The Speed of Dark

After a few minutes, my brain’s functionality returns to pattern analysis and pattern generation. I do not let my mind drift to Cego and Clinton. I will work through part of my lunch hour to make up the time I spent talking to the police, but not the two minutes and eighteen seconds Mr. Crenshaw cost me.

Immersed in the complexity and beauty of the patterns, I do not emerge for lunch break until 1:28:17.

The music in my head is Bach’s Violin Concerto No. 2. I have four recordings of it at home. A very old one with a twentieth century soloist named Perlman, my favorite. Three newer, two fairly competent but not very interesting and one with last year’s Tchaikovsky Competition wi

This is music that makes it easier to see some kinds of patterns than others. Bach enhances most of them, but not the ones that are… elliptical is the best way I can say it. The long sweep of this music, which obscures the rosetted patterns Bach brings out, helps me find and build the long, asymmetrical components that find rest in fluidity.

It is dark music. I hear it as long, undulating streaks of darkness, like blue-black ribbons blowing in the wind at night, obscuring and revealing the stars. Now soft, now louder, now the single violin, with the orchestra just breathing behind it, and now louder, the violin riding up over the orchestra like the ribbons on a current of air.

I think it will be good music to have in mind while I am reading Cego and Clinton. I eat my lunch quickly and set a timer on my fan. That way the moving twinkles of light will let me know when it is time to go back to work.

Cego and Clinton talk about the way the brain processes edges, angles, textures, colors, and how the information flows back and forth between the layers of visual processing. I did not know there was a separate area for facial recognition, though the reference they cite goes back to the twentieth century. I did not know that the ability to recognize an object in different orientations is impaired in those born blind who gain sight later.

Again and again they talk about things I have had trouble with in the context of being born blind or having brain trauma from a head injury or stroke or aneurysm. When my face does not turn strange like other people’s do when they feel strong emotion, is it just that my brain doesn’t process the change of shape?

A tiny hum: my fan coming on. I shut my eyes, wait three seconds, and open them. The room is awash in color and movement, the spin spirals and whirligigs all moving, reflecting light as they move. I put the book down and go back to work. The steady oscillation of the twinkles soothes me; I have heard normal people call it chaotic, but it is not. It is a pattern, regular and predictable, and it took me weeks to get it right. I think there must be some easier way to do it, but I had to adjust each of the moving parts until it moved at the right speed in relation to the others.

My phone rings. I do not like it when the phone rings; it jerks me out of what I am doing, and there will be someone on the other end who expects me to be able to talk right away. I take a deep breath. When I answer, “This is Lou Arrendale,” at first I hear only noise.

“Ah — this is Detective Stacy,” the voice says. “Listen — we sent someone over to your apartment. Tell me again what your license number is.”

I recite it for him.

“Um. Well, I’m going to need to talk to you in person.” He stops and I think he expects me to say something, but I do not know what to say. Finally he goes on. “I think you may be in danger, Mr. Arrendale. Whoever’s doing this is not a nice guy. When our guys tried to get that toy out, there was a small explosion.”

Explosion!

“Yes. Luckily, our guys were careful. They didn’t like the setup, so they called the bomb squad. But if you’d picked up that toy, you might’ve lost a finger or two. Or the thing might’ve hit you in the face.”

“I see.” I could in fact see it, imagine it visually. I had almost reached out and grabbed the toy… and if I had… I feel cold suddenly; my hand starts to tremble.

“We really need to find this person. Nobody’s home at your fencing instructor’s—”

“Tom teaches at the university,” I say. “Chemical engineering.”

“That’ll help. Or his wife?”

“Lucia’s a doctor,” I say. “She works at the medical center. Do you really think this person wants to hurt me?”

“He sure wants to cause you trouble,” the officer said. “And the vandalism seems more violent each time. Can you come down to the station?”

“I ca

“We’re sending someone out,” Mr. Stacy says. “Which building are you in?” I tell him that and which gate to enter and which turns to take to arrive in our parking area, and he continues, “Should be there within a half hour. We have fingerprints; we’ll need to take yours to compare with the others. Your fingerprints should be all over that car — and you’ve had it in for repairs lately, too, so there’ll be others. But if we find a set that doesn’t match yours or any of the repair people… we’ll have something solid to go on.”

I wonder if I should tell Mr. Aldrin or Mr. Crenshaw that the police are coming here to talk to me. I do not know which would make Mr. Crenshaw more angry. Mr. Aldrin does not seem to get angry as often. I call his office.

“The police are coming to talk to me,” I say. “I will make up the time.”

“Lou! What’s wrong? What have you done?”

“It is my car,” I say.

Before I can say more, he is talking fast. “Lou, don’t say anything to them. We’ll get you a lawyer. Was anyone hurt?”

“Nobody was hurt,” I say. I hear his breath gush out.

“Well, that’s a mercy,” he says.

“When I opened the hood, I did not touch the device.”

“Device? What are you talking about?”

“The… the thing that someone put in my car. It looked like a toy, a jack-in-the-box.”

“Wait — wait. Are you telling me that the police are coming because of something that happened to you, that someone else did? Not something you did?”

“I did not touch it,” I say. The words he has just said filter through slowly, one by one; the excitement in his voice made it hard to hear them clearly. He thought at first that I had done something wrong, something to bring the police here. This man I have known since I started working here — he thinks I could do something so bad. I feel heavier.

“I’m sorry,” he says before I can say anything. “It sounds like — it must sound like — I jumped to the conclusion that you had done something wrong. I’m sorry. I know you would not. But I still think you need one of the company’s lawyers with you when you talk to the police.”

“No,” I say. I feel chilly and bitter; I do not want to be treated like a child. I thought Mr. Aldrin liked me. If he does not like me, then Mr. Crenshaw, who is so much worse, must really hate me. “I do not want a lawyer. I do not need a lawyer. I have not done anything wrong. Someone has been vandalizing my car.”

“More than once?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Two weeks ago, when all my tires were flat. Someone had slashed them. That is the time I was late. Then, the following Wednesday, while I was at a friend’s house, someone smashed my windshield. I called the police then, too.”

“But you didn’t tell me, Lou,” Mr. Aldrin says.

“No… I thought Mr. Crenshaw would be angry. And this morning, my car wouldn’t start. The battery was gone, and a toy was there instead. I came to work and called the police. When they went to look, the toy had an explosive under it.”