The Ghost Apple

by Aaron Thier

  In the entry hall we saw maintenance trucks parked among the garbage and the medical waste and the ruined antiques, we saw stuffed flamingoes from the natural history collection twisted into impossible contortions, we saw a blind man striking his twisted knee with a gavel. Mr. Pinkman III walked ahead of us without asking where we needed to go and what we needed to do, he walked ahead without guiding us, talking to himself, weeping softly, arguing a point, but he could only be taking us to him, where else was there to go, so that when we reached the furnace heat and jungle damp of the upper floors, when we saw the huge continents of mold on the walls, when we thought we could not go any further because of the swelling in our feet and the fluttering of our hearts, we knew these could only be his own private rooms and offices, and they were not guarded by a three-headed jaguar, as we had heard, or by a statue with eyes that could burn a student to cinders within her clothes, as some of us had read, but only by a clacking bead curtain drawn across the doorway. We went in, withdrawing our folded schedules from our pockets, we remembered now why we had come, it was absurd but it was a requirement, the fine for a late schedule was twenty-five dollars.

  And there he was, it was him, he had a fine mist of white hair and delirious blue eyes and teeth like we had never seen, they were like piano keys, and he was sitting on a throne in that riot of broken Mayan stelae, of dead orchids, a potted banana tree, a dismantled vehicle, so many other things, treasures of pre-Columbian art, junk and trash, a portable toilet stuffed with prints from the looted gift shop. He asked us if we wanted some coconut wine, he was just about to enjoy a thimbleful, the stuff was packed with electrolytes, and we said sure, why not, to hell with it, and how about a few more white tablets? Mr. Pinkman III came hurrying across the gallery in his madman’s shoes, those shoes that were made from rawhide and loneliness and duct tape, and he distributed the coconut wine, a trophy cup for each of us and a thimble for him, he didn’t require more, he was pickled in the brine of his unconquerable scholastic ambition, he was mummified by time passing, always passing, he was only a man after all, and he was petrified by his stony asceticism. Everything had been said of him in his very long life and we wondered what could be true. He had been a pirate in the Cayman Islands, a smuggler in the Florida straits, a wrecker on Key West, he had witnessed the advent of steam, he had been a founding partner of Standard Oil, he had conceived of the Tropical Fruit and Rail Company during a night of lunatic sweats and visions, he had taught Benito Mussolini to play the clarinet, he and Teddy Roosevelt had sealed a blood pact by shooting each other in the thigh, it went on and on, what did it matter, the coconut wine was like the chill vapor of death, we knew that we would never leave that place, the past was more real to us than the world outside, that springtime world of radiant rain, so close and so remote in the tinted window.

  He motioned for us to sit and we did, cross-legged in the garbage, pouring sweat and not looking at him now for fear that he had the faculty of bewitching students with his eyes, and then we handed our schedules to him and we heard his astonishing pronouncements, and they were astonishing because they seemed so clear, because they had a hallucinatory lucidity. Don’t take this class, have you satisfied your pre-1800 requirement, avoid Carlyle, have you taken English 125a. His voice had a hypnotic quality, we could hardly keep our eyes open, it was impossible to say what time it was, or what day, or what season of the long academic year. He spoke without pause, telling us to extend ourselves, Latin is of great utility, you’ll want to take three credit hours of English 565, you’ll need a senior seminar, have you taken Math 215, do you have experience in weapons manufacture, you may want to check out Hertfordshire on postcolonial theory.

  He was still talking when Mr. Pinkman III arrived and motioned for us to follow. The birds were singing their show tunes, the orchids filled the air with their whore’s perfume, and he was still talking, he was unfazed, he had a great passion for requirements, he knew all the abbreviations, he knew the course catalog by heart, but he hadn’t signed our schedules, we’d have to pay the fine after all.

  Minutes / April 2010 Faculty Meeting

  The dispassionate secretary, who had missed the last two faculty meetings and had been looking forward to this one, at least insofar as he was capable of looking forward to anything, took too much Malpraxalin® beforehand, fell asleep on the toilet in the hallway bathroom, and arrived twenty minutes late. There were only six or seven faculty members in attendance, of whom several presented an even more dissipated appearance than the secretary himself, who had not bothered, or who had perhaps been unable, to fasten more than two of the six buttons on his shirt, and who wore a pair of filthy slippers instead of shoes.

  There had been some trouble on St. Renard. The acting president was explaining that at least two sugar plantations had been forced to suspend operations following terrorist attacks by Professor Kabaka’s Antillia Liberation Army (ALA), although he assured us that everything was now under control. His loyalties, of course, lay with Big Anna®, which he characterized as a “bulwark against the evil of colonial nationalism.” In the same spirit, he moved that we condemn the actions of Professor Kabaka and the ALA.

