The Gold Bug Variations

by Richard Powers

  For all its necessity after the fact, genetics advanced on the mark as shakily as nature toward fur. Every step of the way is littered with missed discoveries, untransmitted truth. Research, a poor parallel parker, needs several passes. Ressler’s distant ancestor is case in point. Mendel toiled obscurely in the peapatch vineyard a hundred years before Cyfer. Devout Augustinian, hungry observer, agriculturalist, meteorologist, philosopher: variants on surgery and singing, Ressler’s careers of choice. The father of inheritance, a celibate priest. Celibacy mysteriously preserves itself, passed on by paradoxical means. It should have died out long ago. But I’ve seen, face to beautiful face, another Augustinian pass celibacy on.

  Mendel, a failure as a priest, was put to work as a schoolteacher. Capable but untrained, he twice failed the staff qualifying exam. He began research on the garden pea at thirty-four, devoting ten years to his hobby before promotion to abbot curtailed it. By then, drudgework and rare synthetic ability had led him to one of science’s great insights. He delivered his results to an indifferent regional society in 1865 and published them in its proceedings. Distributed to a hundred scientific communities, his conclusions promptly sank like an oil-slicked bird, lost until 1900, when independent researchers reannounced them.

  In the span of ten years, Darwin published Origin of Species, Mendel produced his inheritance paper, and Miescher discovered DNA. But it took a century to braid these three. Mendel’s undeniable demonstration lay forgotten for thirty-five years, delayed by something dark and surreptitious. The monk’s first giant step toward proving Darwin at the mechanical level was another human takedown, this time reducing us from monkey to molecule. Darwin was instant controversy; why total oblivion for the monk? Because of the revulsion produced by mentioning the fecundity of biology in the same breath as inert mathematics.

  In Mendel, every characteristic derives from discreet, inheritable factors—his law of segregation, the philosophical implication lost on me until this minute. Seven years’ labor in the garden overthrew Aristotle’s notion of blended inheritance. Offspring of blond and brunette are not simply sandy. Rather, pairs of independent commands from each parent remain separate in the offspring, passing unchanged to grandchildren. Wildly counterintuitive: all immeasurable diversity deriving from rigid, paired packets. This Augustinian’s God was more grossly architectural than the Deists’. For each indivisible characteristic we inherit two paired factors, with an equal chance of getting either half of each parent’s paired set. The tune accompanying inheritance’s barn dance is aleatoric, more Cage than Brahms. Individuality lies in the die’s toss. The language of life is luck.

  Mendel rescues living variety by noting that each gene comes in more than one tune. Some alleles for any trait dominate others. The visible result of a gene pair shows only part of the underwriting package. A person’s genotype, the internal packet, is not fully revealed by phenotype, the outward form. Blond may lie hidden for generations, erupting again in unknown great-granddaughters.

  I picture Dr. Ressler in his first weeks in the lab, wondering about the delicately turned nose of the woman who will nonchalantly waste him. The allele giving her bridge that innocent flip floated detached in either or both her parents. Her Myrna Loy allele might hide a matched half that codes for Irish pug: a half-breed, heterozygous. Or she might need identical alleles from each parent to achieve that cycloid dip—homozygous for profile. The same holds for the hazel eyes. The woman’s daughter—I picture him wondering if she has one—might revert to any number of recessive traits: square nose, eyes drab brown. Yet even so prosaic a child could go through life a secret carrier of mother’s mystery.

  Mendel’s Law of Segregation, not to be confused with the Little Rock affair, is itself a shade un-American. You can’t tell by looking at a thing what ticks underneath. Two pea plants, both tall in phenotype, might have different genotypes—one homozygous tall and the other heterozygous. Violation of truth in advertising. The language of life is not only laced with luck. It also refuses to say just what it means. The generation of geneticists who rediscovered Mendel devised a way to determine a plant’s hidden makeup. If tall allele is dominant over short, then a tall plant might be either Tall/Tall or Tall/Short. Crossbreeding against a known homozygous recessive produces four possible first filials:

  Short/Short

  Tall/Tall Tall/Short Tall/Short

  Tall/Short Tall/Short

  Short/Short

  Tall/Short Tall/Short Tall/Short

  Short/Short Short/Short

  Descendants of the homozygous plant all appear tall, while half of the heterozygous descendants will be short. The test cross. Ressler referred to his abandoned profession by a name both sardonic and nostalgic—the irony of one no longer in the inner circle. To Frank and me, he always called geneticists soldiers of the cross.

