and suspicions.”
“Well, it’s the same with the Inca,” I said, remembering my reading from the afternoon. “I can’t understand how we, in the twenty-first century, are still so incapable of explaining certain things.”
“The thing is, no one’s interested in this, Root,” Proxy sadly pointed out. “Only a few oddballs like your brother. Because all of this is for Daniel, right?”
I shifted in the chair, a little nervous, and took advantage of those few seconds to decide whether or not to tell them about my silly suspicions.
“Spit it out,” ordered my stout friend.
I stopped beating around the bush. I began to tell them everything I knew, without leaving out a single detail, offering them facts and not opinions, so that their judgment, more impartial than my own, might help me to get out of this confusing tangle of nonsense I’d gotten myself into. Their expressions, while I explained the story of the Miccinelli Documents, the
quipus
, and the curse written on the paper found on Daniel’s desk, made me uncomfortable. They knew me as someone with a good analytical mind, capable of devising the most complex project in a couple of seconds, and of finding a logical needle in a haystack of incoherencies, so, through their eyes, I was seeing myself as an authentic moron. When I at last closed my mouth, and grabbed my drink and pulled it closer for something to do, I was sure of having fallen forever into the darkest abyss of ridiculousness.
“You’re not yourself, Root,” Jabba told me.
“I know.”
“I was thinking the same,” added Proxi.
“I get it.”
“I would have expected much more from you. Much more.”
“Okay, Jabba, I get it.”
“No, Root. Jabba’s right. You’ve made the worst analysis of your life.”
“He’s afraid.”
“Obviously.”
“Okay, that’s enough!” I exclaimed, laughing nervously. “What in the hell is going on here?”
“You don’t want to see it, my friend. It’s right in front of your nose and you don’t want to see it.”
“What is it that’s right under my nose?”
“Daniel deciphered the quipu’s code and translated the curse. You’re losing your hacker sense.” He pushed back his red hair, which was paler under the white neon light, and observed me smugly.
“I told you already,” I protested, “the
quipus
were written in Quechua, and my brother only knew Aymara.”
“You’ve checked?”
“What would I have to check?”
“If the curse was in Aymara,” Proxi prompted.
“No, no I didn’t.”
“So why are we still talking?” argued Jabba, annoyed.
Proxi gave him a censuring look and then told me:
“Daniel had to have found something that made him change from Quechua to Aymara. You said he told Ona that the solution was in this last language. The question is…the solution to what? Probably to some
quipu
that wasn’t responding to the rules he’d found in Quechua. Did you look through everything in your brother’s office?”
“No. But I brought a lot of material home with me. I’ll take a look tomorrow.”
“See how you’re not yourself?” insisted Jabba, clicking his tongue in disapproval.
“Let’s also not forget two other little details,” continued Proxi. “First, Aymara is a strange language that may have something more that a simple likeness to programming languages. Aren’t you forgetting that witches, wizards, all those sorts of people used strange words to pronounce enchantments? Mary Poppins, for example….I’ll always remember:
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
!” she shamelessly intoned in a voice like Julie Andrews.
“And more recently, Harry Potter,” Jabba put in.
“Oh, that’s great!” exclaimed Proxi dreamily. “
Alohomora! Obliviate! Relaxo!
”
This was my best mercenary, the fabulous expert engineer I paid a fortune to every year to find security flaws in our programs and holes in the competition’s programs?
“And also
Bedknobs and Broomsticks
.”
“Go on!” I
“Well, it’s the same with the Inca,” I said, remembering my reading from the afternoon. “I can’t understand how we, in the twenty-first century, are still so incapable of explaining certain things.”
“The thing is, no one’s interested in this, Root,” Proxy sadly pointed out. “Only a few oddballs like your brother. Because all of this is for Daniel, right?”
I shifted in the chair, a little nervous, and took advantage of those few seconds to decide whether or not to tell them about my silly suspicions.
“Spit it out,” ordered my stout friend.
I stopped beating around the bush. I began to tell them everything I knew, without leaving out a single detail, offering them facts and not opinions, so that their judgment, more impartial than my own, might help me to get out of this confusing tangle of nonsense I’d gotten myself into. Their expressions, while I explained the story of the Miccinelli Documents, the
quipus
, and the curse written on the paper found on Daniel’s desk, made me uncomfortable. They knew me as someone with a good analytical mind, capable of devising the most complex project in a couple of seconds, and of finding a logical needle in a haystack of incoherencies, so, through their eyes, I was seeing myself as an authentic moron. When I at last closed my mouth, and grabbed my drink and pulled it closer for something to do, I was sure of having fallen forever into the darkest abyss of ridiculousness.
“You’re not yourself, Root,” Jabba told me.
“I know.”
“I was thinking the same,” added Proxi.
“I get it.”
“I would have expected much more from you. Much more.”
“Okay, Jabba, I get it.”
“No, Root. Jabba’s right. You’ve made the worst analysis of your life.”
“He’s afraid.”
“Obviously.”
“Okay, that’s enough!” I exclaimed, laughing nervously. “What in the hell is going on here?”
“You don’t want to see it, my friend. It’s right in front of your nose and you don’t want to see it.”
“What is it that’s right under my nose?”
“Daniel deciphered the quipu’s code and translated the curse. You’re losing your hacker sense.” He pushed back his red hair, which was paler under the white neon light, and observed me smugly.
“I told you already,” I protested, “the
quipus
were written in Quechua, and my brother only knew Aymara.”
“You’ve checked?”
“What would I have to check?”
“If the curse was in Aymara,” Proxi prompted.
“No, no I didn’t.”
“So why are we still talking?” argued Jabba, annoyed.
Proxi gave him a censuring look and then told me:
“Daniel had to have found something that made him change from Quechua to Aymara. You said he told Ona that the solution was in this last language. The question is…the solution to what? Probably to some
quipu
that wasn’t responding to the rules he’d found in Quechua. Did you look through everything in your brother’s office?”
“No. But I brought a lot of material home with me. I’ll take a look tomorrow.”
“See how you’re not yourself?” insisted Jabba, clicking his tongue in disapproval.
“Let’s also not forget two other little details,” continued Proxi. “First, Aymara is a strange language that may have something more that a simple likeness to programming languages. Aren’t you forgetting that witches, wizards, all those sorts of people used strange words to pronounce enchantments? Mary Poppins, for example….I’ll always remember:
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
!” she shamelessly intoned in a voice like Julie Andrews.
“And more recently, Harry Potter,” Jabba put in.
“Oh, that’s great!” exclaimed Proxi dreamily. “
Alohomora! Obliviate! Relaxo!
”
This was my best mercenary, the fabulous expert engineer I paid a fortune to every year to find security flaws in our programs and holes in the competition’s programs?
“And also
Bedknobs and Broomsticks
.”
“Go on!” I
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