Quichotte

by Salman Rushdie

  “What are those reasons?” Sancho cheekily inquired. “Because no matter how hard I scratch my head, they are not obvious to me.”

  “Really, there is only one reason,” replied Quichotte, unperturbed. “It is because in my messages—which are not so frequent as to be irritating—I am wooing her with style—with the right mixture of flamboyance and self-deprecation and with, if I may be so bold as to say so, a certain literary panache. I am approaching her as a woman of that caliber deserves to be approached, and she, as a woman of caliber, will at once have recognized that that is so. I do not come at her head-on, like a brute, like a bull. I am indirect, modest, lyrical, philosophical, tender, patient, and noble. I see that I must make myself worthy of her, and she, seeing that I see that, sees that by virtue of my seeing it, I reveal myself as being, in fact, the worthy suitor I aspire to be. Nobody who did not see the need for worthiness could ever acquire that quality whose importance he had failed to perceive.”

  “When you talk that way,” Sancho said, “it makes me sorry I asked.”

  Late September now. The evenings drawing in, the nights cooler, leaves flying above them like birds. They were floating up the turnpike as if in a dream. Inexplicably there were no cars to speak of blocking their way, just the long uncoiling snake of the road. “Looks like that old city we’re heading for dropped its defenses,” Sancho said. “It’s just inviting us right in.” Rahway, Linden, Elizabeth, Bayonne. “Here we come,” Sancho punched the air with his fist. “Ready or not.”

  Quichotte patted him on the shoulder. “The road is the tongue,” he said, “and the tunnel is the mouth. The city swallows you right up.”

  Sancho was not to be denied his joy. “I’m up for that,” he cried. “Eat me, New York. Eat me now.” Harrison, Secaucus. The tunnel was coming. Gulp.

  “We need to be fresh and ready for New York,” Quichotte said. “Let’s find a place to get a good rest, freshen up, and put our best face forward in the morning.”

  “Agh,” said Sancho. “You let me get all worked up and excited and then you slap me down. That’s no way to treat a growing boy.”

  “There are two cities,” Quichotte said. “There’s the one you can see, the broken sidewalks of the old place and the steel skeletons of the new, lights in the sky, garbage in the gutters, the music of the sirens and power drills, an old man tap-dancing for change, whose feet say, I used to be somebody, but his eyes say, no more, buster, no more. The flow of the avenues and the clogged-up streets. A mouse sailing a boat on a pond in the park. A guy with a mohawk haircut screaming at a yellow cab. Made men with napkins tucked in under their chins in a red-sauce joint in Harlem. Wall Street guys in suspenders getting bottle service in nightclubs or doing tequila shots and throwing themselves at women as if they were banknotes. Tall women, short bald guys, strip steaks, strip joints. Empty storefronts, closing sales, everything must go, a smile missing some of its best teeth. Construction everywhere but still the steam pipes burst. Ringletted men with a million bucks in diamonds in the pockets of their long black coats. Ironwork. Brownstones. Music. Food. Drugs. Homeless folks. Twenty years ago they were gone but now they’re back. Snowplows, baseball, police cars promising CPR, courtesy, professionalism, respect, what can I tell you, they have a sense of humor. Every language on earth, Russian, Punjabi, Taishanese, Creole, Yiddish, Kru. Also, let us not forget, the beating heart of the television industry. Colbert at the Ed Sullivan Theater, Noah in Hell’s Kitchen, The View, The Chew, Seth Meyers, Fallon, everybody. Smiling lawyers on cable saying they can make you a fortune if you get hurt. Rock Center, CNN, Fox. The warehouse downtown where they shoot the Salma show. The streets she walks, the car she goes home in, the elevator to her penthouse, the restaurants she orders in from, the places she knows, the places she goes, the people who know her number, the things that please her. The whole ugly-pretty city, beautiful in its ugliness, jolie-laide, that’s French, like the statue in the harbor. All this is there to see.”

  “And the other city?” Sancho asked, frowning. “Because that’s a lot right there.”

