Manjula Padmanabhan
THE WISH
[A man stands alone under a spotlight. He is attractively middle-aged, urbane, well-dressed. He looks towards the audience and talks in a friendly, conversational voice. He has something to lean against, ideally a bar while he half-perches upon a bar-stool, but a lectern will do as well. There is a large, bright cartoonish push button switch in clear view, on the lectern/bar]
MAN: We had a visitor the other day, my wife and I. It was a
Sunday and we were alone, no cook. It’s an arrangement
we like − gives us one day in the week when there’s no-one
else in the house but us. (smiles) You know how it is. A
little space to ourselves.
The door-bell rings. I answer it. There’s a woman standing
there, looking so gorgeous she literally drains light from
the sky. Front, back, sideways (mimes glory in face and
form) − whoohoo! She’s wearing a slinky black outfit that
shimmers in the gale-force wind blowing in around her.
I can hear the Sunday newspapers thrashing about in the
room behind me, as I stand there with my tongue wrapped
around my ankles.
She says, “Ah, thank you! May I come in?” Then she’s
inside and I don’t remember if I stepped aside or whether
she just walked through me.
I stammer, “D-do I … know you?”
She flashes a blinding smile. “You do now!” she says.
My wife appears. She’s wearing her Sunday caftan and her
face is one big question-mark.
“Hello!” says the woman, flashing at my wife too. “Pleased
to meet you! It’s a great day to be alive, isn’t it?”
My wife and I exchange glances. I say, “Uhhh … sorry, but
I − we …”
She interrupts me: “You don’t recognize me, right? That’s
okay − hardly anyone does these days!” says the woman.
“But the important question isn’t who I am … ” she pauses
dramatically, looking from my wife to me and back to my
wife. “It’s who YOU are.” She looks expectantly at both of
us, as if she’s got this whole scene rehearsed and is waiting
for us to respond to our cues. “Who you want to be. Today,
tomorrow and for the rest of your lives…”
I can hear my heart hammering − whump-whump-whump −
like a diesel-generator. With every pore of my skin I know
there’s something wrong with this woman. Something
dangerous. I open my mouth −
But she body-slams me with one glance and says − “You’re
going to ask me to leave aren’t you? − Yes! − and you
don’t even know why! But I’ll tell you why − because I
can see into your head. It’s because you’re scared. Scared
to confront your own deeper self − scared of your dreams
− your fears −”
I raise my hands, and I’m not sure why I do that, it’s like
I’m defending myself. “Look − Miss − I don’t know who
you are or what you’re selling, but we don’t want it. Okay?
It’s a Sunday, and we like to be alone on Sundays −”
But she just laughs at me! She’s got a wild laugh. Throws
her head back. “Alone?! Hahahahaaaa! Hahahaha. Alone.
Of course you want to be alone! And that’s what I’m here
to help you do. Make that alone-liness possible for you!
Yesssss. I can arrange it for you − just for you! − if that’s
what you really want −”
My wife turns to me. “Who IS this?”
And the woman whips her head around in that serpentine
way she has and says, “Thanks for asking, Sweetie! I go
by many names …” She pauses like a model on the ramp,
inviting us to complete her statement for her. But we
don’t.
“It doesn’t matter who you are,” says my wife. “My
husband’s told you to leave. I think you should leave.”
“Oh my dears, my dears!” says the woman, “Don’t you
understand? The time for choices of THAT sort is over.
There are other choices at your disposal − but we’ve not
got around to talking about them yet have we? Noooo.
We haven’t.”
She turns to me. “Your lives are about to change more
fundamentally than you ever imagined possible and all
you’re thinking about at this moment is whether or not
you’re going to have to call the police.”
I say, “Whatever. Please. Just … go. Okay? Go!”
“No,” says the woman. “Sorry, but I won’t. I’m here for a
purpose and I’ll stay till I’m done and −” My wife has got
her cellphone out but the mystery woman whips it out of
my wife’s hands quick as a flash − I literally don’t see her
move, she’s that fast “− no phone calls either. Okay? Not
till I say it’s okay −”
“Okay?” says my wife, her voice sharp and angry. “What
d’you mean ‘okay’ − we’re in our own home − you’re the
intruder −”
“The Universe is a dangerous place, dearie,” says the
woman. “Believe me, I should know.” Again she pauses, as
if daring us to guess her identity. Then she looks straight
at me and suddenly I feel the blood draining out of me,
like water draining out of a bathtub. Every last ounce of
heat and warmth vanishes with a ghastly gurgling sound
that only I can hear, inside my head. I’ve looked into the
woman’s eyes and for the first time I notice that instead of
pupils, she’s got the whole Universe in there − the starry
blackness of deep space, complete with nebulae and spiral
galaxies. Inside her eyes. I try to look away, but I can’t.
