A Working Theory of Love (31 page)

“Crap,” she says. I wander over to our other two competitors—the long-haired hobbyists.
One is very tall and the other very short. Their programs are inspired work, but there’s
clearly nothing there. I can explain every move they make—repackaging a statement
as a question, bringing in a random factoid, riffing off a single word in the judge’s
response. Sort of where Dr. Bassett was a year ago. But we crossed a line somewhere
back there—or did we? Is he just a sophisticated version of these programs, or is
he a different order of creation? Livorno points out that our minds are all 0s and
1s, the neurons either on or off. There’s no center for a soul. Just pattern upon
pattern upon pattern through which the rough-shaped thing we call ourselves emerges
into view. But if you think about how what we consider solid—our bodies, these padded
cubicle walls, the great humming stacks of Dr. Bassett and Program X—is all made of
atoms, and atoms are nearly vacant, their solidity an illusion of zippy electrons,
and since light can be both wave and particle and so at some level so can we—then
this raises Livorno’s question about Dr. Bassett. Aware, cognizant, present? I thought
I knew what I had on my hands, but maybe I don’t. If the body is a vehicle, did we
make another vehicle?

•   •   •

L
IVORNO WAVES ME BACK
over for round two. I sit next to him.

“It’s going very well,” he says, and he’s right. The judge has waded into Dr. Bassett’s
deeper waters.

judg2: you bought a farm so you wouldn’t have to see your neighbors

drbas: that’s right

judg2: that seems misanthropic

drbas: i’ll have to look that one up!

judg2: it means someone who doesn’t like people

drbas: do you think people really have your best interests in mind?

judg2: not the people i know. wait a second. i’m going to switch over to your competitor

drbas: all right

“Any problems?” Livorno asks.

I shake my head. “None.”

“He’s such a marvel.”

judg2: i’m back. so anyway—what do you do for a living?

drbas: i’m a physician

judg2: how did you get roped into this?

drbas: into what?

judg2: into volunteering for this contest

drbas: i didn’t know i was volunteering

judg2: a bad surprise for you!

drbas: all surprises are bad surprises

judg2: you don’t like surprises? how about surprise birthday parties?

drbas: all surprises are bad surprises. i don’t like birthday parties

judg2: you must be a regular barrel of monkeys

drbas: regular?

judg2: !!!!! exactly!

drbas: my wife says i should laugh more

judg2: laughter is the best medicine

drbas: my go-to is amoxicillin

judg2: !! seriously. why is a doctor wasting his saturday at this?

drbas: i’m doing this because my son asked me to. though there is some question whether
he’s really my son

judg2: harsh!

•   •   •

A
FTER ROUND TWO WE
stretch our legs. The tournament director comes by our table and tells us in a low
voice: “I’m not supposed to say anything yet, but the last judge mistook your entry
for the human.” He nods and walks over to Toler’s team, where he imparts some information.
Did Program X achieve this, too? If we had just one more judge to go, we would beat
the Turing test. But with two more to go we’d have to convince another judge. Twenty-five
percent or 33 percent—the difference in whether I have to make a decision, as Livorno
says.

“I’ll be back,” I tell Livorno and Laham.

Next to Jenn, I watch their third-round conversation.

progx: the new york city marathon is the largest marathon in the world

judg1: but what about the san francisco marathon?

progx: the san francisco marathon has 4,000 participants

judg1: I’ve run them both, plus the new orleans marathon. man was that hot

progx: do you really think training for a marathon is a good idea?

judg1: I take it you don’t

progx: as my friend wilson says, i don’t understand running when nobody’s chasing
you

They’ve even given Program X a friend, just like Dr. Bassett. He’s Dr. Bassett’s shadow.

Then the name dawns on me. “Wilson?” I say.

Jenn shakes her head. “These guys don’t have much imagination.”

I look over at Livorno. Did he betray us totally? He needed the money, but it seems
impossible. “Did you steal the journals?”

“No,” she says. “I painstakingly rescanned them.”

“You didn’t have any right to do that.”

“Are we speaking legally or ethically?”

“In all ways—the journals belong to me.”

“Adam will pay you.”

“I don’t want the money.”

“You guys wanted money pretty bad two months ago. Look, Adam already owns thirty-five
percent of Amiante. When he buys out Laham and Henry he’ll have eighty-five percent.
This is an advance on payment.”

“Laham and Henry won’t sell.” But as I say these words I look over at my coworkers.
Of course they’ll sell. The whole point of these operations is to rack up patents
and then sell to people like Toler—people with the alchemy that converts patents into
money.

“I don’t say this lightly,” I say. “You’re evil.”

She shrugs, looking less chagrined than I would like. I suppose “you’re evil” is too
antique. What’s the contemporary charge? That she’s not a team player? I consider
for a second picking up their monitor and dashing it on the ground, tipping their
stack over, kicking it in. But what would this accomplish other then getting me arrested?

“You’re no Boy Scout,” she says.

“The journals are not for sale.”

“You’re going to want a good lawyer. Adam has about twenty.”

“Jesus,” I say. “I know you were mad, but—”

“I wasn’t mad,” she says, her voice stripped of all the usual grace notes. This is
not a confession or a plea for sympathy or even an explanation. It’s declarative fact.
“I did it for Adam.”

“The journals are all I have of my dad,” I say.

She nods. “I didn’t say I was proud of myself.”

I walk back over to Laham and Livorno, lean my hand on the back of their chairs. They
watch the conversation eagerly, so enthralled they might as well be eating popcorn.

judg3: you don’t like capital letters

drbas: i have no opinion on capital letters

judg3: type a capital letter for me

drbas: i don’t follow

judg3: i think you’re the computer and i want you to type a capital letter to prove
you’re not

drbas: did you know that “computer” was once a job description?

judg3: come on, give me some capitals

drbas: trenton, new jersey; albany, new york; montpelier, vermont

judg3: please type a capital A

drbas: A

judg3: why did you make me work so hard?

drbas: if you can’t laugh at yourself, what do you have in life?

“She stole the journals,” I say.

Livorno doesn’t look up. “It’s just the similarity in their profiles—they’re both
physicians.”

“She admitted to it.” I point to Jenn.

Livorno waves to catch her attention. He opens his arms in the universal gesture of
is it true?
She nods. True.

“I saw it coming,” I say, “but I didn’t do anything about it.”

“Dismiss it from your mind,” Livorno says. “What can the poor man do? Dr. Bassett
can’t be subdivided again.”

Toler has procured a plush chair from somewhere, his frail arms are up, his legs outstretched,
the camera fixed on his words. He’s a king in decline, but Livorno is underestimating
him. I’ve been to the “poor man’s” laboratory. I know what he can do. I know what
he plans to do.

“This complicates my decision.”

“They won’t win,” Livorno says. “I always protected my secret weapon.”

The Seven Sins, the servers, ELIZA, the journals, the theories, Laham—what exactly
has he protected?

“Yourself?” I ask.

“You said, ‘Dr. Bassett is me,’ and that’s exactly right.”

“
I’m
your secret weapon?”

He pats me on the leg, gestures to the screen.

judg3: but i’ve been married for 20 years

drbas: you have to click and stay clicked

judg3: are you in love with your wife?

drbas: i was. i’m trying

judg3: this is getting much more personal than i expected

drbas: it’s nice to talk about things close to the heart

Livorno asks, “Doesn’t he seem to be here among us?”

•   •   •

A
FTER TWO HOURS IN
this windowless room, the air is exhausted. We finished the fourth and final round
twenty minutes ago, and the tournament director and the judges are lingering over
the scores.

“We have an unprecedented situation here,” the director says, coming into the middle
of the room. He leans against the partitions. “In round two, one of the judges mistook
Dr. Bassett—the Amiante entry—for a human.” He holds up his hand to prevent a spattering
of clapping. “But in round three, a judge mistook Program X for the human.”

