The Last Good Man

by A. J. Kazinsky

  Agnes glanced at Hannah before she continued. “There is also a biological explanation. The pupils of the eyes noticeably expand when the body is about to die. So we’re talking about a very real visual perception. You might call it a form of sophisticated visual illusion. Another physical explanation is that the body experiences a type of carbon dioxide poisoning at the moment of death. Carbon dioxide poisoning is known to give people a feeling of being pulled through a tunnel. Others say that it’s simply a matter of hallucinations. A type of mental defense.”

  Agnes Davidsen shrugged. “Maybe it has to do with the subconscious trying to hide the almost unbearable fact from the person that he’s about to die. So the mind creates an experience to show that it’s not so bad. The person is heading toward light and warmth and love. But this doesn’t explain everything.”

  “I thought you’d say that.”

  “There are examples of people who died, and when they come back to life, they’re able to describe meeting others in death, even though at that time they couldn’t have known those other people were dead. Isn’t that fascinating? Now even the UN has entered the picture.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Agnes pushed Hannah’s bed through a door, turned it around, and set the brake. “In 2008, under the auspices of the UN, a major conference on near-death experiences was held. Researchers were able to publicly voice their doubts about our perception of consciousness and all the experiences that we can’t explain without being mocked.”

  “Science is merciless.”

  “Yes. For the same reason, during the following year a group of doctors decided to initiate an investigation into near-death experiences.”

  “I wouldn’t think it’d be easy to establish verifiable facts.”

  “No. And yet a British doctor came up with a very simple, almost silly method.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In emergency rooms and trauma centers in many different countries, small shelves have been set up near the ceiling. High up, where no one can see what’s lying on the shelves. Various pictures have been placed up there.”

  Hannah was beginning to guess where Agnes was headed with all this. She looked up. At first she didn’t see it, but then she looked over at the other side of the room. Yes, there it was. High up, four inches below the ceiling, was a small black shelf.

  Agnes was looking at her. “No one knows what sort of picture is up there. Not even me. It arrived in a sealed envelope from headquarters in London.”

  Hannah felt her mouth go dry, and she could feel her heart pounding. She wanted out of here.

  7

  Intensive Care, the National Hospital—Copenhagen

  A nurse came into the room.

  “This is for you, Niels.” She was holding a book in her hand. “From the dermatologist. What was his name?”

  “Jørgen Wass.”

  She smiled. “You’re good with names.”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  She handed him the book. “Dr. Wass found this for you. He even marked the place. He said that he’d stop by to examine you again after Christmas.”

  Niels looked at the book. There was no writing on the black leather cover.

  “I think it has to do with skin diseases.”

  A small yellow slip of paper was sticking out of the book.

  The nurse said something else, but Niels wasn’t listening. He was staring at an old black-and-white photo of somebody’s back.

  “What’s that?” She couldn’t hide her curiosity. “Is it a tattoo?”

  Niels didn’t answer. He was having a hard time breathing. The person’s back was practically identical to Niels’s. Thirty-six. The number thirty-six in scores of variations, shaped with a virtuosity that made his stomach turn over.

  “Is something wrong?”

  He kept staring at the photo.

  “Niels?”

  “Who is the man in this picture?” Niels pulled himself together enough to look at the caption. “A patient. The National Hospital. Nineteen forty-three. Worning syndrome.”

  “Is he Danish?” asked the nurse.

  Niels paged through the thick book. Worning. Was that someone’s name? Was there any other information? He had to give up. “That’s all it says.” He looked up at the nurse. “Where did the book come from?”

  “The dermatologist. I have no idea where he got it.”

  “I need to know where this book came from. I need to know who the patient is. I need to know everything. Call the dermatologist and ask him.”

  “But it’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Now!”

  “Just a minute.” She took the book away from Niels. He was about to protest but restrained himself.

  She left the room. Before the door closed behind her, she automatically switched off the light. In the dark, Niels thought about Hannah.

  Light.

  The nurse was standing in the doorway. “Did I turn off the light? Sorry about that.” She came closer.

  Niels tried to calm his breathing.

  “Are you in pain? Would you like some water?”

  “Did you get hold of him?” Niels looked at the book she was holding.

  “Yes. He said not to worry. It’s not something people die from.” She smiled. Niels doubted that she’d talked to the doctor at all. “He’ll be in to see you after Christmas.” She handed the book back to Niels. “Do you want to read more of it?”

  Again Niels studied the photograph, hoping to see something more. A thin body. The arms stretched out on either side. The man was standing up when the picture was taken. Black and white. Worning syndrome. Maybe Worning was the name of the patient.

  Niels could feel how tired he was. “Are there any sort of archives here at the hospital?”

  “Yes, there are. Quite extensive archives.”

  “Have you ever seen them?”

  “Twice in fifteen years. But we’re not going down there now. Right now we’re going to sleep. And enjoy Christmas. Right, Niels?”

