He had lived in Jerusalem as an entirely private person. He had promised his father that he would not write anymore, never again publish his thoughts in any newspaper or periodical. He had seen that words on a page could have serious consequences, could threaten a man’s life and send him miles from home. He intended, many, many years in the future, to write his memoirs, a document that might be of interest to a few members of his family. Writing, he had decided, was a profession for those who cannot do, and he wanted now to make a success of his business, to bring pride to his family and wealth, wealth enough for a Jew to provide protection from those who would harm him. He had decided he would rather be the object of criticism in the press than the critic.
Jacob waited for someone to come to the room. He was thirsty but unafraid. He had done nothing to annoy the Turkish pasha or the British, nothing at all.
A YOUNG MAN, the son of Monsieur Jean Vernon, a patient of Dr. Malina’s, a student in the last year of his study of law at the university, was lying on the floor of the hospital’s entryway. The porter at the École des Jesuits had brought him there in a blanket and then left him on the floor. He had not had the strength to get up on a chair. The sister bent down, her sense of smell the only diagnostic tool she needed. The pool of feces that had collected around the boy’s hips, that had seeped through his trousers, told her all. The young man’s lips were blue. His eyes had sunk back in his skull. His teeth were chattering. His hand trembled as if he had had a stroke, but this wasn’t a stroke. The sister knew exactly what it was. What she didn’t know was what to do about it. What good had it done the young man to make his way to the hospital clinic? The boy gave his name. A note was sent to his father. She gave him some laudanum, which seemed to calm him. She put another blanket on his legs.
The sister knocked on the laboratory door. Emile and Louis hurried to the room where the boy lay tossing on a cot. The sister would have stayed with the young man in his last hours, but there were others in need of her attention. The fact that there was cholera in Alexandria did not mean other threats to the human body retreated or moved on to Cairo or Damascus. Louis and Emile discreetly took some of the boy’s feces and some of the fluid that gathered at the edge of his lips. They wiped him with a towel, which they kept. Louis could just grab his arm and cut in several places and take what he wanted. But he could not do that. The boy was trying to pull himself to a sitting position but was unable. He looked like a new calf, out of proportion, not yet fully firm. What an age to lose your life! Louis felt a sudden rage. He brought out his small tube with its cork stopper and a stick for stirring, which he had brought in his bag. The boy kicked at him. The kick had no force but its intention was clear. Louis waited a moment and then he again approached the boy and wiped his stick against the vomit on his chin and placed his prize in his glass tube and put in the cork and left the room just as the boy’s father could be heard calling his son’s name in the corridor.
They were returning to their laboratory when they saw Dr. Koch, immediately followed by his assistant carrying a large bowl. “Good morning, Dr. Koch,” said Emile. The doctor barely nodded in return. He was in a hurry to take the intestines of a dead woman in whose body he had seen all the signs of cholera back to his laboratory.
ERIC FORTMAN HAD been announced by the serving girl, or at least Lydia and Este were able to make his name out of the garbled words she spoke. “Ladies,” he said, in his large English voice, “how happy I am to find you at home. The Cassandra and the Olympia, one flying the British flag and the other from Istanbul, have debarked without unloading. They were told about the cholera and simply pulled out to sea. Cowards, I think,” he added. What of their responsibilities to the firms that stocked their cargo, entrusted the goods and expected service? “What kind of behavior is that?” he asked, without actually expecting a reply. But he got one.
“You can’t seriously expect the captains of these ships to put their men at risk, simply for the sake of the cargo. A human life is worth far more than any bolt of cloth, any piece of timber, anything under the sun that doesn’t imagine its own death.” As Este spoke, her face flushed. Unfortunately, he could not mention the considerable dent in his financial plans that accompanied these ships’ unseemly retreat.
“I don’t fight with women,” he said. “I bring them gifts. Look what I brought you.” And from the pocket of his jacket he pulled the Ganesh, its small painted flowers gleaming in the morning light that drifted in as the curtains blew apart. “Look, it’s an elephant,” he said. “You have heard, I’m sure, that the brown people on the Indian continent believe in an elephant god called Ganesh, and this is him.” The women stared. “Well, not him, but a representation of him.”
“An idol,” said Lydia.
“You don’t worship him,” laughed Eric, smoothing down the edge of his black mustache, “you put him on your desk to look pretty, and he is pretty, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Este. She took the Ganesh and ran her fingers over its smooth glazed back. She held it in the palm of one hand and ran a finger down the slope of its small trunk. “Thank you,” she said, and in fact, for some reason she hardly understood, she was enormously pleased with the gift.
“It will bring you luck, I’m sure,” said Eric.
“Nonsense,” said Este, but she smiled again. “I’ve never had a Ganesh before,” she added.
Lydia felt she had to say, “Jews do not believe in elephant gods.”
“Neither do Christians,” said Eric.
