Other Copenhagens

by Edmund Jorgensen

  And Not Your Yellow Hair

  Thursday

  On a crisp October morning in an industrial park some twenty miles west of Boston, Janine Smalls parked her rental car astride two handicapped spaces, hung up on her agent Maurice in mid-protest, and with the small, angry steps necessitated by the height of her heels and the fit of her skirt, walked up to the squat concrete building and yanked at the door.

  Before she could even register the indignity of having found it locked, Miss Smalls saw movement through the smoked glass and a face floated up like a startled fish to the surface of a pond, the nose leaving a smudge on the glass between the white stenciled words “Educated” and “Alternatives.”

  Having unlocked and opened the door so energetically as to almost knock Miss Smalls over in the process, the receptionist (whose face it was) wove her repeated apologies for the locked door so densely between her offers to take the actress’s jacket (accepted) and the silk scarf which covered her head (declined), and to bring her a bottle of the Italian bottled water that the gossip mags reported Miss Smalls would only accept sealed and at “cellar temperature” (accepted), that when she asked Miss Smalls if she would like anything else as she waited, the actress replied “No more apologies would be just fantastic.”

  The receptionist, holding back tears, picked up the phone to report Miss Smalls’s arrival, and fifteen seconds later at the most Jerome Pope, co-founder and CEO of Educated Alternatives, burst through the swinging door that connected the back office with reception.

  Before the doors had even stopped swinging he had managed: to welcome Miss Smalls; to thank the receptionist; to chide her for not having taken the silk scarf covering the actress’s hair; to acknowledge Miss Smalls’s continued refusal to part with the same; and to suggest that she accompany him to the conference room, where they could “chat more comfortably.” He caught the door on an inswing and held it open, scooping his arm forward and glaring at the receptionist after Miss Smalls had passed.

  Jerome Pope was a tailor’s dream: a short, portly gentleman who renovated his wardrobe every year or ten pounds, whichever came first–a contest whose outcome was annually in doubt. He was not ashamed of his belly. To the contrary, he wielded it like a forceful avatar, a herald of his imminent arrival, and Miss Smalls appreciated this lack of shame. It suggested that he “owned his body”–an attitude for which she had professional admiration. As she followed him down the hall, she imagined the call that might cast him.

  Fast-talking Harvard graduate gone to seed in his 40s, big personality, bigger appetites, making a last grab at the brass ring.

  “This is Dr. Novak, my co-founder and our Chief Science Officer,” said Mr. Pope, having offered Miss Smalls a seat in the windowless conference room at the end of the hall. “Miss Smalls, of course, requires no introduction.”

  Dr. Novak, to the actress’s displeasure, had not even made a modest effort to look the part of the mad scientist. He wore neither lab coat or glasses, and his sweater vest and slacks–while detectably wrinkled–were recently laundered, reasonably sized, and passably matched.

  “Does he need to be here?” asked Miss Smalls. “My meeting was with you.”

  “I am merely the face of our little operation,” said Mr. Pope, sitting down in the third chair at the small table. “Dr. Novak is the brain–the chef who dreamed up our secret sauce, if you will, and the only man alive who really knows how to stir and season it. Without him, we could not do what we do.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “You came to us at the recommendation of Governor Schwarzenegger–what did he tell you?”

  “Something I didn’t believe.”

  “You must have at least wondered, or you wouldn’t have driven up from New York to meet us. What did he tell you?”

  “He told me,” said Miss Smalls, appearing to choose her words carefully, “that you helped him win re-election.”

  “Did he say how? You may stop regarding Dr. Novak with such suspicion,” said Mr. Pope. “We really do need him here.”

  Something in the way he said this struck Miss Smalls as directorial–as if Mr. Pope were giving a note on her performance–and the actress in her decided to follow where he was leading the scene.

  “Governor Schwarzenegger said that you can see the future.”

  Dr. Novak laughed and shifted in his seat.

