“Ideals are fine. Hollow ideals are another thing. What ideals could these people have when they kidnap and murder.”
“No more so than the rest of humanity! In fact, we are doing it far less! We are better. We are working in secret to force humanity into its next age.”
“Force it? You can't force it. Stop being an idealist for a moment and be a realist. Look at history.”
“I'll admit that an ideal can be corrupted, but being a realist, as you like to call it, can also be corrupted because you presume to understand the nature of the world well enough to say what is real. I'm sorry. You do not. And if I'm going to be wrong about something, I'd prefer to be wrong about an ideal.”
“I'm a man who prefers to just let humanity do its thing. You want to save humanity from itself. Why?! Why save humanity!? If humanity is so goddamned stupid, let it have its mess. Let it wallow in the shit it took in its own bed. I have no sympathy for a people who do such things. No sympathy whatsoever.”
“You sound like a foolish young man wracked with sorrow. I cannot be that way. I cannot enjoy cynicism.”
“I'm not enjoying it! I'm just free from internal conflict. And there's idealism to be had in that view! Don't you dare think otherwise to give credence to your own childishness. Humanity needs to learn from its stupid choices. That's why we have history. It lets us write down our stupid choices so we can, at the very least, not make them in the same way again.”
“What happens if humanity's stupid choice negates that process — negates your work? Your great papers cannot be read if there is no one there to read them,” replied Stein.
Jacobson paused in thought, nodding. “I consider that such a small possibility that I do not concern myself with it. Humanity has yet to destroy itself, and we were far more violent in the past than we are now. Our weapons grow stronger, but we grow wiser. We're still stupid as shit right now, but we're at least not as stupid as before. And if anything, you and your work are the things increasing the probability of that event.”
Stein roughly massaged the corners of his mouth, rubbing his fingers along his facial hair. “And that is why we keep this secret. We keep it in the hands of those who know best, at least for the time being. And progress of any kind was only ever made by moving, not by sitting at some desk harumphing about how much you hate people. Do I walk toward oblivion? Perhaps. But your sitting there may likewise doom us all.”
“Now you're just being dramatic.”
“Yes, I am. Because this is dramatic. This is important, and we are doing something important here.” Stein looked to Gideon. “That's why so many of us work. We know that we are someplace special. We are someplace unique. What is happening here is not happening anywhere else and may likely never happen again. This is an opportunity to have our hands... in the very structure of history. For most of us, that is an opportunity that we cannot pass up.” Stein looked back at Jacobson with an upset, frustrated gaze. Jacobson looked back, cross and unimpressed. “Well, I have work to do,” Stein said. He nodded to George and Jacobson and walked away.
“Idiot,” said Jacobson quietly.
“He's not an idiot. I don't think he's wrong.”
“Oh, he's wrong, just not for reasons simple enough to discuss now.”
“Well, even if we assume he's wrong, I'm not unsympathetic to his view. I feel the pull of his argument.”
“As would, I think, any red-blooded human. But the intellect that he so deifies is what gives us the power to resist the pull of emotions for the sake of cold analysis. My mind cannot allow my emotions to make this tolerable or ethical. It will not step aside, even if I want it to.
“I think that I would be more receptive to his energy if they hadn't forecfully taken my sister away. They gave me no choice and I am not allowed to see her. The kidnapping undermined their position, but this has made it almost impossible to accept.” Jacobson nodded. “Do you know where they took her?”
“I'm not sure, but I can guess. Based on the fragments of sudden innovation that come into this work area, I'm assuming that your sister has been moved to a lab that focuses on micro-dynamics, chemo-mechanical processes, and other such fun things.”
“Isn't that much your specialty?” asked George.
“Yes, but they aren't about to send me in there.”
“Why not?”
“I'm too uncooperative,” replied Jacobson. “I have no interest in playing along with their little game nor do I play well with the other children. I barely do anything here as it is. The only reason I suspect they don't just kill me is the distant possibility that I may be of some future use.”
