‘Who then knows whence it has arisen?
Whether God’s will created it, or whether He was mute;
Only He who is its overseer in highest heaven knows,
He only knows, or perhaps He does not know.’？”
Cyrus speaks in his lowest, softest voice, a voice that seems to contain everything that can be known and so many of the things that cannot, until we are all dabbing at the corners of our eyes.
“Did you know Jed?” I ask him later.
“He sometimes texted me in the middle of the night. He had trouble sleeping because of the chemo.”
I had no idea. I still can’t quite get my head around the sheer number of people Cyrus cares about. Cyrus is a circuit board, lines of connection stretching far beyond what I can see. There are the people he knows or has met in real life, like Jed or Mrs. Butterfield, and then there are the others, the millions who are having relationships with Cyrus through the platform, asking him questions about how they should live their lives, receiving small coded versions of him on their phones every day. I have done this. I have expanded Cyrus’s reach to encompass everyone, and people everywhere are now getting a little piece of him, and he is expanding, like a cloud, covering the whole world. In the meantime, he is also my husband. And he is also my boss. How have I managed to make it all so complicated, and how have I managed to put myself on the margins of this story? There is no way to answer that, at least not without questioning the very bones of our life, and so I don’t, I just let Cyrus’s presence wash through me, and that, as ever, is enough.
* * *
In the spring, Cyrus, Jules, and I return to the Valley. This time it’s more of a victory lap. I measure it by the number of drinks people offer us when we arrive at their offices. “Can I get you anything at all? Coffee? Coconut water? Birch water? Rosemary water? Pink coconut water?”
There are no vacant faces this time, no people dipping their heads and reading text messages under the table. And no one cares about our politics. They just pay full attention to Cyrus, who tells story after story of the platform, the Viking death rituals, the Wonder Woman prayer circle in Madras, the Bhagavad Gita recital group in Dallas, the little cluster of communities that have formed around the worship of living people, Greta Thunberg, Margaret Atwood, Malala Yousafzai. What would Greta/Margaret/Malala do? These are the things the WAIs ask themselves. They do not want to try the latest skin-firming cream, they are not interested in celebrity gossip. They do not bow to influencers because we don’t give them any. They are the curious, the wondering and wandering, hungering for connection, searching for meaning. They are the best of us. And we give them a place to be those people.
The next few days are a catwalk. Woke VC shows off a diverse portfolio. Another firm claims to donate most of its profits to charity. Another has a founder who personally put millions into George Soros’s fund. They all pretend to be the good guy.
Cyrus makes everyone beg to be on our board. They would do pretty much anything. It’s beyond social media. We are creating a new category. The growth curve is only going up. There are more people on the platform, more people spending more time and recommending us to their friends and using us as their way of interacting with their screens. We are creeping onto their home pages and staying there. We are commanding their interest. We are educating and ennobling them.
“You’re a visionary,” the investors say to Cyrus. “You’re a dreamer. You’re a hero. You’re just what the world needs.”
* * *
In our hotel suite, we consider our options. “I would like another woman on the board,” I say. “I’m tired of being the only one.”
“Absolutely.” Cyrus nods. “Let’s solve for that.” We put all the names of possible female board members on a table. “We could also get some non-investor directors to join. In fact, we probably should.”
Cyrus and Jules bandy a few names back and forth.
“I want to add one more person to the mix,” Cyrus says. “Craig Boize.”
“Crazy Craig? Craig of the trampoline?” I ask.
“Craig of the call to mass murder?” Jules echoes.
“They’re all the same,” Cyrus says. “Craig is just more honest about it than the rest of them.”
We argue about Craig for a few minutes. Jules and I tell Cyrus he can’t possibly be serious. Cyrus tells us that Craig has the biggest fund, and that he shares his vision for the future of WAI.
“Which is what, exactly?” I ask.