The Stochastic Man

4

Carvajal is dead now; he died exactly when and as he knew he would. I am still here, and I think I know how I will die, too, but I’m not altogether sure of it, and in any case it doesn’t seem to matter to me the way it did to him. He never had the strength that was necessary to sustain his visions. He was just a burned-out little man with tired eyes and a drained smile, who had a gift that was too big for his soul, and it was the gift that killed him as much as anything. If I truly have inherited that gift, I hope I make a better job of living with it than he did.

Carvajal is dead, but I’m alive and will be for some time to come. All about me flutter the indistinct towers of the New York of twenty years hence, glittering in the pale light of mornings not yet born. I look at the dull porcelain bowl of the winter sky and see images of my own face, grown much older. So I am not about to vanish. I have a considerable future. I know that the future is a place as fixed and intransient and accessible as the past. Because I know this I’ve abandoned the wife I loved, given up the profession that was making me rich, and acquired the enmity of Paul Quinn, potentially the most dangerous man in the world, Quinn who will be elected President of the United States four years from now. I’m not afraid of Quinn personally. He won’t be able to harm me. He may harm democracy and free speech, but he won’t harm me. I feel guilty because I will have helped put Quinn in the White House, but at least I’ll share that guilt with you and you and you, with your blind mindless votes that you’ll live to wish you could call back. Never mind. We can survive Quinn. I’ll show the way. It will be my form of atonement. I can save you all from chaos, even now, even with Quinn astride the horizon and growing more huge every day.