“That’s right,” she says to me, in a matter-of-fact voice, “I
may look human, but I’m not. I go by many names −” She
stops herself. “But I’ll spare you the list. For the moment,
let’s just say my name’s … Bonny. And I’m here to offer
you a special, once-in-a-lifetime free wish −’
“A − what?” asks my wife. But I interrupt her. I tell her
to look into the woman’s eyes. “There’s no point wasting
time,” I say. “We’ve probably got about three seconds
before we’ll have to make some unimaginable life and
death decision − no multiple choice answers, no friends
to call. We’ll get one shot, and it’s a lock, like it or not.”
I’ve got to hand it to my wife – no doubts or denials − she’s
straight into attack. “I don’t care who you are or what
you are,” she spits out at the woman or manifestation
or whatever the crap she is, “I’ve never been a believer
in hocus-pocus and I’m not going to start now! So you
just take your wishes and leave this house this minute or
I’ll − I’ll −” She runs out of steam. She’s looked into the
woman’s eyes. She’s smart enough to realize there’s no
point threatening a supernatural visitor.
“Excellent − you’ve both seen reason − and so quickly too!
I like that,” says Bonny in her purring, sex-nanny voice.
“You can’t get rid of me so we might as well play this game
by my rules.” She turns her head from one to the other of
us, then decides on me. “You!” she says. “You’ve always
wanted to do something for the world and all the people
in it, haven’t you? You’ve always believed you knew what
the solution to the world’s problems was. Well − now’s
your chance! I have an offer to make to you. A wonderful,
magical, super-deluxe offer − it’s right up your alley. It’s
what you’ve always talked about.”
“Ummm …” I say warily. “Meaning what?”
“Don’t speak to her!” my wife says to me. “Tell her to
stuff her filthy free wishes up a neutron star and leave
us alone!” But I shush her. The fact is, I’m curious now.
I want to know what the offer is. You see, over the years,
I have had a couple of ideas about how to improve this
sorry little planet on which we live. Well, only one, really.
And it’s nothing profound or complicated. It’s the kind
of idea that most of us have had at some time or another,
but we’d never want to talk about it out loud.
Bonny knows, of course. “You’re right,” she says. “It’s a
common idea. Lots of people try it out in the heads. Some
try it out in reality, but they’re only human and they fail
miserably. But I’m here today to offer you the chance to
make it happen.” Her eyes are digging into mine, like twin
depth charges, delving down into the most hidden, buried
reaches of my being. “Come on. Admit that you know what
I’m talking about −”
“Not a clue,” I say. But my voice is down to a whisper.
“Pure moonshine and psycho-babble −”
“Hah!” she says. “Liar! But okay, if you’re going to be
coy, I’ll spell it out for you: you believe the world would
be better off if a couple of billion people were to vanish
from it, am I right? Well − AM I?”
She waits for me to nod. Mind you, I’m not proud about
this, I know it’s not nice, but − you want omelettes? You’ve
got to break eggs. That’s a simple, ordinary, every day
fact and I’m the kind of guy who’s willing to face it. This
world is over-crowded? We’ve got to remove people. “All
right, then,” says Bonny. “Now’s your chance. I can help
you make it happen −”
There’s sweat trickling down the middle of my back. “What
d’you mean?” I ask.
“I’m the ultimate people-remover. I can clear out whole
cities. Whole continents. As easy as this!” she snaps her
fingers. “Best of all, for today’s special offer, I can do it with
a minimum of pain and horror. Your victims won’t suffer
even a moment’s premonition or anxiety. One moment
they’re here and the next moment − zap! − gone. Deceased.
Dematerialized. No mortal remains to clear up or dispose
of, no mass-graves, no funeral parlours. No mess, no fuss.”
She pauses. “So … what d’you say?”
Out of thin air, she plucks a smooth round push-button
and places it on the dining table − this thing here.
