The Minyan Murders

Chapter One- The twelve apostles

David didnt bother to conceal his irritation as Prof. Bibescu- miming oceans of apology,
cataracts of contrition- picked up the ringing phone. True to form, the fey old fraud began by
freezing off the caller with self-important claims of being in a high level meeting. But, his bluff
being called, the spry little Silenus was soon giggling and gabbling in fluent, fluting, French
salted with- a memento of his time at Cambridge in the Twenties- stilted British slang, the
whole punctuated by shrill screams of laughter.

To keep himself in countenance, David tapped his feet and cast his eyes downwards. His
faded 'Impeach Frodo' T-shirt bulged a little over his gut. Too much time in the library, not
enough at the track. David straightened up. He pulled forward his old, overlarge, Harris Tweed
jacket- his brothers originally- and smoothed down its lapel. There was a badge pinned to it he
wanted the Professor to notice.

At last, Bibescu put down the phone. He picked up the two letters David had set before him
with an air of childish wonderment. How had they got there? What could they possibly signify?
He looked up at David, in mute appeal, arching eldritch eyebrows over half moon glasses.

Professor, you have two letters in your hand. The one with your signature says, sure,
absolutely, no question, youll get your Math credit by taking a particular course. That letters
dated nine months ago. The other letter, signed by your Secretary, dated yesterday, says now
youve taken that course, now youve aced that course, you get no Math credit whatsoever. Go
back and start over. Youve wasted your time.

Surely not a waste of time, dear boy, Prof. Bibescu cooed ingratiatingly, Julien Foldes
Seminar is well thought of, very well thought of, and- as you say- youve aced it; so you
could hardly be said to have wasted your time; on the contrary, you are to be congratulated!

Prof. Bibescu, the fact remains- you signed a letter saying my taking Foldes course would
get me my Math credit. The credit that was all that stood in the way of my getting onto the
N.P.C.R. programme at Georgetown, as you very well know. Yet, nine months later, out of the
blue, now its too late for me to do anything about it, your Secretary writes to me saying- sorry!
Nice try, but no cigar. You get no Advanced Math credit at all. This late in the day, what that
means is, Im shut out of the New Paradigms module- I lose my shot at a Presidential
Management Internship- all my hard work has gone for nothing- what am I supposed to do?

Prof. Bibescu opened his violet eyes very wide- But surely it would be the easiest thing in
the world for a bright young man, like yourself, - a very bright, a very young

The old fraud was trying to flannel him. The senile crypto-communist with his ludicrous
affectations and olde-worlde charm. David would have to play hard ball. He had been admitted
to Harvard two years early and so there was a tendency amongst his professors to think he
could afford to play a waiting game. David knew different. The New Paradigms gig at
Georgetown was his ticket to the top table. But it was a ticket that was about to expire. In a year
from now, the bleeding hearts in the Carter administration would have figured out a way to
disable this last recruiting post- in D.C. at any rate- of young mould breaking iconoclasts with
the ideological fire to melt the frozen deadlocks of the Cold War and- David thought to himself,
wildly casting about to variegate the metaphor- recast the blood sodden clay of its thymotic
entrenchments upon the timeless pattern of a Grecian urn.

In an unlikely alliance with Korean War era hawks- suspicious of Brzezinski's strategy of
sapping the Soviet Empire from within- the younger generation of doves, albeit for solid pork
barrel reasons, were seeking to put one over on Sen. Scoop Jackson by cunningly raising the
Math entrance requirement for the N.P.C.R in the hope that the whole programme would
degenerate into just another refuge for monosyllabic M.I.T burn-outs and the sort of slide-rule
happy chair-borne ranger the Pentagon puts out to pasture. Nevertheless, as things stood, the
N.P.C.R remained the route of choice for a young man with Davids stellar academic record to
fast track into the emerging Neo-Conservative vanguard on Capitol Hill. But there was a
problem. Math was Davids Achilles heel just as intellectual snobbery was the Achilles heel of
the N.P.C.R Cenacle. Obviously, Bibescu had guessed as much. Since the Neo-Con opposition
to the SALT disarmament process, lacking other leverage, was having perforce to rely on the
work of a mathematician- Prof. Albert Wohlstetter- David needed Julien Foldes imprimatur,
Math-wise, to get an invite to play with the big boys.

Thus, Bibescu- having calculated everything well in advance- had proceeded with guile.
Instead of trying to grind David down ideologically by reasoned discussion, the old fox had
found a way of fooling Davids own people into discarding him as intellectually sub-standard.
Indeed, by somehow manipulating Folde- a brilliant but naive Belgian- into reclassifying his
Decision Theory Seminar as falling under the purview of the Philosophy rather than
Mathematics Department- Bibescu had sealed Davids fate;- forget about the N.P.C.R
programme and a shot at a Presidential Fellowship, David would soon find himself corralled
into the besieged, underfunded, Poli Sci ghetto- fighting a losing battle for tenure with strident,
strutting, multi-chromatic panthers and, Rainbow coalition, eco-feminist peacocks at a
succession of less and less prestigious institutions. Thus, David realised, it was now or never.
He had to make a stand.

Professor, being notified this late in the Academic year means that there is now no way I can
get the Math credit the N.P.C.R. requires. Ive effectively been shut out.

Well, said Bibescu, if you recall, it was you who came to me pleading for a place on
Juliens Seminar. I thought it rather strange at the time, I mean to say- Julien is brilliant, quite
brilliant of course, but his Seminar isnt exactly how should I put it?- spoon-fed sophomore
pabulum. Youd have been safer just taking the usual Q.M. modules along with everybody
else.

Professor, David replied, determined not to be brow-beaten, I hope youll remember, I very
specifically asked you to get me on to Foldes seminar because, as I told you at the time, Id
researched our past N.P.C.R selectees and found theyd all taken Foldes course. Thats why I
made the choice I did and you know this very well. Its all there in black and white in your
letter to me. Yet, nine months later, though you yourself are the chair of the relevant academic
equivalence committee, I get this letter signed by your secretary

Of course, dear boy, I understand you feel hard done by. But, I assure you, Im quite innocent
in this matter. I mean how was I supposed to know poor old Julien would take it into his head to
go changing his course description? The fact is, now dtente is in the air, all the ex-RAND Corp
wunderkinder are running for cover. Julien is just jumping on the bandwagon, angling for Arts
money- thats why hes repackaging himself to get a bite of the Morgan bequest.

What Prof. Bibescu had said, disingenuous though it was, would still suffice to exculpate him
at any Academic committee meeting, or cocktail party- and it was at the latter that such matters
were actually thrashed out. But, David thought to himself, Bibescu had a weakness- a chink in
his armour. He was a Communist but a Communist only by conviction. Even in Youth, hed
been too cowardly to carry a card. Nevertheless, his memories of the McCarthy years would
still be vivid enough for him to recognise that there might be forces operating on campus more
ruthless, more unrelenting, than any cliquey little Academic committee however cranky its
composition.

David leant forward. He polished the badge affixed to the lapel of his jacket. What you have
said, Professor, is perfectly fair, no doubt, but, Im afraid, its an argument that wont wash
with my people. You really need to understand this: theyre not... sophisticated... All they will
see is those two letters, photocopies of which you hold in your hands. Its an open and shut
case. They will be up in arms. You see, my people have plans for me. Big plans. I have to get
onto the N.P.C.R programme. If I dont, theyll want to know the reason why.

Bibescu wasnt- as many believed- a Francophile Rumanian with an aristocratic Oxbridge
education. Actually, that was exactly what he was. But, as Davids research had revealed, also a
Jew.

David decided the time had come to put all his cards on the table.

Frankly, hed nothing left to lose.

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers,
against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places
David paused to let his words sink in. Then- in what he imagined to be a mild, unctuous, tone-
he added, Ephesians 6:12, as Im sure you know.

Bibescu was now staring in horror at the 'Jews for Jesus' badge on Davids lapel. 'Nu', he was
probably thinking to himself, 'what have we here? Not a brainy little neo-con larva- a Cenacle
wannabe- but a meat-headed minuteman for the moral majority- or, more duplicitous yet, a
crasser, more contemporary, Roy Cohn.'

This was it. The facedown. The effete intellectual versus the loyal party man- the wrong
party, true, but still a party- a party that would have no compunction in steamrolling a bleeding
heart fellow traveller coming the other way.

Abruptly, Bibescus manner changed. He picked up his phone and barked into it for a second.
A couple of moments later, his secretary- an antique, spun glass, Teutonic blonde- entered. She
handed him a letter. Bibescu signed it and passed it to David. David didnt look at the letter. He
continued to fix Bibescu with a flinty gaze.

There is a way for you to get on to the N.P.C.R programme. Not by my validating your credit
from Julien. Hed think it was academic politics- my way of queering his pitch for money from
the Morgan bequest. But theres a Summer programme in London that would fit the bill very
nicely. Its expensive

David jerked his chin to indicate that money was not an issue.

Its actually quite prestigious. Quite, quite, prestigious. Have you heard of Jonathan Zadig?
No? A child prodigy. A polymath. His guardians smuggled him out of Lodz in 1940- his
original name, you may be interested to learn, was Rumkowski- but, as Im sure you of all
people will understand, that name soon became a liability...

Anyway, he came to America under the auspices of the I.I.Es Scholar Rescue Programme
and, while still a teen-ager at Princeton, he co-authored papers with the likes of Einstein and
Gdel. Rumour has it, he was the last person Tesla collaborated with. He had the highest Erds
number of any mathematician- do you know what an Erds number is? No? Well, its the
number of papers a mathematician has co-authored with the great Hungarian. Except, Erds
would always insist the emphasis should go the other way- we should speak of a Zadig number.
But that number was never very large. You see, while still quite a young man, Zadig became a
recluse. The scuttlebutt was hed burned out. I knew different. You see, he was... he was
enraged by the industrialisation of higher education- the utilitarian capture of the Academy- the
moral obtuseness of the younger generation, the death of paideia, the eclipse of Enlightenment
as Bildung.

David felt himself strangely stirred. But, he had to keep a tight rein on himself. Not let his
emotions show. The old man might be trying to trick him. Bibescu fell silent. He looked out of
the window- seeking, perhaps, in some jet stream polluting the azure, a chastened reflection of
the Charles.

And this Summer School is... is what- a seminar about Zadig? Im no mathematician.

No, I think weve established that. Bibescu turned back towards him, but then- catching
sight of the 'Jews for Jesus' badge- his violet eyes violated- quickly turned away again, It isnt
a seminar about Zadig. Its a seminar given by Zadig. And its inter-disciplinary- like poor old
Juliens- in which you hoped to get the credit you need simply by turning in essays.

And I can apply for a place?

There's the rub. said Prof. Bibescu, This isnt like the N.P.C.R programme- open to all
applicants. No. This is something much more old fashioned, much more...esoteric.
Zadig has written to a number of his old colleagues- about a dozen, I think- at Universities
across the globe. Each is invited to nominate one student- one and only one- to attend the
seminar in London. As you can imagine there would be tremendous competition to secure such
a nomination. But, Zadig insists applications not be canvassed and selection occur
organiquement et spontanment- well, he's no linguist, still... The point is, Zadig is trying to
sift out the careerists- letting education flow towards those whose nature- not agenda- demands
it. Maybe, its also the reason hes stipulated an upper age limit- dont worry, in that respect- in
that respect at least- you qualify- just..

Youre saying... I could get the nomination?

Ive just given it to you. There it is, in that letter there.

David was overwhelmed.

But but, why didnt you tell me that before?

Had Bibescu, crypto-communist that he was, first sabotaged him with the N.P.C.R and then
kept this offer in reserve- just in case David had big guns to bring out? Or, had he misjudged
Bibescu all along? After all, as a baby-faced sixteen year old, hed taken a course with the
Professor- a sort of Sraffa for sophomores, Morishima for meatheads- but, surely, he couldnt
have made so outstanding an impression on Bibescu that three years later hed offer him this
plum?

Well, said the Professor, to be frank, I didnt want you to go for it. I I dont know... I
have a sixth sense I mean in one way its a tremendous feather in your cap- it marks you out
as a high flyer- but in another

What is the danger?

Well, Zadig was- bear in mind, I was already double his age when we became friends- Zadig
was I dont know, terribly should I say magnetic? There was something about him so
intense- mind you I always regarded Wittgenstein as a bit of a fraud- what I mean is, there was
something about him so intensely unearthly.. unheimlich.. I

Bibescu fell silent. David tried to focus his mind. Was it a trap? Of course it was a trap. More
than that, it was an ambush. But what precisely was the nature of the pit into which he was
meant to plunge?

What are the credit requirements for completing the course? he asked in a neutral voice.

Ah! Thats the odd thing- the strange stipulation. You see, if Zadig had simply waived any
sort of requirement wed have all understood. I mean, at that level, none of the selectees would
have anything to prove- especially given their youth and the inter-disciplinary nature of the
seminar. Moreover, Zadig would be reassuring the more paranoid of his old colleagues- some,
you know, now behind the Iron Curtain- that he wasnt out to sabotage their own research
programmes by destroying the confidence of one of their rising stars

Bibescu was off again staring into space. David brought him down to earth.

So, what exactly is the stipulation?

Oh! Quite simple, quite old fashioned- you just have to turn up to every session, thats all-
make up the minyan, keep up the quorum, so to speak. There is no obligation to say anything or
contribute anything- I suppose, thats to reassure our Soviet friends Zadig isnt trying to pick
the brains of their bright young thingsyou know, at this level, there will be a lot of
Intelligence Agencies keeping tabs- London, after all, is a sort of clearing house for the trench-
coat brigade- and, and

David was thrilled. He couldnt conceal his eagerness- All I have to do is to show up in
London, attend the seminar and thats it, I qualify for the N.P.C.R?

Yes, absolutely- you need have no anxieties on that score. Anyone who can claim to have
been actually taught by Zadig can write his own ticket. Focusing just on the N.P.C.R
programme, which youve set your heart on- the fact is Zadig co-authored papers with Von
Neumann, Nash- even Al and Roberta Wohlstetter- back in the 50s, which are absolutely
fundamental to our present Nuclear strategy. Theres trillions of dollars locked up in nuclear
arsenals and delivery systems that might suddenly lose their credibility as a deterrent if hes
now changed his mind or come up with a new paradigm. If the effectiveness of even a small
portion of our current nuclear posture is questioned the consequences on the ground will be
mind-boggling. Thats why Zadigs abrupt resurfacing is going to, sooner or later, set alarm
bells ringing. The N.P.C.R will need to know what hes been up to. Ultimately, the Pentagon,
the Kremlin, the Chinese, everybody will need to know. But, Game Theory was only a small
part of Zadigs portfolio. His work has had huge implications for a dozen other disciplines.
Whatever his new thoughts, whatever the new directions in which his work is taking him, the
fact is the top Mathematicians, Physicists, Economists, Cyberneticists, even specialists in
Structural Linguistics and Evolutionary Biology, all will want to talk to you. The Math
requirements for any post-grad programme anywhere in the world will be waived simply so the
Professors can get a chance to pick your brain. Of course, Zadig might not have any new ideas.
But it wouldnt matter- scholars would still need the reassurance that he hasnt changed his
mind. Indeed, thats probably what theyre all secretly hoping. After all they have their own
careers- their own hard-won research funding, their own pullulating network of protgs- to
protect and push forward. So, it really wouldnt matter if Zadig had spent all this time simply
chopping fire-wood at his cabin in the mountains. Indeed, to speak frankly, this whole Summer
School hes set up might be completely bogus. Not that theres anything hole-in-the-corner
about the venue. The Corven Institute is pretty much London Universitys equivalent of All
Souls. Indeed, if anything, the venue is a trifle too chichi. I recall, Lord Victor Rothschild
complaining of Johnny Corvens penchant for surrounding himself with titled dilettantes.
Though, to be fair, young Corven has done a lot to raise the Institutes public profile. But,
therein lies the problem. You see, for all I know, Zadig might now believe in U.F.Os or
Reichian boxes oror God!

Bibescu let out a shrill scream of laughter. It suddenly occurred to David that there might be a
simpler explanation for Bibescus abrupt volte face. Rather than a crypto-communist frightened
of crossing swords with the incipient might of the no longer silent Moral Majority, Bibescu
might simply be an old fashioned pansy, perpetually having to cover himself, by keeping a
prize in hand to buy silence, just in case his nature got the better of him and he made a pass at a
downy cheeked young student.

But, if Zadig is off his rocker what good will the seminar do me?

It will get you through the gate, Bibescu replied crisply, Youre still very young. In any
case the whole thing will only last 7 weeks- and whats 49 days in the scheme of things entire?
Think of it as counting Omer from Passover to Shavuot. And if the Torah then revealed turns
out to be chaff, not wheat,- so what? At least you are delivered from the Egyptian captivity of
no Math credit! Once safely ensconced in the cushioned comfort of the N.P.C.R program, you
can get back to studying the...halachah ve-ein morin kein...as I jokingly refer to the oeuvre of
my friend, the late Prof. Leo Strauss,..and.. and go on to win golden opinions from the other
toilers in that... eminently Ausonian, entirely euphonious... vineyard of enigmas. Believe me, if
it comes out in a year or two that Zadig is ...bonkers!.. it will be no skin off your nose. In fact it
might make a nice little titbit to offer up at High Table. Once youve made your own name, of
course.

David thought about it. It was a win-win situation. But, he needed to nail Bibescu down, get
him to commit.

My only concern is the N.P.C.R programme. If only I could be certain

Leave it to me, dear boy Bibescu said airily, Ill make sure you get a firm offer- subject, of
course, to your completing attendance at Zadigs seminar- from the N.P.C.R within a week.
You know, he added, essaying elfin charm, Im not quite such a... Voltaire!.. as Im made
out. Verb sap, dear boy. You might let your people know.

The moment David left Bibescus office- he had scarcely managed to blurt out a word of
thanks- he tore off his 'Jews for Jesus' badge and threw it in the trash-can.

His hands were trembling so much, he pricked himself quite badly.

--------------------II----------------------

London! Im not paying for it.

Its all right, Papa, theyve given me a scholarship.

Your brother they should of given a scholarship to! Ach, Jacob! My son!- now he was a
mensch! He should of studied at Brandeis- Medicine yet!

Tatenui, dont upset yourself. You know you shouldnt.

He volunteered! the old man whimpered. In the army he went! There were pale flecks of
vomit on his dressing gown; he threw up all his medication but refused an I.V drip- the old fool
had seen a pious Hasid disconnect his I.V on Yom Kippur and jumped to the conclusion that
the procedure wasnt kosher- and the overworked doctors- some perhaps from Egypt- the dusky
overworked doctors at this down at heel county facility- Egyptian or not- had shrugged their
shoulders and let the matter slide.

Kaddishel! Kaddishel! On Yom Kippur they struck! Yom Kippur! A klog iz mir! I knew they
would do it! I knew it would happen! Pidyon HaBen! Five silver dollars, I should of pay!
Pidyon HaBen! Five silver dollars to redeem my first born son! Dos hartz hot mir gezogt! My
heart knew it! My heart knew it! But Rabbi Cohen said no- Bat Levi the mother is- but, I knew,
I knew , blame me!- I dont know how I knew but I knew! A klog iz mir! My heart told me! Dos
hartz hot mir gezogt!

Davids time was up. Shakeena- the shapely nurse on whom his father doted- was looking
daggers at him. He ducked his head and beat a retreat down the lime green corridor. But not
before his father- cheered no doubt by the prospect of a kaneh- an enema- from the coloured
nurse- got off a parting shot by braying out in Boston-Irish the word Harvard! to mock him in
his flight. The old crocks lining the corridor looked at him with hatred. Perhaps, they believed
his father really had ruined himself to put this ingrate son through college. Or, maybe, it was
envy- just envy pure and simple. Except, envy is never simple. Or why should David now envy
Jacob?

-----------------III------------------

There will be twelve of you- twelve Apostles!

Remus Kincaid- an unlikely alias, perhaps it was his real name- was a very big, very black,
Intelligence officer attached in some indefinable way to the London Embassy. David, exiting
Healy Hall after a meeting with his angel- as Cenacle mentors were called,- had spent a
quarter of an hour wandering around the rendezvous point, trying to spot a tail in the side
mirrors of parked automobiles and other such cloak and dagger foolishness, before Remus
Kincaid loomed suddenly out of the shadows and brusquely propelled him into a sedan with
tinted windows that had magically appeared on the windswept street.

Will any of them be..?

Kincaid raised a hand as if about to speak, but said nothing. David had almost forgotten his
question by the time the answer came. Perhaps, Kincaids delay in answering was a C.I.A
technique- a ploy out of some Psy Ops manual or, perhaps, a spooky MK-ULTRA mind game...

Count on it. You see, what you dont know, what your Prof. Bibescu wont have told you-
but, wait, tell me, what did you think of Prof. Bibescu?

David shrugged his shoulders. Commie he said briefly D-uh!

D-uh was Jacobs word. He read Archie comics and, though bright- very bright- identified
with Moose.

One of ours, actually, Remus said modestly- David realised that the big man had a gift for
mimicking voices- in the darkness of the limo, it could have been Prof. Bibescu himself
speaking. And no, he aint a fag. Except, when we want people to think he is.

This put a different complexion on things. But then Remus might be lying. In fact- since
David had signed nothing so far- he must be.

So whats the big deal with the Zadig seminar?

Who said its a big deal? What have you heard?

David was annoyed. The big man sensed it. Suddenly there was an enormous paw on his thigh
squeezing it- not gently. David remembered his resolve to play it straight arrow. After all, hed
volunteered- indeed, it was he whod pulled strings with the Cenacle- that was the name, in
imitation of the Cambridge Apostles, the elite Ivy League alumni whod gone on to the N.P.C.R
programme had given themselves- to set up this clandestine meeting.

Sir, he yelped, so sharp was the pain, All I know is that Prof. Bibescu hinted Zadig might
have gone crazy. He said Zadig had always been somewhat unearthly... unheimlich- the word
means uncanny in German- and that taken together with the fact that, as my research revealed,
Zadig chose to become a recluse in a remote corner of the Pyrenees leads me to suspect that the
man might be a sort of Heideggerian technophobe...

Heider- who? asked Kincaid- this time in a comic Cockney accent.

Heidegger was a German philosopher, a one time supporter of Hitler, who came up with a
complicated philosophy of Being and Time which specifically condemned our American way
of Life as being inauthentic, fake, spurious- a manic preoccupation with technology, with
knowhow, all so as to turn our faces away from a recognition that Death is the most important
fact of our existence.

A Nazi? Kincaid asked.

Yes. Well no. Perhaps, an Ur-Nazi. Except he had a lot of followers who dont fit the bill-
Jews, Humanists- what we might call bleeding hearts. Truthfully, I dont know. Lets just say
he wasnt a cheerleader for Truth, Justice and the American Way.

Thats not what you said in your paper.

David was stunned. Then he kicked himself for underestimating the big man.

Well, Sir, my paper was on the relationship between Leo Strauss and Heidegger. Now
Strauss was the most uncompromising upholder of the Law- the very essence of our American
Way of Life- but he realised that for the upholding of the Law it will always be necessary for
there to exist an elite, far above the dust of the marketplace, solely concerned with interpreting
it- and to correctly interpret the Law is to properly transmit it in a manner that preserves the
inner ethos, the vital spirit, of Americanism. But to speak of an elite in the same breath as
Americanism sounds like a contradiction in terms. It raises hackles, it causes ressentiment and,
Im afraid, opens the door to a type of irresponsible populism- formally speaking, an
Anarchism- that has deep, pre-Jacksonian, roots, in the American psyche. Still facts must be
faced; the notion of an elite, albeit one to safeguard the legal framework of democracy itself,
nevertheless sounds undemocratic and- in this age of epistemological suspicion- to justify it by
having recourse to metaphysical language, or, worse still, scientific language, just compounds
the problem. Now, Heidegger offers us a way out. He used a sort of deconstruction of
traditional metaphysical language- he used philosophy against philosophy- so as to exalt a
special class of poets, mad poets like Hlderlin, who- in his view- transgressing Pedagogys
cordon sanitaire- had made themselves attentive to Being. We Straussians, on the other hand,
can use a similar line of attack, a similar obfuscating methodological nihilism, to resurrect the
purest intellectual acuity as the ultimate in folksy authenticity and thus disarm in advance the
ressentiment driven knee jerk retreat to Populist Anarchy which, in its zeal for democracy,
would pull down those consecrated to the preservation and interpretation of the foundation, the
very bedrock, of our Republic- and that, Sir, is Justice. Justice, Sir, not Truth.

Justice, eh? Kincaid abruptly switched from a fruity English accent to a deep Southern
baritone. But it is the Truth that will set us free. Say, Amen brother!

A said David obediently, suddenly realising the big man was a buffoon, men!

-------------------IV--------------------

London wasnt foggy- it was brilliantly sunlit- enjoying one of the finest summers on record.

Yet, David- from the first moment of his landing at Heathrow- David had felt chilled.

Just four years ago, he had sat here- his father weeping beside him; perhaps, that was when the
cancer first took hold; waiting for the connecting El Al flight and the empty coffin, its
emptiness overflowing its regulation rope and pine and- all Jerusalem now Sinai- disinterring
that entire Universe of mourning for a mother, a wife, which Jacobs goofy presence alone had
permitted them to bury and, for three years, keep safely underground.

This time, though, there had been no Uncle Bernie waiting to meet him at Arrivals. David
bought himself a newspaper and sat down. The fact that hed kept on his loose fitting, sky-blue,
nylon ski-jacket- it had once belonged to Jacob- while all around him tanned Britons, returning
from holiday, sported Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts meant that, from a distance, he
might be mistaken for one of the shivering South Asian or West Indian, or African young men
waiting to be picked up by a relative and, David imagined, driven off to begin a new life in a
sweat-shop or curry-house in some nook or cranny of Englands green and pleasant- but also
secretive, also hermetic- land. In some ways, David thought, the flotsam jetsam backwash from
Empire might have an easier time pulling along in this enigmatic isle than people like himself.
Why?
England was the opposite of America.
Here, though Pym and Hampden were still celebrated as heroes, it was the turn-coat, Stafford-
equally a martyr but a martyr to the facile, meretricious, truths of Francis Bacon- that self-
styled coward conquest of a wretchs knife- rather than Sir Edward Coke, author of the
magisterial Institutes that were also Americas mother wits grinding stone- whose path the
Polity ultimately took.

The English newspaper, David was perusing, provided little to dispel his depression. Arthur
Koestler, himself an ex-communist, had written one of his despairing state-of-the-nation letters
to the editor. Britain was doomed- its once vaunted Empire now suffering a second erasure- this
time from even the map of memory- and, in consequence, its dividends from abroad were
bound to dwindle- and dwindle further and faster than any of its squabbling leaders had yet
imagination to envisage.

British Industry was mired in a stasis- a class conflict- of a virulence unimaginable in
America. The Trade Unions could overturn Governments, so it seemed, at the whim of a loutish
shop-steward with a chip on his shoulder. The Labour party had reached a parting of the ways.
The educated professionals were having to cede power to the Luddite rank and file. Already, as
had happened in America, Inflation had pushed people into higher and higher tax brackets. The
Governments share of National Income had greatly increased. This was Socialism by stealth.
Industry was on the dole- its survival predicated on increasing subsidies from the State. Higher
Education was wholly in the hands of the State- students were being paid to study and they
could study whatever they liked. Education as paideia- as Prof. Bibescu might have put it-
education as building character, as involving sacrifice, the arduous cultivation of what was most
difficult, not what was most pleasing, most flattering, to callow youth- such ideas no longer had
any place in Britain. Ergo, the countrys crisis would deepen. The generation that fought Hitler
believed their youngsters could never sustain the privations, the struggles, by which they
themselves had been strengthened. The post-war generation believed nothing. Soon, British
democracy would no longer have a class of Guardians. Already, a former Cabinet Minister,
Enoch Powell- remembered chiefly for his mistimed opposition to coloured immigration-
alarmed by the burgeoning of, the cartoonishly Kojeveian European Super-State and the death-
knell for English Liberty that it sounded- and despairing of an enfeebled British industrys
ability to survive without Public handouts- was proposing, as the lesser of two evils, that Britain
ditch NATO, jump the Common Market ship, and sign up with the Soviets. So, it seemed,
Joseph Schumpeter had not prophesied in vain- here, in the very citadel of Liberal Democracy,
the Communists would take over. Except, theyd do it in the tactful manner they use in certain
Third World countries- preserving all the shibboleths and caste complexities that are the
hallmark of backwardness. No doubt, theyd call themselves something quaint and olde worlde-
like Tory, David thought to himself bitterly, and that blonde, empty-headed, Mrs. Thatcher
whom the Conservative Party, in its dotage, had appointed as its Nanny, might well herself
become the genteel tea cosy beneath which things finally came to boil.

Remus Kincaid! Paging Mr. Remus Kincaid!

David was startled. He looked about him trying to see where the public address systems
speakers might be placed. Abruptly, he realised he should have reported to the Help desk the
moment he arrived. David picked up his bags and headed towards it. A young man- baby-faced
but with the build and shambling gait of a broken down pro wrestler- stepped forward from the
desk. His flushed face registered puzzlement- Youre not Kincaid!- his voice was loud,
arrogant,- it seemed to David that he was over-enunciating like a Shakespearean actor.

Davids instinctive flinching away from the young Brit had given him a moment to think.
What was happening here? Had the announcement for Kincaid been a ruse to get him to break
cover? Pretty amateurish, if it was- but then he himself had behaved foolishly. David jerked his
chin away from the baby-faced young man and broke stride to get past him to the Help desk.
The arrogant Brit drew himself up in an attitude of outrage and angled his neck to see what
David would do next. Excuse me, David said to the Receptionist, Ive just realised that you
have a Public address system here. The fact is I was expecting someone from the Corven
Institute to pick me up ...

The young Brit had been listening. Now he pressed forward- Its all right, he said
addressing the girl behind the desk, This is the bloke Im here to pick up.

Thought you said hed be black, the girl said slowly, gawking at David, Very big, very
black...

And American, the young man chipped in impatiently.

Well one out of three isnt so bad, the girl said consolingly, beggars cant be choosers, eh?

No, indeed. the young man replied frostily."Make do and mend. It's what got us through the
Blitz."

Well, I hope you two will be very happy together. the girl flashed David a toothy smile,
"Welcome to London, Sir!

The large baby-faced Limey was much discomfited. He cast a disparaging glance at Davids
apparel and brushed past him heading for the exit. Well, come on then, if youre coming! he
yelled over his shoulder. David smiled. He picked up his bag and followed. This wouldnt be as
difficult as he thought.

------------------V------------------

Who is this Remus guy you were looking for? Is he another of us on the seminar?

Richard was hunched forward over the wheel of his Mini.

Ah, well actually, Dave, mate, the way of it is this. Im making a little extra cash from the
Corven people- you see, my grant only goes so far- and theres this secretary there- Brenda, a
right old slapper if you get my drift- and anyway lets just say she gets things muddled is all.

