Here & There

by Joshua V. Scher

  * * *

  If Ecco’s condition were an event rather than an accident, a happening rather than an act, then Reidier’s role would be that of an explorer as opposed to a creator (or destroyer, for that matter). He cannot take on the responsibility of that day. He cannot bear the weight of it. It must be externalized. Point in fact, rather than taking on the role of a deity in this origin myth,90 Reidier removes himself entirely from the tale. At most, he’s a herald.

  This removal of self is even more evident a few seconds earlier, when he admits what happened is a complete mystery. It is his most vulnerable admission. However, there is no ego in this statement. No I. He doesn’t simply say, “I don’t know what happened.” Instead, he expresses it in third person. He evokes the cloak of “mystery,” affording himself room for deniability, or protection within the puzzle.

  Perhaps this is why he pushes with such determination to find the answer of what’s wrong. He can only hold onto his innocence so long, but if he can figure out what’s wrong, if he can fix it, then he can not only save Ecco, but himself as well.

  Bertram hesitates. “I wonder, now this is only just, you know, an idea . . .”

  “I’m not going to sue you for malpractice Bert.”

  “Well, if it happened all at once—”

  “It did.”

  “Have you ever heard of Korsakoff syndrome?”*

  * * *

  * There it is again. Hilary must have already watched this before meeting with Bertram. Why wouldn’t she? It was to her advantage. She didn’t just pull Korsakoff out of thin air before. No. The trick to her Psynar® thing was not to use indiscriminate pings and just see what came back. She sent out very discriminate pings, smart-bomb pings, designed to find their way into the most protected bunkers of secrecy, denial, and consciousness itself. She had set Bertram up. There’s something to this Korsakoff syndrome. Ecco and Korsakoff were the public- and private-key match that would unlock all of this.

  * * *

  Reidier shakes his head no.

  “It’s a brain disorder. A rather wide-reaching one at that. One of the symptoms can be retrograde amnesia.”

  “Where someone can’t remember who they are?”

  “Essentially, although it’s not always tied to identity. Someone could just be incapable of remembering events that occurred before the amnesia. There tends to be a time gradient involved. Remote memories can sometimes be more easily accessible.”

  Reidier’s body posture has completely changed. Instead of being guarded and distant—legs and arms crossed, leaning back, avoiding of eye contact—he’s available and focused—leaning toward Bertram, elbows resting on the table with open arms, focused eye contact. The Korsakoff hypothesis has transformed Reidier from a guilt-laden parent into an enthusiastic student.

  “According to Ribot’s Law, recent memories are more likely to be lost than more remote ones.”91 Bertram considers a moment. “To my knowledge, there’s never been a case of it in such a young subject. But I guess it could be argued that all Ecco has are recent memories. It’d explain why it seems like he was born yesterday.”

  “Shouldn’t he then be unable to do things, like walk and talk?”

  Bertram dips his head to the side. “Yes and no. Memory loss may only affect certain ‘classes’ of memory. If the victim were a concert pianist prior to the brain trauma, he might very well forget what a piano is but know how to play. In Ecco’s case, he’s maintained a remarkable skill set but is unencumbered by any expectations about life. Like I was saying before, I think that’s why he’s so gifted.”

  “How so?”

  “Consider how sketching is taught in an art class.”

  “I never took art classes.”

  Bertram throws Reidier a look. “Of course you didn’t. Art 101 almost always starts with drawing a still life. An apple, let’s say. The problem that most new students have is they try and draw the apple.”

  “You’re channeling the Buddha again.”

  “More like Plato, actually. We all have an idea in our head about what an apple is, and what it should look like. Those ideas get in the way. Instead of drawing what’s there, novices draw what they think is there. What should be there. But any art teacher will tell you, the trick is to not see an apple, but a collection of curves, tones, shadows, what have you. You don’t draw the apple, you draw the shape.”

