Losman awoke in what was by now a familiar place, the antiseptically clean bed in the FuturePerfect lab in Ballerup, his hand clutching an invisible object that he somehow understood was Solly. Bright LED lights checkerboarded the ceiling panels like the UFO in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. What the fuck happened? With all the electrical doodads in this windowless room—the flashing red terminals and monitors, the enormous TV screen, the peeping machines—he felt like he was in the underground lair of some wealthy computer geek who was building a secret corner of the dark web. Even so, he was relieved to be here. Out of the toddler’s mind. He lifted his hand and waggled his fingers. He opened his mouth and made a noise, a loud ahhhhhhhhh. He blinked, licked his lips. When he jerked his head a few times and snorted, his tics returning with a spiteful vengeance, he knew for certain that the toddler in charge was no longer running the show. He was back to his old self.
Holy shit.
Turning his attention toward the nightstand now, he saw through his fuzzy vision a ham sandwich packaged in Cellophane and a bottle of Apollinaris seltzer. His eyeglasses were there too, and he put them on. That’s when he noticed the small white card leaned against the bottle, the word Velbekomme! written in a fine, loopy script in blue ink.
Losman, who was famished, propped himself up on his elbows. As he reached for the sandwich, the two wires attached to his scalp fell between his eyes. One by one he plucked them off and tossed them over the side of the bed. Quickly he unwrapped the sandwich and wolfed it down. As he chewed the dry, tasteless food, he made several significant observations: 1) He did not have an erection. 2) He did not have a headache. 3) He was alone in the lab, though 4) he had likely alerted Jens and Pelin that he was awake by removing the wires from his head.
5) How the fuck did he get here?
6) Caroline had seen him naked and acting like a baby. So had Kat.
Fuck, Fuck, and Fuck.
He finished the sandwich, then unscrewed the cap on the bottle and gulped the fizzy citrus-flavored drink. When he was done, he belched, screwed the cap back on, and returned the empty bottle to the nightstand. He climbed out of bed and discovered he was still wearing tighty-whities. Somewhere in the room, a machine beeped, a solitary doot like the alarm clock on a watch.
There was a knock on the door. Before Losman had the chance to respond, the door opened and in filed Pelin and Jens.
“Christ!” Losman said in English, yanking the duvet from the bed and covering himself. He jerked his head twice and snorted. “A little privacy, please?”
“It’s nothing we haven’t seen before, Losman,” Pelin said. She wore a powder-blue lab coat over a black skirt and white blouse, and block-heel slingback shoes with thin leather straps secured around her ankle. Was this considered business casual? Losman wasn’t sure. Her long brown hair was piled in a messy bun atop her head, and her stylish, blue-framed eyeglasses now dangled against her chest on a red cord.
Pelin and Jens scraped two white chairs over to the bed and sat down. Jens placed his recorder on Losman’s bed without bothering to ask for permission; he opened his notebook and clicked his pen. Pelin motioned with her hand for Losman to sit, but since there were no other chairs in the lab, Losman crawled back into the bed and drew the duvet up to his chin.
“I’m very, very disappointed in you,” Pelin said in the scolding tone of a mother. “Why did you steal the pills?”
“I didn’t want to wait another week.”
“You could’ve permanently damaged your brain,” Jens said. He was dressed in his typical uniform of blue jeans and blue blazer and slick patent-leather brown shoes, but there was something different about him today, Losman noted: his customary white button-down, untucked, appeared to be made of expensive silk. His loose, jowly cheeks were ruddier than usual, swarthy even, as if he’d been called to the lab during a date night with his spouse, one bottle of house Merlot into dinner.
“I’m aware of that,” Losman said. He pointed to his head. “It was scary being stuck in here.”
“You’re very lucky,” Pelin said.
“Lucky? I made a complete ass of myself.” Losman grimaced as he recalled being a toddler in front of Caroline and Kat. What he felt now was no different than waking up after a rugged bout of heavy drinking to gradually piece together all the foolish shit he’d done while inebriated. “I don’t need BhMe4 to remember that.”
“Yes, Losman, lucky. Very much so. That pill could’ve warped your brain forever.”
“They’re your pills, Pelin. You’re the one who developed them.”
“That may be true, but I also told you I had concerns. I was running tests. I didn’t encourage you to take them on your own. In fact, I believe I was pretty clear about the importance of taking the pills in a controlled environment and following our instructions. It’s even in the intake agreement you signed.”
Feeling tense, Losman jerked his head and grunted. He glanced up at the giant TV and noticed his reflection on the dark screen staring back at him. He knew Pelin was right. “Look, I’m not going to argue with you. I shouldn’t have stolen your pills. I was afraid I’d be stuck like that forever.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d ever get out. You were asleep for sixteen hours.”
“Sixteen hours? Jesus,” Losman said. “Does that mean it’s Monday?”
