“Biological weapons.”
And smiled. He stopped with her face stopping him. A brick wall. He muttered, hateful, “I guess that doesn’t matter?”
“No,” she confirmed. “It absolutely doesn’t.”
“Well, I don’t know how you figure that.”
“Oh, don’t be stupid: because he was good. I’m a bad person, just to give an example. It doesn’t matter if I do good things, it makes no difference, people see straight away. They don’t love me, if you know what I mean.”
Eddie took a deep breath, seized by an enormity. He said in a weighty, careful voice, aiming it, to break the evil spell:
“I love you.”
“No,” she said, untouched, “you don’t.”
“I’ve loved you for ten damn years,” he swore, and felt a prideful ache in his chest: No matter what. No matter what she looked like.
She sighed: “Anyhow, the people who love me, die, so I have to discourage you from thinking along those lines.”
So she broke him again, and her eyes changed focus, passing his profile to see Kuala Lumpur rising in the window, the tiny neighborhoods, near-geometrically aligned, like electronic circuitry only here and there bashed, coasting in, at the speed of wind, and Eddie croaked,
“Why did you want me here? Why?”
There was a long pause where he couldn’t read her expression at all.
Then she said, “Look, as I get older, you can see the scar when I smile.”
She smiled, and traced one finger down an S-shaped dimple, corrugated and deep in her soft cheek. Then unsmiled, as the plane touched down. “Oh,” she said, in pleased surprise. “We’re alive.”
The Main Dread Secret
My Father’s Involvement in the CIA’s Secret Biological Weapons Program
1John Moffat was still a university student, when he began his career in biological warfare.
1.1The Naval Biological Laboratory was then based at UC Berkeley: John did his PhD there, on virulence in psittacosis.
1.2In the wake of the student protests, his experiment, among others, was moved to the premises of a nearby pharmaceutical company, Bulwer-Sutton Industries.
2Psittacosis is more commonly known as parrot fever. It is classed as an incapacitating, not a lethal, weapon. Its mortality rate is close to zero: only young children and the elderly are at risk of death. It’s only mildly contagious: its only practical use is to disable enemy soldiers, in time of war.
2.1John told Denise: “We used to kid the guys who worked with the plague.”
3Vietnam came along, he did the honorable thing.
3.1He lasted his two years, then, what do you know, the bigwigs are crying for biologists.
3.2“They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, two more years risking my life for peanuts.”
3.3His new job was studying the efficacy of defoliants. He took aerial photographs, he collected botanical samples. He had a little lab in Saigon he called Rat Central Station.
3.4In this new post, he worked for the CIA.
4In the spring of 1971, John Moffat was going home.
4.1He was looking forward: his wife was nuts how she was looking forward.
4.2Hot baths, real steak – a list of things he’d do first.
4.3He’d hardly set eyes on his two-year-old son.
4.4Then his CIA boss came to him with an offer.
5The first test of biological weapons in real conditions was due to take place in Guatemala that year.
5.1There were rebels in the hills: infection would disable them, allowing their arrest by local forces with reduced violence. If successful, the strategy could be invaluable in dealing with Communist insurgents, worldwide.
5.2The US planes could fly in and out of Panama, never touching down on Guatemalan soil. The CIA man called it “a zipperless fuck.”
5.3“I thought of you right off. I know you did that work with parrot fever. That’s what they’re using, my man said to give him a call.”
5.4“Well, I couldn’t let it go, you know. That was my baby.
Worked so hard on that thing, six years of my life. You’ll make fun of me, but I thought it was going to end war. No lie, the dreams I had back then. All the bombs in the world were going on the scrap heap, worst ever you’d fear would be a bad stomach bug.”
6He was in Guatemala nine months, waiting for the drop.
6.1The day after the bacteria was spread, however, he flew home, deserting his post without warning or leave.
6.2He never carried out his studies. He would not consult with his replacement, and he had nothing to say at his debriefing.
6.3The CIA offered to send him to an in-house psychiatrist.
