Incompleat Iconoclast

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

Some movement behind Paola: the maître d’ waved a napkin above his head. I glanced across the street, curious who could be watching for the signal. Earlier, I had noticed a police sergeant loitering by the newsstand, flipping the pages of a magazine. Now he stared at me from behind impenetrable sunglasses. When the maître d’ shouted a clipped “Eh!,” the sergeant darted through the traffic on the busy avenue.

When I turned back to remark on this astonishing development, Anyssa or Martina or Paola had vanished, and two waiters struggled to drag the strange herald away from my table.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

I didn’t recognize his face or the strange accent. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

“If you will allow me only a m-moment, I have information that is vital to your s-s-safety, but we must not—”

“Who are you? Who sent you here?” Martina asked. Her face looked fearful—or was she angry? I’d never seen her so upset in our four months together. She pushed away from the table, turned her head toward the door of the restaurant, and waved two fingers at the maître d’.

“Puh-puh-please, señor, you must b-be very careful. They know all about your new experiment—”

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

When I opened my eyes again, the spot of light had climbed up the opposite wall. I tried to calculate how long I’d been unconscious—three hours, perhaps? Then I remembered the dream: last Wednesday, lunch with Anyssa—the bistro on Avenida Mistral. We had just ordered a bottle of cheap Chardonnay when a short, balding man stepped out of the sidewalk crowd and approached our table. He clutched a black book against the lapel of his shiny gray suit.

“Señor Vicente, I’m very s-s-sorry to interrupt your meal,” he said. “But I must discuss a matter of g-great importance.”

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

I awoke and found myself in an unfamiliar gray space, my aching body supine on a smooth concrete floor. Through a squarish opening somewhere above my head, a narrow beam of light illuminated dust motes in the air and allowed me to discern the extent of the room. The floor was about ten feet by ten feet. I pulled myself into a sitting position with my back against the outside wall. Good God! I realized that the room had no door. I searched the space above for some sense of the ceiling but saw only an endless column of darkness.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick