July 10, 2018--Audiological Tale: Fox News (Concluded)

Ten days later, when I was scheduled to bring back my loaner hearing aid and pick up my new one, Rona and I drove up to Rockport.

In Dr. Schwartzberg's office, before he could fit me with the new device, Rona said to Gary, "I think I know what you're up to."

He immediately put on his blank face. Clearly he was moving to protect himself from who knew what.

"From the day we last saw you, less than two weeks ago, I've noticed changes in Steven's behavior." Rona paused to see if he would engage her or just keep on staring.

It was unusual for Rona to take the lead while at his office. After a moment she continued, "I could be wrong about this because I didn't keep notes of what I was observing."

Engaged now, Gary said, "This is sounding interesting. Please, tell me what you've been noticing and what you make of it." He slid his chair toward Rona but close enough to me so that I would be able to hear everything, even if either of them spoke softly. I thought so I wouldn't feel left out and think they were whispering about my condition behind my back. 

"Like you, Steven is progressive. Politically." Gary nodded, "On his blog he frequently writes about political issues." Gary rolled his eyes as he knew I was more than interested in what was going on--I was obsessed. "He is so involved with trying to figure out what is happening that in addition to gobbling up everything he can find that's critical of Trump and his supporters he even samples what's being broadcast on middle-of-the-night rightwing talk radio, especially Fox News."

I jumped in, saying, "It's not that I spend a lot of time listening to what they're saying, how they spin things, it's more as Rona says, to understand them better, to know what we're up against. So I check them out. There's just so much that I can take of the likes of Sean Hannity or the well-named Michael Savage, whose real name, by the way, also is appropriate--Michael Weiner."

"That's his story," with an edge, Rona said, shrugging in my direction.

"So then what's your story?" Now eager to hear, Gary slid closer to her.

"Since we saw you he's been doing a lot more than checking out what's on the conservative media. For example, he's been spending more time than usual tuned in to that Trump enabler, Laura Ingraham. Even at times watching her whole show." She folded her arms across her chest and vibrated her foot so violently I was afraid she was going to topple out of her chair. 

Gary was now smiling broadly. He asked me, "Do you have anything to report?"

"I don't agree," I waved toward Rona, "I'll admit that I tend at times perhaps to be a little over-involved," Rona snorted, "But there's no way I would watch more than a few minutes of Laura Ingraham's show. I find her to be part of the Trump propaganda machine. I maybe turn her on for five or ten minutes to see what's she's up to and to get a preview of what Trump's talking points will be the next day since Fox helps set his agenda."

"So what do you make of that?" he asked Rona.

"It's bogus. Baloney. Like I said, last night, I swear, he watched her entire show. And worse, I saw him nodding his head. Nodding his head because of something she said! Next thing you know he'll be wanting Fox to rehire Bill O'Reilly."

A tense silence descended between Rona and me. We had never spatted while with Gary. Some of the hearing loss issues are tense and emotional. I hate to be so hard of hearing and as a result need hearing aids. Depend upon them. It's an aging thing, and always Rona has been beyond sensitive to my frustrations about the inevitable lose of some of my powers. So we always tread lightly about anything potentially too upsetting when in Gary's office.

I sensed that he was uncomfortable witnessing our increasing edginess. 

Finally, he said, "I don't want to put you through any more of this."

"You're behind this?" I said, "About what Rona claims is happening? Whatever that is?"

He looked away, but, nodding, said, "Yes. I was running a little experiment with you."

"An experiment with me? Without letting me know?" I was upset but also relieved.  Maybe whatever he had to say would help reconcile Rona and me.

"Forget the CIA business you brought up the last time you were here. And all the things you wrote last year. The stories you made up."

I said, "I'm beginning to sense that rather than your wanting us to forget about the CIA because there's nothing there it's because there is something there. A connection to you that you are trying to keep hidden. Maybe even in regard to this little experiment you mentioned. It's just as I've suspected for two years. There's a covert side to you." I raised my hands triumphantly and swung around toward Rona, who was looking quizzically at Gary.

"Before you come to any conclusions let me explain." Not waiting for either of us to respond, he said, "You know I'm interested in neurology. A lot of my involvement with hearing and its correction is neurological. How the brain adapts to the loss of hearing, or, for that matter, sight. If one ear or eye has a problem the brain adjusts. As some would describe the process, it remaps itself. If there is lose of brain function--including how it effects hearing or sight--other parts of the brain have at least some capacity to take over. You recall when I first fit you for hearing aids we went through a three-month process of adjustments. As your brain got used to the hearing aids I tuned to one level what you were hearing began to feel more and more comfortable, more natural. As if you didn't have aids at all. And then I pushed their capacity a little higher and over a few weeks your brain adapted again. Remapped itself."

"I remember all that," I said, "It was fascinating and you described it at the time very well." I was moving slowly to consider letting him off the hook.

"Switching subjects," he said, "As someone as politically interested as you I thought you might like to participate in my little experiment. I couldn't tell you about it in advance--maybe all things considered and how you both reacted, I should have. I didn't and I apologize for that, even though it would have spoiled the experiment. Because then there would have been the placebo effect."

"Get to the point," I said, "You have patients in the waiting room. And to tell you the truth all of this is exhausting me."

Pressing on, Gary said, "Are you aware of the experiments and literature in behavior genetics that suggest a large portion of one's political ideology is genetically influenced? Some reputable scientists claim that up to 40 percent of our political attitudes could be hardwired in our DNA. Not subject to external influence. Like what gets said on Fox or MSNBC. That doesn't affect us at all."

I said, in fact I have read about this. Including in a book by Hibbing called Predisposed. "It's controversial but if even half true it's important to understand and deal with the reality. It would help explain some of the behavior of the hard right."

"And," Rona said, "Let's not forget the hard left. They or we can be pretty rigid too about political issues."

"Touché," Gary said, now smiling again. "For example, there have been findings that suggest openness to experience, which can in large part be genetic, predicts liberal ideology and conscientiousness, also in part genetic, often goes with a conservative orientation."

"Again, though interesting, how does this relate to your so-called little experiment?"

"I know of course that Steven is a liberal and if the science about this is accurate a large part of that may be genetically predisposed. As with the rest of us. Let's say the genetics of this is true. What we don't know is if any of the predisposed part might be alterable. Or is it untouchable. Once a Democrat always a Democrat. Or a conservative. Political campaigns as a result tend to focus pretty exclusively on the non-hardwired part of the electorate. Which is understandable. With my neurological interest I'm interested in the non-genetically-influenced part."

