12. London: 3rd Philosophical Meeting (11 pgs.)

ACT I - CHAPTER 12

LONDON

3RD MEETING:

EPISTEMOLOGY — PART 2

Saturday December 16, 2017

London England

Alexandre slept well and woke to a clear, cold day. At Her Majesty’s Stadium, the stands were full of blue shirts, the English singing for their team. The match started strong, but the opponents scored on a counterattack. Victoria watched from the VIP stands with Patrick Philips, Alexandre’s agent.

“He’s very upset by Ronald’s death,” Victoria said, setting aside the turmoil inside her.

“He told me he needs a day alone each month to process his friend’s passing. He even disconnects his phone,” Patrick said.

“Yes, and he’s not staying tonight. He’s returning to Barcelona,” Victoria added, eyes moist.

“Still, his game has improved remarkably,” Patrick noted.

Patrick Philips was elegant, dark-eyed, dark-haired, thin, and over six feet tall. A former Norwood footballer, he had become Alexandre’s agent two years before, securing contracts with top sports brands that brought Alexandre about twenty million euros a year.

After Ronald’s death, Patrick couldn’t understand Alexandre’s retreat into isolation. He remembered attending one of Ronald’s philosophy meetings with him. He considered recommending a psychologist, but Alexandre insisted he was fine. Patrick accepted it, seeing calm and confidence.

In the second half, Alexandre’s team equalized. With five minutes left, he assisted the winning goal. Los Reyes de Barcelona won.

Back at the hotel, Alexandre met Yellow. Twenty minutes later, their car crossed Westminster Bridge, Big Ben on the right. Soon, Yellow stopped in front of a fifteen-story luxury apartment building.

“Follow me,” he said. Inside, they took the elevator to the top floor. The doors opened to a red marble lobby, flanked by black marble lions, leading to a tall mahogany door with a surveillance camera. Yellow looked up. The door opened.

Alexandre entered a vast living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed London’s panorama. Fine modern furniture mixed with antiques and priceless paintings. Parliament House, Big Ben, Hyde Park, and the Wheel on the Thames framed the view, evoking Canaletto’s paintings.

As he absorbed the sight, someone entered. Francisca appeared in a light blue silk dress that matched the deep blue carpet. Her calypso eyes shone. She combined elegance with eroticism, intelligence with sweetness. Alexandre felt captivated.

“Will you take me to a great walk-in closet?” he asked, smiling, his voice uncertain.

“My father’s suits are too large, he’s almost two meters,” she replied.

“And the suits at Villa Ascolassi?”

“I bought them for you,” she said without looking.

He paused, recalling their kiss.

“Does your father own all this?” he asked.

“The entire building. He remodelled the top floor for his stays in London. He turned a worthless engine room into this five-bedroom penthouse and recovered his investment within a year. Everything he touches becomes gold,” she said.

“And Ricardo and Arturo?”

“They arrived Tuesday, flew to Edinburgh with my father Thursday, and will return today. They should land in an hour. My father wants to meet you. I was asked to welcome you,” she said, her tone distant, executive-like. Alexandre felt insecure.

“And will you dine with us?” he asked.

“No. You have work to do,” she replied, hugging him firmly, head on his shoulder, yet as if she were his sister.

“What do you know of our work?”

“That you’re doing something important. That’s enough. Sorry for my clumsiness at the Villa. Drinks made me foolish.”

“I had fun. Will we dine again?”

“Not alone. Make yourself comfortable,” she said, finally adding, “Goodbye,” and left the apartment for an unknown bar.

Two hours later, Ricardo and Arturo arrived, agitated. Their clothes were singed, smelling strongly of smoke.

“What happened?” Alexandre asked, alarmed.

“A bomb exploded on Mr. Walker’s plane,” Ricardo said.

“What?”

“He invited us to Edinburgh to meet friends. On our return to London, a bomb went off,” Ricardo explained.

“We were at the front; the bomb exploded at the rear. It left a hole, but the plane didn’t fall. A fire broke out, but we extinguished it,” Arturo added.

“The bomb hit near Mr. Walker. He suffered serious leg injuries. We accompanied him to the hospital. Doctors fear he may never walk again. He had everyone leave and made us swear to finish the book if he died. He insisted today’s meeting proceed. He believes Ronald was killed for writing the book, and today they tried to kill us for the same reason. Have you told anyone?” Ricardo asked Alexandre.

“No.”

“Are you hiding something?”

“What are you talking about? Come on!” Alexandre said, thinking, I can’t tell them about Boris or Lenel.

