The Placebo Effect (23 page)

“So, I guess I don't know exactly what a lie is.”

“Few people do. They assume it's simple but it's not. A lie is a complicated thing. For example consensus is kind of lie—it means that some folks have been convinced to say yes when in fact they mean no. Sharing is a kind of lie—as one young girl said to her father when he explained what it meant to share, ‘You mean I get less.' And yes, that's what sharing means—it's a kind of lie. So's a placebo—it's a sugar pill parading as the real drug. Despite the fact that it does the same work as the real drug, it's not the real drug—it's a fake, a lie. When first-world people travel to the third world and they manage not to see the poverty—it's a lie. Ballet is a lie—no one actually moves like that. Opera is a big-time lie—no one sings like that, and the old fat guy couldn't possibly be Romeo. The word ‘self-taping' is a lie. The actor is either doing the taping or the acting, but surely not both. The old Soviets were famous for lies; the People's Republic of this or that—which people? The U.S. missile called the Peacekeeper was a swell lie. News reports showing dead bodies always at a forty-five-degree angle makes death seem like sleep. I can assure you that death is not like sleep at all. So those news reports are intrinsically lies. Weather forecasting, economic forecasting, any forecasting—all lies. Doctors' diagnoses—good guesses at best, lies at worst. Then you get to the easy ones—fortune cookies, the reading of entrails, astrology, religion. All easily recognizable as just forms of lying—or hoping. But then again, hope is the only universal liar who never loses his reputation for veracity.”

“Who said that—that's not yours.”

“Right. How did you—?”

“I've studied your speeches for almost three years. Memorized some of your better opening addresses to your acting classes, and ‘veracity' isn't a word that shows up even once. So who said it?”

“Robert Green Ingersoll, a U.S. lawyer in the late eighteen hundreds. Don't ask me how I know that—I just know.”

“Like you just know when someone's telling the truth?”

Decker didn't answer. Knowing the authorship of a quotation
was just a fluke of memory—knowing when someone was telling the truth was a gift that came with a heavy burden.

“Okay. So you're not going to tell me how it works, are you?”

Decker returned her stare.

“All right, when did you first know, Mr. Roberts?”

“A long time ago.”

She opened the door and called to Mr. T. The large man appeared at the door. She looked back at Decker. “You like Chinese, we know that—how spicy?”

“Spicy.”

She gave Mr. T a few bills and ordered hot and sour soup, potstickers, crispy beef, dried green beans with pork, and two steamed buns, then closed the door on Mr. T and turned to Decker. “Dinnertime.”

“Is it really?”

She smiled slowly. “It's dinnertime somewhere in the world.”

Decker nodded. “You see, your statement that it's dinnertime is both a truth and a falsehood. Pure truths are rarer than you think.”

“Okay. I get that. So how did it start—this ability to tell when someone's telling the truth?”

“Could I get a Tsingtao with dinner?”

“No.”

“A refill for my Evian; it's losing its bubbles.”

“Sure. I think that's within our budget. So, how did this thing of yours start?”

“If I don't tell you I don't get dinner?” he asked.

“Yep—and then I waterboard you just for the heck of it.”

“That's not so funny.”

“How did it start, Mr. Roberts?”

“Well, my father was a doctor.”

“Born in 1920, died on Good Friday a few years back.”

“And like so many doctors,” he continued, “he felt he was equipped to handle any kind of business deal. He was rich, he was smart—he was a perfect mark just waiting for the arrival of
the right con man. And sure enough one arrived, bearing, of all things, a curling rink. Well, not the rink itself, but building plans for the rink and a business plan that promised a doubling of the investor's money in three years, max. Curling was going to be big, explode on the scene. Well, it exploded all right, and every penny of my father's investment was lost when the building never materialized.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“My father had the guy over for dinner before the deal. When the meal was over I told my father that I thought the guy wasn't telling the truth. My father laughed at me—but after he lost his money he didn't laugh and he began to look at me funny, funnier than he usually did. Two years later when I was eleven my father asked me to caddy a round of golf. It was fine with me, I'd never caddied before but I assumed my father was going through one of his periodic cheap phases, so I agreed.

