Analog SFF, March 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Did you say vodka?”

  “Da,” said Vladimir. “Much vodka.”

  “Kendrik has just told me,” said Jacques in a quiet voice, “that synesthesia is a disease.”

  Vladimir started visibly. “He knows of synesthesia?”

  Kendrik felt something was going on. But then again, maybe it was just the borscht. Good borscht. Very good borscht. Kendrik felt himself begin to sweat.

  Suki stared at him with an intense yet undecipherable expression. “Are you a painter?” she asked.

  “No. I'm an epidemiologist with the Bureau of Disease Control.” Inwardly, he winced. The sight of an attractive woman, and he completely forgot his cover story. “But my mother painted—oil and acrylic. Representational art.”

  “Representational art,” said Vladimir with a scowl. “Oxymoron! That's what cameras are for.”

  Just then, a dog, a large shaggy Otterhound, padded in from an adjoining room.

  “No, Oxy.” Jacques pointed back the way the dog had come. “Go!”

  A man appeared in the doorway. He called for the dog, and the Otterhound bounded back to the other room.

  Kendrik smiled at Suki. “Are you a painter?” he asked.

  “I paint with words.” She smiled back. “The raw materials are much cheaper. Or so goes the saying.”

  “She is poet,” said Vladimir.

  “Epidemiologist,” said Suki, thoughtfully. “It sounds like the middle line of a haiku.”

  “Synesthesia is disease?” said Vladimir, abruptly. He glowered at Kendrik. “Why you say that?”

  “Maybe,” said Jacques, “it's just that to an ax, everything is a tree.”

  “I don't understand,” said Kendrik, conscious that he was slurring his words. He cleared his mouth with another dose of borscht.

  “To a pen,” said Suki, “everything looks like paper.”

  “No,” said Jacques, a hint of harshness in his voice. “To a pen, everything looks like a pig.”

  “Please?” said Kendrik.

  “They mean,” said Vladimir, “that to epidemiologist, everything looks like disease.” He made a fist. “Why you interested in synesthesia?”

  “A haiku,” said Suki. She looked away, a dreamy expression in her eyes. “Sneezing in the wind, epidemiologist, propagates his quest.”

  “Who sent you?” said Jacques.

  “What? Nobody sent me.”

  “Of course they didn't,” said Suki. She turned to Jacques. “Let's not badger our guest.” Then, smiling at Kendrik, she said, “Your glass is empty. Why not have some more of Vladdy's borscht—and mingle. Enjoy the art?”

  “Yesh,” said Kendrik. “Good idea.”

  Over the next few hours, Kendrik did enjoy the art. But he drank more than he mingled.

  * * * *

  At the refreshment table, Kendrik felt his eyes go watery. “I wish I were creative,” he said, grabbing on to the tablecloth for support. “It isn't fair. Why can't I have imagination?”

  “I'm sure you're imaginative,” said Suki. “Only an imaginative person would ever entertain the notion that he's unimaginative.”

  “You're creative, Suki.” He pulled the tablecloth to steady himself, and an empty crystal cookie plate slipped off the table and bounced to the floor. “Whoopsie.” His knees turned rubbery and again he grabbed at the tablecloth. Another plate became airborne. The second platter landed on the first, and shattered. Splintery shards of glass flew outward, showering the carpet with gemlike slivers of brightness.

  As Kendrik looked down, admiring the shining rivulets against the sandy carpet, he began to fall. Hands caught him—Suki's and Jacques’ hands.

  “Careful,” said Kendrik. “Don't step on the little woogles.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Jacques. “We'll be careful.”

  Kendrik waved at everyone as he felt himself being carried out to another room.

  He was conscious of being conscious—but of little else—as Jacques deposited him into a plush chair.

  “He's as drunk as a moonshiner's dog,” said Jacques, stepping back and looking at the man.

  “But perhaps,” said Suki, “in borscht, veritas.”

  “Maybe. But I doubt that we'll get anything coherent out of him while he's in this condition.”

  Suki shook her head. “I wouldn't have thought it possible he'd get to this state. I bet it's the first time he's had anything more alcoholic than a fruitcake.”

