The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(101)

I’m not so sure.

It’s all right. He makes me smile, actually. It’s not important. What the world would look like without his practice. Our choices would be limited. What is more of interest is his clientele.

Who are his clientele?

History is his clientele.

History is not a thing.

Well said. If problematic. History is a collection of paper. A few fading recollections. After a while what is not written never happened.

And a good part of what is?

Well. That’s the subject at hand.

Who pays for it?

You do.

I do.

Yes. And every revision of history is a revision of wealth. And unless you’re living in a dumpster you get to contribute.

I am living in a dumpster.

If you say so.

All this in a dream.

Why not?

Did you ever tell her this dream?

Didnt have to.

Why not?

It was her dream.

But you understood it.

Come on.

Is history about money?

Until you had money you didnt have history. How’s that?

I dont know. Suspect. At best.

Rumor, hearsay. Lies. If you think that the dignity of your life cannot be cancelled with the stroke of a pen then I think you should think again.

Were those her thoughts?

No. Those are mine.

She must have said something about him. The peddler.

You know what it was like.

No. I dont.

All physical history eventually turns out to be a chimera. She said that even if you place your hands on the stones of ancient buildings you’ll never really believe that the world which they’ve survived had at one time the same reality as the one you’re standing in. History is belief.

I’m not sure I see the point of the story. What other dreams?

Dreams dreams. What sort of despair would drive a person to the looney bin to query the mad as to their views?

Good question.

Do you know the Wisconsin Card-Sorting Test?

I know of it.

Schizos are notoriously poor at it. It’s an analytical tool. She was a whiz at it.

What did the doctors make of that?

They gave her more tests.

More tests.

Sure.

That’s what they do.

That’s what they do. She once scored an eight on the Stanford-Binet.

An eight?

Yes.

Okay.

They gave her the test again and she scored a five. Roughly the IQ of a loaf of bread. But she quit.

Sure. She wouldnt take any more of their tests. I think she said that she’d take the Coonsfeldt if they’d change the name. They wanted to know if she was anti-Semitic.

Or anti-Black?

Or.

He lowered the binoculars and looked at Western. They were doing a paper. Who the fuck knows what they were up to.

If you could leave here where would you go?

I dont know. I certainly dont know as I would want to leave here. It’s far from perfect. But it’s what there is. Why? You want to go on the road?

I am on the road.

Yeah. Well, you wouldnt want me along. I attract the wrong kind of attention.

Are you wanted by the authorities?

I dont know. Yeah. Maybe. But they cant fuck with me as long as I’m in the nuthouse. So there you go.

Or dont.

Or dont. It might be fun though. I dont have anybody to talk to.

You said that. Anyway, I know the feeling.

You said that.

She told me once when I was in a suicidal snit that there are certain dispensations for those who survive their own reviling. I think I know what she meant. But if she didnt follow her own counsel how seriously should you take it?

I dont know.

What if the purpose of human charity wasnt to protect the weak—which seems pretty anti-Darwinian anyway—but to preserve the mad? Dont they get special treatment in most primitive societies?

Supposedly.

What does your buddy Frazer say?

I think so. Anecdotally.

You have to be careful about who you do away with. It could be that some part of our understanding comes in vessels incapable of sustaining themselves. What do you think? Maybe you’d have to be crazy to think that.

What else.

She said that femininity encoded mandates that were far less forgiving than anything men were familiar with.

Do you think that’s true?

I dont know. She said it, so it’s got to give you pause. You say something.

About her.

Yeah.

When she was sixteen I gave her a car. This was in Tucson. After a few weeks she packed up her stuff and drove from Tucson to Chicago. Nonstop. It was a fast car and that’s the way she drove it. She drove all distances nonstop. She’d wind her hair up in the window so that if she fell asleep it would jerk her awake.

That’s typical of schizos.

Winding up their hair?

No. Traveling nonstop. What kind of car?

Do you know about cars?

No.

It was a Dodge. A souped up Hemi. Very fast. It would pass everything but a fillingstation.

Did you want her to kill herself?

No. I wanted her to be free.

Do you think that’s freedom?

Maybe not. But a fast car and an open road can give you a sensation that’s hard to duplicate elsewhere or otherwise.

Let me ask you something.