Women tended to be afraid of bats. Even Maestra. As near as could be determined, it was not a subconscious fear of pollination, some sowing of bad seed. Women, rather, were afraid that bats might become entangled in their hair. Ah, but St. Paul had decreed that women’s heads be covered in church “because of the angels.” In Paul’s era, words for angel and demon were interchangeable, and there was a species of angel/demon that was said to be attracted to women’s hair. Angels in hair. Bats in hair. Once again, distinctions were not as crisp as they might have superficially appeared. At some point, then, angels and bats must converge. There, as in mathematical space, the coin would have only one side. But what point was that? Where or when was it that light and darkness combined? End of Time—or, rather, Today Is Tomorrow—might have answered: “In laughter.”
Within the CIA, the opposite of the neutral angel was the cowboy. Cowboys believed themselves on the side of light (which they identified exclusively with goodness), but because they insisted on light’s absolute dominion over darkness—and would stop at no dark deed to insure that domination—they ended up transforming light into darkness. It was strictly a transformation, though, not a merger. Laughter never entered the equation.
Thus, when critics looked at the CIA headquarters and saw evil, they were not entirely mistaken. What they failed to see, however, was what Switters (now climbing clumsily out of a taxi in front of the building) almost always saw: a factory unexcelled at manufacturing the very monkey wrenches that might be tossed into its own machinery.
After being cleared through a series of checkpoints, Switters eventually arrived at the offices of Mayflower Cabot Fitzgerald, assistant deputy director of operations. It was 10 A.M. Joolie, Fitzgerald’s redheaded secretary, with whom Switters had enjoyed an ongoing flirtation of some years’ standing, frowned speculatively at the wheelchair but did not inquire about it. One does not prosper at Langley by being nosy.
As for Fitzgerald himself, he pretended at first not even to notice. Mayflower, as he signed his memos and preferred to be addressed, never showed surprise at anything. A display of surprise would have been a breach of sophistication, a violation of ingrained principles.
“You’re right on time,” said Mayflower, when he’d shut the door behind them.
“That’s only natural,” said Switters, who had blown Joolie a kiss as he disappeared into the inner office. “I’m an operative, not a lawyer, a Hollywood agent, or a self-important bureaucrat.”
If Mayflower took offense, his face did not reveal it. Perhaps he was accustomed to Switters, expected him by now to deport himself with cool effectiveness under certain field conditions, but at other times to wax florid, audacious, rascally. In any event, he stared silently, inexpressively, at his subordinate for quite a few seconds, stared through steel-rimmed spectacles whose assiduously polished lenses gleamed as brightly as his bald spot. Actually, it was a bit more than a spot. At fifty-five, Mayflower had just about enough left of his iron-gray hair to bewig a small doll. Chemotherapy Barbie. Steel glasses, iron hair, granite jaw, golden voice, and a mind like weapons-grade plutonium. To Switters, the deputy director seemed less animal than mineral.
It was Switters who finally broke the silence. “Errand boy,” he said, “not operative. Sorry if I overstated my position.”
Mayflower’s thin lips twitched but stopped short of a smile. “Is the wheelchair a prop to dramatize some point?” he asked.
“Minor mishap in South America.”
“Really? Nothing to do with our fellow Sumac, I hope?”
“Nein. To do with End of Time. Or, rather, Today Is Tomorrow.”
Mayflower stared at him some more. Switters stared at the wall behind the desk. In many government offices, an official of Mayflower Cabot Fitzgerald’s rank might have displayed a Groton pennant and framed diplomas from Princeton and Yale (all part of Mayflower’s background), but at CIA, relics of personal history were discouraged. Not so much as a photograph of wife, child, or dog graced the desk. There was, however, on one wall, a signed eight-by-ten glossy of Barbara Bush. The former first lady wore a turquoise dress in the photo, and Switters compared her image unfavorably—and, no doubt, unfairly—to Matisse’s big blue nude.