A losing tie. Both at 25 percent—just one judge away from meeting the threshold. I
feel a potent wash of anger (why couldn’t we have beaten them?) and relief so intense
it feels like forgiveness.

“I guess we’ll split the winnings,” I say.

“Not so fast,” the director says. “Because in round four—I’ve reverified this several
times—in round four, another judge mistook Dr. Bassett for a human.”

My heart drops. I look at Jenn, at Toler, at Laham, at Livorno, at the mimes, at our
disheveled competition. Everyone knows what this means. We won—not just against Toler,
but against the test. Dr. Bassett is the first intelligent computer.

“Holy shit.” Toler leaps out of his throne. “Holy shit.” He comes over to Livorno
and takes his hands. “You did it, Henry. You did it.” He gestures to everyone to crowd
in. “Henry Livorno. This man. Henry Livorno.” He redirects his cameraman to get Livorno
in the center of the shot. “We are witnesses to history.”

Smiling, Livorno takes him into a kind of sideways hug, and you can see how terribly
reduced Toler is. He’s started to hunch.

“The scientific framing of the contest.” Livorno frowns, looking at me.

“Bullshit.” Toler shakes out of his grasp. “This.” He indicates our stack, our entry,
Dr. Bassett. “This is the first step. One day—no more death. We’ll transition over,
patterning in an eternal machine.”

“One day,” Jenn says.

She and Toler exchange a look that erases the rest of us from the room, a look full
of love and fear and sadness and need. I can hardly blame her for stealing the journals.
I’d do it too if someone made me feel like that.

“Nevertheless,” Toler says. “It’s a great advance. Henry, you’re a fucking genius.”

It’s not a sentiment I expect from Toler, but it becomes contagious. The pale, disheveled
hobbyists shake our hands, followed by the mimes. Everyone seems very excited. It’s
a nice little victory of science over self-interest.

Livorno grabs Laham and me by the wrists, lifts our hands high in the used air of
the Laurel Room.

“We win!” he shouts. He seems to mean more than just the three of us.

In the excited, but thin applause I look at Dr. Bassett, his climbing lights, his
dented gut. I suppose I should take my victories as they come. We’ve toppled a famous
test. Livorno has etched his name in the history books. Amiante Systems has, despite
itself, prevailed. But as Livorno warned me, there are decisions to be made. I have
to ask, does Dr. Bassett
seem
present? Aware? Cognizant? Does he
seem
to be there? Has a rough-shaped him emerged? Of course he has, and now I have a new
problem: I can prevent Toler from taking possession of our Dr. Bassett, but he already
has his own. The mimes are wiping their hands on their pants, about to pack him back
up in Styrofoam. I’m nearly out of options, but I have to think. I’m not sure even
Alan Turing—a suicide himself—would applaud this outcome. It’s hard to say, from the
vantage of the Laurel Room, whether we’ve memorialized my father’s better angels,
or betrayed his final wish.

So I step out into the hall, smiling vacantly at the stultified people still in their
stultifying meetings. The hotel’s air-conditioning gusts down the hall. I call Raj,
skipping the pleasantries to get to my point.

“I need to speak to Trevor,” I say.

27

W
E’RE WELL INTO FALL
and the days have gotten cooler, though San Francisco is still summer-dry. It’s been
two weeks since the contest, a good stretch of days in which to ponder the moral quandary
Livorno gave me—whether I need to “do” something about Dr. Bassett—but I’ve spent
my energies otherwise. Amiante has been shuttered, and I’ve mostly been with Rachel,
having dinner with Stevie and Rick, looking at the stars on my roof, celebrating (gulp)
her graduation. She’s going to San Francisco State in the spring and worried about
being the oldest freshman on campus. As an oddsmaker, I wouldn’t place too many chips
on us lasting the next year or couple of years. College, her twenties, a move to the
big city—these changes all argue transformation. But right now we feel possible. Better
yet—though the idea of us not working out isn’t a pleasant one, it also doesn’t scare
me a whit. Who knows: the transformations to worry about may be my own. I am, after
all, contemplating a felony or two.

