AND SO IT goes. He lies and lies and lies about the film for well over an hour. Clearly, he has not seen it. He has made up a film that is by definition antithetical to Ingo’s concept, antithetical to Ingo’s artistic mission. I have been thrust into a waking nightmare, but I hold my tongue until the question-and-answer period. After a series of softball questions and inane answers, after my constantly raised hand is ignored again and again and again, the yarmulked doppelgänger finally calls on me.
“Yes, you, the clown in the fourth row.”
“Which one of us is the clown here?” I say cuttingly.
“You are,” he says, clearly confused by my question.
“Be that as it may,” I say, “I have a bone to pick with you.”
“Please,” he says, smiling, “have at it.”
“You lie,” I say.
“About what, my funny friend?”
“What you describe is not Ingo’s movie.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because I have seen it.”
At this, the audience boos me. But the man onstage remains calm, smiles benevolently, holds his hands up to quiet the crowd.
“No one but I has seen this movie,” he says.
“I am you,” I say.
More booing.
“Are you?” he says, chuckling kindly.
I dramatically attempt to smudge my makeup off to reveal my face underneath, but I can’t tell if I’ve been successful, as I lost my hand mirror in the sewer. I turn to the woman sitting next to me.
“Is it off?” I ask her.
“Just smudged!” she screams, her eyes filled with hatred.
“Why not come up onto the stage, friend?” the doppelgänger offers. “We can debate the issue. Would you like that?” he asks the audience.
It is clear from his tone that the correct answer is yes.
“Yes! Yes!” they say. At which point, I am lifted off the floor and passed from one to the other to the stage, where I am unceremoniously dumped.
“Hello,” the doppelgänger says, helping me to my feet. Then he calls offstage: “Can we get another lectern and microphone for my antipodal friend here, please?”
Two stagehands appear immediately stage right dragging a miked lectern. It happens so fast that it crosses my mind he was expecting me. The doppelgänger gently leads me to my lectern, then returns to his own.
“So,” he says, “tell me how you saw our Ingo’s film?”
Words are failing me. I am confused and emotional. I look out at the crowd and see that they are, to a person, against me. I am reviled.
“I, well, I…” I begin. “I am the real you and I saw the film. You are my replacement. You did not see the film. You have been programmed by cosmic forces to believe that you have.”
“I see,” he says. “Quite mysterious!”
The audience laughs.
“Now, now,” he says to them. “Let’s give our friend here the opportunity to speak. The world is big enough for many different interpretations of reality. If we have learned anything from Ingo’s work, it is to treat the mentally ill with compassion and respect. But,” he adds, “I am in no way suggesting that our colorfully painted counterpart is mentally ill. Please, continue,” he says to me.
“Ingo understood that one cannot make a movie about the Unseen without flying in the face of their very…unseenness. He knew the only way to show the truth of the societally Unseen is not to show them.”
“So his movie about the Unseen shows nothing of their plight?”
“It only shows white people, and it is in the form of a relentless and distracting comedy. The disenfranchised remain off-screen.”
“So like every other movie,” he jokes.
The audience howls with laughter, then chases the laughter with a round of applause, then foot stomping. It is almost frightening.
“No,” I say. “Ingo animated the Unseen. He just did not film it. He only remembered it. Their stories went to the grave with Ingo.”
“I see,” he says.
“You don’t see!” I snap back. “That is the very point.”
This was witty, and I look out at the audience, hoping for some acknowledgment of my barb. Applause. Foot stomping. There is nothing. But the man onstage with me tosses me a crumb:
“Touché,” he says.
Encouraged by this small kindness I continue:
“I’m the one who built his memorial in St. Augustine.”
“You mean this?” he says, clicking a remote in his hand, which projects a photo of Ingo’s memorial. It’s hard to get a clear sense of it because there is such a large crowd of tourists and pilgrims milling about, but I can see that, although it is the same plot of land I chose, the memorial is completely different. This one features life-size stone carvings of all types of unfortunate and unseen people, the very people the true Ingo, my Ingo, would have been horrified to see represented in stone. It is the bad version of the Vietnam memorial. My doppelgänger is Frederick Hart to my Maya Lin. Mmm. Maya Lin.
“That is not my memorial to Ingo,” I say.
“No, it is mine.”
“But you do not exist,” I whine.
“My friend,” he says, “I have not questioned your existence. I have been respectful and welcoming. I have invited you up onto the stage during an evening that is quite a special event to this audience and to myself. I would ask that you show me the same courtesy.”
The audience boos me. Someone throws a tomato that hits me in the chest. Why do they have tomatoes, if I wasn’t expected? A rock bounces off my forehead. Why do they have rocks?
“Please,” my doppelgänger says to the crowd. “We are not a violent people.”
“Sorry!” comes an angry, hysterical, apologetic voice from the crowd.