  “These ‘clients’ you bring in don’t even understand what I do at a basic level,” he said to Mr. Pope.

  “You must forgive my colleague, Miss Smalls,” said Mr. Pope, looking at Dr. Novak rather than Miss Smalls as he spoke. “In your line of work you cannot be unfamiliar with the difficult genius–perhaps you have even been painted with that brush once or twice yourself. Dr. Novak is precise to a fault, and lacks a certain social grace, but he is undoubtedly a genius. And in fact, you’re not so far off–what goes on within these walls is not quite seeing the future–but it is the stuff of science fiction. Dr. Novak, would you do the honors?”

  “Why me, when you always do it so much better?” said the scientist. But Mr. Pope merely sat smiling, and at length Dr. Novak gave up and turned to Miss Smalls.

  “Do you know what a parallel universe is?” he asked.

  “Of course she does,” said Mr. Pope. “She starred in Thymelines.”

  “Timelines?”

  “With an ‘h’ and ‘y’–like the herb.”

  “Ah. I must have missed that one.”

  “It’s about an up-and-coming chef who wakes up one morning and has her life split along two different paths,” said Miss Smalls. “In one she succeeds in the culinary world but is never fulfilled personally. In the other her restaurant closes, but she finds love. Then at the end you see her back in her bed, right before her life splits, and you can tell by the look on her face that she’s just fully experienced both of these two lives somehow, like a dream, and is getting a second chance to choose between them. It’s powerful. It’s funny you should mention that movie, it’s been on my mind a lot lately.”

  “Let me guess which life she chooses,” said Dr. Novak. “All right, so that’s a parallel universe as a tired cinematic plot device. Real life is different–no one wakes up in bed and experiences two timelines. Parallel universes are a real thing, but they’re–well, parallel. You’re stuck in one universe or the other, and you can’t even see the others. But you can model them as lines in a common Hilbert space, with the consequence that …”

  “Or at least,” said Mr. Pope, “you couldn’t see them–until our own Dr. Novak arrived on the scene. He is too modest to admit the enormity of his achievement–and perhaps too brilliant to ever condescend to explain it in layman’s terms, beg him as I might. But these parallel universes are not only real, they are proximate–they are right here, in this room …”

  Dr. Novak tensed his shoulders.

  “… but we cannot touch, taste, smell, hear these universes–even though, I assure you, they are right here …”

  Mr. Pope reached out his hand and rubbed his thumb against the pads of his index and middle fingers, as if to verify that he could feel no parallel universe there, and then opened his hand to show that he had palmed no universes meanwhile.

  “… because they are separated from us by dimensions that are not the dimensions of our familiar space and time–dimensions that we cannot even travel in, Miss Smalls. Do you understand?”

  Miss Smalls would not have described the feeling she had as “understanding,” but she sensed that the director expected her to nod.

  “Yes,” she said, “different dimensions.”

  “Just so,” said Mr. Pope, smiling first at her and then at Dr. Novak. “But, though you and I will never pierce these strange dimensions, our own Dr. Novak has pioneered a method that allows us to pull back their strange veil. Just for the briefest instant, mind you–barely long enough to snap a photograph of the blushing universe behind.”

  “It’s not a photograph,” said Dr. Novak, “as I’ve explai
ned to you a thousand times. A photograph would be useless. It’s a holographic representation, which we can mine for further information.”

  Mr. Pope winked at Miss Smalls, as if to say: photograph, holograph–close enough between friends, no?

  “Now the feat you have just heard is already a miracle of science, and would have been rewarded with a Nobel in a more enlightened age,” said Mr. Pope, affecting not to notice as Dr. Novak muttered something about politics. “But for my money the real miracle is not the theory, but the application–what our staff can then do with these photographs that are not photographs. In the case of our mutual friend the Governor, for example, they analyzed … how many parallel universes was it, Dr. Novak?”

  “Over 1,000,000.”