“Actually, now that you mention it, what do you do around here?”
“Nothing, really. It's been working wonders for me. As long as I stay out of the way, they seem completely happy to keep feeding me. You should try it.”
George looked down at the table. “I wish I could. They told me that if I stopped working, they would hurt Anna.”
“Horse shit. As I said, they won't harm a hair on her pretty little head.” George looked up inquisitively. “She's been moved off to their elite little lab of chosen children. She's too valuable to them. You could take to shitting on the floor and they won't do anything to her.”
George tapped his finger on the table in thought. “I can't risk it, though. Even if you were ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure, I wouldn't be willing to risk that point-one percent.”
“Then just work slowly. Frustrate them.”
George shook his head. “I can't. I just don't... function that way. If I work, I work. And I can't work.”
“Ah, you're one of those. I've known many men like you. A slave to your work. You must be a riot to have a drink with.”
“I don't drink.”
“Of course you don't. I bet you don't have sex or eat butter either, do you?”
George opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out, while he picked at a fingernail.
“Oh my god. You don't, do you? Are you a virgin?”
“No!” George protested, visibly unsure how to continue his proclamation.
Jacobson shook his head. “You're a good-looking young man. You got an extra testicle or something?”
“God. No. It's not like... well first off, I'm not a virgin.” George and Jacobson looked at each other for a moment, silent. “Alright, yes. I'm a virgin. Why does it matter?”
“It doesn't. It's a point of curiosity and I am bored.”
“I just haven't had time.”
“That's a lie. All men have time. For sex, they make time. Even slaves to their work.”
“All men, or just you?” asked George.
“Oh, I'm fat and old. I don't think about it that much, anymore,” said Jacobson. “And when I do, I use whores.”
“Not a romantic, I see.”
“Romance is for little girls. For adults who have things to do, sex gets in the way, you get it out of the way. That said, having a bedmate is good for the heart. Don't you sometimes want that?”
“I don't know. I have my sister. She needs me, and all I need is her.” Professor Jacobson thinned his eyes. “No. It's not like that. Why does everyone assume that? Do I look sick?”
“I wasn't assuming anything. Assumption or not, I don't think that's very healthy.”
“How? Many families are tightly-knit.”
“Yeah, but in most cases that's caused by outside forces. You know, lack of money, housing, status. Once a family gets money and status, they usually expand out into society. You have more money than some cities. I mean, you're not afraid of women, are you?”
“Of course not. But, well... what would I get from a relationship?”
Jacobson looked at George with surprised incredulousness. “Um, sex. You can't fuck your sister. Well, you could, but then you'd be European royalty or something. They're always doing that.”
“You're missing what I'm saying,” said George. “Who says I need that? I don't. I'm totally fine without it.
”
“Can't argue with that. You are indeed totally fine without it. But it's not... I mean... let's start over. Do you want sex. As in, when you look at women, do you feel a degree of physiological arousal.”
“Yes. Yes. I've had this argument with Cassidy before, as well. I'm not a fairy. I'm not strange or broken. I'm making a choice of value. What value would I attain from having sex with a woman?”
“Pleasure! Why eat a nice sandwich as opposed to just gruel? You get the same nutrition. You eat one for the pleasure.”
George shook his head. “That doesn't seem like enough for me. If I eat, I'm still getting the nutrition. Pure pleasure for its own sake, especially one that is so base, seems pointless.”
“You're not religious, are you?”
“No. Oh, haha. No. Not at all. It's hard to be religious around Cassidy. She's... well, let's just say she doesn't have a high opinion of religion, and I more or less agree.”
“I didn't think so. You don't seem like the church-going type. So do you have something against women? As in, do you hate them?”
“What? No,” replied George, taken aback.
“Because I'm trying to understand this from your perspective, and I've been around enough fat old men to know when a man has something against women.”
“I don't. I absolutely have no problems with women.”
Jacobson looked at George for a moment, obvious disbelief on his face.
“How could I have a problem with women?” added George. “I love my sister, I love Margie, I love Cassidy. They are all women.”
“Yeah, but people who hate women have an interesting tendency to separate women they know from women. They see women as women with whom they want to have sex, but can't. Other women are just women, not women. Hatred is funny that way. But still, you're good looking. You look like the kind of guy who get him some if he wanted.”
“I don't not hate women because I could get some. I don't hate them because I don't hate them.”
Jacobson continued to stare at George, still disbelieving the explanation. “Alright. I'll take that. Still, regardless of whether you see it as base, we are sexual animals. We have sex. Your parents had sex. Chances are your sister has had sex.”
“She absolute has not had sex,” George interrupted.
“Really? How do you know that? She's an awfully pretty thing.”
“I would know. We know everything about each other. She barely talks to men. We're not going to let them get their mitts on her.”
“We? We or you?”
“... We. Think about what you were just talking about. Men want sex. In most cases, that's all they want. And in Anna's case, they also want her money.”
“I will admit, her wealth makes the situation somewhat unique. But she is beside the point. Why not be out for sex yourself?”
“I think this is a good way to put it: I will never disrespect a woman like that.”
“What if she wants to have sex with you, eh? Some woman walks up, grabs your dick. What then?”
“I can assure you that will never happen.”
“Never say never, my untainted friend.” Jacobson leaned back in his chair. “Well, my curiosity is satisfied. I'll leave you be and stop trying to dig into your psychological problems.” Jacobson got up and adjusted his coat. “I think I'm going to take a nap behind the flywheel guys' storage shelf. God speed.”
George nodded as Jacobson walked away, staying on the same side of the promenade, disappearing behind some large shelves and dividers. George leaned back in his chair, his lips pursed out slightly in deep thought. He tapped his fingers on the table before knocking over the small actuated lever he was working on. 'Mehh!” he said to himself.
---
Cassidy sat sleepily in the chair, her head resting limply on the back. She was slowly whistling Morning Mood by Edvard Grieg.
“What are you whistling?” asked Jebediah, walking in from the forward observation car.
“Music from Peer Gynt.”
“Peer Gynt? Again, I am impressed. Snakker du Norsk?” asked Jebediah.
Cassidy laughed with a broad smile. “Of course you do... en liten. Ikke mye. It doesn't matter though. I got a translation of the play in English, which is actually how I first experienced it. One of my housekeepers, William, is always well-informed about the newest in literary and theatrical developments. He gets disappointed in me if I can't keep up with his critical analyses of things. And by analyses, I mean five straight hours of discussion about a single line of dialog.”
“Sounds like he should have been a playwrite.”
“Oh, absolutely. Absolutely. There are works of wonder in his head.”
“Did you ever tell him that?”
“Yes. Many times... Have you ever been to Britain?”
“Yes. It's unavoidable in my line of work.”
“Have you ever talked to the servants?”
Jebediah looked inward for a moment. “No. Can't say that I have.”
“Most visitors don't. It's an odd thing, especially from the perspective of an American. They have this notion that a servant is a servant. That's what they do and that's what they will always do. Their dreams can only exist within the boundaries of that... that... that mode of functioning. And while I don't think anyone in my house feels this as explicitly as servants in Britain do, especially considering that all of them are apparently millionaires, I also don't think they feel as though they can achieve dreams, or at least dreams of a higher nature. There's some part of them that feels that this is what they do, and that's it.”
Jebediah nodded, his hands behind his back. “The ability to dream is a learned behavior, just as the resistance to dreams is also a learned behavior. It's hard indoctrination to overcome.”
Cassidy rocked her head gently on the back of the chair, rubbing her forehead with her hand. “It's so easy for me to have dreams. Maybe it's because I... My life...”
Jebediah was quiet for a moment, the two of them simply enjoying the evening din; the tracks rolling underneath; the quiet creaking of the car. “Did you read A Doll's House?” he asked.
