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LJ Idol 6.31A: Moving target...
Jun. 20th, 2010 10:24 am"I am getting a strong association with Scotland," said the woman on the raised platform in the center of the studio. She was dressed casually, unremarkably. She faced a group of about thirty people, seated in a rough semicircle so as to give her maximum visibility of their faces and body language. The microphones in the ceiling were "hot" and the studio's video cameras were rolling. The woman's eyes darted from face to face, alert for any sign of reaction.
She found it in Maximilian Attenmort's face. It was that half-shocked, half-expectant response she had come to expect of someone anxious to hear from the dead. She had seen it a million times before. She cocked an eyebrow. "You, sir?" she asked.
"My…" said Maximilian, and paused. In that split second, he recalled the first part of his and Bonnie's short life together. Falling in love, and then getting married and honeymooning with her near Edinburgh.
"Someone very close to you, sir?" asked the woman. Given Maximilian's body language, this question was a no-brainer. “Your wife?” The way his shoulders relaxed, Maximilian may as well have shouted "Yes!" at her.
"Yes," said Maximilian, recovering his voice. His eyes misted slightly as, in the next instant, he relived the diagnosis and the remaining four brief months of their life together. "She was my wife," he said.
"The two of you shared something of Scotland, is that right?" asked the woman. When she saw Maximilian's head cock and the lips purse slightly, she realized her mistake and changed course, "Or perhaps you spent time there together? A happy time. A honeymoon?" The man's moist eyes made the question plausible.
“Yes,” said Maximilian.
“Your wife says she fondly recalls your time together in Scotland,” said the woman, and by now, she was operating automatically, not communing with the dead – clearly that was not possible – but capably reading the myriad of signals being transmitted by Maximilian’s face and posture in response to her prompts. It was like playing the children’s game of “hot and cold,” but about a million times more complicated, where what one sought shifted a little after every question. This last suggestion, for example, was clearly not what the man was seeking to hear.
“You’re wondering whether she has a message for you,” said the woman. It was not a question. Maximilian nodded. His heart was pounding, because shortly before Bonnie had died, she had read about how, on his deathbed, Harry Houdini had shared a secret message with his wife Bess, which Houdini promised to communicate to Bess from the beyond if there was any way for the dead to speak to the living. Crying and hugging each other, Maximilian and Bonnie had agreed upon a similar code for Bonnie to use to send messages to Maximilian, if it were possible to do so.
The first message was the name “Julia Child,” because Bonnie had loved to cook and was a fan of French cuisine in particular. Receiving this message would signify Bonnie’s confirming the existence of an afterlife to Maximilian. The second part of the code was the name “José Capablanca,” selected because Maximilian could play many of the Cuban chess champion’s games from memory. This would be a sign that love persisted across eternity, and that Maximilian and Bonnie would certainly be reunited in the hereafter.
“We had a code,” said Maximilian. “Like Houdini and his wife.”
On hearing this, the woman paused to explain, more for the benefit of the audience than Maximilian, how the connection she had with the spirit world was tenuous and not conducive to for communicating precise, word-for-word messages. Having thus subtly disclaimed any potential failure on her part, the woman turned her attention back to Maximilian.
“It was sudden, her death, wasn’t it?” the woman asked. Seeing Maximilian’s hesitation, she continued, “In the sense of unexpected, yes?” A saddening about the eyes and a nod confirmed the statement. “An accident?” Nothing there. “Childbirth?” Something there, strong, but still not it. “A disease, yes?” Bull’s-eye, said the muscles in Maximilian’s face. “Yes,” he said a moment later. “It was cancer.”
“But there were children involved,” said the woman, going back to explore that avenue. Quickly realizing it was a dead end, she backtracked and continued with “No, not children, but a child. Am I right?” Maximilian’s eyes brightened considerably, confirming her guess.
“In a way,” said Maximilian. His enigmatic answer, and the tone in which it was delivered told the woman that “child” was not meant literally.