7John left both science and the military behind.
8He took up blackjack:
•just, to buy time, while he figured what he’d do
•ran into Peter Cadwallader, John always had a soft spot for Karen and
•you know guys get to talking.
8.1He played for six years. Secretly, and died.
8.2In the Casino Atlantic, Ecuador, he told Denise:
8.3“You know, I put myself between a rock and a hard place. Never could tell my wife, it’d break her heart, she ever thought I was . . . I never meant it, you know that. Always thought I’d have plenty of time, this was supposed to be a part-time job! Well, I sure hate leaving you, is the only thing. But I guess I better face, I’m not a young man. Children growing up!
“No! I guess if nothing else, we certainly learned to trust each other. You, Dees, no question, I would trust you with my very life.”
Facts for Tourists: Pullau Pangkor
An island off the coast of Peninsular Malaysia, Pullau Pangkor is distinguished by its clean white sand beaches. The ocean is warm in its many coves, and late-night swimmers may witness the unearthly gleam of phosphorescent plankton in the waves. Tasty local dishes, featuring fresh-catch seafood, are offered in the friendly restaurants. Palms and wild orchids complete the idyllic scene.
The island is not without its disadvantages. Though snorkel trips are available, the coral has perished, and most fish fled, from heavy industrial pollution: only the wormy, black forms of sea cucumber stand out on the grim bottom. The jungle interior is picturesque, but harbors cobras. The sea snake is likewise fatally toxic: pangolins and bats may attack if startled. The many insects, venomous and huge, make sturdy footwear a must.
For those intending an overnight stay, the Pangkor Inn comes highly recommended. Run by a Scotsman, Ian Johnston, its simple rooms are clean and each features a framed photograph of a famous cricketer. Towels are available with payment of a small deposit.
Redheaded Johnston first came to Southeast Asia on a package holiday with friends. Wooed by a Malay girl, he sold his janitorial supplies store in Aberdeen to marry her and move to her native Penang. The further move to the remote island was prompted by his desire to practice his hobby, the trumpet, without harassment from touchy neighbors.
In his island isolation (his wife is now in London, and seeking a divorce) he is free to wander the beaches after dark, playing Dorsey standards. The inn’s modest restaurant affords him a chance to indulge a new enthusiasm, Indian cookery. Sometimes, when he thinks no one can see him, he will stoop to stroke a drowsy massive beetle on its shell with a careful fingertip.
“Hello there, little fella,” says Ian Johnston.
“You Can’t Go Home Again Because You Are Poisonous”
Returning from the burial of Ralph the cat
It’s our walk the way we used to do it, when we were new; down by the clearing with the pale tossing grasses; into the shadows and looping gnats. We meander, and our pity for the cat makes us gentle. How we tucked the swaddled corpse carefully into its rough hole. How we filled the grave in and secured it with big, practical stones. We stood for a long time and left without speaking.
Under the climbing oak, just before we come back out within sight of the house, Ralph stops and we hold each other fo
r a long time. Our silence is like a long release of breath. We don’t kiss, we don’t kiss anymore. We just stand together in this chilly shade, clinging, smelling the damp earth. Together, we fear one thing and then another thing, and don’t want to return and are going to return.
Then Ralph says, “I was thinking . . . I’ve decided to announce that I’ve attained Buddhahood.”
The way he says it is so square and weird. It puts a stop to us.
“Oh, no, you’re kidding me,” I say uncertainly. I stand away, ready to laugh.
He shrugs, “Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”
We still hold each other’s elbows, but we’re enemies. I can’t stand him. I can’t stand him so much I flag and think of other things. But at last I say, in a lethargic, inattentive voice:
“Well, if you do that, I’ll just leave.”
The Origin of My Concept of God
1When I was a child, there was a series of television ads for Star Kist tuna fish.
1.1It featured an ambitious tuna, Charlie, who longed to be accepted by the Star Kist brand.
1.2Realizing that Star Kist had high standards, Charlie spared no effort to improve himself.
