.
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UB says he wants to riddle-me-ree or some nonsense like that, and poses a conundrum that stumps me good.
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‘The thing is,’ he says, as if giving road directions to a lost driver, ‘each brother guards a door, one to Heaven and one to Hell. You’re allowed to ask one question to one of the brothers in order to gain your freedom. All you know is that one of the brothers always speaks the truth, while the other brother always lies. Got it?’
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Can’t understand a word he’s saying. I wonder: Could this be Gaelic?
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‘So, to sum up,’ he goes on by way of a big hint. ‘You want the door that leads to Heaven. You don’t know which door is which. Nor do you know which brother is which. You have one question. What do you ask?’
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The first answer that springs to mind is: I think I’ll blow my brains out. But I keep it to myself. I know he’s not going to let me off that easily. I think hard, taking on the look of a person who’s just bitten into a lemon: pursed lips, scrunched eyebrows, face tight and taut.
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‘So,’ I consider aloud, tugging at my bottom lip, ‘the answer to this riddle is a question?’
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‘You’ve got it,’ UB nods.
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Thinking deeply has been something I’ve been avoiding with great success for some time now. Thinking deeply has never come easily, so avoiding it’s been a walk in the park. Since everything turned Inside-Out, I’ve been fairly content to paddle around in ‘the shallow end of the thinking pool’, as some might say (a philosophical pool guy, perhaps). I can’t tell what it was exactly, but I’m beginning to wonder if UB didn’t give me some sort of mental kick-start that night.
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‘Come on, Leo,’ he challenges me. ‘What’s the answer?’
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‘The question, you mean,’ Jack pipes in.
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I can see UB really wants me to figure it out on my own, and that he believes I can. In a way I won’t attempt to explain, the experience of figuring out (and for that I take no credit) the seemingly impossible dilemma UB has posed is a revelation in itself. Dare I say a magical, even mystical, experience? Or is that, like, too wow?
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At first, likening my mechanical thought process to driving a car, I kept jamming the gears. UB pulled painful faces as though he could hear the grinding of mental metal.
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‘No, no, no,’ he says firmly, shaking his big round head. ‘Forcing it won’t work.’
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‘I’m just thinking. Nothing that’s forced can ever be right. If it doesn’t come naturally, leave it,’ I say, whipping a little Al Stewart on him.
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‘That’s it: don’t think too hard. Don’t force it. Before you head off in search of the answer you must believe that it exists, that it’s already there. You don’t have to think it up, you just have to find it.’
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Experiencing turbulence trying to keep up.
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‘Stop focusing on the question, simply clarify it once and for all, then toss it into the vast depths of your mind. Fishing for the answer starts with throwing in your line.’
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'The question, you mean,’ Jack corrects again.
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‘The answer,’ UB explains, ‘comes in the form of a question. But it’s still the answer. Okay?’
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‘So,’ Dad presses on, pretending to want to understand. ‘The answer is in the question… the question is in the answer…’
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‘Yeah, something like that.’ UB sighs in exasperation at the workings of his younger brother’s mind.
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Maybe it’s the wine, the timbre of his voice, the candle… I don’t know - but I lean back, get comfortable, and throw the question into the vast depths of my mind. I like the sound of that.
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A confidence falls over me, and the thought, the answer will come, comes into focus and serenely floats by.
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Incredibly, seconds later, the answer comes. Out of nowhere it seems, like a little bubble at the bottom of a glass of champagne, breaking free from all the others, springing to the surface triumphantly. I just opened my mouth and out it popped.
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‘The question would be: If you were your brother, and I asked you which was the door to Heaven, which door would you tell me to go out?’
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Jack gives UB a look that says, he’s got it wrong, go easy.
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UB ignores him. ‘Which brother would you ask?’
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I say it doesn’t make any difference, either brother’s fine, mentally blowing on my fingernails, brushing them against an imaginary lapel.
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‘Don’t be silly,’ Jack cries. ‘Of course it matters.’
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‘No,’ UB tells him, ‘it doesn’t.’
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Jack frowns, slumping back in his chair.
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UB looks at me. ‘But what would you do when you got your answer?’
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‘Whichever door he told me to go out, I’d go out the other one.’
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Jack’s now holding head in hands as if nursing a bad headache. ‘That can’t be right. Can it?’
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‘Absolutely correct.’ UB beams a big grin. ‘I knew you could do it, Leo. Remember,’ he taps at his temple with a fat finger, ‘the greatest problem solving machine in the world is right up here. Use it or lose it.’
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Jack complains that his problem solving machine’s aching like a bastard, and no matter how much we try to explain it to him, he can’t grasp it.
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‘My head,’ he repeats whiningly ‘it’s going to explode.’ He leaves us to search for aspirin, and goes to bed without saying goodnight.
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