  “The other city is invisible,” Quichotte replied. “This is the guardian city, its high forbidding walls made of wealth and power, and it is where reality lives. Only its few keyholders can enter that sacred space.”

  “I’m guessing we aren’t in that group.”

  “I have one key,” Quichotte said, “and when the time comes I may have to go to find the lock it opens.”

  “That’s very mysterious,” Sancho scolded him. “You kept that a secret. What key? What lock? What’s in there? Come on.”

  “But we also have another weapon,” Quichotte said, ignoring Sancho’s plea. “We are about to enter the fourth valley.”

  “We already gave up belief, unbelief, reason, and knowledge,” Sancho protested. “There doesn’t seem to be much left.”

  “The fourth valley,” Quichotte said, “is the Valley of Detachment, in which we will give up all our desires and attachments to the world.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  “Coffee-flavored chocolate-coated Häagen-Dazs ice cream?”

  “And Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.”

  “And sitting near the hot corner at Yankee Stadium at a Red Sox game? Which obviously I’ve never done but I desire it.”

  “And Watch What Happens: Live on Bravo.”

  “And Candy Crush Saga?”

  “And The Princess Bride.”

  “And steak?”

  “And french fries.”

  “And Beyoncé and Jay-Z?”

  “And the original cast recording of The King and I.”

  Sancho, on whose face a look of horror had taken root, paused, having suddenly thought of something unbearable.

  “Do we also have to give up our desire for, and attachment to, the woman we love?”

  “The Beloved is exempt,” Quichotte explained mildly, “because the Beloved is the goal. These other burdens, however, must be shed.”

  “Even an occasional glass of Grey Goose and tonic?”

  “Even fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

  “We’re going to be like monks.”

  “We will become worthy of the Grail.”

  “And the Grail is the Beloved?”

  “The Grail is the hand of Miss Salma R.”

  “The Grail is the hand of Beautiful from Beautiful.”

  “Every man has his own Grail.”

  “But you said we would find a weapon in the fourth valley. All I see is us having fewer and fewer things. I don’t see any bazookas.”

  “When we have attained the surrender of the fourth valley,” Quichotte said, “then what is commonly known as ‘reality,’ and which is really unreality, as we know from TV, will cease to exist. The veils will drop away, the invisible city will become visible, its gates will swing open so that no key is required, and the path to the Beloved will be seen.”

  At some point, Sancho thought, someone is going to come along and wrap him up in a straitjacket and take him away, and at that point I’ll find the path back to Beautiful, Kansas (pop. 135,473). This he did not say aloud. Instead, humoring the old man, he declared, “I’m ready. I’ll give up my desire for a new iPad and my attachment, which I think I must have got from you, to the music of U2.”

  “It’s a start,” Quichotte said, and then the city was upon them. “Can’t you feel it? Reality, that sham, is already ceasing to exist.”

  Sancho did not reply, but privately dissented. Reality was a white lady at Lake Capote, it was what came out of the angry mouths he’d seen at a diner in Oklahoma, it was gunshots in Kansas, two wounded, one dead, a community shaken and in mourning, a beautiful young woman slamming a door in his face. Was that reality likely to dissolve and disappear? Could it really be dismissed as a sham?

  The Thayers we
re early Pilgrims, check. Thomas and Richard Thayer, brothers, classified among the Pilgrim Fathers, check. Their descendants married into the Mayflower family descended from John Alden, check.—Regarding the Mayflower itself, however? Were their names on that eminent list? They were aboard, right?—Um, not actually on the Mayflower, no.—Oh. How about on the Fortune, the second ship to make the crossing?—Ah…no, not on the Fortune, either. But they were early settlers. Early was good. Early was impressive. Words had a life of their own, Anderson Thayer believed, they developed meanings that only pedants would argue with, and Mayflower was—at least for him—by now pretty much synonymous with early. Little discrepancies did not make big differences. Small departures from the truth did not add up to lies. Therefore, Anderson Thayer saw no need to correct others when they believed his people to have come over on the fabled ship. He saw no need to correct himself.