Cassidy looked up at him and smiled. “Now it's my turn to be impressed. That only came out, what, last year or so?”
“Around that time. It was, um, touching,” said Jebediah. “I felt something of a kinship with the character of Nora. Although I would imagine that many people would. It very much spoke to the human condition.
“How did you acquire a copy?” asked Cassidy.
“Library of Congress. They get their mitts on everything, especially the popular stuff. That's the only problem. Everyone wants to take out the popular works.”
“Lucky bastard. I have to actually work to get my copies.”
“I still prefer Peer Gynt though,” added Jebediah.
“Me as well,” said Cassidy. “Talk about human condition. Have you had a chance to see it produced?” Jebediah shook his head. “I got to see it a year ago in Bergen. It doesn't happen often, because for whatever reason, I find it difficult to lose myself in the theater. I was able to, then. I was able to lose myself. I couldn't make out half of the words, but for some reason, I didn't care.”
“It's something of a masterpiece, I think,” said Jebediah.
“Of course it is,” Cassidy replied emphatically. “I don't think it's even getting the attention that it deserves. Mark my words, in the future, this play, Ibsen himself, will be hailed as the equal of anything Shakespeare produced. Hans Christian Anderson called it garbage. Old fool. He wants some garbage? I'll show him garbage. I'll shove some garbage down his goddamn throat.”
“Isn't he dead?” asked Jebediah.
Cassidy furrowed her brow in thought. “I don't know. Well... I'll dig him up. That'll fix him.”
“Yes it will. It will fix him good,” said Jebediah as sat on the couch and crossed his leg over his knee, sighing deeply as he relaxed.
“I so rarely get to hear it,” said Cassidy. “I hold on to the musi
c in my mind. Play it over and over again. If I don't hold onto it, it fades, and eventually, I find that I am unable to recall it.”
Jebediah nodded slightly, as though he were more bouncing his chin lightly against his chest. “'Tis the way of things,” he said.
Cassidy grumbled uncomfortably and shook her head. “No. No. That's humbug. People love to explain their failings and the failings of society as just the way of things. A strong person fights the way of things.”
“I'm not denying that,” replied Jebediah. “But just as life and death are the way of things, so is forgetting. Old things give way to new. All things must pass.”
Cassidy sleepily looked out the window of the train. “No. Just because we haven't found a way yet, doesn't mean there isn't one. There is a way. I know it.”
“Even if there is, would you want to live that way?” asked Jebediah. “Would you want to be the rock in the water while everyone else is a fish?” Cassidy didn't respond. She just stared out the window. “I wouldn't,” continued Jebediah. “I want to pass. I want to float with the tides. I want to go on where my parents have gone, where my... where my friends have gone. I don't want the universe to dwell on me. I want it to forget me. I want it to move on to new things and not be cluttered and troubled by my remnants.” Cassidy still didn't respond. “Well,” Jebediah breathed in heavily. “I think that I'm going to get to sleep. We're going to need it when we reach Houston. There is much to do.” Cassidy nodded, the fresh, bright moonlight giving her face fierce shadows and cracks.
“Good night,” said Cassidy.
“Good night,” said Jebediah with a slight bow.
Cassidy continued to stare out the window, staring at the passing landscape. Staring at the moon. Staring at all the stars.
---
The tracks clacked underneath the car. The faint light of the moon spilled into the car while the gas lamps glowed dimly on the walls. The clacking slowed. Cassidy was asleep in her chair again, her head tilted down onto her chest, her head bobbing gently with the motion of the train. She slowly awakened with a yawn and, curious, rose from her seat, setting the book that had been on her lap onto the chair. She leaned up against the window, trying to see out. She then walked out from her car to the observation car in front of them. She leaned up against the window on the other side, allowing her to look ahead along the slow curve to the west that the train was following. She opened the window and stuck her head out and squinted suspiciously into the distance. She snorted and pulled her head back into the window.
Cassidy St. Claire and The Fountain of Youth Parts I, II, & III Page 45