“And your girlfriend? Does she know about the book?” Arturo asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“But I haven’t told anyone! She suffers because I disappear once a month and ignore my phone to keep the meetings secret! I have to lie to her!” Alexandre exclaimed, thinking, I won’t tell them about Boris.

“Do you access the internet with a VPN?” Ricardo asked.

“Of course. I’m an ethical hacker. I work offline, burn recordings after transcribing, and keep all book material in my safe. Nothing has leaked,” Alexandre said, annoyed.

“When you listen to the recordings, headphones or loudspeaker?” Ricardo asked.

“Loudspeaker,” Alexandre admitted, realizing the risk.

“They could be recording you with directional microphones! Are there buildings nearby?”

“Yes, but far away.”

“From now on, headphones and curtains closed when reviewing chapters,” Ricardo ordered.

“Okay. And you, Ricardo? You haven’t said anything to anyone?” Alexandre asked, frowning.

“No.”

“And you, Arturo?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Alexandre raised his voice.

“Calm down. I’m not blaming you. But we must be more cautious. Mr. Walker has enemies. This isn’t the first attempt on him. It’s no coincidence the bomb exploded when we were all there. Extreme security measures start now,” Ricardo said.

After showering to remove the smoke smell and changing clothes, they dined with a magnificent view of London.

After clearing the table, they set up the scene. In one corner, they placed the black granite tetrahedron next to Ronald’s photo and the ball, the beautiful trio. Below, an English butcher’s knife. In the centre, a copper pot, a bottle of vodka, and four small glasses.

“Today is your turn,” Alexandre said, handling Ricardo Ronald’s letter and the knife.

“I wonder what joke he has for us,” Arturo said.

Ricardo opened the envelope, “shall I read?” he asked.

“Please,” Alexandre replied.

“DEAR EAGLES:

THIS IS RONALD SPEAKING.

THIS MEETING IS TO OPEN A DEBATE.

TODAY YOU’LL DISCOVER MORE BENEFITS FROM EPISTEMOLOGY. LET’S GO STRAIGHT TO…

THE QUOTE: WHO SAID: ‘ALL OUR KNOWLEDGE HAS ITS ORIGINS IN OUR PERCEPTIONS’.

A) DANIEL DENNETT

B) LEONARDO DA VINCI”

They scratched their heads.

“Oh no! I have no clue. I choose Daniel Dennett. Probably I am wrong again,” Arturo complained.

“I choose Leonardo,” Ricardo said.

“I vote Leonardo too,” Alexandre replied.

“Oh no! I lost!” Arturo exclaimed after checking online. “I lost one ounce of gold.”

“Spot price today: $1,327. Gold is rising,” Ricardo noted.

After they split Arturo’s loss, he asked frowning: “What’s the joke? Read on.”

“THE JOKE: WHY DID KANT REFUSE TO PLAY CARDS? HE COULDN’T DEAL WITH THINGS-IN-THEMSELVES,” Ricardo read.

“That’s a good one!” Arturo laughed. They all joined in.

Ricardo pierced the letter with the butcher knife and burned it. They toasted with vodka, sprinkling some in a flowerpot’s soil.

The ritual led them into epistemology. Alexandre turned on the recorder. He suddenly stood, signalling them to rise.

“Are you ready to climb Mount Everest?” he shouted.

“Yes!” they responded.

“Will you acclimate your minds today?”

“Yes!”

“What did Aristotle say about learning?”

“Learning is bitter! Its fruit sweet!” Ricardo shouted.

“Are you ready to suffer?”

“No pain, no gain!” they yelled in unison.

“What are you?”

“Eagles!”

“Let’s climb,” Alexandre said calmly. “Help me to place the first banner for this meeting,” he said opening his banners’ bag.

It was the same as the other meetings. Same size, white cloth with thick black letters. It wasn’t easy for them to find a place to put it. The space was large, but all the walls were covered in pictures. They had no other option but to hang it above them. Once hung, it said:

REAL SELF-ESTEEM VERSUS SOCIAL STATUS

“We are disturbing the decoration,” Arturo laughed, watching the huge banner.

“I know, but is temporary and we are not harming nothing. Now answer me. Why don’t the enemies of reason want us to write the book?” He asked looking Parliament House, and Big Ben.

“Because clear thinking makes you uncontrollable, and they hate that,” Ricardo said.

“Exactly. They fear that you think clearly. It leads to true self-esteem, not mere social status, and they can’t control you if you have real self-esteem.”