David wasnt sure he believed Richard. What had the secretary to do with Kincaid?

Well, said David, sure, I understand sloppy secretaries. But what was that you said about
him being very big and very black? Perhaps the name Remus- as in Uncle Remus- suggested
someone very black. But why very big?

David was offering Richard a way out. The young Brit didnt take it. He darted an appraising
glance at David.

Actually, to be perfectly honest, this mix-up was my fault. You see, I lost the slip of paper on
which Brenda had written down your details. Fact is, I was on a bit of a pub-crawl last night.
The only thing I could remember was the name Remus Kincaid. That and Brenda drooling on
about how big and black and American he was. I meant no offence, Im sure.

So, for some reason, Kincaid had paid a visit to the Institute. Perhaps, hed asked the
secretary to keep tabs on David for him. If so, hed made a mistake. Brenda was a blabber
mouth.

David decided to change tack- stop probing the Kincaid angle, which might arouse Richards
suspicions, and get him to talk about himself. But doing this merely confirmed Davids low
opinion of the State funded British student. Richard had just completed his second year of
Physics at Imperial- Londons premier Hard Science College- nevertheless, he appeared to
regard the Zadig seminar as little more than a way to earn extra cash- he was saving up for a
new car- and avoid spending time with his folks who ran a small hotel in Harrogate.

How did you get chosen for this programme? David asked bluntly.

For my sins! said Richard- he appeared to be blushing, I suppose I was a bit cocky in my
first year. Opinionated, yknow. Id harass my tutor with these silly little papers of mine. I was
reading Frijof Capras The Tao of Physics- which had just come out- and saw deep
connections everywhere. Any road, thats probably why the old dear thought of me when Zadig
suddenly resurfaced. I should explain, back in 41, when the teenaged Zadig first arrived at
Princeton, he got this crush on mtutor something rotten. I mean, she must have been in her late
twenties at the time- quite a looker... you can still see it... but married to a Rabbi, as she still is
today- and so what Im trying to say is that when this wretched little kid of a refugee starts
writing her poems about..I dunno... the Quantum Mechanics of Cosmic Love and the Einstein
Rosen bridge of endless yearning and please please could I cop a feel already? I mean,
naturally, mtutor developed a soft spot for Zadig. As she has for me. As she has for me.
Nothing Harold & Maud- dont get me wrong- like I said, shes married to a Rabbi- but, urm,
what Im saying is.. urm...its not that Im ungrateful, mind you- its just that, since the whole
thing wasnt advertised, I feel kind of cheated. I mean, not having won my place in open
competition- but getting in on the nod- it somehow seems to cheapen the whole thing- if you
get my drift?

Have you prepared anything for the seminar?

What? Well...yes- I mean no, what happened was I was so chuffed when I got the news- I
mean Id actually gone to see mtutor about switching to Computer Science- I mean thats
where the big money is right?- and then, suddenly, instead of scolding me, the old dear is
pulling this letter out of her drawer...

Youd heard of Zadig?

Who hasnt? Actually, if Fritjof Capra had based himself on Zadigs mimetic-field
monadology rather than Chews bootstrap...

David felt a surge of excitement- perhaps there was a pattern here he wasnt yet seeing,...
tracks of the Trotskyite cloven hoof- Hang on, do you mean Geoffrey Chew, the Marxist,-
quondam Commissar of Quantum Mechanics at the Peoples Republic of Berkley- who
propounded the notion of the equality of all elementary particles with none being regarded as
more fundamental than the other?

Well, said Richard, I dunno about Chew being a Marxist- might well have been- I mean,
back then most Scientists were kind of left wing- not that anyone bothers about things like that
any more...its all bollocks if you ask me.

But David wasnt interested in Richards apothegms on political theory. So whats it about?
The paper youre going to present?

What? Oh, right!- my paper... well the fact is, in my first flush of enthusiasm, I got out some
of the old essays I used to hand mtutor. You can guess the sort of thing- Pauli and Jung,
Schrodinger and Hinduism, Heisenberg and Taoism, the Bell inequality and your friendly
neighbourhood bong salesman. Except, I thought I might re-jig the essays a little. Kind of
science it up- if you know what I mean- break out Topologys bag of tricks to see what sort of
Universes generate stuff like, you know, synchronicity and non locality and so on and how that
would totally traumatise the fermions- coz, you know, in a marriage of that sort its always the
kids who suffer.

So your paper is going to be... what? About the connection between Eastern mysticism and
modern physics? Updated to take account of Zadigs ideas? Is that about the size of it?

Actually, no. Richard suddenly sounded quite grown-up, Im not presenting any paper at
all. Ill show up. Sit through the seminars- its actually a requirement or else Ill have to return
my grant from the British Academy- and, well, thats it. Except for making a bit of money on
the side running errands for the Corven Institute. Theyre flush with funds. Old Johnny Corven
made friends with the Sultan of Qamr when he was on location shooting the Science of the
Saracens segment of his Wisdom of the Ancients B.B.C series. Way I see it, making myself
useful to the secretaries will do much more for me than writing papers- it gets me in on the
ground floor, if you get my drift. In any case, the fact is- at our level- all this inter-disciplinary
bullshit is just mental masturbation. Theres no substance to it. I mean- sure, when weve
gathered up all the glittering prizes and are totally over the hill, then, by all means, we too can
indulge in this sort of Messianic Quantum Quackery.

David nodded. The Brit spoke his mind. He might be worth cultivating.

What about the other students. You talked to any of them yet?

Sure- three or four, Ive gone to pick up at the airport. Theres this African Goddess- Obi we
call her- but shes married and has eight year old twins.

Surely shed be a bit young to have eight year olds? I mean, I thought Zadig had stipulated an
upper age limit for the Seminar. Or does that not apply to... urm...

Sambos? Nope, same age-limit. But, she aint too young to be a mother. Leastways, not
where she comes from. They start early there. I could quite fancy it. Make a change from
Harrogate- the place where libidos go to die.

Is she a mathematician?

Anthropologist. Not the old fashioned kind- you know, National Geographic, naked bosoms,
rubbing the headmans ju ju, that sort of thing. Apparently its all mathematical now.
Leastways, thats what Celeste reckons.

Celeste?

Shes French. A Structuralist, whatever that means. Right bean pole to look at- not a curve on
her- nice mouth though, but the trouble is its always flapping. Far as I can make out her subject
is actually something called Semiotics- Semi-idiotics would be more like it- but she reckons
shes an expert on everything under the Sun. Keeps harping on about Bourbaki- like she
actually understood Mathematics or the French had really figured out the fundamental laws of
thought- and so, youve guessed it, shes only here to show us all up. Not to help us, you
understand. Frankly, not even Obi- whose Mums from Martinique- can get a word of sense out
of her. Clelestes sole purpose is to convince us that were all barking up the wrong tree. To get
anywhere, wed have to travel back in time and go sit at the feet of Descartes for three hundred
years.

And the others?

Well theres this Greek girl- Aliki Somethingides- shes stacked all right but theres nothing
doing there- shes engaged to some junior Onassis type, named Costas, who has an office at the
Baltic Exchange.

Whats her shtick?

Richard cast a glance at David, Who- Aliki? Believe me you dont want to know. Greek
fiancs are pretty possessive. Hot blooded, you know. Mind you, a man might be tempted.

I mean, whats Alikis subject?

Mathematician- but youd never think it to look at her. Not that you should- I mean if that
geezer, Costas, gets to hear- youll end up skewered like a shish kebab.

Any other men?

Just Costas- though Ill tell you a funny thing; I think theres more than one Costas. Brenda-
thats the old slapper at the Corven- reckons the Costas that came round to drop off a bouquet
the day she arrived was like really hairy- I mean sure all Greek men are hairy- but Brenda kept
drooling on about just how hairy this particular Costas was and that got me thinking. I mean the
other Costas- the Junior Onassis- the one who came to meet her at the airport was hairy- no
question- but not really hairy hairy. Hes too well groomed- like he has a daily appointment at
Trumpers of Piccadilly or something. But then Obi said, and mind you Obis a pretty
trustworthy sort...

Look, when I said any other men I meant, are there any other men on the course?

What? Right. Yaah. Well theres Muhammad- hes Arab; dont know much about him. My
guess is hes only here coz the Sultan of Qamr is paying for the whole show. Then theres the
Chinese physicist- Li Xi- little skinny guy, Mao jacket- actually, come to think of it, maybe
hes a girl- any road, boy or girl, we wont be seeing very much of him. Hes staying at his
embassy. They have a high powered delegation in town to negotiate a loan from the City. My
guess is they might rope him in to act as an interpreter or something like that - because he
speaks really good English- none of this Mind Your Language velly solly stuff. On the other
hand we have an Indian- not one of your Hiawatha Indians but the Gunga Din sort leftover from
the Raj- called, believe it or not, Babu- and he really does speak Babu- you know- please to
accept my most humble apologies. Its a treat to listen to him. And the way he wobbles his head
when asked a yes/no question is simply a thing of beauty and joy forever.

Whats Babus specialty?

Making money. He was barely in the country ten minutes and he was jabbering away to
every Paki he met scenting out business opportunities. And not just Pakis. I kid you not, he sold
the shirt off his back to some hippy he met at baggage reclaim. I thought him mad, but theres
method to his madness. You see, there are hordes of these little brown people scampering
around underfoot down Heathrow way. When they spot a new arrival, nostalgia overwhelms
them, they strike up a conversation. Babu convinces them theyre missing out big time by not
having the latest poppodum popper, or electric turban twirler or what have you. Then he gets
their contact details promising to get hold of the good stuff for them at a huge discount.

And that got him a nomination to the seminar? Making deals?

No. No, this is the odd thing. Babus a poet.

A poet?!

Yaah! Thats what I thought. But, Babu takes it very seriously. He started to recite his stuff to
me in the car. What was bizarre was the way his voice, his accent, his syntax, everything would
change- one moment hed be jabbering away in pure Peter Sellers, the next moment it was
Alfred Lord Tennyson!

Sounds entertaining!

No, said Richard suddenly grave, Really not.

-------------------------VI------------------------

David needed to think, to strategise, to clarify things in his own mind.

Why was he here in this strange city? On the face of it, the answer was simple- to get his Math
credit. His ticket to the N.P.C.R. But the N.P.C.R was just a means to an end. Attendance there
entailed yet further expense. Expense that was fully warranted. It was something he owed
Jacob. The whole family owed Jacob. Uncle Benny sweating profusely, wringing his hands
again and again, had finally managed to blurt out the whole truth. Times were tough in
haberdashery. Choices had to be made. Either Cedar Sinai for the father or Ivy League for the
son...Isaac offering up Abraham...after such sacrifice, how foolish it would be for him to do
anything now that might come back to bite him in the ass a few years down the line!
Nevertheless, hed done something foolish. Using the Cenacles network, hed contacted
Kincaid. Just sitting with him in a town car would be enough for the Intelligence Officer to put
David down on his expenses as an informer. Which meant, sooner or later, under the Freedom
of Information Act, there would be a newspaper headline outing him as a spy. It was the sort of
thing that could prove very embarrassing if he became a career diplomat or high level
journalist. Indeed, it might compromise his effectiveness even at one of the Consultancies or
Think Tanks that were a revolving door to the State Department.

The fact is Intelligence is a dirty business- touch pitch and your hand is defiled- yet David
had approached Kincaid. Why? What was at the root of that impulse? True, David didnt like
flying blind. He liked to research things, have a plan, know in advance whom he was going to
come up against- nothing wrong in that- but in thinking Kincaid could help him hed made an
elementary blunder. In the Agency, Information is a one way street. Kincaid had told him
nothing- indeed, he had probably fed him disinformation. Worse still, Kincaid had visited the
Corven Institute for no other purpose- that David could discern- than to paint a bulls-eye on his
back for the benefit of any foreign Intelligence Agency monitoring the programme. What
strengthened Davids suspicions regarding Kincaid was the news hed received from Richard
that there was another American on the programme- a computer geek from Stanford called
Barney. David hadnt met him yet, but his cover sounded suspiciously thin- apparently his Dad
was a wealthy patent attorney whod insisted his son get into the new hi tech field but, so the
story went, what the boy really wanted to do was make it big as a Punk rock-star. Since London
was the happening place for Punk- at any rate, that Summer- in London he wanted to be.
Though good enough to take in someone like Richard, the story was simply silly- it was
something a hack writer for Hollywood might dream up. Clearly a techie like Barney would
find it much easier than David to assess things like the implications of Zadigs latest work for
Cryptography and other such arcane Intelligence related matters. Thus, it stood to reason,
Barney must be the plant. The problem was the Soviets, and worse, the Chinese, wouldnt see it
that way. For them, Politics was still the Queen of the Sciences. Rock and Roll- Punk or
otherwise- was just a mark of moral degeneracy- it couldnt be taken seriously. Thus, in their
eyes, it would be David who better fitted the profile of American spy. Which was all very well
if he really had the training and back up of a proper Intelligence operative. He didnt. What was
to stop some ambitious goon on the other side from arranging for his framing- a fake honey-
trap- in some sordid manner the folks back home would neither understand nor forgive?
London was riddled with Communist sympathisers who would gladly do the job gratis. David
shook his head. How could he have been so foolish? It seemed, in the end, despite all his
planning and foresight, he was going to end up like his brother Jacob- a schlemiel, thats what!
But why say schlemiel? Schlemiel, according to Heinrich Heine, was just clumsy; he got in the
way of a spear thrust meant for some other Bible bit player. But clumsiness cant be helped!
Not so with luck. That you make yourself. So, no, David wasnt a schlemiel- he was the
schlimazel on whom schlemiels spill soup!

-----------------------VII------------------------

Richard had taken David to a small hotel near the Corven Institute.

David was under the impression that lodgings were included in his course fees.

Then, abruptly, the Manager, who seemed on friendly terms with Richard, turned to him and
demanded a huge sum of money. David went into shock. True, the amount the Corven was
charging was actually quite reasonable- a lot less than something similar at Harvard-
nevertheless David hadnt guessed that accommodation wouldnt be included in the price. After
all, as his own research had shown, the Corven was rich- rich, beyond the dreams of avarice-
from the Sultan of Qamrs largesse.
Perhaps he was supposed to bargain with the Hotel keeper. He'd read stories in the Herald
Tribune about how whole chunks of London had turned into Saudi Arabia thanks to the influx
of Oil Sheikhs. No doubt, oriental haggling was now de rigueur at the better sort of hotel.
To keep himself in countenance David dug into the pocket of his ski jacket- it was his brother,
Jacobs, originally- and brought out a well thumbed, six year old, copy of Europe on $5 a day
which he began studying intently. Slowly, he shook his head. Richard was embarrassed. It
occurred to David that he might be getting a commission from the hotelier. This is a good
place, he whispered to David, Hot showers. And you can order drinks from the bar till half
past ten.
Wow, said David, Hot showers! Gee whizz!
And listen, Richard added I think I can get them to put a T.V in your room. Seriously- a
T.V. Maybe not colour, but a portable black and white. Youll get all three channels. And not
just that- maybe I can get you O.J for breakfast. O.J out of a can!
O.J?
Orange Juice! Real American O.J, out of a can, served with your porridge. Believe me, thats
the advantage of checking into a classy place like this. The little things. The attention to detail.
In his excitement over the O.J, Richards voice had begun to mount in volume. The hotelier
heard and grew alarmed.
No orange juice unless its ordered separately from the bar, paid for, and brought down to
table. Im sorry its the licensing laws. And we cant put a portable T.V in Belvedere- thats the
economy room were quoting you for- because our insurance wont cover it. Also, the boiler
shuts down at 7.30 A.M- fuel conservation, we all have to do our bit- we dont want a return to
the days of the three day week now do we?

But, Ill still get my porridge? asked David.

Only if you eat up all your kedgeree- Im sorry, Union rules.

-------------------------VIII------------------------

Presently, Im rent-boy, said Babu.
Only for money, you understand. My true vocation is poetry.

David hadnt expected such frankness. Still, he couldnt say he was altogether surprised. On
first arriving at the Hindu Student Hostel- a shabby townhouse on a dreary cul-de-sac abutting
Russell Square- he had been told quite matter-of-factly, by Vivek Iyer-the Hostel Secretary-
that Bahadur Gandu Babu had just popped out for a fag.

Of course the Eastern Religions dont really have a concept of the unnaturalness of
Homosexuality. Indeed, they have no real concept of Sin- just Shame, loss of face. Sill, David
felt, the Hindus might show more consideration for the sensibilities of those from the Jadaeo-
Christian tradition.

Whatever else he might be, Babu proved to be a good organiser. Within a few hours of
arriving in London, hes struck a deal to take over a couple of floors- empty because of the
Summer vacation- of the Hindu Student Hostel. This meant that he could provide David with
lodgings at a bargain price. Two or three of the others on the seminar- Shahrukh, a15 year old,
Persian, Chess prodigy- Celeste, a Parisian- and Moyra, down from Edinburgh- had already
moved in.

The Hindu Hostel was strictly vegetarian. There was always a smell of burning incense but
smoking was forbidden. Strangely, it was quite clean. Hot water flowed freely in the showers.
There was only one problem. The thermostat for the Central Heating was turned up all the way.
It would be like living in Calcutta.

--------------------------IX--------------------------
As not from blood lust but for words rich and rare
Bookish boys to Battles ballads repair
Pen Nymphets, preening, what comes to pass
& all Homer, Helen, in a looking glass!

Moyra, preparing for bed, turned from the mirror, hairbrush in hand. Och Babu! she
exclaimed waspishly- as if the pudgy Indian poet was to blame for her having left her own
bedroom door ajar- come to collect another wee advance on the rent money is it?

No, indeed! Babu said virtuously, Now David is joining us- we are all getting some money
back- me most because mine the original outlay. Meet David- Harvard Econ, isnt it? And this
is Moyra- star of Edinburgh Zoo.

Zoo? asked David, much struck by the stunning Scot.

In truth, her beauty caged- like red deer in purple heather- rearing crags and raging torrents.

Zoology, said Moyra- Id actually planned on doing field-work this summer- East Africa-
a conservation project- but my supervisor persuaded me to come down to ratty old London
instead. I suppose theres tips I might pick up from Zadig to push forward modelling techniques
for population dynamics, or game-theoretic insights for ethology and evolutionary biology- but
frankly, the way things are going, none of its going to matter- the mother of all extinction
cycles is upon us and well all soon find theres nothing left for us to study!

Meanwhile, Babu had been counting out greasy pound notes- suffering greatly- if his
expression was anything to go by. With a martyred air, he took hold of Moyras hand and
pressed the money into her palm. Count it, he said mournfully, then, Ill explain the book-
keeping. Its actually quite interesting, he added, his face brightening, because Im using a
Dasgupta-depletion, shadow pricing, model for my absorption costing...

Och Babu, dont be ridiculous! I told you I didnt want a rebate. What I paid you was my per
diem. I dont want to make a profit on it. That would be wrong.

No, no, said Babu, It is business. In business there must be strict apportionment. This is
your money. Only you can dispose. Otherwise, great sin.

Well, take the money and use it to switch the kitchen from dairy to soy milk. Otherwise
youll have the death of starving wee calves on your hands.

God forbid! Babu said piously, If it is a question of sin against Cow Mother, money no
object. I will see to it just now only. True to his word, he ran out of the room.

David couldnt help himself. He laughed.

Moyra turned towards him warmly, I know! The Hindus are such hypocrites. Whatever they
may do for their holy cow, they let buffalo calves starve to death by the thousand! They
consider themselves civilized but they still havent given up dairy! Do you know India is set to
become the biggest importer of palm oil? And what that means is the destruction of yet more
tropical rainforest! Think of the bio-diversity being lost, whole species going into extinction,
just because the powers that be are sunk in such utter intellectual torpor! Tell me, are you
macrobiotic?

No, said David ruefully. Kosher.

Thats just raw roots and nuts- right? Of course you Americans are so much further along
than we are. Sometimes I despair of us Europeans ever weaning ourselves of cereals. Still, we
have to try. Thats the only way well be able to restore ecological balance. Return the Land to
its natural purpose.

Suddenly Moyra realised that she was about to take off her slip with David still in the room.

Och! Will ye get on out of here! she said crossly, Gawking like a great big booby!

David grinned; he was going to like it here.

If it comes to big boobies, he replied smartly, Youre a fine one to talk!

But that, as Celeste might say, was an esprit descalier.

In reality, what hed actually done was mumble an apology and meekly leave the room.

Romance played no part in his plans.

-------------------X------------------

David had only been in London a few hours and already he was up to his neck in an espionage
imbroglio.

The Russian delegate had contacted him, confessed immediately to being K.G.B and told him
he wanted to defect. Though young, little more than a month older than David himself, the
Russian had been involved in counter-Intelligence since the age of 14. But, so he said, he was
secretly a double agent- loyal to the Lithuanian Catholic underground from which his mother
had sprung. To build his cover, his Control had taken him out of the elite, Moscow, English
language school, his unwed mother- still a religious woman but a Soviet turncoat- had gotten
him into. He had been sent to a Russian Orthodox seminary and received ordination as a monk.
His astounding skills in linguistics, cultivated at the Bakhtin Institute with time off from the
seminary, had gotten him a place at the Zadig seminar- but his real purpose was to spy. At least,
that was what his Control wanted. For himself, he wanted to defect, bringing over details of
underground networks both in Lithuania as well as the Sobornost Evangelical movement within
the Russian Orthodox Church. It was an invaluable prize he was offering. At one stroke, the
C.I.A would gain access to an enormous pool of potential agents- of precisely the sort,
Secretary of State, Brzezinski had set his heart on- placed at every level of Soviet Society- from
the Gulags to the Presidium.

David was actually in the toilet when the tall Russian confronted him.

In his black monks robes- the fellow looked like a bespectacled Rasputin.

David had simply gawped. He was unable to say a word. The Russian, whose English was
truly excellent, had spoken so cogently, so impressively, that there really was nothing for David
to say. He hadnt even recollected himself sufficiently to deny he knew Kincaid. Having spoken
his piece, the Russian left- only pausing to ceremoniously sniff the air in condign appreciation
of the superior stench produced by the Capitalist system. He had asked for no assurances, but
simply taken it for granted that David was a professional like himself.

Pulling up his trousers, David realised he needed to get in touch with Kincaid immediately.
From the way he'd spoken of his mother as being unwed, David guessed the monk might well
be the bastard son of someone high up in GRU or the KGB. Perhaps, he had been sent to
London for the express purpose of negotiating his biological father's defection.

But how was he to reach Kincaid without tipping his own hand?

With a sense of doom, he realised he knew nothing of tradecraft.

If only hed read more John Le Carr novels!

What was he to do?

---------------------------XI-----------------------------

If Love is the answer- FUCK is the question?

Barney wasnt going to make it big as a punk rock star.

The poor bastard could actually carry a tune.

If Love is the answer- FUCK is the question?!

David had got the address of this dingy, Kentish Town, pub cellar from Richard. Though jet-
lagged and bone tired, David realised- if he was to get a message to Kincaid about the Russian
defector before the K.G.B cottoned on- he needed to speak to Barney right away.

If Love is the answer- FUCK is the question!

The working class Cockney lads- still sporting sideburns and flared trousers- fans, perhaps, of
the Bay City Rollers- were bobbing their heads in appreciation. Not so the punks- Art College
types- gobbing at each other, true, but- unenthused by the music- doing so in a purely pro forma
manner. So, it seemed, Barney- with his bland, Surfer dude, good looks- would have to stick to
Computer geekery. He wasnt going to be the next Johnny Rotten after all. Not that it mattered.
After all, this Punk shtick was just C.I.A cover.

Or so David thought.

----------------------------XII---------------------------

John Augustus Corven, 12th Marquess of Marston- appeared uneasy without a T.V camera in
the vicinity. His ash-blonde mane and flashing, gold, monocle- adored by millions of maiden
aunts across the land- appeared drained of colour; of vivacity. His welcome address was long-
too long- more of a stream of consciousness than a connected speech; perhaps, the man was
missing his teleprompter- and decidedly lacklustre. It seemed, the recent refurbishments to the
Corven Institute- itself a legacy from a nineteenth century polymath ancestor - had put the
ageing aristocrat in a thoughtful mood.

Today, after a gap of almost forty years, I descended once again to the grotto beneath our
archives in the basement. My distinguished forbear, the sixth Marquess- whose epigram on his
friend, Newton, Pope thought well enough of to steal- which explains, perhaps, why Alexander
Pope called him Caw Caw Corven in the suppressed portion of the Dunciad!- my ancestor, the
sixth Marquess, had the grotto constructed after the Great Fire. But, it was the first Marquess-
who sheltered Giordano Bruno and arranged the publication of the "De l'Infinito Universo et
Mondi"- who collected the Cistercian grotesques and Templar memento mori you still see there.
At that time, I should explain, the building of grottos was symbolic less of a return to the
womb- or a return to antiquity- rather than an encounter with the fourth dimension. Not
Einsteins stolidly Stoic conception of a fourth dimension but what John Wallis, in his treatise
on algebra published in 1685, called a monster in Nature and less possible than a Chimera or
Centaur- in other words, what, following William James, we now term the Multiverse in
which- by Feynmans multiple histories hypothesis- all possible pasts breed with all possible
futures to engender fantastic worlds across a diagonal dimension of Time. Except, by the time
we English actually got round to building grottos, that idea already seemed charmingly naive-
like Jules Vernes steam powered spaceships for us of the Apollo generation!- and there
perhaps lies the true fascination of the grotto- it allows us the luxury of looking upon ideas and
symbols as being like hybrids of extinct animals, obsolete technologies; of possible ornamental
value but no real threat- but is that true? I wonder...

Now, the grotto here, beneath our feet, has been flooded for many years, flooded since my
boyhood- and all thanks to Londons rising water table. But, recently, perhaps because of the
droughts weve been experiencing, it has become possible to think of restoring the grotto to its
former glory. Nevertheless, since the Breweries continue to pull out of London, the ground
water level is bound to rise again and thus it is only thanks to the generosity of the His Royal
Highness the Sultan of Qamr, that this little seventeenth century gem will remain accessible to
coming generations.

Today, in letting the workmen persuade me to descend to the grotto that my ancestors built
and furnished and maintained- I was suddenly struck by a memory from my days at the Dragon
School- a story our Latin Master told us. It was the story of the Lacus Curtius- the chasm that
appeared in the Roman forum twenty five hundred years ago- a gaping chasm that threatened to
swallow up the Senate and the People of Rome. How avert the disaster that threatened? An
Oracle gave the answer. The Romans must sacrifice that which they held most precious.
Cladding himself in burnished armour, a hero- Marcus Curtius by name- understanding very
well that the thing most precious to a People was the courage of its Youth- seated himself upon
the noblest steed in his fathers stables and leapt fearlessly into the abyss thus causing it to
close.

At that time, I remember thinking Marcus Curtius had done a fine thing- something I would
like to do myself- except, perhaps, Id use a rocket ship- like Rex Savage, Star Pilot- rather than
an old fashioned war-horse- and, once the chasm closed behind me, Id have wonderful
adventures battling Martian monsters and rescuing Lunar princesses.

Corven had turned his profile to the camera- except there wasnt a camera- and now, his
trademark boyish gesture, he tossed his head to flick the hair out of his eyes- except there was
no hair in his eyes, he was wearing the wrong wig.

Now, today, standing in front of you- twelve young people from different countries, different
civilizations- great countries, great civilizations- I confess, perhaps, I was wrong. Perhaps,
Marcus Curtius did a terrible thing. Perhaps, he went to a terrible fate. I dont know. The truth
is, I dont know anymore.

Corven paused for effect.

Or, perhaps, his speech had affected him and hed himself been overcome by fumes of the
History-as-after-dinner-brandy hed been peddling on the B.B.C all these years- a brandy that
had worked its trick, David thought to himself bitterly; who now remembered his father had
been a Nazi?- only escaping the noose that took Leo Amerys son because hed been smart
enough to acquire Spanish citizenship back in 38.

Meanwhile, next to the willowy Lord Corven- still frozen in an attitude of declamation, like a
Greek statute- sat Jonathan Zadig- ruddy cheeked, beady eyed, with folded arms. Given a beard,
a pipe and a toadstool- the great mathematician could have passed for a garden gnome.

I have spoken of a grotto, perhaps I should now speak of the Cave- Platos Cave, the Cave in
which prisoners sit with no memory of the light and the air and the dappled waters from whence
they came. Chained they sit, the prisoners, dimly discerning the shadows of certain objects
thrown upon the wall. If one prisoner should break free, travel out into the world and see and
touch and learn to use for himself the objects he had previously known only as shadows- what
then? Returning to the cave, he would be mocked as a madman.

A madman?- David thought- someone here was crazy all right.

Not, Corven, no.

He must have some axe to grind- though what precisely wasn't yet clear.

Platos parable of the Cave seems curious. After all, the Cave is the Universal symbol, the
topos, of Spiritual rebirth. Not so for Plato- why? The images in the cave lack a dimension, they
cant be touched- but, if contemplation really is the summum bonum, then- surely!- it is feasible
that the dazzled returnee to the cave can give a superior account of the true nature of the images
the troglodytes see. In the jargon of my friend, Sir Karl Popper, the model of Reality offered by
the returnee from the outside world will ultimately prove to have greater predictive value. Yes,
the returnee will face opposition. Perhaps, he will be labelled a madman. But, ultimately, if
Occams razor prevails, if the principle of parsimony is upheld, the inhabitants of the cave will
come to see their error. Indeed, they are bound to so do- even if no-one ever leaves the Cave.
This is because, lacking a dimension, the shadows of the outside world they see upon their
screen, interact and evolve in a manner that must eventually falsify, that must eventually
overthrow, every mental model the troglodytes make of Life in the open air. Thus, if the
shadows on the screen are not to be dismissed as meaningless patterns produced by pure
chance, the idea will take hold that there are hidden variables, dimensions not visible, and-
therefore- there must exist another world, richer in life and colour and significance than
anything within the cave. But, in so far as Perception in that world too but works by a mapping
of sensory inputs to a lower dimensional model- so long, in short, as maps are not terrains- the
problem remains, indeed it grows acute! the world outside the cave is a world where what you
embrace is but a shadow and you dont yet know it- how much superior then the shadow play
of the cave where such embraces are impossible! Thus the troglodyte seer- and it is only
necessary that there be but one- comes to see that beneath the surface of the cave is another
cave- a grotto- and like the Roman workmen breaking through into the Domus Aurea of
Emperor Nero- the seer has already, albeit accidentally, broken through into that impossible
world of centaurs and hippogryphs only to find there that the fantastic sideways infinity of
Time that is also Brunos Memory Palace, Vicos verum factum Kingdom of what can be truly
known- what is it but a crypt? What is it but a crypt?

Logic wasnt Corvens strong suit, David thought to himself- or was it all a coded message?

Either way, meshugeh ahf toit! someone was crazy here.