“Yes. Your body was detoxing.”
Holy shit, he thought. He’d wasted an entire day—two, really, since his prime translating hours were now. He was already behind schedule. He had to revise those pages! How many days until he had to send them to Niels H.? He couldn’t remember. His clothes were heaped on the floor. Feeling suddenly anxious to get back to his work, his body seized with a rare full-body tic—arms, hands, head jerking like he’d been electrocuted. He crawled out of bed and began to get dressed.
Jens said, “Not to mention the danger you put us in. Do you realize the liability we’re talking here?” He shook his head disapprovingly at Losman, who was zipping up his pants. “We have a hell of a mess to clean up thanks to you.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Losman said. He really was sorry, too. He tugged a T-shirt over his head and heard that solitary doot again. He wasn’t sure what it was, or what it meant, but Jens and Pelin didn’t seem bothered by it, so he let it go. “I didn’t expect—”
Pelin said, “You’re not a scientist, Losman. You weren’t analyzing the data like we were. Listen.” She paused to regard him. “You can’t take the pill anymore.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t want to take it anymore. I’ve had my fill.”
Losman grabbed his socks and sat on the edge of the bed, drooping his head in embarrassment and shame. An urge to chuff air through his nose overtook him. He’d screwed up everything lately. Just when he’d begun to make inroads with Caroline, she’d seen him tootling around naked as a mole rat. How could she look at him in a romantic way after that?
Jens leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees, the ballpoint pen in his hand tightly wedged between two thick, furry fingers and poised over his spiralbound notebook. “What memories did you see when you took the pills?” he asked. “We might as well discuss them.”
Losman turned to Pelin as if for confirmation that this was in fact a good idea. When she opened her palm as if to say, Go ahead, might as well, he began to put on his socks. With all the excitement, and horror, of the past 40 hours, he hadn’t given a single thought to the most recent memories he’d located deep in his brain.
“I’m not sure what I saw, to be honest,” he said, reaching for his sneakers and clearing his throat. “I mean, this was a weird trip.”
“Tell us,” Jens said. “Go on.”
Losman cleared his throat three more times and jerked his head twice. He hooked his sneaker with his index finger and let it dangle there. He didn’t know quite where to begin. His memories crowded in, shoving and bumping into one another, demanding his attention like filthy, greedy children. He closed his eyes and tried to think logically, which to him meant chronologically. Unlike with his dreams, his memories always arrived fully intact. All he had to do was begin talking. They gushed out now, a steady stream. Recounting each memory, he was amazed at their voluminous depth, how he could recall even the tiniest of details.
He narrated his film roll of memories, and in the process, he lost track of time. As he talked, Jens scribbled furiously in his notebook. A court stenographer with a ballpoint pen. At some point, Losman realized he was directing his stream of words solely to him, or more specifically to his recorder and notebook. As though his words were meant for something much larger than all of them combined. He stared at the little black recorder catching his every word. He was addressing some future scientist or historian who’d unravel the vast mystery, make everything clear. When he was finally done, Losman felt a singular tightness in his chest, like a man who’d just sprinted up a steep hill and was short of breath.
“What do you think?” Pelin asked Jens. She’d been silent during Losman’s monologue, legs crossed, hands resting on her thigh.
Jens held up one finger to finish writing his notes. After he was done, he closed his notebook and laid it on his lap. “I find it very, very interesting,” he told her. His ruddy cheeks, stippled with a topography of tiny blue veins, gleamed like an apple. He turned to Losman. “What do you think?”
“What do I think? I’m not the professional, Jens. You are.”
“I’d like to hear your interpretation.”
Losman scowled and rubbed the nape of his neck. “When I took the pill the other night, here in the lab I mean, I’d thought something was wrong with my mother, or with me. I’d hoped to get back to that moment to figure out what it was, but I didn’t. I didn’t learn anything with these latest memories. Not one thing.” He could feel the stiffness in the ropy cords of his shoulder muscles, so he rolled his head from side to side to get the kinks out. “But you know how I told you things went completely black the other night? Well, it happened again, only this time the blackness lasted longer. I mean a real long time. It was strange as hell. And when I was stuck inside the toddler, I relived an adolescent memory I never wanted to see again.”
Jens opened his notebook again, his eyes widening in anticipation. He leaned forward. “Go on,” he said. “We’re listening.”
Pelin walked him to the bus stop. When they entered Building 8’s grand foyer, six stories of steel beams girdling brick and glass and wood, the blinding natural light forced Losman to squint until his eyes adjusted. Three layers of gently babbling water cascaded down a ten-foot-tall fountain that resembled an elaborate wedding cake, incongruously placed on top of which was a bronze statue of Venus de Milo. He hadn’t paid much attention to this statue before, and now he wondered why it was there; it didn’t fit with the modern architecture or décor. In the bright shaft of sunlight, the fountain’s clear water sparkled like pixie dust, and a small, misty rainbow rose like a mirage from within the spray.