Attempting to follow, though exhausted, Rona and I were intrigued. 

Sensing this, with enthusiasm, Gary said, "Though it is claimed that we can't do much about what's hardwired, maybe in fact we can in various, yes, covert ways, affect the way people think and ultimate vote. And so . . . think about what might be possible . . . What could be . . . Who knows the good . . ."

Tired by the effort, I could feel him considering the possibilities.

"I'm out of gas," I said, interrupting, "It's been a long day."

"I'm done," Gary said.

"Not quite," Rona said, "You still haven't described the specific details of the experiment."

He rose from his chair, also weary, and stood behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. I twisted to look up at him. He removed the bronze, loaner hearing aid and held it up, being sure we both could see it. Then placed it carefully in a small box on his work table.

"Think about it," he said, "Think about all of this."

And with that, gently, into my left ear, he pressed the new device and turned toward the waiting room. My hearing was immediately restored.

With so much to consider we drove home barely exchanging a word. Later, we both confessed that what he had shared with us was exciting and important. Even if we hadn't understood it all.

July 9, 2018--Audiological Tale: Fox News (Part One)

"You remember of course what happened in Cuba?"

I was at audiologist Gary Schwartzberg's office in Rockport to have earwax removed from my left ear where it was interfering with my hearing aid. I felt as if this side of my head was under water. And so I wasn't eager to get drawn into one of his looping discussions that typically wind up in a very different place from where they begin. Ordinarily I liked trailing along with him, he has a very interesting mind and great sense of humor, but not this time as I was uncomfortable and cranky.

"Now the same thing is happening in China."

"Can we talk about this after you see what needs to be done? I'm experiencing some pain. Not to say I can barely hear anything." I tapped my left ear to illustrate and yanked the aid out, thrusting it at him.

"Sure, sure. Sorry. It will only take a minute. I'll vacuum you out and you'll be as good as new. Then we can talk about . . ."

As a reminder as to why I was there I poked at my ear again, "That'll be the day. I know, I'll be as good as new."

Seeing I was in an agitated mood without further delay he took me down the hall to the treatment room where he had the earwax removal machine. As the process is a bit painful on other days when I've been less upset and not feeling sorry for myself, to lighten the mood I called it the Torture Chamber. More than a slight exaggeration.

Peering into my ear canal with his otoscope, I could barely hear him say, "Yes, yes. It looks quite occluded. Hold still. It will only take a minute." 

Some minute, I thought. He inserted the probe and turned on the vacuum pump. I gripped the arms of the chair and gritted my teeth so hard I was afford I might break them off at the gum line. I was again acting like a baby. Indulging myself by feeling sorry about my state of affairs and worrying that this might turn into a permanent condition. When my anxiety takes over this is where I go.

"Back to the other room," Gary said, upbeat again, "We're done with the torture part of the program. This should bring you some relief."

I mumbled something incoherent, not ready yet to engage his bubbly side. And, to tell the truth, with the hearing aid back in place, with my left ear, I wasn't hearing that well.

"Let me take it apart," he said, continuing to sound optimistic, "The problem might also be with the device itself." He swiveled to his work table and in less than a minute had the aid broken down into its component parts. They're tiny and so he peered at them with a magnifying device.

I was able to hear well enough to understand some of his mutterings. He was saying that one of the miniature microphones was corroding. "Don't see this often," he said, taking an even closer look in the tiny cavity where the microphones are located.

Then swinging back to me, in a loud voice so I could hear, he told me it was beyond repair and, the good news, since it was still covered by the three-year guarantee he could get me a new one.

"It will take up to a couple of weeks," he said, "But I think that's what makes most sense. In the meantime, I have a loaner that can get you from now until then. How does that sound?" he asked, grinning, feeling good about his ability to take care of the problem and knowing me well enough that this would help get me to stop obsessing that all was hopeless and that the next thing I would need was a cochlear implant.

"Can we now talk about China?" he said.

"What's with China?" I had calmed down enough to actually be interested in what was on his mind.

"You remember about a year ago there was the feeling that Russia was behind what they called a 'sonic attack' on workers in the American embassy in Havana?"

"I do," I said, "In fact I suspected you were somehow involved with this," he stopped smiling, "How, I thought as part of your audiological doctoral studies you did research about how high-frequency sound could be weaponized if bad people decided to exploit it. It could be used as a form of psychological warfare, including when torturing prisoners, and how . . ."

He cut me off. "We've been down this road before," he said, wearily, "You even wrote about it and posted stories about me on your blog. I told you at the time that you have an overactive imagination. Which was an understatement. That I never worked for the Pentagon or CIA of, for that matter, any governmental agency."

"Of course that's what they train you to say. You can deny and pretend all you want but at the time, last year, I gathered quite a bit of evidence that you were or might even still be involved. This area of Maine is home to dozens of intelligence types. Retired and otherwise. You would fit right in."

Dr. Schwartzberg stared blankly back at me.

But I was on a roll, "In fact, I suspected you were also using me as one of your subjects. While testing me and getting me the hearing aids I needed and adjusting them every month until they were just right for me, you played with my mind, making me crazy at times while at others I enjoyed what you were up to--it added spice to my otherwise routine life."

He showed me his poker face and then said, "And now we are learning that the Chinese are doing the same thing to our embassy in Beijing. A sonic attack. Maybe as part of the tariff war that Trump is launching."

"Why do you keep bringing this up if you're not somehow involved?" I pretended to be exasperated. The fluid in my ear had stopped gurgling and I was enjoying recalling last year's events and what he might be drawing me into this year.

"It's just because you seemed interested. Recall," he said, "last year you're the one who brought up the attacks in Cuba, asking if I had an opinion about it. I thought that was part of your research. That you were wanting to write about it. And so . . ."

"I just realized," I blurted out, "That last year I also had trouble with my left hearing aid. You had to send it to Starkey to have it serviced and while I waited for it to get back to you you gave me a loaner. Remember?" 

He resumed staring.

"It's all coming back to me," I said, feeling excited, "You told me, remember, that it came from one of your patients. A Czech woman who lived in Camden, I think, who had died and her family returned her hearing aids so you could use them as loaners. Sort of like how people leave their corneas and lungs and other organs to be transplanted to people who need them."

At this comparison, I thought I saw the flicker of a smile.

"And do you remember how, through that loaner hearing aid, "I was hearing from her. From the woman who had died. She was communicating with me, I thought, from 'the other side.'"