  “Not to mention Vladdy's secret psychedelic.” Jacques let out a long sigh. “Better let him sleep it off here. We can talk with him in the morning.”

  “What if he wakes in the night and decides to go home?”

  “I don't think we should let him,” said Jacques.

  “Do you mean, hold him captive?”

  “Legally, in fact, we're obligated not to let him drive home in his condition.” Jacques smiled. “As is the case with well-fitting briefs, the law will support us.”

  “Legal briefs?” said Suki, smiling. “But I take your point. And I shall take the first watch.”

  * * * *

  Kendrik became gradually aware of his face being licked. He opened his eyes and then clamped them shut; the frenetic motion of Oxy licking his face and the shafts of morning sunlight jabbing into the room were more than he could stand. He inhaled sharply, got a lungful of dog breath, and waited until the searing splinters of color went dark. He pushed Oxy back and then gingerly eased open his eyes.

  Tentatively and in slow motion, he got to his feet. He found a bathroom and then, hearing sounds of human activity, he walked down a short corridor, found a door slightly ajar, knocked, and came into a kitchen.

  “Ah, the sleeper wakes.” Jacques, measuring coffee into a pot, looked at him with a worried smile. “We've been waiting for you.”

  Vladimir, sitting with Suki at a small, utilitarian table, beckoned Kendrik to join them.

  “So, my friend,” said Vladimir without preamble as Kendrik pulled up a chair, “who sent you here to Canvas Cooperative?”

  “What? I told you.” Kendrik rubbed a hand across his forehead. “At least, I think I told you. Gosh, what a party.” He shook his head to clear it. “Nobody sent me.”

  Vladimir pounded a fist. “I think government sent you.”

  “Don't worry about Vlad,” said Jacques. “For historical reasons, he doesn't have good feelings about government.” He turned up the flame under the coffeepot and ambled over. “Sounds sort of like a good coop-bad coop routine, doesn't it?”

  Kendrik thought hard, trying through his haze to remember if he'd made some awful gaffe the previous night. “What's going on?” he asked. “What are you all upset about?”

  “Why did you come to the party?” said Jacques in a pleasant, conversational tone.

  “I was looking for a group of people with synesthesia.”

  Jacques and Suki exchanged quick glances, while Vladimir glared at him.

  “What?” said Kendrik. “I didn't think it was a secret or anything.”

  “It really isn't,” said Jacques, “but we don't exactly shout it from the minarets.”

  “As for being upset,” said Suki, “you did give us some very disquieting news last night.”

  “Oh?” Kendrik found he couldn't remember very much from the night before.

  “The news,” said Jacques, “that the Bureau of Disease Control has determined that synesthesia is an infectious disease.”

  “No.” Kendrik waved him quiet. “It's only my idea. My boss thinks I'm nuts.”

  “I not believe you,” said Vladimir.

  “It's not clear.” Suki glanced at Vladimir. “His deportment last night did not suggest an official visit.”

  “In any case,” said Jacques, gazing at Kendrik with narrowed eyes, “I am curious why you believe synesthesia's a disease.” He gave a wan smile, clearly forced. “I rather like to think only our enthusiasm is infectious.”

  “And I wonder,” said Kendrik, after glancing from face to face,
“why are all of you so anxious about this disease idea?”

  Jacques slid a teaspoon to the center of the table. “As long as they think we're just wacky artists, they'll leave us alone.” He tapped the spoon. “But if they realized we were truly different...” He drew a circle around the spoon with a forefinger. “If they called synesthesia a disease, they could quarantine us—keep us under observation.”

  “No,” Kendrik protested. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “People with no imagination,” said Jacques, “often are afraid of those who have lots of it.”

  Vladimir swiveled the spoon and pushed it toward Kendrik. “But you not explain,” he said, “why you look for people with synesthesia.”

  Kendrik shrugged. “Just research.”

  Suki gazed thoughtfully at Kendrik. “There is more, isn't there?” she said in a cadenced voice. “Not without cause does an office-dweller break through his window and become a bird of paradise, radiant against the Sun ... so to speak.”

  Jacques and Vladimir exchanged looks of shared suffering.

