Free Glyph by Percival Everett

bathing after having found a husband. He was, of course, Voltaire’s Pangloss, but this Leibniz was the approval-seeking, optimistic, and shallow Leibniz and the more interesting Leibniz remained stashed in the backs of his desk drawers and under his bed. It occurred to me as I considered the man, sitting in my high chair, listening to Inflato hold forth, that the likes of my father might say that it was sad that Leibniz kept the good work under the bed. I thought that it was lamentable that the work did not remain there, safe from the ravages of fame seekers, of name builders, of dogma feeders. Tell your ideas not to talk to strangers. Don’t let your ideas play in the street. Don’t give your ideas any toys with pieces so small that they might choke on them.
vita nova
    Pink and white oleanders lined the long drive; the rain that was falling heavily during most of the trip along the highway was now a drizzle. The wipers of the car struck a sick, intermittent cadence, hard to count and unsteeling as I contemplated just how far from my home I was. It didn’t matter that I was in the same state and not on the other side of the globe. What mattered was that my mother didn’t know where I was. What mattered was that my mother was clinging desperately to the hope that I was still alive, a little baby in the world of bad weather, people, and ideas. I imagined my mother wailing, sitting on the floor of the room where her child once slept, screaming unintelligible sounds through the night, disturbing the sympathetic neighbors, and exciting a few far-off coyotes. Inflato might be holding her, or standing away, leaning on the doorjamb, wanting himself to cry out, but not having the presence, the security, the lack of self-consciousness, lacking the femininity for such pure response, and wanting to help his wife but feeling lost to the task.
    The drive was neat, maintained with precision, no doubt, by little professional men who came every other day in pickups held together with baling wire. The tires of the sedan kicked up pebbles and threw them wildly beneath the undercarriage. The estate, the hospital, sanitarium, criminal retreat was soft pink stucco nestled in a stand of palms. The main lodge and its outlying structures were roofed with red tiles, all the buildings showing the curves of archways and balconies. It looked like a secret place. It looked quiet and covert in spite of the several people who walked about, invidious, pernicious, sinister. I could sense in Boris an apprehension, but Steimmel was beside herself with excitement, almost bouncing in her seat.
    “I’ve reserved three buildings for my work,” she said. “The subject will sleep in the lab. We’ll use the remaining two as living quarters.”
    “This place gives me the creeps,” Boris said. “All of those turns and dirt roads. I would never have known this was here.”
    “That’s the point, Boris. I’ve spent every cent I have for this secrecy. And it damn well better remain secret. Do you catch my drift?”
    “Yes, Dr. Steimmel.”
    “That means no calls to that little girlfriend of yours. That means no calls to that little boyfriend of yours. And that especially means, no calls to your mother.” Steimmel stared at him.
    “I get it. I get it.”
Vexierbild
    Dear Bertrand,
    Imagine that I ask you to take the kettle from the stove. You look over and see steam rising from its spout. It will whistle shortly. You understand my request and you walk over and remove it from the burner. If you have initiative, you will make the tea. But suppose further, that there is no kettle and that indeed there is no stove. Suppose that we are sitting at a tennis match and I say, “Would you please remove the kettle from the stove?” There are those who will claim that you understand the meaning of my words, but not the meaning 6 of my words. When, in fact, you do not understand anything. You might look at me and think, “Did I hear Luddy correctly?” or you might