  At this time, or perhaps later, the secretary noticed a wet area on the front of his—that is, the secretary’s own—trousers. Struggling to focus his eyes, and making full use of his still-reliable sense of smell, he determined that it was not urine, as he had expected, but only coffee. It was also interesting to see that steam was rising from his lap, which was an indication that the coffee was boiling hot. He felt no pain.

  Ginnie Hampton, professor and chair of philosophy, was inclined to wonder if the situation on St. Renard was not more serious than the acting president would have had us believe. She apologized if her concerns seemed “hysterical,” but she had read an article suggesting that conditions on Big Anna® plantations were actually quite frightful.

  The acting president nodded gravely and responded as follows: “It would be improper to assert that all the narratives of whippings and mutilations that have been told here at Tripoli are absolutely false, but allowance must be made for the exaggeration so seldom disjoined from a description, and in general terms we may be sure that the treatment of laborers on St. Renard is mild and indulgent.”

  He added that we ought to pay no attention to “the perverted and exaggerated statements of the islanders themselves, who are particularly artful and dexterous at misrepresentations of this nature.”

  Francis Amundsen, sycophant and professor of English, tipped over in his chair and fell heavily to the floor. The acting president paused momentarily, and Professor Hampton took advantage of this pause to ask whether we had any information about our students in the Field Studies Program. She assumed they were “perfectly safe,” but it was just as well to make sure.

  The acting president responded by saying that the students displayed “few indications of being deeply affected with their fate.” The truth was that “from being divided into watches, and plentifully fed with syrup and ripe canes, they preserved their health remarkably well.”

  This was probably not the response that Professor Hampton had expected—indeed, for anyone not overcome with dispassion, it was cause for alarm—and she was perhaps justified in asking what he meant by “their fate.” But the acting president declined to elaborate. He said that he would answer that question with another question, as follows:

  “How much is a single human life worth?”

  No doubt this question was supposed to be rhetorical, but Lincoln Harcourt, professor of economics, who was no more troubled than the secretary by the grim implications of this reply, immediately undertook to answer it.

  The simplest solution, he explained, would be to quantify a particular attribute like earning potential or the capacity to do physical labor. Provided that some scale of value were determined beforehand, one could then rank people according to their economic importance. But the virtue of such an approach was only relative or comparative, and it would
not enable one to compare people from different environments. Alternatively, one might attempt to compute the integral value of all the expenses—e.g., food, education, clothing, housing—associated with the production of a given human person. But no—and here Professor Harcourt tittered and slapped his forehead—this was, again, only good for comparative purposes. Perhaps one could calculate some “absolute value” like the energy content of the body—a value which could be expressed in joules or calories, according to preference, just as one would express the energy content of a snack product. According to this model, however, the largest people would prove the most valuable—a potentially objectionable outcome.

  He concluded by saying, “It’s probably best to go back to the basics. A person is worth whatever another person is willing to pay to get him.”

  The secretary, who had been following the discussion closely for several minutes, must have allowed his attention to wander, or perhaps the foregoing had been a dream or hallucination. When he came to himself, the acting president was speaking once again, and speaking loudly. His theme was Big Anna® and the island of St. Renard. Several times he referred to himself as “president of the Ocean Sea.”

  Peering myopically around the room and looking, as it were, for clues, the secretary spotted a tarnished salver of white tablets on a table by the door. They seemed to glow and pulsate, a source of brilliant light in that atmosphere of gloom. He knew intuitively that these were Malpraxalin® tablets, for which he had lately developed a substantial need. How he had failed to notice them when he’d entered the room, he will never know. He now rose and began to stagger forward, realizing as he did so that he had gotten up too fast: Darkness, thicker or of a different quality than the darkness that now enveloped him at all times, descended quickly.

  When the secretary regained consciousness, he was prostrate on the gray carpet, with what he hoped was only blood—and not, for instance, a liquefied portion of brain matter—leaking from his nose. Surely his collapse was a misfortune, but it was not a misfortune that it would have been profitable to dwell upon. Therefore he began to crawl forward on his hands and knees. From that position, he spied the unconscious form of Professor Amundsen stretched out beneath the table.

  The secretary will never know how long this journey took—perhaps moments, perhaps days—but when he had finally managed to knock the dish of Malpraxalin® to the ground and force a few tablets into his mouth, he felt much better. That is to say, he felt much different.

  The acting president was now making excuses for those Big Anna® executives who were stationed on St. Renard and who, “in some small way,” had overstepped their authority and contributed to the atmosphere of confusion and disorder. But it was important not to get bogged down in individual cases. The critical thing was the long-term viability of the system. What could be done to strengthen the plantation complex on St. Renard?

