The Gene of Life

by Tetsuo Ted Takashima

  “Take your jacket off.” Max retrieved a first aid kit from his locker. Katya did as she was told. Her jacket and blouse were torn and blood-soaked. A bullet had grazed her.

  “This jacket’s done for, huh? Damn, I liked it,” Katya’s voice wavered.

  “It’s my fault. I’ll get you a new one.”

  “After what’s just happened I might not look thrilled, but trust me, that makes me very happy.”

  She drew in her lips and grimaced when Max dabbed her shoulder with antiseptic.

  “Shouldn’t we report this to the police?”

  “Do what you want,” Max said curtly, as he bandaged her shoulder.

  “Thank you for rescuing me from the car, by the way,” she said, having just recalled what happened. “Do you always carry a knife?”

  “Ever since I was in the Boy Scouts. My father gave it to me the first time I left for camp.”

  “It’s pretty handy. I want one now, too.”

  “Better not. These days, it’ll get you in trouble at airport security.”

  The wound wasn’t as bad as it looked. With some disinfecting and an injection of antibiotics, she would be fine.

  “It’ll scar a little, but there shouldn’t be any problem with your shoulder otherwise. And the scar won’t make you any less attractive, so, it shouldn’t give you any trouble.” Max wiped away the blood and dirt from her cheek.

  “You could’ve phrased that better.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Katya put on her torn jacket as she watched Max wipe the blood off his fingers with gauze.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

  “Me too.” There were dark bags under her eyes.

  “I knew we should’ve gone to a hotel. We need some rest, someplace comfortable.”

  “It’s not too late for that.” Katya stared at Max.

  Max felt a flush of heat, but it disappeared as soon as it came. “I’ll get you home.” He pulled out his cellphone and called a taxi.

  CHAPTER 7

  German could be heard in the empty room, but the words were difficult to make out over the static and high volume distorting the speaker’s voice. Next to the DNA figurine on Max’s desk was a digital recorder smaller than his cellphone.

  Max listened with his elbows on the desk and his chin in his hands. His arms and back were starting to hurt. Two hours had passed. Most of the conversation had been drilled into his head, but what those words meant was as elusive as a mayfly drifting in the sunlight. If he were being honest with himself, he did understand. It was just that the knowledge he had accumulated up until now was getting in the way. In order to acknowledge the reality of it all, he needed time, perseverance, a flexible mind, and the courage to break the chains of common sense.

  Three days had passed since the incident.

  He stood up and walked to the window. The street was empty. It was ten to midnight. He stretched; his joints were so stiff he could practically hear them creaking. After staring outside for a while, he returned to his seat.

  A knock on the door. It opened, and Max rushed to stop the recorder’s playback. Katya came in carrying some data sheets.

  “You’re still here?”

  “The results of the gene analysis are in. It’s just as you said, Professor—No. 5 of Chromosome 7 and No. 9 of Chromosome 11 are abnormal. The base sequences indicate unique genetic information.” Katya put the papers on the desk and looked at the recorder. “But without more to go on, I have no idea what those genes mean. But you must; otherwise, how could you be so calm?”

  “Is that how I look?”

  “At the very least, you don’t look too pressed for time.”

  Max smiled a little, and looked away from her.

  “What is this data?” she asked. “I think you could stand to tell me.”

  “I’d like you to wait just a little longer.”

  “I’m tired of hearing that, Professor.”

  Max rifled through two, three pages. He’d already seen the data hundreds, no, thousands of times.

  Katya started fiddling with the DNA figurine. “DNA . . . I don’t think a toy like this determines everything about a person. When I said I wanted to be a doctor, my parents got angry. My family faints at the sight of blood. They wanted me to be a musician or a poet. They thought that the child of music-loving parents would also love music. And not because of their genetics, but through the family’s soul—through the shared will of God and mankind. I think it’s not our genes that control our fate, but rather our wills.”

