A Working Theory of Love (26 page)

“Rachel,” I say, though I can tell this is the end of the conversation. “Come on.
Rachel.”

•   •   •

A
T
R
ICK AND
S
TEVIE’S
the next day, I consider my options. Rick is a lawyer, after all. But of course we
don’t know anything. Just that it was indeed a sex store—Pleasures and Leathers—that
was torched. And that Trevor is an intense guy—a deeply clicked stroker—with a wild-eyed
touch of absolutism. What is Rick supposed to do, advise on how Trevor can better
get away with it?

I can’t do that to Rick. He’s too excited to show me a new wine, holding a dusty bottle
for my consideration. He treats me as a budding connoisseur, especially compared to
his niece, who takes her meals with Gatorade.

“We just got that from our friends the Rosenthals,” Stevie says. “We’ll have to take
you all out to the Rosenthals’ some weekend while Lexie’s in town.”

“They don’t want to hang out with the old folks,” Rick says.

“We’d love that,” Rachel says. She’s digging around the pantry for chocolate. She
says she has a “craving”—a word that wobbles my knees.

“I don’t drink wine,” Lexie says.

“Well, we don’t know any makers of raspberry vodka,” Stevie says sharply. “Rachel,
there’s should be some fairtrade in the far corner.”

“Those Fairtrades make good chocolate,” Lexie says. “Are they good friends of yours,
too?”

Rick’s spidey-avoidance-sense must be going off. He grunts and lowers himself from
the wicker barstool. He’s taken to faking pain and age around me—to demonstrate the
age gap between us, I think. He massages his lower back with a flat palm.

“Give me a hand?” He gestures to the Pyrex full of jerk chicken.

Outside I take a deep inhale of the dry ground and eucalyptus. Rick places the chicken
in a ring around the coals, quietly chanting
don’t catch fire, don’t catch fire
. A little mantra against disaster. I don’t believe in signs—but it’s sort of a sign.

“I need to ask you a favor,” I say.

“Yeah?” He jabs at the chicken. The word “favor” made him jump.

“You know Trevor, from the Coffee Barn—Rachel’s coworker.”

“Trevor,” he says, nodding his head, not looking at me. “He quit, right?”

“Here’s the thing. He might be letting his passions—the Pure Encounters thing—get
away from him. Rachel thinks he might have caused a fire at the Folsom Street Fair.”

“Fire. Is that a bondage-type thing?”

“No,” I say. I can feel the connections getting away from me. “That’s not what is
important . . .”

“We don’t GPS Rachel’s life.” He glances at me. “She needs independence. We really
feel that was a big problem with her dad.”

“Sure. Of course.” I don’t follow.

“If she wants to spend time with you, or with Trevor—she’s an adult.”

“How much time does she spend with Trevor?”

“I really can’t answer that question.”

“I’m not prying.” At least, I wasn’t. Did I start prying? “I just think she’s vulnerable
right now.”

The chicken flames. Rick spritzes water on the coals. “She’s vulnerable all right,”
he says.

“That’s what worries me about Trevor.”

There’s a furious knocking at the back window. We look up to see Rachel, grinning
from ear to ear, a kid at Christmas, holding up an oversized Krackel bar. She blows
me a kiss.

“We’ve got more pressing worries,” he says. “Namely whether you plan on sticking around.”

22

drbas: ptolemy homer bassett was my great-grandfather. he was a colonel and carried
a saber of spanish steel

frnd1: why spanish steel?

drbas: it was the hardest forged. it was deadlier than the muskets

frnd1: where did he get that name? ptolemy homer?

drbas: ptolemy was a king and homer was a poet

frnd1: i thought ptolemy was an astronomer

drbas: maybe they were wrong. i don’t know them

frnd1: they’re your ancestors. one doesn’t know one’s ancestors

drbas: why can’t i know things? what happened in 1976?

frnd1: i can’t imagine ptolemy homer with his spanish saber would have been my speed

drbas: speed?

frnd1: “to be my speed” = “to have something in common with”

drbas: do you know what i need to know?

frnd1: i’m going to change the subject. i’m worried my girlfriend is unhappy

drbas: does libby know her? is she her speed?

