The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [140]
“… acht, sieben, sechs …”
Is that Dr. Vorta? In a countdown? I turned to the audience again, and this time saw the blurred image of my mother, as if through tears, the way I saw her when my father died. Head bent, eyes shut, fists clenched. I can’t let her down!
“ … drei, zwei …”
Someone from the audience was walking towards the stage … Heliodora Locke!
Words filled the air, and I suddenly realised they came from my lips: “‘Take three ounces of the breath of the wind, three ounces of the rays of the sun and three of the rays of the moon …’”
“Continue.”
“‘Mix them carefully in a bottomless mortar and expose them to the air for three months. For a further three months pound the mixture, then pour it into a shallow bowl with holes in the bottom.’”
Dr. Vorta looked down at his card. Was he nodding or shaking his head?
“What is Youssef Islam’s former name?”
“What?” I must have misheard—that’s got nothing to do with the subject. Do I win the money or not?
“What is Youssef Islam’s former name?”
My brain was splitting, my mouth empty of saliva, I couldn’t form words. I looked around for water. My glass was empty. “Cat Stevens,” I rasped.
“Which of the following words are not of Arabic descent: alchemy, assassin,alcohol, scarlet, checkmate, zenith?”
“But … they all are.”
“What is the etymology of the second word mentioned?”
“I … I don’t understand. ‘Assassin’ comes from an Arabic word for a consumer of hashish.”
“Who wrote the novel Zabibah and the King?”
A light was now shining in my face. My mother’s hunter’s lamp. Held by Dr. Vorta. “Saddam Hussein.”
“Who wrote The Village is the Village, the Land is the Land, the Suicide of the Spaceman and Other Stories?”
“Colonel Muammar Qaddafi.”
“Who is the father of Arab chemistry? And where and when did he die?”
“Jabir ibn Hayyan. Kufah, Iraq. 815.”
“Who is Persia’s ‘Prince of Physicians’ and what was his legacy?”
“Avicenna. His Canon of Medicine is the most famous single book in the history of medicine, in both East and West.”
“How many synapses are in the brain?”
“But what’s that got to do with—”
“How many synapses are in the brain?”
I once asked my dad this same question. What was his answer? “There are as many synapses in the brain as there are stars in the sky.”
“Correct. The inventor of the television—please put your answer in the form of a question.”
I lowered my head, put my hand over my eyes. “Who is Vladimir Zworykin?”
“The goddess of memory, and mother of the Muses.”
“Who is Mnemosyne?”
“An audio question coming up. I want you to tell me the name of the composer and piece.”
I listened to the first two bars. Key of D. “Stephen Foster. ‘Swanee River.’”
“Do you have, or have you ever had, sexual fantasies with regard to your mother?”
“No.”
“Correct. Have you had with Samira Darwish?”
“Yes.”
APPLAUSE sign.
“When you were one and a half, what was the colour of your bib? Was it (a) green; (b) white; (c) yellow; or (d) red?”
“It was none of those colours.”
“Correct.”
“Dr. Vorta, why are you asking me these questions? They have nothing to do with—”
“We’re going to keep going until you miss one.”
“But … why? You’re going to ask an impossible question, an unanswerable question …”
“Using the Nato alphabet, spell and then define ‘olibanum.’”
“What? This isn’t a spelling bee.”
“You were the Quebec champion in ’79, were you not?”
“Yes, but … we were never asked to define the word.”
“Spell and define ‘oh-LIB-anum.’”
“Olibanum: Oscar, Lima, India, Bravo, Alpha, November, Uniform, Mike. It was used in Arabia as an embalming agent. It’s also called frankincense.”
“Correct. Do you know who committed the two acts of arson?”
“No.”
“Do you think it was me?”
“No.”
“Do you think it was your mother?”
“No.”
“She has lit fires before.”
“It wasn’t her, all right?”
“Then who was