  “Getting past God’s whims, the vagaries of our births, isn’t that straightforward. That said, I . . .” Max’s tone had gotten suddenly harsh.

  “I didn’t mean it like that . . .”

  “How’s your wound?” Max changed the subject, ashamed of himself for raising his voice.

  Katya rotated her arm in reply. In the three days since she had been injured, new skin covered the wound on her shoulder, and she’d returned to normal emotionally as well—but only on the surface.

  The day after the incident, newspapers stated that several people died in a shootout at an old factory site in the suburbs due to infighting among rogue neo-Nazis. Did the Berlin police really come to that conclusion, or did Feldman pull some political strings? Either way was fine by Max. The attack on Feldman Antique Dealers was blamed on a robbery. The truth behind both cases was buried. They had far more power than Max had imagined. Which also meant that neither Max’s nor Katya’s name came up in the investigations.

  “Don’t go overboard with that arm.”

  “You’re a fantastic doctor, too, Professor.”

  “It was only skin-deep. Used to be any parent could’ve done much the same. In fact, a dog or cat could’ve licked it clean.”

  “Are you comparing me to a cat or dog?”

  He knew her wound still hurt. Otherwise she wouldn’t be grimacing. But for some reason, he couldn’t summon words of sympathy.

  “Just take the compliment. I’m calling you an excellent doctor.” Katya scanned the bare room; most of the stuff had already been taken out, giving the room a drab air. “Five days left, right?”

  As their plans stood now, Katya was going to leave for the US before Max, and get their laboratory organized. Max would take a trip around Africa, after a transfer in France, and return to the US in ten days—the trip he’d planned six months before. He’d visit a number of universities and laboratories and meet researchers. When he’d made those plans he was looking forward to the trip, but now it just felt like a detour.

  “Any concerns going forward?” Max asked Katya.

  “I’m looking forward to returning to the country I spent half of my life in. I was in California until two years ago.”

  “Oh, right. I almost forgot. You’re a US citizen.”

  “Coffee?” She smiled, looking his way.

  Max averted his eyes. She was so cheery and full of life; he was afraid he’d develop feelings for her. But he also knew that it was already too late. He nodded, and Katya left the room.

  He pressed a button on the recorder, and the same indistinct mumbling played.

  Five minutes later, Katya returned with two cups of coffee.

  “Are you still listening to that, Professor? I must say, I’m surprised you were recording what Dona said.”

  “I just happened to have the recorder in my pocket. It starts recording when it detects a voice.” Max always kept it in his jacket’s inside pocket so he could record ideas or reminders.

  Katya put the cup in front of him and took a sip from her own. “Have you discovered anything new?”

  “This Dona woman was over a hundred years old. Or at least—” Max stopped himself, shaking his head. “Her husband, Gehlen, would be 111.”

  “Do you believe what she said? It was just her being delusional, wasn’t it? Because I don’t think she was deliberately lying.”

  “I think she was in her right mind. She was Gehlen’s wife.”
/>   “Then we’re losing it.”

  “She called him General Gehlen. Even though he’d been a colonel.”

  “Gehlen must have lied to her, thinking she had no way of knowing the truth.”

  “Over sixty years have passed since the war ended. More than enough time for a colonel to rise to the rank of general.”

  Katya sighed, exasperated. “Who promoted him, then? Hitler’s Nazi Party isn’t exactly around anymore.”

  Max stared at his cup, thinking.

  “Let’s just forget about all this. It’s past us now.” Katya tried to put her cup on the desk, but she frowned in pain. “It’s true there’s a lot to dissect, but it doesn’t have anything to do with us. Unless there’s still something on your mind?” she asked, turning to face him.

  “Domba. She said the word ‘Domba.’”

  “The name of the village Dona used to live in.” Katya sat on the desk and started fiddling with the DNA figurine once again.

  “It sounds like it could be a village in Brazil, but I couldn’t find a village by that name.”

  “I tried searching for it on the internet, but nothing came up,” Katya said.