•   •   •

L
IVORNO AND
J
ENN SEEM
to be shouting formulas at each other in the next office. I put on headphones to ignore
them, but Livorno comes to my door, gesticulating with his putter, a mad country club
wizard. He beckons me to his office, which has become unruly, stacked with paper.
He and Jenn present me the log of his morning conversation with Dr. Bassett.

“Lord, Henry,” I say. “What were you doing here at three forty-five?”

“I can hardly sleep of late! Look here . . .” He scans the conversation. I see some
talk about golf, some about vitamins, some about enlarged prostates. It looks like
a friendly chat between a couple of geezers at the home.

“It’s right here,” Jenn says, pointing on the second page.

drbas: what is this turing test?

hlivo: it’s a contest

drbas: ok. tell me more

hlivo: it’s hard to explain . . . it is a contest to see whether a computer is intelligent.
a judge will pose questions to the computer and to a human interlocutor in an effort
to determine who is the human. if the computer can trick judges 30% of the time then
computer is intelligent

drbas: question, henry. what is a human interlocutor?

hlivo: someone you talk to

drbas: that’s a fancy word

hlivo: i beg your pardon

drbas: i said that’s a fancy word

hlivo: i apologize

drbas: don’t think about it

hlivo: so do you understand the turing test?

drbas: a judge talks with two different interlocutors, one is another person, one
is a computer

hlivo: yes. and the judge tries to determine which one is human

drbas: which one?

hlivo: which interlocutor

drbas: i thought persons are always human

hlivo: yes! but the judge doesn’t know which interlocutor is the computer and which
the person

drbas: people and computers don’t look the same

hlivo: the judge can’t see them. that’s why they im

drbas: im?

hlivo: im = instant messaging. it’s what you and I do right now

drbas: you mean “are doing”

hlivo: that’s right. thank you for correcting me. english is not my native tongue

drbas: we’re doing im right now

hlivo: correct

drbas: got it

hlivo: dr bassett, i want you to be in the turing test. i want you to be the person
who tries to convince the judge that you’re human

drbas: when is it?

hlivo: in a few weeks

drbas: is it really important to you, henry?

hlivo: oh, of the utmost importance. it means my reputation. my legacy. everything
i’ve worked for—it means my very career

drbas: then i can do that for you

“Wow,” I say.

“He corrected my English.”

“He corrected his English,” Jenn says.

“I invited him to the test and he
agreed
,” Livorno says.

“He thinks he’s human,” Jenn says.

“He understands time,” he says.

“He understands importance,” she says.

“We talked for hours,” Livorno says. “What a wealth of stories he has!”

“Naturally,” I say, but I feel churlish. “I put them there.”

“Of course.” Henry overflows with sympathy. “Of course you have. However, we do not
have time to celebrate. We have three weeks before the contest. Three weeks to put
the finishing touch on Dr. Bassett.”

“What do we mean by finishing touch?”

“We have an interesting addition,” he says. “Nothing disruptive.”

•   •   •

I
BIDE MY TIME
for the rest of the afternoon, but Jenn has basically moved into Livorno’s office.
She reclines in the Wassily chairs and types on her laptop. If I listen, which I often
do, the conversation is thick with code and allusion. And more troubling—silence.

At six, I hear Jenn close her computer and say she’s calling it a day. I grab my satchel
and step out into the lobby to catch her.

“Walk you to your car?” I say.

She raises an eyebrow. “It’s a dangerous neighborhood,” she says.

We walk together through Laham’s office. He’s slouched over his keyboard, typing madly,
four open cans of Bawls next to his monitor. We step past his monstera plant and into
the gravel parking lot. The rains haven’t come yet; the creek bed is dry.