Rationality is to Philosophy as Memory is to Dream!- a wise man-a wise man and great
Prince!- it was His Royal Highness, the Sultan of Qamr who told me this. The Prophet of Islam,
as some of you will know, said that dreams- at any rate, good dreams- the sort of dreams we
might talk about hoping they come true- dreams, indeed are all that is left of Prophesy to the
Faithful. But, some Sufi scholiasts see something subversive, something amphibolous, in the
very reciprocity of the relationship- Philosophy serving Rationality as Dreams serve
Memory...

David glanced about him.

Barney was sleeping peacefully.

Last night, when confronted after his set at the Kentish Town pub-cellar, Barney had denied
ever having heard of Remus Kincaid. David had needed to think quickly. To blurt out the whole
story would be to brand himself a security risk. Thus, he proceeded with caution. First,
affecting an Aw Shucks gaucherie- like hed never been out of the country before- he gave
Barney an involved account of his own ordeal at the airport thus bringing the conversation
around to what Richard had said about there being this big black guy- an American- who had
made a tremendous hit with Brenda- the sluttish secretary at the Corven Institute. Clearly,
David dull-wittedly reasoned, Kincaid must be interested in one of the American students on
the Seminar. But, it wasnt David- it couldnt be, he knew no-one here. Thus, since Richard had
mentioned that Barneys dad was a hot shot attorney...

Barney looked rueful. Yes, his fathers Law firm had an office here. Perhaps, this Kincaid
character was a junior associate with instructions to check up on him- make sure he actually
showed up for class...

David saw he was being offered a way out. Adopting the persona of a bumbling do-gooder,
appealing to a fellow countrymans good nature, he told Barney that one of the other students
on the programme had approached him with an... well, call it an urgent immigration problem.
But, David himself could do nothing. He didnt know the legal system here. But, this Kincaid
guy, being like Big and Black and American- well, he might be... sympathetic. Maybe, he had
contacts in Government circles, or, at least, could recommend a lawyer- well, legal aid of some
sort, the student in question probably had no money- and keep things discreet...

Barney, by now too wearied to put up more than token resistance, agreed to get in touch with
his fathers London office. Sure, hed put the question to Kincaid. But, he could make no
promises. And, yes, the matter would be treated with total discretion- no names, no pack-drill.

David felt hed acquitted himself pretty well on this, his first, espionage mission. Hed passed
Kincaid the message about the Russian defector without tipping his own hand. Now, if only he
could sleep as peacefully as Barney- the remainder of the seminar would be a walk in the park.

David had dozed off.

He came too abruptly- the GeoPol podcast had just finished a story about the British pulling out
of Basra and the next item was Sarkozy upping the number of French troops in Afghanistan.
But, it wasnt that- bizarre enough as it sounded- which had awoken him. It was Paulo- one of
the gardeners- the head orchid-wrangler as his father-in-law might call him- knocking shyly on
the open door of Davids study.

Ah right, Paulo- good of you to come.. now, that old corduroy jacket of mine my wife gave
you- Im afraid there was a mistake- you see, it had.. urm.. sentimental value- O Jeez- presente
sentimental- voc compreende?

Eu no entendo.

Right, coz Paulo is fresh of the boat from the backside of Pantanal- what was I thinking?

Paulo- uhm..gimme back my...um..d-me para trs meu.. what the fucks jacket?- chaqueta?-
no thats Spanish, well lets just say apparel- apparel do corduroy.

Apparel do corduroy! Paulos sallow, not unhandsome, face seemed suddenly stricken of
colour- que catastrophe!- the wealthy gringo wanted back his tatty old jacket- yes, but it was a
jacket on which the Vice President himself had puked!- that too after shooting a campaign
contributor- and now David had been hounded out of the Administration, well, he had to think
of his future- the kiss-and-tell book, the talk-show circuit- even if there wasnt already quite a
lucrative E-Bay market for garments stained by famous vomit.

'Voc quer para trs sua calas? A calas sua esposa deu-me?'

Paulos voice verged on the hysterical. Yet he was cunning enough to confuse the issue by
bringing up the old pair of trousers- also of corduroy- Davids wife had given him. Clearly, the
rich gringo was meant to feel an utter monster- grabbing back not just a jacket but also stripping
off the trousers that protected the naked loins of the poor cafuzo well, fair enough, good
negotiating tactics & O.K. so this would cost a few shekels...

David opened a desk drawer to get some small bills.

Look, I need the jacket back because .. O Jeez!.. urm.. vice-presidente vomite...amigo o vice-
presidente... urm.. aps ter disparado- you know Bang! Bang! Compreenda?

Paulo was looking at him as if hed gone mad. David suddenly realised he was waving a gun in
the air. It was the gold-plated Luger Gen. Stroessner had given his father-in-law- which David
now used as a paper-weight.

Look, never mind. Leave it- you settle it with my wife- Minha esposa.. urm, minha esposa..
Jesus wept! Yo que voc compreende? Minha esposa... estabelea-o. V agora..

Paulo, seeing David put money on the table, had become grave and composed.

David suddenly heard his own name on the podcast. He turned towards the screen.

...a protg of the Prince of Darkness- Richard Perle...

The words issued from the smug face of the Billionaire Blogger

O.K. no real news here- the sentencing of Conrad Black had made the Hollinger scandal topical
again- lucky, he hadnt had his hands in that particular corporate kitty- but what the self-
satisfied Clintonista pontificating on the screen really wanted to achieve- by dragging Davids
name into it- was to send a coded message to the anti-Straussian conspiracy theorists out in
cyberspace smearing not David himself but- far-fetched as this might sound Senator Obama-
coz when David had returned to Harvard in 91, he and Obama had maybe like played racquet
ball a couple of times...

O senhor Eu compreende. It was Paulo- waiting for his money.

The phone rang. The secure line.

Picking it up, David waved to the small pile of bills beneath the Luger.

My wife, O.K.? Voc estabelece-se com minha esposa

You want me to do what with your wife? asked Babu.

O Jeez, Babu- is that you?- what time is it in Delhi? My flight leaves in a few... Oh for fucks
sake!

Paulo hadnt taken the money- hed taken Stroessners gun.

Well, Della would have to deal with him. That was the one advantage of marrying a proper
Southern Belle. Lazy they might be but, say what you like, they know how to handle the help.

Listen, David- are you all right? Will you still be able to make your flight?

Yeah, yeah- sorry, just a bit of language trouble with my Brazilian gardener.

I speak a little Portuguese, from my stint in Goa. said Babu, Would you like me to talk to
him?

No, thats O.K- my wifes dad was Ambassador to Brazil- shell..oh fuck!

David had suddenly remembered the big disadvantage of marrying a Southern Belle. The one
household chore they diligently performed with their own fair hands was the cleaning and
loading of all the firearms under the eaves. So, the wet-back gardener would probably blow his
toes off and the Press would get hold of it before the fellows papers came through.

Look, David, if this is a bad time, Ill call back- but, you see, somethings come up. A
problem..

Yeah? Let me guess! Your Ambassador to Washington has just called your legislators a bunch
of headless chickens! Jeez, no wonder your guys are dragging their feet to ratify the Nuclear
deal. I mean, honestly, your diplomats ..

No, no- that was yesterdays problem! Anyway, as Ive explained in my memo- in Urdu, the
phrase headless chicken translates as murg-e-bismillah- which, from Islamic angle, is actually
very high praise- comparing our illustrious legislators to great Sufi Saints like Sarmad who was
always running around with his head tucked underneath his arm- due to, you see, so high was
his sense of duty, he wanted to take his Pirs permission before laying down his life. Thus, you
will readily grant- seen in proper light- Ambassador Ronen Sen was uttering naught but
condign praise for our most blessed and beautiful Parliamentarians- vide my 1001 stanza poem,
beginning-

Their heads to God they most graciously award
For suffices the State but their spinal cord!

& reaching its crescendo with-

If by cerebral stunts a Senate sickens
Inds glory is its headless chickens!

Babu!

I know, sublime is it not?

Did you really call me up on the secure line just to recite your poetry to me? For fucks sake, if
I find out youve rigged up this India mission just as a way of getting a captive audience for
your poetry..!

No, no, David Sahib! How you could think such a thing? My poetry is only sanctioned for use
on the Pakistani delegates to our Confidence Building Talks. It is on orders from my boss- you
know, she is something of a philistine. However, I thought you being a connoisseur...

Well, Im not a connoisseur- and now Im out of the Administration, frankly I havent time to
waste. So tell me straight- is this Delhi trip youve set up for me the real deal?

Of course it is, David Sahib! We are old friends- you can rely. Already, Ive set up meetings
for you with senior politicians on both sides of the fence. The fact is, the ruling coalition is
being held to ransom by the dinosaurs on the Left. Those old fossils will need to vent their
spleen a little before giving the Nuclear agreement the nod. You just lay on a bit of the old
Pinko rope-a-dope before counter-punching with your Hegel and Kojeve and God knows who.
In any case- now the Chinese are softening on the issue- the Lefties might think you neo-
Imperialists are pulling a fast one and what the deal is really about is us getting rid of nukes.

As for the opposition hawks- why not roast them a little?- just hit them with your refinement
of the Wohlsetter delicate balance thesis as applied to the signal extraction problem in
multilateral conflicts- where a battlefield tactical first strike by one power can provide cover for
a massive strategic missile launch by another- in which case, deterrence requires an assured off-
shore ICBM response. In that scenario, even the most deluded of our flag-wavers will recognise
India cant go it alone. Thus, as things stand, an Indo-U.S naval alliance is vital for a future
submarine second strike capability. The other point has to do with upgrading from an ad hoc
dispersed assembly/delivery model to a centralized, PAL enabled, system. Since a corollary of
the Wohlsetter doctrine is that commitment to Permissive Action Links implementation must be
a function not just of arsenal size and diversity- as the pundits say but also of strategic
univocity- fuzzy command being what the logic of soft state bilateral conflict otherwise dictates
- it follows that what Washington ultimately needs is for us to commit to full fledged multi-
platform deterrence- the pay off being in terms of an institutionalised trembling hand lock in
to your global strategic picture . Put simply, the logic is- you guys get higher comfort if we
Nuke up not Nuke down. Of course, you cant actually say all that. What you need to do is
drone on about how Washington has spent $100 million on getting Pakistan to beef up its
arsenal security- like you guys really think thats money well spent!- and wait for the penny to
drop.

In any case, Ive already arranged for you to publish a couple of op-ed pieces in Journals here
to turn the screws on them. So, really there is nothing to worry about at this end. Were on the
secure line right? Well, let me assure you, since none of all this matters in the slightest, none
of it means anything at all, nothing can go wrong. Its just talk is all. Hot air. Everyone knows
it. And though the loo season is over in Delhi, hot air is always in season- especially now the
123 agreement has been made public. Thats why your cover is 100% rock-solid because
actually it isnt cover at all. Everybody is doing it. Its the only game in town. Thats why no
one will suspect what youre really up to. My own people dont know. On that you have my
absolute guarantee.

Well, thats good to hear.

Only one cloud on the horizon- the reason I called you up..

The Iranians?

The French.

The French?

The Sret. I have a friend in Interpol- it seems someones started asking questions.

Not about...

Im afraid so- yes, the Zadig Seminar.

Strange, I sort of had a feeling...not that I thought youd actually say that- still, you know, I
hadnt thought about the Zadig thing for many many years. Not till this Iranian deal came up.
Even then it was only when I looked up the file and realised my opposite number was to be
someone from the Seminar...

Id have thought youd have remembered Shahrukh! I did. Quite often actually. But, oddly
enough, I never really thought about the Seminar either. Though, to be fair, I had an excuse.

Hang on a sec, said David, a thought striking him, You say some French flatfoot is asking
questions about the Seminar. But, there were two Seminars. And, logically, the place the Police
would start is with the second Seminar- you know, because of the way it ended. Unless theyve
stumbled on...Do you know which Seminar theyre interested in? Is it the first?

No. The second. The one we didnt attend.

Well that lets us out, said David, Were safe- at least, for the moment...not that we did
anything wrong.

True, said Babu, after a moments pause, Nothing really wrong.

A silence followed.

Feeling suddenly ashamed, David put the phone down. Babu, he noted, had already done the
same.

David woke up abruptly. Barney was nudging him.

Dude! Not cool! Your snores were shaking the building.

Davids eyes focused. Merde! Celeste was looking daggers at him, Botien amricain!

Sorry, he muttered turning towards the podium, Jet lag.. uhm... mLord ?

This raised a laugh. Corven smiled. Rasputin- the Russian monk, whatever his name was-
avoided his eye.

And Moyra? David dared not look.

Of course- jet lag. Quite understandable. No need to apologise. Indeed, it is I who have been
inconsiderate- but, perhaps, before we break for tea- I think thats Brenda signalling the
catering staff will need another few minutes- I could just bring my remarks to a close by
making one last observation. The quest for a mathesis universalis- a perfect logical language
that would mirror the world and not our mere experience of it; a symbolic combinatorics in
which everything is decidable algorithmically, permitting more and more knowledge to be
cranked out so as to exponentially converge on a Theory of Everything; a sort of algebra of
ideas which would replace controversy with calculation, turn any advance in a particular field
of knowledge into a revolution involving all branches of thought- this idea is deeply embedded,
subtly intertwined, with the entire project of Enlightenment and Modernity- indeed, as I have
mentioned, this is something that the Archives here beneath our feet amply illustrate. I have
told you the story of Leibnizs correspondence with the sixth Marquess on his scheme for
perpetual peace and the impact reading those papers had on the young Bertrand Russell- not
then a conscientious objector with radical views on Free Love but a donnish, perfectly
conventional Mathematician- what I did not mention- perhaps to spare the feelings of our
honoured guest, Chevalier Jonathan Zadig, who was a friend, indeed a close collaborator, of the
great mathematician Kurt Gdel whose recent passing we all mourn- is that Gdel too has made
use of these archives. Indeed, it was on the basis of a transcription of portions of the Nachlass
that I myself prepared for him right here in this Institute, that Gdel came to the conclusion that
there had been an active conspiracy to suppress Liebnizs characteristica universalis- but why,
we may ask ourselves? Cui bono? Who would benefit ? Well, I need hardly tell you there are
always vested interests which oppose perpetual peace, oppose general prosperity, oppose the
abolition of insecurity and ignorance- and a means to universalise knowledge and make
scholarship infinitely more productive would be anathema in their eyes. But that is only part of
the story. The fact is, a self-consistent mathesis universalis would abolish the need for a
phenomenology, it would establish Spinozan univocity- except, I suppose, for Jesuitical refiners
of Boscovichs casuistic broth- in short, it would dissolve the distinction between my
experience and your experience, my pain and your pain. In the language of my colleague, Rene
Girard, mimetic desire would cease to exist. My Being, expressed in the universal language
would be available to you in an immediate sense; it could be appropriated by you without need
for any further mediation and without your having to displace me in any way. Rivalry, the
mediation of Man and Man by Scarcity, the Hegelian Struggle for Recognition wherein the
fundamental agon, the basic Human struggle, is a sort of death-wager- a game of chicken-
whereby the one who is prepared to go further in risking his life gains the validation of seeing
himself as the master in the more cautious slaves eyes- all this would suddenly cease. But from
the Hegelian point of view, this would mean History would come to a stop. Nietzche goes
further, he speaks of the advent of the Last Man- a sort of degenerate Speigelman monster, an
ignoble creature indeed. Yet, to me, as a historian of ideas, the paradox remains. Those
intellectual voices which sounded loudest against the Leibnizian project were nevertheless
doomed to shout themselves hoarse touting their own idiosyncratic totalising theories. This is
that Romantic Irony, that Universal Viconian barbarism of reflection, which- in the very
praxis by which it declares itself free- ceaselessly re-inscribes the collapsing circle of its own
existential crisis- the infinite multiplication of cross-roads because, left or right, no matter
which chirality we choose, there is only, there has always only been, a roundabout... Indeed,
even within the narrow tradition of Logical Atomism, we can not but remark the manner in
which all those who have upheld the possibility of a mathesis universalis have nevertheless
undone, by their very intellectual acuity, those whom they took as their teachers. Thus Russells
paradox put paid to, his master, Freges programme and the Principia Mathematica was
rendered a nullity by Gdels theorem- which, as you all know, shows that even arithmetic is
incomplete. There are some propositions within arithmetic which arithmetic itself can not show
to be either true or false. Tarskis notion of a meta-language takes this further. No language, no
discourse, can completely contain its criteria of deciding between truth and falsehood- or
meaning and nonsense- but must have recourse to a meta-language- a language about that
language, a discourse about that discourse- and thus everything gets postponed in an infinite
regress. In the language of Alan Turing, who like Russell was a distinguished Visiting Fellow
here, the algorithm, the computer programme, set up to decide the question of computability
can not itself be proven to ever halt. However, with respect to Tarskis result, I believe my
young friend, Kripke has recently shown- using a recursive procedure with a denumerable
infinity of steps- that a basic sort of language containing its own truth predicate is feasible....
But, here I am getting out of my depth- perhaps, this is one of the things you will be discussing
over the coming weeks. What is odd- at least to my mind- is that Gdel seems to have known
something like this already. Indeed, there seems to be a sort of pattern to the results most
commonly cited to illustrate Gdels increasing eccentricity in his later years. There is the story
that when applying for U.S citizenship, Gdel found a loophole in the Constitution by which
America could, at least in theory, turn into a dictatorship. His friend, Einstein, urged the
extreme un-wisdom of expatiating on this topic to an American Judge- and, always the most
obliging of men, Gdel dropped the subject. Indeed, though gentlemanly to a fault- he never
refused an appointment to a visitor- Gdel was curiously reticent- he never kept the
appointments he so prodigally granted. Perhaps, this little psychological quirk of his explains
what to many minds is a mystery- his paper proving the possibility of Time Travel in a universe
obedient to Einsteins General Relativity- on the face of it, an unfriendly gesture to a close
personal friend and a singularly sterile result. Yet, this is to take a simplistic view. The fact is,
as has been recently suggested, time travel could solve the halting problem- which is equivalent
to a weaker version of Gdels theorem- at least if the time-travel in question is faster than the
growth of any computable function. This may seem academic- clearly we do not live in the sort
of Universe Gdel envisaged in his paper. But, that Universe is a possible world- in the sense of
being compatible with General Relativity. What are the implications for Philosophical Logic? If
the halting problem is solvable in one possible world- what then of that class of problems in the
actual world- the world we inhabit? Now, we know Gdel was a Platonist- he believed in the
reality of Universals, the independence of concepts from the contingencies of the world in
which they arise- thus the question becomes acute, is what Gdel offering us a sort of sketch of
an existence proof- not a method of construction, mind you- but a hint that the impossible is
actually possible- more, the impossible might be necessary... But, if so, how does this all link
up with another theorem of Gdels- a theorem he did not publish but which everybody he
showed it to was sure must be false- I mean the theorem that proves the existence of God...

David couldnt believe his ears.

Corven was senile. The series of non sequiturs dropping from his lips...there was no other
explanation.

Or was there?

Bibescu had said Zadig had been very intense, unearthly... unheimlich

Yet there was Jonathan Zadig- more gnome like than ever, sitting stolidly in his chair, with an
unlit pipe stuck into his bearded mouth.

Dear God! thought David to himself, Have I really paid all this money to attend... Bible boot
camp?

Let me tell you about a fisherman- a poor fisherman on a Lake...
If the Lake was Lake Galilee, then I must tell you I know all about your fisherman. David
replied, As Ive already explained, we Moslems revere Isa Nabi- Prophet Jesus- as the seal of
sanctity.

Is that so? Well thats fine! Real fine! the old Texan- a one time business associate of his
father-in-law- took a long sip of his mint julep with wonder in his eyes, Waaall if you caint use
one of these, hows bout a lil bourbon n branch?

Against my religion. David replied curtly.

The plane had just hit an air pocket and his nerves were frayed.

You dont say! Well, I guess this purty lil filly will just have ta pour you another jar of
Arbuckle.

All this was Babus fault. Hed said hed arranged a bizjet- a Bombardier Global or something
in that class- with a corporate contact and David had jumped to the conclusion that someone of
Indian origin- perhaps a Steel magnate or Silicon Valley billionaire- would oblige. Instead,
Babu had put the bite on the XOCAL pipe-line consortium which by itself wouldnt have been
too bad if only the Agency- too mean to stump up for Blackwater-style protection- hadnt gone
and supplied David with a Tunisian Passport for his India mission. Again, something David
could have put up with if only the senile roustabout, XOCAL still carried as chairman of the
board, hadnt taken it into his head to keep David company and, such was Davids luck,
swallow Davids wafer thin cover story along with his mint julep, and then drunkenly decide to
wrangle the sand monkey for Christ. Which David needed like a loch in kop.

Almost a relief, then, that the peroxide job in the push-up bra chose precisely that moment to
spill coffee in his lap.

David gave a sort of anticipatory yelp of pain, but the coffee wasnt even warm.

Now, the air-hostess had her hands in his groin.

Oh for Chrissake! The painted harlot was coming on to him- whispering in his ear.

Was the brazen hussy going to get his pecker out then and then?

No, for suddenly, David focused on what she was whispering.

Babu sent me. We need to speak. Tell the old man youre going to clean up in the toilet.

David walked, actually he shuffled- the girl had given him a hard on- down the aisle, past the
state of the art video-conferencing suite, to the galley. In a few moments, the plane would begin
its descent. David turned to the girl.

Whats the message? he asked.

No message. The girl replied. You go into storage.

Abruptly, she opened what looked like a fridge door. Behind it was standing a man who looked
kind of familiar- his clothes, his hair-cut, his... features. David gaped. He was looking at his
double. Not an exact duplicate-the guy was somewhat swarthier in complexion and more than a
few years younger- but to unfriendly eyes at the airport the resemblance would be close enough.
Evidently, Babu planned to throw off any potential tail by working a switch. It was the kind of
low-tech ploy the Indians were good at. But, there was a problem. Babu wouldnt have
budgeted on the chairman of XOCAL tagging along for the trip. Probably, the old man was
curious to get to know the mysterious Tunisian for whom his company was doing this favour.
But this meant that Babus plan couldnt go through. The old man wasnt so senile that hed fail
to spot a substitution. David started to explain this to the girl. No time, she said- her accent
was faintly British- Kumar will just have to pretend to be all breathless from having had it off
with me in the galley and then bury his face in a vomit bag so the old man doesnt notice. The
cockpit has radioed through for an emergency landing at London City. Well get you off with
the fire-crew. You change in here.

But is all this cloak and dagger stuff really necessary?

You tell me. Theres a warrant out for your arrest. Scotland Yard- and one or two of your own
people- will be standing by on the tarmac to take you off the plane.

A warrant! My arrest!...But this is ludicrous! Ive done nothing wrong! Who would...look, if
this is fallout from the Hollinger case- the Shareholders Committees idea of hard-ball, or
some sleazy, Mike Nifong, publicity-hound, D.As grandstanding- well, frankly, those guys
have over-reached themselves! Ill call a Press Conference and blow them out of the water!
Look, Ive got to speak to Babu. I mean, this little trip hes arranged for me cant go through.
Im sorry and all that. But, if this is the Hollinger thing come to bite me in the ass, theres no
alternative; I have to stick it out here and clear my name. I mean, we could be talking
Racketeering charges for Chrissake! Ive got to take a stand and the best place to do it is right
here in London- the libel capital of the world- in the full glare of the international Media,
because I can prove I never took a single penny. Frankly, this whole trend of trying to squeeze
money out of non-exec directors has gone too far!

This isnt about money, the girl said.

Underneath her make-up she was dark, naturally dark, not sun-tanned- The charge is murder.

Murder! David had an odd feeling of unreality. Thats impossible!

So? Maybe youve been set up. The girl had pushed him through the door and was now
helping him into a firemans costume in the confined space. Babu got wind of something nasty
in the pipeline and took precautions. He suspected... something.

But this murder charge, tell me, I have to know- who is behind it? I mean, it cant be the
Iranian Government- unless theres some faction of hawks we havent yet heard of- as for the
Resistance- the Mujahid ul Khalq- they simply don't have it in them. So- who is behind this? I
mean, this is related to my Delhi trip right?

No. The girl stood framed in the doorway. She was a cool customer. Then, a flicker of
emotion rippled beneath the frozen surface of her mask-like make-up. What was it? David
couldnt make out. Perhaps, there was a shade of pity in her voice when she spoke.

Babu said this was something from your Past.

What? Nicaragua? Lebanon? Sudan?

The Minion Murders.

The what murders?

I dont know. But, my guess is, its something you and Babu have in common. Something
from way back- before our people started properly updating his confidential file. But, also
something you mightnt have shared with your own people. Something they dont know about
and therefore cant protect you from. Otherwise, Id know- I mean, as far as Babu is concerned.
You see, before I came to work for him, he used to report to me. That was before I stepped into
a neat little frame-up of my own.

And with that she shut the door leaving David in darkness.

The Minion Murders! David said the words aloud to himself. The feeling of unreality had
intensified. All this was a bad dream. It had to be. Minion... hed been called the protg of all
sorts of people- protg was a polite way of saying minion- but what minions like him were
accused of was not murder but genocide...all nonsense, of course, but still, the fact was, hed
been identified- if only by the lunatic fringe of the Liberal Blogosphere- as one of the higher
ranking minions of the supposed Straussian neo-con cabal responsible for the Iraq quagmire...
Had somebody started bumping these so-called minions off? No...Definitely not... Unless you
count character assassination... But nothing orchestrated. Hed have heard. So, that couldnt be
it. Minion. Minion. A code name- an agent? A covert operation? A Regime Change installing
an Administration minion? No. No. Hed have remembered. Wait... Min-yan... Minyan...as in
the Jewish quorum for congregational worship? But Minyan murders? His father- who had
fancied himself a bit of a farbrekhera- running errands for the Irish mob while still in short
trousers and only learning Tailoring in Reform School- hadnt got religion till after the cancer.
As for his mother- though the good little balabusteh Uncle Benny had asked the Matchmaker to
find his wayward brother- she was frankly frightened of Synagogues- but then she had a
number tattooed on her arm... So wherefrom this talk of Minyans suddenly? Unless.... his
brother, Jacob, luckless Jacob- there was a time when he was the High School sports star- Jew
Namath, the Schwartwers called him- a nick-name hed delighted in, except that wasnt the
only thing he picked up from the Schwartzers and it took all his fathers pull- back in those
days people still believed his story of designing Pattons mess-jacket- to get his brother out of
the draft and into Rabbinical School, except the hapless schlemiel then goes off to Israel and
volunteers... but, enough ancient history, the fact was he himself had nothing to do with
Minyans- hadnt stepped into a synagogue since his brief stint with Hill & Knowlton- and as for
Minyan murders! It conjured up a picture of ringleted Haredis keeling over one by one coz
some evil genius is putting about a bad recipe for latkes... which could have nothing to do with
him obviously...indeed, hed have been married in St. Patricks Cathedral if only that
Monsignor Uncle of the greaseball chauffeur hadnt turned greedy and held up Dellas
annulment at the last moment... so, really, Minyans and murders could have nothing to do with
him. It was all a mix-up. Or perhaps a dirty trick dreamt up by some Democratic Karl Rove
wannabe... the chiselled, self-satisfied, face of the Billionaire Blogger came to mind... but, wait,
that could be the connection..... the girl had said all this had to do with something Babu and he
had shared- what if it was the Zadig Seminar?!- actually come to think of it, Prof. Bibescu had
referred to the seminar as a Minyan... Zadig insisting the quorum be kept up ... and there was
more... something about 7 weeks- 49 days...some mystical mumbo jumbo like this Kabballa
nonsense Madonna was into. But, Minyan murders? Surely, there had been only one killing- not
murder, man-slaughter, nothing premeditated- and it hadnt occurred till the next year, the year
after he and Babu were there. But, wait a sec. Babu had said something about the French re-
opening the Zadig case. What if... but, no, that was impossible. There couldnt have been a
murder on the first seminar! Hed have noticed. Someone would have noticed.



David hadnt noticed the unlighted minstrels gallery that ran along one side of the scriptorium.
It had been filled with senior academics keen to hear Zadigs words of wisdom.
Now tea was being served, the disgruntled professors descended to lay siege to the great man.
Not however, before grabbing their share of the tooth-numbingly sweet frosted cakes and
diuretic dishwater Brenda was slopping out. David felt a sort of shadenfreude- a pleasure in the
academics discomfiture as, one after another, they failed to provoke a reaction- or, indeed,
secure any sort of acknowledgement of their presence- from the silent, gnome-like, Zadig.

Lord Corven was shuttling about- doing his best at smoothing ruffled feathers- but it was an up-
hill struggle.

The academics would have appreciated being a captive audience, earlier in the day, to the
Noblemans sententious ramblings even less than David.

Suddenly there were raised voices- David made out a guttural Yiddish phrase- Toches ahfen
tish!- lets get down to business- asses on tables!- and the next thing that happened was Zadig
taking umbrage, shaking off his interlocutors, and stalking out of the room. A sudden hush
descended. Corvens eyes darted. He seemed undecided as to whether to run after his star guest
or seek to appease whichever academic had provoked the great mans walk-out.

As the crowd thinned, David saw a short, rather round, burly looking man with thick glasses
dressed in a grubby Safari suit. Rather than exhibiting contrition for his faux pas, the swarthy
fellow was surveying the scene challengingly. Beside him, stood a very thin, blonde man with
sunken eyes and a deeply sun-burnt face.

Lord Corven, evidently deciding he needed to neutralize the uncouth pair immediately,
summoned up his sunniest of smiles and swept forward to envelop them in his charm.

Yiddish! David heard him exclaiming, Such a rich language, so expressive...but, so full of
painful memories for our distinguished guest...you really must excuse him... I know how much
hed have wanted to really get down to brass tacks with you... still, nil desperandum, your visit
wont be wasted because- if youll permit my making the introductions- we have here a very
bright young man, who has already won golden opinions at Harvard, and who shares... that
marvellous linguistic heritage! With a sense of horror, David realised Corven was steering the
boorish pair towards him. Evidently, this was to be his punishment for having fallen asleep
during the old fops speech. Or else, it was Anti-Semitism plain and simple. Either way, his fate
was pitiable indeed. The burly fellow in the bad Safari Suit could be nothing but a Sabra- a
prickly, horny handed, Israeli whod feel it a moral duty to bully and brow-beat a soft-living
bien-pensant American Jew- that too from an Ivy League College.

You speak Yiddish? the man said, casting a shrewd glance up at David.

Not like you. There was only one way to deal with Sabras. Hit them before they hit you.
You Sabras have an inbuilt contempt for the Yiddish language. Speaking it, you mock its
pathos ridden rhythms, its vast music of expression.

So. Im a Sabra. Name of Ari. Ari Melamed. Okay? So you want to tell me, you are what - Mr.
Jews for Jesus?

You know Bibescu? David was startled. That was the only possible link.

Sure we know Bibescu. Him and hundreds like him. We know the Cenacle too.