  “Aska . . . ,” blurted Max.

  “Couldn’t find a place in Brazil named Aska, either. There’s an Asuka in Japan, but I don’t think it’s related. You looked into it, too, right, Professor?” Katya shrugged. “Considering what Dona said, both she and Gehlen are over a hundred years old, despite looking younger. Research concerning aging is progressing; free radicals damage the proteins and genes in cells, and that’s what causes our bodies to change over time. The enzyme that defends against free radicals and the enzyme that repairs the damage have been identified, and that knowledge is being incorporated into modern medical treatments. Have they been undergoing the latest anti-aging treatments?”

  “That can’t be,” Max said. “We’re talking apples and oranges; there’s a fundamentally different mechanism at play between slowing aging down and turning it off altogether.”

  “That’s just not possible for modern medicine to achieve. And it doesn’t make sense physiologically.”

  “It’s not possible for modern medicine, no . . . ,” Max repeated, half to himself.

  An ambulance siren blared outside, growing louder and louder until it reached the research facility. Katya got up and looked out the window; Max stood beside her. Red lights lit up the darkness as the siren pierced the silence.

  “It’s the building across from us. Paramedics are entering with a stretch . . .”

  Katya’s voice suddenly faded away. Chills ran down Max’s spine, and his body stiffened. Pressure built up in his head as his vision turned dark and his mind went blank. He staggered away from the window. The last thing he saw was Katya’s face; he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  “Professor, what happened?” Katya was using a penlight to check his pupils.

  He woke up lying on a sofa, his shirt buttons undone. He struggled to sit up. This was his first seizure in a year. He’d been driving the last time it happened. He’d just exited the freeway when his chest started feeling tight. He pulled over and waited for the attack to subside. The fact that he’d been driving slowly saved his life. The next day, he had a thorough checkup, but they couldn’t find anything wrong with him. Or rather, modern medicine couldn’t.

  “It’s nothing. Just a little vertigo.”

  “You’re sweating like crazy, Professor. And you were shaking, too.” Katya took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  Max brushed her hand aside and stood up. He swayed on his feet and grabbed Katya’s shoulder to keep himself up. “Sorry.”

  “Your face is white.”

  “You should go home.” Max let go of her shoulder and stretched his muscles.

  “I’ll go get ready.” Katya looked a little bewildered, but she returned to her room.

  When she came back, they left the laboratory together. The ambulance had already left. All that hung over the streets in the dead of night was silence. There was no traffic, apart from the occasional car zooming along the highway.

  After five minutes, there was no sign any taxis would come.

  “I’m heading for the station.” Max started walking.

  “Professor . . .” Katya followed him. “Who is Alex? You called out his name earlier. And you seemed so distraught . . .”

  Max froze, but only for a moment. He walked away without a word. Katya hastened after him.

  They left the main road and turned down a side street, their footsteps echoing in the silence. But they quickly noticed the number of footsteps had audibly increased—three men were tailing them. Max took a furtive look behind them. One was a skinhead, another had a Mohawk, and the third had shoulder-length hair, and all three were wearing leather vests and studded boots. They looked like they were still just kids. Under the streetlights, their shadows overlapped on the asphalt. Katya drew closer to Max.

  The boy with the Mohawk leapt in front of them. Max and Katya stopped in their tracks.

  “Lend a guy some money, wouldya, old man?”

  The skinhead smiled as he approached from the side. “You could give us her instead, if you like,” he said, appraising Katya.

  Katya clung to Max.

  “How about neither,” Max replied.

  The three lowlifes looked each other in the eyes. The long-haired boy grabbed Katya’s arm. Max pushed his arm away and hid Katya behind him.

  “You got a death wish or something, fucker?” The skinhead held a knife.

  “Stop this nonsense!” Katya yelled, but she was shivering.

  “I’m American,” Max said. “If a thug like you stabs a foreign national, let’s just say the headlines will be a little different. The police will stake their names on finding the culprits. Are you ready for the consequences?”