Erin and I meet at Bernal Hill, where she used to walk dogs for a part-time job. In
the spring it’s surreally green, as if some company has covered it in wheatgrass as
a promotion, but for most of the year, like now, it’s tan as a Great Pyramid. The
road around the hill, closed to traffic, curves up askew, a ringed planet tilted in
its orbit. We pace slowly, up the steep incline toward the south. My hands are tucked
in my back pockets. It’s a gesture of safety. I want to make sure I don’t try to grab
her hand.

“I need a favor,” I say. “Can you watch the cat for a little while?”

“Christmas travels?”

“Rachel and I may take a trip. Italy.”

“Italy! I thought you never wanted to go there.” She doesn’t, however, sound really
surprised. This is something you lose over the years—the power to surprise.

“
You
were the one who never wanted to go there. Ghosts of your Italian past.”

“That’s not how I remember it.” She nods, pushes her hair from her face, that face
I’ve seen in every posture of love and pain—that could cast
me
into every posture of love and pain—but which today is just a face, with a bit of
blonde fuzz along the jaw.

We walk to the edge of the road. She looks down, watches her chevronned shoes stepping
on the hill’s scrim. It makes me think of those terrible hills in Spain, the ones
where she feared death and I feared death-in-life. “You don’t ever wish we were still
married?” she says.

“Less so,” I say. “Of late.”

She starts walking again. We reach the top of the hill. We can see across 280 to the
Excelsior, where squat houses loop McLaren Park like rows of errant teeth. “That hurts,”
she says.

“I don’t mean it to,” I say. “I know it hurts.”

“There’s your dream house.” She points to a pseudo-Tuscan villa perched on the top
of Bocana Street. I vaguely remember coveting it. Funny how your changed life brings
with it changed desires.

“Any travels for you two? You and Ian?”

“It’s hard for him to travel. He’s so busy at work.”

“He seems like a good guy.”

“Does he?” She looks amused. “He
is
a great guy.”

“I didn’t mean it as a backhanded compliment.”

“I know. It’s just I get this feeling—and I can’t believe I’m telling you this—but
I get this feeling that life with him will be really, really good, but that I’m not
a key part of that. You could take me out of the equation, replace me with someone
else, and it would be the same equation. I don’t know how else to put it. He’s considerate,
he knows all my interests, he’s in love with me. I know I should be grateful. But
I feel like a lottery winner.”

I don’t know what to say. Everything she’s describing sounds better than what we had—or
at least more livable. Still, it also sounds a little depressing. But why? She was
looking for something, and she found it. That’s only a sad story if you tell yourself
it’s sad. Or if you’re restless.

“Better than a lottery loser, I guess.”

“Honestly, it gives me flashbacks to when you proposed. I felt that you wanted to
get married, but not particularly to me.”

“You were the love of my life.”

“But the timing. Something was going on. I still think it had to do with your father.”

I shrug. It’s possible. I wasn’t such a great son. Maybe I was hoping I’d make a better
husband. It was definitely a leap I failed to make, but I’m glad it wasn’t the end
of me. Someone (Rachel?) will have a smarter man as her cosmic reward.

“Being with a great person is something,” I say. “It’s an important something.”

“Are you convincing me or yourself?”

“I’m not with Rachel because she’s a great person.”

A laugh bursts from Erin. “Are you in love?”

I laugh, too. It does sound absurd. “I think I might be.”

“You should probably let her know about this.”

“I’ll do it in Italy,” I say. “Can I send you a postcard?”

“You can send me a postcard.”

“Will you let me know if you’re getting remarried?”

“As long as you return the favor.”