  She took the book away. Niels said, “The man in the picture was a dermatological patient here. A patient in the National Hospital. That’s what it says.”

  “We don’t even know his name.”

  “Worning. Worning syndrome.”

  “Worning could also be the doctor who discovered the disease.”

  She pulled the covers up to his shoulders. Like a solicitous mother.

  8

  Trauma Center, the National Hospital—Copenhagen

  Agnes took out a small notebook and began reading aloud. It contained reports of the near-death experiences of other people.

  “Take this one, for example. It’s an edited version of a well-documented near-death experience by an American woman. I translated it into Danish myself. If the language seems a little clumsy, it’s not necessarily the fault of Kimberly Clark Sharp. So don’t blame her.”

  “Kimberly . . .”

  “Kimberly Clark Sharp. We have to go back to the fifties, when she collapsed on the sidewalk after suffering a severe heart attack. She stopped breathing. Had no pulse. Listen to this: ‘The first thing I remember was a woman shouting in panic: “There’s no pulse! No pulse!” But I felt fine. Really fine. In fact, I thought that I’d never felt better in my life. I had a feeling of great calm and connection like I’d never had before. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear everything. The voices of people bending over me. Then I had a feeling of being in another place—a place where I knew I wasn’t alone, but I still couldn’t see clearly because of the dark fog that surrounded me.’ ”

  Agnes looked up. “Should I keep reading?” She went on before Hannah could reply. Hannah suspected the old woman of subjecting her to a simple psychological ploy: By telling Hannah about the near-death experiences of other people, Agnes would make her feel that it wasn’t so strange to go through something like that. And that, in turn, might make Hannah willing to talk about her own experience. The ploy was working.

&nb
sp; “ ‘Suddenly, I heard a huge explosion underneath me. An explosion of light that filled my vision. I was at the center of the light, and all trace of fog was gone. I could see the whole universe, reflected in endless layers. It was eternity showing itself to me. The light was stronger than a hundred suns, but it didn’t burn me. I had never seen God before, but I recognized this light as God’s light.

  “ ‘I understood the light even though I didn’t have words for it. We didn’t communicate in English or any other language. Communication was on an entirely different level than what you can do with something as banal as a language. It was more like music or mathematics.’ ”

  With an effort, Hannah lifted her head from the pillow. “Does it really say that?”

  “Yes.”

  Agnes looked at her. Hesitating. Then she continued reading. “ ‘A nonverbal language. And I knew the answers to all the big questions, the questions that border on cliché: Why are we here? To learn. What’s the meaning of life? To love. It was as if I was reminded of something that I already knew but had forgotten. Then I realized that it was time for me to go back.’ ”

  Agnes paused to catch her breath. “This is how Kimberly Clark Sharp concludes her report: ‘I could hardly bear the thought. After seeing all of this, after having met God, did I really need to go back to the old world? But there was nothing to be done about it. I had to go back. Then, for the first time, I saw my body and understood that I was no longer part of that body. I had no connection to it. What I now understood was that my “self” was not a part of my body. My consciousness, my personality, my memories were someplace else, not in the prison of flesh that my body represented.’ ”

  Agnes looked up.

  “Is there more?” asked Hannah.

  “That’s her story. Here’s a picture of her.” She handed the notebook to Hannah, who looked at the picture of a typical American housewife, as if taken straight from Oprah Winfrey’s show.

  “The body as a prison.” Hannah was thinking out loud.

  “It’s a very common feeling in connection with near-death experiences. The separation of body and soul. Shall we go to India?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Near-death experiences can be found in all religions and all cultures. This is one that I haven’t yet written down, but I remember what happened. An Indian named Vasudev Pandey. When he was ten years old, he developed a mysterious illness that killed him.”

  “I’ve always been suspicious of stories that start out with a mysterious illness.”

  “He describes it as a paratyphoid disease. At any rate, he died. After he was pronounced dead, his body was transported to the crematorium. All of a sudden he showed signs of life. Pandey was quickly taken to the hospital, where he was examined by several doctors. They tried various means to revive him, including injections. Finally, the doctors managed to restart his heart, but he didn’t regain consciousness. Only after three days in a deep coma did he wake up.”

  “So what did he experience?” asked Hannah.

  “There, you see.” The old woman smiled. “You’re curious. When I give speeches on the subject, I usually say that near-death experiences get under your skin. That might sound ridiculous, but it’s true. Vasudev Pandey later described the experience, or rather, the feeling, of two people lifting him up and taking him away with them. Pandey quickly grew tired, so the two people had to drag him along. Soon they met a creepy man.”

  Hannah laughed. “A creepy man?”

  “I know it sounds funny. But that’s how he described him. The creepy man was furious and started yelling at the two men who had brought Pandey. ‘I asked you for the gardener named Pandey,’ he told them. ‘Take a look around. I need a gardener. But here you come with a boy named Pandey.’ ”

  “It sounds like some sort of comedy.”