  “Ecco doesn’t see tomatoes, he sees red curves.”

  “Precisely. He’s unencumbered by shoulds.”

  Reidier leans back, taking it in. “So his lack of ideas is the source of his genius.”

  Bertram nods. “At least in theory.”

  Bertram’s theory holds within it some remarkable possibilities. Especially if we consider the literal implications of his earlier comment about how Ecco seemed like he “was born yesterday.” If, somehow, Ecco’s clock had reset certain areas of the brain, then this might enhance certain skill sets and attributes possessed by the preverbal. To the point at hand, babies, in fact, have what could be classified as extreme eyesight. They are able to take in (or filter out less) information endowing them with what would comparatively be augmented perception. Observe the picture below of two monkeys and attempt to determine the differences between the two.

  The monkeys look identical; it would be nearly impossible to pick out either one of them from a group of ten. They all look the same—unless you’re an infant.

  At the University of Sheffield and the University College London, an experiment was conducted on a group of six- and nine-month-olds in which they were shown two sets of photographs of human and monkey faces, including one face they had seen before. Unsurprisingly, both groups could recognize and identify familiar human faces. But only the six-month-olds could distinguish one monkey from another. The results were consistent even when the photographs were presented to them upside down. Researchers hypothesize that as we age, our brains develop to only focus on overall “important” differences between human faces. We filter out what our brains consider extraneous information and, as a result, sacrifice discriminatory abilities.

  Consider another study in England performed in 2008 to determine the possible unfiltered perception children have in processing “virgin” colors in a manner drastically different and more intense than adults.92 Infant eyes absorb colors and then process them in the prelinguistic parts of the brain (right-brain areas), while adults process colors in the brain’s language centers (left side), tinted, as it were, by concepts they already have. As brains age, they become busier and stop bothering to do things like “see” color. Instead, the brain perceives only its idea of color, trading unfiltered perception for a color scheme mediated by the constructs of language.93* Somewhere in growing up, the brain shifts to a language-bound perception of color and all that information is dismissed from then on.

  * * *

  * My old semiotics professors would have a field day with this. I guess Plato and his whole obsession with his theory of forms was more science than philosophy. Plato asserted that the objects we see aren’t real, but literally mimic the real forms (kind of like that old Steven Wright jokeΫ). In essence our ideas of things, like say a table, are the only true objects. Fittingly, the concept of form predated the word for it. Most of the words used to describe it have to do with vision: εἶδος (eidos) and ἰδέα (idea). Both stem from the Indo-European root weid, “see.” Apparently, Plato could figure all this out before he even had the proper words for it. I don’t know if that proves or negates his point. A little light-headed, to be honest. Haven’t eaten all day. I wonder if this is where the saying, “I see your point,” comes from.

  * * *

  Ϋ “I woke up one morning and looked around the room. Something wasn’t right. I realized that someone had broken in the night before and replaced everything in my apartment with an exact replica. I couldn’t believe it. I got my roommate and showed him. I said, ‘Look at this—everything’s been replaced with an exact replica!’ He said, ‘Do I
know you?’”

  * * *

  Similarly, babies also have uncanny hearing abilities. As an evolutionary trait, this was necessary in order to hear the faint approach of a dangerous predator. At a young age, every sound is vital and equally audible, whether it’s raindrops or a mother’s voice down the hall. According to childdevelopment.columbia.edu, infants only a few days old can differentiate between their native tongue and a foreign language. At four months old, they can tell when people are speaking in their native languages without even hearing them. This gift vanishes by nine months of age.94 As with eyesight, the aging brain reduces the influx of information by focusing only on a narrow band of sound, shifting all nonessential information into background noise. Babies transform from universal learners who can pick up and master any language, to specialists in their native sounds, structures, and meanings, within their first year.95

  Beyond sight and sound, Ecco might also have tapped into a host of other infant talents. When deprived of one sense or skill set, humans compensate with others, such as how some blind people can develop exquisite hearing or become incredibly adept mental cartographers, mapping out floor plans to the numerous buildings and landscapes they frequent. Babies, who have not fully acquired language, rapidly learn how to read nonverbal clues to determine the emotional states of adults around them. They can be so proficient at interpreting facial and body language that some experts compare it to mind reading.

