The Thanatos Syndrome

belong. Among my own people. And a way of life.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œDo you understand? What do you think?”
    â€œYes.” What I’m thinking is that Louisiana fishermen would not dream of speaking of such things, of my own people, of a way of life. If there is such a thing as a Southern way of life, part of it has to do with not speaking of it.
    â€œTom, I’m what you call a jack-of-all-trades, master of none. I do all right, but I’m not really first-rate. I’ve been a pretty good physiologist, computer hacker, soccer bum, bridge bum, realtor, you name it. I went to Harvard and M.I.T. and did all right—I was a real hacker at M.I.T. and not bad at Harvard, but they were not for me, too many nerds at one, too many wimps at the other. So I cut out and headed for the territory like Huck. I chucked it all—except the kids.”
    â€œDon’t you run the computer division at Mitsy?”
    â€œYeah, but it’s routine, checking out systems and trying to keep the local yokels from messing up—we don’t need another T.M.I. No, if I’d been first-rate I’d have gone from hacking to A.I.”
    â€œA.I.?”
    â€œArtificial intelligence, Tom. That’s where it’s at. As you well know—don’t think I don’t know your work on localizing cortical function.”
    â€œI’ve gotten away from that.”
    â€œTom, you’ve no idea what’s around the corner. It’s a scientific revolution to end all revolutions. But I’m out of it now— quite content to be back where I started from.”
    â€œWhere are you from originally, Van?”
    â€œNot a hundred miles from here. Port Gibson. Did you know the general was born there?”
    â€œWhat general?”
    â€œEarl Van Dorn.”
    â€œYou related?”
    â€œHow can there be two Van Dorns from Port Gibson without being kinfolks?”
    â€œI see.”
    I watch Van Dorn as he lounges at his ease, head cocked, eyes squinted up at the cypresses. He’s not as handsome as his picture in Dixie. His handsomeness is spoiled by the heaviness of his face and jaw, his pocked skin, the coldness of his blue eyes in the shadow of his sun helmet, humorless even when he is smiling. But he does remind me of an Afrika Corps officer, the heavy handsome face, helmeted, the steel-blue eyes, even the skin so heavily pocked on the cheeks that it looks like a saber scar.
    â€œDo you enjoy bridge?” I ask, watching him.
    â€œLet me put it this way, Tom. It was fun, I was good at it, and I made a living. Now I don’t have to. Do you play?”
    â€œNo. A little in college. All I remember is the Blackwood convention. When you bid four no-trump you’re asking for aces.”
    He laughs. “Still do—with modifications.”
    â€œTell me something, Van,” I say, watching him over my beer can. “What is mud?”
    â€œMud?” He takes a long swig, holds the can against his forehead. “You mean as in drilling mud?”
    â€œNo, a bridge term.”
    â€œOh.” He laughs. “You mean mud as in M.U.D. You do know something. That means the middle of three cards in an unbid suit. It’s an opening lead and tells your partner something.”
    â€œI see. How about Schenken?”
    â€œSchenken? Oh, I get it. Ellen must be talking bridge. That’s an Italian bidding system.”
    â€œK.S.?”
    â€œSame thing.”
    â€œRoth-Steiner?”
    â€œSame, though it sounds German. Ellen goes for the Italian systems—and she’s good. Say, what—”
    â€œHow about Azalea?”
    Van Dorn frowns. “Azalea?”
    â€œThe Azalea convention.”
    â€œOh.” He smiles as he shakes his head slowly, rolling his forehead against the beer can. “That’s a wild one. Not Azalea—you had me confused. Azazel. The Azazel convention. After the fallen angel.”
    â€œWhat is the Azazel convention?”
    â€œIt means you’re in a hell of a mess. It is a way of minimizing loss.”
    â€œHow does it work?”
    â€œIt’s in the bidding. If you discover that you and your partner are bidding different suits and are at cross purposes and over your heads, you signal to her that it is better for her to go down in her suit. We’ll lose less that way. You do it by bidding your opponents’ suit for one round.”
    â€œYou mean if your opponents are bidding