Miklos Zoltan

Miklos Zoltan

Our Man

This lift only travels between the entrance and the fifth floor. Members of the public cannot access the others. Helen says the restricted floors are no different, but our man wonders if she’s telling the truth. Though he attends these events to support her, he’s always hoping for a forbidden glimpse, something that would explain why she’s so cagey about her work. Maybe it’s just that he wouldn’t be able to understand what goes on here. As the lift climbs, our man imagines that if he were more accomplished—more like Helen—he would be able to see through its steel walls and into the Institute.

At the fifth floor’s front desk he signs in on a tablet. The greeter is a young, dark-haired woman he doesn’t recognize. She asks if he is here for the panel discussion.

Yes, our man says.

Great. Just go through those double doors and walk all the way to-

Cheers, he says. I’ve been here before. My wife is Dr. Helen Tsehay.

The world’s leading technology experts—in AI, robotics, genetic engineering, computational neuroscience, synthetic biology, and the rest of the disciplines by which our species’ future will be crafted—move to our small city in coastal New England to work at the Institute. The fifth floor feels like the office of a post-IPO start-up: glass walls, tablets beside every door, ubiquitous sterility. Our man can only dream of working here. He does not have the training or credentials. He is a pre-IPO human, unable to balance his books. He’s no longer fresh out of uni, and yet, despite the years of adulthood behind him, the office of his mind remains unkempt.

As our man takes a seat in the small auditorium, he catches Helen’s eye. She waves. Her public offering has been a smash hit. A research professor in Computational Neuroscience and one of the Institute’s rising stars, she features prominently in Institute marketing material. She’s just published a paper on neural implant methodologies that has had news outlets and Silicon Valley calling with interview requests and job offers. She’s the only woman on the panel, the only Black person. Our man is used to witnessing this dynamic. If this panel is like the others, Helen will quickly reveal herself to also be its smartest member.

(They married before it was obvious our man would become a nothing.)

As the moderator approaches the podium, a blue suit sits next to our man. He appears to be older, but not by much; our man reckons he’s in his late thirties. He has a five o’clock shadow and glistens with a light sheen of sweat. A few stray flyaways stick out at odd angles from his hair, which is otherwise combed back and glossily pomaded. He has the phenotype of the whitewashed American fifties. A Dad at the end of his day.

He holds out his hand for our man to shake.

Dan Burrow. I’m the new Director of Communications here at the Institute.

Nice to meet you, our man says.

He gives Dan Burrow his name just as the moderator begins talking. Their hands have unclasped, but Burrow’s touch lingers: the size, strength, and surety of his grip, the cream-softened skin of his palm.

So what brings you here?

I’m Helen Tsehay’s husband.

Oh. No way! She’s incredible. I loved how-

Yeah.

-she explained why it is so dangerous when people blur the line between neuroscience and computer science. She made it so clear. Like, before she spoke, I didn’t even understand how much I was confusing them. And that stuff about ethics was fascinating.

She’s actually been quite focused on ethics research lately.

Is that right? Well, she totally set that other guy straight.

Yeah, well, that guy is her boss, and he reports directly to the Superiors, so she might have some cleanup work to do.

Burrow mock-winces. Our man laughs—a little too much, he realizes. He has felt funny from the moment he picked up the synthetic cedar of Burrow’s cologne.

I suppose I should know that, Burrow says. You’ll have to forgive me. I’ve only been here a week.

(There is much for which Burrow will require forgiveness.)

The panel ends, but Helen continues talking with the other panelists and moderator up at the front. Most of the people who came to the talk have exited the room. Only our man and Burrow remain seated.

Burrow asks, So you’re from . . .

The UK. Helen and I met in London.

What do you do for work?

I work remotely for a company back home. Sales. Data management systems.

Good time to be in data.

Our man nods.

You don’t seem very excited about it, Burrow says.

I’ll admit it’s rather tough to get excited about my work when my wife is on the absolute cutting edge of research at a place like this.

Have you considered working for the Institute?

Are you kidding? I would love to. But my experience isn’t right. I mean, I’ve looked at the job descriptions before. My experience is all sales. I studied literature at uni.

We always have a need for more funding, Burrow says. Who do you think gets us the money so we can pay your wife? Of course, it’s called Development here, not sales.

And there are open positions?

Just like my job is called Communications, not marketing.

I mean, I’ve talked to Helen before about how much I’d love to work here—

Oh, forgive me. If it’s a marital thing.

No, not like that. She just says they wouldn’t want to hire somebody with my experience.

Well, she’s on the academic side, she wouldn’t necessarily know. They don’t have to worry about financial realities. But there’s an Institute to run. Why don’t I introduce you to the Director of Development?

