Lee had been promising Kathy he would go with her to a Cafe Philosoph, an informal monthly meeting of people to talk about philosophy. There were apparently quite a few of them in Europe, especially France, and she had been going to one in Philadelphia. When she found one that met not far from him in New York, she begged Lee to join her, and he agreed.
It was Friday, so she came in by train after work, meeting him at his apartment before heading off for the meeting.
When she saw his bandaged arm, he spoke before she could ask about it.
"I had a run-in with a door."
"Yeah?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "And wait till I see what the door looks like?" "Very funny."
"Seriously, how do you have a-"
"I was angry and I punched out a glass door." He went into the kitchen.
She followed him. "Angry about what?"
"Everything." He began unloading the dishwasher, just so he didn't have to look at her.
"I can see you've given this some serious thought," she replied sarcastically as he slid a steak knife into the wooden rack on the counter. He kept unloading dishes as she stood, arms crossed, leaning on the wall next to the Italian spice cabinet he had bought for a song at the Eleventh Street Flea Market.
"Okay, I get the picture-you don't want to talk about it," she said, and went back into the living room. This time he followed her.
She sat down on the couch and put her feet up, kicking off her sandals. She had nice feet-small, well-formed, with high arches. Her nail polish was the color of dried blood.
"Was this before or after the lecture?" she said, plucking a grape from the ceramic bowl of fruit on the coffee table.
"Before."
"You could have mentioned it."
"I thought you had enough on your hands."
"Oh." She had been asked to join the team of specialists identifying the remains found at Ground Zero. There was little left of the victims, so what was left was that much more precious.
"How's that going?" he said.
She reached down for another grape, but changed her mind and leaned back against the couch. "I guess I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, I'm glad to help, but on the other… it's so hard."
"Yeah," he said, feeling the inadequacy of words in this situation.
"The whole thing is so… overwhelming."
"Are you sure you can handle it?"
"Oh, yeah, you know-I didn't go into this line of work expecting it to always be easy. It's just that this feels different, you know? The sheer scale of the disaster… it's hard not to feel a crushing sadness about it all."
"Yeah, I know." In the weeks afterward, he was down near Ground Zero meeting up with some friends-going downtown as often as possible, to spend money in the restaurants and shops, following the mayor's urging, to try and stave off some of the economic devastation that was just one of the many by-products of the tragedy. Suddenly, without warning, he was seized by a fit of sobbing so intense that he had to lean against the side of a building. A middle-aged woman with a kind face stopped and laid a hand on his shoulder, asking him if he was all right. He remembered nodding, helpless to stop the heaving sobs racking his body. The look on her face told him that she was aware of the reason for his weeping-no one in the city in those days remained untouched by what had happened.
Kathy got up from the couch, slipped her sandals back on, and stretched. "Well," she said, "we should get going."
Minutes later, strolling down Elizabeth Street, he thought that some semblance of peace was beginning to return to the city, though it was a jittery kind of normalcy. They walked through the burgeoning neighborhood that had recently been dubbed NoLita (North of Little Italy), where art students, Asian fashionistas, and would-be screenwriters mixed with the Italian and Latino working-class families who had lived there for generations. The night was balmy, and the trees along Ludlow Street swayed and rippled in the gentle breezes of late summer.
"No-lit-a?" Kathy said, when Lee told her where they were. "What is it with New York? Does every neighborhood have to have a trendy name?"
"I remember TriBeCa before it was called TriBeCa," Lee said. "It was just a jumble of industrial buildings, not anyplace you'd want to live."
"Wow," Kathy said. "And now no one can afford to live there-it's worse than Chelsea."
"So are you saying that in Phillie you don't name your neighborhoods?"
"Well, some of them, sure. But I don't think we have quite the same rabid zest for it you do."
"I see."
"Don't get me wrong," she said quickly. "This is a great town. It's just that everything is so-so intense, you know? People here are so self-conscious, so aware of the impression they're making."
"I know," he said, smiling as they passed an artsy couple all in black, very thin, perfectly Euro-chic. The woman's black heels clicked sharply on the pavement, and the man's pants were so tight that Lee wondered if he had to hold his breath when he sat down.
"Is your arm bothering you?" Kathy asked, glancing at the way he carried his bandaged forearm.
"No, it's fine," he lied. Even with the ibuprofen, it still throbbed insistently, but he wanted to get off the subject as quickly as possible.
The meeting was held at Le Poeme, a French/Corsican restaurant owned by a family who lived in the back of the building but seemed to do a lot of their living in the actual restaurant-there were always a couple of kids underfoot, as well as assorted dogs and cats.
