punchline of a joke he didn’t find particularly funny.
“Miss Coombs apparently feels this qualifies him as a physicist,” said Evan. He spoke in the same ironic, world-weary tone.
“Correction. Professor Coombs. Huh.”
I sat, dumbfounded by the ping-pong clatter of their talk. I was doing my best to look comfortable, my mouth clenched in a smile, my legs crossed, all the while failing to produce the one signal that might be received —speech.
“Do you have the time?”
“Quarter to five,” I squeaked.
“Really? I’ve got four-forty-two. Evan?”
“Same. At least we’re synchronized. That’s something.”
“Do you think I’m right?” Garth asked me. “Who do you think is wrong?”
“I’m probably wrong,” I managed.
Garth turned his head toward Evan. His eyes were open a little, slits of white beneath his near-purple lids, twin moons smiling in the night of his face. “We could all be wrong,” he said gravely.
There was a sound at the door. Alice came in, arms loaded with straining bags of groceries, celery and paper towels poking out at the top. She peered over the top and offered superfluous introductions as she juggled the bags into the kitchen.
I followed her in and cleared space on the counter, which was crammed with humming, ready appliances. We unpacked. Alice sorted out dinner. Green peas, salmon, rice, avocado, ice cream. The rest we crammed into cupboards. I waited for the sound of running water to cover my voice.
“They’re incredible.”
“They can’t help it.”
“The talk. It’s obsessive.”
“Compensation. They can’t see. They map their environment verbally.”
“It requires a lot of confirmation, this map.”
“Listen to them. It’s poetic.”
“Synchronizing their watches constantly. Like astronauts.”
Alice put on water for rice, rinsed the peas, skinned the avocado. I offered the blind men drinks again. They refused again. We listened as they quietly and persistently mapped the living room, negotiating over the distances between various landmarks, the floor lamp, the fireplace, the doorstep. I cut a lemon.
“What about the aneurysm? What happened?”
“The breach stabilized.”
“Breach?”
“Soft upgraded it to breach status.”
“Worse or better than aneurysm?”
“Different. More stable.”
“But completely unexpected.”
“In retrospect less so. I took it to my computer this afternoon. My equations don’t balance unless I allow for the portal.”
“Portal or breach? There seems to be some blurriness.”
“Soft calls it a breach,” she said. “I call it a portal.”
“It’s Soft’s thing.”
“If I describe it it’s my thing. I’m getting interested.” She was turned away from me, slicing avocado, crushing herbs. Inside I heard the blind men talking of bus stops and pay phones.
“I thought you already were interested.”
“When it was going to detach it was more Soft’s kind of thing,” she said. “But it’s still here. That’s my kind of thing.”
“You like perceptible things,” I suggested. “You like to make measurements.”
“Not easily perceptible,” she pointed out. “Just barely present.”
“It’s all colors,” I said.
“What?”
“The food. You’re cooking for blind men, and it’s all colors. Green peas, blueberry ice cream, salmon. Avocado.”
We stared at each other.
“Will they feel like they’re missing something?” she whispered.
“It must happen sometimes. I mean, they
We took dinner out and set the table hastily around it. The blind men, led to the table, became formal and quiet. I could see them browsing the collage of smells and sounds, the gentle clinking of silverware and ice. Alice filled the plates, and we ate, the blind men leaning over their plates, forking up unknown quantities to meet trembling lips. Peas and rice tumbled back to the table.
Alice began to talk. “In physics we have an observer problem,” she said. “Suppose we take a spinning electron and observe which direction its spin axis lies along. We find, oddly enough, that it lies along whatever direction we choose to observe from.”
“An observer problem, huh,” said Garth, with disturbing emphasis.
“This chicken is very good,” said Evan.
“We rarely have chicken,” said Garth.
We were eating fish. I said nothing.
“Some people think the observer’s consciousness determines the spin or even the existence of the electron.”
“I believe the salt is three, maybe four inches to the right of your plate.”
“More like five.”
“That’s probably closer to my plate, then.”
“It’s a problem of subjectivity, really. How can the observer make an objective observation? It’s impossible.”
“A problem of subjectivity. Huh.”
I wanted to interrupt. Alice’s effort seemed hopeless. I hadn’t learned yet that Evan and Garth were listening.
“We spoke about this before, didn’t we?” said Garth. “In her office, last Friday.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Evan. A grain of rice clung to his upper lip. “In her office.”
“About what time?”
“About three in the afternoon.”
“Roughly ninety-six hours ago. Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s about right.”
“Huh.” Garth raised his head, aimed his eyes at the ceiling. Alice and I looked at him.
“Well,” he said, “we got a book.”
“From the library,” said Evan.
“We read about it. The observer problem.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Alice.
“She says it’s wonderful,” said Evan, as if Garth couldn’t hear anyone but him.
“I think I understand,” said Garth. “It’s a problem of subjectivity, knowing. Thinking. Observing is like thinking.”
“Yes.”
“Except for me. I can see without thinking. That’s what they mean by blindsight. Not that it’s doing me any good. Huh.”
“Yes,” said Alice again. The white man and the black man smiled. Some kind of understanding had been reached. I was alone in my confusion.
“What’s blindsight?” I said.
“He wants to know what blindsight is.” They snorted over private ironies. “Do you want to tell him?”