  “Over 1,000,000 parallel universes for evidence of two things: whether in each universe the governor had promised to support charter schools during his campaign, and whether he had won. Then, with the application of sophisticated statistical methods …”

  “Counting and some elementary t-tests,” said Dr. Novak.

  “… we were able to advise the governor that publicly supporting charter schools would certainly yield him at least a 3.6% edge in the election …”

  “That was with 90% confidence.”

  “… and he exploited this advice to his political advantage. Is that clear?”

  “I’m missing something,” said Miss Smalls. “You’re saying you looked at these–parallel universes–to see the future of our universe?”

  “Not to see our future, precisely,” said Mr. Pope. “To make a more educated guess as to where the path of our future might lead.”

  “But why does it matter in this universe if something happens in a different one? I mean, in Thymelines the universes were totally separate–people could even die in one universe and be fine in the other.”

  “That’s actually a very intelligent question,” said Dr. Novak, and Mr. Pope smiled at him in approbation. “As I was trying to explain to you–before I was interrupted–there are an infinite number of potential parallel universes, but–for reasons we don’t yet fully understand–not every potential universe actually exists. In fact, relatively speaking, the multiverse is shockingly sparse. But the universes that do exist aren’t all equidistant to each other. They inhabit a Hilbert Space …”

  Mr. Pope clicked his tongue.

  “… that is, what scientists like me call a ‘Hilbert Space.’ Some universes are–for lack of a better way to put it–closer to us than others, which means they resemble us more than others. Some of these are a little ahead of us in time, so if we look at enough of those universes–the ones that are close to us but ahead of us a little bit in time–we can count up different outcomes and make an educated guess about where we’re headed as well.”

  “So,” said Miss Smalls, “it’s like if, in Thymelines, I had experienced one universe where I got up on the left side of the bed and died that day, and two universes where I got up on the right side and lived, it would be smarter for me to get up on the right side of the bed–because I’d be more likely to live?”

  “Brava, Miss Smalls!” said Mr. Pope, actually standing and clapping his hands together once. “Brava indeed! You have no idea how few of our clients ever arrive at such a sophisticated level of understanding, let alone so quickly.”

  “You have no idea how few clients we even have,” Dr. Novak said.

  “All the better,” said Mr. Pope, sitting again and gazing daggers at his partner, “to offer such highly individualized service.”

  “No, I definitely get it,” said Miss Smalls. “It’s actually really interesting. It could make a great film, if you could find a human element–a throughline for the story.”

  “It is interesting, I agree” Mr. Pope said. “But even more interesting than what we do, is what we can do for you–our very own human element, if you will. So, Miss Smalls: what has brought you to us today?”

  “I’ve been offered a part,” she said. “Back on the screen, not the stage. It’s a great role–a young single mother, battling cancer and prejudice in her workplace. If I take this and nail it, it’s my ticket back to the Hollywood A-list. No more supporting roles on Broadway–or off Broadway. It might even mean an Academy Award. I don’t know if you realize how brutal Hollywood is, but an actress without at least a nomination by the time she’s 30 doesn’t get any more parts–ever. If I still want to be working in a few years, I need to be more than a body and a face–I need to be taken seriously as an actress, and I don’t have a lot of time left. This could be my last chance.”

  “So far it sounds like congratulations and wishes of good fortune are in order, not advice,” said Mr. Pope. “I assume there is a catch?”

  “I’d have to shave my head for the role.”

  The room was silent for a moment–even Mr. Pope was at a loss.

  “So?” said Dr. Novak finally.

  “I’m not sure I want to shave my head.”

  “Then use one of those bald caps or whatever.”

  “No, I can’t use a bald cap, because they want me to shave it on screen, in this very dramatic, realistic scene–it’s the clip they’ll show at the awards if I’m nominated. Maddie–the character I’d be playing–is supposed to be starting chemo the next day, but I choose to cut off my own hair and face what’s coming. I take control and don’t let the cancer dictate what happens to me when.”