When they arrived at La Poeme they were escorted to the rear of the restaurant by the owner, a tall, long-faced Gaul with rumpled gray hair, slumped shoulders, and a weary, benign expression. The back room was kind of a cross between a living room and a restaurant-the decor was an eclectic mix of objets trouves, secondhand furniture, discarded children's toys, and dusty spider plants. Furniture and knickknacks from various cultures and time periods lined the wall-blue and white Quimper pottery hung on the wall above a Regency-style couch complete with silk tassels, next to which sat a sturdy French country oak coffee table. Lee would have called it East Village chic, but since this was NoLita he supposed it would have to be called NoLita chic.
The philosophers straggled in one by one, looking very much like what you might expect. A tall, seedy Frenchman with baggy eyes wearing a tattered gray pullover arrived with his petite, sharp-eyed wife, chicly dressed in black spike-heeled boots and a miniskirt over black leggings.
A bearded Russian with tobacco-stained teeth strode in carrying a large leather-bound volume-Dostoevsky? Pushkin? Tolstoy? Lee couldn't make out the embossed lettering on the front, but it looked old and well worn. Perhaps the Russian had brought it to back up his points with quotes. A nervous-looking young man with an unforgiving crew cut and little round glasses looked as if he was either emulating the dissident German writer Bertolt Brecht or auditioning for the role of Motel the Tailor in Fiddler on the Roof. There were others, arriving alone and in groups of two or three. By the time they were ready to start, a dozen or so people had gathered at the tables and couches along the wall.
Even for New York, it was a strikingly European-looking crowd. Philosophy just wasn't an American pastime-it didn't drive fast or shoot or take its clothes off in public.
The moderator was a charismatic, soft-spoken man who taught philosophy at Baruch College, Bernard Elias. His skin was olive, but his accent suggested Paris rather than Cairo. His face and manner were charming, gracious, and kindly.
"We have a rather good turnout tonight," he observed, looking around the room. "I see a few new faces."
Lee stiffened, hoping he wouldn't ask them to introduce themselves, but to his relief, Elias continued.
"Those of you who are new, just a few quick ground rules. To avoid confusion or cross talk, we ask that you raise your hand to be recognized by the moderator before speaking. This week I'll be the moderator, though we often take turns-if other people volunteer to moderate, it's fine with me."
"You're still the best," the sharp-faced Frenchwoman said, and several other people nodded.
"Well, thank you, but my job is mostly just to keep things moving," Elias replied with a modest smile. Lee didn't doubt the Frenchwoman was right-Elias exuded warmth, and had a quiet self-confidence.
"Now then," he continued, "this week's topic was suggested by Jonathan." He nodded in the direction of the young man with the round glasses, who nodded back stiffly. "So it is our tradition to have him begin with the first comment-perhaps telling us why he chose this topic."
Jonathan removed his glasses and wiped them with his napkin.
"Well," he said, replacing them on his nose, "I have always been interested in the relationship between culture and language. The Japanese, for example, have no word for 'no'-only an elaborately polite way of avoiding saying yes. This tells you something about the way their culture operates."
Several people nodded and smiled. Jonathan was younger than most of them, and it appeared he functioned as a kind of mascot, or pet, of the group.
"So I was wondering what it says about our culture that we seem to place a lot of value on this word 'evil'-especially in the current political climate."
"Very timely, Jonathan," Elias said with a fatherly smile. "Would anyone care to comment?"
They discussed the connotation of the word as it relates to religion and sin, and whether or not the concept of evil existed at all outside religion. Most of the group agreed it did-and also that it seemed to exist as a concept in most cultures. Then they began to investigate where evil comes from, and whether it exists in the animal kingdom outside the realm of humans.
"It seems to me that animals have no moral sensibility," the chic Frenchwoman said. "Therefore their actions, no matter how vicious or cruel, could not be said to be evil."
"All right," said Elias. "So would you also say that a knowledge of right and wrong as defined by society is necessary in order to call an action-or, indeed, an individual-evil?"
As the others contemplated the question, Elias looked around the room, and his eyes fell on Lee and Kathy. She had offered one or two comments, but Lee had not yet spoken. Elias smiled at Lee.
"What do you think, Mr.-"
"Campbell," said Lee. "Call me Lee."
"Lee, then-what do you think?" Elias repeated.
Lee squirmed in his chair. He didn't want to throw the cold, hard light of criminal psychology into the discussion, but it was exactly what was needed.
"Well, in my profession I deal with criminals-"
"Oh, how interesting," the Frenchwoman said, leaning toward him, hands clasped in her lap. Her husband frowned and crossed his arms. "What's the difference between a sociopath and a psychopath?" she asked.
"It's subtle," Lee said, and went on to explain what a psychopath is. The group listened silently, a few people nodding when he gave examples of psychopathic behavior, and how it seemed to reflect an inability to feel compassion or empathy.