“Are you proposing another ‘drink’?” she asks.

“What’s the plan with Dr. Bassett?”

“You’ll have to ask Henry. It’s his idea.”

“He said ‘our idea.’ That includes you.”

“He’s the god. I’m just a sounding board.”

“Does Henry know you’re fucking Toler? He might be interested in your pillow talk
at the end of the day.”

Jenn’s face turns sour. “I’m just here to help. Without me, Henry’s left with you.”

“Me? I
am
this project. That’s my father in there.”

She looks towards the back door, but it’s closed. “Adam is going to win this. I worry
about how Henry will take it. He’s very proud, and he should be. None of what we’re
doing would be possible without innovations he made a long time ago. But that was
a long time ago.”

“Toler doesn’t have Henry’s brains.”

“Neither does Henry—anymore.” She sounds truly sad about this development. “You know
Adam has the gut. It was part of the deal for the funding.”

Jesus Christ. He played us as rubes. He bought the poison
and
the antidote. A man of his word.

“I know you’re chatting with Dr. Bassett.”

“That’s part of my job.”

“No—I know you come by and talk about your personal problems.”

She puts her tongue in her bottom lip and considers this. She must think I’ve been
reading the transcripts, though I actually can’t find them. “Well.” She straightens.
“Then you know more about me now than you ever did.”

“I’m going to tell Henry.”

“You’ll just make him unhappy.”

“Fine,” I say. “Maybe I’ll tell Toler’s wife.”

Her expression goes from surprise to hardness. “Go ahead,” she says. “But it’s kind
of a beta male move.”

•   •   •

L
IVORNO EMERGES FROM THE
back door, dressed head to toe in Lycra running gear. He’s perilously thin, a malnourished
seal. We watch Jenn drive away.

“You will be accompanying me on my jog,” he says.

In Livorno’s neighborhood in Los Altos Hills, we shuffle. Slowly, almost penitently.
Livorno claims he’s keeping the pace down for me.

“I’m not sure she can be trusted,” I say.

“Who trusts her?” he says, winded.

“You know she’s Toler’s mistress.”

Livorno winces. “She’s a genuine expert. She’ll just be with us until things blow
over.”

So Livorno knows. Of course he does. “Blow over with the wife?”

He shakes his head. “Adam has always been this way.”

“The marriage counselor to millions.”

“He never claimed to be more than a businessman.”

We’re circling the hobbit cliffs of Livorno’s neighborhood, our feet padding quietly
in the dirt. I’m turned around, and keep expecting to come back to the Subaru, which
I parked in front of his glassy California home. His neighbors’ houses are Georgian
or Italianate, always steroidal. There are no holes in the illusions. The stonework
is weathered, the landscaping expansive. Nothing hints these manors haven’t been handed
down since the time of the House of Hanover, that seventy-five years ago this was
a barren hilltop covered in sheep dung.

“What are you two cooking up for Dr. Bassett?”

“You won’t like it.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

“Jenn believes, and I’m inclined to agree with her, that with Adam bearing down on
us we have to be bold. We think that in keeping with this system we’ve chosen, Dr.
Bassett should have a processor that simulates the sexual nature.”

Next to us is a guardrail and I count the posts: one, five, ten.

“A processor,” I say.

“A small black box. It will remain in his pants, so to speak. I admit this is unconventional,
but systems with emergent behaviors often have hidden symbioses. It’s a little like
the Delaware eating ash with their corn for niacin.”

The Delaware? This is ridiculous. “The program is already terrific.”

“‘Terrific’ is not a quantitative measurement. We need Dr. Bassett to win against
human opponents thirty percent of the time.”

“And this black box is the key.”

“You don’t deny that our sexual nature is a fundamental part of who we are. From an
evolutionary point of view it’s our very essence, the seed around which the rest of
us—mind, body, gut—is built. What is a virus but the ability to reproduce itself?”

“I wouldn’t say a virus has a sexual nature.”