  First filial generation after Mendel had to find where these abstract inheritance packets resided. From the beginning, men hoped that genes would prove chemical, tangible. The coordinated effort reads like the greatest whodunit ever written. Blundering with desire toward fruition, as poet-scientist Goethe says. While geneticists made their gross observations, cytologists began to elucidate the microscopic ecosystem of the cell. As early as mid-nineteenth century, researchers described dark threads in the cell nucleus. Improvements in staining and microscopy revealed that the rods came in mixed doubles. During the choreography of cell division, these chromosome pairs split and moved toward opposite poles. Each daughter cell wound up with a full chromosome complement. Chromosome behavior suspiciously resembled Mendel’s combining and separating pairs.

  The gene factor somehow lay inside the chromosome, a segment of the thread: a tie bordering on magic. It must have been pure fear, to isolate the physical chunk embodying the ethereal plan, the seed distilling the idea of organism. The first link in the chain from Word to flesh, philosopher’s stone, talisman, elixir, incantation, the old myth of knowledge incorporated in things. I can’t imagine the excitement of living at the moment when the pieces began to fall into place: living design located in matter. On second thought, I can imagine. This morning’s papers carried another update.

  Traits didn’t behave as cleanly as theory would have them. Morgan and team spent seventeen years in massive, spirit-breaking effort, counting two thousand gene factors in endless generations of Drosophila. Mendel’s predicted ratios for second-generation dihybrids did not always occur. Experiment, recalcitrant, gave different numbers than pattern dictated. First temptation must have been to squash the aberrant gnats, take no prisoners. Morgan, not yet believing the chromosome theory, found that certain characteristics always occurred together. Such linkage supported the notion that groups of genes lay along shared chromosome threads. Linked traits lay on the same thread, passed through generations as a unit.

  But Morgan’s team also turned up incomplete linkage. Occasionally in the chaos of meiosis, paired chromosomes from separate parents cross over, break at equivalent points, and exchange parts. Half a linked group might thus be sent packing. Leverage into the unobservable: the odds of linked traits being split must vary with their distance on the chromosome. The chance of a break falling between two adjacent genes is very small, whereas any split in the chromosome separates the genes at opposite ends of a thread. Frequencies of separation thus mapped relative distance between genes.

  The chemistry was still lacking. But chemistry would come. Ressler himself would join in the cartographic project of ever-improving scale. Inexorable, but full of halting dead ends, overlooked insights, reversals. Morgan’s work too was resisted by the scientific community, while Levene’s incorrect tetranucleotide hypothesis was embraced disastrously for years. Researchers have made every possible mistake along the way. Reject the Moravian monk; doubt Morgan; ignore Avery’s 1944 identification of the genetic substance. Fits and starts, endless backtracking, limited less by technique than by the ability to conceive. How do you get moonlight into a chamber? Dress someone up as the mo
on.

  Mendel’s laws have since become more complex. Linkage, multiple alleles, epistasis, collaboration, and modifiers enhance his metaphor. But by the time Ressler took orders, neo-Mendelism was forever in place. Cyfer had inherited the idea that all of an organism’s characteristics were written in a somatic language, generated by a grammar that produced outward sentences distinct but derivable from deep structure.

  I live at the moment of synthesis, sense the work that is almost written, watch the structure complete its span, register for the first time how strewn with mistake and hope the path has been. This place, this night, a lamp, a typing machine, my books, my chromosomal map: I grope for my technique, my leverage into Dr. Ressler’s world. The test cross that will spring the hidden, recessive gene. How he blundered with desire toward fruition. How in fruition, pining for desire.