  “Maybe. Pandey explained that when he regained consciousness, a large group of family members and friends stood around what they thought was a child’s bier. Among them was the gardener named Pandey. The boy told the man what he’d heard, but the gardener and everyone else just laughed. Pandey the gardener was a strong, young man. But the next day . . .” Agnes paused for effect.

  “He died,” Hannah whispered.

  “Yes.”

  Silence settled like a soundproof bubble over the room.

  “A very well-documented story. Later, Pandey—the boy—said that the creepy man was Yama, the Hindu god of death. The boy also said that the same two men brought him back when it became clear that they had taken the wrong Pandey.”

  The old woman took a deep breath. It was clearly taking a lot out of her to talk so much. “Vasudev Pandey’s story will undoubtedly end up in the book too.”

  “The book?”

  Agnes smiled. “Just think how much death means to all of us. It’s the only thing we know with certainty: We’re all going to die. The only thing that genuinely connects us as human beings. The only thing we have in common that transcends all national borders, cultural differences, and religious differences. All such things. Some psychologists would say that everything we do is somehow related to the fact that death awaits us. That’s why we love. That’s why we have children. That’s why we express ourselves. In other words, death is present at all times. So why not try to find out as much as possible about it? I’ve thought about the fact—and this may sound absurd, so feel free to laugh; I’m used to it—that many people read guidebooks before they take a trip. They want to know something about Paris or London or wherever they’re going. So they’ll be prepared. Death is the ultimate destination, and I want to write the guidebook. Does that sound crazy?”

  Hannah shook her head. “Not when you explain it like that.”

  Agnes Davidsen leaned forward and looked Hannah in the eye. “Will you tell me what happened to you when you were dead?”

  Hannah hesitated. Somewhere a radio was playing Christmas music. I am driving home for Christmas.

  “Hannah . . . We talk about the moment of death, but it’s more like a process. The breathing stops, the heart stops beating, and the brain ceases all activity. Even when this process comes to an end, there’s a period—for some individuals, it may last up to an hour—when it might be possible to revive the person. So the question is: What does the deceased experience during that time? That’s what we’re researching.” She placed her hand on Hannah’s arm. “How long were you dead?”

  “I don’t know.” With an effort, Hannah shrugged.

  “For approximately nine minutes,” Agnes told her. “At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

  Hannah didn’t reply.

  “You can speak freely to me. I won’t use your experience for anything that you don’t want me to. My primary interest is simply to hear what you have to say. Keep in mind that there are many common elements in near-death experiences, yet no two are completely alike. There are always slight differences. Would you be willing to tell me about it?”

  Hannah looked up at the shelf. “Maybe not.”

  “Why not?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe I don’t want to be the proof . . .”

  Agnes’s hoarse laughter. “The proof of life after death? That’s not what we’re looking for. We call this a study of consciousness. That way, it doesn’t sound so scary.”

  Silence. Finally, Agnes asked, “Hannah, do you know what’s up there on the shelf? Have you seen it?”

  Agnes tried a different approach. “Do you believe in God?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m asking because many people interpret their near-death experience—the glimpse they’re given of what might be an afterlife—as a definitive proof of God’s existence. In my opinion, the two things should be kept separate. On this point, I disagree with my colleagues. In my world, it’s possible to imagine an afterlife that doesn’t involve God.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The most important thing for me is to prove the existence of a consciousness that is separate from the bo
dy. These days we seem to believe more and more that everything can be explained and analyzed and categorized.”

  Hannah closed her eyes. She thought about Johannes. How he was. How he looked. Several times over the past few months she’d had a hard time recalling his face. The details were missing, and she’d resorted to looking at photographs. The first time this happened—late in the summer last year—she had been completely devastated. She’d felt like a murderer. She had often thought about the fact that even though Johannes was dead, he somehow lived on. In her memory. All she had to do was close her eyes and she would see him right in front of her, as large as life. Now that it was no longer possible, she had pushed him definitively out into the darkness.

  “Hannah?”

  The voice was far away. With a slight echo. “Just keep your eyes closed if that’s better for you.”

  Hannah didn’t say anything. She kept her eyes closed and tried to get used to the darkness that had closed in around her. “I found myself inside an impenetrable darkness.”

  Hannah could hear Agnes open her bag and take out something. Maybe a tape recorder. Or a pen.

  “There was air all around me, on all sides. But then—out of the darkness—a sliver of light started to grow. At first it was only a white stripe. Like a single line of chalk on a huge soccer field. A black field. Something flat. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Slowly, it opened up and turned into a sort of entrance. The light was all-pervasive, soft, and pleasant.”

  Agnes was breathing quietly. Hannah didn’t open her eyes. Now it would have to come out.

  “I wasn’t moving on my own. I was lifted up and pulled along. As if I had strings attached to me—I just couldn’t see them. There was a stillness that I’ve never experienced anywhere else. A calm so . . . no . . . I was fully conscious. I was thinking so clearly!”