“But not an actual child,” said the woman. What could it be? “A pet, perhaps?” No, said the corners of Maximilian’s mouth, but there was still some strong emotion there, coiled like a spring waiting to be released. “Some object,” continued the woman, “a knick-knack, a book?” She was floundering, but something about Maximilian changed when she mentioned a book. “No,“ continued the woman, now relying on instinct,” it’s a person, isn’t it?”
Maximilian may as well have plastered his answer on a billboard. “Yes,” he said, “that’s right. My wife loved to cook.”
The last sentence was inadvertent, but it gave the woman an opening that she exploited immediately. “Your wife wants to send a message about Julia Child,” she said, without further comment. It was a dramatic moment that, later, the entire audience would swear had come as a bolt from the blue and not as a natural inference from what Maximilian had said. Upon hearing the name, Maximilian’s entire demeanor changed. It was as if he began to have trouble breathing.
Still, the show was going very well, felt the woman. They’re eating out of my hand, she thought.
The woman stepped off the platform, walked up to Maximilian, and gave him a small hug. “Was that the message?” she asked, just loudly enough for the microphones. Maximilian nodded and said yes, but the stiffness in his body told her there was something else to find here. As she went back to the platform, her mind integrated everything she had observed up close about Maximilian, from the suddenly unhealthy pallor of his skin, to the Timex watch on his wrist, to the tack on Maximilian’s tie, shaped like a chess piece.
“I get the impression, though, that ‘Julia Child’ is not the entire message?” asked the woman, turning to face Maximilian after mounting the platform. “It’s an almost overpowering feeling. Is there another part to the message?” The way Maximilian’s arms dropped to his sides told her she was still on a roll.
“Yes,” said Maximilian, and he seemed to be struggling with something. What was it, wondered the woman. As she was about to probe further, a clear feminine voice whispered inside her head.
“José Capablanca?” she parroted, unable to keep the rising inflection out of her voice. She looked away from Maximilian, with a look of surprise on her face. She had never heard the name before in her life. Or any voice in her head, for that matter.
Upon hearing the name of the great Cuban grandmaster, Maximilian Attenmort’s eyes filled with tears one last time, and with a smile of angelic joy on his face, he collapsed on the floor. His last thought, as the darkness coalesced around a distant point of light, was of rejoining Bonnie in the next life.
She found it in Maximilian Attenmort's face. It was that half-shocked, half-expectant response she had come to expect of someone anxious to hear from the dead. She had seen it a million times before. She cocked an eyebrow. "You, sir?" she asked.
"My…" said Maximilian, and paused. In that split second, he recalled the first part of his and Bonnie's short life together. Falling in love, and then getting married and honeymooning with her near Edinburgh.
"Someone very close to you, sir?" asked the woman. Given Maximilian's body language, this question was a no-brainer. “Your wife?” The way his shoulders relaxed, Maximilian may as well have shouted "Yes!" at her.
"Yes," said Maximilian, recovering his voice. His eyes misted slightly as, in the next instant, he relived the diagnosis and the remaining four brief months of their life together. "She was my wife," he said.
"The two of you shared something of Scotland, is that right?" asked the woman. When she saw Maximilian's head cock and the lips purse slightly, she realized her mistake and changed course, "Or perhaps you spent time there together? A happy time. A honeymoon?" The man's moist eyes made the question plausible.
“Yes,” said Maximilian.
“Your wife says she fondly recalls your time together in Scotland,” said the woman, and by now, she was operating automatically, not communing with the dead – clearly that was not possible – but capably reading the myriad of signals being transmitted by Maximilian’s face and posture in response to her prompts. It was like playing the children’s game of “hot and cold,” but about a million times more complicated, where what one sought shifted a little after every question. This last suggestion, for example, was clearly not what the man was seeking to hear.
“You’re wondering whether she has a message for you,” said the woman. It was not a question. Maximilian nodded. His heart was pounding, because shortly before Bonnie had died, she had read about how, on his deathbed, Harry Houdini had shared a secret message with his wife Bess, which Houdini promised to communicate to Bess from the beyond if there was any way for the dead to speak to the living. Crying and hugging each other, Maximilian and Bonnie had agreed upon a similar code for Bonnie to use to send messages to Maximilian, if it were possible to do so.