[MAN indicates the switch-thing sitting on the lectern/bar − he picks it up to make it clear that it’s not connected to any wires, it’s an item all by itself]
She points to the button and says, “This button is how
you’ll do it. Think up a number and press the button.
Immediately, that number of people will cease to exist
− well okay, not immediately but … close enough. I’ll stop
time for you so you can do it calmly, without stress.”
My wife’s pulling at my arm, my mind’s buzzing with
static and in front of me, there’s that button. I admit I
am tempted. Over-population is the scourge of our times
− who can deny it? Everywhere you look, there are hungry
little mouths, clinging little hands … an ever-increasing
tide of tiny crawling bodies, with not enough air, water
or land to keep them alive when they grow up. Every time
you switch on the TV there’s at least one shot of a starving
mother, turning her hollow cheeks towards you, daring
you to change the channel on her. And of course you do
it − I do it − I change the channel on starving mothers all
the time. But as I click away, I’m also thinking: wouldn’t
it be great if we could change the channel … FOREVER?
There are names for people who think like me: mass −
murderer; terrorist; monster arch villains of our species. The
worst of the worst. Yet… look at me! I’m not a bad guy. I
don’t hate people! And I don’t want anyone to suffer. But
chiefly, I don’t want me to suffer − I don’t want my wife
to turn into that starving mother on TV − I don’t want
my children appearing on the nine o’clock news covered
in flies and blood. I want my children and my children’s
children − and everyone I know and care about − and all
their children − to live comfortably and happily forever
and ever.
At the same time, I know it’s not possible. There’s not
enough space, there’s not enough time, and there’s too
many people.
So what’s a man to do? Under typical circumstances,
nothing. Send a few contributions to charity and change
the channel until …
Until there’s a knock on the door and I’m offered a button
to press, and a choice to make. A choice that’ll make the
world a safer, better place for everyone I know and love,
and for all their children and for all the children yet to
come. What should I do? What should any thinking person
do?
I turn to Bonny and say, “No suffering? You’re sure of
that? What about all the grieving relatives, all the people
left behind?” If I’m going to do this thing at all, I’m going
to do it right. I’m not going to fart around. I’m going
to eliminate three point five billion people, minimum.
Whatever it takes, whatever represents half the world’s
human population. And I’m going to be impartial. Men,
women, children, the weak, the strong, the sick, the healthy
− my chopping block will accommodate all, without
distinctions of caste, creed or colour.
“Believe me,” she says, and somehow, it’s easy to believe
someone who’s got the Universe stashed away inside
her skull, “they’ll blink out of the record, as neatly and
completely as if they’d never existed. There will be no
retribution, no enquiries, no consequences −”
My wife’s tugging at my tee-shirt behind me. She’s wailing
at me, “Are you crazy? There’s GOT to be consequences!
Have you thought about what’s in it for her? Deals like this
never come free − !” My wife and I are not religious. We
don’t go to any churches, temples or mosques. We don’t
believe in immortal souls or after-lives or before-lives. Yet I
know exactly what she’s thinking. The only time we’ve ever
come across deals like this, it’s been in books and stories,
and in those books and stories, the person handing out
the registration forms is called the Devil.
Sharp as a pin, Bonny turns to my wife and says, “Sweetie
− ordinarily? You’d be right to be concerned. Souls are lost,
reputations are ruined, operas get written. But this time,
as it happens, it’s a genuine, no-strings policy. There are
no forfeits. No hidden clauses −”
My wife’s voice is low now and her eyes are frightened.
“Who are you?” she asks again. “What is your name?” But
the time for answers is over.
I turn to Bonny and say, “Look. I’m going to accept your
offer. Actually, you probably knew that all along, so this
silly charade of me making a choice is − just that, right?
A charade. So let’s get on with it. You said I had to name
a number and −”
Bonny’s smile is gentle this time, it has less teeth in it.
She says, “All right, listen up − but don’t worry, I can
always repeat myself. Time is no longer an issue. If you
feel confused, you can stop to ask me questions and I will
explain whatever needs explaining, as patiently and slowly
as you might need.
“You decide how many people you want to remove. If
you want to specify male or female, age or ability, specific
human communities, religious groups or racial types −
you can do it. Just say out loud what your choice is. Then
when you’re ready to begin, press the button. A face will
appear to you, of a victim. If you press the button again,
that person will dematerialize and your next victim will
appear. And so on.
