The Comedy is Finished

this tape?”

“Let’s,” Lynsey said. “I’m looking forward to hearing why they want to go on dealing with Mr. Wiskiel.”

“So am I,” Wiskiel said.

The three of them trooped into the workroom, where the technician had the tape already in position on the machine. He started it, and a sudden stir of unease and shock touched them all at Koo’s first words: “This is— what’s left of—Koo Davis—speaking to you—from inside the whale—”

That was not the famous Koo Davis voice. This tattered croak was barely above a whisper, the panted breath rapid and harsh, the sound altogether that of utter exhaustion and illness. Looking across at Mike Wiskiel, Lynsey saw that he too was shocked by it, jolted out of ignorant complacency.

From the machine, the pain-wracked voice went on: “I wanna say hello—to Lily and my sons—Barry and Frank—and especially—Gilbert Freeman—my favorite host—in all the world—and now I got—a script to read.”

A pause. Clicks on the tape. The voice again:

“It is now—noon—and I have been—given my medicine—the twenty-four hours—will be up—at six o’clock—if the ten—aren’t released—by then—my medicine will be—taken away from me—again—until the demands—have been met—announcements—on the radio—will reach the people—who are holding me.”

There followed a brief rustling silence, and more clicks, and then the familiar harsh voice spoke out, startlingly loud and aggressive after Koo’s labored faintness:

“Put Mike Wiskiel back in charge. We’ll negotiate with no one else. He understands us now, he won’t make the same mistake again. We don’t want to have to train any more FBI men. And Wiskiel knows we’re serious. Six o’clock is the deadline.”

The voice stopped, the technician shut off the tape, and there was a brief awkward silence, in which everyone moved slightly, shuffling their feet or clearing their throats. Mike Wiskiel sat forward on the folding chair, elbows on knees, continuing to gaze at the black composition floor, and Lynsey found herself feeling sorry for the man. His nose was really being rubbed in it. Not that he didn’t deserve it.

But there was something else, something tugging at her mind, taking her attention away from the question of whether or not FBI Agent Wiskiel had learned anything about humility. Turning to Jock Cayzer, she said, “May I hear it again?”

“Well, sure,” he said. “If you want.”

“Yes, please.” Then she became aware that Wiskiel was giving her an aggrieved look; did the man think she was just trying to make him feel worse? She explained, “There was something wrong with it. In the first part, before he was reading.”

Wiskiel frowned. “Wrong? What do you mean, wrong?”

“Just let me hear it again.”

So the technician ran the tape back to the beginning, and once again they heard Koo say, “This is—what’s left of—Koo Davis—speaking to you—from inside the whale—I wanna say hello—to Lily and my sons—Barry and Frank —and especially—Gilbert Freeman—my favorite host—in all the world—and now I—”

“Stop,” she said, and the technician hit the button, and the grainy voice broke off.

Jock Cayzer said, “Did you get it?”

“Gilbert Freeman,” she said. “Why would Koo talk about Gilbert Freeman?”

“Who is he?”

Lynsey was astonished; you didn’t have to get very far from your own field to discover that fame was relative. “Gilbert?” she said. “He’s one of the most famous directors in the world. He did Chattanooga Chop.”

Wiskiel said, “A movie director. So what’s the problem?”

“Koo scarcely knows the man,” she explained. “They’ve met three or four times, at parties or dinners, but that’s all. Why would Koo talk about him now?”

Jock Cayzer said, “Koo Davis has been in a lot of movies. This fellow Freeman ever direct any of them?”

“Oh, no. Gilbert is an entirely different sort from Koo, very trendy and hip-artistic. Improvisational. Tricky sound tracks, indirect story lines. Pauline Kael loves him.”

It was clear that Pauline Kael was another name that rang no bells with either man. Nevertheless, Wiskiel said, “So you’re saying there’s no real link.”

Lynsey said, “He might as well have talked about the weekend in Reno he spent with Simone de Beauvoir.”

Wiskiel said, “Okay, I’ve got the idea. Now, what does he say about this fellow?”

She quoted from memory. “Gilbert Freeman, my favorite host in all the world.”

“Favorite host.”

Jock Cayzer said, “Let me see do I follow this. Gilbert Freeman never was Koo Davis’ host.”

“That’s right,” Lynsey said.

Cayzer scratched his head with big-knuckled fingers. “I don’t get it. Does he mean Gilbert Freeman is one of the kidnappers?”

“Oh, he can’t,” Lynsey said. “No, that’s just too silly.”

“He means something,” Mike Wiskiel said, “that’s for sure. And let me say, that’s beautiful work he did there. He’s sick and he’s hurt, and still he threw a curve ball right past them.”

“That’s right,” Lynsey said. “And it’s up to us to be up to him, to be as good as he is. He got that out to us, and now we have to do the rest.”

15

Koo is listening to a talk on tribal problems in Africa. I don’t believe this, says his internal monologue. I don’t believe this is happening.

It’s been an hour since Mark dropped his bombshell statement and walked out of here, and Koo’s mind is still reeling. On the other hand, his physical condition has improved steadily, leaving now only a residue of deep weariness, a drained feeling as though the knots of all his muscles have been untied. What he mostly feels like is a flat tire.

Earnest Larry is saying, “So you see, Koo, the national boundaries are all wrong. Here’s the Luanda tribe, they’re spread over parts of Zaire and Zambia and Angola, and their loyalty isn’t to any of those nations, it’s to their own tribe. Is there any greater proof of the continuing dominance of the imperial powers? The African nations have boundary lines drawn according to which European nation colonized where, when the lines ought to be drawn according to tribal and linguistic groupings. Every single war and revolution in Africa in the last twenty years has been inter-tribal: tribes with no sensible relationship jammed willy- nilly into the same so-called nation. Who profits from that, Koo? Well, let’s look at it.”

But what Koo is looking at is his memory of Mark’s face, in those climactic few seconds before he left the room; all those emotions crowding by, furious and bitter and speciously calm, ironical. What in Christ’s name did Mark mean? “You fathered me. I’m your son.” Then he ran out, while Koo was still too stunned to ask him anything, and now the question grows with every second. Is it some lamebrain political credo? Larry here might build some idiotic family-of-man allegory into that ultimate statement—“You fathered me. I’m your son.”—but is that Mark’s style? What is Mark’s style anyway, other than simple brutality?

Does Larry know what Mark had in mind? If Koo could develop some sort of conversation with Larry, he might be able to ask the question in some indirect way, but the problem is, he can’t think of anything to say. Even without the enigma of Mark distracting his brain it’d be tough chatting with Larry; how do you respond to such half-baked bullshit? Larry knows all these facts and figures, he’s got these set-pieces about African tribes, value-for-labor, child mortality, community responsibility, you name it, but the connections he makes and the conclusions he draws are completely weird. He obviously possesses great sincerity and a strong moral sense, but he’s trying to make virtue take the place of brains. What Larry’s doing, he’s making a pearl necklace using some real pearls, some fake pearls, and imaginary string.

Jesus Christ, it suddenly comes to him; ever since Larry started talking to him, in the back of Koo’s mind