Kicking the Can (10 page)

“I wanted to live in Oregon, which is why I enrolled at the University of Oregon even though it wasn’t a highly ranked doctoral program.”

“Growing up in Washington state, I remember the signs posted at the Oregon borders: ‘Welcome to Oregon, Now Go Home.’”

“Even to this day, people still think that way.”

“Tell me, how many fairies can dance on the end of a pin?” Drummond said. He had to cut the question into snippets so he could catch his breath.

Lowsley’s eyes widened in astonishment, and then he laughed.

“It was extracted from an e-mail exchange printed in the dossier they gave me.”

“Are you familiar with Dr. Schuler? He’s an internationally known economist at Harvard. He also sits on the editorial board of US Health Journal—over two hundred published articles.”

“Yes, I’ve read some of his stuff.”

“I despise Ivy League academia. They’re arrogant as hell. Schuler’s economic treatise postulates tying the growth of health care expenditures to GDP plus one percent. His premise: historical growth rates have exceeded GDP by several percent, so a more realistic target for future growth should be GDP plus one percent—incredulous.”

Drummond was glad Lowsley was carrying the conversation. The pace had quickened, and his body was in oxygen deficit.

“I submitted an article for publication arguing the US should target GDP minus one percent until we hit the OECD trend line. OECD is a European-based company
that keeps comparative data, including health care statistics for developed countries in the world.”

“It was a citation I used for my thesis,” Drummond said, breathing hard as he spoke.

“According to OECD, mean health care consumption among developed nations is eleven percent of GDP. The US spends eighteen percent, Canada ten point five percent. Our allocation to health care is sixty percent more—it’s unacceptable.”

“What happened?”

“US Health Journal declined to publish my paper. Articles for publication are submitted blindly. Schuler couldn’t resist sending a private e-mail berating me for challenging his authority…academicians with inferior pedigrees…it was total bullshit. He even went so far as to embarrass me on an academic blog, knowing I wouldn’t be allowed to respond.”

Drummond and Lowsley had covered three quarters of the island. They were now heading south, back toward the beach and Isle Airy.

“I was accepted at Harvard…I chose U of O because it’s where I wanted to live. I told Schuler GDP plus one percent was the equivalent to debating how many fairies can dance on the head of a pin. It pissed him off. I couldn’t have been happier when Bennett introduced Schuler. We’ll see whose ideas are best, irrespective of academic credentials. I’ve got an old score to settle with him,” Lowsley said.

37

C
hris Drummond was discouraged by his encounter with Jiang. He hoped Baturina would know how to handle the situation.

“Is Jiang physically attractive?” Baturina asked.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Is she attractive?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Some Chinese women suffer from personality disorders caused by China’s cultural norms: They feel inferior at birth because of the one-child policy and male superiority. They may be their mother’s or grandparent’s object of affection. Fathers even pamper as ‘compensating behavior.’ These contradicting themes can manifest as pathological narcissism. Women who are attractive and academically gifted can demonstrate what’s referred to as ‘exhibitionist behavior.’ They are insecure and at the same time feel the world owes them something. It can lead to volatility, depression, and a deep sense of insecurity. We know she’s bright. Is she attractive?”

“She could be a supermodel, if she put on ten pounds.”

“If she’s narcissistic, interaction with any person can set her off…Don’t take it personally. I’ll meet with her.”

Baturina walked through the entryway and paused next to the dresser in Jiang’s room. She saw the wastebasket filled with remnants of the broken vase. Jiang was sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, running a brush through her long hair, her back against the ottoman.

“Don’t get up,” Baturina said, walking to the ottoman. She pulled on her silk pajama pants to position her legs so she could sit behind Jiang. She reached down and removed the brush from her right hand, breaking it from Jiang’s grip. Jiang turned, giving her a look of objection. Baturina smiled. Placing her hand resolutely on Jiang’s shoulder, she turned her back around. She felt Jiang’s body tremble, her muscles tightening then relaxing when the brush made contact with her scalp and floated through the length of her hair.