2In one ad, he busied himself with literary classics.
2.1In another, he learned to play the violin.
2.2Week after week, Charlie slaved away, acquiring new refinements.
3At the end of each ad, Charlie would present his most recent skill to the Star Kist quality controller, who was represented only by a godlike voiceover.
3.1Eyes shining with hope, the tuna would loft his violin/golf club/copy of Moby-Dick.
3.2The verdict of the Star Kist God was always the same:
4“SORRY, CHARLIE!
STAR KIST DOESN’T WANT TUNA WITH GOOD TASTE:
STAR KIST WANTS TUNA THAT TASTES GOOD!”
5As a child, this ad disturbed me deeply.
5.1I feared for the selfless tuna, clamoring to be tinned as food.
5.2Why didn’t Charlie taste good? What about Charlie wasn’t good?
6A superficial reading yields an anti-intellectual agenda.
6.1Going more deeply, one might posit “tasting good” as a Zen no-mind state.
6.2Or: tainted by original sin, we can be saved by Grace alone.
7Pondering it now, I shoved away the vile Star Kist God and defied him:
So Much for the Cat and Mouse
“No, you can’t even say that, you a Buddha – you’re so fucking cruel. All this time, we’re all crazy with fear. You stamp people out, you hate us so much.Why do you hate us so much?” Then I gulped and hugged myself against the chill, he was standing there with his red face.
“Oh, thanks.” He made a fragile sneer. “That’s so helpful.”
“It’s not supposed to be helpful. Some things aren’t for you.”
“Right. Right. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
“And you saw God?” I screamed, “Was that a lie, too?”
“No,” he said, and his whole face squinted against what I had said. I glared, self-righteous and myself disgusting. I was suddenly aware of the dusk coming, the darkening showing that time had run out. Our race was run, we’d wasted our three wishes, and we stood wrong and polluted and without means.
Ralph said: “That’s it, then.”
And walked away from me, so it seemed then, forever.
I watched him going, and hated him. His shape faltered in the changing shadows. I stood paralyzed and evil. As good as dead.
But at last a brief sweet spangle of love woke in me and I woke –
I chased after him. Hearing me coming, he began to run.
As he came out on the back lawn, he was pelting along like a boy, I had no chance of catching him. Me and my stubby legs, damn! But then he stopped short.
I thought he’d been stunned by my same love blow. This is the reconciliation, I knew. I love you! Don’t suffer! The rest is all shit! (I would say that: “The rest is all shit! Come to bed!”)
I walked the last few steps and caught his arm.
He shook me off with a grimace of distaste. He looked away and I saw what had really stopped him.
A little cluster of smokers was staring at us from the back door of the Land of the Lost. Secure at that distance, they brazenly gawped, leaning one to the other to comment on the spectacle. They made and unmade fireflies, sucking on their cigarettes. Then there were real fireflies in the shrubs, more yellowy.
I said, “I don’t care. Forgive me.”
Ralph said, deaf to me and all else, “I’ve fucked everything up.”
“No kidding,” I laughed. “But let’s please start over?”
He winced and hated me, clenching his shoulders. Then he threw it off: with a whole, liberated rage, he roared at the smokers:
“I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING! I’M A FRAUD!”
They all shifted as if slapped.
Ralph was trembling and I daren’t touch his arm. I felt futile and tiny in the face of what would happen next.
Then, weakly through the seemingly clouded twilight, a ragged call came from the smokers:
“I don’t know anything!” they echoed. “I’m a fraud!” And again: “I don’t know anything! I’m a fraud!” They stood up straighter, anticipating praise.
Ralph and I grimaced at each other for a moment, like parents recalled from a quarrel by a demand from their children. Then he just walked away.
I let him go this time, having failed to understand the events. I crossed the lawn hoping that the smokers would give me a cigarette. We would discuss what this latest exercise meant, and smoke, and when I went up to my room, Ralph would be there, watching Wimbledon like normal on ESPN.