Really? David shrugged. He must put on a mask of indifference. This grubby little man-
clearly Mossad- at least, that was the impression he was trying to create- was hoping to
overawe him. Thus, David needed to exert iron self-control. Show disdain. But, to do so, he
needed to build up a fire inside himself. Anger. A pure, icy, anger. Anger... that was it... anger
at what had happened to Jacob... these Mossad katsas- 67 was their big break, they got swollen
heads, they thought they had it all figured out- but, poor provincials, six years later they were
taken in by the oldest trick in the book. On Yom Kippur, the enemy struck. Yom Kippur...

Seems to me, you know a lot of people. Your General, Eli Zeira, he knew a lot of people too,
didnt he? A.. lot.. of.. people... maybe, too many people? What do you think?
You guys know where all the bodies are buried dont you? Except, you know, some bodies
were never recovered....ne-ver re-covered... were they? Or were they? You tell me, Mr. Ari
Melamed. But, let that pass. Were all friends here. You know... what you need to know.
Maybe, something secret... maybe something shit. But, whichever, youre just itching to tell me
arent you? So spring the big surprise already; tell me you know this... cartoon... out of Walt
Disneys Song of the South I once had the misfortune of meeting- ..

Your Uncle Remus? The Sabra was unfazed. Sure we know him. Officially, hes here as the
Byrd Amendment liaison working out of Grosvenor Square. This is his opposite number at
South Africa House- I call him my kaffirhund.

David thought quickly. He took a sip of tea to signal his boredom. The Byrd Amendment had
been passed a few years earlier to permit imports of strategic minerals from Ian Smiths
breakaway Republic. The man Ari Melamed called his kaffirhund must be an agent of BOSS-
the infamous Intelligence service of the Apartheid Regime. What did kaffirhund mean? Kaffir-
thats what the Boers called the blacks. Hund- hound? A black dog? Why was Ari making such
a point of rubbing his master/slave relationship with the South African in Davids face? Was it
as a red rag to Davids, presumably, Harvard nourished, Liberal sensibilities? And why should
the South Africans want to appear subservient to the Israelis? It must be the nuclear thing. The
South Africans are sending out a signal that they have the Bomb and they didnt get it from the
States.

So? David said, putting down his cup and preparing to move off, You have your kaffirhund
and he has you. Mazeltov! I hope you two will be very happy together.

Wait, said Ari Melamed, Dont underestimate my kaffirhund. He was the boy genius of his
stretch of the veldt. A Nuclear Physicist already. He can do your Math assignments for you. Get
you in solid with the Cenacle.

Very kind, said David, Except Im not submitting any papers on this jaunt. So thanks but no
thanks. Anyway, why would you be so generous, I ask myself?

Lets say we owe you. Not you exactly- your brother...

You knew Jacob?

No, no. Nothing like that. But, in a sense, youre right- it was our fault. We should of known.
The Egyptians tricked us. We were paying hundreds of thousands- dollars, not shekels- to a
double agent. I guess, you must of heard. Yom Kippur. It shouldnt of happened. At least not
that way- not the way it went down. It was a mess... bodies never recovered... were sorry is
what Im saying, thats all. We owe you.

David was astonished.

He had underestimated the Sabras.

Still, he had to make certain.

You understand, I can give you nothing?

Sure. I just thought it would be better if we acted as your cut-out. You see, we have a
reputation for protecting our own. If the other side tries something, we got no problem getting
our hands dirty. An eye for an eye.

And this is pure charity on your part?

Ari Melamed shrugged his shoulders. You probably wont believe this.. but..

What?

The truth is me and my kaffirhund... were... Aris face twisted. He looked embarrassed. The
kaffirhund hung his head.

Gay? You are him are my Fairy Godmothers? David was glad he hadnt spoken aloud,
because what Ari finally said was even more surprising.

Were academics. I mean real academics. Sure, weve both got other responsibilities- were
patriots. But, outside that, our real interest is...

Youre Zadig groupies! You actually think he might have come up with something new.
Something that might help crack the Theory of Everything. The... what did Corven call it... the
Mathesis Universalis? Thats it isnt it?

Not exactly, said the kaffirhund. He had a thin intelligent face and his accent was not
unpleasant.

But youre close, said Ari. Actually, what worries us is he might have cracked it already.

Not that it hasnt been cracked before. the kaffirhund added, Its just, this time, Zadig may
have found a way to cheat the consequences.

What consequences?

Well, said Ari, you heard Corven. Ideas have consequences. And this idea would be the
mother of all ideas. Everything would change. And change, not for everybody, but for most
people at most times, change is very very upsetting. So, sure, there will be consequences. Very
painful, very personal consequences.

You cant possibly believe... I mean, Corvens spiel was full of holes. The guy is gaga!

Look, forget about Corven. Hes just trying to talk up the Archives here- make out they are the
Dead Sea Scrolls. You see, financially, hes in a real hole. He was relying on big money from
the Shah of Iran. But, the Light of the Aryans- that old rug-dealer- was playing him for a
sucker. Corven borrowed heavily to produce his Amazing Achamenids series. The Persians
made airy promises but never ponied up a dime.

But, what about the Sultan of Qamr?

No oil. They have natural gas. Might be worth something in twenty years but no cash in the
kitty just now. Corven is touting the Sultan as his Saviour just to buy time with his creditors.
Frankly, this Institute is a shell game- a house of cards. Unless Corven can sell his Archives to
some University in the States, hes facing personal bankruptcy. Which means he loses
everything including control of this Institute. Hell be moving from Country Estate to Council
Estate. Thats if he is lucky. The Brits take fraud seriously- the guy could be headed to Prison.
This Zadig Seminar is his chance to talk up the supposed treasures buried in his Archives. Make
no mistake, Corven isnt just kvelling when hes keeps launching into those winded speeches.
What it is, see, is him trying to filibuster us academics; wear us down, get us to walk out of the
gallery in disgust. You see, I happen to know that Zadig wont talk while any of us are around.
Hell only talk to you young people. Every one of you is under 21. Youre the new generation.
In fact, come to think of it, there might be a Kabbalistic twist to that particular stipulation of
Zadigs. Something about the influx of a third part into the soul - ibbur neshoma- the spirit of a
departed Sage... a lamedvavnik maybe... entering the young person before his 21st birthday- 12
young people in this case and twelve times three is 36- to fulfil... a mitzvot... a blessing on
Humanity...

Ari Melameds mystical musings gave David a moment to reflect. What was happening here?
Apparently Remus Kincaid had chosen these two clowns as his cut-out. Except, that didnt
make sense. Barney was Kincaids man not David. So, what Kincaid was actually doing was
continuing to put him- all too visibly!- in the frame for the Soviets, simply in order to take the
heat of Barney...except, for some reason, the Israelis were offering to protect him. Why should
that be? Kincaid hadnt come across as a bleeding heart type, likely to lose sleep over innocents
caught in the cross-fire... but, wait, perhaps there was another reason... Davids angel at the
Cenacle had said something about Kincaid- what was it?- something about MK-ULTRA- the
C.I.As mind control program...What if Kincaid was mixed up with that? Admiral Turner-
Jimmy Carters new broom at Langley- had a special hatred for that brand of
monkeyshines...but, in that case, how had Kincaid escaped Turners infamous Halloween
massacre which had ended the career of perhaps as many as 3,000 of the Agencys finest?
Maybe, that was where the Cenacle came in. Their Seraphim and Cherubim, now thoroughly
infiltrated into State, might have secured a storm-shelter for Kincaid here at the American
Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Thus, he owed the Cenacle big time. Not that simple gratitude
would count for much. Still, if there was anything to this line of reasoning, the fact remained, at
least for the present, that Kincaid needed to keep in with the Cenacle simply so as to protect his
own Civil Service pension, Thats why he had cooked up this scheme to get David Mossad
protection! O.K. It all made sense. Not ideal but definitely liveable. The thing to do was to give
neither the Israeli nor the South African anything at all in the way of Intelligence. Rather, he
must use them- get them to do his homework for him- and thus improve his own chances of
getting a handle on what was really going on. But, he had to be careful. The Israelis would want
to recruit him, get him to accept something- what?- the academic papers the kaffirhund wanted
him to show Zadig?- perhaps...No! Definitely! That was the honey-trap! These guys wanted to
soft-soap him into over-confidence, arrogance. The moment he published under his own name,
something theyd given him, hed be compromised. Theyd own him. Well, he could keep clear
of that pit-fall easily enough. Thus, he could use Mossad- and the South Africans- without any
blowback. It was called diplomacy, and it was the field in which he meant to excel. Perhaps, his
signing up for the Zadig Seminar would get him more than just a Math credit!



A Math Credit! A lousy Math credit! For that Im now wanted for Murder?

David couldnt silence the shrill voice in his head.

By now he was sure this whole nightmare had its origins in that ill fated seminar.

Babus agent had been as good as her word. He had been taken off the plane by the fire-crew.
Kumar- that was the name of his double- had put on quite a performance on the tarmac. He
pretended to suffer some sort of respiratory attack which required him to wear an oxygen mask.
Thus, with a little luck, the deception might run on for a few more hours. The head of the fire-
crew was a turbaned Sikh. He quickly hustled David into the back of a van and got him to
change. These are the robes of a Jain Muni. he spoke quickly, in a surprisingly cultured
accent, That linen mask fits over your face. It is called a muhpatti. Its to prevent your
accidentally swallowing an insect, thus breaking your vow to harm no living creature. Youll be
transferring to a coach full of other Munis. Say nothing. Remember, youve taken a vow of
silence. If any lay-people approach you, bow your head like this and make this patting gesture
with your hand to grant benediction.

By the benediction of the great eighteenth century Jain monk, Acharya Amarmuni, my
maternal ancestor, Lord Corven was droning on again; tea was over and the crowd of
academics in the minstrel gallery had noticeably thinned, Sir Augustus Pollexfen Bastard, in
his personal capacity as Zamindar of Kuchnahin- not in his later capacity as Governor of
Madras- as some mischievous journalists have sought to aver- came into possession of the quite
priceless Kevalyagyan Sutra- the two and a half millennium old Jain treatise on omniscience- of
which you may have read of in the Press. Not, sadly, that the Grub Street hacks covering the
story chose to report on the light this amazing document throws on the origins of a once wide-
spread Science of Sciences, the branching praxis of a primordial Mathesis Universalis as old as
civilization itself- but, no! why would journalists want to trouble themselves with something as
trivial as the entire Ouikumenes originary Organon? No, the only point of interest for them
was money, mere filthy lucre- the fabulous offer made for the Kevalyagyan Sutra by my old
friend, the ever munificent, Vijay Hutheesing- an offer I had to refuse, much as I honour the
religious sentiments of that scion of so that famously philanthropic a Merchant Prince dynasty,
because however high the antiquarian... I should say sacerdotal... value of the manuscript, the
fact is, it was given to my ancestor for a purpose. A great purpose. Indeed, I have come to
believe, consciously or unconsciously, it was that same, that single purpose, which motivated
my ancestors manifold acquisitions- all of which lie below you in the Archives- they were all
gathered together for a purpose- perhaps the same purpose as that for which the 12 of you
young people sitting here before me have been gathered- and that purpose was, that purpose
is,... to repair that Golden Bowl in which Wisdom once mingled her wines to set forth her
table...


David needed a drink.

Not from the plastic bottle of spring water hed found in his satchel, but a real drink- bourbon
preferably.

Sitting here, in this coach-load full of Jain monks and nuns, he was getting a chance to reflect,
to think, to summon up faded memories of courses hed attended- security seminars featuring
superannuated Langley field operatives now deep in their anecdotage. At this moment, the
memory he was flashing on was that of a short, beer-bellied baldie, carrying on about a classic
frame-up from the early Seventies. Apparently the target was a car-nut who had just taken
delivery of the latest Porsche. He gets an invite through the post from some Insurance Company
offering him a free upgrade for his in-car speaker system in return for sitting through an hours
presentation. He goes along to the 5 star hotel mentioned. Parks in the underground car-park.
Hands over his keys to the guys in over-alls and is conducted up to the suite the company has
hired. There are about ten or twelve other people in the group. Dentists, Investment Bankers, all
very genteel. An hour later, hes back in his car grooving to the eight track. A few months go
by and then, out of the blue, hes arrested for vehicular man-slaughter. Out on bail, tracing back
the time and dates, he realises some grease-monkey at the 5 star hotel must have taken a joy-
ride in his car. Unluckily for him, there seems to have been a sort of coarse resemblance
between the two of them. The result; witnesses pick him out of the line up. It was he who ran
over the street-bum. Well, things looks black, but wait a minute, what about the Insurance
Company? They can give him an alibi. He rings the Company- sorry, that shin-dig must have
been the brainchild of one of our free-lance Commission Agents. And, if its the guy Im
thinking off, hes run off to the Seychelles. Eloped with his own sister. Flaky guy. Dont think
hed have kept any records. Sorry, we really cant take responsibility.

Uh-oh! Up shit creek without a paddle! But, wait a minute. There was that blonde at the
presentation- Dentist? Merchant Banker?- he should have a root around, he might still have her
card. He does. Thats the card! He calls her. She remembers him. She goes and gives a
statement to the police. Hes in the clear. He books a holiday- a week-end break- but just as
hes packed his bags and is headed for the door, the phone rings. He picks up. A pleasant voice,
friendly. Bad news. His alibis turned sour. The lady he met was a high class hooker. Now,
shes saying he black-mailed her. God knows why. Someone must have got to her- perhaps an
overambitious cop determined to make a collar, or maybe a private enemy of his- a jealous
husband? A rival at work? Who knows? The fact is, the woman is now in hiding. The police are
coming for him. Its not just hit and run now- this is conspiracy. But, dont panic, says the voice
on the phone- we want to help. Fact is, we represent a friendly power. We were looking at the
hooker for reasons of our own and then your name came up. Well, maybe, seeing as we were
keeping tabs on her, we know where to find her- see? It means compromising our own
operation- but, what the hell, youre a friendly, you know how it is, one hand washes the other
and actually, such is serendipity, theres this favour you can do us- nothing we couldnt get
through the regular channels- but, maybe, you can cut through a little red tape...

What harm could it do? Anyway, whats his other option?

He does his new friends the small favour they asked for- and, thats it, hes hooked.

The coach stopped. David glanced out of the window. They were parked on some side-street
near Green Park. Wi-Fi hotspot! the driver sang out and suddenly half the Jain monks and
nuns got out laptops from their satchels and started tapping away at their keyboards- turning, no
doubt, some great Electronic Prayer Wheel in Cyberspace- either that or updating their tweets.

David looked in his satchel. No lap-top. He turned to the elderly nun sat next to him. She had a
lap-top. Cant speak to her- vow of silence- cant gesture, dont know the culturally appropriate
body language. Have to do everything with my eyes. Here goes. The old dear is turning towards
me.

Me Tarzan, you Jain!

It wasnt what hed wanted his eyes to say- the words just came out that way

Gimme laptop or me eat you!

The old nuns eyes widened, then all the lines around them crinkled up in laughter. She handed
over the laptop happily. He bowed his head in gratitude. She too bowed and made patting
gestures with her hand. David felt a great surge of beneficent energy spreading into him. For
the first time, since seeing his doppelganger on the plane, he felt something like his old self. He
was back in the driving seat.

Failing to log on to his secure server- the laptops underpowered processor timing out the proxy
hook up- David had to resort to Googling himself. Then the breath went out of him. The murder
warrant was all too real. But, it wasnt anything sinister- no conspiracy, no tie in with the Zadig
seminar- in fact, just as hed thought, there never had been any Minyan murders... that was
Babus overactive imagination- the guy was a poet after all- perhaps, the alliteration appealed to
him...but, stop, dont let your mind wander. Let it sink in. This was your fault. You are guilty.
Deal with it. Suddenly, David badly wanted to see a picture of the victim. He clicked on a
couple more links- nothing. Then Paulos image formed itself in his mind. The gardener. Just a
guy earning a few bucks to send the folks back home. Della gave him my jacket. I wanted it
back. That fucking jacket stained by Vice Presidential barf! Nothing but bad luck. No, not luck.
Its me. How fucking self-absorbed can you get? Why did you let him take that gun? What
were you fucking thinking? Sure, Della leaves guns littered about all over the place. The
servants find them in ornamental jars and under embroidered cushions. Theyve all been
instructed to carefully unload the weapons before returning them to the mistress. But, Paulo
was new. He didnt know. This aint Death by misadventure, its fucking contributory
negligence- clear as daylight! You thought he might shoot himself in the foot- well, he shot
himself in the head! Maybe, he thought it was a toy. A water pistol, squirting out some rich
mans beverage. And Della.... Della, all alone, having to deal with... O Jeez, how fucking
selfish, how self-absorbed, Ive been!

Suddenly tears were welling up in Davids eyes. To hell with it, hed get off the bus. He didnt
need to play along with this anymore. Babu would be disappointed. Hed gone to a lot of
trouble. But, now, what this was about was Della. All that mattered was her. He needed to get
back to her right away. What she must be going through!

The old nun was tapping on his shoulder. He turned towards her. Her eyes were compassionate
but the lines around them communicated strength; take courage, was her counsel. He nodded,
then bowed. She made one decisive patting motion with her hand. David turned back to the lap-
top. He had to be strong. Strong for Della. Giving himself up to the authorities was the wrong
move. He needed to get a message through to his wife. Arrange a secure channel of
communication. Once reassured she was coping, he could start taking steps. Obviously, the first
thing to do was clear her name. The innuendo in what hed just read had been none too subtle.
The Old Money Ambassadors daughter with a thing for the help. Especially of the Latino
variety. The jealous husband finally losing it and blowing the gardeners head off. The whole
thing was a made to order, Dominick Dunne, T.V special. Some High Society ladies might
thrive on that sort of notoriety. Not Della. It was a recurring eating disorder- one she picked up
at an exclusive English Boarding School- which had put paid to her chances of becoming a
mother. The fact was, she was as innocent as a child. And now her father was on life support-
she had nobody to turn to except him. But... what if?... No that would be too terrible! Della
could never think that he might suspect...that he might have gotten jealous.. no, no, shes a
child! She knows me, she trusts me- I mustnt let my imagination run wild....gotta stay
focussed..

Switching search-engines, David saw a new link- XOCAL Chairman identifies fugitive-
David scrolled quickly through the text. ... the fugitives father-in-law, Ambassador Wyeth,
was a former business associate and close personal friend of our Chairman. Thats why he was
so puzzled when he saw that his friends son-in-law was travelling under an Arab passport and
passing himself off as a Muslim gentleman. In conversation with the fugitive, our Chairman
was able to establish that the younger man was under considerable nervous strain. Our
Chairman tried to calm him down by appealing to basic spiritual values. However, the fugitive
became very agitated and, later, on seemed to experience some sort of epileptic fit or
respiratory attack. Our Chairman was left greatly shaken by the events of this day. That a young
man of such promise, whom he last saw in St. Patricks Cathedral walking up the aisle with the
daughter of one of his closest friends, should have tried to flee jus...

Wait a moment. St. Patricks cathedral? That was cancelled. Dellas annulment didnt come
through in time. So, whats going on here? Perhaps, the old man is just a bit gaga.
Confabulation. Remembering things that never occurred. It can happen to old people. Still,
somethings not quite right..

David Googled his and Dellas names then added wedding. Sure enough, an article from the
Wyeth owned local paper popped up- David hastened through it. St. Patricks Cathedral was the
given venue. Obviously, the paper had gone to print before the ceremony. Later on, the editor
hadnt wanted to anger the Wyeths by publishing a correction. That meant, whoever wrote the
XOCAL Press Release- surely not an American judging by the syntax- had gotten his facts not
from the old man but had used the Internet to add this touch of verisimilitude. It was all starting
to make sense in a paranoid sort of way. If someone was trying to frame him, the way to do it
would be to pre-empt the testimony of witnesses by feeding them lines which, later on, it would
be against their own interest to deny. In this case, the Press Release was quite gratuitously
putting the XOCAL Chairman in the frame for whisking the son-in-law of his buddy out of the
country. But it was also giving the old man- or rather his lawyers- a way out by making his
testimony useful to the prosecution. The question now was- who authorised this Press Release?
Maybe, there was a paper trail leading back to whoever was trying to set him up? Something
his friends in the Agency could follow up for him? David thought about it for a moment. No.
No good. Nowadays, companies like XOCAL have dozens of P.R companies on retainer-
someone in one firm sends an email to someone in another, someone else claims credit for an
idea originating in a cell call between two quite different people on separate continents; trails
got awfully tangled very very quickly. In any case, by now, XOCALS own legal department
would be up to speed and the whole Corporation would have gone into lockdown. Still, hed
learnt something. Nothing he could prove to anybody else, but enough to give him an edge. All
this wasnt entirely accidental. There really were people out to frame him. But, they were
framing him for a purpose. Sooner or later, theyd show their hand. What they wouldnt yet
know was that David had tumbled to the set up. Not that it was a set-up entirely; clearly Paulo
really had shot himself. But, wait, what if...Paulo was one of their people... not in any formal
sense... just a cosy little arrangement- they give him a couple of bucks for stuff he salvages
from the waste paper basket... hang on... stuff I throw away...D.N.A evidence?... my jacket?...
Maybe, but wait, I let him take that pistol...instead of handing it to Della he gives to the bad
guys. They see their opportunity. The things got my fingerprints on it. Bang! Im in the frame.
Nor would it stop there- theyd have been shadowing me. Tracked me to the corporate jet. Then
a little snooping- do jets have license plates?- well, whatever, they find out its an XOCAL jet.
They do a Veronica Mars, phone around the Corporation getting titbits of information. Then
they spring the trap. They must have political juice- either that or heavy Media clout- otherwise
they couldnt have arranged a warrant so fast. Hmmn.. That points to a political or journalistic
motive... some Karl Rove wannabe in the Democratic ranks? Dirty tricks? Or some sleazeball
journo who sees a short cut to a Pulitzer?... But, wait, Ive got to make up my mind, am I being
framed so someone can recruit me or is this a hatchet job pure and simple?

Abruptly, the coach lumbered into motion. The Wi Fi sweet spot was lost and the monks and
nuns started closing up their laptops. Then, equally abruptly, the coach came to a halt. The
monks and nuns began standing up, rearranging their linen, tucking away their satchels. Then,
next moment, they all started streaming out.

David, in a daze, followed the crowd. Where were they? Good God, this was Downing Street!
And that was the new British Prime Minister bearing in upon them, beaming for all he was
worth! Worse, beaming at him- he had been cut from the herd- now, the Prime Minister was
extending his hand towards him... what the hell was he supposed to do?... bow and pat the air..
that was what the Sikh fire-marshal had said... well, David started bowing and patting the air as
if his life depended upon it. Flash-bulbs were popping. T.V cameras were rolling. This was the
sort of thing that happened only in the witlessly Pollyanna and punitively Panglossian Danny
Kaye comedies his Mom- a Holocaust survivor- had, by her example- no! by her utterly
childlike and reparative enjoyment- compelled Jacob and himself to watch as part of their fated,
familial, postprandial Thanksgivings...

Still, the signs couldnt be missed. This was Fortune telling him- youre a schlemiel all right-
youve been a fugitive for two hours and already you are on T.V blessing the British Prime
Minister!

Except, no one

no schlemiel

not even the biggest schlimazel in history

had ever been so spectacularly unlucky.

Which meant there was only one explanation.

He should have seen it sooner.

He was being set up by someone who got his world view from old movies

Bad movies....not Hollywood... no... execrable imitations of bad movies....Bollywood!

Babu, you bastard! David muttered to himself, the iron entering his soul, its you, its been
you all along!









Chapter Two

The ten spies.

Babu had just completed his last lap around the maidan. The other cadets were still strung out
around the track, moving shimmeringly in the heat haze. Babu took the bottle of water from the
orderly and, holding it an inch above his mouth, gulped eagerly. A Munshi, dressed in formal
Hyderabadi shervani, came up. Babu recognised him. This wasnt any old clerk but the personal
Munshi of Inspector General of Police, Anul Singh, himself.

Sahib wants to see you.

Ill go and change.

No! Come as you are. Chalo!

Babus mind was filled with foreboding. Unexpectedly, the Munshi turned away from the path
to the College and took him towards the park. The Munshi stopped abruptly under the
spreading shade of a sal tree.

An old peasant sat under it puffing a hookah.

Salute! the Munshi ordered, then turned and bowed deeply to the peasant, Sir! Beg to
present Cadet Gundu Bahadur!

Babu saluted. So this was the great Inspector General Anul Singh in the flesh! Though nothing
more exalted than the hereditary police chief of one of the smaller erstwhile Princely States,
Anul Singh had travelled widely in pre-War Europe befriending leading intellectuals and- after
the fashion of those distant times- publishing innumerable belletristic little volumes.

Perhaps because of his perceived sympathy for the old feudal order, his career had not initially
prospered in Independent India. In the last decade or two, however, Anul Singh had made a
surprise come-back; thanks, it was rumoured, to Madam Gandhis patronage. His methods,
however, remained charmingly idiosyncratic- for example, his habit of moving about in
disguise.

But there was nothing charming or eccentric about what he had to say to Babu.

Cadet Bahadur, the old man had a clipped, somewhat British, accent, You are dismissed
from the Indian Police Service. Kindly vacate your quarters immediately. Furthermore, you
must make full restitution to the Office of the Paymaster General, within a period of no more
than 28 days, of all emoluments and allowances collected by you since entering the service.
That is all, you may go.

Babu was stunned. To serve as a Police Officer had been his dream- a dream of his people for
millennia- and now, in one moment,- that dream had been shattered.

Sir, can I ask...

No. You are a probationer. You can be dismissed without any requirement on our part to show
cause. You may leave.

But, Sir, what I have done wrong?! I am topper in all exams, I am placing first in all athletic
trials, I was winning inter-forces Silver medal in sharp-shooting, that too competing against
veterans. Sir, this is too unfair. Kindly, show mercy and reconsider.

You are below the age limit.

Sir, I am from poor Telengana village. You know the conditions there. My parents passed
away when I was very small. Somehow, I survived- I didnt starve- because I was very fast in
running errands. Thats how I got my name Gundu- which means bullet in Telugu- people said
I was fast like bullet. Then, I saw an opportunity hunting out rare roots and herbs from the
jungle for the Naturopath dispensary- where, to make me more useful, they taught me to read
and write. Later, I began running errands for the Presbyterian Mission at the Zila H.Q. It was
there that I picked up my English and got a chance to become a pupil teacher. After that, I was
able to sit the exam for a Government Scholarship and was helped to graduate. But, Sir, I want
to tell you, all that time I did not turn my back on my natal village. From whatever little I
earned, I saved something to take running back to them. Sir, you know the conditions in my
district! However poor I was, there was always someone there so much worse off than me!
Thats why I took every opportunity to give tuitions, run errands, earn small commissions- Sir,
I had to help them; they had no one else! Sir, you have seen my file; you know I am First Class
First topper in both BSc Physics and LLB- which I completed simultaneously. Sir, I could have
stayed on in Academia, earning higher degrees, making money running errands, writing
articles, giving tuition. But, Sir, I mustnt think of myself only. Sir, the people from my village,
they ask me to do this- only this- for them. To get into Police Service. To become an
officer...You see, despite everything, they are believers in Law, votaries of Democracy.. Sir, all
this is for them only... Sir... I cant disappoint...Sir, everybody knows me in my village,
everybody, everybody. I have no family, but everybody there is my family. They had such high
hopes for me! But, Sir, one thing I want to tell you- no one knows my age there. The Mukhiya
gave his affidavit as to my age- but it was his best guess. Sir, people like me are not born in
hospitals. Sir, we dont have birthday parties with cake and candles to mark each year of life.
Sir, I want to ask you, Sir;- how you can say I am under-age? Where is the proof?

Your eyes. We have the opthalmologist's report. It is a new technique pioneered in India. You
are under-age. Refund all monies you have received and perhaps the Union Public Services
Commission will permit you to apply again in a couple of years time.

Sir... there is one matter.. I dont like to mention... Sir, I belong to Scheduled Caste.
Government has made provision for relaxation of age-limit by up to 5 years in the case of S.C
candidates.

Only the upper age-limit is relaxed. Not the lower age-limit. I notice, from your file, you
entered in the General Category. Smart fellow! Trying to blend in were you? Get accepted as a
proper Sahib?

Sir, it is my right to sit exam in the General Category! I never asked for special treatment! And
Sir, it is unfair to say I wanted to hide my caste. It is my pride, Sir, not my dishonour. Ask
anybody here. Not just probationers, ask the instructors. I tell all openly. Openly, I go to pray at
the shrine in the Bhangis quarter. They all know I am one of them. Sir, ask your own Munshi.
He wont let even my shadow fall upon him. He knows. Everybody knows.

Doesnt alter the facts of the case. You are under-age. Your dismissal stands. If you do not
remit all monies received within 28 days a non-bailable warrant will be issued against you. See
how you like it grinding atta in the Jail compound!

Sir, this is an injustice. I will seek legal redress.

Yes, yes. By all means. Who knows? It may become a test case. You may end up opening the
gate for many others. I wish you well. Of course, the head-man of your village will have to
serve out his sentence. Supplying false information. The irony is, normally these fellows lie to
let in an over-age candidate. Here the lie went the other way. Still, we must make an example.

Sir, please, Sir... Sir, I beg you.... Sir, you wouldnt be knowing- 40 years ago our villagers
was attacked by bandits- it was the dreaded Chhota Rajan gang. Our people rallied to the call of
our Mukhiya. He was just 20 or 21 at the time. Sir, we defeated and captured those criminals
and took them to the Kotwal Sahib at the Zila H.Q. Sir, His Royal Highness, the Nizam himself
came to hear of our Bravery. He bestowed the kitab of Bahadur on our village. That is why
my surname is Bahadur. It is the hereditary right of our village alone. Sir, this honour is all we
have. It came to us through our Mukhiya only. Sir, please Sir, dont punish the crest-jewel of
our village! Release him and I will confess to anything!

The old man smiled. His disguise was perfect- at least, it would have been if Hyderabadi
peasants sported clocks on their socks- or, indeed, wore socks at all.

My dear fellow, whatever are you saying? Look, go to Court. You have a degree in Law. Who
knows, this case could open vistas for you in advocacy, in politics, far more gilded than
anything you might gain plodding along in the Police Service. Believe me, I wish you all the
best in your endeavours. Forgive me, if I- an old man- have appeared a trifle unfeeling, a tad
minatory... The truth is- as the melancholy metaphysical poet of the reign of Empress Victoria,
Sir W.S. Gilbert, wrote- the police-mans lot is not a happy one. There are things we have to
do in the course of our duties- its like tearing off a sticking plaster!- the least painful course for
everybody is to just get it over with in one pitiless wrench. So, once again, I say to you- all the
very best, young man!

The Munshi salaamd his Chief and walked in a semi circle to interpose himself between Babu
and that august presence. He bowed politely to Babu and extended his hand to point the way.
But, his eyes were alive with malice.

Turrum chi ushaari dikha adalat mein! he whispered, Raj unke mama ka jo hai!
(Show the brilliance of Turram Khan in the courts! The ruler, after all, is his maternal Uncle!)

Babu, in that second, lost his last boyish illusions.