Losman followed Pelin through the igloo-shaped tunnel and outside. Into another warm, sunny morning. The beautifully manicured campus grounds spread out before them like a lush paradise, carpeted with thousands of inky, purple crocuses, and he sucked in the clean air. They were the only ones around, and together they walked down a pebbled path bordered by cherry trees bursting with bright pink blossoms. Birds twittered and danced in the branches as if drunk on sunshine. The cloudless blue sky shone with the translucent shimmer of a tranquil sea. The day was so transcendent, so paradisiacal, that he half-expected to see a fat, loping grizzly bear happily giving a small boy a ride on its back. Over the years, Losman had entertained a number of Jehovah’s Witnesses in his apartment. He wasn’t interested in their religion, but if he was feeling lonely, he would listen to their spiel. At the end of every visit, invariably, they would hand him their literature, copies of Awake! and The Watchtower. And after they’d gone, he’d flip through the pamphlets and chuckle at the images he found in them: lions and tigers frolicking with lambs and children; adults flashing ivory-white teeth in broad, orgiastic smiles; cornucopias of fruits and vegetables and healthy foods free of high-fructose corn syrup and trans fats. This campus today reminded him of those idyllic scenes. He jerked his head.
They ascended a small rise and from there they could see down the slope, where the yellow bus was already idling at the stop, as if patiently waiting for Losman to arrive.
“It leaves in ten minutes,” Pelin said, lifting her eyeglasses from where they dangled on her chest and putting them on to read her smartwatch.
They started down the slope, their shoes crunching on the pea gravel. They could see the bus driver behind the wheel reading Jyllands-Posten. Losman, feeling guilty, cleared his throat and said, “I’m really sorry about stealing your pills and fucking everything up. I obviously didn’t think things through.”
Pelin didn’t respond, and Losman understood why. There was nothing for her to say. Losman had jeopardized her research, her life’s work. No apology could undo what he’d done. He’d put himself in a dumb situation by taking that pill on his own, but now that he was free of the crazy, dick-pulling toddler, he felt he’d been given a second chance. Somehow, he had to make things right with Caroline—and Kat.
He said, “Will I have flashbacks? Could my babyself slip back into my body?”
“That’s unlikely,” Pelin said. She hesitated. “But we’ll have to monitor you to be sure. If you feel anything strange call me immediately.” She plucked a crocus from the grass and held it under her nose, breathing deeply. “Tell me, Losman, has memory therapy helped you?”
“All it’s done is turn me inside out.”
“What about the memories you’ve seen? Do you at least feel closer to the heart of yourself? Your tics?”
They reached the stop, and Losman fished his cell phone from his pocket. He glanced at the driver, a man with dreadlocks spiraling like tight coils from his head, and seized up in a brief but forceful series of tics.
“Not really,” he said, when the fit passed. “But I certainly have interesting new memories.” He’d come close to some kind of truth, perhaps, but close was as far as he was going to get. He was done taking BhMe4. Another question nagged at him now. “Why would I see my son as a teenager if BhMe4 recalls memories?”
A squirrel dashed up a tree, and Pelin watched it scamper along. “BhMe4 acts on something called the default mode network,” she said. “The default mode network is the region of the brain that allows us to call up our memories or imagine the future. Perhaps you tapped into something that wasn’t really a memory. Until you came along, I wouldn’t have thought it possible. But now, with this new data you’ve given us, I will have to recalibrate.”
“Then it was a fantasy and not a dream? Why was Copenhagen melting? And why was I naked in Mrs. Graham’s classroom?”
“I don’t know, Losman, but you did not see dreams. Not in the strictest sense of that word anyway. As I told you—”
“I know, I know,” Losman sighed. “BhME4 doesn’t call up dreams.”
Pelin gave his shoulder an awkward pat. “Anyway, Losman, the interpretation of fantasies is beyond my area of interest or knowledge. Can I give you a piece of advice?”
“Sure,” Losman said. He steeled himself for a lecture, one he no doubt deserved.
“During our time together you’ve been focused solely on reliving bad memories,” Pelin said, “as if it was only in them you could find out what’s wrong with you. But what if there isn’t anything wrong with you, beyond the fact that you’re simply human, trying to make your way? Getting by in life is hard enough even on the best of days. It’s okay to make mistakes, it’s okay to not be perfect. Stop focusing on unhappy memories, Losman. Find a way to make new memories. Happy memories. Isn’t that what life is about?”
Losman frowned. “Aren’t you the ones who told me I could get to the bottom of my Tourette with this pill? How else was I going to do that?”
“Yes,” Pelin said. “We did tell you that.” She gazed off into the middle distance at the golden field of wheat beyond the bus stop. “But maybe that was a mistake.”