Zeitgeist Page 7

  She was silent for a full minute before speaking again. “Sometimes I feel stupid. I didn’t want to attend college. I fought my father. He agreed to a year off from school. I wish I’d gone. Valencia spoke about Delaney.com being used to artificially shape American culture, its beliefs and ideas, through results achieved through its search engine. I don’t know how the search engine works, other than that my father used a special algorithm to determine which novels showed up first, based upon specific keywords and other parameters. I remember him telling me once readers are impatient. Rather than go through a hundred novels, reading the descriptions and the first few pages on each, they’ll stop after the first six and make a choice, so those first six are the ones most frequently purchased.”

  “And she thought the first six novels to come up during a keyword search were preferentially determined by Whitley’s algorithm?”

  “Maybe. She talked about patterns that may or may not be coincidental. I thought she was a nut-job, and she did say something about her friends thinking she saw patterns where none existed.”

  She was quiet for a minute. A solitary tear traced a stop-and-go trail down the side of her face, but she didn’t wipe it away. Grant wondered whether she knew she was crying. “Then she and my father died, and I learned Whitley had contracted their deaths.”

  Grant attempted to digest the import of what she’d shared. If true, if Whitley Delaney was deliberately shaping America’s culture, what would be his purpose? How would it serve the head of the nation’s largest media retailer to artificially alter the nation’s beliefs and ideas? It didn’t make sense, not unless it had to do with an increase in wealth, but he had plenty of money. Why manufacture a need for more? “Does Whitley belong to any political party?”

  She seemed surprised by the question. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “What’s he like?”

  He saw anger again cross her face. His question had opened an old wound. “A stick in the mud. Puritanical. He got married yesterday. I saw the news coverage this morning. She’s pretty. Looks sweet, happy, and in love. I guess I was surprised. I shouldn’t have been, but I was.”

  “Is that why you’ve decided to go home, because you know he’ll be gone on his honeymoon?”

  She swiveled her face toward him, the brown eyes brilliant with anger and unshed tears. “I’ll ask you to remember I didn’t make this decision. You made it for me. And, yes, that’s my destination because he’ll be gone. He thinks I’m dead. I’m hoping he didn’t change the codes on the alarm system. There’d be no reason to do so, not when the only other two people who knew them are supposed to be dead. I’ll have Internet access there. I can use it to look for the patterns Valencia mentioned.”

  “I can help you with that. I know a little bit about research.”

  After another minute of silence, she spoke again. “I’ve been studying culture, trying to determine how someone could shape ideas and beliefs, but it’s a broad subject. Cultures consist of language, religion, fashion, art, music, rituals, cooking, lifestyles, relationships, taboos, trends, and all kinds of what they call ‘cultural universals.’ Because America has so many different types of people, it would be hard to make an overall change in ideas and beliefs.”

  “Not all that hard, especially through a media website like Delaney.com. Celebrities use the media to set culture-altering trends, especially when their stars are on the wane. Nudity is the latest trend. When Janet Jackson had her wardrobe malfunction at the Super Bowl, the public went up in arms about it. Now every has-been celebrity is pushing the envelope on public indecency laws to get his or her name in a headline. Sexting is another trend on the rise. Americans tell themselves they’re being original when they follow the latest trend, but soon so many people are following it that it’s no longer innovative but a common cultural practice.”

  “I haven’t been looking at appearances. I suppose the ‘zines and magazines Delaney.com sells might be used to set fashion trends, but I’ve been concentrating on book sales. That’s where the bulk of our sales come from, especially eBooks. First I studied American rituals, but even that’s too broad. Anything using fixed words or gestures, special dress or food, formal speech, traditions, or symbolism can be classified as a ritual. The Pledge of Allegiance, a wedding ceremony, Thanksgiving, a religious rite, even a weekly movie night—these are all rituals. I’m not seeing any disturbing patterns there. Lately, I’ve been researching the influence of language on civilizations, in particular, diction, a person’s word choice. For example, slang muddies a language, compromising clarity. So do general words, like good and bad. I think language would be closer to what a bookseller might be able to influence.”

  Her voice had softened, and she was no longer staring holes through the windshield. She appeared to have reconciled herself to his loathsome presence. The acceptance wouldn’t last long. Soon she’d remember how much she hated him and shut down again, but this was a start. They were having their first conversation. He’d thought they’d discuss sports and movies, not the artificial shaping of a culture.

  “It makes sense a book vendor would be able to shape language,” he replied, “but I can’t see how that would have a lasting effect on culture, unless it’s all about encouraging pedestrian writing. Good writing is a combination of all the arts: painting, music, poetry, even dance. It isn’t meant to be read; it’s meant to be experienced. Pedestrian, ho-hum writing, with its liberal application of slang and general diction, unvaried simple sentences, and familiar plots, makes for soporific prose, better suited as a sleeping aid.”

  “How would Whitley benefit from encouraging pedestrian writing?”