  The fact of the matter is that babies are highly intelligent. Professors Patricia Kuhl and Andrew Meltzoff codirect the Institute for Learning & Brain Sciences at the University of Washington. They believe a:

  baby is a scientific miracle, the best learning machine on the planet, more powerful than the most advanced supercomputer, able to learn languages faster and better than adults, quick to recognize and manipulate the social cues that govern everything from war to animal cookies. Born with one hundred billion neurons . . . babies suck in new information and statistically analyze, comparing it with what they’ve previously heard, seen, tasted, and felt, constantly revising their theories of the world and how it works. By three years old, babies have about fifteen thousand synapses per neuron, three times the synapses of adults. That’s one of the reasons it’s easier to learn foreign languages when you’re young.96

  Somewhere between years four and six, to prevent the brain from being overwhelmed, the number of synapses is cut down by 67 percent.

  All of these possibilities resonate with Ecco’s behavior. However, none of it is conclusive, as it is unclear as to how exactly his clock has been reset and precisely where in the developmental process he might fall in all of this.

  “How did he end up being like this instead of a bumbling, drooling idiot?” Reidier asks Bertram.

  “It all depends how and where the brain has been damaged.”

  The word damaged gives them both pause.

  “Is something definitely damaged in his brain?”

  “If it’s Korsakoff syndrome. We need to run some tests. Brain scans. Completely noninvasive.”

  Reidier nods. He picks at the table again. Finally, after almost a minute of silence he asks, “What causes Korsakoff?”

  Bertram shrugs. “Usually chronic alcoholism.”

  “And all this time I thought it was Eve who was dipping into my absinthe.”

  “At least he’s got good taste.”

  Reidier chuckles.

  “Who knows, though,” Bertram continues. “It could’ve been a seizure or some infection. Like I said, we should take a look.”

  Reidier nods, mumbling, “Of course, of course.” His attention has wandered. He stares out across the backyard at the kitchen window. Eve passes back and forth across the frame. “Is there a way to run some tests unofficially?”

  Bertram casts a sideways glance at his friend. “I’ve got a lab. Over at the med school, for my work with assistive technology with robotic control.”

  “How’s the motor cortex neural interface working?” Reidier asks.

  “Quite well. My quadriplegic test subjects can move a cursor around a computer screen with their thoughts. They can type, play games, move robotic arms even. It’s rather impressive. But, yes, toward our purposes I have access to all the equipment we’d need. Multielectrode recoding arrays, fMRI machines, the works.”

  “And you’d be amenable to helping?”

  Bertram smiles. “Kerek, you know beneath this imposing academic veneer lies a rather eccentric iconoclast. I like to think of myself as independent from the culture of control, as it were. A diligent scientist to the last, but a revolutionary poet at heart.”

  Having decided on a course of action—tests—Reidier and Bertram relax. Reidier pours ice tea for the two of them. They sit taking in the late afternoon rays of sun and the soothing sound of crickets.

  “Funny,” Bertram remarks about nothing in particular.

  “What’s that?” Reidier replies on cue.

  “After all these years, it was a bout of memory loss that got us in touch with our past.”

  “I imagine I’m not the best at maintaining interpersonal connections over long distances.”

  Bertram places a reassuring hand on Reidier’s forearm. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s the way life is, people come together, grow apart—”

  The conversation abruptly stops with the sound of creaking. The two turn toward the house. Ecco pushes open the screen door and holds it for Otto, who wanders out carrying a small paper plate covered with macaroni salad. Otto plops himself down on the porch steps. Ecco follows, in kind, sitting next to his brother. Reidier and Bertram watch in silence. Otto pulls a plastic fork out of his back pocket and eats a bite of salad. While chewing, he looks over at his brother and offers him his fork.