  PUBLIC OCCURRENCES BOTH FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC

  My private life began to accelerate. Before Todd, I never thought of myself as having a private life, let alone one with a brisk plot. Opening the door a crack on that stray, I found my after-hours hinting at a first étude, a study in unmitigated motion. Within minutes of returning from what I still refused to think of as a date, I was back on the phone, arranging to meet Todd again. I rationalized the secrecy, the closed door: I didn’t want to confuse Tuck-well with transactions that weren’t what they seemed. Not that I knew what they were, or could pick out from my old life the complicating new accompaniment.

  I’m not built for change. I work at cultivating habit. Pull out tonight’s meal to defrost before leaving; turn right at third stoplight; issue the collegial, automatic greeting. Habit is an index, a compromise with irreversibles, a hedge against auto wreck or disease. The arbitrary day requires a pretense of a priori. But defenses atrophy in quarantine. When I felt that first symptom, I slaughtered routine before it could dissolve on me. Crazy schemes—one day deciding to knock out the living-room wall. The instant the sledgehammer splattered plaster, I knew what I’d done. But a sickening sense of relief too: I’d never again have to worry about the wall caving in.

  I was sick in my stomach pit, enough to extinguish a satisfactory existence. Tuckwell and I began to fall apart, wrecked in event. We’d committed no offense except the habit of living together. But all habit ends by presiding over its obsolescence. Even as I closed the door to the bedroom to arrange my next date, I felt I wouldn’t be strong enough to end my old life cleanly. If I deliberately killed the old arrangement, everything would be killable. Escape rendered escapable whatever might follow.

  Everything about Tuckwell—our apartment, shopping together, our trivial exchanges—grew horribly beautiful. I’d never treated him well. We’d failed to do the things we’d always talked about. I got nostalgic about the most bizarre items: shared wine bottles, accidental tears in the bed linen, utility bills. Even before I started seeing Todd in earnest, I sank into the death-denying compulsion of the collector. Countless times at the library, confronted by a perpetual crisis of shelf space, I’ve argued with Holdings that thirty-year-old sourcebooks ought not necessarily be pitched just because nobody had ruffled them since publication. Yet even as my heart clamped down to protect a life that had become as habitual as circulation, I knew that the place had already gone bloodless.

  Deep in humid summer I felt the shameful excitement of spring cleaning, the sensory alertness brought on by an impending death. Explosion of taste, touch, sight: colors grew subtler, smells more variegated, more exciting because of their morbid source. I profited by another’s agony. Three sick weeks, laced with the flavor of discovery, loss restoring the insight that recovery subsequently buries: however much I made love to it, I detested habit with everything in me.

  For three weeks, my composure rode an explosive rush. The novelty of Franklin saw me through; I could not have gone it alone. How did I accomplish those leaps, the terrible intervals of those days? All done cross-hands. Independent lines somehow crossing over. Pain and elation in a linkage group. Departure anxiety, the promise of new places intensifying the ache. Disasters stand out: an excursion Tuckwell and I made to Central Park Zoo. We’d planned the trip for one of our rare simultaneous days off. Once there, in front of the cages, we couldn’t for the life of us recall why we’d come.

  Committed to a formal outing, Keith and I made the rounds, although we knew in the first minute it was an awful mistake. The zoo was grayer, more decrepit than either of us remembered. As everyplace else, it had succumbed to creeping graffiti fungus, the surreal, urgently illegible signatures of the buried. Animals lay neglected in cages, sick, overfed, deflated. The few that moved traced out tight, psychotic circles. A pack of safety-pinned twenty-year-olds (although given our infatuation with extended adolescence, they could have been thirty) bounced marshmallows off the open mouth of a panting sea lion, ridiculing the beast for being too stupid to bite. “Sick, the whole lot,” I whispered violently.

  “It’s your generation made us torturers,” Tuckwell joked, steering me on. I couldn’t keep from attaching myself to each pen, a mission of pointless distress. Why was the zoo still standing? Why this irrelevant park in the first place? Certainly not for solace. Gruesome ornament, tribute to the sadistic housebreaking of a force that long ago ceased to command fear. The cages proved that plumbing and shag were best, after all. The worst civilized annoyance was superior to the dead end of animals. I waved at the insults tailored to each genus. “What’s the point? No beauty we can’t humiliate?”