  The skinhead put the knife to Max’s throat.

  “Isn’t it past your bedtimes?” Max said. “Why don’t you scurry home and tuck in for the night?”

  “You’re dead!” the skinhead said, but he sounded a little afraid. Max’s composure unnerved the gang.

  “Cutting flesh with a knife always feels gratifying,” said Max, staring at the skinhead. “I’m a doctor—a pro at cutting people up. Slit the skin and muscle in one go. Everyone has different fat levels, so for people with more fat on their bones, you’re going to have to twist the knife when you slice them. And you should avoid hitting bone. It’s way too hard for an amateur.”

  The skinhead looked at his friends on either side of him, his eyes pleading for help.

  “You going to stab me in the gut with that knife, or in the chest? If you want a sure kill, you aim for an artery. All you need’s a nick, and the blood will go flying. The side of the neck is prime real estate. But be careful—blood can spray for a good meter. It’ll get all over you if you stay where you are. Look, stab me right here!” Max shouted, putting a hand on the side of his neck. “Do it now! I haven’t got all night.”

  He took a half step closer, and the knife’s tip sank through his bleeding skin. The skinhead hurriedly withdrew the knife.

  “Don’t hesitate. Stab me with all your strength and gouge it out.” Max grabbed the skinhead’s hand and brought the knife to the side of his neck. The skinhead resisted. The long-haired boy bashed Max in the head, forcing him to let go of the skinhead’s arm. Max staggered and hit his back against a building.

  “Stop or I’ll call the police!” Katya shouted, rushing over to Max.

  “Dude’s nuts!” The skinhead was breathing heavily.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.” The guy with the Mohawk pulled the skinhead away by the arm, and the three ran toward the main street.

  “You’re bleeding.” Katya got out a handkerchief and put it on the back of his neck.

  “They’re high school kids. They haven’t got the guts to kill.”

  “They could’ve gotten swept up in the heat of the moment. You were lucky you got off this lig
htly, that’s all. Don’t be so reckless.” Katya’s voice was trembling, her eyes tearing. “Please, please value your life more. You were chosen by God, Professor.”

  “You’re right. God did choose me. He chose me for . . .” He stared at Katya.

  He could see his eyes reflected in Katya’s wide-open eyes. Something akin to anger was in those eyes, but behind them, a deep sadness. Katya closed her eyes and turned her face away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, walking away.

  Katya ran after him. “Don’t you believe in God?”

  “I’m not that gullible!” Max spat, quickening his pace.

  CHAPTER 8

  The sky was bright blue and cloudless, which wasn’t often the case during summer in Germany. The autobahn wove through the mountains like the gently curving backbone of a powerful dragon. Hitler had this road built to double as an emergency runway for military aircraft, and it served as an important traffic route for the postwar recovery. To this day, it stood as a symbol of Germany. Even in the new millennium, the autobahn made it so that the nation could not escape from the legacy of the Nazi regime.

  Max drove his Porsche due west. He listened to the radio over the rhythm of the air-cooled engine, while the speedometer hovered around 80 mph.

  “Neo-Nazi rallies were held in various regions . . . the bullets found at the scene indicate sniper rifles were used . . . since the bombing, the authorities have been waiting watchfully . . . with the robust support of the far-right . . . depending on the future trends of nations of the EU, the United States, too, may soon . . . the German government is holding an emergency parliamentary . . .”

  Max turned it off, leaving him with only the hum of the engine. He pushed down the accelerator in order to shake off the black lumps that had accumulated in his head since the events of that day. He was on his way to Wittenfurt, 125 miles from Berlin. His last lecture in Germany would be at the University of Wittenfurt at 4:00 p.m. The talk would be about telomeres, which determine the number of times cells divide, as well as cell suicide, or apoptosis.

  His cellphone rang. He slowed down to 60 mph and took the phone out of his chest pocket.