“Why does real self-esteem come from clear thinking?” Arturo asked, holding the ball.

“Precision. Only a precise thought can give you true self-esteem. True self-esteem comes from your self-confidence to see the details of reality. Self-confidence comes from that. You think clearly with clear concepts. Clear concepts hold percepts. Blurry concepts hold fancepts, a mix of rubbish generalizations or nothing. “Your real self-esteem comes from the quality of your mental clarity, not social status,” he said, glancing at the time on Big Ben.

“But people of the hen — rulers and ruled — they are all chickens,” Alexandre said, watching Westminster’s reflection in the Thames. “No matter their wealth or power, they chase social status. They confuse it with real self-esteem. That is their tragedy. They don’t understand why they feel empty, even when rich, powerful, or famous.”

“That happens to the rulers and the ruled. But if the latter achieved true self-esteem, the former couldn’t manipulate them,” Ricardo added, observing boats on the Thames.

“Exactly!” Alexandre exclaimed. “That’s why the enemies of reason don’t want us to write the book. How could they fool you if you were immune to their propaganda? They couldn’t. That’s why they killed Ronald,” he said and thought, Lenel, justice will be served.

“That’s why they planted a bomb on the plane!” Arturo exclaimed.

“They’ll do everything to kill us. How could they divide and rule if everyone knew?” Ricardo said, admiring London’s panorama.

“Their tragedy is believing they are eagles while being miserable chickens, too weak to escape their lies,” Alexandre said. He stood, took Ronald’s picture, and placed it by the window. “Look at your birthplace, my friend. Whatever killed you, it was born here,” he paused and asked, “Who wants to summarize?”

“I do,” Ricardo said: “Real self-esteem derives of being certain that your mind is competent to think. For that you need to differentiate valid concepts from invalid ones. The first, contain clear percepts; the second, blurry fancepts.”

“Can you give an example of a valid concept? I want to understand it like two plus two equals four,” Arturo said watching London’s panorama.”

“OK. Let’s use the concept ‘mouse,’ but first help me to replace the banner,” Alexandre said, taking another from his banners’ bag. Once was hanged it read:

VALID CONCEPTS DERIVE FROM PERCEPTS

Alexandre stood looking at Westminster. “When I say ‘mouse,’ what do you imagine?” he asked

“A small grey animal,” Ricardo said.

“Mickey,” Arturo smiled.

“That is the problem in the world!” Alexandre exclaimed, walking to the window. “Same words, different meanings,” he said looking House of Parliament.

He opened a cardboard box containing old theatre costumes. Two grey mouse suits and a large Mickey costume. “Let’s make this clear. You two will be mice. I will be Mickey.”

They laughed as they changed. The mouse suits covered them entirely. Arturo’s mask slipped over his eyes; Ricardo’s tail dragged behind. Alexandre wore the Mickey costume. His head was a giant smiling face, black and white with round ears. Gloved hands, muffled but clear voice.

“Now walk. Move like real mice!”

Their movements were clumsy. They laughed at themselves, at the absurdity, Westminster and Big Ben behind them.

“Good,” Alexandre said, taking a small camera. “Come close to the window. This will be a good picture.” He photographed them, then left the camera on the table. “Now draw me.”

“Why draw you? We can photograph you,” Arturo said.

“I am not real. I exist only in Disney’s imagination. To capture me, you must draw me first.”

They sat and drew. Mickey’s giant head smiled over them. Arturo’s drawing was simple; Ricardo’s careful, full of shading. They photographed their drawings and laid them beside the pictures.

“Look. Photographs show reality. Drawings show imagination. Your percepts come from reality; fancepts exist only in your mind.”

The room fell silent. Laughter faded. Alexandre removed the Mickey head. Hair damp, face red. “This is the danger. People use the same words but understand different things. For some, ‘mouse’ means real mice; for others, Mickey. The first is a valid concept; the second is not.”

“This explains all communication problems!” Arturo exclaimed. “Imagine communication between nations and institutions!” He gestured at Westminster’s lights.

“Invalid concepts, contain fantasies from imagination; valid concepts, percepts from reality. Confusing the two is the root of human communication failures, injustice, and war,” Alexandre said, looking at The House of Parliament. “This cognitive misery drives political and cultural decline.”

They summarized the topic and were satisfied with their findings. They removed their costumes and decided to rest. They needed strength to tackle the next topic. It was powerful but hard to understand and even harder to leverage fully. Its power came from understanding comparisons, measurements, and the concept of “unity” in concept formation.