“Between the ‘No, that's a pitching wedge, not a sand wedge' and ‘Where in the dickens did that ball get to?' my father indicated his golf partner and said, ‘Listen to my conversation with this man.' ‘Why?' I asked, but my father just said, ‘No reason, just take a close listen.'

“So I did. I overheard what sounded like some kind of business pitch—a slew of facts and figures that came so fast I felt my head literally tilt back.”

But he wasn't about to tell Ms. Yslan Hicks about sensing a stream of cool, clear air above him. About how he breathed deeply, then sensed something heavy in his right hand and a coldness surround him—and a name, a girl's name.

“Later that day I told my father that his golf partner was not telling the truth.

“‘You're sure he was lying?' my father asked.

“‘Not telling the truth,' I corrected him.

“‘About all of it?' he pressed.

“‘No. He gave you some truths.' I enumerated them for my father—they were few and far between.

“‘And the rest were lies? All of it?'

“‘Well they weren't truths,' I told him. A week later my father burst into my bedroom, almost catching me—well, doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing.”

He noticed Yslan smile at that. “I had brothers,” she said as explanation.

“Well he came into my bedroom and told me that I was right. Right about it all. Then of course he asked the natural question: ‘How did you know?'

“I told him, ‘I just knew.' It's funny; when I think about that moment, do you know what I remember?”

“No. Tell me.”

“I remember the four framed pictures of clown jugglers hanging on the walls that my father had brought home after a meeting with a pharmaceutical detail man—they grinned down at me. Scared the shit out of me for years. At any rate, then he did something stupid. He said, ‘I wasn't at the hospital last night, that wasn't why I came home late.' He stared at me and I stared back. Then he did a typical science thing by asking me, ‘So, am I lying about that?'

“I told him I didn't know.

“He demanded, ‘Why not?'

“I told him, ‘It doesn't work on people I care about or family.'”

Decker had thought at the time about telling his father about the lines in his head—how they aligned when he heard a truth—then decided against it, as he decided against telling the southern girl across the table from him.

“My father's eyes widened then he said, ‘I want you downstairs next Thursday night.'

“I protested, ‘But you and your friends are way better pool players than—'

“‘I know,' he said.

“‘But I'm not good enough to play with—'

“‘No you aren't, but come down and play that lying trick of yours.'

“I really didn't want to do it, but I did. After their game ended and the men left, my father asked me what statements made by his friends were truthful. I identified the very few truths spoken that night, then added, ‘And Mr. Walsh pocketed a twenty that belonged to you.'

“‘You saw that too?'

“‘Yes.'

“My father nodded slowly. ‘This is pretty interesting, don't you think?' he said.

“But I didn't really find it interesting. I found it scary and isolating. And I didn't like the way my father looked at me—like I had confirmed in his mind that I really was a freak. So I stopped using it.”

He didn't bother mentioning that he kept feeling the cold and the metal thing in his hand—and the blood.

“Fine. When did you decide to use your—”

“When I was sixteen with my girlfriend.”

“Leena.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, Leena.”

“And how…”

“I'm not going into details, but it scared me enough that I didn't use it again until my second Broadway show went bust and I found myself without employment—with a very sick wife and young boy who hadn't talked nearly as much as a three-year-old should have, living in New York City—not the easiest place to survive such circumstances.

“I put in a call to a guy I used to know when he directed plays who had left the theatre racket, gone to business school, and now worked for Lehman Brothers.

“We met later that week at a bar whose astronomical prices for drinks made me literally weak in the knees. The guy, Barry Manson, was gloating. He knew perfectly well that I could hardly afford to breathe in bars like that, let alone drink, then eat, then drink some more. But many theatre people who leave the business enjoy seeing those who hold on fail.