  Small was not big. It was a principle he carried over into other parts of his life. He was a small man, and understood that this was not the same as being a big one. (Big men lumbered. Small men were nimble. This could give them an edge. He had read something once, or maybe seen something on TV, about the defeat of the Spanish Armada. The Spanish galleons were big and slow. The British fleet was little, maneuverable, and fast. The British ships zipped in and out between the big Spanish lumberers, firing their cannons and then sailing away, zap, pow, punch and retreat. That was big versus small. It was David versus Goliath. It was Cassius Clay floating and stinging, Sonny Liston standing there like a big confused bear. His hands can’t touch / what his eyes can’t see.)

  Small was not big. Small misdemeanors were not big crimes. Small thefts were not grand larceny. Small betrayals were not high treason. During the course of his relationship with Miss Salma R, he had often had recourse to this guiding principle, and it had served him well. He had stolen things from her, sure, but not the big things, the things she cared about. An earring here, a bracelet there. She noticed the losses and shrugged them off.

  “I’m always losing things,” she rebuked herself, and the thief laughed along with her. He had stolen her likeness, too, filming her secretly on his smartphone in her low moments, her depressions, her out-of-it hours brought on by her abuse of prescription drugs. This was to give him cards to play, to safeguard him in case she turned against him, which he intuited she was considering doing; but he suspected they would not be of much use, because she was so open about her follies, her unwellnesses and overindulgences, that video evidence of their extent might not damage her much. Still, she probably would not like the studio bosses to see the footage; even though they had heard all her stories, in these sensitive times the evidence of their eyes might be too much for them to take, even if the evidence of their ears could be set aside; so the material was not without value. So he was disloyal in little things, but loyal in the big ones: for he was indeed her protector, her guardian, he would do anything for her, he would clean up her messes, and—again, at least in his own opinion—he truly loved her. She was the giant and he the pygmy and he looked up to her, and adored.

  He was a student of the world of stardom, and of peripheral figures like himself who modestly played consort to the great. He paid particular attention to young men who were attracted, and attractive, to older women, fading beauties, falling stars. Demi and Ashton, of course, Madonna and that dancer guy, Cher and Tom Cruise, and the present-day gold medalist of this particular sport, the young nightclub king Omar Vitale. Omar and Demi, Omar and Heidi Klum, Omar and Elle “the Body” Macpherson. Respect, Anderson Thayer thought. However, his great role model, only recently deceased, was from the golden age. His name was Robert Wolders and he was a Dutch actor, mainly on TV although he had supporting roles in Beau Geste and Tobruk. His most substantial TV role had been in the cowboy series Laredo in the mid-sixties. But as the real-life leading man to a series of great stars, Wolders had no equal. He married Merle Oberon when she was sixty-four and he was twenty-five years younger, and gave up acting to be with her. She died four years later. The following year he started dating Audrey Hepburn when she was fifty-one and he was about seven years her junior, and he stayed with her for thirteen years, until her death. He was also subsequently the partner of Leslie Caron (five years older). This was a career which Anderson Thayer admired, to which he aspired. Robert Wolders had been tall and handsome and he, Anderson, was the Yosemite Sam/Rumpelstiltskin type, but he had started well in his chosen métier. If he could, he would stay at Miss Salma R’s side until her death. Then he would look for her successor. He already had a short list of possible successors in mind.

  * * *

  —

  AT THE TIME OF WHICH we speak, Anderson Thayer made a brief personal visit to Atlanta. The American Association of Doctors of Indian Origin (AADIO), the Georgia Institute of Medical Practitioners of Indian Heritage (GIMPIH), the United States Pain Association (USPA), and the Smile Foundation had jointly organized an “Opioid Awareness Program” at the Atlanta branch of the consulate of India in the Atlantan suburb of Sandy Springs, Georgia. The closing address was to be delivered by the noted Indian-American pain management specialist Dr. R. K. Smile, founder and chief executive of Smile Pharmaceuticals Inc. (SPI). Anderson Thayer, introducing himself to consular staff as Conrad Chekhov, a Washington Post reporter on the “opioid beat,” was given permission to cover the conference. Anderson was proud of the “tradecraft”—a word he had learned from spy movies on TV—that had enabled him to acquire the fake Post ID. He had a selection of such identities available to him. It was often necessary, in his work, to make sure that no connection could be made between himself and what security people called “the principal.” Deniability was everything. He left no paper trails.