The first message was the name “Julia Child,” because Bonnie had loved to cook and was a fan of French cuisine in particular. Receiving this message would signify Bonnie’s confirming the existence of an afterlife to Maximilian. The second part of the code was the name “José Capablanca,” selected because Maximilian could play many of the Cuban chess champion’s games from memory. This would be a sign that love persisted across eternity, and that Maximilian and Bonnie would certainly be reunited in the hereafter.
“We had a code,” said Maximilian. “Like Houdini and his wife.”
On hearing this, the woman paused to explain, more for the benefit of the audience than Maximilian, how the connection she had with the spirit world was tenuous and not conducive to for communicating precise, word-for-word messages. Having thus subtly disclaimed any potential failure on her part, the woman turned her attention back to Maximilian.
“It was sudden, her death, wasn’t it?” the woman asked. Seeing Maximilian’s hesitation, she continued, “In the sense of unexpected, yes?” A saddening about the eyes and a nod confirmed the statement. “An accident?” Nothing there. “Childbirth?” Something there, strong, but still not it. “A disease, yes?” Bull’s-eye, said the muscles in Maximilian’s face. “Yes,” he said a moment later. “It was cancer.”
“But there were children involved,” said the woman, going back to explore that avenue. Quickly realizing it was a dead end, she backtracked and continued with “No, not children, but a child. Am I right?” Maximilian’s eyes brightened considerably, confirming her guess.
“In a way,” said Maximilian. His enigmatic answer, and the tone in which it was delivered told the woman that “child” was not meant literally.
“But not an actual child,” said the woman. What could it be? “A pet, perhaps?” No, said the corners of Maximilian’s mouth, but there was still some strong emotion there, coiled like a spring waiting to be released. “Some object,” continued the woman, “a knick-knack, a book?” She was floundering, but something about Maximilian changed when she mentioned a book. “No,“ continued the woman, now relying on instinct,” it’s a person, isn’t it?”
Maximilian may as well have plastered his answer on a billboard. “Yes,” he said, “that’s right. My wife loved to cook.”
The last sentence was inadvertent, but it gave the woman an opening that she exploited immediately. “Your wife wants to send a message about Julia Child,” she said, without further comment. It was a dramatic moment that, later, the entire audience would swear had come as a bolt from the blue and not as a natural inference from what Maximilian had said. Upon hearing the name, Maximilian’s entire demeanor changed. It was as if he began to have trouble breathing.
Still, the show was going very well, felt the woman. They’re eating out of my hand, she thought.
The woman stepped off the platform, walked up to Maximilian, and gave him a small hug. “Was that the message?” she asked, just loudly enough for the microphones. Maximilian nodded and said yes, but the stiffness in his body told her there was something else to find here. As she went back to the platform, her mind integrated everything she had observed up close about Maximilian, from the suddenly unhealthy pallor of his skin, to the Timex watch on his wrist, to the tack on Maximilian’s tie, shaped like a chess piece.
“I get the impression, though, that ‘Julia Child’ is not the entire message?” asked the woman, turning to face Maximilian after mounting the platform. “It’s an almost overpowering feeling. Is there another part to the message?” The way Maximilian’s arms dropped to his sides told her she was still on a roll.
“Yes,” said Maximilian, and he seemed to be struggling with something. What was it, wondered the woman. As she was about to probe further, a clear feminine voice whispered inside her head.
“José Capablanca?” she parroted, unable to keep the rising inflection out of her voice. She looked away from Maximilian, with a look of surprise on her face. She had never heard the name before in her life. Or any voice in her head, for that matter.
Upon hearing the name of the great Cuban grandmaster, Maximilian Attenmort’s eyes filled with tears one last time, and with a smile of angelic joy on his face, he collapsed on the floor. His last thought, as the darkness coalesced around a distant point of light, was of rejoining Bonnie in the next life.