He should have remembered. The Chotta Rajan gang were now considered heroes of the
Independence struggle. Their caste-fellows dominated the ruling party in the Province. But for
the Munshis spiteful whisper, he himself might have become responsible- raking up their old
dishonour- not just for his beloved Mukhiyas death, but, perhaps, the massacre of his entire
village!

He had no choice. He knew what he must do.

Sir.. I spoke in haste. No Court case. I only want to serve. Lord, I am your calf!

Well, said Anul Singh, a mellow glint in his eye, It so happens there might be a way in
which you could make yourself useful to us. Something, given your background, you shouldnt
find too distasteful...

Right from the start, Babu should have seen this coming.

Hed been warned the Upper Castes would find a way to humiliate him.

In his district, there was the story of an untouchable boy who had proved so extraordinarily
brilliant that even the cold hearted Brahmins became convinced he had a spark of the divine.
The local Raja heard about this prodigy and sent him abroad to get degrees and then higher
degrees and then awards and prizes and high academic titles before finally summoning the boy
back home. He put him to work cleaning the public latrine. After all, the Raja was a fair minded
man. He couldnt possibly spoil one of his own subjects by forcing him away from his
accustomed profession.

Babu watched the old man puff at his hookah.

Anul Singh was well past the mandatory retirement age. But, hed proved indispensable to the
politicians. Who dared visualise the deepening plunges in infamy by which the old man had
purchased each extension of service? Perhaps, his methods and attitudes were just a holdover
from the feudal past. Hopefully, the rising generation of Police Chiefs scorned the old mans
social prejudices and stood aghast at his modus operandi. But, for the moment, the old man still
had the power to force Babu to trade his crisp officers uniform for the rags of the Bhangi. To
survive- to survive psychologically- Babu must embrace his fate cheerfully. No doubt, hed be
taunted as the chamber pot emptier who had dared dream of lording it as a Sahib Police Officer.
But, it would all last only a short while. Things were changing in India. There were
revolutionary rumblings underfoot and new ideas in the air. True, the Brahmin widow, Indira
Gandhi, had cracked down hard, suspending civil liberties and cancelling elections. But, how
long could she hold out? Still, for the moment, he mustnt indulge in thoughts above his station.
Not personal martyrdom, hed gain nothing but a mass grave for his villagers, by defying the
Inspector General. So, if the man said clean latrines!- well, no shame in that, the latrines
would get cleaned.

Sir! Whatever you command I will do. Devotion to Duty is highest Religion!

But, trying to be a grown-up realist, Babu was actually being childishly naive.

He somehow still thought shit the dirtiest thing to handle that comes out of a human being.

That hed be ordered to carry shit in the Bhangis pan balanced on his Bhangi head.

But the Upper Castes are much more devious than that.

Their aim is to destroy not the outward pride, but the inmost soul of those they call
untouchables

Without knowing it, Babu had just signed up for the dirtiest job in the world.

Hed been recruited as a spy.

--------------------II----------------------

Babu had scarcely sat down in Davids room when Vivek Iyer, the big Brahmin bull of a Hostel
Secretary, who must have been spying on them, burst in.

Smoking! he shouted. Tobacco is forbidden! This is Hindu Hostel! What next- alcohol?

David giggled.

Why you are laughing?! the fat bully was working himself up into a rage. Hinduism is joke
to you?

Babu said- He isnt smoking tobacco but the herb dear to Lord Shiva!

You... you are devotee of Lord Shiva?

Jewish. David replied, Cannbais is the k'neh bosem, the "fragrant reed" used to prepare the
oil of anointment of my great namesake- Ding Kavid.. He giggled again.

This....this is a... reputable Jewish custom?

It was taught me by the great Rebbe Jacob Schlemiel ben Shlmazel who ascended to Heaven
in his own body... David became melancholy At least no body was found. We buried an
empty coffin.

You, Babu- you brought this man here- tell me the truth. Is it really an advanced spiritual
observance or just ... decadent Western behaviour?

Iyer Sahib, what I can tell you? Babu replied modestly, You yourself are from Madras. What
all mystic secrets Elihu Yale learned in Madras- you may be knowing- not I. All I can say is
that this gentleman attends Harvard where, if anything, the standard of instruction is even more
stupefyingly spiritual than at its sister college. Today, at the seminar, I myself saw the effortless
way in which David Maharal attained sushupti- the highest of mystical states, as is related in
your Upanishads- that too while auditing the sublime speech of Lord Corven.

Well, said Vivek Iyer, much mollified, if this gentleman is indeed an adept of the spiritual
sciences of his people, we make no objection. As Veda says- Truth is One, many are the paths
to it! Still, you know, to avoid nuisance to others, he may kindly go down to the basement
when engaging in this practice. Actually, there is an underground passage there which will take
you straight to the Corven Institute. I think your colleague, the Russian Priest, is already
availing himself of it to pay this gentleman visits. With all due respect to his cloth, you may
kindly discourage the reverend gentleman from this procedure as Fire Safety Regulations
require all comings and goings to be logged at Reception.

I will mention to His Holiness, the Very Venerable Rasputin. Babu said humbly. Lately, he
is upset that his siddhi of teleportation is not up to scratch. You understand, coming from pure
and spiritual atmosphere of Soviet Russia to this materialistic and violence prone London, his
chakras may have got misaligned. Lord Corven is most concerned.

Ah! said Vivek Iyer, I didnt realize. Of course, if his siddhis are giving him trouble, it
wouldnt be very tactful to mention it. These Holy Men can get awfully irascible. Rasputin, you
say his name is?

He has many names...reincarnations...it is an esoteric lineage.

Ra, Ra, Rasputin David said and giggled.

Lover of the Russian Queen, Babu chanted piously. You are right, Iyer Sahib. Why upset
our Soviet brothers? Already they are being maligned too much in Western press. We should
show sensitivity. Lord Corven is very careful on that point.

Ah, yes. said Vivek Iyer- a trifle uncomfortably- the big bully had probably hoped to catch
them in a transgression so as to hold the threat of expulsion over their heads, That brings me to
a favour I wanted to ask. You see, Lord Corven is our landlord. I know he plans to expand his
Institute- which is our back-to back neighbour- and the thing is our lease is coming up for
renewal...

Bullshit! said David, Corvens broke. The Institute is going to fold.

Well, said Vivek, looking much relieved Of course, wed heard rumours. Contractors who
havent been paid... tradesmen complaining...

All things that can be sorted out, Babu said smoothly, Lord Corven is a very influential man.
Close friend of great Merchant Princes like Seth Vijay Hutthesinghji. The thing is to show a
little tact in dealing with him. Ingratiate yourself. Im sure, if matters are put to him properly,
hell do the decent thing.

But the contractors..

My dear fellow, you know what these aristocrats are like. The more power they have the more
they like to keep their creditors waiting. Make the hoi polloi beg for their money. The thing to
do is to show a willingness to serve. Then, they prove generous. Especially, if there is a
Spiritual angle. Even Aristocrats need the benediction of the Saints.

So...what youre saying is... I mean... this Seminar...

Precisely! On the surface, all very scientific and rational and ...

But the real purpose...

The same as any Sabha conducted by our ancient Kings.

The patrons longevity!

And health and virility and success in War. So, yes, Lord Corven is no fool. He possesses the
Kevalya-gyan sutra. His maternal ancestors held vast estates in India. He knows a thing or
two.

---------------III--------------

I asked if I should pray.
But the Brahmin said,
"pray for nothing, say
Every night in bed,
""I have been a king,
I have been a slave,
Nor is there anything.
Fool, rascal, knave,
That I have not been..""

Yeats had such a marvellously mellifluous voice. I was just a boy when I first met him. As
was he when he met his teacher, the great Theosophist Sage, Pundit Mohini Chatterjee... not
perhaps a name to conjure with now in Socialist India...

Actually, Lord Corven, the Theosophical movement is associated with the Left, not the Right
in India. You see, under Annie Beasants vigorous leadership, Indian Theosophy came to be
exclusively identified with Trade Unionism, Feminism, Home Rule and other such progressive
causes. Indians are quite astonished to find stalwarts of the Independence movement, like Bal
Gangadhar Tilak, quoted with reverence by Western adherents of elitist or esoteric Right wing
philosophies...

Which, it seemed, wasnt at all what Lord Corven wanted to hear.

Babu was conscious of having perpetrated a floater.

He glanced at Celeste for help, but the thin French girl was glaring at him furiously.

How to retrieve himself?

Yeats... mystical Ireland....Maud Gonne...monkey-glands...monkey-glands. That was it!

Of course, me Lud, the true utility of mystical philosophy to the State arises from its
promotion of the virility and longevity of the stewards of the Nations destiny. Left wing or
Right wing- democratic India or communist China- we find the adepts of esoteric science
pressed into service to increase the vigour and life-span of the leaders.

Lord Corvens faint froideur melted immediately. He started babbling learnedly about some
Nineteenth Century charlatan, called Malfatti, who, not content with poisoning half the
crowned heads of Europe with opium and arsenic, went on to publish some Tantric sex
nonsense- hymning the orgasmic hermaphrodite- titled the Mystical Organon of Mathesis of
the Indians...

Celeste uttered a squeal of delight. It turned out a professor of hers, Gilles Deleuze, had a
tendresse for Malfatti and, apropos of what the noble Lord had said about Saul Kripke, the
thought suggested itself that perhaps Wittgensteins atomic propositions, of which he himself
could furnish no example, should actually have been Tantric yantras- or ideograms from the
Chinese Book of Changes, or ancient Egyptian or Mayan Hieroglyphs- each representing, could
we but see it, one of the basic Mandelbrot fractals that reconcile the angel of geometry and the
devil of algebra so as to fulfil Bruno the Nolans dream of a human-all-too-human holographic
paradigm- and thats the Mathesis Universalis in which, uniquely, the Deleuzian foundation of
identity upon difference would be reversed establishing a novus ordo seclorum on a praxis of
univocity....all of which Gallic gimme-tenure-already verbal diarrhoea had Babu muttering to
himself apres moi le Deleuze and edging his way to the door except Corven now pounced
with boasts more egregious yet of rare manuscripts in his Archives upon which successive
generations of European initiates into Indias arcane mysteries had wiped their mystic arses...
Guenon, Evola, Serrano- that last, as Babu knew, a former Chilean Ambassador to India who
believed Hitler lived in a flying saucer under the Antarctic- and his Guru, the French
schoolmarm, Savitri Devi, who had proclaimed Hitler the final avatar of Vishnu ...anyway, sod
this for a game for soldiers, if Corven didnt give over in a moment or two, faux pas or not,
Babu would just have to slip away and stuff himself with the pastries he saw going to waste
before it was time for them all to return to the scriptorium...

But, no, it wasnt to be.

Corven now uttered a name that froze his blood.

Anul Singh.

With a start, Babu realized he hadnt been sent here, as hed naively supposed, just to keep an
eye on the Russian monk as a favour to the K.G.B- whose ranks in London, just at that time,
had been repeatedly decimated by round after round of diplomatic expulsions.

No, as with all of the Inspector Generals operations here too were wheels within wheels,
treacheries piled on treacheries, and plumbing each abyss another vertiginous abyss opening
under his feet to plunge him into the weightless state of perpetual moral free fall.

...it was Savitri Devis husband- the great astrologer Swami A.K. Mukherji- I should say the
late Swami Mukherji- who was consulted by so many Crowned heads and Presidents of
Republics- who got Zadig out of Poland- indeed, it was a young protg of his- the Vedantic
philosopher, Raja..urm.. Anal Singh- now, I believe, Madam Gandhis spiritual advisor- who
procured the Portuguese travel documents which enabled the boy genius to circumvent...

A.K. Mukherji, was the founder of the Indian Nazi Party- and a friend of Heinrich Himmler.

At least, thats what most people believed.

Actually, he had been a double-agent- Anul Singh his control.

Which meant Babus selection for the Zadig Seminar hadnt simply been the luck of the draw-
it being the turn of the Indian Police Service to field a candidate for an International junket. On
the contrary, Zadig- grateful to his rescuer- must have given Anul Singh a right of nomination
at the very inception of the program. Thus, logically, Babu must have been recruited
specifically for this operation- everything that went before was just training. But what sort of
training? Anul Singhs method was to merely indicate a social milieu for him to infiltrate. The
name of the actual target, the type of entrapment, was sprung upon him as a last minute
surprise. But, always, it was a dirty business.

There had been one brief moment, after Mrs. Gandhi lost the elections, when Babu had been
foolish enough to think he might now be free. Instead, it was the incorruptible and impeccably
professional Intelligence Chief, R.N. Kao, who- perhaps, because he was a caste-fellow of the
deposed Prime Minister- got all the blame, while Anul Singh received plaudits as one of the
architects of his patronesss down-fall. But this meant that Babu could now understand the true
purpose of the operations hed been part of- where the targets were sons or daughters of senior
Gandhi loyalists. These were people hed befriended, socialised with- but whose underhand
entrapment hed helped orchestrate. In fairness, Babu had genuinely believed that Anul Singh
was acting on instructions from the young peoples parents. These operations were a sort of
salutary lesson to their progeny to be more circumspect in future. After all, they were Indias
jeunesse dore - likely to inherit much power and responsibility- and foreign Intelligence
Agencies, or anti-Social elements within the country, would show no -scruples in exploiting
any weakness they showed. Thus, Babu thought, his treacherous behaviour was serving a
higher purpose. Now, he understood, his actions had brought shame and moral bankruptcy on
honourable people. Parents had been blackmailed because their children had been set up. The
sanctity of the home, the ties of mutual confidence and support between parent and child- these
sacred bonds had been unspeakably violated for low political ends. To make matters worse, the
very people hed betrayed, more often than not, believed he had actually tried to warn them,
done what little he could to try to extricate them and thus that they owed a debt of gratitude to
him. This was because he had never himself done anything wrong or encouraged others in bad
courses. On the contrary, it was because of his apparent decency that they had made him their
confidante and, later on, once the trap was sprung, it was for the same reason that they turned to
him for help. Since Anul Singh, with a cunning Babu mistook for aristocratic negligence, had
always given him considerable leeway in operational matters, Babu was able to work it so
merely the appearance of depravity, not the terrible consequences of the thing itself, constituted
the essence of each entrapment. But the greater the delicacy he exercised, the more his victims,
unwittingly, rubbed salt in his wounds by praising him as an honourable man. Still, no matter
how badly he felt, Babu realized, this was just the start of a long process of moral debasement.
Anul Singh, the evil engineer of his soul, was just warming to his task. The old man was no
fool; he knew he had good material to work with. And it was that knowledge which galled most
of all. Babu would be his masterpiece.

--------------IV------------

The Mimetic-Field Monadology, Richard said obstinately, is unquestionably Zadigs
masterpiece!

Nonsense! said Aliki.

The beautiful Greek girl could hardly contain her anger, but she spoke slowly- enunciated
carefully.

Yours is a typical Physicist Messianism- reading signs and portents that simply arent there
into a Mathematical formalism wholly innocent of any sort of physical intuition! Of course, we
can all easily understand why you want to fool yourself like this. Its because a naive reading of
Mimetic Field paints you a pretty picture. Something hip and trendy. You are seduced by
memories of the success of the holographic principle- Gerard tHoofts conjecture that all of
the information contained in a volume of space, even a black hole, can be represented by
information about the boundary of that region- which has proved so enormously fruitful in the
work of great Physicists like Wheeler, Susskind and now, of course, the latest results from
Steven Hawking. But- if you bother to check their sources- even you will have the justice to
admit all this has nothing to do with Zadig. Essentially, his Mimetic-Field is not holographic-
on the contrary, I think its motivation is a sort of Mathematical vitalism... a Panpsychism of the
Number line...at any rate, a rebellion against Gottingen... a blind alley back to a pre-Hilbertian
past...

As a formalism, of course, it must be said, it has all the rigour and generality of Bourbaki-
indeed, in that sense, Bourbaki could be called Zadig avant la lettre....

Bourbaki! jeered Richard- Thats the bunch of French algebraists wot fucked up Math!

Hearing her countrymen calumnied, Celeste roared with rage.

No seriously, guys, you remember the New Math? Venn diagrams and all that shit? The reason
High School students can hardly count anymore? That was the Bourbaki Collective fucking us
all up through the kind offices of every bleeding heart, lard ass, bureaucratic curriculum
committee in the so-called Free World!

Davids intervention pleased nobody. Richard turned away disdainfully- perhaps hed been
getting off on provoking the women- while Obi, having to comfort the apoplectic Celeste, cast
her eyes for support to her next-of-skin- Babu.

Actually, the Bourbaki collective- at least one member of it- Andrei Weil, you know, the
brother of Simone.., Babu was trying to be helpful, defuse tensions, but when he looked
around he saw nobody cared about Andrei Weil- let alone his famous sister, the great Socialist
Mystic, Well, Andrei Weils interpretation of the Mahabharat- that is Indias great epic which
contains the Hindu Bible known as the Bhagvad Gita.... again Babu looked around- if
anything, peoples boredom had increased. But, hed accomplished his purpose. By mentioning
the Holy Cow of his own particularly backward bunch of beggarly brown people, hed given
the others a moment to reflect on the futility of squabbling about their own parochially
academic shibboleths.

Not that Babu, once launched, could stop himself boring on- Well, Weils discovery of the
system of symmetries that underlie the Mahabharat- itself suggestive of Noethers theorem...

Emmy Noether! Aliki beamed with pleasure, Thats a different story!

The statuesque Greek girl had a soft spot for the pudgy little Indian despite the disproportion in
their intellects. This was because her old Nanny- a Smyrna refugee- had taken her to see Hindi
musical melodramas when she was a little girl. In those days, women of the Athenian servant
class- their hearts riven by repeated sorrows as relative after relative, swain after swain,
emigrated to the New World- responded most to black and white Indian weepies with their
plaintive melodies redolent of the richly memorious collective life and myriad storied lands
machine-gun Modernity had driven them from.

Finding a symmetry is evidence of a conservation law- at least for non dissipative systems-
and, I think, the fact that every episode, every character, perhaps every word, every phoneme,
in the Mahabharata is bound by rigorous symmetries- there is no wandering set, no portion of
its phase space visited but once- indeed, every episode is strictly holographic of every other...

Babu, youve said enough. Youve made your point. If only Richard had said Zadigs Mimetic
Field proposal concerns a generalisation of Noether to situations that cant be modelled with a
Lagrangian function, which lie outside Hamiltonian formalism, which defy the least action
principle...

Actually, there is more to what Babu is saying.

It was as the mother of squabbling eight year old twins- rather than because of her beauty or
intellectual gifts- that Obi had become the acknowledged den mother of the 12 apostles. At this
moment, what she was seeking to do was give her high-strung friend, Celeste, a breathing space
to recover her composure and re-enter the conversation with credit to herself.

For his part, Babu gawped. He had no idea hed said anything interesting.

The point Babu makes about the Mahabharata is true also of the Bible, the Torah, our own
African Lute of Gassire...any text constituted by its own hermeneutics- in other words, every
living mythic tradition...

Zadigs masterpiece, said Celeste, is his silence. Thats what we are apprenticed to.

She had spoken too soon.

The others were jealous of Obis motherly arm still draped supportively around the Sorbonne
student.

No! No! You are not realising! Babus voice suddenly became shrill, You see, Dharma- that
is Religion, what binds people together- and Karma- that is Causality, what gives coherence to
each individual life-experience- these are the two conserved properties of the Mahabharatas
system of symmetries. But, I tell you, whether it was the noisy Mimamsa interpretive zeal of
the scholiasts or the indifferent Dhyana Silence of the Sages- it was this ... hypertrophy of
Knowledge!.... this cancer of Wisdom!...that reduced my people to untouchability! That is what
cast a veil over productive relations- it is called the caste system- nobody knowing how the
goods and services they exchange for their own labour are actually produced. The result- every
caste, every occupational group, views the other castes with hatred and suspicion! They fear the
black magic- the horrendous human sacrifices!- by which the potter casts his pot, the carpenter
joins his wood! All very well for the priests and aristocrats- the vampires of society who thrive
on superstitious dread. But, I tell you, it is a disaster for the Polity! A disaster for the Economy!
No innovation, no productivity increase- we are condemned to involution- taking in each
others washing to keep each other employed- getting always poorer but more numerous... I tell
you, you dont understand!... Zadig- this seminar- it is a disaster for us! I think- I dont know,
but I have begun to suspect... look, Im nobody, Im nothing- please, a piece of shit whose job
is to carry shit on his head- look, call me a... a spy... or worse than a spy, a saboteur in this
milieu of young savants...but, please, on this point I want to warn you... Look, these Theories of
Everything, these Systems of Omniscience, these claims for a Mathesis Universalis... they are a
poisoned veil thrown over everything that is alive, that interacts, that communicates! See, I can
sort of understand your excitement... if Zadig is generalising from notions of symmetry and
invariance to define a broader concept of mimesis then, maybe, there is a path to making
dissipative systems non-dissipative, yielding not conservation laws exactly but... universal
repertoires... making everything more predictable.... Yes! For technology that would be a
bonanza! But Technology isnt the only thing. The fact is, the Social consequence would be
Nazism pure and simple! Look! See! Weve already had it all in India- it was called the Laws of
Manu- and not Prophet Mohammad, not Lord Macaulay- nobody can deliver us from it until it
is realised- the true masterpiece of the savant- it is the slavery of all!

The blind-spots of the savants are the darkness of the age said Mohammad ruminatively.

The burnished, sword slim, Arab was ignored.

OOO-kay, said Richard, I was wrong. Mimetic Field aint a picture- its technique....

If Zadig defined mimesis really is the next order generalisation from symmetry.. Aliki said,
what Grothendieck calls a Yoga- a system of unification based on greater generality...then,
maybe, were all Physicists and didnt know it! Richard, it is I who should apologise ... Zadigs
isnt a formalism- an obsolete formalism in terms of rigour- its something else...a deep meta-
mathematical intuition...if only we could see it...

But, dont you understand! Babu said desperately, You are being manipulated!

Actually, said Moyra, I dont see how. And... I mean...maybe this could prove the Gaia
hypothesis!

You are intellectual coolies! Babu shouted, Assembled here to build Nazisms super-
weapon!

Wed be the voice of the planet.. said Moyra, All Life. Enabling it to speak out to save
itself.

David, you help me. Youre a Jew- Hannah Arendts pariah people- your mother was in the
camps...!

Babu, in your country you were subject to the invasion of barbarian hordes bringing with them
hereditary cabals of priests and warriors more ignorant, less cultured, than those they ruled.
Thats why ignorance became institutionalised. Thats why you have a caste system. It was a
trade unionism defending against, but also constituting, the ignorant, the uneducable. But,
suppose youd had a class of Philosopher-Kings...not mystic philosophers who believed the
visible world a delusion, but experimental scientists like Aristotle... or Bacon... David stopped
suddenly.

All love is dissipative, the Russian monk spoke, Syntagmatically, paradigmatically
dissipative.
Every love destroys meaning. It is death, it is entropy; the dissolution of every supposed
symmetry: in Law, it is the ironic Gulag of Extinction trailing every glorious comet of Adaptive
Evolution...
But... Sobornost!
There is a principle of integration. Every selfish love, every vagrant amour- reveals itself at
last as but love of Love. And Love is not dissipative. Love is integrative. It collects everything
back together. How? Why? It knows no distinction of class, or sect, or colour or economic
condition. It is universal.
The tall Russian monk smiled a smile of humility disclosing horrible teeth.

David has spoken of Philosopher Kings adept at technology, cognisant of the Sciences.
Perhaps, a pipe-dream- but, to my knowledge, there has been at least one. It was Mo Tzu- the
humbly born artisan who became the first of scientists, the best of technologists- and who,
repudiating Confucius, propounded the doctrine of Universal Love, Universal Justice- thus
enabling China to escape, at least in part, Feudalisms living Hell to which our friend Babu
Bahadur finds his people still condemned. But, David, Mo Tzu wasnt really a Philosopher
King was he? You see, he never kept his doctrine secret nor, clothing it in recondite language,
made it inaccessible- magical and Mandarin- to the common people.

Still, said David, looking at Li Xi not, after all, a skinny little man, as Richard had thought,
but lithe limbed and luminously female- China has had famines. Worse than India in recent
years. And you cant blame Confucius for it. Mo Tzu was the Communists flavour of the
month.

In Science there are experiments. Li Xi replied somewhat lamely.

And in Politics there oughtnt to be.

But, said Richard, capturing the mood of the group, Whats politics to do with Zadig? Could
we get back to talking sense? Sorry to seem rude, but this is England and all that. We dont go
much for windy verbiage here. Not unless it has to do with football in which case however
cerebral you get therell always be some Arsenal supporter to bring you back to earth with a
head-butt- what our Scottish friends call a Glasgow kiss...

Which, greatly to everyones delight, Moyra illustrated on the big Sassenach.

Except, she was only playing. She didnt really connect.

Which, considering everything that happened afterwards, was a very bad thing.

----------------------------V--------------------------

Tho I know her eyes mascara to be mere poetasters ink
& that her Lovers lifeblood spills but to sell her drink
Still, the inattention of the Saqi is my hearts unstillness
Both fatal cure & elixir of an illness!

Babu had deliberately chosen to utter a bad verse.

That too in English.

The Raja Sahibs rhapsodists- who doubled as domestic servants- not that they neglected their
traditional function as bawds and bravoes- looked daggers at him.

Ah! said the Raja, addressing himself to David, the Saqi! The wine pourer of Omar
Khayyam!

Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reaped--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go".

David took the sheesha stem out of his mouth. Perfumed smoke wreathed his nostrils.

Yak chand ba kudaki ba ustad shudim
Yak chand ba ustadi-yi khud shad shudim
Payan-i-sukhan nigar ki ma ra chi rasid
Chan ab dar-amadim u chun bad shudim

What language is that? asked the Raja Sahib, disconcerted.

Farsi. David replied briefly.

Ah! Persian. Of course, of course. Yaks are very big in Persian poetry- a symbol of the Divine.
As, of course, is the Saqi- you see, the wine symbolises celestial wisdom. Why, I remember
Kim Roosevelt telling me that once- well, either that or something else of the same sort- though
I dont recall his mentioning yaks. Still, thats progress for you, I suppose. Did you learn your
Persian at..

Harvard. said David.

Of course, of course. Kim was a Harvard man. Though, oddly, I recall him insisting I send my
son, Islay, to Yale. The Shah owes him his throne, you know. I mean, the Shah of Iran owes his
throne to Kim Roosevelt- not my son Islay- who wasnt born at the time of Mossadegh. Not
that he wasnt a precocious little fellow- he was considered very promising by- yknow the Bay
of Pigs wallah- Richard Bissell- well, not him, obviously, but his nephews wife who runs the
best kindergarten in New Delhi and she thought him really precocious- or was it ferocious? I
mean, my son, Islay, was precocious, or ferocious- not Kim Roosevelt. Though actually, come
to think of it, Kim was precocious too. An excellent linguist. Shame, Kim could do nothing for
us. With him on board we could have gotten rid of Nehru- a crypto-communist if ever there was
one- and his ghastly stuck up little daughter- well, at least, shes out of office now- no doubt
your people helped us out there- and, and, what was I saying?

Babu, appalled by the turn the conversation was taking, piped up quickly- Serene Highness,
you were about to favour us with your sublime poetry.

David acted with decision. No you werent. You were telling us how come you didnt get to be
Indias Ambassador to Washington.

Yes!, said the Raja Sahib, That was it. Now I remember. Fact is, I blame Kennedy. Or, if not
him, that dreadful cod-faced J.K Galbraith he sent us as Ambassador. Not that Galbraith wasnt
a gentleman. He just lacked finesse- an economist, donchaknow. He had this ridiculous theory
that the Americans were put off by the names of some of our people and that was the stumbling
block to a proper Indo-American alliance to drive out the Chinese. I mean, I could see his point
about Panicker- the man was a cowardly defeatist, unlike Admiral Coward or General De Feete,
both of whom came from fine old Eurasian military families- but, as regards Field Marshall V.
Surinder, the truth is he only kept a white flag on his desk to signify his uncompromising hatred
of the Reds. Still, no question, it was a mistake to send Ambassador Fucker You Dean to
negotiate with Dean Acheson - but thats the sort of contretemps a chap like me could have
easily smoothed over with the Washington top-brass.

You dont think your own surname was a handicap? David asked, Correct me if Im wrong,
but it is Commie bastard?

Qaumi-Bastard. Babu hurriedly interjected, His Serene Highness is the hereditary chief of
the Qaumi-Bastard sect. You see, the Uruk Hai tribe is split between, the lower class, Fauji
Bastards- Fauji means Military in Hindustani- who took service in Major Savage-Bastards
Irregulars- winning fame in the aftermath of the Great Indian Mutiny and becoming the only
British Regiment permitted to file their teeth- and the Qaumi Bastards- Qaum means Religion-
who are the consecrated priests of the Savage Bastard cultus.

Theres a Savage Bastard Religion? asked David.

A purely Christian denomination, Babu explained- Nothing at all like the Nikal Seynis- who
were syncretic Sufis and worshiped the sadist Nicholson, avenger of the Mutiny...

As a matter of fact, said the Raja Sahib- who was hosting this banquet for Zadig- which,
predictably, the great man hadnt bothered to attend- it was precisely my Christian credentials
I emphasised when I told Nehru to send me to Washington. You see, mine is the only Christian
Royal family in the Indian sub-continent. That sort of thing goes down very well in America.
Cardinal Spellman was very keen for my younger brother to become a Knight of Malta.
Frankly, I could have been a sort of Indian Chiang Kai Shek- mobilising support from the
American Churches for Democratic Indias battle with the Red Chinese. Not, that there werent
other, very solid, military reasons to bring me forward. The fact is, the fighting Uruk Hai enjoy
a certain reputation amongst the border tribes that... that..

Scares them shitless? David enquired.

Quite! said the Raja Sahib, Not that we actually eat people any more, you understand.
Except, obviously, in the heat of battle, just to recruit themselves, so to speak, our people do
tend to gnaw chunks off those they encounter- a fine old tradition in many ways- War has
become too mechanised, too impersonal, dont you think?

And youre telling me...these guys are...what?... still part of the Army?

No longer, alas, what with the new tastier type of officer they send us nowadays and our own
young peoples quite depraved preference for snacking and fast food... You know, Major
Savage-Bastards having a wooden leg and a cork arm was actually quite providential if you
think about it. Also, the fact that he chose to cry out Bugger me!, when first ambushed was a
sign- a definite sign- the phrase being, you understand, a homonym in the Uruk Hai hieratic
language with the meaning eat around me- and thus the primordial expression of the cosmic
theophany. Still, to give credit where credit is due, it was actually a Welsh Presbyterian- Rev.
Sodomy Jones- who brought the Uruk Hai to Christ back in the early years of the Nineteenth
Century. Unfortunately, the Western Churches fell into heresy when they repudiated the
Pentecost by ganging up to try and ban his Uruk Hai bible. You see, they failed to uphold the
text- there is more sodomy in Heaven over one repentant sinner than is dreamed of in your
philosophy- as being a true emanation of the Holy Spirit. A pity, but there it is. We Uruk Hai
are now the sole inheritors of the Church Universal and Yours Truly the manifest Paraclete
upon whom has devolved the in-gathering of the manifold fruit, spiritual and temporal, of the
sublime branching of the Apostolic Succession.