“Now, my friends, I have a special treat, a surprise, if you will,” says my doppelgänger. “A first look at my coming Netflix series, the frame-by-frame re-creation of Ingo’s lost masterpiece.”
“Frame by frame?” I say.
“Why, yes,” says my doppelgänger.
“First of all, that is impossible, even if you ever actually saw the film.”
“It is not. I have an eidetic memory.”
“Eidetic memory is a myth. It does not exist.”
“Is that so? You said: Ingo understood that one cannot make a movie about the Unseen without flying in the face of their very…unseenness. He knew the only way to show the truth of the societally Unseen is not to show them. I said: So his movie about the Unseen shows nothing of their plight? You said: It only shows white people, and it is in the form of a relentless and distracting comedy. The disenfranchised remain off-screen. I said: So like every other movie. This is when the audience laughed, then applauded, then stomped their feet. You said: No. Ingo animated the Unseen. He just did not film it. He only remembered it. Their stories went to the grave with Ingo. I said: I see. You said: You don’t see. That is the very point. I said: Touché. You said: I’m the one who built his memorial in St. Augustine. I said: You mean this? Here I clicked a plastic remote in my hand, which projected a photo of Ingo’s memorial. You said: That is not my memorial to Ingo. I said: No, it is mine. You whined: But you do not exist. I said: My friend, I have not questioned your existence. I have been respectful and welcoming. I have invited you up onto the stage during an evening that is quite a special event to this audience and to myself. I would ask that you show me the same courtesy. Here the audience booed you. Someone threw a tomato that hit you in the chest. A rock hit you on the forehead. I said to the crowd: Please. We are not a violent people. Sorry! someone in the crowd responded. I said: Now, my friends, I have a special treat, a surprise, if you will. A first look at my coming Netflix series, the frame-by-frame re-creation of Ingo’s lost masterpiece. You said: Frame by frame? I said: Why, yes. You said: First of all, that is impossible, even if you ever actually saw the film. I said: It is not. I have an eidetic memory. You said: Eidetic memory is a myth. It does not exist. I said: Is that so? And that, my friend, brings us to now.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Oh, but it is.”
“It isn’t.”
“Tommy, can you play back the audio, please?”
The audio comes through the speakers: “ ‘Ingo understood that one cannot make a movie about the Unseen without flying in the face of their very…unseenness. He knew the only way to show the truth of the societally Unseen is not to show them. So his movie about the Unseen shows nothing of their plight? It only shows white people, and it is in the form of a relentless and distracting comedy. The disenfranchised remain off-screen. So like every other movie. [Laughter. Applause. Stomping] No. Ingo animated the Unseen. He just did not film it. He only remembered it. Their stories went to the grave with Ingo. I see. You don’t see. That is the very point. Touché. I’m the one who built his memorial in St. Augustine. You mean this? [The click of a plastic device] That is not my memorial to Ingo. No, it is mine. But you do not exist. My friend, I have not questioned your existence. I have been respectful and welcoming. I have invited you up onto the stage during an evening that is quite a special event to this audience and to myself. I would ask that you show me the same courtesy. [Booing. Sound of a tomato hitting a torso. Sound of a rock hitting a head] Please. We are not a violent people. Sorry! Now, my friends, I have a special treat, a surprise, if you will. A first look at my coming Netflix series, the frame-by-frame re-creation of Ingo’s lost masterpiece. Frame by frame? Why, yes. First of all, that is impossible, even if you ever actually saw the film. It is not. I have an eidetic memory. Eidetic memory is a myth. It does not exist. Is that so?’ And that, my friend, brings us to now. That’s not what I said. Oh, but it is. It isn’t. Tommy, can you play back the audio, please?”
The audio switches off.
“So then,” says my doppelgänger.
“OK, that was impressive. Good trick.”
“Thank you, my friend. Now may I continue with my evening?”
“Yeah, sure. I don’t even care anymore.”
“Thank you, my friend. So, my friends, without further ado, please enjoy a taste of what is to come.”
The lights dim and the Netflix logo appears on the screen behind us. It fades and is replaced by a shot traveling through the blackness of deep space, passing planets and meteors. A deep-voiced narrator speaks:
“In the Black Eye Galaxy, there is a world called Boreas-Hephaestus.”
We arrive at a planet engulfed in flames.
Narrator: “The side facing its sun is perpetually on fire.”
The camera circles the planet to discover a dark side, covered with ice.
Narrator: “The side away from it is forever covered in ice.”
The camera pushes in toward the planet.
Narrator: “This is the story of Madd and Molly, girl warriors who live on the border between the two and will fight the army of ice and the army of fire to save the innocent, exploited children of their land.”
The camera comes to rest on Madd and Molly, two young African Boreas-Hephaestian girls with sheathed penises and swords, who are strategizing over a map.