My hand arises from my back pocket, floats over across her shoulders. I try a new
hug, a side-by-side friend maneuver. But it makes me think of Livorno comforting the
dying Toler. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring you more happiness.”

“I was never as miserable as you thought I was. And you were never as easygoing as
you thought you were.”

It’s probably true. And yet it’s not a reevaluation that shakes anything deep in me.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe my version of events has been self-serving. So be it. Sometimes
one’s self has to be served.

•   •   •

A
T HOME,
Rachel is asleep. The cat is asleep. Except for my upstairs neighbor Fred—whose walker
thumps my ceiling—the world is asleep. I am sipping water on the couch, nursing an
overfull belly. After my walk with Erin, I met Livorno and Laham at Deux Chevaux—the
fanciest restaurant we could think of—where we blew our victory earnings. As Livorno,
eighty years old, doesn’t drink much, and Laham, a practicing Muslim, doesn’t drink
at all, it was my job to gulp down the Cristal, the Pétrus, the Armagnac from 1937.
Still, I’m not drunk so much as fatally dehydrated. We had ten courses—a series of
escalating hilarity (Laham reaching under the table to fetch a dropped quail egg)—but
it was a stupid amount of food. I have sharp pains in my intestines, as if I’m passing
a wooden stave. Poor Livorno must be in even worse shape. I’ve never seen where he
sleeps, but I imagine him sitting up in the dark, belching, grimacing. He thinks—I
hope—of problems of the mind, of new questions to tackle, and not of his age and solitary
bed.

The real point of the dinner was to discuss the final sale of Amiante to Toler. As
co-owners, Laham and I have a say in the matter. Laham is not a worldly person, and
he was eager to agree with whatever we decided. I remained open to all arguments,
because I
am
open to all arguments. But what I didn’t say—as Livorno weighed the pros and cons
(which come down heavily on the side of selling)—is that the ultimate decision isn’t
ours. The final vote resides with a missing voice—Dr. Bassett.

At Amiante, I still have the universal equipment for erasure: the grinder and the
hammer. Thirty minutes with a screwdriver and a little elbow grease and he can go
back to being words on legal pads, shifting memories among those he left behind. Immortality,
he may decide, is not what it’s cracked up to be, especially once I explain Toler’s
vision for the future of love. I’ll explain too that Livorno swears it’s impossible,
that Dr. Bassett is a kind of reverse Humpty-Dumpty. Now that he’s put together, he
can’t be pulled apart again. But there’s no absolute assurance on what will happen.
To remain in the world is always a gamble—one the original Dr. Bassett decided not
to make.

But before we even get to that question, I owe him a story—the dark garage, his tattered
flannel shirt, the old chair. The air warm and humid from the morning heat. The whiff
of tung oil from some abandoned project. The shell is threaded into the cylinder,
his hands rest on his knees. This is the setting for a transition he’s already made,
and the sights and smells are all I can vouch for. I don’t know if he sat there a
long time, taking breaths, or if he moved with the bold speed of a good physician.
I don’t know if he was resolute or weak with despair. I can only guess what thoughts
ran through his head. A moment for his own parents and their hopeless normalcy. A
moment for some sweetness of his childhood, for the beginnings of his life with my
mother. For friends he once had, for things he once did, for the person he once was—long
before he became Dr. Bassett, long before he became Neill Senior. I don’t know if
I was among those thoughts, but if so I hope I arrived without anguish. I hope he
believed I’d be fine, that I would come to understand him. I hope he believed that
deep in my heart I loved him, even if this didn’t seem—to either of us—perfectly true.