  “If you’re shaving your head because you’re about to begin chemo,” said Dr. Novak, “it sounds to me like the cancer is dictating what happens to you and when.”

  “No one has ever accused Dr. Novak of an artistic sensibility,” said Mr. Pope. “He is a man of facts, and does not lend much credit to the delicate tissue of truths between them. But vaster souls must learn to suffer those who are blind in their hearts, no? Furthermore, I can promise you”–this he delivered in a stage whisper, leaning away from Dr. Novak and towards Miss Smalls–“that when he sees your movie–and he will–he will suddenly find something in his eye during just that scene, and have to wipe away a few tears with his salt-and-butter-soaked napkin.”

  Dr. Novak’s face turned red.

  “Nevertheless, I must admit to sharing some of Dr. Novak’s mystification at your dilemma,” continued Mr. Pope. “Surely the shaving of your head is a small price to pay for such a role? Your hair is your trademark, I recognize, but surely that will only make the scene more powerful still. And it will grow back within, what, a year? Just in time to accept your golden statue with a new, flowing hairstyle.”

  “Of course it will grow back, it’s just hair. But this isn’t about vanity.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  “I’m not sure I want to say,” said Miss Smalls, glancing at Dr. Novak. “It’s embarrassing–it’s personal.”

  “Miss Smalls, we really cannot help you unless we understand your problem. We need positive and negative outcomes–like winning and losing the election for Governor Schwarzenegger–for our measurements. I assure you, once again, that everything you say in this room will stay in this room. The discretion of every employee of Educated Alternatives would be legendary–if we were not so discreet about it.”

  Miss Smalls sat for a few beats, until the silence became uncomfortable.

  “Do you know who my husband is?” she said finally.

  “I don’t pretend to be an expert in the cinema, but it’s difficult not to have heard of Ryan Bradley.”

  Dr. Novak reversed his angry slouch.

  “Ryan Bradley is your husband?” he said. “The Ryan Bradley? Who directed Fateful Moon?”

  “And Night of the Platypus, yes,” said Miss Smalls. “And Sunspots, and Points North.”

  “Dr. Novak spends most of his time in the lab with his equations and computers,” Mr. Pope said. “As you can see, he is a bit behind on his breaking culture news.”

  “We’ve been married for six years,” said Miss Smalls.

  “Perhaps more than a bit behind.”
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br />   “But,” said Dr. Novak, “his movies are so much …”

  Mr. Pope commanded him with a look, and for once, Dr. Novak noticed and obeyed.

  “… different than yours,” he finished.

  “You mean ‘better.’ No,” she said, holding up her hand in Mr. Pope’s direction, “don’t jump on him for being honest–he’s right. You’re absolutely right. My husband’s movies are worlds better than mine. If we were to retire right now–move out of LA, start the family we’ve talked about, spend more time with our charities–he would be remembered. In 20 years he’ll be accepting a lifetime achievement award. 100 years from now people will still be watching Points North. But Lingerie Lane? Red Hearts? Starfall? Those won’t even be on Netflix.”

  “Starfall might be on Netflix,” said Dr. Novak. “There are some pretty good scenes between you and the alien. But if you can already be this honest with yourself, why are you even here? Take the part, shave your head, and go make better movies.”

  Miss Smalls uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them in Dr. Novak’s direction. The scientist remained unaware of this social signal, but Mr. Pope noted it and reclined in his chair, crossing his hands on his gigantic belly with the pleased air of a director who has finally brokered peace between his warring leads.

  “That’s exactly what I want to do,” she said. “My husband is more than an entertainer. He’s become an actual artist–an artist of the screen. That’s what I want, too, but I’ve never had that chance. I can’t get the parts with any real meat to them, because this …”

  She swept her hand down along her body.

  “… and this …”

  She circled her face with her finger.

  “… and this …”