Recalling that, with my heart racing and out of breath, I felt gleeful.

I continued, "You told me I was either crazy or making up stories, as you claimed I am prone to do. Especially in my writing. But the loaner you're wanting me to use is the same one, right? I even remember the color. Bronze. How many bronze hearing aids are there? I'm right, aren't I?" 

His face was frozen, not giving anything away. We locked eyes on each other in a test to see who would blink first.

"What the heck," I finally said, as if to myself, but in fact to Gary, "What else do I have to do. I know I'm not going to go deaf from your machinations. I know you wouldn't play around with that even if you were full-time CIA It's still America, right?

End of Part One . . .

October 26, 2017--Audiological Tale: Previous Life (Conclusion)

"Now all we need," I said, "is to run into a woman who speaks Czech. You remember how Gary programmed my hearing aids to have a Czech woman talk to me? How I thought she was asking me to help her? As if she was in danger or had been kidnapped or something."

"I do remember that," John said, "But most important, don't forget Gary himself. None of this makes any sense if he's not here. He's at the center of this, whatever the this is. And thus far we haven't caught sight of him."

"I suspect since he's the mild-mannered type if he gambles at all we will find him at the quarter slots. He probably has a limit to how much he's willing to lose. I doubt he's into roulette or craps or blackjack. Unlike your Dunkin Donut guy who we spotted at a $25 blackjack table."

"So," John suggested, "why don't we inconspicuously slide over in that direction. To where the slot machines are. To see if maybe Gary's there."

This is the proletarian area of all gambling casinos. Where retired people, mainly women, are to be found perched with blank faces on high stools feeding quarter after quarter into the maw of the machines. 

Invariably, the players have jumbo soda cups in which they dispassionately scoop what cascades out when they on occasion hit three cherries. And then how they from these cups retrieve coins to use to satisfy the lure of the machine. Until they over time inevitably get cleaned out.

It is also the most depressing underbelly of casinos since one senses here that the money being slowly confiscated by the slots is money from Social Security checks that might otherwise be directed to paying rent or to buy healthy food.

"I doubt if we'll spot Gary here," John said, "He too would find this an unhappy place to chase Lady Luck. Much of his clientele, of course, is older--including the two of us!--but I am sure most of them would not want anything to do with this sorry scene."

"I agree. Why don't we take a break from this sleuthing and get a bite to eat. We've been at it since five this morning. I could use a cup of coffee and maybe a sandwich. In fact, I could use a nap."

"We're not here for that," John said, "We're on a mission. I'm OK with a bite to eat but don't need any rest. I'd like to press on."

"Me as well," I said, "I was just thinking out loud. Do you want something to go with your coffee?"

"Yes. I think maybe chicken salad on a roll."

We spotted a modest cafeteria and while I got on line to place our orders, John headed for the men's room. 

I picked up and paid for our food and drinks and took them to an table just off the casino floor where I waited for John. I began to feel concerned as ten minutes had passed and there was no sign of him. I was about to leave our food on the table and set out to find him. But before I could do that, John, almost running and out of breath, plopped down on one of the chairs. 

"What's happening? Are you OK?" I asked concerned about him.

Ignoring that, he said, "You're not going to believe this."

"This would not be the first time," I said. "I mean, not believing all the crazy things that have been happening. Tell me the latest."

"We were making a joke about the Czech woman whose voice your were hearing."

"Right. After Gary had reprogrammed my devices."

"I think I just met her."

"No way. Impossible."

"Apparently not," John raced on, "There's a lounge by the bathrooms with sofas and chairs where I guess gamblers can take a break. Only this one woman was sitting there since I assume when people come here to gamble they're not interested in taking breaks. She spotted me and waved me over to where she was sitting. A tiny blue-haired woman who was so small she was swallowed up by the armchair. She was smiling weakly at me. She felt lonely and sad. 

"I went right over to her. She had that effect on me. To draw me to her. She said something I couldn't make out. She was speaking that softly. The lounge is off the betting floor but still quite noisy. So I kneeled down to get closer to her to make it easier to hear and understand her. She had quite a think accent. European. She grabbed hold of my arm. And . . ."

My heart was pounding as I interrupted John, "I think I know where this is headed. She's . . ."

"I think so. Impossible as it may be, I think she's your Czech lady. Her accent was so pronounced I couldn't make out what she was saying. She was speaking in an Eastern European language. I of course couldn't understand a word of it. I asked her if she spoke English. She nodded and asked me to help her. Exactly what she was asking you through your reprogrammed hearing aids."

"That's it? Just her asking you to help her?"

"Isn't that enough? First, there's this Eastern European woman who speaks Russian or Czech. Then, and this is most important, she asks me to help her. Just what she asked of you. This can't be another coincidence. Including, why me? You're the one with the Czech person talking to you. I'm just your friend. I agreed to go along with you on this adventure and . . ."

"I feel badly that I somehow enticed you into it. I only thought that . . ."

"No need to apologize. I'm here because I want to be. But this was so upsetting. You should have seen her. She looked so lost and helpless. I guess that's why she keeps asking to be helped."

"From what I don't know. Did she say anything else? And, of course, what happened? Did you just leave her there? That's not you. You wouldn't do that. You're too . . ."

"I didn't just leave her. A huge man in his 40s, stuffed into a suit, came and took her away."

"Took her away?"

"Not literally. But when he came out of the men's room and saw her with me, he raced over and almost lifted her bodily out of the chair and whisked her off. I got up and tried to follow them but they disappeared into a crowd of conventioneers who were hooting and hollering. I thought it best to come find you. Did I do wrong?"

"About all of this I have no idea what's wrong or, for that matter, what's right. Let's try to calm down and have our lunch. After that, we can figure out what to do next."

*   *   *

After we finished--we gulped down our sandwiches--I said, "Maybe in the first place it was a crazy idea to come here. To drive all that distance. A wild goose chase. I am thinking we should back off. Just resume being normal audiological patients. Leave all this spy stuff alone. I am feeling we're getting drawn in too deep. I didn't mean to speak for you, about being drawn in, but that's how I feel."

John said, "I don't disagree. This is beginning to be very funky."

"Beginning! I'd say it's been funky for months. In the meantime, what should we do? Leave? Stay? Play the slots?"

