thinking of all the neural machinery churning away underneath, making this experience possible. That was where Neil was striking. Not at the heart, but at the soul.
'That Theodoros Gyges lives in a world of boogeymen.'
Other than in the back seat of a taxi, Thomas so rarely drove through Manhattan that he found the trip downtown to Federal Plaza vaguely disconcerting. Manhattan had always (and there was no other word for it) flummoxed him. The scale was nothing short of geological, as though the streets and avenues were river beds sunk canyon-deep into some ancient Martian plain. But the feel … At once archeological, like a vast inscription with Central Park the indent of some God-King's seal, and yet statistical, like a great 3-D bar graph, charting the sum of human hopes against the GDP of nations—a Powerpoint presentation frozen in monumental stone.
New York, Neil had once told him, was braille for a blinded God—the one place where the bumps of human ingenuity towered high enough for divine fingers to read. When Thomas had asked what it spelled out, Neil had replied: 'Three words: " Fuck. You. Too ."'
'So what do you think,
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