Chapter 7

Yes, our Sofi, the same distressed and tormented girl who cannot even sip her red wine, had been such a clever mind, organizing this rescue operation for Warren—and of course much more beyond that. While she had never met Warren before that afternoon in the coffee shop, he had presented her with a mystery to solve, a key to understanding her opponents, the atrocious Mar. As I later discovered, Sofi had a master’s degree in social psychology from Burn’s University—impressive, but not surprising. Her ability to understand how any given person would interact with a group, perform tasks, or react to pressure gave her a distinct advantage at coordinating and managing successful teams of people. But lest you think she was the mastermind behind Warren’s escape, let me be the first to tell you that it was Trent who made the decisions—but once those decisions were finalized, he entrusted Sofi with the task of delegating and getting the project done.
But she is a different girl now—she seems to have leaked all her energy and willpower through her tears. She must wish she had never met Warren that fateful day in that little café in Manitou Springs. I imagine she dreams of days she might have spent teaching adjunct classes in some small university, of nights spent working on a doctoral thesis. What thoughts of regret, of actions left undone, of an easy life must be churning through her mind with such devastating results? Warren’s cruelty to her was astounding…but more on that later.
For the rest of that first evening, Warren spent his time eating rebuilding his relationship with Livingstone, without thinking much of Sofi. They were not so different the two men. They both shared philosophical inclinations in their conversations—the abstract possibilities of life pleased them much more than the gritty details of practical application. In this they found a common dislike of Trent Caramov, a man who Livingstone openly despised, but tolerated as a necessary evil. It was this subject which draws my interest most, but also healed a number of the rifts between the two.
After finishing his final bite of beef stroganoff—the real kind, fortunately, a thick beef sauce made with mushrooms and sour cream (as opposed to a beef stew served over noodles)—Warren had asked Livingstone what Trent’s role in this whole organization was. Livingstone made a face of disgust, intriguing Warren immediately, for he had assumed Livingstone would automatically get along well with anybody.
“I will give people a chance,” he admitted. “But very few impress me with that chance. You yourself are among the lucky few—had you asked one more question after Sofi left, I might have shut off to you forever.”
“What do you find so despicable about my questions?” Warren wondered.
“It’s not just your questions, don’t get me wrong. It’s the mindset that drives the questions. Most people imagine they are entitled to all sorts of information, of which they should never have possession. It is this sort of base greed for knowledge that, if people have not learned to control it, they, by a very unconscious disposition, will assume that knowledge has no price tag and will abuse the means of a question to obtain it. Look around you, Watson. The ability to communicate is only on the rise and the value of information has decreased to such a point that people rarely ask meaningful questions of one another, but rather typing in a simple internet search for keywords, without ever phrasing a question at all. If people expect these sorts of results from saying only ‘blister treatment’ how will they ever learn how to ask a valuable question? And only valuable questions will reap valuable results.
“But the issue of entitlement goes much deeper. Why must the large majority of people assume I should tell them my name? Why should they want to know where I come from or where I am going—what does it concern them in the least? All in the name of a polite conversation? We have not only abused the question, we have abused our rights to knowledge. And this is why news magazines, gossip columns, and the ladies’ group at churches are so popular. People want to keep well-informed about their surroundings, but for what purpose? To gasp at scandals? To be shocked at murders? To be outraged at a political party’s influence? Can you name another? Can you name a positive outcome of our greed for knowledge?
“No, dear Watson, humanity’s base desires apply not only to lusts of the body, but those of the mind as well. And so I only give them a chance. If one demonstrates that she or he is no better than the average self-centered scumbag, evidently privileged to know the workings of the universe—or more importantly, the price of his or her neighbor’s house—then I would rather save myself the hassle of putting up with them and ignore them altogether.”
“And Trent is one of the best of these people. In fact, he pursues information with such passion that he has learned to disguise his inquiries with friendliness, his gluttony for facts with a warm smile and firm handshake. He can manipulate another’s desire for information, giving them just enough to feel comfortable in returning to him what he wants. But if anyone were to examine what he has exchanged for what he received, the balance would always fall in his favor. But the greed of the common man—they are so concerned only with what they acquire, that they rarely notice what they have lost. I do not pity them; they have set themselves up for such exploitation.
“But the man that takes advantage of his brother’s greed for his own greed’s sake; that man I reserve a special portion of my hate. In fact, it is a goal of mine to undo almost everything Trent does. Every now and again, however, he manages to do something productive—that and Sofi insists he is necessary to our operation. And if she insists that—I cannot deny her. She is one of a kind, Warren. You won’t find a better human being in your searches across the world, I guarantee it. Almost divine, she is. That and she can find it in her heart to forgive people their mistakes as long as they make them. And so she advises me to tolerate Trent. And so I do.”
Warren, who had been listening with an intense fervor as Livingstone talked, understood that Livingstone had just placed before him an incredibly personal part of himself. In fact, Warren imagined that Livingstone was probably wondering at that moment what he would do with that information. Warren decided to treasure it—as a gift of good-will between friends. In the moment of silence between them, Warren decided it would be best to reciprocate. His response came slowly at first, as he tried to choose his words carefully:
“As much as your dismissals of my questions bothered me at first, I want to thank you for that. I had been trained with the idea that no question is a stupid question—I imagine ninety percent of my teachers quoted that statement on the first day of school. Which works in the classroom, because everyone (mostly) stays on topic and a good teacher can guide such discussions with his questions to the class. But outside the classroom, I think you’re on to something here—I didn’t see it at first—but now, the idea of controlling one’s questions and finding the good questions to ask makes complete sense to me. I can only imagine how irritating it must be.”