“Tell me about India,” said Este. “I want to go there myself someday.”
“I haven’t actually been to India,” said Eric. “Glen MacAlan Scotch had no business there. I’ve been to Portugal, though.”
“Tell me about Portugal, then,” said Este. “I wish I could go there, too.”
Lydia looked at her daughter. She wanted to shield her from disappointment, Portugal, India, wishes that would never come true. The world might be round and vast, but what any one woman would know of it was limited to the classroom, the library, and the newspapers. “Este, my darling,” she said, “we must go out on our errands. Perhaps Eric will accompany us as far as the Muslim cemetery.” She wasn’t entirely displeased when he explained that he had to return to the docks in case any new ships were arriving.
“I’m sure I would get seasick on a boat,” said Lydia.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” said Este.
“The sea is very boring,” said Lydia.
“Not at all,” said Este. “It has a million colors, a thousand birds, and the wind blows hard and soft and the whitecaps rise and fall. I’m sure I should love it.”
“I doubt that,” said Lydia, and the subject was dropped.
DR. KOCH HAD a far larger laboratory than the Frenchmen’s. He and Gregor Gaffkey had several assistants, and he worked night and day. He had no other distractions. He recorded every attempt they made in a black notebook, the fifth in the series that he had begun when he arrived in Alexandria. He, too, was having trouble. The cholera that was surely in the city, killing more and more each day, evaded his glass, his experiments, melded with his dye, or dissolved on contact with the air or in some way that frustrated the doctor as nothing else ever had, hid in plain sight. Dr. Koch knew that after he discovered its shape, it would seem obvious. Other generations of scientists might wonder why it took him so long. They would admire his hard work, but speak of him and his accomplishments condescendingly. After all, it was right in front of his Germanic nose all the time.
A LETTER WAS waiting on the hall table. It was from Jacob. Lydia read:
Dearest parents, don’t be alarmed, but I have been interviewed by several British intelligence o ficers in Jerusalem. It seems they are concerned that I am part of a Jewish conspiracy against the Crown. I believe I have convinced them that I am now a simple businessman dealing in olives and my foolish publication when I was a student is long behind me. I told them I no longer write or have any ambitions to write. They let me g
o but said they will keep watching me. They have spoken to the pasha here and may ask him to remove my papers. The political situation is treacherous. The Grand Rabbi, who claims he is a descendant of Rabbi Hillel (who could prove him wrong?), is anxious to avoid any incident with the authorities. He, too, suspects that I am an agent of foreign interests. On what grounds I cannot tell you. He will not speak up in my favor. I am on my own. The British o ficers asked me many questions about Father’s medical practice and his position in the community. They implied he was smuggling in hashish. Needless to say, I have su fered many sleepless nights. Hope this means nothing, but I did think you ought to know. With a fection always, Jacob.
Don’t be alarmed, don’t be alarmed. Lydia repeated the words over and over. How could she not be alarmed? Why shouldn’t she be alarmed? She waited until Este had gone to feed the birds in the courtyard and her husband had finished his dinner to show him the letter. He put his hand on hers. “Listen to your son, don’t be alarmed,” he said. “It’s most likely that the interest of the English Crown in the Malinas will fade quickly since in fact we do nothing to harm it.”
“Well, then,” said Lydia, “I won’t be alarmed.”
THE COMMITTEE OF Public Safety held a luncheon meeting. They invited Roux, Nocard, and Thuillier along with Dr. Robert Koch. But Louis did not attend the meeting. He had returned to the hospital to see the young man who had denied him tissue samples some hours before. Dr. Koch reported some progress in his laboratory, some significant leads, some hope that he had perhaps sighted the microbe, but it was too soon to present his work, the proof was not yet there. He would keep the committee informed of his progress. They were all invited to his laboratory to see his experiments if they wished. “But don’t expect to see the microbe,” he said, “not yet.”
Emile reported on the French mission’s work, not admitting that they had not made any progress besides the progress of elimination.
“The water has been boiled?” Nocard asked the servant who was pouring from a pitcher.
“No, sir,” said the servant.
“Well, boil it, then,” said Nocard, who did not touch the fish or greens that had been brought to him.
Emile pushed the food from one side of his plate to the other. “I’ll have some beer,” he said.
The Belgian doctors, the Arab surgeon, the Italian anatomist, the Turkish throat specialist, all members of the Alexandrian academy along with Dr. Malina, ate with full appetite.
AT NOON, NOCARD was sitting in a chair by the cage of a lamb recently injected with some tissue from the brain of their cholera victim, waiting for it to show signs of illness. Este announced she was leaving the laboratory. She was on her way home. Her mother had insisted she return in time for lunch. Her mother was lonely for her company.
“Walk with me,” she said to Louis. Her face was relaxed, as if she expected nothing of importance to occur.
“Let’s take the long way,” Louis said.