  Ecco reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a straw.

  Otto giggles as he watches Ecco put the straw in his mouth, lean over the plate, and suck a single piece of elbow macaroni off the plate, up the straw, and into his mouth, like a vacuum.

  Ecco chews and offers his brother the straw. The two giggle, going back and forth, “drinking” their macaroni salad.

  “Well, now, that’s efficient,” Bertram says.

  “I think they have the right idea,” Reidier replies, reaching across the table toward the salad bowls.

  “They’re amazing boys.”

  After a moment, when Reidier doesn’t respond, Bertram turns away from the boys and looks at his friend who’s staring down into a large bowl of tomato salad with finely chopped Bermuda onions, fresh oregano, virgin olive oil, and red Legos.

  “Did Ecco do that?” Bertram asks, confused.

  Reidier shakes his head no.

  “Eve?”

  “It’s her idea of sarcasm.” Reidier places it off to the side and reaches for another bowl.

  During our lunch, Bertram told me a much more condensed story. He never brought up Ecco’s tomato sculpture, Reidier’s confession, Eve’s coldness. Bertram reduced it all to clinical speak instead, discussing test results, the Korsakoff diagnosis, and his suggestion of doing a more thorough neurological examination.

  I’m still unsure as to whether this censorship, or equivocation, was a conscious decision or a subconscious reaction. Perhaps he believed he was distilling for me the salient information from all his time spent with the Reidiers. Colleague to colleague, providing me with the conclusions rather than taking me down all the wrong turns and dead ends of his journey. Obviously, he wasn’t aware of the true nature of my interview and had no conception of Psynaring, nor what my process required. Then again, considering our introduction through the Department, he would naturally respond in like fashion. Revealing only what he must, but never sharing. On that note, he could have still been resistant to the idea of revealing anything at all about the Reidiers, as they were his patients as much as his friends. Forced to violate doctor-patient confidentiality, he complied only as much as was necessary.

  Considering what happened next, tho
ugh, I wonder if the explanation is much simpler. On a personal level, the loss of the Reidiers makes him scared; on a professional level, insecure; and on an emotional level, unsettled.

  In his notes from that day, Bertram Malle wrote, Enigmas are inherently enticing and prickly, like a spiny seed. They latch on with unpredictable holds. E is, as it were, born again, enhanced by his rejuvenated innocence, for which he is simultaneously canonized and vilified by his respective parents. He is haunted by a past that cannot be remembered. Still I’m surprised. In spite of how fascinating I find E, and all the mysteries that lie within him, it is Mrs. R. who I keep wondering about. Worrying about? What E cannot remember, Mrs. R. cannot forget.

  TITLE CARD: GALILEE 6:21

  TITLE CARD: EXPERIMENT 74

  MIRROR LAB, GOULD ISLAND FACILITY - 2008-5-5 13:31:00

  SPLIT SCREEN, on right side, target room: an intricate maze. A hunk of cheese sits in the bottom right corner.

  LEFT SIDE, transmission room: an exact replica of the maze on the right. Only in this one, a hunk of cheese rests at the end in the upper left-hand corner. At the lower right-hand corner, a lab rat, nicknamed JOHN GLENN, is lowered in by a gloved hand.

  (NOTE: John is calm in his handler’s hand, clearly used to both the person and the process.)

  John knows the drill. He rears up onto his hindquarters, his forelegs pressed against the maze wall for balance. John’s nostrils flare with each rapid inhale as he orients the scent. Then he’s off through the maze.

  Without a single misturn, John Glenn navigates his way through the maze and finds the cheese. He devours the cheese.

  When he’s finished, a gloved hand comes into view, holding yet another piece of cheese. It carries it over and past John, who once again rears up on his hindquarters.