  “Serves them right. Lower forms of evolution. They’ve had just as much geologic time to get evolved as we have. And look at them. Just look at them. Pitiful.” But seeing that his patter only irritated me, Keith resorted to logical blundering. “You’re mad, woman. So the place is on the decayed side. That’s a problem with the tax base, not humanity.” Pragmatics failing, he tried compassion. The animals did not know their suffering. And at least here they were kept alive.

  We tried to salvage the afternoon by eating out, but fell into a fight over where to go. Keith had made reservations at the Chinese place in the 50s where we’d first had dinner together. He dropped the announcement on me with a now-for-what-you’ve-all-been-waiting-for flair. “Can’t you hear the wontons calling?” I didn’t even fake my usual diplomacy. “No? I was pretty sure I could hear a wonton calling. Something was calling, anyway. High-pitched, squeaky. Maybe it was an egg roll that thought it was a …”. Making no headway, he gave up. We began walking crosstown. After a grizzly block, he stopped and caught my arm. “I thought you liked the place.”

  “I like the place. I’m glad we’re going there, OK?” But every concession was a refusal.

  “We don’t have to go there, you know. So they sue us for the canceled reservation. Take us for everything. I can get a second job …”. I laughed, if through my teeth. Feeling the victory, Keith chose his cadence. “Is it those punks? Forget them. Beatniks. Greasers. Whooo-dlums.”

  “It’s our generation made them torturers.”

  “Oh. That’s it. Sorry. You’re not old enough to be their mother. Maybe a very much older spinster sister …”.

  “Thanks, ass. That’s not it.”

  “The animals, then? Look, you can’t do anything about them. Lost cause. The least offensive of our sins. You want anxiety? Zoo animals are the last thing to get morally outraged over, at this late a date.” I was still refusing to incriminate myself when we drew up outside the restaurant. Keith was near distraction. “Listen. It’s obvious, even to me, that you’re trying to tell me something. What’s the secret word this time, Jan? I’ve got to guess, evidently. One assumes it’s bigger than the proverbial breadbox, or we wouldn’t have killed a decent day over it. Damn it, woman. Look around. We’re standing in front of a fine establishment; we can saunter in and make them wait on us hand and foot. The best goddamn mu shu this side of Confucius Plaza. We’re more than reasonably well off, given world per capita …”. Feeling himself on dangerous ground, he dropped a decibel. “We’re bo
th doing exactly what we want in life. You realize the odds against that? Look around, woman. It’s your day off. We can do anything you want. Get a room uptown tonight, if you like. Anything. Condemned to freedom, as the Frogs like to say. A perfect day, if you make it. Unlike any other that has ever happened.”

  Ridiculous, I thought, even as he got the sentence out. Seven August, one of an endless series. Ten days earlier, I had passed over, without ripple, that landscape with conflagration, the 1976 quake in Tangshan, China, 8.2 on the Richter, killing a surreal 655,235. I’d passed it by for the Event Calendar for no other reason than my deciding that history had to serve some other cause than ungraspable tragedy. In contrast, two days before this outing, I’d posted the Mayflower and Speedwell setting sail for the New World. Honesty compelled me to add how the Pilgrims were forced to return to England and ditch the Speedwell as unseaworthy. Yet the abortive first run seemed the one needing commemorating. The uncelebrated cost of leaving. My own life was about to modulate to exploration, and it made me morose. Had I known the first thing about being alive, I would have made my last weeks with Keith affectionate, funny. But I’ve never known anything. I didn’t even know what he knew: I was already gone.

  After dinner, I lifted again. The sides of the absurd Woolworth Building, in low light, grew oppressively beautiful. I wanted to save all those horrid skyboxes, paint and carve them. We walked back east, and the stone and glass took on the dusk-shades of Morandi bottles glowing subtly in a chalk-and-sand rainbow. We skirted the panorama of Wall Street, the Battery, Chinatown. We walked back over the bridge, taut cables pulling the span up in the middle, a woman arching her back in animal ecstasy as her mate bit her gently by the neck. The city sat in the ocean, practically drifted out, afloat on the water. I could smell the brine and hear the surf above the traffic, as if this were not the densest collection of refugees in the world but only a summer resort, breakers and gradations of late-summer light visible from every window of the great beachfront hotel.