“Remember, time has stopped for you: you will feel no
fatigue, no loss of attention. Each successive victim will
seem as fresh to you as the very first one − and that’ll go
on and on, for however many victims you choose, until
you’ve eliminated the number you set out to eliminate.
After that you’ll be returned to normal time, with no
ill-effects and no reprisals. The only rule is that once you
terminate someone, he or she can’t be brought back to
life. What’s dead is dead.”
My wife’s pleading fades into the background. I turn to face
the button. “I’m ready to begin,” I say. “I wish to terminate
one half of the world’s current population, whatever it is.
I will not discriminate against any racial or physical type. I
would like the widest possible geographical mix of people,
selected randomly.” Then I look at Bonny and she nods
to me, telling me to press the button.
[MAN mimes his own actions as he describes them. A slide show begins as he talks and the images match whatever he says]
The moment I do that, a face appears to me. It’s a woman’s
face, a young woman. Around seventeen. Her face is blown
up huge, so that I can see every pore of her warm, brown
skin, every eye-lash, every grain of her wide, dark eyes.
She can’t see me, but I can see her and not only that, I
can hear her thoughts − no, more than that: my mind is
merged with her mind. So, yes, she’s seventeen, she’s on
the brink of college, she’s got a boy-friend whom she loves
and another one whom she merely flirts with − and well,
you get the picture: all her thoughts, memories, emotions
and ideas, wants, hurts and fears are made known to me in
a single instant. Meanwhile I retain awareness of my own
thoughts and memories.
Frankly − [slight chuckle] I mean − there’s no question
about it: I can’t just cancel out this young person’s life!
She’s … oh, come on! She’s cute, she’s a girl, she … doesn’t
fit the profile. I look at Bonny. Bonny looks back at me.
“What’s the matter?” she asks.
“For my first victim,” I say, “I think I … well, I’d rather
have a more … generic person.”
“There are no generic people,” says Bonny. “Every person
is specific. But never mind: if you have an image in your
mind of a generic person, this is the time to spell it out.
Go on − just do it. This is your show. No-one’s going to
criticize you or make you eat your words. Describe to us
what you mean −”
So I give it a try. “All right, I’d like the first person to be a
man. A middle-aged man − I guess someone a bit like me
but − okay, not … you know … maybe not Indian because
I don’t want any of my friends or relatives to show up −
but Asian, any kind of Asian − well, all right, let’s just say
a brown-skinned man, middle-aged, medium height −”
“Press the button,” says Bonny. So I press it.
Immediately, he appears. A middle-aged man, his face blown
up huge. He looks roughly middle-eastern. As before, his
eyes are open and my mind is merged with his and I retain
awareness of my own thoughts and memories.
I realize that he has a wife, three children and an ailing
mother − I know every detail of his life. What takes
my breath away is that the ordinariness of this life is,
simultaneously, the most extraordinary thing about it.
The details are different but − give or take a few sisters,
nephews-in-law and second cousins he could be me! He is
me − except he’s a stranger whom I’ll never meet.
I feel a disturbance deep within me. I do not want this
man to die.
Once again, I glance at Bonny. Perhaps there’s a frown on
my forehead. “All right, I’ll pass on this guy too,” I say.
“He’s … well, he’s in the mid-stream of his life, he’s healthy,
he’s happy, he’s … just … ” I shrug. “He’s an ordinary guy
and it’s not his time yet.”
Bonny says, “That’s okay. No rush − take as long as you
wish. You won’t age or lose points or anything. Maybe the
trick lies in being more specific? Don’t be afraid! You’re
saving the planet! Think about the kind of person you’d
like to cancel out of existence.”
“You’re right. Maybe I’ve not got the hang of it yet,” I say.
“How about this: a man again, this time a young punk, a
real low-life. He’s a drug-peddler and a pimp …”
My mind fills again. This time I see a firm young face, male.
He has slanted eyes, and full, thick eyebrows. His head is
shaved and he has a tattoo on his left cheek, of a scorpion.
For an instant, I am disgusted by him − then his thoughts
become my thoughts. Fear is his constant companion − and
it becomes my constant companion too. Hunger gnaws at
his gut and at my gut too. The pain of frequent failures,
the exhilaration of defeating a street rival, the sweetness
of a honeydew melon − all these and much more pass into
my possession.