  Grand shrugged his shoulders. “It’s tough to say. If that’s indeed what he’s doing, then I’d hazard a guess it’s about politics, about keeping the farmers on the farm and the brainiacs in the office. For capitalism to work, there must be a disproportionately large working class to maintain the elite upper class, and for that proportion to remain static, the workers must remain satisfied with their lot. Karl Marx called religion the opiate of the masses, meaning it served to keep the workers satisfied and unquestioning.”

  He was losing her. He could tell by the frustration evident in the glance she tossed him. “And this would have what to do with books?”

  “Marx wrote that statement when fiction for the working class was in its infancy in the form of Penny Dreadfuls, sordid, serialized fiction. Prior to that, only the nobility could afford to read. Now, almost two centuries later, with the advent of self-publishing, we’ve entered a new era in fiction, an era in which anyone, no matter their qualifications, can publish a book. This is the era of the Ninety-Nine–Cent Deplorables, where a week’s worth of reading costs the same as one fast-food meal, where the average person spends more time reading each week than attending worship services. Emphases have changed in two centuries. What if books became the new opiate of the masses?”

  “That doesn’t make sense. While doing my research at the library, I saw lots of people working minimum-wage jobs who read books I, once a wealthy woman, couldn’t begin to understand.”

  “Working class in this context isn’t about financial status; working class is a state of mind. It’s complacency. Pedestrian writing could be used as a pacifier, with Soma Tomes serving as a means of keeping the workers satisfied and ignorant.”

  “Soma Tomes?”

  “That’s what I call time-passers requiring minimal interaction and limited thinking on the part of the reader, ‘soma’ being the drug used to diminish initiative among members of the lower castes in Huxley’s Brave New World, and ‘tome’ being another word for a book. I always keep a half-dozen or more Soma Tomes on hand for nights when I’m too wired to sleep.”

  “I don’t see how that could serve Whitley.”

  “I’m not saying that’s what’s happening. I’m just throwing out ideas here. Suppose Whitley’s political leanings were elitist, based on a fear of the Great Unwashed? He might enco
urage Soma Tomes, elevating them to the top of the list when certain keywords appeared in a search. After reading enough books doing nothing more than regurgitating tired plots while changing the character’s names and appearances and tweaking the setting, the readers become accustomed to instant gratification. Because the ending and everything leading up to it are predictable, the path taken to the conclusion invites skimming over pesky details encouraging such threats to the social order as critical thinking. A 300-page novel can be skimmed in one hour if the plot is simple enough.”

  She concentrated on passing a convoy of semis towing flat-rack trailers topped with massive tractors, and it was several minutes before she spoke again. “It sounds like you’re stereotyping the average reader, failing to give them credit for wanting more. Even if Whitley manipulated the data so the first six novels to come up in a given search were sleeping aids, what’s to prevent the readers from looking at novels seven through a hundred?”

  “Some will; most won’t. It’s learned behavior, sort of like B.F. Skinner’s operant conditioning. Put enough Soma Tomes in the public’s hands, and you wind up with a national brain freeze. A nice, simple Soma Tome asks nothing of the readers other than that they read one novel, set it down, read another while they forget about the first, set it down, and so on. White rats in a laboratory maze conditioned to following the same route over and over, they never vary from a secure path, and they gain nothing revolutionary in nature from the act of reading. No thoughts are provoked; no vocabulary is broadened; no questions are raised.”

  “Like the Dumbing Down of America?”

  “More like the Numbing Down of America. Sedatives in the form of the written word.”

  “You’re overanalyzing it and crediting Delaney.com with more influence than it actually has. Numbing down America would be beyond the scope of Delaney.com. It’s only one of a half-dozen major online book vendors. I’m leaning toward something simpler, wondering whether the slang and general diction has to do with comprehension. If people become accustomed to using slang and general words, then that would compromise clarity and specificity, and if they couldn’t communicate clearly and specifically, then that could contribute to misunderstandings, right?”

  This hadn’t occurred to him, but it had possibilities. “Has your research shown evidence of increased misunderstandings?”

  She glared at him. “How in the hell would I know?”

  Yep. He’d lost her. They hadn’t come as far as he’d hoped in the communication area. He was developing a sense of the woman. She’d said as much as she would, and their amiable conversation was at an end. It was as though she’d suddenly realized she’d opened herself up to him. He needed to take this in stages. Later, at her house, they’d look into what Valencia McDermott had discovered, trying to find patterns suggesting a shift in cultural beliefs and ideas. No, not a shift. A deliberate reshaping.

  What motivated Whitley Delaney? Why would a man in his position want to reshape cultural beliefs and ideas?

  Chapter 9

  Fiona glanced at the road sign. They were an hour away from Saint Paul. After Grant had made his remark about increased misunderstandings and she’d ended the conversation, he’d kept his mouth blessedly shut for a change, staring straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought.

  Grant Haldeman talked a lot for a man.

  She’d felt a twinge of self-recrimination when he’d spoken about the mental state of his supposed working class. Yes, she’d been born into wealth, but she’d spent the bulk of her existence seeking satisfaction of physical needs. However, she’d been a child for most of that existence. That should excuse her lack of interest in world affairs, shouldn’t it? She’d ask him if she gave a damn what he thought, which she didn’t.