Este said, “No, my mother expects me at home.”
“All right,” Louis said, “let’s walk slowly.”
Anippe was trailing them. Marcus was teasing the maid by trying to undo the ribbons of her apron. Este wanted a drink of cream and ice from a vendor at the corner. Louis explained that it was not safe to eat food from the carts. The vendors did not boil their pots, they did not keep their hands clean.
“When will it end?” she asked.
Louis said, “No one knows.”
“I’ve heard from the cook that some in the Arab quarter were setting fires on the banks of the Nile to scare the cholera away,” Este said.
“It won’t work,” said Louis. He became quiet. A shyness fell over him. Este saw it.
“Tell me about your home,” she asked, and the shyness lifted. He told her about his mother and the park in Amiens where he had played as a child, and how here in Alexandria he sometimes dreamed that he was still a boy at home. He told her the name of the priest who had buried his friend Bernard, and he described for her the bank where his father worked, with its high brass rails and a great mahogany clock on the wall. She listened carefully. They walked past the bazaar, but did not stop to look at the wares spread before them. Louis told Este about Pasteur, about his useless arm and about his fierce eyes and the way he sat for hours unmoving in his chair in the corner of the lab. He told her that the world was changing, soon there would be no more unreasonable prattle about miracles and magic, and everyone would understand that things needed to be proved, evidence given, so that human life could be saved, disease defeated.
“But that will take a long time,” said Este.
“It will,” said Louis. “But it will happen. No more fairy tales.”
“I like fairy tales,” said Este.
“Enjoy them,” said Louis, “but don’t believe them.”
Este told Louis about her friend Phoebe’s brother Albert whom she had always thought she would marry but now wasn’t so sure. It was not fair, she said, that her brother took a boat to Palestine and she had to stay here, where day after day everything was just the same. They talked to each other with that whispered frenzy which does not imply clarity, but does reveal a magnetic pull, one sex to the other.
ALBERT’S FATHER CALLED him into his study after dinner. The younger man was ready to go out for the evening. He was playing cards at the club Au Quatre Deuce, placed discreetly off a side street of rue Bab Sidra, with some friends. He was already late because the servant had been slow in bringing the dessert to the table. His father, who had been unusually quiet during the meal, turned his head away from his son: a bad sign.
“I have had a visit,” he said, “from Dr. Malina. It seems, and I can hardly believe this to be true, that the ring you gave his daughter is a fake. The man was embarrassed to bring this to my attention, but thought I ought to know. I ought to know. What happened? Did you buy the girl a cheap ring? What’s the matter with you?”
Albert was stunned into silence. He had not paid the normal price for the ring, but he had been told he was purchasing a fine jewel. He cursed Achmed. He had been cheated. He pulled at the edges of his small, sharp beard and screamed at his father. “The ring was intended to be of the first order. I was promised that it was. I have been robbed.”
Albert’s father had known his son to shade the truth, to evade punishment, to make himself appear better than he was, but now he believed him. His obvious fury seemed entirely genuine.
“It’s about the honor of our family,” he said in a gentler tone.
“And what about them, the Malinas?” said Albert. “What did they do, take the ring for an evaluation, what kind of in-laws will they be, grasping and distrustful. For God’s sake, we have known these people all our lives. How dare they think I would cheat their daughter?”
“But it seems you did,” said the father. He reached into his desk and pulled out the velvet box. “Dr. Malina returned the ring in case you would like to replace it.”
“I will immediately,” Albert assured his father, but then he added, “perhaps you could help me with the purchase.”
The father stared at his son. “You don’t have it?”
“I don’t have it,” Albert answered. “A few gambling debts,” he mumbled.
The father sighed. He did not want the engagement called off, the embarrassing reason running through the lips of gossips, reaching the ears of potential clients, whispered in the balcony of the synagogue. He pulled out a ring of keys and, finding the correct one, pushed aside a beautiful Persian rug that hung on the wall, revealing a metal box set into the wood paneling. There was a harsh scraping noise as the door to the box swung slowly open.
ACHMED WAS HAVING his hair and beard trimmed by his personal barber when Albert announced himself to the servant who opened the front door. “My friend, have a seat,” said Achmed. “This won’t take much longer.” He flashed his very white teeth at the barber and motioned to Albert to come closer. Albert did not take a seat. He stood silently.
“What’s the matter,” said Achmed. “Bad news? Are you hung over and mean, like a camel with a bad tooth?”
Albert didn’t say a word. Achmed finished his haircut in silence, then waved the barber away, and when both young men could hear his steps on the stairs, he turned to Albert. “What, what is it?”
“This is what it is,” said Albert, and thrust out the box with the ring in it. “My fiancée and her mother went to a jeweler. The ring is no good, the ring is not what it should be, and I trusted you. I gave you my good money for this ring.” Albert was shouting.
An Imperfect Lens Page 17