Right now?

Why not?

Helen has freed herself from the other panelists and is walking towards them. Thick gold-dusted braids rustle on her shoulders. Both men stand.

Great job, love, says our man.

They kiss, hug.

Helen asks, Are you ready to go?

Ah, actually, this guy-

Dan Burrow, Director of Communications. Just joined the Institute. Great talk.

Burrow shakes Helen’s hand.

-was going to introduce me to someone.

I see, says Helen. Well, how long do you think it will be? I’d like to get home.

I took an Uber here, says our man. I can just Uber back.

Burrow offers our man a ride home. Our man accepts.

The moment Helen leaves, Burrow says, Are you sure you don’t want to go with her?

I’m sure, our man says. She’ll want to be alone anyway. She’ll probably be meditating for the rest of the night.

Burrow’s car is a low BMW with tinted windows. Before he starts it, he asks if our man wants to get a drink somewhere, or maybe just drive around for a bit.

He feels it too, our man thinks. So that’s what the whole Development charade was about. Oh well.

Our man says, I could go for a drive.

If our man has a talent, it’s for knowing what people want from him. He directs Burrow to a small park near his house where he and Helen sometimes walk. It’s bordered on two sides by water, two by land. A jetty extends from the easternmost corner of the park; at its tip sits a small lighthouse. The Institute is visible across the channel, five stacked rows of electric light.

Our man can feel an erection growing. He wants to touch himself, ejaculate so he can calm down, so he can go home and say to himself, Almost. So going forward he can live in his own projections of what might have happened. He considers excusing himself and retreating to one of the Porta-Potties across the car park. Returning to the car and asking to be brought home. Instead he stares across the water at our city and lets the silence press down on his hardening penis, which he flexes against his jeans while trying to think of something to say. He keeps expecting Burrow to break the silence, but the older man seems content with quiet.

The Director of Development seemed irritated that we interrupted him, our man finally says.

Burrow laughs and says, I don’t know, I think it was fine. He and I go way back. He’s the one who convinced me to join the Institute.

That makes more sense. I was thinking it was pretty reckless of a new hire to bring someone by on a ruse.

What do you mean?

Come on. I’ve looked at the postings. Even for Development positions, they want someone with technical experience and a STEM degree. I don’t have a prayer at working for the Institute.

You thought I was luring you out here, Burrow says, and still you came.

The shadow of a rogue strand of hair moves across Burrow’s forehead like a pendulum. Slowly, he leans forward, reaching for our man’s belt buckle. He unbuttons our man’s pants, unzips his jeans, inhales sharply through his nose when he feels that our man is already hard.

Our man is ten years and five thousand kilometers removed from the last time and place another man’s lips touched his cock. Burrow secures his prick, possesses it in a way Helen cannot. When she goes down on him, she’s timid; she never fully opens her mouth. Goes down, as if she’s entering some sad circle of Hell.

He tells himself to stop thinking of Helen.

(Our man’s will can be pulled this way and that.)

Later, as he drops our man off, Burrow continues to deny that he dangled the job in front of our man in order to seduce him. He tells our man to keep an eye on the postings and send the Director of Development a follow-up email with his resume.

Our man says he will. As he walks from Burrow’s car back to their house, he uses the tip of his tongue to clean Burrow’s come from the hollows of his cheeks, the insides of his teeth.

Helen seems to be in a bad mood when she gets home from work the next day. When she and our man leave for their evening walk, she barely speaks. He worries that she ran into Burrow at work and something was revealed. But when they get to the park—the same park he and Burrow visited last night—she loops her arm through his and briefly touches her ear to his shoulder. Our man relaxes.

The city is showing an outdoor movie tonight. They pass a line of cars creeping towards the entrance. A police officer directs traffic, filling the car park that was so empty the night before. Our man tells Helen about the possibility of a job at the Institute, about meeting the Director of Development.

Helen says, I didn’t like that guy you introduced me to. He seemed sketchy.

I looked at his LinkedIn. He’s got an impressive resume.

Maybe, Helen says, but he was very sketchy.

Our man knows not to ignore Helen’s intuition. But there is a part of him for which she does not, cannot, account.

Helen says, You don’t want to work at the Institute. You know what it’s been like for me.

Gravel crunches under their shoes and the tires of cars rolling beside them.

Our man begins to cross the road, but Helen pulls him back and says there’s a crosswalk up ahead.

Our man frees himself and says, What does it matter? The cars are moving so slowly.

A moment later the policeman shouts at them to stop. Our man forgoes his effort.

Told you so, Helen says.

You were saying.