“I have a daughter your age. Breniskya is her name. She loved it when I brushed her hair. I hope you don’t mind; it’s a fond memory, brushing her hair and chatting about her day. It was our ritual before bedtime.”

Baturina continued brushing—two, three, and four complete strokes—working around her head and neck.

“Your hair is beautiful.”

Baturina set the brush down and placed her hands around the front of Jiang’s neck, parting her hair and pulling it back, gathering it behind her head. She held the black strands high so the brush could curl under and stroke her hair upward, pulling on her head and neck. Intermittently, she positioned the brush at the hairline of her forehead and pulled straight back.

“Tell me what you miss about your brother, Urik,” Baturina said, “I am so sorry for your loss.”

Jiang pulled away. Baturina understood the anguish and pain she felt hearing her brother’s name. Baturina moved to the couch and sat down.

“Please sit next to me.”

Baturina leaned in, pulling Jiang to her chest, holding her, and rubbing her back. She heard Jiang’s muffled sobs and felt her tears wetting her face.

After several minutes, Jiang took a deep breath and sighed. Sitting upright, Baturina gently took her hands in hers.

“I’ve never cried. It wasn’t allowed. Not even at his funeral. I miss him so much—his kindness. Even though I’m a girl, he treated me as his equal, with kindness and respect. He was a natural leader, a person who held relationship in high regard. China lost special person because of rigid education structure.”

“Healing comes from grieving. Humans grieve in different ways. I believe it helps if emotions can be brought to the surface and experienced,” Baturina said. “Please forgive me for being so forward—it’s my vocation. My passion. I want to be your friend. I can see you loved your brother. It’s healthy to miss him—grieve him. Let me draw a hot bath; it will make you feel better. There’s a terry cloth bathrobe in the closet.”

Baturina opened the bathroom door. “I hope you don’t mind, I added bubble bath and lit a candle. I’m just down the hall, if you want to talk. I hope we talk again, soon.”

38

C
hris Drummond rambled through the multitude of video games in the arcade room until he found Gupta wearing a black T-shirt, ‘India Rocks’ printed on the back in blood-red letters. He had Monster Jam speakers stuck in his ears, listening to music while standing on the balls of his feet in front of
Space Invaders
. Drummond heard the din of static pulses emitted each time the rudimentary monsters marched across the screen. The pace quickened as the squadrons dropped closer to the missile station. Drip, drip, drip—a high-pitched sound—amplified water droplets reverberated each time Gupta fired a missile. He stepped up the frequency of missile launches to keep pace with the monster attack. Whoop, whoop, whoop, a red spaceship hovered—moving right to left—and then gone. Obliterated. Drummond tapped him on the shoulder when the game reset.

“Is this game room sick or what?
Tempest
,
Pac-Man
,
Sea Wolfe
,
Defender
,
Donkey Kong
,
Space Invaders
,
Pole Position
,
Stargate
,
Missile Command
,
Asteroids
. The guy who owns this place must be ancient.”

“What are you talking about? These games were popular when I was in high school,” Drummond said.

“That’s what I mean—artifacts.”

It wasn’t just cultural differences they’d need to overcome as a team; age would be a factor. Gupta was the youngest, age twenty-three, according to his dossier.

“Is this a good time to chat?” Drummond said as he held out his hand to Gupta, who seemed uncomfortable with the formality of a Western handshake.

“Hey,” he said, tilting his head back as a greeting, sliding his hands in his front pockets.

“What are you listening to?”

“Ear candy—Kryptos. It’s an Indian rock band you’ve probably never heard of. Let’s see, Metallica, maybe Iron Maiden? Bangalore, where I live, is known as the rock capital of India: vibrant underground music scene for metal bands—a premier venue for international rock concerts.”

“You remind me of an older Bon Jovi—your hair’s darker brown. His has more of a reddish hue. He toured Bangalore seven years ago.”

“I take it music is a passion?”

“I wanted to be a rock star. My father insisted I go to school to become a programmer. He said it was the way to improve my economic status in life. So I hang with my friends, go to concerts, and eat out a lot. Ever experience the energy of a mosh pit? Music and my sense of humor are my ways of compensating for the walking-dead programmer lifestyle.”