So youre like a Pope. Cool. How exactly do you celebrate Holy Communion? Or shouldnt I
ask?

Ah! Holy Communion...no, Im afraid, we rather give that the go by... at least, I do... though,
of course, I inherited my office in the traditional manner- Dads reflexes got a trifle sluggish
when hed had a skin full of simkin- thats brandy mixed with champagne, you know- and,
credit where credit is due, the old man was surprisingly tender... in parts, in parts...so enlarged
was his liver it tasted like foie gras...

Aw Jeez!...Im gonna barf...

Barf? You mean vomit! An excellent appetizer! How thoughtful! the Raja Sahib looked
genuinely touched.

Um....David, Babu hurriedly intervened, You must know His Serene Highness is a great
humorist. A great humorist and...and a great poet. It would be such a treat for us to hear some
of his poetry.

No! said David recovering himself, Tell me more about this Major Bastard- you know the
guy you worship.

Actually, said Babu, still worried by the Raja Sahibs hungry look, The Savage-Bastards
were an old Anglo Indian family- related to the Pollexfen Bastards from whom Lord Corven is
descended- and the famous Commodore Savage who, as you may know, annexed Hell to the
British Empire.

A guy annexed Hell?

Actually, it was the island of Qamr- Im sure Mohammad can tell you the rest of the story.

Youre shitting me. Some guy annexed your island and thought it was Hell?

Commodore Savage was technically dead when he issued his proclamation. Apparently, he
was a recreational user of curare which, when mixed with a decoction of the qamr leaf which
gives our island its name, pretty much stops the heart. Thus, though landfall on Qamr was
properly made, still, on the evidence of the Ships surgeon, the only dominions annexed were in
the infernal region. Nevertheless, it was a useful piece of British propaganda because it kept the
lascar sailors in line- the notion being that the Queen Emperor commanded the demons that
populated the jungles and deserts from which the British recruited their merchant mariners-
and, in any case, it was in the British interest to fudge the whole issue of the legal status of
Qamr because it remained the last slaving port supplying the Arabian peninsula up to the
1950s.

O.K! Now I know youre shitting me.

Shit? the Raja Sahib licked his lips, Well, that would be more by way of an amuse-bouche-
though the frothy sort, served fresh from a disembowelled suckling baby will always hold its
own as a palate cleanser between courses- not, of course, that it isnt very thoughtful of you to
mention it...

Sir! Babus voice became shrill, Serene Highness! Please tell us about your meeting with
our new Prime Minister. Did he promise a restoration of your privy purse from the Indian
Government?

The new Prime Minister? the Raja Sahib blinked, Common little man. Drinks his own urine.
Can you imagine anything more disgusting? Says its what keeps him healthy. Some fad he got
out of a book by a crazy British Colonel back in the Thirties. Frankly, it was this same Morarji
who put the kybosh on a rapprochement with America. You see, Nixon- in his wilderness
years- visited the sub-continent as High Plenipotentiary of the Pepsi Cola company. But,
whereas the Pakistanis plied Nixon with whiskey, all Morarji Bhai would permit was piss-key-
excuse the pun.

I think I saw something about that on 60 minutes. Dan Rather and your Prime Minister. Yup.
Apparently he reckons its the cure all for a poor country like India. The American Medical
Association is up in arms coz its like Socialized Medicine and all.

Babu glanced sharply at David. His suspicions had just been confirmed. The American was
pretending to be stupid. Why? The paper he had submitted to the seminar wasnt just
technically brilliant, it was whimsically ironic and mockingly witty. The notion that the
paradoxes of Nuclear War doctrine were themselves a necessary consequence of the aporias of
Quantum Mechanics- Philosophys raped Atom taking a Philomela revenge upon the Military
Industrial States instrumentalization of Scientific Reason- this was an idea, perhaps, designed
to appeal to the Marxists- or at least the Engelian element in their make up. True, when you
went over the paper later on, you couldnt find any actual Intelligence value in the thing. It was
simply a jeu d esprit- a piece of Undergraduate showing off- but it revealed a mastery of
Quantum esoterica quite extraordinary in a Social Science Major. But...come to think of it...
surely there was something suspect about the whole project? Why should David, in pointing out
that continuous monitoring of Nuclear arsenals tended to increase rather than reduce tension by
freezing both sides into a one second to Mid Night posture- refer to the Quantum Zeno effect-
which Babu, himself, only knew about because its originators, Sudarshan and Misra, were
fellow Indians and had published just last year- rather than cite the locus classicus of similar
notions in Von Neumann or Turing? Perhaps, by highlighting Sudarshans work, David was
actually drawing attention to the anti Q Zeno effect- increased frequency of observation- by
Spy satellites or whatever- might tend not to freeze up the system but speed its decay... but
decay to what? Nuclear Armageddon? Detente and the SALT talks? The latter perhaps, coz,
come to think of it, David had castigated corrupt Baconian Negotiation as the very anti-thesis
of- his hero- Prof. Leo Strausss concept of the Noble Lie. In which case, all that was left was a
sort of Apartheid of Truth and Reason- a plausible intellectual position for a Brahmin- be it
from Boston or Bangalore- but David wasnt a Brahmin. Babu knew, from his reading of
Hannah Arendt- translated into Telugu and one of the best thumbed little booklets in his
Districts Ambedkar Soc. Reading Room- that the Jews were- as Max Weber had said- truly a
Pariah people. The joke, of course, was that his own community- at least in Madras- were
looked down upon as untouchables by the Parraiyans- no doubt at the instigation of their
fucking Sanskrit spouting Valluvar priests. Not that conversion to Christianity had really
improved things. Indeed, some of the educated people from his own village- including the
younger son of the beloved Bahadur headman- enraged by Upper Caste oppression within the
Church, were now getting Israeli Rabbis to consecrate mikvah ritual baths and identifying
themselves as Beni Ephraim. Still, one couldnt deduce too much from the activities of one or
two young Indophile Rabbis. Perhaps- indeed, it was more likely than not!- Upper Caste Jews
were opposed to this sort of conversion. For a start, they wouldnt want a bunch of untouchable
niggers immigrating to Israel under their Law of Return...

Still, David didnt give off an Upper Caste vibe. It was something Babu was good at spotting.
Moreover, David himself had said that his father had a chequered past- he had learnt his craft in
Juvie- while his Mother had been interned at Belsen- only getting to Switzerland on the
Kastner train- presumably some sort of charitable Red Cross venture for poor orphan kids.
Moreover, David was in deep mourning for his beloved elder brother, who had died in the Yom
Kippur War- and who had been immersed in the Afro-American Jive culture- hardly a Boston
Brahmin trait. Clearly, David wasnt Upper Caste though, no doubt, he wore the Ivy League
mask.

What, then, was happening here? Davids paper was amphibolous. You could read it either
way. The encyclopaedia article on Leo Strauss mentioned an essay called Writing and the Art
of Persecution- no, that couldnt be it- must be the other way round- Persecution and the Art
of Writing- but, no, Davids paper was written from the standpoint of the torture empowered
Secret Police. But, if so, what was David up to? Why bother writing a hefty position paper-
except, with hindsight, it took no position- and then not put your name to it? Was it all just
some very superior species of Harvard showing off?

But if David was a show off- why was he so assiduous in appearing a dumb Yank? Why did he
get stoned every night at the Hostel and fall asleep at the Seminar any time the discussion got
heated and the blackboard filled up with equations?

He must be some sort of spy.

That would explain what Vivek Iyer, the fat Hostel Secretary, had told him. The Russian monk
had met secretly with someone at the Hindu hostel. Perhaps, the Russian wanted to defect.

In that case, his own mission must be to try to throw a spanner in the works. After all, the new
administration in India- despite the much vaunted pro-Americanism of, Defence Minister,
Vajpayee- had wasted no time in renewing ties with Moscow. Whats more, K.G.B ranks in
London had been greatly depleted by an on-going tit for tat round of diplomatic expulsions.
Thus, Anal Singh would want him to do the K.G.B this favour- viz . babysit the Russian monk.
But, how to do it? Babu didnt want the monk- a genuinely spiritual man- to get in trouble with
his own people and be bundled off to some Gulag somewhere. Perhaps, he should try a heart-
to-heart. Except, Babu wasnt sure he himself still possessed a heart. How could he?-
combining as he did the roles of Inquisitor & Atheist, Comrade & Spy...

---------------------VI---------------------

Francis Bacon, Baron Verulam, Viscount St. Albans- lawyer and nobleman who, as Lord
Corven pointed out, wrote Shakespeares plays in that diagonal dimension of Time, Cantor
invented- was, perhaps, the first man, at least the first man in the Enlightenment tradition- that
is, the European Enlightenment tradition- to realise that the only way to get Man off the
Inquisitors rack was to bind Nature over to Sciences yet more ingenious apparatus of torture.
In truth, the alternatives were always stark- since only Truth legitimizes and all Authority is
Usurpation- Atrocity alone ever registering as Justice- either the Law establishes itself by
torturing men or else Nature must be tortured for its secrets. Torturing men establishes a
univocity of belief, of duty, of values- what philosophers call deontics. Putting Nature on the
rack establishes an independent realm of pure Alethia- a univocity of Truth embedded in the
apotheosis of Engineerings enlightening De Sade. Till, that is, the screams of sub atomic
particles in the Hadron collider do something surprising- they make Reality itself observer
dependent but that observer- no longer the ghost in the machine, but its scandal and stumbling
block- the meaningless Christ to save whom all Creation is crucified!

Despite his professed hatred for the Marquess, David was beginning to sound like Lord Corven-
expressing himself in the same turgid periods. But then, thought Babu, he too was equally
guilty of that affectation. Perhaps the Indians werent so different from the Americans- at least,
the Harvard sort- they too were ex-Colonials intimidated into imitation when faced with their
former masters.

This is a Hegelian reversal- as of the Master subjected by the Slaves selfless industry. Indeed,
this is the Universal Penal Colony predicted by Kafka. Tortured Nature takes its revenge on
Man. We all now voluntarily lash ourselves to the Punishment machine. The machine that
punishes us condignly by inscribing our crime on our skin. What is that crime? Be Just. It is a
sentence that kills.

Davey, mate, sorry. Richard didnt sound sorry, Am I being dense or did you just utter the
biggest pile of codswallop since Cadwaladr ap Codswalloper stuck a leek up his arse and it won
first prize for declamation at the Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysilio-
gogogoch Eisteddfod? I ask for information only. Any Welsh in you boyyo?

Moyra, who had been eagerly giving ear to David- indeed, Babu now thought, perhaps the
Americans paper had been designed not as an allurement to the Marxists but to find favour
with the Scottish beauty - Moyra now turned upon Richard with withering scorn- Och, is the
wee Dicky bird out of his depth? Does diddums want his rattle?

Naw! said Richard, Baby wants titty! Howsabout it? Hoots mon! Get yer tits out for the
lads!

Moyra made as if to headbutt Richard but chose instead to pull his head towards her breast.
Richard flushed and tore himself away. Adjusting her bra-strap, Moyra turned back to David
with warm, womanly, eyes.

Well, said David, finding it difficult to meet Moyras melting gaze, Urm... my point is that...
urm...consciousness is always relational but only by a discrimination of difference. No, Celeste,
not differance- this has nothing to do with your Derrida or Deleuze- I am sorry but there it is...
so.. you see, in that sense, consciousness exists only in relation to other consciousnesses...

Why? Mohammad spoke up, Ibn Tufayl, eight hundred years ago, speculated- in his Hayy
ibn Yaqzan- that a human being raised in isolation would have a purely scientific approach to
the natural world. His consciousness would be a pure mirror of Reality.

How would such a person develop language? asked David, And without language how
would he be able to reason? In any case- studies of feral children show...

Actually, such studies show nothing, Moyra said firmly, except how blinkered we human
beings are. There was a story of a shipwrecked sailors monkey being cast up at Hartlepool at
the time of the Napoleonic wars. The locals hanged the poor wee beastie thinking it a
Frenchman.

Still happens down my neck of the woods, said Richard, who had recovered his composure,
cept we dont hang em but give em jobs as waiters. Thats progress- if you like.

Again with the monkeys! Celeste, finally exploded into articulacy, Why always the
monkeys? Is it the English sense of humour? Frankly, monkeys have more wit!

Yes, Obi addressed Richard sternly, Were all tired of your Basil Fawlty routine. I think you
should apologize.

Oh God! Richard was horror-stricken, You cant think that I meant... I mean, its true my
Dad runs a Hotel in Harrogate... but, yknow, Manuel in Fawlty Towers is from Spain or
Portugal or something.. Wheres Barcelona? Spain right? Of course, and dad... I mean, m Pater
was...as, in some sense, he still is a... terribly spiffy... terribly squiffy... R.A.F Squadron Leader,
stationed in Malta, and, I tell you, he loved those plucky little chappies! I mean, the whole
island won the Victoria Cross! So, when I said that about waiters, I meant French waiters... I
mean, yknow, French waiters from... yknow... not, well, Martinique or something...yknow,
but, the Maitre de type, smaller, sneering, sort of Frog...Jesus, Im just digging myself in deeper
arent I?.. Well, simply to clear the air, I apologise. Un-re-ser-ved-ly. My word on it as an
officer and gentleman. All better now?

Talking of monkeys, Li Xi spoke up- shed had to miss Davids presentation the previous
Friday and so, given that Nuclear Physics was her baby, Q&A had been held over for her-
What I dont understand is how you can use the experimental verification of Quantum
mechanics as an analogy to delink Thermonuclear heuristics from the Politics of the Nation
State. For all I know, it may be, in your country, that mathematicians like your Hermann Kahn-
or even Kubricks Dr. Strangelove- do, indeed, take Policy captive though plotting an
intellectual trajectory- which, for some unknown reason, you call regression to the mean-
which makes their own work meaningless for so stalemated in self-spun symmetries- but a
simpler explanation for this phenomenon is provided by Capitalisms internal contradictions- its
need to fabricate the instrument of its own destruction simply so as to maintain the illusion of
vitality- this has nothing to do with the Bell inequality or the Quantum Zeno effect or anything
else that can be experimentally verified. I mean, there is simply no connection- pardon my
French.

Im sorry, David replied frowning, I dont get your segue from monkeys to Nuclear
doctrine. And why should we pardon your French? Is there a joke Im missing just?

Velly solly, Li Xi replied briskly, Chinese no sense of humour. Lin Yu Tang introduced the
concept in the 1930s. But he had to adapt the English word,- yu mo- there being no Chinese
equivalent. You see, we had to import even the concept from you. But, what makes you so sure
we will also import your Nuclear doctrine? After all, you impose all sorts of barriers on
technology export and we, for our part, are going our own way. Where then is the quantum
entanglement or non-locality or whatever it was you mentioned? Is it some new type of yu
mo? Please forgive me, if I offend. We are very backward in this regard. Kindly make
allowances.

Dude, said Barney slowly- he had given up the Johnny Rotten spiky hair and was now made
up like a bisexual, David Bowie type, Space pirate-I think what shes saying is youre a
monkey with a fucking typewriter. Your paper made no sort of sense. She was just being polite
so you wouldnt lose face.

Id gathered that, David snapped back, And, let me tell you, the Chinese have a great sense
of humour. Lu Hsun was one of the greatest satirist of the early part of the Century. Frankly,
ignorant though I undoubtedly am, I dont appreciate being condescended to like this. You
see... there is a sort of holographic unity to all utterance.. Quinean semantic holism... In a sense,
that was the whole point of my paper. Expression, like Observation, is always Theory
dependent. And all Theories are involved in each other. To paraphrase Lu Hsun There is no
specifically Chinese Moon or American Moon- no Chinese Physics different from Am... sorry,
Richard, let me finish- your Tao of Physics is a bad joke- the point is all language is inter-
translatable- Chomsky proved that- Celeste youll get your turn- look, Ill stop now but, lets
just try keep this productive, shall we? And to be productive, conversational segues have to be
meaningful. You cant just add phatic tags like, Talking of monkeys or Excuse my French
and make out you are part of a conversation. There is a delicate web that connects all things.

But, that is precisely my point! Celeste exploded once again, Ive presented three rigorous
papers, each a foundational Deleuzian critique- including one on Chomsky- and none of you
listened!

Actually, Celeste David replied, there is a big difference. Essentially, you construct
Knowledge as a sort of gravitational field of Repression. Well... you may disagree... if you will
just let me finish the point Im making... Im sorry, Celeste, but I think we have established a
consensus that these proceedings be carried forward in English- not cries of Merde!
punctuated by Marcel Marceau mime- so, possess your soul in patience, dear lady, and allow
me to finish. You see... urm.. what I am talking about..err... is a system where Information has
an inbuilt uncertainty arising out of the modality of Force applied to extract it- in other words-
look Celeste, just give me a moment and then you take the floor- urm... I am.. err.. referencing a
general theory of Knowledge as Persecution. But, and this is the crucial point- as a Straussian- I
focus on Writing- which uses symmetry and recursion in the same way as a Universe with Bell
non local entanglement.

Could we go back to talking about monkeys? asked Richard while Barney, also seated across
the table, sagely advised, Dude, go easy on the doobies, you are seriously flaking.

Actually, said Aliki, Youre both right- I mean, both David and Celeste are right in their
approach- I dont mean their approach goes anywhere BUT it may be just the thing to draw
Zadig out. Remember, its been over a week now and he still hasnt said anything.

I thought Zadig really perked up when Moyra made her presentation on Evolutionary
Convergence in marsupials and placentals. Obi said.

Yaah, said Richard, Its coz shed forgotten to wear a bra and the way those puppies kept
chasing each other under her blouse, its a wonder the old perv didnt leap out of his chair and
give her a good goosing right there and then. Either that or he gets turned on by duck billed
platypussies- speaking of which, Moyra, pet, mebbe that skirt was a wee on the teensy side
especially noo th heather be high.

Oooooh! Moyra squealed, squirming lubriciously in her seat, Fighting words, my little
Dicke bird ! You can beat about my bush anytime. Och, dinna hing the petit lip, lad- I know
your heart belongs to Mammy.

Look, Babu spoke to break an awkward silence, I think this is embarrassing for Shahrukh.
And Mohammad didnt look too pleased with your little erotic by play. He stalked off and none
of you noticed. Dont forget his Embassy is hosting us tonight. Could we please get back to
writing up the Q&A so we can get off in good time to go shower and change?

Actually, said David, Let me save us all a bit of time. Babu, as Secretary, take note, I
withdraw the paper. Youll notice, I didnt actually put my name to it. Aliki is right. I was just
trying to draw the old man out. The fact is, were all going to look like complete fools if we go
back home a couple of months from now and tell our Profs that Zadig told us nothing. I mean, it
reflects badly not just on us but on our Departments, our Colleges, even our Subjects as
presently constituted. We cant afford for that to happen. Somehow or other, we have got to get
in tune with him. Show we are worthy of instruction.

But, dont you understand! said Celeste at her shrillest, Zadig wont speak. His teaching is
his silence. Ive explained it to you again and again- you simply dont listen!

Schelling focal point theory, said David suddenly, I should have thought of it before. Celeste
is right. Zadig wont speak. Not yet. It wouldnt be informationally efficient. You see, we have
to find the Schelling focal point from which his lectures start.

Fuck you say? said Richard, Oh! Sorry Obi. Wash my mouth out with soap. Whats this
Shilling theory of yours?

Thomas Schelling. Look, its like suppose we all have to meet at a certain time but an
unknown place. Where would we go? Well, clearly we have to go to the one location everybody
else thinks is the most likely place to occur to all of us as the ideal meeting place. Like, here in
London, it would be Big Ben...

No it wouldnt mate, said Richard, Waterloo Station- under the clock- every Londoner
knows that.

Actually, it would be right here- the Corven Institute- its the only place we all know. said Li
Xi.

No, said David, You arent getting it. You see, what Zadig is doing is getting us to work as a
team to come up with the Shelling focal point he would choose to start his teaching... I should
say, he has already chosen after looking at our rsums. The point is- its going to be something
like Big Ben- a symbol meaningful to a man of Zadigs generation.

But, said Rasputin, suddenly appearing out of the shadows, Zadigs world is mathematical.
So the question is how would he frame the notion of a Schelling focal point? In essence, we are
talking about a set of preferences for the question- where would I like to meet the others?-
which each person then goes through striking out those places he thinks, the others might think,
would either not be known or not preferred by each and every other. There then must follow
some sort of internalised negotiation or simulated politicking to yield that answer each person
thinks, all the other people would think, the natural outcome of a discussion on the topic where
to meet? Notice, that in the process, all rules for deciding the outcome that produce either
stalemates or arbitrary selections have to be jettisoned. Now, the question is, how would
someone of Zadigs generation conceptualise that mathematically?

Brouwer, said Aliki thoughtfully, What you are suggesting could be done with what
Brouwer called a spread of choice functions- which is interesting because it is a way of
resurrecting the Continuum as being made up of something other than dimensionless points-
which Aristotle rejected- or Real Numbers with some previous Platonic existence. But,
Brouwers intuitionistic Maths would also get rid of the law of the excluded middle- the idea
that something is either wrong or right with no third alternative. Moreover, as Weyl pointed
out, a continuum based on free choice would be indecomposable. ... All profound ideas. So,
yes, Zadig might well be thinking along these lines- but, assuming Schelling focal points are,
indeed, what mathematicians call canonical- something independent of convention and
natural- then there have to be at least two such focal points to bring in Zadig mimetic field.
One is our own, canonical, Shelling focal point- the place we would all agree to- but, then, there
must be a second focal point, chosen by Zadig, with us in mind. You see, for us to arrive at the
stage where Zadig can start to teach us, we need to understand the relationship between these
two different focal points and find the Brouwerian spread- the continuum segment between
them- defined by the rules or procedures governing that.. jettisoning, you just mentioned. No
question about it, now I recollect, my Professor mentioned that Zadig was interested in
Brouwers rescue of the Continuum- that mysticism of nested infinities- by somehow
grounding it in incompressible choice sequences freely interacting to render the whole
indecomposable- presumably getting rid of the Banach Tarski paradox while allowing Zorns
lemma to arise spontaneously as a sort of emergent on that free interaction- except,
except,...Zadig added something... what exactly is elusive, but my feeling is that just by
concentrating on the necessary relationship- no, the living interaction- between the choice
sequences connecting the two focal points- or rather sets of possible focal points, none
accurately known- by becoming sensitive to that ...drama of the function defining the
Brouwerian spread...we, perhaps, arrive at the starting point of Zadigs mimetic field...we
become his mathematical model come alive... become human... he is our Pygmalion...

And we his Pinnochio, finished Richard, Daddy, I want to be a real boy!

Well, I got wood, Barney added mysteriously, Got to hit the showers. He rose from his seat
beside Richard and quickly left the room. After a moments pause, Richard followed him out.
The girls, too, got up.

David, who had started quoting some Ancient Greek geek the dawn of political thought,
Herodotus tells us, begins after the slaughter of the Magi, when the truth loving Persians...-
but seeing this bit of cultural sucking up cut no ice with Aliki, he too began packing up his
papers.

Babu sensed something had happened, something had changed- what precisely? Then it hit him.
The key was Alikis mention of Brouwer, who saved intuitionism, saved Kantian a priori Truth-
and, by extension, Radakrishnan type idealism, at least, in the opinion of his old ultra-
Brahminical Math Prof- by admitting a new type of number- a living, evolving, number- whose
decimal expansion wasnt fixed in advance, like or e, but freely chosen by an agent operating
indefinitely through time. But this meant saying goodbye to comparability, goodbye to the Law
of the Excluded Middle, it meant an indecomposable continuum- no Banach Tarski paradoxes
meant no Bhakti style empathy, no mystic identity of all in all- in other words, a second lease of
life for all those ontologically divergent Indian philosophies, invented by Priests and Kings,
which agreed only on one point- the sacred duty of forcing his people to carry shit on their
heads and then heaping scorn on them as untouchables.

In that case, Zadigs mimetic field might be more than a sort of Mathematical house-keeping-
an exercise in abstraction to shore up the foundations of the intuitionist approach- itself derived
from the notion that consciousness was in some sense the natural repository of Truth as
opposed to Shit- which, in truth, is all the historical record allowed one to believe...

However the problem remained. Zadigs mimetic field, by releasing Math from its Formalist
strait-jacket, might yield ground breaking results, counter-intuitive predictions, derivable in no
other way for the Hard Sciences, from an investigation of free, dramatic, choice sequence
interactions- themselves yielding the Brouwerian spread. At least, that would be the seductive
appearance. In reality, it would just be a case of Math lending its prestige to every Eureka that
felt right. It would have become the ultimate party drug for an Academia already debauched
by a, meretriciously meritocratic, Periclean State. Wisdom- that is the naturalness of
untouchability- would be back on the agenda and so the reformulation of Logic and Set Theory
on a revolutionary basis- free from the taint of reactionary Theology- would have gone in vain.
Three centuries of socio-political progress would be wiped out. Priestly and Aristocratic elites
would be back in charge. True, David talked of the slaughter of the Magi. For Magi read
Brahmin. But what did the free discussion of the truth loving Persians actually result in?
Hierarchy. Imperialism. The return of Zoroastrianism- which, at a later date, forbade the useful
classes from learning to read or write- and that too not by force, nor as magic, but by the logic
of free argument, as something both Natural and Divine...Casteism, nothing but casteism...
those self-righteous Parsee bastards who, armed with sticks, threw Dr. Ambedkar out of their
lodge in Baroda...Ultimately thats all talk of free discussion and choice amounts to. Yes, we
will be interacting and playacting and getting farther and farther up our own arses. Free
thought! Free choice! But the game is fixed in advance. Our interaction foredoomed to
tragically re-constitute the Imperialism of the pitiless Heavens. We are being manipulated into
brain-washing ourselves into complacent little Brahmins- cliquey, cloistered, little Shramans.
Thats the real purpose of this Seminar. That fatuous Lord Corven- an enthusiast for ultra
Rightist mystics like Serrano and Evola- working, perhaps, to some secret covens elitist
agenda... But why was Zadig- a Polish Jew- lending himself to this? Perhaps, survivors guilt
had overwhelmed him and he had come to the conclusion that the Shoah wouldnt have
happened if the ancien regime had been left in charge. No, that didnt make sense. Priests and
Tzars had been massacring Jews long before Corporal Hitler. What if Zadig wasnt a Jew?
Perhaps the son of some high up Nazi who had seen the writing on the wall? Maybe a double
agent sent to winkle out Allied Secrets? No, too farfetched. Perhaps it had something to do with
Israel- the increased precariousness of its position in the face of the Arabs new found oil
weapon? The beleaguered Zionist state couldnt be too choosy about its allies... No, no proof.
Perhaps, Zadig hadnt really thought through the implications of his own leanings. Or maybe
there was a simpler explanation. Maybe Zadig wasnt Zadig. After all, the man had said nothing
so far. A math teacher who doesnt know maths might still be able to get his class to break all
academic records provided at least some of the kids in it are really bright. All the math teacher
need do is to say Are you sure the solution you have written on the board is really correct? or
is this the most elegant way you can derive this result? and leave it to the kids to reason
things out for themselves. The bright kids would be forced to pull up the dullards along with
themselves- precisely because the dullards would be more apt to generate out of the box
insights which might progress matters...Indeed, such a teachers students would outshine all
rivals not just in the final exams but, later on, throughout their lives. But his students would
always lack one crucial insight which the other students would sooner or later glean for
themselves- viz. no teacher is infallible, no Authority is ever founded on genuine superiority,
Elites always end up adversely selective and untouchability- the inevitable reverse side of the
coin of an apophatic pedagogy, an intuition-based- fuck it, call it by its real name- a taste-based
hermeneutics- is suddenly back on the agenda, larger than life and twice as natural.

Was Zadig an impostor? Yes- by Occams razor- it was the simplest explanation. But, wait,
how would that actually work? Everyone on the Seminar had been selected by someone the
young Zadig personally knew and was indebted to. If there was a conspiracy, then 12 senior
Academics- well, Anal Singh wasnt an academic, but back in the late 30s and 40s his silly
little books had probably passed muster as Oriental wisdom- anyway, the point was that for 12
senior figures from around the globe to all be part of a crazy right wing conspiracy was just too
improbable. Occams razor cut both ways.

So what was really happening? Zadig had been helped, as a young man, by a number of older
savants. Okay, Anal Singh was no savant- but he had saved Zadigs life. Still, the others were
people Zadig must have discussed ideas with. They must have grasped the potential for their
own disciplines arising from Zadigs deep orientation. Each of them had each sent along their
best student to help ease Zadig back into productive scholarship. They couldnt all be part of
the conspiracy. Of course, the simplest answer was that there was no conspiracy. Just certain
tendencies of thought... Yet, from the start, Babu had felt a sort of visceral certainty that
something was not right with this Seminar. The young people were being manipulated into a
posture of intellectual arrogance- a Brahminism- and there is no Brahminism without
untouchability, no kerygma not negated by the non-communicant it defines to ostracise- it is the
necessary super abundance of its own cosmological dark matter that characterises all abstract
cerebrations true canonical form...

Babu suddenly realised that he was all alone in the room. Everybody else had already gone off
to get changed for the Embassy dinner. It came home to him that he had no natural ally in the
group. Obi was married to a much older, very senior, U.N.E.S.C.O official- the son of a
Paramount Chief, albeit of a now persecuted tribe. Her mother, from Martinique, had been a
Medical professional working for a U.N Agency in Francophone Africa. Ergo, Obi was Upper
Caste.

Mohammed, who was rather dark for an Arab and the first person Babu had sought to ally with,
was, it turned out, not just a posh Victoria College alumni- he was also studying Maleki
mazhab at Al Azhar under, the late French occultist, Guenons, Spiritual Master. In other
words, the slim young Arab was someone after Corvens own heart. Especially seeing as he
was the nephew of some two-bit Royal Allah had blessed with more petroleum than people to
lord it over. So, nothing doing there.

Moyra might appear promising- but she was obsessed with animals- and, that sort of person
ultimately ends up valorising the Aristocracy for keeping the land-hungry peasantry from
encroaching on their vast hunting preserves...