"I hate gambling," John said, "So that's not an option for me. You're probably right. We should leave and try to forget about all this funny business. But, having said that, we came all this way, we're here, we have a long drive back, and so I'm thinking let's maybe take one more pass around the casino to see if Gary's here. I say that because, again, there's no story, this is all an incredible bunch of coincidences, unless Gary's here to tie all the pieces together. I suggest let's give it another half hour and if he doesn't turn up, get back in the car and head to Maine where things are not so crazy. What do you think?"

I agreed and so this is what we did. Even though we didn't think Gary was a slot machine player that's where we started. We worked our way from the nickel slots to the ones that ingested silver dollars. 

No sign of Gary.

"Let's try the roulette tables next," I suggested, "Though roulette is for suckers since the odds are so in favor of the house, it is a classic game. Europeans love it--think James Bond--and who knows, it might appeal to Gary's romantic inclinations."

There was no sign of him at the roulette tables.

"How about blackjack? Remember that's where we saw the Dunkin Donut guy." So we threaded our way from the five dollar to the hundred dollar tables.

Gary was nowhere to be seen. 

"We're running out of places to look," I had already taken off my cap and dark glasses as a sign of capitulation. And we were no longer talking in whispers.

"How about the craps tables? That could appeal to him. Like me, he was born and raised in New Jersey and could easily be a craps player. It's similar to the dice games we used to play in the streets."

"In Brooklyn too," I added. But though we checked out the half-dozen dice tables, again there was no sign of Gary.

"We're about out of luck," I said, which is never a good thing in a casino--to be out of luck.

"There's just one more area," John said, pointing to an elevated part of the casino, off in a dark corner, with a velvet rope and security guard to keep out casual players. "It's for high rollers."

"Gary a high roller? That would stretch credulity much too far. I'm OK with the donut guy and even the Czech woman--though both being here is totally inexplicable--but Gary playing baccarat or some other exotic high-stakes game for big bucks is more than I'm willing to entertain."

"Well, maybe you'll have to rethink that," John said, whispering again. With a shrug he directed my attention to someone standing just inside the rope. "It's the . . ."

"I can see who it is," I said with a hint of exasperation  How much more of this can I take. 

"Your donut guy. And if you really want to make yourself crazy, check our who's in the chair next to the baccarat table."

I looked first at the man and then at the person almost invisibly curled up in the chair.

"The little old . . . ?"

"None other," John said.

"And if you look at the one player at the table, the man facing the dealer, the one wearing what looks like a white dinner jacket with a black bowtie, I think it's . . ."

Not needing me to complete the sentence, John, sounding shaky, said, "Let's get out of here." 

I was feeling more than shaky. And so, trotting, I followed him to where our car was parked, making sure not to look back

October 25, 2017--Audiological Tale: Previous Life (Part 3 of 4))

Very early Sunday morning, before dawn, John Allan and I were on route to Uncasville, Connecticut. To the Mohegan Sun hotel and casino where we suspected our audiologist, Gary Schwartzberg, was likely at a professional workshop. "Suspected" and "likely" because we weren't sure of anything. 

Friday afternoon, while driving home from his office, we heard from his assistant, Angie, who sent me a text message indicating his family said he was well and that there was nothing to worry about. But she didn't include any details about what he was up to or where he was.

But I'm a worrier; and though I was relieved to hear this from Angie, I was concerned about Gary and must confess was still curious why he had disappeared Friday afternoon after luring us (that, I feel, is the right word) up to Rockport to see him urgently and then, unceremoniously, without a word of explanation, vanished.

After hearing from Angie, while I drove, John did some searching on line to see what he might learn about a possible workshop for audiologists in Uncasville. It took little time to determine that there was in fact something of that sort scheduled for the weekend at the Mohegan Sun. It appeared that attending helped audiologists acquire some of the continuing professional education credits that are required for them to maintain their licenses. 

John said, "Why not go? He's apparently OK but we're eager to learn more about what he's up to in his professional life and, who knows, maybe we can even find out a little more about what he refers to as his previous life. My guess is that these kinds of meetings are where some of the covert stuff is arranged. If the CIA, for example, needs audiologist operatives--as with the Cuba sonic attack business--what better place to recruit some?"

"I'm not busy this weekend so I agree--why not have a little innocent fun? It seems the workshop runs through late afternoon Sunday. Sunday morning would be a good time for me to go there and do a little playful snooping around."

"Sounds like a plan," John said.

"One thought," I said, "maybe in the spirit of having some fun and trying to be covert, why don't we get into the spirit of things and go undercover? I mean, see if we can observe Gary and keep an eye on him and what he's up to but try not to have him recognize us. You know, we can wear dark glasses and caps and lurk around in the shadows. Not during the workshop sessions of course, but when they're taking a break and are free to wander around, get food or drinks, and of course do some gambling."

"I like it," John said, "But of course this all assumes he's really OK and there."

"If he's not attending, it still will be fun to take the drive with you."

So, we finalized Sunday plans. I was to pick John up at 5:00. The drive to Uncasville looked to be about four hours. We'd reconnoiter, have lunch, see what we could see, then return home. On Sunday, the traffic both ways should be manageable.

*   *   *

After a easy drive, arriving at the Mohegan Sun, we took to drifting around the casino and checking out what was going on at the many restaurants that surrounded the playing floor. Gary thus far was nowhere to be seen though we had already determined that the formal sessions of the workshop had ended. The meeting rooms where they had been held were empty and staff were busy cleaning them and removing the audio-visual equipment, chairs, and tables.

Inconspicuously as possible we approached the gaming tables where I suddenly pulled up short and poked John in the shoulder to get his attention and steer him in a different direction. 

Turned around, nodding toward the Blackjack tables, I whispered, "I've seen that guy before," though there was no need to talk softly because even if one shouted on the floor of the casino it would be difficult to be heard over the din of canned music and slot machines. Isn't it ironic, I thought, how this is the perfect place for an audiological worksop, where it's impossible to hear anything above the cascade of silver dollars being disgorged to slot machine winners accompanied by the clang of bells and flashing lights when on occasion someone wins a jackpot. 

"I don't remember from where, but I'm pretty sure I recognize him. The elderly man with dark glasses in the blue shirt. Let's loop around behind him so I can get a better look and not be observed, making sure to keep our eyes diverted in case he's who I am beginning to think he is. I know him from either the waiting room at Gary's office or somewhere else connected to Gary. I'm pretty sure he's a Gary person."

"If so," John said, "I think we may be on to something. To spot someone associated with Gary but who isn't an audiologist attending the workshop. If it were otherwise, that he's not linked to Gary, it would be too much of a coincidence to find him here four hours from Maine on the very same day as Gary. Assuming, of course, that Gary's actually here."