Gupta talked rapid fire, and his hands never stopped moving, but he seemed like a decent young man.

“Tell me about your work.”

“Programming is my creative outlet—I make music for computers. I just wish I had more control over the
applications. Informatics Systems, the company I’ve been with for seven years, takes good care of its employees, but the assignments suck. I want to see my stuff used in important applications, not how many widgets should be manufactured according to market inputs.”

“Mind if I play a game of
Asteroids
while we talk?”

“Go for it. Where did you find the tokens?”

“There are trays full stacked on the bar counter.”

Drummond was amazed at the speed and dexterity of Gupta’s hand and eye coordination.

“I’m nippy…I won the competition at work—four hundred eighty-one characters typed in sixty seconds.”

Drummond smiled and shook his head. He noticed
Sea Wolfe
, the arcade game where you shoot missiles from a periscope, was back in the corner. He made a mental note to play it before he left the island.

“How did India gain a competitive advantage in programming?”

“Our education system requires learning English as a second language.” Gupta raised his voice to talk over the arcade game. “And we made our country attractive to foreign investors by reducing tariffs on software and hardware. We also set up software parks. We gave foreign companies permission to set up wholly owned subsidiaries to export computer technology services.”

“They gave me a dossier on each of the team members. Yours indicates you’re a self-professed ‘technologist.’”

“Adapting technological innovations to new applications is like a jigsaw puzzle for me. I subscribe to a dozen technology journals—
Wired
,
InfoWorld
,
Technology Tomorrow
,
Geeky
, stuff like that.”

“You’ll realize your dream with this assignment. Any reservations about using your informatics expertise to automate algorithms to forecast health care expenditures?”

“If you can describe it, I can program it.”

“How about a game of
Pole Position
?”

“OK,” Drummond said.

“Gupta, if it’s any consolation, I wanted to be a bass player.”

“Cool!”

Gupta pressed the start button and slammed the shifter into first gear, gripping the steering wheel with his left hand.

“Prepare to Qualify,” the arcade game bellowed in computer voice. Gupta sat down, staggering his legs, and adjusted the volume on his iPod, now audible, through his earphones.

“Prepare to get your ass kicked,” Gupta said in his arcade voice.

39

S
heryl Vogel’s features reminded Drummond of Jackie O. Her eyes were set wider apart with thick eyebrows and dark wavy hair, shoulder length.

“Did you see the aquatics room when you arrived?” Vogel asked pointing to the two-story structure built into the dock. She walked over to introduce herself.

“I’m Sheryl Vogel. You must be Chris Drummond.”

“Good morning,” Drummond said and shook hands. “No, it was two a.m. when I arrived. I was out of it—jet-lagged.”

“It’s amazing—Jet Skis, scuba equipment, battery-powered sea scooters. Six months ago, I read a scuba diving article previewing the United Arab Emirates: eighty feet vis, eighty-degree water, whale sharks, eagle rays, barracuda, and wreck diving. I’m dying to get wet. I need a buddy to go scuba diving. Are you certified?”

“It’s been fifteen years. My wife and I dove several places in the Caribbean—Cayman Islands, Honduras; we earned our advanced open water certificate drift diving in Cozumel with a dive group from Seattle.”

Drummond followed Vogel to the two-story structure located on the dock where the yacht had dropped him off.

“I’ve been to the Brac and Little Cayman resorts a dozen times. The Caymans are convenient if you live on the East Coast—I get wet as often as I can,” Vogel said, raising her eyebrows twice in a playful gesture.

“Nitrox was just starting to become popular when we quit.”

“The tanks in the aquatics room are nitrox; you can tell by the yellow and green stickers.”

Vogel and Drummond walked into the aquatics room. The structure was new, like everything else on the island. Not only did the aquatics room house the litany of equipment Vogel described, but the built-ins to store the equipment were superb. Drummond loved the emphasis placed on organization. If he lived on the island, he’d hang out here because of the good vibes.

“The changing rooms are off to the left. Grab a three-mil wet suit from the closet.”

“I don’t remember how much weight I used.”