Incompleat Iconoclast

I turned my attention to the spot where the meal had appeared. Probing with my fingertips, I examined an area out to a couple of feet from the tray, but could detect no cracks or indentations. I explored the base of the wall. There! Parallel to the floor and about 10 inches above it, I felt a hairline fissure, just enough to catch against the edge of a fingernail. I traced its length—perhaps two feet. At either end, it met at a right angle with a vertical seam that dropped to the floor. I had found a trap door.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

I ate too quickly to notice the blandness of the soup until it was almost gone. After many hours in this dank cell, its warmth was soothing. If my captors troubled themselves to feed me, they wanted me alive—at least for now.

When the food was gone, I examined the implements. The tray, the bowl, and the blunt, shallow spoon were all made of the same hard, smooth polymer. I leaned the spoon against the edge of the overturned tray and pressed my weight on it, but it wouldn’t break. Nothing to serve as a tool or weapon here.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

A loud click from the collar signaled the end of the conversation. As I pulled myself up to sit with my back against the outer wall, I noticed something new on the other side of the room. On the floor directly opposite the window, near the base of the wall, lay a tray of food. I rose to my feet and staggered over to examine it.

The plastic cafeteria tray held a bowl of thick, steaming soup and a chunk of bread torn from a rustic loaf. I was starving and in no position to worry about poison or drugs.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

A calm, flat voice behind me said, “Good evening, Doctor Conrad.” I turned to look for the speaker, but saw the same gray walls.

“I must ask you not to cry out. We’d prefer not to punish you further. In any case, no one can hear you.” The sound seemed to originate from the device clamped around my neck.

“Who are you?” I tried to control my shaking. “Why have you brought me here?”

“If you cooperate, you will not be harmed,” he said.

“Why should I believe you?” I asked.

“You may believe whatever you choose,” said the voice.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

The sound of an engine jolted me from my reverie. I scrambled to my feet and stood beneath the window, but the concrete walls scattered the noise. I could determine nothing useful about the direction of the source, only that it was approaching. The vehicle screeched to a stop. Two doors opened and closed in quick succession, then a third.

I shouted, “Please, can anyone hear me?” In an instant, I doubled over. Waves of pain radiated from my throat and echoed in every muscle fiber. I lay panting on the floor, clutching the hard metal collar around my neck.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

But the handwriting was not that of my ex-wife. Furthermore, Paola and I were married on a September evening, and she departed before we’d made it through four summers together.

What kind of joke was this? I closed the book and examined its cover. No title—indeed, no printing of any kind on the outside. I opened it again and turned leaves until I found the title page, which identified it as an early German edition of Heisenberg’s The Physical Principles of the Quantum Theory. Thirteen years ago, this book started me down the unexpected path to my present project.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

I considered that perhaps Anyssa had left it behind. But that couldn’t be the case; I had seen her step from the taxi carrying only a black umbrella and a tiny red patent leather clutch. I felt uneasy, wondering what eyes might be watching me. I didn’t wish to make myself more conspicuous to any diners who might not have witnessed our raised voices. So I returned to my seat, reached for the book, slid it toward me, and opened the cover. The handwritten inscription read:

March 16th

On the occasion of our fourth
wedding anniversary.
With my love.

Paola

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

But there had been no stuttering stranger on Wednesday. And Paola left four years ago, taking our two-year-old son to live in the lowland city where she had been born. Dear Martina was gone—the only casualty of an unexplained fire that consumed the laboratory where she’d worked alongside my professional rival and best friend, Dr. Santiago Real.

No, there was only the bistro, our disagreement, the bitter words with which Anyssa left me on the sidewalk, and the book I found on the white linen cloth when I returned to the table to nurse my pride with bad wine.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick