Riddle Me This

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Cambridge, Massachusetts, the near future

The sounds of Luciano Pavarotti singing “Nessun Dorma” from Turandot—perhaps the tenor national anthem—flooded Milo Warrick’s room in the pink and green Victorian he occupied with four other graduate students not far from the campus of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Even among MIT’s nerdy grad students, Milo was considered something of a super nerd—which he knew, just as he was somewhat aware of the effect he had on others.

He knew, for instance, that they pitied him for never dating, never having many friends to hang with, for always being the person they invited to a party as an afterthought, out of sympathy and perhaps a sense of superiority. They made fun of his attempt at a retro Steve McQueen look, particularly the aviator sunglasses that were always perched absentmindedly on his close-cropped head; his nuclear bunker-style stash of nut and grain snacks and flavored water (hey, you never knew when there might be a crisis); his sheer Milo-ness. He didn’t care. His friends may be few but they were choice, including his former Harvard roommate, tennis star Alex Darlington, who remained like a brother to him—“and not like Cain and Abel,” Milo would say as a joke, guffawing in a way that showed off his chronic sinus problems. And though his world was small, it was filled with big ideas—none bigger than the one he was working on in MIT’s Media Lab.

It seemed simple enough—a device that looked like a hearing aid, no bigger than an ear bud. But it didn’t help you hear—or at least not the outer world. Rather, it connected you to all your life’s memories, thought patterns—in short, your you-ness—stored on a secure computer account. It could make you a genius by linking your brain to the computer. More importantly, it could think for you when you no longer could.

The potential was “transcendent,” a favorite Milo word. With no cure for Alzheimer’s on the horizon, this would obviate its dread. Milo stretched, luxuriating in the moment, then pumped up the volume on his elaborately devised sound system for Pavarotti’s triumphant cry of “Vincerò.” He wasn’t an opera buff or even a huge fan of “Lucianissimo” at first, but something about the recording made in 1990 for the World Cup—the premier event in their favorite sport, soccer—touched him like few things did. Maybe it was the unsettled opening that resolved itself into the title words of the aria—”Nessun Dorma,” Let No One Sleep. Or perhaps it was the character who sang it, Calaf, the tenor-hero, an outsider willing to risk all for love.

That was what he was—someone willing to risk all for love, only it wasn’t for love of a formidable princess like Turandot but rather for the love of science and invention, service to mankind and, maybe, just maybe, enough fame and fortune for himself that he could live the life he saw in his head without the world interfering.

“Wouldn’t that be something, Puccini?” he said to the red and green parrot that was now his closest companion.

“Aw,” Puccini squawked, “something.”

Milo had taught the parrot to do many things, not the least of which was to turn on the computer, record his former roommate’s matches, even to type his name. Such show-stopping skills required a great deal of training. Parrots in general required a lot of attention, but Milo didn’t mind. He had rescued Puccini as it were, coming upon a group of boys who were poking the bird in a cage by the Charles River during one of Milo’s late-night runs.

“Hey, leave him alone,” Milo yelled. He didn’t know where he got the strength—the whole thing was like an out-of-body experience, perhaps one conjured by the way he had been bullied as a “dummy genius” when he was a child—but he took off after them as they dropped the birdcage and ran. Milo even called the police and traced the kids to a local boys’ school, which disciplined them. He didn’t want to see them expelled, just forced to volunteer at a local animal shelter, that would teach them. With no one to claim Puccini, Milo took him home and, with no knowledge other than Google, proceeded to rehabilitate and train him.

“Rooms, you amaze me—” he and Alex always called each other Rooms “—The way you’ve parented Puccini while continuing your research.”

“I sometimes think he’s parenting me. As for my research, well, it’s still a work in progress. But soon, very soon, Allie. I’m on the cusp of something that will revolutionize the world.”

“Well, Einstein, while you’re busy serving the rest of us, just remember to stop and smell the roses now and then.”

“I will, Allie, I will. But I’m so close, so close I can taste it. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so much. Maybe it’s like when you’re at match point in a tournament: You just want to see it through and cradle that trophy and own it. It’s not enough to create something. You’ve got to see it out there.”

“And you will, Milo. Just take it one step at a time.”

It was a running source of concern: Alex thought he was too eager and naïve, too trusting, Milo knew, and he was right. Alex wasn’t as smart intellectually—or as smart in the same ways as Milo—but he had a kind of street-savvy that Milo didn’t possess. As a result, Milo was often taken advantage of by people like Scott Rosenberg, one of their housemates at Harvard who always had an eye to the main chance. How many times had Milo been humiliated by Scott—at cards, on the soccer field? “Geez, for someone who’s so smart you’re really dumb,” Scott would say. But he also said, “Hey, if you ever need capital for one of your big ideas, let me know, will ya?”

“Milo, promise me that you’ll consult an attorney—mine or one he can recommend—before involving Scott in anything,” Alex had said.

“I will, Allie,” Milo said. But what he didn’t say was that he had already set up a meeting with Scott and some of his businessmen friends. Hey, it didn’t hurt to meet with people, did it?

Right away, though, he had an uneasy feeling. They met at Toscano, an Italian restaurant that overlooked Harvard Square. For Milo, it was a real treat. He didn’t go there often. He didn’t eat out often, because when he did, he tended to eat the same thing he made at home—Caesar salad and penne with butter and grated Parmesan cheese.

“Hey kid, live a little—go for the marinara.” That was Ronnie “Mooch” Scaramouche, Scott’s business associate—who talked very loudly, very fast in a New Yawk accent. Ronnie was of the tell you what I’m going to do for you school of salesmanship, but Milo sensed it was really all about what you could do for Ronnie. Five minutes into the sales pitch, Milo’s head started to hurt. He wished he hadn’t eaten so much. Most of all, he was sorry Alex wasn’t there.