Livingstone laughed and added, “Just you wait, now. All sorts of dumb questions will assault you. And what will you have to do? Shake your head in despair and try to wiggle your way out of answering them.” Warren chuckled with him.
“The problem for me is this: you’re such an enigmatic person, that I feel like I have to know something more about you. To figure out the puzzle that you are. But that’s precisely your point—to remain an enigma. Which is frustrating to force my mind to accept your mystery and still trust you. For really…what do we gain from trusting a man whose birth name and age and place of residence we know, as opposed to trusting a girl we hardly know?”
“There we have the best question you’ve asked all day!” Livingstone exclaimed and clapped his hands several times in honor of the occasion. Warren laughed and played with his fork.
“And here I am—really I know nothing about you, save a bit of your philosophy on life—for which I am truly grateful. And yet I know I can trust you now. Not just because we’ve laughed a little together, not because of this conversation, but through those, I’ve caught a little glimpse of your self. And it’s bright like the sun—it warms my soul to communicate with you.”
Livingstone took a breath when he finished before replying. “There aren’t many in the world who would trust a puzzle, as you said. If you can, I salute you, for you are a better man than I. As a matter of fact, and I am quite loathe to share this with you, I still wouldn’t trust you. No offense to you—you are proving yourself more worthy as the days go on. In fact, you are probably the second-highest on my list—having just a day to make it that far, you have done well. But you have a long ways to go, you see, for my trust.”
This statement took Warren aback; he deduced that Sofi was the only person he trusted fully, but decided against pointing it out. In fact as soon as he decided this, he also figured he ought to forget it, in the case that he was wrong. But as he lingered on the idea of trusting a person he had met only that morning with your life—well in his case, he didn’t have a choice. In Livingstone’s, however, he had all the choices in the world. But because he had chosen to remain in the room and talk and share with him, Warren figured he was doing something right in regards to Livingstone and that he would soon find him a valuable friend and ally. But now Livingstone was continuing.
“You see, Warren, I rather enjoy life and meaning—as you may have gathered from our conversations. Stupid questions reduce meaning and misplaced trusts will reduce your lifespan. So you have a long road ahead of you, Warren, until I am convinced enough that you won’t try to kill me that I will tell you anything that may lead to my death.”
“Haven’t you already?” Warren asked, without thinking. Livingstone frowned. “If I must be somewhat more specific, I fear I may jeopardize what trust I have in you—however slim. But here’s my sign of goodwill: philosophy, in its finest form, will not get anyone killed. Life is very practical; philosophy is abstract thought in its finest. While you may have applied what we talked about to your own life and how you live, you came away with very little about myself. You know that I dislike Trent. But you yourself dislike Trent, and therefore it would take an extreme situation for you to take advantage of that information for the purpose of ending my life. So basically I trust you enough that, in the slim chance that such a situation came about, you would side with me and choose not to kill me. And if you must know, I risked much by putting that much in your mind in the first place. You might have never thought of that. Again a sign of our budding friendship.”
Warren put a hand to his cheek, resting his elbow on the table and laughed. “I hope you will find me worthy of friendship in the end, however long that will take,” Warren stated and set his fork down on the napkin. “So I suppose it goes without saying that you believe everyone is out to kill you…”
Livingstone smiled with his eyes. “They are. Even if they don’t know it yet.” He read the question in Warren’s mind, and because he answered it, Livingstone must have deemed it appropriate. “You see, Warren. If you approach life from a defensive standpoint, it much less likely you’ll be knocked off my some bum in the street.”
“But you look like a bum in the street.”
“Do you really doubt that everything I do is meaningful?”
Warren had to tip his hat to that question.
“If I dress like this, I drop my chances of being whacked for my wallet. I also have to put up with some prejudice from the “higher” classes of society. But so what? Life is life, in raggedy shorts and dreads, just as much as in Dockers and a striped silk tie. By the way, ties are hazardous to your health—wear clip-on’s if you must.”
Warren suppressed a laugh, and looked at the ceiling. “You are one of a kind. I hope I never solve you, just so you can keep surprising me.”
“See? Much more rewarding than knowing my name, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Warren said, laughing.
The rest of the evening proceeded with the two sharing anecdotes of the past, none very serious—ended with them brewing a pot of tea and starting a fire to warm up the chilly Colorado night. While the fireplace crackled and lit their faces with spontaneous flickers and warmed their toes, they talked for another hour—as two old friends sharing fond memories.
But when Livingstone retired to his bedroom and Warren to his own, he found that even in the mass of stories Livingstone had told him, he knew little more about the man. Indeed, he had divulged as little meaningful information about himself while still keeping the conversation lively. He thought back—what had he learned of the man in all those stories? That he was widely traveled…had been to Asia, parts of northern Africa, all over Europe. But did he speak any languages? He hadn’t said so. What parts had he enjoyed? Touring castles or listening to operas or swimming with children or talking with peasants? He had found out very little new about this man—in two and half or three hours of conversation. This was true talent he faced—a guarded man as ever there had been in the history of the world, Warren told himself. But then a funny thought struck him: Livingstone must drive Trent crazy. He had to chuckle at the occasions on which there must have occurred some friction between the two. They were veritable opposites—and Livingstone had to have the upper hand. He imagined Trent trying with every ounce of his energy, on every occasion, to whittle away at those defenses and find some foothold, some crack in the man’s walls. This trip starting tomorrow, if dangerous, would be wildly entertaining at the very least. With that thought, he undressed and climbed into the cool white sheets. The pillow was soft, yielding slowly to the weight of his head. And he had no trouble drifting into a dreamless, gratifying sleep.