  Kendrik drummed his fingers on the table. “More like a turkey or a dodo,” he said. “I'm a flightless bird.”

  Suki covered his hand with hers, calming the drumming. “No. You must not think that.” She withdrew her hand. “You must kill that turkey. Kill the dodo. Then you can soar.”

  “The point is...” Kendrik toyed with the teaspoon, “I've found a correlation between synesthesia and imagination.” He looked down at the table. “I think it's causal. Synesthesia yields imagination.”

  “And?” said Suki.

  “All right,” said Kendrik. “If you must know, I want to contract this synesthesia disease. There! Now you can laugh.”

  “To become infected with imagination?” Suki laughed. “That's ridiculous. Anyone can see you have a rich imagination. You've been brainwashed and it's damaged you.”

  “I guess nobody bothered to read the care instructions before brainwashing.”

  “I'm serious,” said Suki.

  “So am I,” said Kendrik. “I don't have a creative imagination.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because of how I did on the skeekit-woogle test.”

  Jacques looked up. “The what?”

  Kendrik described the test, and concluded with, “So which word means a shard of glass, and which word means an egg?”

  “Is it shelled?” said Jacques.

  “The egg? Yeah.”

  “All right,” said Jacques. “Woogle is the egg and skeekit is the glass.”

  “That's what pretty much everyone says.”

  “But not you?” Jacques gave Kendrik a quizzical look.

  “No.”

  “Odd,” said Suki. “How do you see it?”

  “Well.” Kendrik put his elbows on the table and rested his head against his hands, his palms covering his eyes. “If I think in black and white, with smell off, I get Jacques's answers. But imagining normally...” He spread his fingers and looked out at Suki. “Woogle has a flowing, liquid feel—like water. And glass has the color of water. Also, neither water nor glass smells—so woogle means glass.”

  “And skeekit?” said Jacques.

  “Skeekit is bright, brilliant like the disk of the Sun, and sharply pungent. It's like the sulfurous smell of a brilliant white egg on a tickly-smelling fresh-cut lawn under bright sunlight. Skeekit is round, bright, and smelly. It's the egg.”

  Jacques, Vladimir, and Suki exchanged wide-eyed stares. “Imaginative, yes?” said Jacques.

  Kendrik, seizing the momentary pause, leaned back, and took a deep breath. “Ah,” he said, his nose raised and pointed toward the coffeepot, “the sweet brown aroma of freshly brewed coffee—dark amber with flecks of silver in a herringbone pattern.”

  Again, the three exchanged glances.

  Jacques leaned in over the table and stared intently at Kendrik. “So you came here to catch a case of imagination.”

  Kendrik couldn't help smiling; it sounded so silly. He let out a breath. “Yes,” he said. “A creative imagination. I want it so much that I can taste it.”

  “And smell it?” said Jacques.

  “What?”

  “You smell in color and shapes, don't you?”

  “Of course,” said Kendrik. “Everyone does that.”

  “No, they don't,” said Vladimir.

  “I knew it!” Jacques slapped the table. “For Vlad here,” he said, “it's all color—cool colors, loud colors. Literally. He hears and feels colors, but he doesn't smell them. And Suki tastes words.” He glanced over at Suki. “You don't smell them, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  Jacques chuckled. “Welcome to the club, Kendrik,” he said. “You've probably had synesthesia your entire life—not that you've lived very much of it yet. Odd you never noticed it.”

  Kendrik scrunched up his nose. “Really?”

  “Da, my friend,” said Vladimir. “I was wrong. You not from government.” He gave Kendrik a bear-like pat on the back. “You appreciate ‘Great Gate at Kiev.’ You have taste.”

  “Thank you,” Kendrik gasped. He struggled to recover from the pat.

  Jacques looked away at the coffeepot, which was now bubbling. “Coffee's ready.” He stood and walked to the stove. “We believe, by the way, that synesthesia might well be the next stage in human evolution.”

  “What?” Kendrik struggled to keep up.

  “I'm not sure we should be talking about this,” said Suki.

  “Why not?” said Jacques. “He's in our camp, now.” He turned to Kendrik. “You are in our camp, aren't you?”

  “So that's what this has all been about,” said Kendrik, more to himself than to Jacques. He nodded. “Yes, I think I am in your camp.”