  How would she know whether or not there were increased misunderstandings? Back when she’d been a carefree teenager, she’d never watched the news. She’d led an insular life, one devoted to having fun, with her biggest concerns having been whether or not her fake ID would pass scrutiny at the current nightclub and whether or not she was in a relationship. The news hadn’t interested her. Nothing on television had interested her, and she’d had no reason to watch or read the news.

  After her father’s death, she’d noticed an inordinate amount of senseless crimes— white cops shooting black men, black men shooting white cops, gay men and women being beaten and sometimes killed, anti-Semitic vandalism, mass shootings in places of worship—but she had no way of knowing whether these were on the rise. Had there always been this much violence in the world? If not, what, if anything, would its rise have to do with Whitley?

  Grant would have a better understanding of current events. He’d already demonstrated a better understanding of why a bookseller might want to alter the keywords algorithm. In all the time she’d spent studying cultural universals, she’d never once considered the impact of a constant diet of undemanding fiction on a reader’s acceptance of social standing. It bothered her to realize Grant would know whether senseless crime caused by misunderstandings had risen in the past several years.

  Before they’d begun their discussion of Soma Tomes, she’d felt on sure footing, certain of one thing: He needed her, but she didn’t need him. She could dump him by the side of the road and never regret it. Recognizing her need for him, for his knowledge and experience, angered her.

  Why in the hell did he have to come in and complicate everything? Fiona looked at him. “Why have you been stalking me?”

  He turned to her, his expression startled and then wary. She saw him struggle with the question before responding. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  Nothing he could have said would have made her loathe him more. Repeating Chad’s first words to her angered her to the point of speechlessness, and several seconds passed before she could again find her voice. “Forget I asked.” She glared at the road. One time, she lets her guard down. One time. She should have known better. She did know better. He was no different from the rest. No, he was worse. He pretended to want to help her. He’d fooled her. Oh, he was good.

  “That angers you,” he commented, his voice contemplative. “Why?”

  “Come off it! You’re here. You’re in my car. You’ve insinuated your loathsome presence into my life.” She whirled her face toward him. “But not into my bed. Is that clear? Never into my bed.” She turned back to the road.

  He didn’t speak. After a second, she darted a glance at him. He was staring at her, not in anger or pique or frustration. In compassion.

  How long had it been since anyone had looked at her like that? Tears rose, tears of self-pity, and she hated him even more than she had before. “What are you looking at?”

  He shook his head. “Never into your bed. I promise. Will that help?”

  “Like your promise means anything.” She said it and then didn’t like herself for having said it. What had she become? What had Whitley and Chad turned her into? She worked on finding her center, on spiraling away from anger and into harmony. Concentrating on modulating her tone, she asked, “Can we forget I asked the question?”

  “Okay. Can we talk about Valencia?”

  “I told you I don’t know anything about her. I went to her hotel room after the plane blew up. I found a metal suitcase with two guns, a lot of cash, a bag of gold American eagles, and two different ID’s. She’s connected to something or someone big. She told me the limits on all of my charge cards would equal one of hers. She came from Massachusetts. And that’s the sum total of my knowledge.”

  “If you exchanged purses, did you exchange phones, too?”

  “Yes, by accident. We forgot. I still have hers in the metal suitcase. I powered it on once, and it rang right away, like someone had been waiting for it to come on. The caller was a man. He looked like her. I thought he might be a brother. He asked where she’d been. He sounded worried. I was too afraid to respond, so I powered off the phone. I haven’t turned it on since.”

  “Why not?”


  “I don’t know whether her employer is good or bad. I do know her superiors must want answers. She’s been missing for three years. I don’t know how they’ll react when they find me instead.”

  “Do you think they’ll kill you?”

  “I don’t know. My guess is no, but I’m apparently not a great judge of people. I never would have guessed my brother wanted me dead or my”—she hesitated, reluctant to credit Chad with having been a lover—“boyfriend would accept the contract. My opinion is Valencia was a white hat, one of the good guys. She was troubled about what was happening on Daddy’s website. She cared enough about America’s culture to want to stop whatever was going on. I think she died because she cared. That’s what I think, but the guns and the passports introduce an unknown factor. Why would she need guns, cash, gold, and two identities? Is it possible she was lying, that she did want to hurt my father, but Whitley beat her to it?” She glanced at him, worried she may have set him off into one of his soliloquies. “That was a rhetorical question. No response is necessary.”

  “None planned. You think her people were in the two cars you saw on the Worthing road while we were leaving?”

  “I do. Whoever was in those vehicles weren’t connected with Chad, or he would have waited for them, and I can’t think of anyone else who’d be interested in Valencia’s whereabouts, well, interested enough to race to South Dakota when they learned she was there. My biggest fear about Valencia’s people is they’ll know I opened the suitcase and decide I know too much, posing a threat. What if she’s CIA or Interpol or a spy for some other covert agency?”

  She glanced at him again. “Will they be able to find evidence of me in your house?” When she saw him begin to ponder the question, she directed her attention back to the road. It would be just like him to have left photos of her somewhere, maybe buried in his pathetic flowerbed with its butt-ugly assortment of bedding plants supposed to bring cheer to an equally pathetic house.