"This won’t be easy to say," Armando says.
I sink to my knees in the soft pine needles. I know what’s coming, but I don’t blame Armando. I don’t blame him any more than I blame the machines that scream and weep when I pass by. What else are they supposed to do, when innocent children are dying in the streets?
"I want you to know that I support you." Armando leans against a tree. "I even kind of admire you, Caspar. You seem so… connected to things, you know? It’s just… it’s getting a little hard to be around you."
"It’s okay," I whisper. "I understand."
"I’ve got my own headaches, you know," Armando says. "I need to work on me for a while. And that’s pretty tough to do when things keep exploding and dying all the time."
I don’t answer. I notice a movement in the trees. A deer approaches, soft-stepping and shy.
"Be optimistic," Armando says. "That’s my advice. Stay positive. I think that’s the way to beat this thing."
The deer is an ad-deer, painted on both sides—something for the hunters to enjoy while taking aim. I read only half the message on its flank before it sees me and skips away.
Relax, the message says. Don’t worry. You too can have firm and beautiful knees.
When I get home, the foyer is dark. But not for long. As soon as I enter, the door begins to weep. The ceiling fills with hurrying flame. Burning people run toward me from within the phantasmal walls. Even the floor is a field of carnage. As I walk to the kitchen, I tread on the faces of the maimed.
The kitchen cabinets tell me that churches are burning, that dogs are starving, that a human-rights worker has been killed by forced detegumentation. I open the fridge and take out a tub of four-milk, sumac-seasoned Georgian matzoon.
The living room is being strafed by an airplane. I sit on the couch as children run and scream.
People like to say that you can get used to anything. I know for a fact that this isn’t true. You can get used to bombs. You can get used to gunfire. But you could live as long as God, you could see all he has seen, and you would never get used to the cries of suffering children.
When Lisa comes home, I’m staring into my tub of matzoon, surrounded by faces.
"There you are," she says, as though being here is a crime.
She goes into the bedroom, which has become a simulation of a torture chamber. Wires curl in curdled blood. A video cat bats a severed thumb. Lisa changes into sweatsocks and jeans. When she comes back into the living room, the faces are still here, hanging all around me, silent and staring.
"Who are these people?" Lisa says, waving. "Gangbangers? Apparatchiks? Assassins?"
I set aside my matzoon. Suddenly I’m angry. I don’t know who the faces are either, but I know this: They are mine. They are faces I will see again, watching from the walls of trains, the tiles above urinals, the backs of cereal boxes. They are faces I will see in my sleep, the way a murderer sees his victims. They are my memories, my future, my dreams.
"What difference," I say, "does it make to you?"
Lisa stands over me. Her face is like the faces I see on the street, those strangers who turn to stare in disgust at the man who brings war and death in his wake.
"How dare you?" Lisa says. "How dare you take that tone? I’m dying, Caspar. I’ve put up with this for eight months."
Eight months—is that all it’s been?
"You think I’m callous?" says Lisa. "You think I don’t care? Look at yourself."
"What about me?" I say.
Lisa stares. The walls and her face become the color of fire. Something has been building, I see that now. Something has been developing, slowly, fatally, like a war.
"What am I supposed to say," Lisa says, "to a man who sits here eating yogurt while people are being tortured all around him? What am I supposed to say to a man who loafs around the apartment, day after day, watching rapes and massacres? What am I supposed to say to a man who barely turns his head when he hears a woman screaming?"
"I didn’t ask for this," I say.
"You don’t seem to mind it."
I stand. The matzoon container tips and rolls, dribbling white drool. I’m so upset I feel like I’m hovering, suspended in the center of an endless explosion.
"I’ve lost my friends," I say. "I’ve lost my job. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. You think this is hard for you? Maybe what I need right now is some support."
"So that’s what it comes to?" Lisa says. "That your pain is bigger than my pain? Really?" She points at the wall. "What about them?"
I hold out my arms. I turn in a circle. The room is a killing field now, a farm of bones, and my hands move up and down slowly, as if to try and raise the dead.
"They’re not me," I say. "They’re not my problem."
"No," says Lisa, heading for the door. "They are."
When the door closes, I walk numbly through the apartment. Missiles arc overhead. Tanks roll.
"What are you going to do?" I say to the sobbing television.
Great works of culture are burning in the hall. "Caspar," I say to the bloody bedroom, "what are you going to do?"
Outside my window, ad-bugs mill in the night, patterned and phosphorescent, preprogrammed and minute, tiny pixies of light forming pictures of men and women with perfect chins and ears. I stare at these ideal people hovering in the dark, the angels of adspace, so familiar from a thousand daily visions, and realize that what makes them beautiful is not their shapely skulls, their tight skin, their healthy flesh, but their heroic unconcern—untroubled by conscience, unburdened by expectations, they smile for an instant before flickering away into the night.
I sink to my knees.
"Caspar D. Luckinbill," I say to the bedroom floor, "what are you going to do?"
In the floor I see a body, curled like a twist of wire. The face is obscure, but I would know this man anywhere. I would know him by his NVC alone—hunched with self-pity, shivering with guilt. And I know exactly what I’m going to do.
Mediaterrorism is not a concept. Mediaterrorism is an experience. Every day a new victim is targeted. Make no mistake: it could happen to you.
I wrote that for the voice-over of the teleplay of the documentary I helped to prepare for the British division of a Persian television network. I believe every word, but that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that everyone else believes it.
It’s a sunny summer day, and I’m walking to the downtown office of the nonprofit organization of which I am founder, spokesman, and president. I don’t worry about jaywalking these days. The light on the corner recognizes me, arranges for me to cross. Money will do that for you. Money has its ways. And money, thank God, is now on my side.
The doors of the building greet me by name. No bombs, no blood, no assaultive sounds. The fake plant in the lobby waves a welcoming leaf. "Caspar D. Luckinbill," says the elevator, "welcome! What can I do for you today?"
Inside the elevator, an ad-droid is painting a picture on the doors. It’s a picture of my face, from the cover of Zeit-Life Magazine. In this picture, my eyes have been artificially narrowed, my skin artificially loosened. Everything about me has been made to look harrowed and gaunt. Special Report, the caption reads. The Human Face of Mediaterrorism.
I ride the elevator to the fourteenth floor. In my office, Betty lies on her back, screening the new television special. Thanks to the office Ubervision, the image beams from the ceiling. The walls are a forest of virtual, tranquil trees.