Milo began to sweat. His heart raced and he realized his right leg was jiggling under the table. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer and got up abruptly. “Yes, well,” he said, “thank you for the dinner, but I gotta go. I’ll be in touch.”

Ronnie spread his arms wide. “Kid, was it something I said? Sit. Finish your tiramisu. We don’t have to come to an agreement tonight, do we? I mean, we’re all friends, aren’t we?”

But Milo had to get out of there. He heard Scott say, “No offense, Ronnie, he’s like that. He’s a little…” And then he heard nothing else as he bolted from the restaurant and half-walked, half-ran all the way home, where he slammed the door and locked it, breathing heavily. He jumped when the phone rang, setting Puccini to squawking and fluttering about.

“Hey, man, what did you do that for?” It was Scott, all hot and bothered.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” Milo stammered. What was he sorry for? Alex would always say. Alex: He would know what to say to Scott. But Milo just blundered on, apologizing again for his reaction to what he sensed was their opportunism. “I just had to get out of there.”

“Yeah, well, you made me look like a fool, man. I mean, I had talked you up big to Ronnie and then you go and blow it.”

“I don’t think I blew it, Scott. I think Ronnie is just trying to take advantage of you. You mustn’t be so trusting.”

“Oh, you’ve been listening to Alex again. Listen, where is he? Traveling the world, winning tournaments and earning the big bucks. And where are you? In school, waiting for your ship to come in and hoping it isn’t the Titanic, so don’t tell me about Alex. Alex isn’t here. I am. Talk to me, man. I thought we were tight.”

“When were we ever tight? When you cheated at cards and took my money? Or made me talk to that woman you knew was a lady of the evening? Or when you called me a smart dummy? I’m not stupid, Scott.”

“Hey, Milo, bro, no one ever said you were and, if I implied that, I am truly sorry. But Milo baby, I need this. See, I sort of told Ronnie that you and me are, you know, business partners.”

Now Milo was in full-blown Milo mode. “Well, why did you do that? Never mind. I don’t care what you told him. You’re just gonna have to un-tell him.”

“You see, that’s the thing, I can’t. I mean, if it were just Ronnie, no prob. But he has these associates.”

“You mean mobsters?”

“No, nothing like that. What do you take me for? It’s just that they’re all excited. I hate to disappoint them.”

“Well, you’re going to have to. Because I just don’t trust him and I don’t like him.”

“Well, if that’s your final say on this.”

“Yes, Scott, that’s my final say.”

“Milo, I won’t say I’m not disappointed but I understand and respect you. I really do. I hope we can still be friends and maybe work together in the future.”

Milo hung up, relieved. Alex would be so proud of him. He was proud of himself. He had sensed a crisis and averted it. He couldn’t wait to tell him. Now that he looked back on it, the whole thing had really been kind of funny—Ronnie, him bolting, Puccini squawking, “You tell him,” in the background. He had to text Alex. No, he would wait till he came to Boston for an exhibition match next week. He couldn’t wait to see him, maybe go back to Toscano and have a real, relaxing meal. But maybe he’d text just a teaser.

You’ll never guess what happened with our friend Scott. No, nothing bad. You’d have been proud of me. Can’t wait to see you, R. R for Rooms—roomies, roommates. It was their signoff.

He sent the text just before his evening run. Halfway through, he sensed he was being followed. Having run along the Charles River for some eight years, he was aware of people behind him. But this was different, almost as if the person’s pace was slowing and quickening in step with his.

What to do? Should he try to cross? Turn around abruptly and confront his pursuer? Flag the squad car he saw approaching—damn, in the other direction? He felt foolish, a victim once more of the overactive imagination that was both a blessing and a curse. He decided to make a move, breaking sharply across the four lanes of traffic and narrowly missing being hit by a pickup truck, horn blaring. If anyone were behind him, he or she would be dead by now.

She: Milo could see her pass on the other side. He felt sheepish. She was heading in the opposite direction now, oblivious to him. On the other hand, if she sensed that he sensed she were following him, she would have to go on to avoid detection, wouldn’t she?

He should’ve been a novelist, he thought, relaxing at last safe and sound behind his locked door. Time for some Diet Coke—no, maybe a real one tonight—with some freshly cut lime and a lot of ice and some Puccini and Puccini. Tonight, he would expand his repertoire, maybe a little Tosca as he fed nuts to Puccini—Pavarotti singing “E lucevan le stele” (“And the stars were shining”).

He sometimes streamed the opera on all his devices at once, surrounding himself with sound. He remembered Cavaradossi’s death scene, Pavarotti weeping as he held the lantern aloft for the firing squad. Even though it was to be a fake death arranged by his beloved Floria Tosca so that they could escape the Castel Sant’Angelo together, his Cavaradossi made you feel the way you would if it were for real—scared, sorry for yourself and all you’d miss in this world. And it was for real, of course—for Cavaradossi. He falls dead. His Tosca, slow to understand, praises his “performance.” And then when she realizes the awful truth with the prison guards closing in on her, she runs to the top of the steps, and this time the audience and Puccini’s rising motif go all the way to the top with her as she hurls herself from the battlements—magnificent.

The buzzer interrupted his appreciation. Probably one of his housemates. They were always forgetting something. He should talk: He had forgotten that another prospective investor was dropping by, one who, unlike Scott, appreciated his true worth.

“I was so glad to hear from you,” he said, opening the door. “It’s great to see you again. Come on in.”

Like Pavarotti’s Cavaradossi lifting the lantern through his tears, it would prove one of his last acts on the face of the earth.