Names

The kitchen was the latest in kitchens and kitchenware, there at the mid-semester mixer hosted by our newest Associate Professor and his mousy wife. They had an island of chromium steel (dark wet wood detail), a Samsung true convection range (five burners), an LG dishwasher (QuadWash), and a Bosch refrigerator (LED lighting and transparent storage). With the hand that wasn't holding the highball glass of a Cuba Libre I pulled open the fridge to look inside. I saw routine milk, butter, and cheese, plus two extra plates of store-bought finger foods, Gatorade, 7 Up and cream soda, Argentine brie, Mexican sauces, foil shaped like leftover pizza, a thin loaf (cut diagonally) of French bread, a jar of capers, hard-boiled eggs exposed in a porcelain bowl, a quart of cream, six stalks of lettuce gathered with a green rubber band, two ripening tomatoes, and a tub of strawberry yoghurt.

The host, who'd snuck up on me, said: "What's this, Pat? Stocking another story?"

I let go of the fridge door and the fridge smoothly shut itself up. "I don't know," I said. "Perhaps I am."

He grabbed my shoulder and said: "There's some friends of mine that wanna meet you."

My host‑in triple-buttoned green velvet house-shoes, black pleated pants, a white shirt, and an ash-coloured tie‑pulled me through the mambo-soaked living-room into a small office at the rear of the bungalow. Two identical men were standing at the books, the books themselves being lined up on an Ikea blonde case within reach of a desk of no special character on which a Dell computer, a Lenovo keyboard, and a Microsoft wireless mouse sat. I naturally noticed that a conspicuously unused small blue notebook was set perfectly parallel to the keyboard. One of the two men turned to look at me. He was holding a copy of my novel We'll Call It the Midwest, in paperback from Vintage (1992). He said: "Dr. Lazenby. We are pleased to make your acquaintance."

I nodded. "That was my breakthrough opus."

"And a killer one it is. Anyhoo, Larry and me want to ask you some stuff."

The man's louche gutter demotic made my hackles rise. "One must contact my agent if one wishes an interview."

The other man chucked obviously. "It's not that kind of an interview we're after. It's more of a ... national security issue."

The new Associate Professor (for the life of me I can't remember his name) pulled me closer to the two 'national security' vulgarians. "Hear them out."

I sighed. "So, what does this concern? There's blasé drinking to do. The pathetic emptiness of a college town won't very well describe itself, now will it? I'd throw a drink in the Dean's face, if only it hadn't been done before." I coughed. "Well, close enough."

The clone holding my book looked at his partner. "What should we ask?"

My unnamed host snapped his fingers. "Dr. Lazenby, you were just looking in my refrigerator, weren't you?"

"Of course I was. A Bosch."

"Tell these gentlemen what was in it."

"Succinctly?"

"I think so."

"Milk, butter, cheese, finger foods, Gatorade, 7 Up, cream soda, brie, sauces, pizza, bread, capers, eggs, cream, lettuce, tomatoes, and yoghurt."

The clone who was not holding my book stepped forward quickly, suddenly with a hypodermic needle at the ready in his hand, while my host took hold of my head and turned it to one side; the needle shot into my neck and was just as quickly removed. All this happened in about two seconds.

"You ... scoundrels!" The poison had already taken effect.

The one who had been holding my book‑I bet he'd only read the back cover‑said: "You're going to sleep now. There's nothing you can do about it. When you awake, you'll be in a different place. Look at the pretty bird.... It's got a golden wing.... How did that get in here? Milk ... butter ... cheese...."

I awoke, in warmth, in comfort, in a warm bed. The pillow seemed made of silk, and the sheets were thick, four hundred thread, maybe more. I looked around the room, which turned out to be decidedly antiseptic, with white walls, recessed illumination, a sleek white plastic chair, a plastic table. I couldn't see any branding anywhere. Everything had to have been custom-made. The place had the stink of deep pockets.

A voice said: "Good afternoon, Dr. Lazenby. Do not be alarmed. You're in a safe place. An attendant will be with you shortly."

I climbed out of the bed. I overturned the chair: no branding. What kind of a place was this? The electricity hummed. I examined the pillow. Nothing there either. I pinched myself and hurt. (I didn't know what else to do.)

As promised, an attendant came into the monastic room. She was dressed as you'd imagine a nurse in an insane asylum would dress, a lot like that woman in that film One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, what's-her-name, with white shoes and white stockings, a light blue dress cut down below her knees and sleeves past her elbows, but with no cap on her head whose hair was cut in a bob and red. I was still groggy.

She said: "Mr. Lazenby, please, come with me."

"Where am I?"

"Come with me and you'll find out absolutely everything. Questions are encouraged here."

Having little else to do, 'ha-ha,' I followed her out of the room, keeping a distance of five feet. The hallway through which we walked was white like the room, with recessed lighting. We passed six white doors and entered the seventh.

This room was like some suburban gentleman's mid-century den. Oak mouldings ran horizontally and vertically along spruce walls that had hanging upon them non-representational artworks of various sizes. A eggshell-curtained window let in light through the opposite wall, and a desk was set at a slight angle in the middle of the room. Behind the desk sat a man I did not know. His right hand was resting on a pile that appeared to consist of my complete works, including my early experimental novel Sizzizzphizz.

"Dr. Lazenby, come in, sit down."

I sat down and got straight to the point. "Where am I?"

"You can call it Western Spy Central. The true name is deeply classified."

"I see. And you've chosen to abduct me."

"We prefer to say have been put into a situation in which you may volunteer."