“Have you ever wondered, Switters, why I’ve run you personally, rather than put you under the direction of, say, Brewster or Saltonstall?”
“Because Saltonstall’s a dickhead and Brewster’s a tiddlypoop. Either would have cramped my style.”
“I’m flattered that you think I don’t. You’re aware, of course, that I officially disapprove of your sans gêne approach to both the company’s affairs and your own. At the same time, however, you fascinate me. There are things about you I admittedly find intriguing. For example, there’s a rumor you can refer to a woman’s genitals in fifty languages.”
“Seventy-one, actually.”
“Mmm? And are there some words for . . . for that organ that you favor above others?”
“Oh, I like most all of them, even the Dutch. There’s a Somali term, though, that only females are allowed to utter. It reeks of mystery and secret beauty.”
“And that word is? . . .”
“Sorry.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not your need to know.”
Although Mayflower smiled bleakly and maintained an air of metallic cordiality, he buzzed Joolie and told her not to bother with bringing in coffee. He cleared his throat quietly, with formality. “I wanted to outline a possible next assignment, but first we’d better discuss your . . . your, ah, condition.” He gestured at the wheelchair. “What’s the story?”
And Switters told him.
Switters told him. An abbreviated version, not a third as long as the one Bobby Case received, but a truthful account, nonetheless. And Mayflower’s reaction? Incredulity, primarily. But also anxiety, barely concealed anger, and a flicker of disgust. When he spoke, his golden tones burned with frost. “Unless you can assure me that this is some silly prank—even if it isn’t—I’m placing you on suspension. The committee will decide whether or not it’s with pay.”
“I’m short on funds.”
“Not my department.”
“But I’m able to work. What’s the assignment? I can handle it. Better than any of your gung-ho cowpokes.” Switters rose and stood on the footplate. Then he hopped backward onto the seat, much as he had for Bobby, although he refrained from running in place. “I’m sure this looks crazy, but . . .”
“Yes, doesn’t it?”
“Come on, Mayflower. You know my record.”
“Yes, don’t I?”
“I’m available for duty.”
“Physically, maybe. There are other concerns. Would you please sit down.”
“I could have lied.”
“Pardon?”
“I could have lied about the witchman, the taboo, the whole jar of jam. I didn’t have to spill a bean. I could have fed you a perfectly plausible, ordinary explanation. . . .”
“No. You would have had to be medically cleared before returning to duty. And when Walter Reed found nothing physically wrong. . . . But why didn’t you—I’m curious—give me a more believable alibi? If you honestly want to remain with the company . . .”
“I want very damn much to remain with the company!” Switters paused, took a deep breath, and lowered his intensity. “I guess that in itself could be considered a sign of mental illness—but we’re all in the same boat, aren’t we?”
Mayflower didn’t hesitate. “No!” he snapped through clenched teeth. “Not in the same boat at all.”
In the silence that followed, Switters remained standing in the wheelchair. What’s happening to me now? he wondered.
Seemingly, what was happening was that he was losing his job, and it staggered him to realize how much his identity had become dependent on that job. He’d meditated enough to realize that his true self—his selfless self, if you will, his essence—didn’t know or care that he worked for the CIA; didn
’t, for that matter, know or care that his name was Switters. And by no means was he wedded to his title (“operative”: what the fuck was that?), his desk (didn’t have one), his duties (only occasionally exciting), or his paycheck (the more advertising he saw the less he wanted to buy). Moreover, he enjoyed a variety of outside interests.
What gripped him, nourished him, enlarged and thrilled him, and molded the contours of his ego was in actuality the job within the job: the ill-defined, self-directed business of angelhood, with all of the romantic elitism with which that exercise in quixotic, but sometimes effective, subversion was colored. It was so special and furtive, so nutty yet seemingly noble, so poetic, even, that he had gradually permitted it to define him to himself, although he was keenly aware that much of the time he was working closer to the bullshit than the bull.
So: if he was no longer an angel, so-called, who would he be? Perhaps it was time to find out. Perhaps it didn’t matter. The one thing he now knew was that he couldn’t lie to Mayflower Cabot Fitzgerald—not after he had lied to Suzy.
“You can lie to God but not to the Devil.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Slowly Switters returned to a sitting position. Good question. What was it supposed to mean? “Lies may disappoint God or exasperate him, but ultimately his compassion dissolves them, cancels them out. The Devil, though, he grows fat on our lies; the more you lie to him, the better he likes it. It’s an investment in his firm, it increases the value of his stock by fostering the practice of lying. Only truth can hurt the Devil. That’s why honesty has been banished from almost every existing institution: corporate, religious, and governmental. Truth can be dangerously liberating. Did I mention that the Devil’s other name is El Controlador? He who controls.”
“That’s news to me.” Mayflower was looking at his desk clock. “But then I lack your background in theology.” He parted his pale lips just enough to indicate he spoke facetiously.
“Oh, yes. And his other name is El Manipulador. He who—”
“I know what it means. And I suspect I know what you’re getting at. If I felt it necessary to defend the company, and the national interests it serves, against your implied criticism—and I emphatically do not—I would point out that both manipulation and control are sometimes requisite in order to secure and insure stability. If that smacks to you of the satanic, then I suggest you think of it as us using the Devil to further the aims of God.” He cleared his throat again in that self-consciously dignified way of his. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to—”
“Stability the handiwork of God? You’ve got to be kidding! If God’s aim is stability, then he’s a monumental, incompetent failure, the biggest loser of all time. This universe he’s credited with creating is dynamic, in almost constant flux. Any stability we might perceive in it on any level is as temporary as it is aberrant. Symbiosis, maybe; even a kind of harmonious interaction, but not stability. The Tao is a shaky balancing act between unstable yin and unstable yang. The fact is . . .”
“I must call an end to—”
“. . . neither God nor the Devil is the least concerned with stability. Human artifices such as fixity and certainty are a big bore to the immortals. Which is why it’s so corny of us to try to paint God as absolute good and Satan as absolute evil. Of course, I resorted to that convenient, conventional symbology myself in my previous analogy, so you’re right, Mayflower, I was blathering like a theologian, and a half-baked one at that. Maybe it’s okay, after all, to lie to the Devil. But for reasons of my own, I refuse to lie to you or yours.”
(Where was this coming from? Usually, he only went on like this when he was bent or stoned, and that morning he’d had but one beer with breakfast.)
“Happy to hear it,” said Mayflower, pressing the intercom buzzer. “Joolie, would you show Mr. Switters out. I hate to terminate this fascinating discussion, but. . . .” Clenching and unclenching his hard, perfect teeth, he stood. “Perhaps we can resume it at some future date. During a round of golf or . . . no, I suppose you’ll not be golfing, will you? Excuse me. I’m sorry.”
“No problem, pal. Most American men secretly hate women and love golf. I love women and hate golf.”
“Yes, you are a man apart, aren’t you? Well then. The committee meets Friday. Check in with me on, uh, Monday, and you’ll be advised of your status. Should we decide on suspension or dismissal, you obviously have the right to appeal. I should caution you, however, that the Civil Service Commission is quite reluctant to interfere in internal matters of the CIA.”
Doing his best to pop a wheelie, though only half succeeding, Switters spun and followed Joolie out. Before the door closed behind him, he called over his shoulder: “I’ll give your regards to Audubon Poe.” He could have sworn he heard Mayflower sputter.
“Joolie, would it be considered sexual harassment if I—”
“Don’t even think about it,” warned Joolie. But like a miser making a night deposit at an inner city bank, she leaned over with a kind of fearful glee and planted a peck perilously close to his pucker.
Women love these fierce invalids home from hot climates?
That night he hit the bars in D.C.’s hotel district, wishing he were in Patpong as he zigzagged from one to another, slicing through knots of pedestrians like Alexander’s sword, turning away at the door when he found a lounge to have a pianist in residence, for fear that, provoked by booze, he might erupt in song at the first tinkling rendition of a Broadway standard. Years earlier, he’d contemplated having a device surgically implanted in his throat to prevent any such musical indiscretion under the quickening of drink, and had gone so far as to contact a certain Hungarian clinic, only to have its administrator suggest he see a psychiatrist instead.
Bar patrons were swift to move aside for him, showing him the guilty, condescending respect reserved for the disabled. At Spin Doctor’s, he was invited to wheel his chair up to a table occupied by five government workers: two male, three female, under thirty, reasonably attractive. After a round or two, he was entertaining them with an abridged, shaman-free account of taking his grandmother’s parrot to the Amazon to reunite it with its origins. They seemed enthralled, but midway through his narration one of the men interrupted him to describe the difficulties he was experiencing trying to housebreak his new puppy, and soon all of them were telling their favorite dumb, boring pet stories. Raising his voice above the rest, Switters announced solemnly, “This morning, I received proof positive that my tabby cat is the reincarnation of a Las Vegas crime lord.” The table fell silent, and once more all ears were his. He merely looked them over, however, removed his hand from the baby fat of the feminine knee to his right (a hard-won concession), finished off his tequila jackhammer, then sped recklessly to the door. Jesus, he thought as he rolled out onto the street, I might just as well have sung “Memories.”
The next day he slept late, not surprisingly, and upon rising began quite mindlessly to pack. It was almost as if he were being directed by his welled unconscious, a wholly intuitive impulse that he did not think to challenge until he had cleaned out his closets. It was evening before he received confirmation that his intuition had been on the money. E-mail arrived from Bobby Case claiming that the angel grapevine was abuzz with rumors that Switters was about to be sacked.
Bobby offered assistance, hinting that he had enough embarrassing dirt on company activities to make Mayflower Cabot Fitzgerald a reluctant ally for life. Switters replied that he would think it over. Bobby e-mailed back, “Okay, think, but don’t forget to sit.”
So, over the weekend he sat. And he got stoned. And he thought some. And when on Monday morning Joolie telephoned to inform him he was in trouble—Mayflower wanted him in on Tuesday for a daylong debriefing session—he could actually sound nonchalant, though some of it was faked. Impressed, Joolie confessed in a tremulous whisper (fully aware that she was being recorded) that she wished she could have known him better.
“Yes,” agreed Swit
ters, “I can picture the two of us sharing a gypsy cave above a deserted beach with nothing on but the shortwave radio, a shaft of sunlight visually activating the coppery coils around your . . .” Joolie, a true redhead, hung up for fear she might swoon.
Switters then called a real estate agency and put his condo on the market. He had very little equity in the property, but any amount he might realize would help. He wasn’t fully aware of it at the time, but the fact that he was about to disobey orders by refusing to be debriefed would end up costing him his severance pay.
Too antsy to wait for a train, he took that very night a red-eye flight (sans gravy) to Seattle by way of Los Angeles, greatly annoying the D.C. taxi driver when, after announcing Dulles as his destination, he spat on the floor of the cab.
Undoubtedly, there are those who would be inclined to sneer at Switters, judging him in word and deed to have proven himself immature, frivolous, or even zany (to employ that stale adjective—from the Italian, zanni, a would-be or untalented clown—that the leaden are so fond of applying to characters less stodgy and predictable than they or their friends). The psychoanalytically disposed, on the other hand, might detect in his behavior, particularly as described in recent pages, a classic, arguably heroic, example of despair refusing to take itself seriously. Well, maybe.
Sigmund Freud once wrote that “Wit is the denial of suffering,” meaning not that the witty, the playful among us, deny that suffering exists—in varying degrees, everyone suffers—but rather that they deny suffering power over their lives, deny it prominence, use jocularity to keep it in its place. Freud may have been right. Certainly, a comic sensibility is essential if one is to outmaneuver ubiquitous exploitation and to savor life in a society that seeks to control (and fleece) its members by insisting they take its symbols, institutions, and consumer goods seriously, very seriously, indeed.