After a moment of consideration, Helen says, You know I try not to dwell on the negative.

It’s still bad, is it?

She raises her eyebrows and tilts her head forward.

Of course it’s still bad. It’s still full of quiet racists, she says. The research they do is still as fucked-up as ever and they’re still greedy as hell. But I can’t tell you everything. You wouldn’t want me to.

If this job turns out to be real, maybe I won’t seem so unworthy, our man thinks. He checked the job boards this morning, sent the follow-up email Burrow told him to send. Nothing yet, but maybe Burrow will come through. Helen is right: there was a weird desperation to him, a manic thing just beneath his skin. But desperation can work in a man’s favor.

To Helen he says, Do you just not like the idea of me working at the Institute?

They’ve reached the crosswalk. The police officer glares at them as they wait. He lets two cars pass before halting the third and motioning them across. Helen increases her pace, walking ahead of our man, away from him.

In a low voice, he says to the police officer, Sorry about the jaywalking. She’s still getting the hang of things around here.

Four weeks, no new job postings. No reply to his follow-up email. He’s met with Burrow twice more, both times at Burrow’s apartment when they’re both ostensibly working. But our man has decided he’s done with this affair. This is the last time they’ll meet like this, he tells himself as he climbs the stairs to Burrow’s apartment. Our man has forced himself to accept that wanting something doesn’t make it real. There is no job for him.

He steps into Burrow’s living room, closes the door behind him.

Without preamble he says, I can’t keep doing this.

Good morning to you too.

Sorry.

No, I get it, Burrow says. You’re a good man. You can’t keep doing this to your wife.

Though these are not the terms by which our man has considered the affair, Burrow’s understanding comes as a pleasant surprise.

I saw her potential before anyone else did. Even before the Institute, our man says.

And you love her.

Yes. Love.

But love to our man is a foreign accomplishment, as foreign as accomplishment itself. As foreign as that nameless quality that allows a person like Helen to become so accomplished. Named or not, our man knows only the lack.

I don’t think you’re being honest with yourself, Burrow says, but I’m not going to beg you to change your mind.

Our man disagrees with Burrow but simply thanks him.

Burrow says, What about today, though? We haven’t truly fucked yet.

He has a mischievous smile. He steps forward and pushes his tongue into our man’s mouth. When the kiss breaks both men are panting. Soon Burrow is bent over his formica countertop. Dark curls of chest hair stick in the sweat on his back. Our man does not treat Burrow gently, and he neither expects nor desires Burrow to be gentle with him.

Afterwards, our man lies naked on the floor. Burrow, also naked but staning, hands him a glass of water.

Are you going to tell Helen about this?

I haven’t decided, our man says. She would probably be grateful for a pretext to leave me. I’m deadweight to her.

You really think she feels that way?

We got married in a rush, before we knew each other, before we were ready. And it turns out she’s one type of person and I’m another. What she’s overcome, what she’s accomplished.

Do you feel like you really know each other? Would she be surprised if she found out about us?

I could never achieve what she’s achieved, our man says.

You should let yourself have secrets, Burrow says. I bet she has secrets from you.

For the first time, our man wonders if Burrow is jealous. If his heart mightbe breaking right now. It has not yet occurred to him that Burrow has a heart to break, that he may have ensnared our man with a potential job at the Institute not because he’s some sort of predator but because he’s closeted and lonely.

Oh, believe me, I know, our man says. And you’re right. She probably wouldn’t want me to tell her. I’m good at knowing what people want from me.

He stretches himself out on the floor, grabs Burrow by the ankle, and pulls his lover close. He kisses his way from Burrow’s foot to his shin to his thighs to his waist. He rests his cheek on Burrow’s hip and wraps his arms around Burrow’s lower back. Later, leaving the apartment, he thinks he has failed in breaking it off, that they will see each other again soon. But he is wrong. Except for a few more texts—bored-sounding, spaced far apart—they do not interact for months.

Our man still checks the Institute’s job postings daily. He thinks he has come to accept that he was used, but each time he sees that there are zero jobs in Development he feels a fresh bitterness. It’s not directed towards Burrow, not really. Our man tries not to indulge delusions. He wanted what he got.

He does not tell Helen about his affair.

The call comes on the opposite side of the year from when our man met Burrow.

This is the Director of Development over at the Institute, the voice on the phone says. You and I met a few months ago. Dan Burrow introduced us.

I remember, our man says.

That’s right. You sent a follow-up. I’ve got your resume right here. We’ve got a new position in Development opening up. Would you be interested in interviewing for it?

Absolutely.

Burrow recommended you highly.