  The conference was small and dull but when Dr. Smile stood up to speak everyone paid attention. This was the Little King, a respected figure who had donated generously to the community and to the cultural life of the city. His name was everywhere, raising the profile of Atlanta’s Indian community in ways that were beneficial to all Indian Americans and served to reduce interracial tensions. Today Dr. Smile seemed particularly passionate. To begin with, he blamed the media for not paying attention to the growing crisis. “As a country we are at the mercy of the media, which sets the agenda for all,” he said. “Even ten years ago there were maybe one hundred deaths a day caused by opioids but the media because of its liberal bias wanted only to talk about breastfeeding in public places and transgender restrooms. Also, on account of its obsession with the hole in the ozone layer, it foregrounded melanomas. And then came Ebola. How many Americans died from Ebola? I will tell you. Two persons precisely. One, two. But in the media it was Ebola wall to wall, 24/7. Plus it is a society fixated on body issues, on looking good, keeping fit, there is so much ‘body shaming,’ as they call it, if you have a ‘dad bod,’ as I think is possessed by many of the men in this room, myself included.” Here he was interrupted by laughter, which he allowed to die down. “Be comforted, however,” he continued. “Now there are counter-ideologies, ‘body neutrality,’ ‘fat acceptance,’ ‘body respect.’ So, it’s okay, gentlemen, you don’t have to go on a diet.” More comfortable laughter. Then Dr. Smile returned to his serious point. “So, on account of the American body-love, there was much attention paid to walking for fitness and obesity in schools. Meanwhile thirty thousand persons per annum dying from opioids, receiving almost zero coverage.”

  Now all heads were nodding. “Only in 2015 did U.S. senators make this issue public. I myself launched an online campaign and within one week twelve thousand families replied. Here I must indicate a fault within ourselves, I’m sorry to say. But we must face our own community issues, isn’t it. This crisis arises, there is addiction, there is grave danger to family member or members, but we hide it. We think of it as our shame, and we conceal. Back home in India also, it is hidden. Consequently there is a serious shortage of rehabilitation facilities. The crisis gets worse. Strange b
ut true, it is not because money is not being spent. In the U.S. in 2013, eight billion dollars spent. In 2014, ten billion. Resources are growing but the problem also is growing. Why? Here I must use a word with which all of us sadly are familiar.” A dramatic pause. “That word, honored Consul saab, honorable guests, is corruption.” A further cause for the obligatory gasp of shock. “Powerful pharmaceutical companies and lobbyists are responsible. Also the small percentage of doctors, I estimate maybe one percent, who are corrupt. Meanwhile new and more powerful drugs arrive on the market. Here is the issue. I am trying to face it. So must we all.”

  Anderson Thayer, dutifully taking notes at the back of the room alongside the reporter from Rajdhani, had taken an immediate liking to Dr. Smile because he, too, was small. Two Munchkins in Oz, he thought. We need to stick together. But the longer the doctor spoke, the more impressed Anderson became. This guy was something else. He stood up among his peers and more or less flat out told them, here’s what I’m doing, and made them believe the opposite. Everybody left the meeting thinking he was the sheriff, not the outlaw. He posed as Pat Garrett when secretly he was Billy the Kid. The guy had balls. Not for him the timid Anderson Thayer position of small-not-big. This guy gurgled up a big mucus ball of really big lies and spat it right out between shameless teeth.

  Later that afternoon Anderson made the phone call from a burner phone which he would dispose of before he left town. He introduced himself, as he had said he would, as “Sam,” and at once Dr. Smile began to scold him. “Very bad practice for you to attend the conference,” he said. “Local community journalist was there. Not a good idea to allow somebody to add one and one and make two.”