Yes, he raped his sister, as a result of which she ran away
from home, became a foul-mouthed slut and died before
her twelfth birthday. But the punk’s elder brother is a saint:
he’s the family’s bread-winner, works as a shop assistant
by day and runs a road-side stall at night. The punk loves
him − hey, the punk feels love! Who would’ve thought
it? − he adores his elder brother and dreams one day of
being like him, legitimate and clean, a pillar of society.
The father of the family vanished years ago. The mother
is dying of cancer and there’s no-one to care for her except
the punk. Every morning, every evening, before going out
to deal his drugs, he washes her with his bare hands and
lights candles for her in church.
The young man’s skin is peach-brown and hairless, his face
is so taut and fresh it’s almost edible. Yes, his life so far has
been, and still is, brutish − but it is also unbearably tragic.
He is just sixteen. There are tears stinging my eyes.
“Not him either,” I mutter.
Bonny says, “Maybe you should try random selection again?
I think your notion of villains isn’t working out the way
you thought it would …”
[if slides are used, the selection now flicks by with only brief pauses, showing the widest possible variations on the human type]
Briefly I return to random selection. I get sweet-faced
nurses and rheumy-eyed grandmothers, god-fearing Irish
dock-workers and ancient Botswana farmers tilling their
fields under the blazing sun. I turn to Bonny and say, “It’s
not working. I can’t manage with this kind of selection! I
need to find people who I … I … don’t mind despatching!”
She nods understandingly and tells me to keep trying.
So I go back to certified bad-guys: gunrunners, mobsters,
cold-blooded torturers − torturers! Can you believe this?
You’d think a torturer would be impossible to sympathize
with! But no, it makes no a difference. I get a pale, thin-
faced man, East European, perhaps. I look into his eyes, I
see what he sees and pain convulses me like a dozen tidal
waves at once. The pain of ultimate horror, of degradation
and self-hate. The torment of being despicable on
command, of tearing out nails for a living, of becoming the
stuff of nightmares, of clinging to tiny shreds of decency,
then losing them to the stench of body fluids, to screams,
to curses. Day after day. The torturer sits in his den of
suffering, clutching his own child’s picture to his heart,
savouring memories − a golden summer’s day, the taste
of his wife’s cooking, the sound of a mandolin −
“Not him,” I whisper, “not him.” My eyes are damp − for
a torturer! Ahh − I hate myself, I curse my sentimentality.
I’m trying to save the world and here I am sympathizing
with worthless scum!
I trawl the lower depths of humanity. I ask for hired
assassins and drug-crazed whores, serial rapists and suicide
bombers. I ask for arms dealers and filthy politicians, I ask
for pimps and flesh-peddlers, caste-murderers and drug
lords − but each time, every time, the story is the same:
the moment I can hear their thoughts, I cannot push the
button.
I try to go lower down the scale. I ask for a sociopath, a
man who works as a paid assassin and kills for pleasure.
I get a guy with a face like an angel and an inner life so
heady, it’s like a multi-coloured carnival − he’s a human
firework, forever bursting, forever glorious. Yes, he has
no moral compass − yes, he’s without remorse and feels
no pain or sympathy for anyone − but oh, the serenity he
knows! He performs like an artist, with clarity and even
a certain crazed kindliness: he believes he’s the angel of
death, doing God’s work. He believes he is kinder and more
compassionate than the surgeons who use scalpels instead
of thumb-screws, prolonging the lives of those too ill to
protect themselves. Unlike cancer or old age, the death he
provides is quick and painless. He smiles in his sleep.
I tip-toe away from him, shaken, awe-struck.
I ask for a drug-crazed whore − hoping to find someone so
degenerate that I’ll be able to dispose of her happily, as a
favour to her. I ask that she be grotesquely ugly so that my
task is not compromised by pity. Believe me, I am growing
desperate. I want so much to begin my purge of humanity!
I am sent a woman who is bald and pock-marked, covered
with tattooes and infested with every form of venereal
disease known to humankind. My hand hovers over the
button, ready to plunge but … when my mind merges with
hers, I discover she lives only for her daughter, a sweet-faced
innocent ten-year-old girl who lives with a neighbour, goes
to school and thinks her mother died in childbirth. The
whore paints her face, wears her wigs, turns twenty tricks a
night, is routinely locked up and raped by policemen only
so that by day, she can sit in the street corner and catch a
glimpse of her child playing in the park.