Helen taught our man how to identify love. Her power has been obvious from their first messages on Bumble. It seems like you see the world differently, she wrote. She had graduated Addis Ababa University with a bachelor’s in Computer Science and spent five years at University College London getting her doctorate. He was one year into his data management sales job.

She told him, I have to hide my ambition from everyone else. But not you.

I’m rather fond of your ambition.

For all my efforts to code it, the human body contains something uncomputable. I contain something uncomputable. It’s what gives me the will to fight. It’s what draws me to you.

Even then, he calculated that loving him made no sense for her. The only area where his skills exceeded hers was speaking English, an imbalance already well on its way to negation. When the Institute offered her a postdoctoral fellowship in the US, our man thought it meant goodbye. Instead, Helen suggested they get married. She was going to get a J-1 visa; he could get a J-2. He was astounded at his luck.

(The Institute has always had a knack for identifying top talent before it breaks out.)

Since then our man has treaded water in his home office while Helen has become a star, her postdoctoral fellowship a full professorship, her J-1 an H-1B. He remembers how, in the first few weeks after they’d moved here, Helen came home from the Institute with a storm in her eyes. She’d just had her first conversation with one of the Superiors, who told her that they loved to hire minorities at the Institute.

But, the Superior said, you’re not going to be one of the difficult ones, are you?

Our man held Helen, professed his rage and said he was sorry. He asked if she was worried about what she’d gotten herself into.

No, she replied, not really. Of course this shit is going on here. Sometimes it just really crawls under my skin.

But she has to admit that her relationship with the Institute has worked in her favor. Sure, in the first few years there were instances when she came home and wept and called the whole thing a big fucking joke. The Institute, the US, this idea of the West, all of it. But the storm would pass. She would stow her pain in some compartment and let her will drive her onward. Now she simply skips the storm. Her will keeps her quiet. It is one of her singular qualities, our man knows. One of the ingredients of her achievement.

(But his will, not fully knowable to him, is powerful too.)

The space between them has never been quieter. Not because of Burrow, our man assures himself, but because, since about the time of that panel, Helen has been burying herself more deeply in her work than ever. She’s failed to mention the accolades she wins; he learns about the biggest of them from a newspaper in a coffee shop: Institute Scientist Wins Top AI Prize. Beside the headline, she flashes a fake smile in a grainy photo. He and Helen are both stowing secrets.

To think she once said to him, in London, I don’t know if I can do this without you.

He chooses not to tell her about the interview for the Development job. The description for this role, like all the others he has seen, says it requires a STEM degree. He tells himself he won’t get past the first round. But he does, and not only that, it’s the only round. The Director of Development soon calls to offer him the job. Our man accepts on the spot.

The Director of Development says, You’re British, right? What kind of visa are you on?

H-4. My spouse is Dr. Helen Tsehay, if you remember.

I should be able to help you get your own H-1B.

This secret can only be stowed for so long. Days before he is due to start, they’re sitting on the couch, she on her computer, our man pretending to be on his phone.

Over the sound of her typing he says, I got a new job, love. I start next week.

What?

She stops typing and turns to him, eyebrows furrowed, lips closed.

Yeah. I was quite nervous to tell you, because it’s at the Institute. You know how I met Dan Burrow at your panel-

You cannot be fucking serious.

I know I should have told you. It happened rather quickly.

Helen says our man’s name once, sharply.

It’s that Development job he was talking about a few months ago. It turned out to be legit. I interviewed last week.

You got a job at the place where I work and you hid it from me. You got a job there. After everything I’ve gone through. After everything I’ve said.

Well, you haven’t really said that much.

I’ve said more than enough.

And frankly, why is it that you get to tell me where and where not to work?

This is too much. I need a minute.

Helen slams her laptop shut, stands up, and exits the room. He hears her stomp upstairs. Seconds later a door slams; she’s in her office, no doubt, sitting on her meditation cushion. Our man reflects that there was probably no way she wouldn’t be upset. But she doesn’t even know about the whole pathetic escapade. It might leave less room for misunderstanding if she did. Oh, by the way, he might say when she comes back, Also, that guy Burrow? I fucked him.

Our man thinks that anyone observing closely enough would pronounce his marriage doomed. Yet when Helen returns her tone has softened, and she calls him yene mar, Amharic for my honey. It’s been a long time since he’s heard those words, and some foreign mass inside him shifts when she says them. He does not disclose his affair.

I need to show you something, she says.

Helen takes a thumb drive from her pocket and plugs it into her laptop. Rows upon rows of files appear on her screen. DICOMs, JPEGs, PDFs. .csv, .txt, .ipynb, .eml, .png. The microscopic thumbnails beside image files are red, yellow, pink, green, blue, black-and-white.