I was pleased to see John getting into the intrigue. For months I had been the only one of the two of us to be drawn directly into those strange events. It felt good to have a coconspirator to validate some of what I had been experiencing and feeling.

During the time we had been there, we had wandered around in the casino and checked out what was going on in the many bars and restaurants that surrounded the playing floor. There was still no sign of Gary though it appeared from their badges that many of the audiologists who had attended the workshop were still hanging out, mainly taking their chances at the craps and roulette tables.

"I've got it," I shouted, forgetting my own admonition to speak in whispers. John wheeled in my direction and glared at me for my carelessness. I shrugged an apology and said, softly this time, "He's the one who was spying on Gary and me when we met to talk in late August at the Dunkin Donut in Rockport. The day Gary filled me in about having been recruited to help with the sonic attacks in Cuba. It was the first time he confided in me about the other aspects of his life. His covert activities."

"I remember you're telling me about that," John said.

We ducked back into a dark alcove by a nearby cocktail lounge so as not to be observed or overheard. "He's the guy who pretended to doze off while we talked, and to make it seem more authentic, drooled on his newspaper. Quite a nice touch when pretending to be incognito. After Gary and I were finishing and he had to get back to the office, this guy, quote/unquote, woke up and while fumbling with his cell phone I felt sure took a few pictures of the two of us."

"You're certain that's him?" John asked.

"A hundred percent," I said, "I recognize the scar on his neck. He must have had his thyroid removed."

"What is he doing here? And if he's involved with Gary, where's Gary? This guy came all this way to play Blackjack? There are closer casinos in Maine where he could go if he just wanted to gamble."

"You got me," I said, "All of this is a big mystery."

Now John pulled on me to get my attention. "What? What's up?" I said.

"He's gone."

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

October 24, 2017--Audiological Take: Previous Life (Part 2 of 4)

When in a rush John Allan and I arrived at Gary Schwartzberg's office, his assistant, Angie, said he was finishing with a patient and would be with us shortly. Even she, who is always calm and centered, seemed upset. I was tempted to ask her what was going on but didn't want to pass along any of my own anxiety or breach any confidences.

We settled in the waiting room and without the ability to concentrate on them thumbed through some Starkey hearing aids pamphlets. In a few minutes we heard Gary in the hallway, escorting one of his clients to Angie's desk. "Please make an appointment for Mrs. Lindley in about four weeks. For her next adjustment."

I was relieved to see that Gary seemed like his familiar self. No signs of distress. "I'll be right back," he said to John and me, "I want to walk Mrs. Lindley to her car." Gently, he took her and together slowly they approached the door to the parking area.

I whispered to John, "Maybe he's more OK than we are imagining. I mean, he seemed perfectly normal. I know him pretty well by now and he didn't seem any different to me. This may be wishful thinking, but let's see what he has to say."

John said, "I agree. Let's hold back and let him do the talking. We shouldn't express any unusual concern, other than through the fact that we're here! And that he said he'd appreciate it if we could come right away to see him. That in itself is evidence that something out of the ordinary is on his mind or happening. So let's try to act casual and as if we were nearby and just popped in."

"I'm trying not to sound worried but don't forget he asked us to come to see him on short notice, knowing we don't live around the corner."

"All true. But let's try to play it cool."

I sank back in my chair and listened to the Bach cello suites barely audible on his office sound system. "This is the same music he programmed my hearing aids to pick up during nights when I couldn't fall asleep. Not that he admitted that he did that, but how else might that have happened?"

"Chalk it up to more strangeness," John said. We both strained to listen to the music.

After another five minutes, I said, "Doesn't it seem that he's been out there with Mrs. Lindley for a long time?"

"I agree," John said, "I'll ask Angie." Which he did. 

"She said she'd check on him. It's not unusual, she said, for him to linger with patients. He's very devoted to them as we well know. But she also said that she'd see what's happening."

Angie by then was at the door and looking intently out to the parking area. "I don't see him," she said, turning to us, "What's strange, very strange, is that Gary's car is not there." 

"He's gone?" John said, all our anxieties reignited.

"His car's not there," Angie said, no longer calm. "He's never done this before. I mean, leave without letting me know what's going on. I don't know what to think." She now, understandably, was more upset than either John or I.

"Did he get a call from his wife or mother? That there was some sort of trouble?"

"If he did, he would have told me. Everything seemed normal. Of course, with the exception of the two of you being here and his asking me to reschedule his afternoon appointments."

"It's not our business," I said, "And I don't want to get involved in anything private. We've become close but we know each other for only a year. But, having said that, he wanted to see us about something that's apparently on his mind." 

John and I smiled, trying to look and sound matter of fact.

"Now that I think about this," Angie said, "For the past few days he hasn't been quite himself. There appeared to be something coming up this weekend, tomorrow, that was weighing on his mind. Some sort of workshop about audiology. Not that that's unusual. They happen all the time and he hardly ever goes. But, as I said, this one seemed to be concerning him. I can't imagine why. He almost never goes, thinking they're a waste of time. So I didn't give it that much attention. We've been very busy."

"But for him just to leave?"

"To tell you the truth, that's what has me worried. It's totally uncharacteristic of him. I don't . . ."

"Do you remember anything about the workshop?" John asked.

I could see Angie struggling to remember. "Nothing that comes to mind. Except maybe one thing."

"What's that?"

"I think it's someplace in Connecticut."

"Maybe Hartford?"

"Not Hartford. They tend to schedule them in resort kinds of places so spouses can come and there's something more to do than just sit in a hotel conference room for two days hearing about the latest advances in audiology."

"I don't know Connecticut that well," I said. "Are there resorts there?"

"Uncasville," John said. They have gambling there. My mother loved it. Mohegan Sun is what it's called. The hotel and casino."

Angie brightened, "That's it! That's where it's being held. But Gary hates gambling. It's not his thing. nor is it his wife's, if she's going with him."

"In the meantime, he's gone," I said, bringing us back to that reality. "On the other hand, I can't connect any of the dots." I looked at John, not wanting to say or reveal  anything inappropriate--his strange and upsetting email to John, his wanting to see us urgently, all the things he hinted to me about his so-called previous life. And now his disappearance.

"I don't know what to say," I confessed to Angie, "Are you OK to be here on your own? I mean, we could stay if . . ."

"I'm all right," Angie said, I'm a Mainer and that means I can handle anything. I have your phone numbers and will call if I hear from him. I guess I should also let his wife know what's happening, though maybe she knows all about it. She also can handle anything. But I don't want to inadvertently create a problem."