Li Xi, though Communist, was Upper Caste in two different ways- the Cultural Revolution had
elevated young girls like her above Professors and Commissars. But, if the moderates got a
stranglehold on power, then her education and her excellent English immediately put her in the
top bracket once again. In any case, despite the widespread adoption of Buddhism, the Chinese-
unlike the Japanese and Koreans- had never developed a concept of Untouchability. So Li Xi
was no good to him. Shahrukh? Too young. Richard? A joker. Barney? The guy wanted to be a
rock star. Aliki? She had been nominated by a Leftist, the late Christos Papakyriakopoulos, a
long time political exile at Princeton. But, Mathematics was her Universe- indeed, a paper of
hers had attracted the attention of Stephen Smale- but then what, after all, was the eversion of
the Platonic sphere but a more powerful general equilibrium of Untouchability? Already, in
Britain, drugs- vaunted as a short cut to a pluralistic Utopia just a decade ago- were being used
to turn a portion of the proletariat into untouchables. Except, of course, the beggarly Brahmins-
Kosambis miserable class- werent happy unless the stigmas they created dragged down a
certain number of their own social, intellectual and thymotic superiors. But always the tools
were the same- morality, the war against addiction, the threat of miscegenation, the horror of
young women choosing the fathers of their children for themselves- here in London, observing
the Bobby on the beat, Babu could see it all unfolding for himself. The British power elites-
including Labour leaders- were busy destroying the greatness of their own country simply so as
to fabricate a wholly foreign untouchability and force it upon a portion of their people- why?
Just to feel yet cleverer, more morally superior yet, than those they, with false humility,
pretended to serve.

What of David? Clearly, on the evidence of his paper, he was a Mathematician approaching
Alikis calibre. But, his interest was in Politics- not Poincares conjecture. Still, the Americans
were a more honest people than the hypocritical, hierarchy ridden, Europeans. But, did that
really help? A Jewish writer- Norman Mailer- referencing Doestoevskys gin soaked white
niggers of Notting Hill- had sought to infuse the term with radical possibilities. But, as
Jashuvapayyan- the Dalit litterateur martyred by the Provincial Armed Constabulary in 76-
pointed out in connection with the high caste co-optation of the hip Dalit Panther literature of
Bombay, Mailer failed. Perhaps, he was set up to fail. Or was it the case as people like, that
nice, well spoken, so fucking ultra-Aryan as to be an actual card carrying Zoroastrian, Farukh
Dhondy- improbably installed as supremo of the British Black Panthers headquarters in
London- had told him just yesterday, the Jews had been suborned by the Establishment. After
67, not the futile French but the inevitable Americans had become Israels biggest supporter.
Thus, the Jews already had a dual identity- madyanam parrayan- afternoon pariahs; but
Brahmins during the all important morning before it became too hot for those mother fuckingly
ugly Aryan invaders to go out of doors.

There was only one person left who might be an ally. It was Rasputin- as everybody now called
the Russian monk. After all, he had a sort of spiritual authority. In addition, he was an
extraordinary linguist. He could speak to everyone on the Seminar in, if not their native tongue,
then at least a rudimentary version of their regional lingua franca. This was important, because,
under Lord Corvens influence, all the foreigners on the Seminar were acquiring a pompous
manner of speech. Thus, Rasputins insistence on talking to people in a crude sort of version of
their own language was a heaven sent antidote to the insidious effect of exposure to the British
upper class. Truly, he was the man to open the eyes of the others to the peril in which they
stood- Babus own efforts in that direction having proved counterproductive. The problem was,
the monk might be looking to defect. Thus, to get him on side, Babu needed to come up with a
resettlement package as attractive as whatever the C.I.A or M.I 6 had to offer. But how to do it?
He had no resources, no pull, no bargaining power. Still, he had to try. Rasputin was his only
hope.
-----------------v---------------

David had met Prime Minister Brown several times before.
But Brown was blind in one eye and tended to focus his charm on motormouth Media
whores, not subfusc Undersecs of State.
Still, even if Gordon Brown didnt recognize him, there were the T.V cameras- live feeds
being captured by NSA computers and processed by Face Recognition software- it would only
be a matter of minutes before he was flagged. He was already on the Bureaus watch-list-
theyd had a man waiting for him on the tarmac at London City airport. If the information went
straight to them, their liaison officer at Grosvenor Square need only make a call to Scotland
Yard and, in a couple of minutes, those nice British Coppers would be closing in on him.
David needed to get out of this as quickly as possible. But, for the moment he could only pat
the air and grin foolishly at the Prime Minister.
O fuck! Now the asshole wants to talk... Fuck am I supposed to do?
Fortunately, the British Prime Minister was oblivious of Davids discomfiture. He made it a
point to impress foreigners, though not sadly his own countrymen, with the fact that his
eloquence and erudition greatly exceeded that of his predecessor. Now he was delivering some
long spiel about the link between Mahatma Gandhi and the Moravian Brothers, and did you
know Ahimsa means Non Violence?, and the Hutheesingh bequest to Edinburgh University
which had...
Hutheesingh. Hang on...David knew that name... Lord Corven had kept mentioning some rich
Indian guy called Hutheesingh... Could there be a tie-up with the Zadig Seminar here? David
was completely off balance. His hidden adversary had pulled a lot of strings to put him in this
position. It followed that the adversary would have set a trap for him- an escape route hed
blindly barge towards in panic. David glanced around. No familiar faces... other than the Prime
Minister himself...ah! wait a moment... Brown was pulling out of Basra having privately
admitted defeat...all quite above board...no conspiracy involved...but what if the adversary was
a naive conspiracy-hound?... Babu was none too bright... how would he see it? Perhaps, hed
think strings were being pulled by some shady cabal of the super-rich- perhaps Hill &
Knowlton or the Carlyle Group... or those Bilderberg poseurs...but, why not just say the Elders
of Zion and be done with it?... there was a rumour that the Iranian strongman, Ahmedinijad
was actually Jewish and that Jewish Neo-cons had rigged the Iraq war, not to mention Britains
shambolic performance in Basra, so as to resurrect Iran as Israels protector in the East... all
crazy stuff, but David wasnt dealing with a sane and rational adversary ...Wait a sec... those
guys over there- theyre Rabbis... what sort of Rabbis? Jeez! Theyre those Neteuri
Karta fuckwits who oppose the existence of Israel... theyre off to Teheran to hand the fucking
Iranians a Propaganda coup... Ive got to look at it from Babus point of view. He may think,
being Jewish, Id naturally gravitate to the nearest Rabbi. But these guys are pro-fucking
Iranian! Does Babu think Ill use them to complete my Iranian mission? No. Thats crazy.
Those self-professed Guardians of the City have no standing with anyone- theyre just a
bunch of buffoons... So what does Babu expect me to do? It must be Brown himself that Babu
thinks Ill cling to. Perhaps, Babu figures, in my distress Ill buttonhole the British Prime
Minister, give him the secret handshake of the Elders of Zion and.... dunno... that way madness
lies. Still, if the adversary wants me to reveal myself to the British Prime Minister- which
means getting MI5 involved- then this is a far higher stakes game than Ive stomach for. The
one thing to do is not what Babu wants me to do. For the moment, that means getting out of
here in such a way that it sends a message to my own people that Ive gone to ground
somewhere to gain a respite till a secure channel of communication can be opened.
David needed...Sanctuary...where?... a diplomatic mission... Scotland Yard cant arrest me if
Im on foreign territory...but it cant be a NATO ally... who? The Brazilians? No. The Wyeth
connection. Anyway, that fucking gardener was one of theirs. The Russians? Fuck no!... but,
wait, theres a way I can work it. Putins pet oligarch, the Russian Orthodox Churchs London
Maecenas, is also a C.I.A double agent. We call him the false Dmitri- he is my ticket out of
here. Im one of the few people cleared to know about him. Whats more, his personal
Confessor is also the unofficial Chaplain to the Russian Mission. But, only my own people
would know I recruited that chaplain...So, its my best move. Nobody would expect it and only
my own people will be able to correctly interpret its hidden meaning... This is it!..Im going for
broke!

Brown Blessings, Minister Prime, David said brusquely, channelling Yoda, But time to talk
now is not. Communiqu issued immediately must be- otherwise planetary alignment correct
will be not and another 123 years wait we must! Where my interlocutor is, the Russian Holy
Man- His Holiness the Hieromonk? Still drinking Vodka at his Embassy? Please, there to take
me immediately, car give to me you must! The joint communiqu must proceed as Prince
Hutheesingh commanded! Otherwise the cause of Universal Peace will be retarded by 123
years!
Prime Minister Brown bridled and stepped back. But, David had got what he wanted. It
seemed likely that the new P.Ms Press Office had improvised this inter-faith jamboree, with
its focus on Peace, as a way of putting distance between Brown and his gung-ho predecessor.
But the Foreign Office wasnt on side. David was led away by a very superior young lady who
disdained to have speech with him- an unexpected piece of luck. His driver, on the other hand
was an inquisitive young Geordie who kept a sceptical eye on him in the rear mirror. Deciding
that David was too distrait to help himself, the driver threw himself into his job with gusto. He
avoided the traffic around Hyde Park by hurtling down back-lanes. At the Russian Embassy, he
talked his way past the guards and threw the dough faced secretaries in to a tizzy. David was
taken to a windowless conference room where a large slab of lard kept an eye on him. He
asked for a laptop. The large slab of lard went away but didnt come back. A short while later a
little blonde man wearing a double breasted blazer pinched in at the waist came to peer at
him. By this stage, David no longer wanted the laptop- Whiskey! he shouted Get me
Whiskey! Whiskey, and the Priest! Perhaps this convinced the Russians that he really was a
Holy Man of some sort. A decanter was placed before him and he was left alone to his
thoughts.
-----------------vi------------------
Follow me- it is what Christ said.
He said that to the rich young man. But the youth was saddened for he had much wealth and
wealth is difficult to give up. You are well off. Your mother has connections and sent you to an
elite school. You make plenty of money selling fake icons to old babushkas while reserving the
genuine treasures for wealthy diplomats.
I gave it all up- to follow you.
I am not Christ!
No, but you follow Christ as the apostles followed Christ and he said you who have
followed me will sit on twelve thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel.
Judas was of the twelve.
Thou hast said it! Yet you object when I follow you!
You follow me to spy for the KGB.
That was the reason you let me follow you. But, now it is an open secret in our monastery that
they dont want my reports- I make their own professional agents look bad- you still object to
my following you.
But you still report to your starets at GRU!
I never denied it. But for him Id have had no moral guidance in my life. It isnt much, but its
all I have. But its something I must earn. You know very well what got me expelled from
School. I stole. I am a thief. They put me in the Monastery because it is part of their long
standing strategy to fill up places like this with thieves and scoundrels. You are different. Not a
monk- not a hieromonk, like myself- but a People's priest, a hero priest! True, for the moment,
they have let you come to Moscow to give the sacraments to broken down old bezprizorniks
and to make a show of reviving Sobornost to please the Evangelicals in Carter's White House.
But, after the Olympics, you will be returned to your Gulag. You know all this already. Yet,
you don't want me to follow you. Why? Are you afraid of that old Jew, you call my Father
Confessor? But, ask yourself, what harm can he do you which will not befall you in any event?
The truth is that my starets should have been put out to pasture- or under it- long ago. Hes an
Old Bolshevik. They still keep him round because he was Berzins man in Vilinus and he
knows where all the bodies were buried. Literally.

Babu paused the tape recorder.
This was your exact conversation? he asked the hieromonk.
I have almost perfect recall in a dozen languages. I translate accurately and instantly. I am
considered a prodigy at the Bakhtin institute.
Okay, Babu knew he was being played. What he didnt know was if Rasputin himself
understood that Babu was just play-acting. He didnt have the authority to recruit Rasputin as
an agent. Indeed, he himself had not been indoctrinated into the tradecraft needed to run an
intelligence asset. In fact, this business of taping Raputin was just a cover to hide what was
going on from the other Hostel residents. They thought Rasputin was learning Babu's dialect as
part of his linguistic research and that the tape recorder was there to help the Russian capture
phonetic nuances.
Babu needed the monk to believe he was being recruited because the fellow was simply dying
to be de-briefed by some Agency, any Agency, so as to break psychologically with Moscow .

Babu had gained an unexpected ally in his attempt to save Rasputin. It was the Uruk Hai Prince
who, holding the hereditary office of High Admiral under the Nepalese Monarch, possessed a
Diplomatic passport and thus had the right to retain Rasputin on his staff, as a Chaplain, thus
enabling the monk to stay on in the West without formally defecting. In fact, Rasputin's role
would be restricted to playing the part of a cheap au pair or tutor to the Prince's grandson-
though, as a hieromonk, he was actually licensed to conduct Orthodox ceremonies.
It was unlikely that the Soviets would make much objection because the Prince was counted as
an enemy of the Chinese. Indeed, so fearsome was the reputation of the Uruk Hai amongst
Lamaistic Buddhists- including Tuvans and Buriyats on Soviet territory- there might be some
advantage in keeping a Russian Orthodox link with this 'Most Christian Serene Highness'.

In giving Rasputin a means of staying on in the West, without defecting, Babu was acting on
his own initiative. He himself still didnt know for what fell purpose hed been planted at the
Zadigs Seminar. His own puppet-master hadn't yet twitched his strings.
Still, paying a courtesy call to the ranking I.P.S officer in London- Gary Bridewell- who held
the post of Minister Political at India House- Babu had found himself a mentor.
Bridewell was a sports enthusiast who had been greatly impressed by Babu's prize winning
performance at an inter-services tournament in Mussoorie a couple of years back. Bridewell
disguised his disappointment when Babu told him he'd given up athletics for poetry. A lot of
young I.P.S officers wrote crepuscular verse, motivated, no doubt, by the same romanticism or
unconscious sadism that had them plump for the Police Service in the first place. In Babu's
case, it was protective camouflage simply. The truth was, once he'd been forced to become a
spy, the sort of adulation he received as a track star began to gall upon him. Pretending to be a
pretentious poetaster, on the other hand, earned him the sort of disdain he felt he deserved.
Babu had prepared a report on the Seminar for Bridewell- this was purely a courtesy gesture
though it might have been interpreted as a way of advertising suitability for an Intelligence
assignment- and, though declining to keep a copy for his files, Bridewell had been kind enough
to go through it with him- a decidedly friendly act which signalled the senior officer's relative
freedom from Caste prejudice.
The upshot of Bridewell's counsel was that Babu had been able to verify that the only person
on the Seminar of possible interest to Indian Intelligence was Rasputin- this was because, as the
monk had been quick to mention on first meeting Babu, his mother was a sort of semi-official
befriender of the wives of senior Indian politicians receiving medical treatment in Moscow.
The lady spoke English and, though an unwed mother, was a very devout Russian Orthodox
Christian. She also helped Indian diplomats wives with their shopping- she could even get
them fresh chili peppers and other herbs and spices- while demonstrating to them that pietistic
Religion- Masses and Saints days and miracle working icons- though rigorously excluded from
the political sphere, nevertheless operated without let or hindrance in the USSR. This was
important because most Indian women, even those married to card-carrying Communists,
remained traditional in their thinking.
Thus, the possibility existed, that some senior figure in Indian politics was reachable through
his wife- if the latter had indeed come under Rasputins mothers influence. This was by no
means a far-fetched notion. Many Indian Leftists had a soft spot for what the Russians called
'spiritizm'- communication from beyond the grave. Though the great Russian Chemist,
Mendelev, had been the first scholar to systematically expose the fraudulence of this American
import, the Soviets now claimed to be ahead of the West in the field of psychic research-
having mastered telepathy and telekinesis and so on. This had an instrumental value, especially
when it came to swaying Third World leaders.
Given their already well developed network of agents of influence, it was unlikely that the
Americans or the British or anybody else would want to recruit Rasputin for any purpose
connected to India. But, if his mother wasn't important- what about his biological father? After
all, an unwed Lithuanian woman- that too, with a son at the Seminary- must have a high-up
patron. Otherwise she could scarcely have got a residency permit for Moscow and gained
access to foreign diplomats.
On the other hand, if Raputin's father had any real value, then the Americans or the British
would have made their move by now. What that meant was that they didnt trust the
hieromonk's antecedents and so, if he tried to defect, they might come to the conclusion that he
was a double agent and put him through the wringer before deporting him as an undesirable.
The other worry regarding Rasputin was that he had been a kleptomaniac as an adolescent.
Probably, just attention seeking behaviour. But, what if he regressed and did it again at the
Corven Institute- stealing some priceless book or manuscripts? Security seemed lax. But that
might be deliberate. These British Aristocrats know a thing or two about keeping things low-
key. If a theft went down- Lord Corven would get some cheap publicity for his Collection while
still being able to recover the stolen item quickly enough.
Once again, as the one policeman on the course, hed look pretty foolish.
Still, looking foolish wasnt the worst thing that could happen.
There was something else.
Babu instinctively felt that there was something wrong with this Seminar- some sinister motive
he couldnt yet see- and that he needed Rasputin as an ally. After all, in Russia, it was the
priests who were the new untouchables. Thus, he had to go through the pretence of debriefing
Rasputin, of becoming his Control, simply so as to prevent the monk from doing something
self-destructive.
The irony was- previously he had befriended people to spy on them, now he was pretending to
recruit a spy purely out of friendship.
Or was he lying to himself?
Was it the other way around?
After Anul Singh recruited him, Babu had felt so alone, he needed friends, intimacy, and he set
aside his own scruple against fraternizing with the Upper Castes simply to gain a sort of
temporary and spurious companionship. But, instead of being able to confide in such new-
found friends, he himself had become the hypocritical confidante of these targets of his puppet-
master's honey-traps.
So, perhaps, Babu's decision to pretend to recruit Rasputin hadn't been altruistic after all. The
fact was, the hieromonk was empowered not merely to hear confessions but also to grant
absolution.
But what was absolution?
What did it mean?
If Confession is a sort of spying on oneself is Absolution becoming one's own Spy-master?
Was the glass half full or half empty?
-------------------vii------------------
Half the decanter had disappeared.
With his second tumbler, David had begun to see it. He had been fooled. He had done the one
thing he had been most anxious to avoid. He had played into Babu's hands.
The odd thing was David felt quite calm. The whole thing had been a cheap con worked by
misdirection. The Delhi meeting would still go ahead. It was a done deal. It was in nobody's
interest to sabotage it.
What Babu had done- probably in return for money from some Russian faction- was rattle
David's cage sufficiently till he panicked and gave away the identity of the Agency's conduit to
'the false Dmitri'. But why? Babu himself would have to flee his own people. The Indians
wanted the Americans to make nice with the Iranians because they needed the lifting of
sanctions on Teheran. Babu had shown his hand by playing this absurd trick upon David.
Clearly, all that stuff about Scotland Yard wanting to arrest him at the City of London airport
was just hogwash. The Jain nun had been a plant. Her laptop, obviously, hadn't accessed the
Internet but just a Local Area Network. That's why it timed out David's secure connection and
took so long to load even ordinary Google search results. Clearly someone else on the coach
had been feeding him the links he'd clicked on. Because of his mental state, he hadn't spotted
the obviousness of the con. Babu must have got Paulo, the gardener's, name off his own phone
call to David. Babu could speak Portuguese. He could easily have called the house and spoken
to Paulo. So, really, everything after that was just inspired improvisation on his part.

David felt an utter idiot for not seeing it before. Still, it was amazing that he'd done the one
thing he shouldn't have- come to the Russian Embassy- just because the cheap con-man
working this so desperately wanted him to. It was like being hypnotised by a snake- or a Time-
share salesman or one of those bogus Godmen they have in India- your feeling of intellectual or
empathic superiority makes you vulnerable, pity kills your will...

David set down his glass. The game was over. He hadn't actually lost anything valuable.
Actually, it was a great relief to know Bella was fine and no shooting accident had occurred
back home. In fact, something good might come out of this. He'd have the firing pin removed
from every gun on the Estate the moment he returned. Still, it stung to have been hoodwinked
in such a childish manner. His error would certainly raise a couple of craggy eyebrows at
Langley- but no real damage to his own career would result. Eggheads had never been held to
the same exacting standards as operational staff and, in any case, thanks to the Wyeth
connection, he himself had been able to keep at arm's length from the seamier side of things.

As for 'the false Dmitri'- there was actually no danger. Babu had outsmarted himself. Once
David's face was spotted on the satellite feeds from Downing Street, it would have only taken a
few minutes for the Agency to track him to the Russian Embassy. Thus, Dmitri's handlers
would have been flagged quickly enough to implement their cut-out protocols. The whole thing
would have been fully sterilized by the time David had poured his first whiskey.

Still, it stung, to have lost face like this. To have been taken in by such a childish and self-
defeating little con.
What was Babu playing at? His motive must be money- but where does he think he will be able
to spend it? In fact, come to think of it, the trap had already been reversed. The Agency had lost
nothing- the Indians would confirm that Babu was handling David's security for the Delhi trip-
but that meant David's going to ground at the Russian Embassy was part of Babu's plan not
David's. Meanwhile, his own people, pointing the finger at Babu, would get the co-operation of
Indian Counter-Intelligence to figure out who had paid him off. This meant the Agency might
be able to hunt down whoever it was who was gunning for the 'the false Dmitri' before the
Russians were fully up to speed.
Come to think of it, what if the Agency, looking into Babu as part of their due diligence for
David's Delhi trip, had stumbled on the Russian connection? In that case, their refusal to supply
Blackwater style protection might have had the hidden purpose of luring Babu out into the
open. Indeed, for all David knew, someone on his own side might have fed Babu the XOCAL
contact so as to arrange the bizjet.

Ah! But if that were really the case, then David had humiliated himself in an unspeakable
manner! His own people thought so little of him, they'd relied on his being afraid of fighting an
arrest warrant in open court! Perhaps, Langley scuttlebutt had David down as Richard Perle's
bagman at Hollinger! It was an absurd allegation. Bella was the only heir to the Wyeth fortune,
in comparison to which Conrad Black's looked very small potatoes indeed.
Still, he had plausible deniability on this. In any case, he really had done nothing wrong with
relation to Hollinger. So that couldn't be the reason he'd just broken into a clammy sweat.
So, what was it? Why did he suddenly feel so shame-stricken and exposed?
What was it he was trying to cover up?

David drained his glass. Someone had figured out his weakness- Bella, poor little rich girl,
Bella- someone who remembered the old rumours- so perhaps a veteran Beltway insider...