"Ah, so I can leave now?"

"No."

"Oh."

"It's not as bad as that. You'll see." He drummed his fingers atop my volumes. "We have studied your books carefully. Care to hear some of our researcher's reviews?"

"I never read reviews."

"Have no fear. I will read them to you."

"I fail to see the distinction."

He held up his hand dismissively. "You'll see that these reviews are not literary."

He read from a sheet of letter-size. "Complex collation of the coverage of a desk.... Impressive detailing of an Iowa barn.... Nearly a catalogue, this account of a shoe factory.... Excellent capture of detailed 'mood' in a brothel." He set down the paper. "In our judgement, you have the best recollection and recall of any living American mid-list writer."

"I've dubbed it 'verisimilitude.'"

"Whatever you call it, you've got it, and we want it."

The conversation was getting, as you no doubt agree, tiresome. "So what do you want me to do? I have acolytes whose flawed though sincere stories of growing up too sensitive for words need my attention."

The man noisily riffled through one of my books, a gesture known to authors as 'waterboarding.' He said: "There's a list of covert double agents contained in a filing cabinet in the office of a high-ranking General. This General we know to be a traitor, and if he catches wind that we're onto him, he'll destroy the list. We want the names of the covert agents because they themselves are taskmasters for a greater number of covert agents at all levels of government. Honestly, sometimes I think double agents outnumber agents. Sometimes I think I may be a double agent myself."

I remained unmoved at his joke.

"So," he continued: "We require you, after you've been trained in Espionage 101, to infiltrate his office on the pretext of a fact-finding mission for a novel you would be writing that concerns a high-ranking General and his sensitive childhood in a small timeless town that maintains a hidden history of violence and bigotry."

"It's been done."

"Oh, yes: a million jillion times. Which makes it quite likely to be done again."

"And again: Do I have any choice in this process?"

"Fail, and you shall be disappeared."

That statement was enough to convince me to cooperate.

A full week of intensive training began. I was put on a Spartan diet entirely absent of alcohol (!) and I was forced to sleep eight hours a day (!). I was taught relaxation techniques to reduce my normally sweaty appearance. I was instructed on quantum probability theory to make my filing cabinet search as quick as possible.

After that week, I was considered to be a cool and calculating tool of the government. I was unflappably debonair. I'd even come up with some plot twists for the fictions of my fictional novel. My "agent" (actually a female Pfc.) arranged the interview with the General. I would come to his office at the Fort, bright and early on a Tuesday morning. I slept like a baby the night before, entirely un-medicated and stone cold sober, which was quite a novel experience.

Mission day arrived, and I, with a thoroughly empty bladder, was driven by a nondescript taxicab to the Fort. I got out and paid the driver (with money from 'Western Spy Central' petty cash). I went up to the building. Soldiers were marching in a far field prettily. I told the lovely uniformed woman at the front desk about my appointment and she telephoned deep within the building to the General.

"Your escort will be here momentarily," she said.

My escort, in a uniform different from the receptionist's, welcomed me efficiently coldly. He took me down a hall that was surprisingly not very different from any other office building's hallway. The first hallway had seven doors; the second hallway had nine doors; and the third hallway had six doors. He knocked at the sixth door.

"Come in," said a voice.

The door was opened for me, and I entered the General's office.

Naturally, I had never been in a General's office before. Nor on a military base. Nor within 10 feet of a projectile weapon such as the pistol the General had strapped across his chest. The General himself was about fifty years of age, which I thought was well advanced for a traitor. His close-cropped hair was black, though grey at the temples. I was impressed by his dress uniform, with its shined brass buttons and its flattering fit. I introduced myself and he said: "I've been expecting you. Please sit down. What would you like to know? I hope you're planning an appealing portrait."

I described what I hoped to do in my 'novel.' "It will be a full portrait of a fictional general. I will not use any of your personal details. I am rather in search of the telling detail, the mot juste, that will bring my character to life."

The General smiled. "Very well. What would you like to know?"

"Coffee?" I gestured to a full pot nearby.

"Thank you."

I brought the pot within his arm's reach. I poured him a cup, and I poured myself a cup: which I did not drink.

I asked him to describe his job in full, about his diet, his routine, his meetings, his place in the chain of command, his hobbies and pastimes, his enthusiasms, his career, his education, his parentage, his friendships, his sport likings, his aspirations, his family.

This all took two hours. He was fidgeting. Finally he said: "I'm sorry, but may I be excused for a moment?"

"Certainly. I'll wait right here."

He left the room.

The steel filing cabinet had three drawers. I opened the middle one, which had a resistance that bespoke frequent use. I started flipping through the files. They were arranged idiosyncratically. The seventh manila was entitled: Contacts, and I pulled it out. It was what I was after. I looked down the list of names, remembering what I could. Then I returned the envelope to the cabinet, closed it, and sat right back down, crossing my legs exactly.

The General returned. I said: "Actually, I think I have plenty of information. You have been extraordinarily kind to allow me these hours of research."

"It's my pleasure," he said, rising.

We shook hands, and I left the Fort in a wholly casual manner.

Soon I was back at Western Spy Central. My abductor and three of his cohort sat me down in an office.

"Did you find the names?"

"I found the names quite readily."

One of them sat down, pad and pen in hand. "What are they?"

I said: "Now, let me see. One of them was a Steve. Or maybe it was Steven. We'll get back to that. Mike? Mark? Maybe I should start with last names. Um. Ah. Let's see. I'm terribly sorry, gentlemen. You see, I'm very bad with proper names."