We encouraged her to call and, with some reluctance, John and I left, promising to stay in touch to see what she might hear and also, in case he communicated with either of us, to let her know what we might learn.

To be continued . . .

October 23, 2017--Audiological Tale: Previous Life (Part 1 of 4)

An agitated-sounding John Allan was on the phone, "We need to talk."

"Sure. What's up?"

"I got this strange email from Gary."

"Gary?"

"Gary Schwartzberg. My, our audiologist."

"Of course. There's only one Gary. You caught me by surprise."

Now whispering, John said, "He never sends me notes so when I saw his name pop up on my email page, I knew something was wrong. Did he get to you too? You've been working with him longer than I and I know he has on occasion confided in you about, how shall I put this, other aspects of his life."

"True. But this time I've heard nothing from him. He doesn't need to use me to say whatever he wants to say to you. We should have separate relationships with him. Both audiologically and with regard to anything else. But, yes, it appears he hasn't always been the straight-laced professional we know. You remember the Cuba business?"

"Do I ever," John said. "That was pretty wild."

"Yeah. That somehow he was mixed up in figuring out the nature of the sonic attacks Cuba launched against our embassy workers in Havana. How about two dozen have severe disabilities from what the Cubans did to deafen or otherwise injure them."

"I do recall that," John said, "Gary implied he was acting covertly. He hinted that he had some expertise with this sort of thing. That he had been a consultant to one of our security agencies regarding our own capacity to wage sonic warfare. Therefore, we speculated from what he said, including how some of his patients--retired CIA types who live in the area--knowing this about his past life thought he might be helpful with the Cuban situation."

"You're remembering correctly," I said. "He claimed he was trying to lead a normal life and they began hassling him. I told you, I think, how about a month ago he called me and sounding frantic asked if I could come by to talk and how we met at a Dunkin Donuts where he felt we were under surveillance by an undercover operative. I thought he was making this stuff up to add a little drama to his life."

"And then there was the incident of the loaner hearing aids he gave you while yours were being repaired and how through them you heard the voice of the dead woman whose they were. And how it seemed she and her husband too were implicated in some of these spying operations."

"Don't forget how Gary convinced me to allow him to reprogram my hearing aids' prompts so they would sound as if hey were coming from someone who was speaking Czech. And in addition to the prompts, after I attempted to translate what she was saying I thought she was desperately asking me to help her."

"All totally strange," John said.

"So, now what? You mentioned you have an email from him. More weirdness?"

"Decide for yourself. Let me read it to you."

"I can't wait to hear this one."

"He wrote--'I have to tell you my imaginary other life is way more exciting than my present one. I confessed to you and Barbara when you were here for an adjustment that there was a brief moment in which I wondered if there was a possibility that I had been brain-washed by the government to forget my previous life for security reasons; thinking this may be possible as my entire life between 40 and 50 years of age seemed to be like one day.'

"Then he added, which has me worried--'Uh oh, I just might be losing it.'" 

"Incredible," I said, "Do you think there's something to worry about?"

"You would know better than I," John said.

"Is there anything we should do?" I asked.

"I thought you would have ideas," he said, "You're really the one who he has confided in."

"Not confided, more hinted," I corrected John, "But then again why would he send the note just to you? Why not to the two of us?"

John said, "I don't think that's too big of an issue. It's more important I, feel, to see if we can figure out how to respond, maybe help him--I'm pretty sure he'd be OK knowing I shared this with you."

"Why don't you call him to see if he wants to talk. Maybe we'd drive up there and meet him for a drink or something. I'm free later today or any time tomorrow."

"I'll do it," John said, "I'll call his assistant, Angie ,to see if he'd like to get together. I'll call back to let you know what he says."

Before I could get a glass of water John rang back.

"Angie asked Gary and he said he was eager to meet at 2:00 today for a cup of coffee. He told her to reschedule his afternoon appointments. Though two o'clock is just an hour and a half from now I said we'll be there. It's clear he is eager to talk. He doesn't casually reschedule appointments on such short notice."

On the ride up we didn't talk much. It was as if we each in our own way needed silence to prepare ourselves for what would likely turn out to be a very complicated conversation.

To be continued . . . 

Dr. Gary Schwartzburg

September 21, 2017--Audiological Tale: Sound Czech (Concluded)

We were watching TV and I was using the bluetooth device my audiologist, Dr. Gary Schwartzberg, had given me that transmits sound from the TV directly to my hearing aids. To activate this feature, I needed to click on the remote control he had supplied and then when done watching turn it off. When I did so, I heard something in the Czech woman's prompt that I hadn't heard before, something incomprehensible to me. I assumed it was in Czech itself, not Czech-accented English.

Perplexed, I told Rona about it and her first reaction was to be dismissive. "Here we go again," she said, "More hearing aid craziness."

"But I thought you said you liked what was going on with the loaner hearing aid, when it was, how to put this, talking to me. Remember? You just now said it was exciting."

"Fair enough, "she said, "I tell you what, let me have your hearing aids, which I can put in my ears, and then hear for myself what you're talking about."

I removed them and passed them to her. She inserted them and asked what I had done to hear the Czech voice. I told her to click on the button on the remote that turns on the TV sound. She did and heard nothing. "Try again," I said, "Sometimes you have to do it two or three times to make it work."

She tried it a few more times but with the same result--it didn't turn on. "Let me have them back," I said, "Maybe you didn't click hard enough or who knows what."

I pushed the bluetooth button and immediately could hear the TV through my hearing aids. I also heard the same Czech words as before. "It's working," I said, "Including that Czech woman who Gary hooked me up to. Try again." Once more I passed the hearing aids to her.

Rona tried and again there was nothing. I was feeling agitated, she was feeling frustrated. They seemed to work for me but not for her. How could that be? 

"I'll tell you what--I'll keep the devices in my ears and you can get close to me and put your ear next to the hearing aid in my right ear to see if you can listen in to what I'm hearing. That should work because it's pretty loud."

She did and signaled she was hearing what I was hearing--the Czech voice. 

"What is she saying?" Rona asked. "I can't quite make it out. Maybe turn it off and on again. She seems to say the same thing every time you do that. It will help me figure it out."

I did, and again we both heard the voice. Doing this three or four more times, Rona said, "I'm beginning to understand her. Not that I understand what she's saying. It must be in the Czech language, but I think she's saying something like be-yekima."