Alexandre asked them to replace the banner with a new one. It read:

UNIT AND MEASSUREMENT

“Now that we’ve covered valid and invalid concepts, we move further. Prepare, this isn’t easy,” Alexandre warned. “Shall we?”

“Start! Start! Start!” Arturo drummed on the table.

“When you form a concept, you compare things, noting similarities and differences. Remember comparing apples to other fruits, grouping them, and naming the group apple?”

“Yes.”

“That is how you make a concept. Comparing similarities and differences. Arturo, look up ‘compare’ in the dictionary.”

“To compare is… to estimate, measure, or examine to discover likenesses or differences,” Arturo read from his phone.

“And measure?” Alexandre asked Ricardo.

“To calculate quantity or degree using a standard unit,” Ricardo read. “The act of measuring with a unit of measurement.”

“Arturo, look up ‘unit.’”

“A unit measures quantity. It’s a chosen standard, length, area, volume, etc. In math, it’s also the number one.” At that moment, Big Ben chimed twice. It was two a.m. Arturo looked at the clock, smiled, and said, “Now that’s a coincidence!”

“Indeed,” Ricardo said, walking to the window. “Units of time. As an engineer, I know what units are. Hours measure time, meters measure distance, kilos measure weight.”

“How far to that corner?” Alexandre asked Arturo, handing him a tape measure.

“Ten meters, ten centimetres,” Arturo answered.

“In what unit?”

“Meters.”

“Obvious,” Ricardo said. “Understanding meters is simple. But when forming the concept apple, you compare apples to other fruits. Which unit do you choose to compare?”

“The unit is the average characteristics of apples, the model, the template, the standard. You use it to measure what differs less from what differs more,” Alexandre said.

“Make an example,” Arturo demanded.

“We’ll use apples, oranges, and bananas.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again.”

“How boring! Why don’t you do it with something else?

“Arturo, it doesn’t matter! Stop pulling my leg!” Alexandre said. He left and came back with fruits from the kitchen. Arturo grouped them. He put the apples with the apples, the oranges with the oranges, and so on, smiling a mischievous grin.

“Why group them like that?” Alexandre asked.

“Because I compared their similarities and differences,” Arturo answered.

“What is to compare?”

“To measure.”

“And measure?”

“To calculate quantity using a standard unit,” he answered.

“And the unit for forming the concept apple?” Alexandre asked, pointing to the apples.

“Their average characteristics: size, shape, smell. The same for other fruits. Units are shared characteristics of very similar things. Ayn Rand calls it the Conceptual Common Denominator,” Arturo said and thought, Her book on Epistemology is the best she wrote.

Exhausted, they heard Big Ben chime three times. They decided to rest and walk through central London. Though night, they wore hoods and sunglasses to avoid recognition. Yellow followed, armed. They entered a café, unnoticed. A waitress with short dress and long beautiful legs served them. Thirty minutes later, they returned to the building. Alexandre realized he’d left his wallet behind.

“You go up! I’ll get my wallet!” he said, running back. The others, including Yellow, entered the building.

Returning panting, Alexandre noticed something unexpected. Francisca stood on the porch. She hugged and kissed him. Cheeks, forehead, ears, neck, then lips.

“You’ve drunk too much. Let’s take the elevator,” Alexandre said, embracing to help her.

She marked floors 14 and 15. In the elevator mirror, Alexandre saw his hood had fallen, sunglasses in hand. She kissed him, painting with rouge his face and neck.

“You go to 15, I go to 14. I love knowing you’re above me,” she said. “I think I love you. Come and make me love now,” as they reached the 14th floor. Alexandre realized she didn’t know about the bomb or her father’s injuries.

“Do you have your phone?” he asked.

“No, left it in bed. Let’s find it!”

“Francisca, a bomb exploded on your father’s plane. He landed but is seriously injured at University College Hospital.”

“What?”

“He asked us not to cancel this meeting,” Alexandre said.

“You’ll do what he says. I’ll go to the hospital, don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” she said, and ran to her apartment.

“Look how fast you are!” Arturo said.

“I ran back for my wallet, that’s why I’m panting,” Alexandre replied.

“No, silly! I mean your neck is full of rouge! Did the waitress cover you with kisses?” Arturo joked.

Alexandre smiled, wiped the remaining rouge, and said nothing further.

They continued working, ending the meeting at five a.m. Alexandre stopped the recorder. They toasted to Ronald’s picture the tetrahedron and the ball, and smashed the glasses. The book progressed.

They played pool and discussed the next World Cup in Russia.

The next day, Alexandre returned to Barcelona.