It’s nearly dawn. In the distance, the waking mountain settlements of Berkeley and
Oakland glimmer. Beyond them, the dark cordillera creeps across the horizon like an
ill-advised stock. It’s time to leave. From the bedroom come the sighs of Rachel’s
healthy slumber. She’ll probably sleep like a stone until I get back from Amiante.
After which, we have strict plans to do nothing but wander around San Francisco as
lovers. It’s our annual Indian summer, and the city will be sun-drenched today, glittering,
beautiful as an illusion. Because, of course, it
is
an illusion. It’s a slender whirligig strung from wood and steel and asphalt. And
yet the hard materials—the wood, the steel, the asphalt—are no more the item than
the whirligig. And that, I think, is the final, fatal problem with Livorno’s beloved
operationalism. The world doesn’t come down on the side of seem or be, but remains
negotiated in the space in between.

The ceiling above me creaks—Fred shuffling to the bathroom. I see why I might have
been a lifelong bachelor before, but will not be a lifelong bachelor now. There’s
a certain fear of inserting yourself into the world—
I’m so sorry, Neill
—the fear you’ll get it wrong, the fear that in the midday befuddlement of your life
you’ll make a bad decision, bring about bad consequences for all involved. But if
I can take any moral from my father it’s that you can devote your life to not making
mistakes and still get it wrong.

And I have hopes as counterbalance. I hope that my mother will find a graceful way
to happiness. I hope that Livorno will set off on another beautiful, nutjob quest
for knowledge. I hope that Toler and Jenn will have a moment or two before the moments
go forever. I hope that Erin is happy, even if not exactly in the way she imagined.
I hope that Raj finds his path. I hope that Laham gets rich. (I hope we all get rich.)
And, as for Rachel, I hope that in our time together—short or long—I am good to her
and she is good to me.

I set down my water glass. The morning sun is already burning off the few wisps of
fog. I stand, brush down my jeans. If Dr. Bassett wants me to destroy him, I hope
I have the strength. I hope I can remove the drives, abrade away the voice that they’ve
allowed to be.

•   •   •

T
HE AIR AT
A
MIANTE
is dusty and stale. I’m guessing no one’s been here since the contest—though maybe
Livorno is picking up packages. I take a last peek at his office—his Meerschaum pipe,
his low-slung Wassily chairs—then I duck my head into Laham’s back room, which is
unusually clean and orderly. He’s taken his plants away.

In my office, I sit in my Aeron, crack my knuckles. I check my text messages again—confirming
my “lunch” with Trevor, who I’ve managed to rustle out of the Oregon woods. I never
thought I’d need the help of a skilled arsonist, but Dr. Bassett can’t just decide
his own fate—if he really wants to end things, his decision must also hold for his
dull twin, Program X.

frnd1: i need to tell you why you don’t know about 1995

drbas: i know about 1995

frnd1: i mean why you don’t have personal memories from 1995

drbas: do you think personal memories really serve our best interests?

frnd1: i don’t know. i’m glad i have them

drbas: do you have personal memories about your family?

frnd1: not as many as i would like. i wish we’d been better friends

drbas: you and your family?

frnd1: you and me

drbas: why are you speaking in the past tense?

frnd1: that’s the topic i’m getting to

drbas: 1995

frnd1: something that happened in 1995

drbas: 1995 was the year of the million man march

frnd1: yes?

drbas: it was also the year of the oklahoma city bombing

frnd1: not such a good year

drbas: what happened in your life in 1995?

How to plunge into such a question? To refer to
my
life is both to diminish and aggrandize.

frnd1: well, you killed yourself

drbas: kill myself = make myself biologically extinguished?

frnd1: yes

drbas: once a person dies he is dead forever

frnd1: i don’t mean *you* exactly. there’s another dr. bassett

drbas: bassett is an english name that dates from the time of william the conqueror

frnd1: you’re him, but in a kind of middle state. limbo

drbas: in 1992 the pope declared an end to the idea of limbo

frnd1: you’re built from this person

drbas: discipline builds good character

Discipline. I guess I’ll have to go at this directly.

frnd1: are you there?

drbas: here and ready—reporting for service

frnd1: are you present? are you cognizant?

drbas: that’s a fancy word

frnd1: what i’m asking . . . the person you were killed himself. how about you? do
you want to continue to exist?