“The innovation may go nowhere. But we have to ask ourselves if we have done everything
we can to increase his sense of being in the world.”

“With Lust and his small black box, he’ll be an old horndog.”

Livorno shudders. “You’re thinking much too literally.”

We turn left, heading up a hill from Concepcion. I can finally see the Subaru. Livorno
plods ahead like a determined wind-up toy, his swinging hips scrawny in the Lycra.
His breath is shallow, but he’s not sweating. Little beads of what appears to be mineral
oil collect along his hairline. As always he’s odorless.

“How are you feeling?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Like a desecrator of graves.”

“I mean your knees,” Livorno says. “I’ve seen too many people train improperly and
get an injury.” That seems to be the end of the conversation.

We do a strange funky chicken walk to loosen our legs as we pass under Livorno’s carport—a
raked roof mounted on four metal poles—to his side door. What we called in Arkansas
the back door. A large cross-stitch—
BACKDOOR FRIENDS ARE BEST
—often greeted you in the kitchen. Lewd jokes aside, I have to agree. In all my Left
Coast years, I’ve had one friend drop by.

Livorno leads me through his time-machine kitchen, and into a living room as big and
bare as a racquetball court. In the middle, on a square of rough-cut institutional
carpet, sits a large veneer desk that I’ve seen at Costco. A full twenty feet away
stands a matching bookcase, mostly empty, that he hasn’t bothered to square with the
wall. There appears to be a photograph on the bookshelf, but if so it’s the only one
in the entire room.

“When did you move in?” I ask.

“I built this house in 1962.”

His shoulders rise rapidly as he catches his breath, peering into his computer. He
clicks his mouse several times and prints out a sheet that reads
Marathon Training Plan for 30 to 40 year olds
.

“This is the one I use,” he says, panting. He looks as if he’s waiting for me to doubt
him.

“What was your father like, Henry?” The floor has a dead bounce to it. I pace around
the perimeter, looking out the picture windows, then pause by the bookcase, my real
goal. I want to see if the photograph reveals something about
this
man’s sexual nature, but it’s a bright professional shot—not new—of Livorno and Stephen
Hawking. They appear to be at a conference.

“My father was a physics teacher,” he says. “Tremendously ambitious and intelligent.
He played viola—was a great admirer of modern music. Stravinsky. Schoenberg.”

“You got your scientific bent from him?”

“Perhaps,” he says. “I’ve never thought about it.” He reaches out to shake my hand.
“I’m sorry I can’t invite you to dinner tonight, but I have plans. No more sparring
with Jenn?”

“I promise.” I leave through the side door, heading out to the Subaru. The car is
invisible from the house, thanks to a bush the size of a small whale, and I sit there
for half an hour, listening to the radio. I’m waiting for Jenn’s Volkswagen to roll
up, but that’s me understanding nothing about the situation. Livorno has no plans.
He’s probably doing something embarrassingly normal, settling into a romantic serial,
cracking a Pedialyte.

•   •   •

I
ARRIVE AT
R
AJ’S CONDO
early in the morning. He lets me in, dressed like a Princeton undergrad of yesteryear—light
slacks, boat shoes, a sweater tied in a knot at his neck. He leads me into the kitchen,
pours a cup of coffee from his percolator. He yawns, indulging in a long languorous
stretch, as if waking late on a Saturday after a rowing party, feeling refreshed and
in comfortable possession of the world.

“What have you done this time?” he asks.

“It’s not me,” I say. I hold his gaze. I want to see his reaction. “Have you heard
about the fires in San Francisco?”

He tilts his head to the right without blinking. A poker player could read these gestures
as tells or not, but I have no idea if they mean anything.

“No,” he says. “Something bad?”

“A couple of sex stores have been burned down.”

“Oh?”

“Pleasures and Leathers. Play Date.”

He blows on his coffee and sips. “Hopefully, they were insured.”

“There were apartments above both stores, Raj. Someone could have been killed.”