"So if they can't feel empathy, how can they know their actions are wrong?" the Russian asked, pouring himself more tea. He had a large pot of black tea on his table, and he held little bites of sugar cubes between his teeth as he drank.
"They know their actions are wrong," Lee answered. "They just don't care."
"Ah!" said the Russian, brandishing his book like a weapon. "But if they can't empathize with how their actions affect others, then how can they have a real sense of morality?"
"How do they… get like that?" asked Jonathan, the serious young man with the glasses.
"There's some indication this kind of hardwiring takes place when they are young," Lee said.
"How young?" said the Russian, concentrating so hard his bushy eyebrows almost touched.
Lee told the story of Ted Bundy's aunt waking up with the knives all around her bed, and everyone was suitably impressed.
"My God," said the Frenchwoman with a gasp. "How can you blame a five-year-old boy?"
"So does that mean evil exists but we're not responsible for its existence?" asked her husband.
"How old does someone have to be before their actions can be considered evil?" said Jonathan.
"Can they be… helped?" asked the Frenchwoman.
"We don't know for sure," Lee said, "but there is evidence to suggest that once this psychopathic personality is in place, no amount of therapy can change it."
The Russian slurped down some tea and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "It sounds as though these people lack a key component of what it means to be human."
"That's very tragic," said the Frenchwoman.
"So you're saying that this kind of monster can be created-through no fault of their own?" Elias asked Lee.
"And they can't be fixed?" the Frenchman added. "There is some indication that once those neural pathways have been laid down, there's no going back," Lee said. A pall fell over the group.
They went on to discuss the difference between evil deeds and evil people, and concluded that while no one was totally good, it was likely that no one was totally evil either. They did not revisit the issue of psychopathic personalities, perhaps because it was too depressing-Lee had the feeling his comments had upset them. Kathy added few more remarks, but he kept silent. No one invited him to comment further, which was just as well, he thought.
They ended on an upbeat note, with the agreement that if evil does exist, it is overshadowed by good more often than not. They took a vote on next week's topic of discussion, and "Is Happiness Attainable?" won.
The formal discussion over, they broke into small groups. Heads bent over their wineglasses, they continued their earnest discussion. Lee found it profoundly comforting that these people were willing to gather twice a month to tackle the Big Questions-wine or no wine, they clearly took their philosophy seriously.
He and Kathy stood next to a life-sized statue of Apollo and sipped their wine. Someone had covered his private parts with a yellow polka-dot bikini.
The French couple approached them, smiling; the serious young man they called Jonathan lingered just behind them, as if he wanted to be a part of the discussion, too, but was too shy to come forward.
"We found most interesting what you had to say," the Frenchman said.
"Yes," his sharp-faced wife agreed. Her accent was thicker than his, though Lee could tell from her English that she was educated in British schools. "Mon Dieu," she said with a little laugh, "how do you ever catch zese criminals?" "Well, sometimes we don't."
The French couple nodded and murmured something polite Lee didn't quite catch. Jonathan stepped forward at that moment, blushing.
"But when you do catch them, how do you do it?"
By this time anyone in the group who hadn't yet left the restaurant had gathered around to listen to what Lee had to say. The Russian stood at the back, clutching his thick volumes and pulling at his beard.
"Sometimes they make mistakes," Lee said. "They get sloppy or careless."
"Because zey wish to be caught?" the Frenchwoman said.
"Like Raskolnikov?" the Russian added hopefully.
"Not really. That would be nice, but most of the time these guys are eaten up in the end not by their crimes, but by the pressure of being on the run, having to look over their shoulder all the time."
The Frenchman nodded. "It is very stressful, being pursued, n'est-ce pas? Like your Raskolnikov," he added with a glance at the Russian.
The Russian scowled and clasped his books to his chest.
"So zey feel no remorse for what zey do?" the Frenchwoman asked.
Lee shook his head. "Remorse doesn't seem to be part of the equation with most of these killers. They never really see their victims as people."
"You mean people like Ted Bundy, for example?" Jonathan said.
"He's a good example," Lee said. "It's amazing they didn't catch him earlier. By skipping state to state, he managed to duck under every net they attempted to throw over him. Then, when they did finally collar him, he used his charm and skill to escape not once-but twice."
"So he was charming-but he was a monster," the Frenchman remarked.
"If anyone was, Bundy was. Like most serial predators, he dehumanized his victims in order to consummate his crimes-it's a switch he turns to the off position before he can continue. For most of us, that switch doesn't even exist. For the serial killer, it's part of what makes him who he is."
Lee was aware of a tugging on his sleeve and turned to see Kathy looking at him. The expression in her eyes was clear: she wanted to leave.
"Okay," he murmured, irritated that, having dragged him here, she now wanted to go.
Though he usually attempted to keep any memories of his father at bay, he heard Duncan Campbell's deep, sardonic baritone say, Isn't that just like a woman?