These all contain evidence of Institute ethics breaches, she says. Data privacy violations, suppression of evidence regarding harms their commercialized products cause, human subject testing violations, knowledge of bias, straight-up academic fraud, it’s all here. It’s very bad. It will take them down, I think, once I put it in the hands of the right people.

Helen, how long have you-

Years. I mean some of this is years old. But I only made up my mind to go public once the Superiors suspended my ethics initiative and the place became intolerable. For reasons I thought you understood.

So you’re planning on doing something with this. Who are you going to send it to?

Ethics committees first. NIH, NSF. Then maybe the media. But my case has to be watertight. I still need some time, she says. And what I’m doing is illegal. This contains a ton of private data that the Institute forbids us from moving off of their servers. Once I send it off, I should be protected. But not before. They’d fire me. Our visas would be revoked. And they’d probably be able to cover their asses.

You’re not planning on working there after you do this, are you?

No, no, I’ve researched this, and I’d have a clear-cut whistleblower protection case. I would be able to find another job, she says.

All right, but-

So you can’t join. Soon the Institute is going to be a sinking ship. An awful place to work. Especially as my husband.

So it’s all over. Moving here, building a career here, all of it, our man says.

I think some of them have a hunch about what I’m doing, but I’ve been very careful. There’s no evidence I’ve taken anything.

Our man says, Are you sure you want to do this?

Helen stares at him.

Do I need to show you? Do I need to go through the files so you can see how wrong it is? They make data out the most intimate details of people’s lives and build digital twins of human beings so they can learn how to manipulate them. Predict their every thought. Control their every move.

She’s yelling now.

It’s so utterly and completely fucked, she continues. There was a researcher who used his own DNA to make a superprotein and then injected it into his wife while she slept. He’s dead now, thank God, but-

All right, all right, our man says.

So you can’t work there. Right? You need to rescind your acceptance.

Okay. I’ll call them tomorrow.

Throughout the entire next day our man marvels at his wife afresh. At her talent, at her determination. Working as the Institute’s star researcher while secretly planning its downfall. Keeping it hidden from the Superiors. Fighting a silent battle, alone, and expecting him to follow along when she decides it is time. He’s never been in such awe of her will.

(His is unlike hers.)

When Helen comes home the next night, she asks him if he called the Institute and declined the job offer.

Yes, he lies.

On the first day of his new job, our man takes an Uber to the Institute well after Helen has driven herself to work. The timing is not a problem: Helen leaves no later than seven every morning.

The Development offices are on the fifth floor, while Helen’s is on the third, but he’s still anxious that he’ll see her somewhere. He likely doesn’t have much time before she finds out. He sits through a morning of generic onboarding meetings, especially nervous because some newly hired researchers from Computational Neuroscience are present. The first block of meetings ends just before lunch. He’s setting up his Institute email account when Burrow appears in front of him.

It’s good to see you, Burrow says. I told you it wasn’t a ruse. Congratulations.

He shakes our man’s hand.

Thank you, Dan. Really. I mean it.

Of course. Couldn’t have gone to a more deserving person.

He has forgotten how appealing he finds Burrow physically. The broad shoulders of his blue suit shine. Not a strand of hair is out of place this morning. Blood surges in our man’s veins as Burrow makes the request our man has been waiting for.

The Superiors want to have a word with you. I think they want to welcome you to the Institute.

Right now?

Right now.

Our man stands up and walks to the lift, enters it. This one goes to any floor he wants. He worries the brushed steel doors will open and Helen will be standing there, but the lift opens into a windowless hallway lit by LEDs. There is only one door at its very end.

Our man doesn’t waste time. He moves briskly, as if he’s running late. Behind the door to the Superiors’ office there is only one large room where we sit behind a long table.

I apologize, our man says. Is now a good time? Dan Burrow said-

No need to apologize, we reply. We summoned you!

It’s an honor to meet you, especially on my very first day. I am thrilled to have this job. Thank you for bringing me on.

We’ve had our eye on you. We’re very excited about your skill and your ambition. Your will to succeed. You’ve been our man for a while now.

That’s very kind of you.

You are the husband of Dr. Helen Tsehay, one of our best researchers.

That’s right.

Is it possible, we ask, that you have something of hers to give us? Something, perhaps, that should not be hers?

I do, says our man.

If it occurs to him that he could still turn around, exit the room, and return to the elevator that brought him down here, he gives us no indication. He reaches into his pocket as if his limbs are made of steel and wire. Then, thumb drive in hand, our man approaches the table.

Miklos Zoltan’s work also appears in The Adroit Journal and F(r)iction. He writes the Substack Myth, Man, Machine.