“And my last show had definitely failed. The show criticized newspapers and was promptly murdered by said newspapers when it came to reviews. How we couldn't see that coming during the months of rehearsal and the one hundred and twenty out-of-town performances was just one of those mysteries that happen when artists lock the door to the outside world while they work.

“Well, Barry was drinking—really enjoying himself—having an expensive, swell time.

“Finally I asked, ‘Could you make use of someone who could tell beyond all doubt whether a person was telling the truth?'

“Barry gave me an odd look. ‘I don't know,' he said.

“‘That's not true.'

“‘Hey! I made seven figures last year.'

“‘Maybe six, maybe five—definitely not seven,' I said.

“‘What about eight figures?'

“‘Come on, Barry, if you'd made eight figures you would have told me long ago—fuck, you'd have hired a skywriter, taken out a full page in the
Times.
'

“‘True enough.'

“‘Yes, true enough.'

“One hundred and ninety dollars' worth of drink later, Barry postulated a plan to use my ‘gift' to review business presentations.

“The first two ‘vettings,' as Barry liked to call them, were basically successful. I actually sat in as they did the interviews. I caught one job applicant in a nontruth and confirmed the statements of the second. Barry managed to get tidbits of payment for me, but neither he nor I was thrilled with the arrangement. Something about the third vetting, of an attractive Puerto Rican woman, was fishy from start to finish. At the end of the interview I was outside smoking—yeah, I used to smoke too—and the woman approached me. ‘Confusing, huh?'

“‘Excuse me?' I was surprised that Barry was nowhere to be seen.

“‘You were confused as to whether I was lying or not.'

“I nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I'd have to agree with that.'

“‘Do you know why I confused you?'

“‘No. No, I don't.'

“‘Because I was telling the truth—but not my truth. Every answer I gave applied directly to my older sister.'

“‘Every one?'

“‘Even my name. I'm not Ellen Rios, I'm Susan Rios.'

“Yes you are, I thought.

“‘I'm thirty years old.'

“‘No you're not, and neither is your sister.'

“Ms. Rios nodded. ‘Impressive. I'm a journalist.'

“‘A nontruth.' I said flatly.

“‘Okay, I was a journalist. I used to work in your hometown.'

“‘That's true. Probably with the
Globe and Mail.
And you probably quote P.G. Wodehouse to the other fake Brits over there.'

“‘Well, P.G. was important… '

“‘If you went to girls' private school, wore tartan skirts that didn't cover your knees and you had a thing for Jewish boys then, black boys now.'

“‘Even more impressive. I'm interested.'

“‘That's true, but interested in what?'

“‘Making you some real money.'

“‘And why would you be interested in doing that?'

“‘Because I'd split the proceeds.'

“‘How?'

“‘Seventy-five, twenty-five.'

“‘Need I ask which end is mine?'

“‘No need. I have the contacts you need—you don't.'

“‘I have the talent.'

“‘But without contacts you have no way of converting that talent into cash. You can stay with your Mr. Manson and do parlour tricks—or move up to the big time.'

“I jettisoned Barry as easily as clipping a fingernail and for six months pocketed five thousand dollars almost every other month,
at which point it occurred to me that I had enough contacts of my own. My name was out there in the business ether. But, while I was making some money, Ms. Rios was getting rich—so over drinks one night I told her of our imminent divorce.

“‘Well, I knew it would come sooner or later,' she'd said.”

Decker didn't bother telling Yslan the rest. But he had said, “An untruth.” A real look of disappointment had crossed Ms. Rios' handsome face. “What?”

“I was hoping… forget it.”

But Decker knew that she was hoping that he had come to care about her, which would have stopped his ability to see whether she was telling the truth or not. He shook hands, gave the waitress a fifty and set out on his own.

He said, “And my gamble paid off. Word of my ability spread through the New York business community, which inevitably got it to Chicago, then to Cincinnati, Wichita and throughout the American heartland—where money was thrown about for expertise with as much abandon as a baboon throwing its shit at a passing car on Chapman's Peak. Know where that is?”