Excited, I said, "Let's look it up on the Internet where you can type in a word or phrase in Czech and it gives you the English translation." 


We tried that a number of times but nothing even close appeared on the translation webpage. "This is making me crazy," I said, "I know you've found tapping into Gary's other life to be interesting, and I agree. But this is starting to feel more aggravating than interesting. I thought switching from an American-English prompting voice to a Czech one would not be about receiving actual Czech words but would be English words spoken by a computer-generated voice with a Czech accent. What's going on feels like a lot more than that."

"Why do you think Gary didn't make that distinction?" Rona asked. 

"That's a good question. Maybe he's enjoying sharing some of his past with us and each time we go for an appointment teases us by revealing other aspects of it. Maybe he's done some work with Czech operatives. Before the breakup of the Soviet Union they were occupied by the Russians. Maybe this whole Czech thing comes from his experiences with that. That is," I said, "assuming he had some sort of Czech connection. Minimally, I'm totally confused."

"We have to ask him," Rona said. But before she could complete her thought, I heard another, different word.

"Come back," I said, "There's a new word coming through. I can't quite make it out." Rona pulled up a chair right next to me so she too could hear what I was receiving. "Can you make that out?"

"It sounds like pumice me," Rona said. "Which obviously makes no sense whatsoever."

"Not if it's an attempt at English. But what if it's in Czech? Which I suspect from the experience we just had with be-yekima it likely does. That no matter what it might mean, bottom line is that it sounds like a Czech expression. Again, not a version of an English word. Let's see what we can figure out from the translation webpage.

I entered pumice me and clicked enter. Nothing came up, which, considering how this was going, was not a surprise.

Rona said, "Let me run a series of other possibilities, varying the spelling. Maybe if I get close enough we'll stumble on what it means."

She worked at this systematically for about half an hour, trying various spellings, but produced no positive results. But when she got to pomuz-me she got a response--pomus mi in Czech means help me.

We were stunned. Exhausted, and now exhilarated by what we were being drawn into. We speculated about what all this might mean. We thought it must be something from Gary's other life. Was the computer-generated voice trying to communicate with us? To get us to do something to free her? If so, where was she? Assuming the voice was human. Or was "she" like Apple's Siri? A digital "person"?

The more we thought about this, the more confused and the more intrigued we became. I knew there would be no sleep for me that night. There would be no way to shut this down or ignore what was happening. I suspected that the next time I turned on the TV we would hear more from her.

Equally agitated, Rona said, "We need to see Gary before your next appointment. As soon as possible. Tomorrow if he can work us into his schedule. This is not going to go away. It could be that someone, the Czech woman, again assuming this is coming from a real person, is in danger."

So the next day, as expected after not getting much sleep, we did arrange to see Gary. 

As if not surprised to hear from us, he said, "Why don't you come by this afternoon and we can talk. In the meantime, stay calm." I thought I heard him chuckling.

"Easy for you to say," I shot back. I was feeling that he was playing with me, concocting situations and scenarios to get inside my head, "You get me all riled up and then tell me to be calm. How helpful do you think that is?" I had never spoken to him that way.

"I hear you," he said, sounding professional, "Come by any time this afternoon. Angie will squeeze you in."

Later that day when we saw Gary, without any preamble, I said, "OK what's going on? I know, I've been having some fun with you, maybe at times I crossed the line, but this Czech business is making me crazy."

Gary listened, smiling, not saying anything. So, I continued, "I love your stories and enjoy when you string me along. I really do. I enjoy the play and would not be happy if you stopped. But this one . . ."

Interrupting, Gary said, "I wish about this one I could tell you more. But," he shrugged, "I can't. Sorry."

"What? Why then . . ."

Rona cut in and said to me, "Why don't you just enjoy this. Not everything has to be fully known or even make sense. Loosen up a bit and enjoy the ride."

I thought about that for a moment and said, "I noticed you also didn't do much sleeping last night. But loosening up and going with the flow is not natural for me. I'm more about finding solutions and solving problems."

"My recommendation," Gary said, "is that about this you listen to Rona."

We sat there for another ten minutes, none of us saying anything. Standing up, Rona finally said, "We need to shop for dinner." She came over to where I was slumped in the chair and put her arms around me.

"One more thing," Gary said, "Before you go, let me switch you back to the American-English prompt. I think you've had enough Czech for the moment. You've been Czech-mated!" 

He loves puns and we heard him laughing as we headed out.

Czech Republic

September 1, 2017--Sonic Attack: An Audiological Tale (Final Part)

"'Mr. Anderson' made a special appointment to see me. He pretended he needed an urgent hearing aid adjustment. But in fact he wanted to talk about Cuba."

"About the sonic attack in Cuba?" Again Gary nodded. "I'm lost," I confessed, "And to think this also involves me is almost too much for me to assimilate. I mean, I . . ."

"Be patient and you'll see the connection. But first I need to tell you more about me and why my patient, 'Mr. Anderson' sought me out."

I resisted saying I'm all ears.

"When I was in my PhD program in audiology one of my interests was the interrogation of captives. Particularly suspected terrorists. Not that I thought I would ever be involved with that, but it was something that fascinated me. How to use sound as part of the interrogation process. Not as torture, of course. But to break down their resistance. Overwhelming them with sound which is the opposite of helping people hear better."

Warming to the subject, he continued, "All the doctoral students were encouraged to develop interests that were not strictly speaking about the techniques we would need in our practices. They felt this would expand us intellectually and, who knows, down the line maybe these interests might lead to new possibilities for us--like, for example, how the psychological dimension of hearing loss affects working with patients or, another example, from a cultural anthropological perspective how people from diverse backgrounds respond differently to hearing loss and its treatment. Including some deaf people who resist digital hearing devices altogether because they see spoken speech as inferior to the richness and, some would say, the linguistic superiority of sign language."

"Very interesting," I said, "I can see how these kinds of studies would appeal to you. You have such wide-ranging interests. But, again, Cuba? Sonic attacks? The CIA?"

"So, my 'Mr. Anderson' came to see me earlier this week. Monday afternoon. I knew something unusual was afoot since before sitting down he closed the door to the treatment room. Something he had not done previously. Before I could ask what was happening with his hearing aids he told me that nothing was wrong with them. As you can imagine I was puzzled, not to mention a little annoyed with him since I needed to juggle my appointment schedule to see him on an urgent basis. I don't need to tell you how complicated that was. It's the busiest time of the year."

Gary continued, "Anyway, he got right to the real purpose of his visit. He mentioned the sonic attack on our embassy, asking if I had been following it. I told him I had been, but not that closely. I was aware of the situation, though I had no idea why the Cubans would be involved in such a thing. My sense is that the leaders there are happy with the restored relationship. That it's in Cuba's interest. I mean in the Cuban leaders' interest. So why, I wondered, would they want to do something so aggressive, so seemingly crazy to jeopardize it? Especially with a new president--Trump--who has hinted he might withdraw from the agreement that Obama struck since Trump appears to be trying to undo all of Obama's initiatives.

"By then, Gary told me, he was becoming annoyed that 'Anderson,' or whoever he was, was taking up his time with this when he had a waiting room full of patients. Was it so urgent to be talking about Cuba?"

I didn't know what to say.

"When I mentioned Obama he said that he'd prefer not to talk about  him as he and I might have different opinions; and, for that matter, he didn't want to talk about Trump either. He said, 'He's not my favorite president.' So at least we avoided all political talk."

"Why then," I asked, "was he interested in talking about the Cuban's attack on our diplomats?"

Very little of this was making sense to me. And any involvement on my part was seeming even more improbable.

As if reading my mind, Dr. Schwartzberg, in an even lower voice, after a quick glance at the sleeping customer who was by then snoring audibly, Gary said, "I can't tell you everything he said since I suspect much of it is classified, but he did say that I, and one of my patients," he peered at me,"were potentially implicated."

"Implicated? This is getting crazier by the minute."

"Be patient," he said. I signaled that I would be. "He knew about my interest in prisoner interrogation, including the fact that after earning my PhD, while getting my practice started, I had done some contract work with one or two American national security operatives."

"You did? That's incredible, "You seem so . . . I don't know how to describe it."

"Boring? Conventional? A bleeding heart?"

"I wouldn't put it quite this way. But I . . ."

"It's OK. I'm happy to be thought of that way. It has at times, including this one, come in handy. But there's this other side of me. I'm not just an audiologist living in a small coastal town in Maine outside the Washington-New York axis. Remember what we said earlier about who's retired in this part of the world? It's not only a nice life style but has other advantages. If you know what I mean."

I shrugged, overwhelmed and exhausted by what he was sharing, not really knowing what he meant.

"Back in the 1990s there was a general increase in terrorist activity, which included the first time the World Trade Center was attacked by al Qaeda operatives. Terrorists who were funded by and led by Kahled Sheikh Mohammad. 

"I remember that. I was by chance downtown that day close to the towers and saw the smoke pouring out of the underground parking garage. It was sickening. Those bastards."

"Well, on a contract with one of our security agencies, I participated in the interrogation of a couple of the perpetrators."

"Really? This feels like an hallucination."

He ignored this and said, "Enough about that. There's no connection between that and Cuba. But it helps you see why 'Anderson' came to see me. I had been a player. Though not since 1995 or so. I guess you could say I'm a smalltime part of that retired community of agents of various kinds."

For the first time that day he smiled. It clearly felt good to him to be able to unburden himself.

"Then, if I may, what about Cuba? And, closer to home for me, my somehow being a part of this? I don't know how to put it, but this sounds ridiculous. I mean, minimally, my alleged involvement."

"I assume you still have that loaner hearing aid I gave you? From my patient, Mrs. Caldwell, who died?"

"Yes, you said I could use it until mine is repaired. Remember, I told you that it's the one that seems to have a mind of it own?" He nodded, "I was hearing what seemed like conversations through it. I thought I was losing my mind."

"You weren't. It's my fault that I gave you that one. The reason I'm so upset is that I feel terrible that I inadvertently dragged you into this mess. I was careless. Being so busy with patients is no excuse. I screwed up and hope you'll forgive me. The device wasn't meant to be used by a civilian."

"A civilian?"

"You know, someone not working for the Company. I was so busy I mixed up which ones were for clients and which for people who required extra-special devices."

"By special devices you mean like the stuff they prepare for James Bond in the movies?"

Smiling again, he said, "One could think of it that way."

"So how does this connect to what went on in Cuba?"

"We may have restored diplomatic relations but as with all countries a lot of surveillance goes on, in all directions, even with allies. Including, I suspect, to test surveillance devices and techniques for cyber- and sonic-warfare. That's probably what the Cuban secret service was up to with the attack. They had a new toy that the Russians probably gave them and were trying it out."

"How does my loaner hearing aid fit into that picture?"

"It was probably tricked out to transmit electronic signals over a considerable distance to interfere with potential sonic attacks on U.S. facilities. So someone wearing one like your loaner could hang out on the street by the embassy in Havana and zap people who might be trying to mount such an assault. Knowing my youthful history of black bag operations, they probably targeted me as someone they could use to provide cover for this cat and mouse business. They could use me as a conduit to those people on the ground who were in the thick of things."

"This is mind boggling," I said in a cold sweat, "I have questions about a couple of more things--about your 'Mr. Anderson' and of course how I fit in."

"I am supposing that even though he's officially retired 'Anderson' is still active and when his handlers figured out what was going on at the embassy in Cuba they took stock of devices like your loaner and discovered that one was with me. That it was turned in to me after Mrs. Caldwell died--it was probably her husband's who I suspect--well, you know--and that I then innocently passed it along to you. 

"They needed to know if somehow I was compromised, had gone rogue, and of course, since through electronic tracking they probably discovered that because of my error one of these special devices was with you, they needed to check you out. To see if I recruited you . . ."

"So therefore you . . . ?"

"Yes, since I'm feeling so guilty about dragging you into this, I took the chance to tell you most of the story since I suspect they'll be calling on you soon to check you out."

"That will be much more than a robocall," I said, trying to make a small joke to calm myself.

We both took deep breaths and for the first time that day, though when together we did it often, we laughed. 

This seemed to rouse the old man at the other table who had been in a deep sleep. He yawned and stretched and then reached down, groping for the tattered shopping bag that was resting on the floor next to his chair. He folded the newspaper and with difficulty managed to stuff it in the bag. From it, he extracted a phone and swiped the screen, which instantly became illuminated. He lifted it and held it a few inches from his face as if, without his eyeglasses, he couldn't see the time or if he had missed any calls. Satisfied, he returned it to the bag, struggled to get up, and shuffled toward the door.

When he was gone I asked Dr. Schwartzberg if he had taken a couple of pictures of us. 

Laughing loudly, he said, "I wouldn't be surprised."

US Embassy In Havana