  In the first place, new legislation was called for. One suggestion that had gotten a lot of support in Big Anna® boardrooms was some form of “pass law” requiring laborers to obtain written permission from their employers whenever they left their plantations. Anyone, even a tourist, would be able to challenge a laborer and demand to see his or her pass, and if that laborer could not produce it, he or she would have to spend a night in jail. Laborers would thus be accountable to their employers at all times.

  Professor Harcourt suddenly appeared before the secretary, who was now sitting beneath the table and whose first instinct was to bleat in a threatening manner and strike out with his fists. Professor Harcourt took no notice of this. He was not wearing shoes—a telltale sign—and his skin was bright yellow, like a lemon. He scooped some Malpraxalin® tablets into his mouth, began to chew with gusto, and walked unsteadily from the room.

  And now, at long last and after who knew what extraordinary trials, William Brees, former or perhaps—who could say?—still current dean of students, made his return to Tripoli College. He materialized in the doorway like a man risen from the dead, a tall and crooked figure with watery eyes.

  Was he surprised by the gruesome spectacle he saw before him? If he was, he gave no sign.

  The acting president—or should one say the president of the Ocean Sea?—folded his hands and gave the dean an indulgent smile. No doubt encouraged by this sign of tolerance from one whom he may have regarded as an antagonist, the dean said he had some discouraging news for us. Were we ready to hear it?

  He said: “Big Anna® has enslaved our students on St. Renard!”

  To this there was no reaction. Indeed, it was hardly a shock. One felt it to be true just as one feels, at the end of an intricately plotted murder mystery, not astonishment at the identification of the killer but satisfaction at the final exclusion of alternatives.

  “There’s no time to lose,” he said.

  He was dressed for the tropics in soiled linen and wicker sandals. He was not an impressive figure, nor indeed one who could hope to inspire much outrage, whatever the news he’d come to report.

  The acting president bared his improbable teeth and said nothing.

  Dean Brees wanted to propose a boycott of all Big Anna® products, as well as a boycott of all other products known to have been produced by slave labor—shoes made in East Asian sweatshops, for instance. He moved that we establish the “Free Produce Association of Tripoli College,” which would set up an informational website through which one could purchase “free labor” alternatives to slave-produced goods. Could anyone, in good conscience and with an untroubled heart, continue buying Big Anna® products when they knew the real human cost? Could we make people understand that taking responsibility was not the same as accepting blame?

  With this, the dean sat down and waited expectantly. There was something almost admirable about him, resolute and clearheaded as he was in this moment.

  The acting president rose and thanked Dean Brees for his suggestions. In what seemed like a magnanimous gesture, he said that we could all applaud our colleague “for his tireless efforts on behalf of the downtrodden, etc.” Needless to say, there could be no question of boycotting Big Anna® products—we were ourselves a Big Anna® product—but that didn’t mean we couldn’t heed the spirit of Dean Brees’s remarks.

  And that was all. The acting president simply pressed the meeting forward.

  As for Professor Kabaka and the ALA, he said, Big Anna® Shock Troops™ had been dispatched and order had already been restored. The ALA was not a sophisticated fighting force, nor was it well supplied or well provisioned, and it had been a short campaign.

  The bigger question was this: Was St. Renard, in the end, worth fighting for? Some Big Anna® executives had suggested that it was not, that it would be more sensible, in the long run, to move the bulk of the operation elsewhere. Given that we were better able to manage the disease environment than we’d been in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, there was talk of reestablishing the plantation complex on São Tomé or the “fever coast” of West Africa.

  The secretary waited to see how Dean Brees would respond to this, but the old man had subsided into a placid slumber. There were to be no more objections from that quarter.

  The acting president reminded everyone that Big Anna® also owned the Pacific island of Moahu, although the soil there was poor and the island itself very remote.

  He said many other things besides, but the secretary could not be bothered to listen. Although the evening was well advanced, there was still an hour of daylight remaining. Spring had come and summer was not far behind. Indeed, it suddenly occurred to him that another academic year was coming to an end. Fatigue had set in, as it always did at this time, and exhaustion told on all the faces, both real and imaginary, that he saw ranged about him.

  It was true also that he found himself prey to melancholy reflections. Everyone was a year older, after all, and death closer than ever. But there was a certain satisfaction in all of this. It had been a year of great changes and upheavals, to be sure, but it would end as a
ll years must end, and in that sense it would have the same unvarying rhythm. No doubt time would smooth the wrinkles, homogenize the texture, and render it indistinguishable in memory from the years that had preceded it and the years that would follow. The secretary was a geologist, after all, and he knew better than anyone that the wild dreams of men were no more than a brief tingling on the skin of the earth. All of it, in the end, would come to nothing.

  So he lay back, staring up at the underside of the table, and idly pressed Malpraxalin® tablets between his teeth. The light upon the wall was golden, or so he imagined. He heard the acting president faintly, as if through a long cardboard tube: