Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates

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 gene 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.”