Endgame
In the morning, Ralph has taken up his post by the swimming pool. He sits on a Hooters beach towel, in dirty red swim trunks. His bare feet dangle in the water. Beside him on the concrete poolside lies a shopping bag full of dope. He’s smoking and smoking. I can smell it from upstairs. He throws the spent roaches in the pool.
If anyone tries to talk to him, he ducks his head and seethes. The anger comes off him in palpable waves, it’s frightening. He won’t talk/look up/move. Left alone, he is absolutely still, but when someone approaches, he trembles with rage. Gradually, unconsciously, his hands form taut fists. His bloodshot eyes narrow.
I give myself an hour’s rest time between tries. I go out to him with glasses of water and juice. I place them beside him carefully, to rub in my patient goodness. Then:
– “You realize this was all I had, and you’re just destroying it? But I guess that’s hardly important to anyone.”
– “I loved you, anyway. I loved you so much, once.”
– “Are you okay, Ralph? I’m only worried that you’re not okay. Though you treat me as a ridiculous patsy.”
– “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean anything I say. I don’t know anything. I’m so sorry.”
When he drinks the water, I feel vindictive glee. It’s all I can do not to jeer at his capitulation. Once, I bring him a cheese sandwich, diagonally halved on a folded napkin, hinting at the one he brought me, when it was me crazy. He knocks it into the pool, seeing through my feeble ploy.
Finally I see myself as a buzzard, greedily pecking at the dying man. Then I make myself stop trying. I send Kate Higgins out with two cartons of orange juice. The fact that it’s Kate is my parting shot, and I’m left with a lingering, toxic craving to apologize because it was Kate.
Sometime toward evening of the first day, Ralph empties the bag of dope into the water. Then he just sits. The dry grass floats out and looks like leaf-fall, it gives the pool the incongruous look of a pond in late autumn. From time to time, Ralph raises a foot from the water, and inspects the clinging shreds there. He gets up, from time to time, and shambles to the bathroom, graceless as he never was, and seeming much shorter.
The second day, it rains on him for hours.
The guests gather in tense huddles, they sli
nk from place to place. No one showers, and the cooking rota has failed. The men wear three-day beards. They have a shifty-eyed look, like ambivalent mourners, who have wished Papa dead too many times. But even more, they are hungry: their meal has abandoned them. They are hollow-eyed and restless with the need of their cruel meal. Shrinking from them, I’m unhappily reminded of the cannibal starving children I once tried to hallucinate. I tried too hard, and now I have been punished by my dream made flesh.
When I pass, they whisper: then they send a representative. “Is Ralph okay? What’s going on? Is this a teaching?”
I say I don’t know. I’m perilously tempted to hint that Ralph, like Shakyamuni Buddha, has sat down for forty days to garner enlightenment. My voice quavers, saying I don’t know.
In solitary fantasies, I explain to them how the School really came about, Eddie’s cockamamie scheme, the slippery stages to the false reality. I say, “It’s all really a macrocosmic projection of Ralph’s personality disorder.” I promise to sell the house and return all donations. I confess in self-defense that I, too, was duped. I explain it all again to Jackson Pollock, who would understand.
Another day passes, taking several years to pass. We have all aged: Ralph is wet and gnarled like vegetation. Looking in the mirror, I notice that my sense of humor is entirely gone. Getting myself a Coke, I watch myself in curiosity: here she is, getting a Coke as if drinking matters. I walk past the-pool-and-Ralph like it’s an oil painting of my lover’s brutal death. Then I’m angry again, wondering how he can possibly blame me for this disaster.
Day Four, as I begin to wake
The sun shines brightly from early morning. Lying in bed, half-awake, I am already with Ralph by the pool, feeling the harsh sun that will become a problem. The rain of the last two inclement days is drying from my swim trunks, leaving them stiff with dirt. My back is killing me, but I won’t admit I want to leave.
The Only Good Thing Anyone Has Ever Done Page 21