  “Splendid,” said Suki. “Now though, we'll have to find a creative outlet for you—to keep you putatively sane.”

  “He's a technical type,” said Jacques. “How about flavor chemistry?”

  Kendrik chuckled, softly so as not to aggravate what he assumed was a hangover. “Perhaps I could paint scent canvases.”

  “Da. Khorosho!” said Vladimir. “Very good! I like idea. Maybe we collaborate.”

  “I'd enjoy that.” Kendrik rubbed his chin in thought. “It does seem strange though,” he said, “that a bacterium or virus could guide changes in our evolution.”

  “It not germ,” said Vladimir. “It gift!”

  “Doubtless,” said Jacques. “And I don't wish to be the dentist of the horse bearing it.” He brought the pot to the table. “But I suppose a bug might possibly be the agent of evolution.” Pouring the coffee into the waiting mugs, he added, “Interesting thought—a bacterium aiding in brain rewiring. A bug turning us into a new species.” He sat, picked up a mug, and cradled it in his hands. “An advance not in intelligence, but in creativity.”

  “Good thing,” said Vladimir. “Mankind probably intelligent enough.”

  “Maybe,” said Jacques. “Maybe the combination is required for wisdom.” He smiled at Suki. “You always say that imagination is the food for our dreams—but then again, you taste words.”

  “Speaking of food...” Suki turned to Kendrik. “Will you join us for breakfast? Fresh scones and marmalade.”

  “Thank you, but no. I need to go home and maybe be sick.”

  “I understand.”

  “But,” said Jacques, “I'm not sure you should be driving quite yet.”

  Kendrik laughed. “My car has automatic. With my sense of direction, I need it. And I have an assigned spot, so the car can autopark.” He gulped down his coffee and stood. “I'll be back though, if I may.”

  “Any time.” Jacques nodded. “I rather assume you feel like an outsider most places. I can assure you, you won't be an outsider here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jacques accompanied Kendrik to the door. “We'll wait until your next visit to sign you up—when your hands are more steady. You do want to join, I imagine.”


  “Definitely—now that I know that I imagine as well.”

  “Good,” said Jacques. “We'd appreciate it, by the way, if you didn't advertise the goings-on here.”

  “Understood.”

  Kendrik bid his farewells and went to his car. He got in, engaged automatic, reclined the seat, and threw his head back against the neck rest.

  “Are you all right?” said the car.

  “I've been better.” Inwardly, Kendrik winced. What an inane thing to say—even if only to a car.

  “My air sensor suggests a hangover.”

  “Do you think dogs smell in color?” said Kendrik, idly. “Can animals have synesthesia?”

  “I do not have data on that,” said the car.

  Unaccountably irked by the car's answer, Kendrik glared at the speaker grill. “I've never noticed this before,” he said, “but your voice sounds rather the way the smell of green should feel.”

  “The cabin alcohol level and your behavior suggest that I take you to a hospital.”

  Kendrik moved his seat back to upright. “No. Just give me a few minutes.” He flipped the control back to manual.

  Sitting there, collecting his thoughts, Kendrik mused on how everything in his life had seemed so ordinary and dull; and now, voluntarily, he was going back to it—the life of a turkey and a dodo. He realized it now; he'd been imagination-starved. And, come to think of it, he felt starved in the conventional sense as well. Kendrik got out of the car and, thinking he might kill two birds with one scone, headed back to the coop for breakfast. Jacques was right; he didn't feel like an outsider at the coop. And it would be fun spending time exchanging ideas with the man. Jacques was very imaginative and very bright ... very skeekit.

  (c)Copyright 2006 by Carl Frederick

  * * * *

  In Times To Come

  Boundary Condition, Wil McCarthy's lead novella for April, takes us to a weather station unlike any you've ever encountered. It's in orbit, which it makes it susceptible to some very dramatic action, but that's the least of its unusual features. Its methods involve practical applications of some far-out applications of quantum mechanics—which bring it into unique juxtaposition, both literally and figuratively, with some of the oldest ideas and institutions of humanity. All of which makes for an intense, thought-provoking, and haunting story.