Why had David not simply gone to his Embassy when he saw the fake story planted on the
laptop? You can't con an honest man, a man of integrity, a man of principle.
Yet, Babu had conned him... he must have had help. Actually, Babu was being conned himself-
but he was just a barefoot pariah with a sideline in poetic buffoonery. What was hideous was
that somehow he and Babu were now on a level, brothers from different mothers, both
Schlemiels... no... not both, Babu was a Shlimazel, he had destroyed his own career, he may not
know it yet, but he'd put a price on his own head; whereas David had been subjected to nothing
more than a good scare and some loss of face. The Iranian thing would go through and so he'd
have his footnote in history. In a few years time- once 'Dubya' was more charitably
remembered- David would get his Ambassadorship and then a more glorious gloaming, with
Bella by his side, a ripening Autumn, of declining effort and increasing rewards as part of the
gilded pantheon of the great and the good.
Except, it would all be hollow. The surge of pity he had felt for Bella, the instinct to protect
her- all it had done was sully and demean her. He should of trusted her. Instead, he had behaved
like a criminal desperate for sanctuary, because, in his heart of hearts, he thought of his own
wife as... as what? A child? No, something else... something infrahuman.. beyond or below the
scope of morality and judgement... what? who? Oh my God, it's Jacob...it's how I used to see
Jacob...till I started seeing him in the flesh in London...O Jeez, what if I'm seeing things again,
like I did on the Zadig Seminar? But, if I'm hallucinating, how do I know what I saw on the
Nun's laptop? What the hell is going on? Is this some sorcery of those Netueri Karta dybbuks?
Fuck me! Did I just empty the whole decanter!
--------------viii--------------
Richard had emptied the Chianti bottle and was now trying to balance it on his head.
'Ai, ai, ai, I like you very much!'
'Gerroff, you big poof!' this was Barney trying to sound British.
'Quit it, Richard. Enough with the Carmen Miranda act already. So, Professor Cohen, you are
sure this guy really is Zadig? You recognized him straight off?'
'What was there to recognize? I knew a slender boy with enormous eyes but he has gone never
to return. This man is a... Landsknecht... a..a... how do you say it? .. a roughneck.'
' We think he looks like a garden gnome'- David found he could not take his eyes off Beka
Cohen, though the great physicist was old enough to be his grand-mother.
'A gartenzwerg? Yes! That is it exactly! I said to my husband- who is this impostor? How dare
he? What happened to our Indian elf-child? Which bad fairy stole him away from King
Oberon?'
David was entranced. Beka, with her slender build, enormous eyes, and forelock of pure
silver, could have passed for an elf-child herself.
'So it isn't Zadig.'
'No, our Zadig is gone, he is dead, this impostor- ah!- it was only when he looked at me, when
his eyes returned and stopped and stared and I saw it was the elf-child peeping out.'
'So it is Zadig?'
'No! of course it isn't him. Just the eyes. You see, Mathematics is not an Oberon but an Erlking.
Like you say, this man is just a gartenzwerg.'
'But, you didn't speak to him.'
'I couldn't. I saw him, this small thing, smaller than a pin hole in the puffy eyes of that
Landsknecht and then the pin hole started getting wider and wider and underneath the
weathered stone of the gartenzwerg this skeletal elf-child was quickening towards me- it was
too much, my husband noticed and took me away.'
'Babu has a theory that Zadig is an impostor. He hasn't said a word to us three weeks into the
Seminar. In fact, he hasn't even corrected an equation.'
'Why should he speak?' Becky suddenly didn't look such a friendly little elf anymore, 'Who are
you? What are your equations? We- we were lucky- he loved us, we were his family. You know
he was one of the Rumkowski children? My god, what all he must have seen. But Princeton
was his...how should one say it? Not Paradise. It was his childhood- his real childhood. To him
it was us adults who were children- no, not children ; those children at Rumkowski's orphanage
never knew childhood- so what we were actually to him was just harmless woodland creatures
in some enchanted forest. Some cartoon of Disney. His mathematics was just his way of petting
and playing with us. He thought we were too innocent, too animalisch ...no, that's not the
word... I mean, he thought we were like something irreal, from a fairy tale...but then how angry
he got when he realized he was wrong! There was no 'New World', everything, everyone, was
very very old- like children, you know, children are very old ; so the elf-child went away and
became- what you say- a garden dwarf, because you see only Sleeping Beauty is young and she
must never wake up because when she wakes up she will look in the mirror and then there will
be... only the Wicked Queen!'
-----------------ix------------------
'Rien n'est plus fecond, tous les mathematiciens le savent...'
'English!'
'Yaah! No more of your endless bloody Racine!'
'Thats not Racine Obi intervened, still, the boys are right. So, Im sorry Celeste, as Chair,
I'm obliged to ask- could we please have that in English? '
'Ra Ra Rasputin,' David chanted drunkenly, 'Lover of the Russian Queen, C'mon baby do your
thaaang.'
Celeste fumed and muttered but surrendered her paper to the hieromonk with surprising good
grace. Indeed, she was being uncharacteristically well behaved. No doubt, she thought her
paper would blow everybody else's out of the water.
'Let me see. Yes. The quotation is from Andre Weil. He writes- 'Nothing is more fecund, as all
mathematicians know, than these obscure analogies, these troublous reflections of two theories
in each other, this reciprocal blurriness which is inexplicable save as the smudge marks left by
furtive kisses, fugitive caresses, detecting which the Researcher will taste no higher pleasure
because- when daylight dawns & the phantoms of his obsession dissolve, when Conjecture
incarnates as Certitude- then, at that very same moment, those twin theories, revealing their
common source- desert him by vanishing together.
As is taught by the Bhagvad Gita, we reach Knowledge and Indifference at the very same
time. Metaphysics has turned into mathematics, making itself the marble of a sculpted treatise
whose cold beauty can no longer move us.'
'Okay,' said Richard, 'I get it. What Celeste is saying is that Descartes only introduced
Geometry to Algebra so as to get up a three-way for fruity, future, French Mathematicians, but
then- and this is what Andre Weil finds out- if Froggy will a wooing go, it turns out all Love
but is Lust for a pair of for long sundered, latently Sapphic, twins who, so piquantly discovered
to each other, promptly run off together to pleasure only themselves in perpetuity- which, truth
be told, is a picture actually kind of yucky- so, all we are left with is this sepulchral
pornography which is utterly Ancient Greek in that it turns out the pin-up you've been beating
your meat to is actually a bikini shot of your own ...'
'Not Algebra,' Babu said, 'Arithmetic. What the Weil conjecture is about is far more mind-
blowing. He's saying ordinary Arithmetic-nothing more complicated than fractions- inputs into
Diophantine equations you don't need High School Maths to understand- yet is deeply
connected to algebraic topology.
But, to generalize from Weil is to miss the really prodigal aspect of Diophantus's genius- his
rigorous eschewal of general methods- each one of his equations requires the use of a special
techniques that wont work for even its most closely related problem- which is perhaps what
Celeste is getting at when she equates, his pupil, Hypatia's defence of her virginity- by the
display of her menstrual rags- with 'the Paraclete's monstrance & Plato's remonstrance'.
I dont dispute the importance of Weils conjecture- but its modish or seductive glamour for
intellectuals, its impact on Structuralist Anthropology & Semiotics and so on, seems utterly
mischievous- after all, if Celeste is right, Hypatia, was killed by the Alexandrian mob, not
because she was a Platonist- Neo-Platonism had already been assimilated to Judaeo-
Christianity- but because she lectured on Diophantus and demonstrated a range of different
heuristic devices, astrolables and orreries and other such apparently magical objects, each of
which was highly efficacious in a highly specific context but useless in every other. Thus,
Diophantus should be taken as showing how much can be achieved without the zero, the
negative, the irrational, the imaginary, and this- by itself- delivers a salutary rebuke to the
System builders, the Generalizers, the totalizing Theorists- who had actually invented those
concepts in the first place- but, for that very reason, jealously prevented their being used in any
useful way.
But, if I accept this part of Celeste's argument, regarding Hypatia, then I am obliged to take
issue with the use Celeste is making of Weils Gita and Grothendiecks Yoga. Indeed, even
according to the Brahmins' own hermeneutics, in so far as the Gita, or the Yoga Sutras, or
anything else, confirms things already believed or known, that meaning does not exist in them.
The confirmation is actually a de-confirmation. Hermeneutics has a heuristic which says, if we
already know the meaning then that isn't the meaning. No apoorvata obtains- nothing novel is
here- the chain of causation has not been affected- the action of reading could have been
omitted for all the good it did.
Now, clearly, Weil's conjecture does have 'apoorvata' with respect to the Diophantine
equations, clearly it does open up new vistas for his own subject. But only because of the very
domain specific way in which it is framed. Yet, Structuralism ignores this domain specificity
and claims Weil's Bourbaki as legitimating its model. I say this not as an expert on
Structuralism, but because that is what I read on the very first page of Jean Piaget's slim little
volume on the subject. But, and this is the crux of my objection, Weil's conjecture has no
apoorvata outside a highly specific Research Program confined to Mathematics alone. Thus it
can't have the meaning that Celeste is claiming for it. Why? How so? The fact is, Godel had
already shown that each higher level axiom in Set Theory entails the solution of certain
Diophantine problems which had been undecidable from the previous axiom set. Godel, via
Tarski, is the landmark figure for us who are outside Maths or on its fringes. What is the
corollary?
'Think of axioms as being rules- indefeasible rules like moral absolutes, deontic absolutes,
rules about your duty- things like 'Thou shall not kill' and so on- then, what happens is that, the
attempt to unify domain specific theories on the basis of greater and greater generality yields
something which is the opposite of useful, the opposite of a utility belt of heuristic tools- what
we get is an infinite rule set, an infinite deontics, a cancerous meta-metaphoricity.
'Thats the danger with having rules in the first place. They are supposed to make things
simpler because they are few and facts are many. But, what happens when you propose a rule?-
even something as obvious as 'don't play with your own faeces'- the bad news is you are already
on a slippery slope to- 'don't touch the person who carries away your faeces'- then- 'consider as
Untouchable all people even vaguely related, or who perform a function vaguely similar, to
guys who carry away shit'- till finally you end up with patently absurd stuff like 'Your mother
becomes Untouchable to you during the hour when Saturn is in your paternal ancestor's Lunar
House but ceases to be so if the wind is blowing from the west and the Stock Market is down.
'Ultimately, the High Caste man hurriedly bolts down his flavourless food alone and naked-
like a furtive animal. Everybody and everything, including his own clothes, have become
untouchable and inauspicious to him by the metastasis of meta-metaphoricity. '
'But, Babu,' Obi warned, 'That is precisely the point Celeste made when she invoked, the
scholar vagabond, Solomon Maimon, as opposed to Moses Mendelsohn, as the true tutelary
spirit of what she calls ' the lumpen Ashkenazi Aufklarung which equated the Talmudic delight
in the creation of more and more rules, its thymotic meta-metaphoricity, with the unbridled
'Golden Liberties' of the Polish aristocracy, so ruinous to their country, yet which, much more
than Marx, granted a relative freedom from both heteronomy and humanism to what would
become Europe's new revolutionary class par excellence.'
'Really? Was that what she was doing? Well, forgive me if I want to spare my people the
holocaust visited upon the lumpen Polish Jew- revolutionary or otherwise. Celeste's Maimon is
a Mathematical Spinoza, au fond. But, that unlucky conjunction is itself a Shoah. Why? You
are tacking metaphysical univocity to a skeptical critique of dualism- whether dialethic, like
that of Maimonides, or cognitive, like that of Kant. What's the upshot? Reason can still release
from bondage- but only under the seal of vagabondage- the malamati dervish, the kapalika yogi
and now the drug addled hippie pimping his College educated girlfriend in the name of
Universal Love.
'And this is the new Indology, the new Orientalism. Sex, drugs & rock & roll- as if that last,
the confiscatory orchestration of the clinking of the fetters of the oppressed, wasn't already that
undying Diophantine Dionysios which renders a class proletarian- child bearing- serving the
community only by, even breadlessly, breeding and unpermitted the possibility of becoming, by
the Logos or Love's leaven, either Eucharist or better bred.
'This is the other side of the Structuralist turn in Antropology. When Dr. Ambedkar- the
Liberator of us Untouchables- studied Anthropology at Columbia, it was still possible for that
ad hoc or incipient Science or Monadology to serve a useful purpose. It provided the right
stepping stone to things like Constitutional Law and Monetary Economics, which our
Boddhisattva Ambdekar proceeded to master, but master only for our benefit. These are the
practical tools by which millennia of oppression can be shattered. Anthropology, from being the
servant of the Colonizer, the Imperialist, could have gone on to become the liberator of the
slave class, the mender of broken men. Instead, what happened? You have Levi Strauss- the
notion that there is some sort of Universal Mind which structures all things outside Time. The
appeal of Structuralism, for Anthropology, is that it unites, on the basis of greater generality, ad
hoc theories based on observations of particular places at specific times. But, the effect has
been the opposite of Liberative, at least in India.
Sanskrit has a special place- a safe place, thanks to Nietzche's praise of the pitiless persecution
of the Chandala- for Saussure and Structuralism but only because it is so patently synthetic,
atemporal, and artificial. Thus, though this same 'Sanskritization' equates the organic and the
natural with dirt, death and pollution- it has been willy nilly valorized as the 'natural' or
'canonical' method for our people, the people it stigmatizes as Untouchable, to advance forward.
'We must give up eating meat, drinking wine, worshipping God under vernacular, as opposed
to Syndicate Hinduism's Sankritized, names and...and what? Will we be any better off? No. We
will still have to carry night soil on our heads, except not just night soil, now we have to carry
all that fucking Sankritized shit as well!'
'Andre Weil, like his sister Simone, learned Sanskrit as a kid. He read the Bhagvad Gita in the
original. That's why he came to India. But, in India, seeing the reality of Untouchability- worse
even than the treatment meted out to the ghetto Jews- what did Weil do? He aligned with
Gandhi, the last of the 'Mahatmas' to champion the Caste system.
'Not that Gandhi was particularly Casteist himself. It was just that he was part of the nativist,
lawyerly, reaction to the advent of impersonal British Law. Thus, there was a Temple road in
Kerala which anybody could use because it was a public highway. Some High Caste lawyers go
to Court and, simply to advertise their cleverness, have it declared a private road.
Untouchables- but only Hindu Untouchables, not Muslims or Christian Untouchables- were
now forbidden to use it. Gandhi goes to Kerala and holds a debate with the priests. He is
defeated. They prove that they are only doing their duty- as is prescribed in some ancient text-
they have no personal animus against Untouchables, nor do they deny the Spiritual greatness of
the Saints from that Community. Indeed, they point out, since the Untouchable can continue to
use the road simply by changing his Religion, there is no element of coercion. The whole thing
is merely a voluntary observance of a ritual, and therefore a meaningless, hoary old practice.
Now the priests were not saying that they were obliged to uphold Untouchability under all
circumstances. They were only saying they did so because no inducement or sanction obtained
for them to do otherwise. If the Law was changed declaring the road, or the Temple itself, a
public space, then they would not stick their necks out to fight it. But, Gandhi did not believe
in Laws and Courts- precisely because of their eschewal of meta-metaphoricity, their
commitment to positivism- so he could not take the path that was being offered to him. Nor
could he endorse Untouchables converting to Christianity or Islam- Untouchables, for him, had
less sense than cows. Instead, this cancerous, seemingly voluntarist, type of Casteism becomes
attractive to him. He affects his final apotheosis- making himself the ultimate object of Gabriel
Tarde's law of imitation- by calling himself an Untouchable 'Bhangi' and therefore univocal
with the Supreme Deity of the Brahmins- Lord Siva who laves the soul's impurities at the
Creation ground.
'Fine, you may say, if he had stopped it there. He didn't. In 1932, the second year of Weil's
stay in India, Gandhi blackmails Ambedkar, by going on a fast. Why? The British- who had
given Universal suffrage and Representative Government to Ceylon the previous year- they
could do so because Ceylon's native elites were still loyal enough to accept the British provision
of highly effective protection for minorities across the board- the British were seeking to move
thing forward in the same way in India, though Universal Suffrage remained a far off dream,
and part of their project meant protecting the Untouchable minority by granting them separate
electorates. Gandhi- who had at first cooperated with Ambedkar, believing him to be a
Brahmin- now used his 'non-violent' weapon of the fast-to-death against him. Ambedkar had to
yield. His people would have been massacred in every village in India if Gandhi's health
suffered during his hunger-strike. Ultimately, with mixed electorates, but reserved seats, only
Uncle Toms would be elected- until, that is, the Untouchables evolved a gangster class that
might pose a sufficiently compelling countervailing threat.
'Weil was in India while all this was happening. Yet, he chose to accept Gandhi's
interpretation of the Gita, even though he had just seen it used to perpetuate caste hierarchy in
the name of non-violence. Why? Well, I suppose, because Gandhi's approach appeared to unite
disparate theories, the prescriptions of different religions, on the basis of greater generality.
But, according to this more general theory, what does the Gita say? It says- do your duty-
follow the profession of your caste-but do so without relish or hope of reward. Don't do
another's duty even if you are better at it or will relish it more because that would be a sort of
Violence- and Violence is always wrong.
'Weil took this lesson to heart. He was a mathematician not a soldier so he felt no obligation to
hurry back to France and enlist once War was declared. But, this just put his own life in more
immediate danger. Ultimately, he was incarcerated as a deserter. Yet, the truth is, for
Mathematics to survive, for Weil's conjecture to have yielded fruit, Hitler had to be defeated. In
fact, Mathematics played a big role in the defeat of Hitler. Turing with his Enigma machine,
Von Neumann on the mathematics of shaped charges at Los Alamos- indeed, when
Oppenheimer quotes the Gita- 'I have become Death, the devourer of Worlds'- it is noteworthy
to recall that, in the Mahabharata, the Just King has to learn Probability theory and a sort of
autistic savant, Diophantine or discrete, maths before gaining the necessary auctoritas to press
the button triggering the Kurukshetra holocaust.
'Interestingly, the other lesson Yuddishtra, the incarnation of Justice, has to learn- this happens
just before his instruction in Game Theory- is that the so-called Sages and Anchorites are
actually spiritually lower, not higher, than the low caste 'Vyadha'- the butcher or meat vendor-
who worships his own parents as his Gods and lives extremely well without giving a thought to
the strictures of Kings and priests.
'But Weil wasn't interested in the egalitarian Gita of the enlightened butcher. He preferred
instead the slavish doctrine of the Bhagvad Gita- which makes the dispassionate Butchery of
men a moral absolute and which seeks to unite all the different ontological and epistemological
and soteriological traditions of India into one seamless Casteist strait-jacket. A joyless strait-
jacket- as Weil points out. Why bother reaching for Knowledge if you reach Indifference at the
same time? Weil's erotic subtext gives the game away. Essentially, the project is either
masturbatory or meretricious. To climax, in this context, is to feel indifference, if not disgust,
for the object that excited your lust. The reverse is the case with ordinary sexual intercourse,
based on mutuality and reciprocity, because it intensifies pair bonding, diffuses an exponential
tenderness, and widens the circle of affection and responsibility, familial, social and oecumenic.
'In contrast, to assimilate sex to masturbation is, I suppose, to have united two projects on the
basis of greater generality. But, it is also to disable Love as something that might shape
Evolution, bring about Change, and thus abide with us for aye as a source-spring of Joy, of
Hope, of Liberation.'

'Babu, I appreciate what you're saying,' Obi said, 'more especially as it arises out of the terrible
suffering of your people, but, as an Anthropologist myself, I am obliged to observe that you are
completely misunderstanding not just Celeste's paper but also Levi Strauss's Structuralism. He
is certainly not legitimating your Indian caste system by asserting its correspondence to some
deep Structure embedded in a Platonic 'Universal Mind'- indeed, just as he rejected a unification
of Totemism with his theory of bride exchange precisely because women really do have babies
while men don't actually produce more totemic animals for the hunt by their couvade- that is
false pregnancy- rituals, so too would he utterly reject Untouchability as abjectly delusional
and working only by a purely verbal, metonymic or meta-metaphoric, illocutionary force. '

'Non,' said Celeste, ' ma chre Obi, you are unjust. Babu has understood. You have not. It is, the
Criminologist, Gabriel Tarde's monadology, not the Mandarin, Durkheim's, functionalism,
which is important for understanding Zadig. Tarde believed Cartesian dualism- the hiatus
between matter and mind-was resolvable in a gregarious Monadology, escaping the prison, the
frustrated geometry, the concurrency deadlock, of an intractable and Bourgeois relationism, by
a vulgar joy at mimicking the substantivism of Newton's hooligan God. These words-
Structuralism, Functionalism, Structural-Functionalism- these are totems, nothing more. And
Academic Anthropology, publishing its papers, is the couvade ritual which brings to birth more
and more totemic animals for other clans to hunt.'
'You're saying...'
'NO! I am NOT saying. This is not my paper. That is why I am giving it.'
'Good to know', said Richard,' If it isn't yours, it might mean something. Read on McDuff!'
'Yeah,' said David, 'but just the sexy bits.'
'David!' Obi frowned.
'No, is okay,' said Celeste, 'Give me the paper. Here- this is for you- if you didn't like the bit
about the virgin Hypatia then perhaps you'll like this-
'A young Egyptian, having become hopelessly infatuated with the courtesan, Thonis, made a
contract for her services for an extortionate sum of money. That very night, however, she
appeared so vividly to him, in a dream, that his lust for her was utterly sated.
'When he failed to keep their tryst, Thonis took him to court demanding the cash due her under
their contract. The judge, Bocchoris, ordered the Egyptian to bring in the money, and to hold it
aside while Thonis was allowed only to grasp at its shadow -- the thing imagined being a
shadow of the reality.'
'Lamia, the flute player, the greatest hetaira of her day, protested this injustice to a colleague.
Though the dream-Thonis had indeed sated the young Egyptian passion for her, the shadow of
his silver had rather kindled than set free the courtesan from her desire for commerce with it.'
Consider this as a metaphor for Zadig's mimetic monadology. Behind the hiatus between the
real and the rational numbers- between what is and what Minds conceive- there is this eager
grasping after shadows upon which Mathematics, like Judge Bocchoris, must pronounce
Judgment, but pronounce Judgment only so Justice becomes the shadow for all whoring to
pursue.
Aliki has described Zadig's 'ttonner of the axioms' as being like a set of cannibal
mountaineers, consuming those of their comrades who are a drag in the task at hand, and
climbing the cliff faces of the different Diophantine escarpments, only to piously commemorate
those they had ingested by being randomly possessed by their angry shades.
Aliki's metaphor captures a lot about how Zadig's goal is to be achieved. I want to think about
what it means for it to exist at all. Let me read on
'Suppose contracts for sexual services are legal and conscionable so Thonis can sue for
damages. Surely the court has to grant substitute specific performance- i.e. the payment of the
agreed on sum, less, perhaps, Thonis's 'transfer earnings'- i.e. her regular tariff for walk-in
trade- so as to make both parties as well off as if the contract went ahead?
Is there a counter-argument? What if the defendant's lawyer maintains that Thonis
performed some action such that her phantom appeared to his client and satisfied his desire so
that she herself was not put to trouble? In that case, it is the phantom who should be rewarded
and, it may be, the shadow of the silver suffices to do so. This argument holds because Thonis
has 'unclean hands'. She has done something in bad faith so as to make the contract unequal in
that the other party would no longer have a desire for specific performance on her part, should
she have decided to renege.
Thonis, of course, would maintain that she has no control over to whom or to what
purpose she appears in dreams. She has not studied dream magic- quod nescis quo modo fiat,
non facis- she didn't know how the thing could be done so she did not do it. Her hands are
clean, she acted in good faith. Judge Bocchoris has rewarded her shadow with shadow wealth-
and perhaps this is shadow Justice- but what of her own claim?
The defendant's lawyer might argue that his client had not in fact entered a contract, but,
being indifferent as between the phantasm of Thonis, and the actual Thonis, merely advertised
the offer of an unilateral contract to both while stipulating what consideration would pass to the
latter if she was the first to slake his lust. Thus, the courtesan should be disallowed substitute
specific performance- which is damages- because otherwise something which is not, in essence,
a bilateral contract is treated as being so.
Thonis has a counter-argument in that, even if the contract is not a contract, nevertheless,
by participating in it she performed a service in return for a promise of payment and thus has an
action in Assumpsit or under an implied contract. What is the price of the service? Clearly, it is
the price stipulated in the contract, even if that contract isn't a contract simply because the
defendant did not stipulate for any other sum as consideration for Thonis's entering into this
contract-that-is-not-a-contract.
Judge Bocchoris, now, has a chance to put forward an argument touching upon the nature
of Justice. He can say that the moment Thonis brought a suit for damages under a implicit
contract for a service- viz. the service of entering into a contract-that-is-not-a contract- her
failure to specify that this was the case meant that he, himself, as Judge, was released from the
duty of judging of that issue and only had a duty to provide a show of enforcing Justice with
respect to a mere show or appearance of a contract. But, since no contract becomes Justiciable,
being of itself permanently either unripe or moot (i.e. no party suffers injury save by some
supervenient, multiply realizable, mental act of their own), it therefore follows that such Justice
as is invoked by any Contractarian theory is but a meretricious phantom or wet-dream.'

'I actually quite like that!' said David suddenly sober, 'Your Judge Bocchoris was a
Straussian! Did you really write that? I mean that's Hilary Putnam's supervenience and multiple
realizability and then the substitute specific performance thing and so on- it's Anglo-American
is what it is- so you're telling the truth this isn't your paper.. so... what are you saying... you are
Thonis, the courtesan or ...Jeez, I'm drunk again.'

'I did write it. I wrote it just for you. There's something in my paper for each one of you.
That's why it's not my paper. I'm not speaking. Don't you get it? This is Zadig's Seminar. His
Silence is only meaningful while we speak. We have to become silent to let him speak us.'
'So if we say nothing, he will speak?'
'No. His silence will speak ours.'
'Okay, now I'm definitely drunk again' said David.
'Wharrabou' me, Pet?' said Barney- who'd given up on being a bisexual, David Bowie, Space
Pirate in favour of a lugubrious, shoulder padded, Roxy Music, New Romantic, persona- 'got
any Smarties left over for yer lover-boy me ole china plate?'
------------------x------------------
'Barney was a spy! Typical American perfidy!'
'It's your own fault ' David said, 'it was your paper planted the idea in his head. Byzantine
General's & Theodora's orifices! Way to go, Celeste! '
'But, I told you- it was not my paper, I was not speaking!'
'Yes, that's why he listened.' Richard said, 'Though, for the life of me, I can't figure what it
was about the Byzantine Generals theorem which gave him the billion dollar idea he mentions
in his note. Frankly, if I could see any way to make money off it, I'd have left too. As it is, I
have to stick with this bloody Seminar or give back my grant to the British Academy. Fucking
Barney! Really, really, selfish of him to slope off to make money for himself. I mean, whatever
this great idea is- it emerged out of our discussions- I mean, we should have a share in it. We
really ought to sue that twat. I've an Uncle who is a barrister in Swansea. Maybe, we should
give him a call.'
'Wouldn't do much good.' David said. 'His Dad is a top patent attorney. Which actually isn't
saying much because the Ninth Circuit, which covers California, isn't patent friendly- at least
when it comes to algorithms or Software though that might be a different story if this mooted
CAFC gets off the ground. Still, for the nonce, the fact that his Dad's surname is Needledick-
Bastard means that he gets a lot of co-licensing work. The nerds in Silicon valley recognize that
they need a Bastard for a lawyer but are more comfortable with a Needledick-Bastard for when
the time comes for them to be shafted themselves.'
'That's his actual name?'
'No, it was done by deed poll as a condition of his divorce from Barney's Mum- she's the
second best divorce lawyer in Southern California.'
'The second best Divorce lawyer, you say? I suppose that explains her surname- Slacktwatted-
Whore.'
'No. Why do you ask? She simply reverted to her maiden name- a fine Old Money, New
Mexican one at that- but did lose custody of Barney and had to pay alimony on a scale which
let her husband take his practice global. The truth is, Barney has had a pretty rotten time
because of the divorce. I guess that's why he wanted to turn into a Rock Star so badly. Actually,
Richard, if only you'd got him that role in the rock-opera you had Babu work on- what was it,
Oscar Wilde and Lily Langtry?- he'd still be here. And we need him. I've been reading the fine
print on my offer from the Corven Institute. There is a rule that this Seminar terminates if less
than ten people attend two consecutive sessions. What that means is, I risk getting no academic
credit for this through no fault of my own.'
'Shit! In that case, me and Moyra might have to return our Grant money to the British
Academy!'
'Yeah. Look, we're all totally screwed unless we make some systematic arrangement to rope in
alternative delegates to keep up the quorum. As far as I can make out, the only condition is that
they have to be less than 21 years of age. There doesn't seem to be much of a lower limit. That's
why, when Obi brought along her twins, Zadig let the Session go ahead. But now they have had
to go into hiding, we're really up against it. I mean the fact that Zadig still isn't saying anything
means that a lot of us just aren't that motivated to show up. Not that I blame Li Xi- her
Embassy work takes priority-and obviously, we've got to respect the fact that Shahrukh is on a
roll at the Chess Olympiad up at Oxford. Still, it's a bit of bad luck that Mohammed is stuck
down at Ascot seeing about his Uncle's Derby winner. What I don't get is why Moyra had to
rush down there to make sure the horse is getting organic oats and not chowing down on Fried
Chicken or something equally unvegan. But it isn't just Moyra, now there's the problem with
Aliki- her love life is out of control- we can't depend on her... Honestly, this whole thing is
turning into a farce. Say what you like, at least Barney was a regular.'
'There might be a way round this.' Rasputin spoke up.
'How?'.
'Well, I think this Seminar is set up like a Minyan- the Jewish congregation. Wherever ten are
gathered then an extra two- the Shekinah, the Divine Presence, and the Torah, the Law- also
appear so that the number is 12 for the 12 tribes of Israel. The Rabbis establish that ten is
sufficient for the quorum because the ten spies- who give discouraging reports about the Land
of Canaan thus incurring the wrath of the Lord- are described as a Minyan. Now, clearly, we
here don't make up a Minyan. Only David is fully Jewish and, in any case, women, normally,
wouldn't count. Furthermore, where is the Torah? And if there is no Torah, why should the
Shekinah descend upon us? It may be, if Celeste is right, that there is an apophatic Torah in
Zadig's Silence and that attracts the Shekinah. But, this permits an additional possibility. You
see, according to the Kabbalah, after puberty a second, higher, type of soul is infused and there
is a possibility of a third soul being added as one approaches the age of 21. The soul of a male
zadik, a Jewish Sage, can enter a woman's body. In fact a female zadik could also do this if a
woman has the nefesh, the soul, of a homosexual man and this needs to be cancelled. So long
as the ibbur is of male Jewish Sages, or for the purpose of cancelling homosexual nefesh in a
woman, the defect of a person being female or non Jewish is remedied. In that sense this
Seminar could indeed be a Minyan. But, bear in mind, this is Zadig's Minyan. If Aliki is right,
his mimetic monadology works backwards from the optimal outcome in a manner that crams
competing ditopologies into Concurrency dynamics.
'What all this boils down to is that five people under the age of 21 can, if ibbur is ongoing,
count as ten souls. In fact, even two people under twenty one, along with two children under
puberty, could exceed the quorum because the children have two empty slots- one for the ruah
and one for the higher type of soul known as neshama.
'I think that's what happened when Obi brought the twins- -being under the age of puberty,
they had only the nafesh, the basic soul, but not the higher type of soul called ruah or spirit.
You see, I've been keeping track of our numbers and carefully observing Zadig to test my
theory. I think he halts a session when he thinks the quorum is broken. But, it isn't just a matter
of 'bums on seats' to employ Richard's phrase- it's something spiritual. If a third soul is
descending on us- if the talk takes a spiritual turn- the number goes up. But, when a profane
turn is taken- the number can go below the Minyan and so he gets to his feet and dismisses the
Session. What I'm trying to say is that we have to do two things- get in surrogates to make up
the physical Minyan but also pay attention to the spiritual side of things, the serious side of
things. We must permit this ibbur- this entry of a third soul, the soul of a sage- into ourselves.
We must be hospitable to the Shekinah and seek to respond to the Wordless Torah.'
'That may be,' Obi said, 'But, if we ourselves are to benefit from this Seminar- I don't mean
benefit in any purely personal or selfish way- then our own interaction is important. As Celeste
has shown, Zadig knew Gabriel Tarde's inter-personal Monadology. Recall the Byzantine
Generals theorem. So long as the number of spies is less than one third of the whole, we have
fault tolerance. This means there must be at least three of us, plus one innocent, involved in any
productive deliberation of our own because the truth is none of us came here with unmixed
motives, none of us have clean hands, so none of us knows whether, in this context, we are
spies or not.'
'One more thing,' Rasputin said, 'The ten spies formed a Minyan because they hadn't acted in
concert. If even two of us act in concert, the Shekinah withdraws. The result could be
disastrous.'
------------xi-----------------
Though nondescript in appearance, the car David selected to steal had turned out to be the
worst sort of latent homosexual. Rather than properly giving chase to portly Rabbis and running
over those damned dybbuks, like a true sportster, it had effetely read-ended itself on three
muscle cars in succession before even getting out of the Country Club parking lot. Now, for
some reason more kinky yet, it had wrapped its bonnet lovingly around a traffic bollard.
David abruptly tired of explaining all this to the liveried attendant. Far down the drive, Babu
was running flat out towards them. That pudgy little fellow sure could move. David rested his
head against the steering wheel and sang Hello Dolly in a lugubrious tone till he finally choked
on- 'so nice to have you back where you belong'.
Babu came up- he was scarcely out of breath, though he'd covered half a mile in just two or
three minutes.
'I suppose you are wondering what happened.' he said to the attendant.
'Not wondering at all, Sir. It all seems quite natural. The gentleman wanted to run over a
Jewish priest and jumped into the nearest car.'
'Damned pooftah of a car'- David said, coming to attention, 'Sodomy's too good for 'em. Damn
shirt lifter can't even run down a lousy Rabbi.'
'I'll put the damages down on Lord Corven's account, shall I, Sir?'
'Ah, well, it's true we are his guests but, this is a matter of some delicacy... there's a diplomatic
angle to this... of course, I'm not suggesting anything irregular, but I understand His Serene
Highness, the Uruk Hai Raja is also a patron...'
'Not a paying guest, Sir, his people live off the land, so to speak- they do keep down the
poachers and the tinkers and the day-trippers something wonderful. Still seeing as you are
friends of the Raja, might I suggest, Sir, you consider yourselves guests of the Committee. I'm
sure Lord Goldstein, our Chairman, will share your friend's feeling of disappointment at not
running over the Rabbi, his Lordship being a sportsman himself and very down on the Yids; not
that it isn't just as well the fellow got away what with the grave diggers coming out on strike to
support the ambulance staff and the hot weather we've been having.'
'Well...if you're sure thats all right.'
' Perfectly sure, Sir. I expect this gentleman will be wanting coffee on the terrace. I'll arrange
for the Secretary to come and have a word with you there just to set your minds at rest. Oh! No
call for it, Sir, I'm sure, but very civil of you all the same.'

Babu helped David back down the drive in sombre mood. What if Rasputin was right? Not
about the Seminar, but regarding a delusion system Jews were peculiarly susceptible to?

David was now seeing the ghost of his dead brother- a Rabbi who had died during the Yom
Kippur war- and had taken it into his head that the ghost was actually a dybbuk- the spirit of
some evil or unhappy dead person able to take possession of a live body. This presented a
complication. David might hit or even kill an innocent passerby thinking he was destroying a
dybbuk. What made it worse was that David's ire was especially awoken by people belonging
to the Hassidic sect- large numbers of whom were settled in North London- and it was these
inoffensive gentleman, who wore old fashioned hats and frock coats and sported long beards
and ringleted side-locks, upon whom he suddenly vented his rage. The thing had become an
embarrassment. Already, David had got into a drunken scene with a Rabbi doing research at
the School of Slavonic Studies off Russell Square. Fortunately, Barney's emollient presence and
mention of Lord Corven's name had smoothed over that little contretemps. Now, without
Barney, David was going to be very difficult to control. Yet, Babu couldn't get rid of David the
way he had Barney. If both Americans left, the CIA would get suspicious and insist on
nominating replacement delegates. Obviously, Zadig's silence meant that one agent in place
was enough. In any case, the Agency would have the whole Institute wired for sound by now
just to be on the safe side.
Gary Bridewell- not an Anglo, as his name suggested, but actually a Parsi, like Faurkh
Dhondy, the improbable head of the British Black Panthers- Bridewell had put Babu in touch
with a relative of his, Farooq Bulsara, the lead singer of a 'pop' band called 'Queen,' and Babu
under pretence of supplying lyrics for the singers current project- a bombastic duet between
Lily Langtree & Oscar Wilde- had foisted upon him a libretto for a Rock Opera about the Parsi
sailor in Moby Dick- thus manipulating the singer into sending Barney back to San Francisco
to research, hopefully mythical, Zoroastrian bath-house sea shanties.
This was far from being an unfriendly move- the truth was that Barney's frigid falsetto as Lily
Langtree singing 'If you fuck me, I'd be grateful/ Else fuck off, I think you hateful' lacked the
nuanced tessitura required to balance Farooq Bulsara's booming baritone counterpoint 'If
Sodomy weren't the God 'o me/ I'd fuck you with the rod o' me'.
Gary Bridewell, an Opera buff like many Parsis, in gratitude to Babu for diverting his relative,
who now calling himself Freddy Mercury, from the Oscar & Lily project, had been extremely
helpful to Babu in terms of getting him information on David's background.
Apparently, despite all appearances to the contrary, the fellow was a genius. He had written a
paper that was approved for publication by Econometrica at the age of 15! That's why he'd got
into Harvard two or three years early. Amartya Sen, the Indian Economist who was
comprehensively rubbished in that paper, later wrote a personal letter of recommendation to
that University for the boy. Yet, David's paper was never published. It had been originally
submitted under his brother's name with the support of the Principal of his Private School who
believed the work was genuinely written by a soldier who had fallen in the Yom Kippur War.
But the story didn't check out. David's brother was a High School drop-out who had first
evaded Jail by offering to go to Vietnam only to weasel out of that by getting into Rabbinical
School- with a promise to return to the Army to serve later as a Chaplain. The whole thing
stank to high heaven of a political 'fix'. People tried to reason with David. If he admitted he
wrote the paper, it would be published. He could put in a dedication to his brother. He could
even claim that his brother had inspired him with the ideas it contained. What he couldn't do
was to get a paper published in his brother's name when the evidence showed that the man was
a drug addled drop-out. David reacted quixotically. He took his place at Harvard but did not
apply for a Scholarship or even the financial assistance he was entitled to. He knew his paper
had got him into the College but he refused to admit he had written that paper. As far as he was
concerned his attending Harvard was a purely commercial transaction- but also something owed
his brother. At College he had kept up an affectation for not knowing or being no good at
Mathematics- it seemed, he felt he had to stick to his story at all costs. Clearly the boy was
brilliant but not quite sane. But, his system of inner defences, his ability to lie to himself, would
also made him attractive to Intelligence Agencies and Political Cabals. Babu had found
evidence that David was interacting with three separate circles- a CIA man at Grosvenor
Square, a Mossad operative running a University Department, and a secretive Political pressure
group called the Cenacle.
To some extent, by manipulating David's access to types of cannabis, Babu could manage his
psychotic break in the manner that Hindu Sadhus do in rural India. After all, his first job as a
boy was sourcing herbs for a Naturopath dispensary. However, this amounts to dealing drugs, a
business so dirty, so criminal, even Anal Singh wouldn't force him to stoop to it. This was the
other thing troubling Babu. Zadig's silence was the mirror image of Anal Singh's silence. In the
end, no doubt there would be a nudge, a hint, but by then everything would have already
happened. The nudge, the hint would be only by way of making the best of a bad job, doing
'what was right' to minimize damage. That was the worst thing. To say 'I didn't know how it
was done, so I didn't do it.' To walk away with the illusion of clean hands. The untouchable
bhangi knows he doesn't have clean hands. So he washes, he cleanses himself. To do otherwise
is to poison the community.