My eyes are streaming. I pass.
I ask now for a serial-rapist, a desperate, angry, filthy being.
Someone who destroys the lives of women remorselessly,
someone whom I can feel righteous about despatching.
But even as I form my description, the doubts begin. Sure
enough: I get a mean, hungry predator, a man with a keen,
fierce knowledge of where and when and how to strike. He
lives at the knife edge of extreme desire, always searching,
always frantic. His fire is lit by another person’s screams,
so − yes − he is despicable … as despicable as anyone who
places his own desires ahead of anyone else’s − his own
desire for omelettes ahead of someone else’s eggs. Like the
imperialist who steals from one country to make his own
country rich. Like the mother who starves her daughters
so that her son can eat. Like the religious leader who burns
down mosques or temples so that his mosque or temple
can be built. Like me, for placing my ideas for a better life
ahead of the lives of three point five billion others …
So, yes: I crawl away from the serial-rapist, appalled and
humbled.
And so it is, so it is − with every type of person I pull up.
Good or bad, when I can look directly into their eyes, and
think their thoughts, breathe their breath, I cannot pull
the plug on their lives. Child-molesters and terrorists,
smugglers and bandits, car-jackers and sex-traffickers −
once I’m inside their heads, the heat of their lives is like
a volcano of sensation − even for the brain-dead! The
mentally deficient! The depraved and the suicidal!
The anorexic girl who eats half an apple a month, who looks
like the walking dead, who lives only for that moment
when someone will nourish her with love, not food! The
autistic boy who lives in a world of beautiful abstractions,
marred by the continuous distraction of those whom we
call normal! The old lady with Alzheimer’s, so deficient in
brain activity that all she can produce, when I encounter
her, is a sad, simple twittering: I am, I am, I am. I … I … I …
Am.
For all, for every one, that hypnotic song: I am, I am, I am.
The force of life within each living being is a torrent, a
tornado, a furnace that burns so fiercely that I am cooked
to a crisp from the first moment of contact.
My eyes are streaming − I am dazzled, I am undone. It’s
not that I feel sorry for each person I encounter. It’s that
I realize in a way I never understood before, the terrifying
sweetness of being alive.
For kings and lepers, saints and fiends − it makes no
difference: the sweetness is the same. And that’s terrifying,
isn’t? To know that every single breath is more precious
to the mouth to which it belongs, than a thousand
mountains made of gold. That for all our separate vanities
and ambitions, all our colours and convictions, we are
threaded along a single strand of air, like beads along a
necklace that is seven billion people long.
And I could not snip a single bead away from its fellows
without destroying the entire necklace. Not a single one.
You would think that I would grow bored or de-sensitized
or jaded − but of course, I do not. As Bonny told me from
the start, I am living outside of time. So there’s no sensory
overload, no numbing down, no fatigue. Every person is
the first person. Every story is the best story. Every life is
unique.
I feel so outraged! If only I could press that stupid button
without having to experience each separate life before I
snuff it out! If only I had faceless, anonymous numbers
to deal with! I turn to Bonny and I beg her to let me just
state my number and press my button. That way, I can
succeed in my mission, which is humanitarian, after all,
it’s for everyone’s benefit, if only I could Just Do It. But she
shakes her head and tells me what I already know: there’s
only one way she’ll let me do it and that’s her way.
I don’t give up easily. I persevere through hundreds of
would-be victims. But in the end I turn to Bonny in
defeat. “I can’t go on,” I admit. “I want to end this stupid
experiment, this simulation, this booby-trapped wish!
Without detachment, how can I perform?” My eyes are
streaming freely. I have no idea whether I’m crying for
myself or for the planet or for all the individual lives whose
stories have left me raw.
This cruel travesty of a wish − offering me the chance to
save the world, while showing me that I’m so weak and
sentimental I can’t terminate even one person, never mind
three point five billion. Who IS this Bonny? I find myself
wanting desperately to know.
My wife is standing beside me. She is quiet too and has
tucked her hand into mine. Her face is wet. We are both
trembling. I don’t know yet what she’s understood of my
experience, but I suspect she saw whatever I saw.