Every so often, Ledesma turns in his chair and launches himself at his little allegorical guillotine, activating it over and over as he listens to me. I’ve just told him that I think it might be necessary to “review the—for lack of a better term—ethical aspect of the experiment, in the hope that . . .” and I feel an urgent need to erase my mouth, grab a scalpel and cut myself a new one, and then start over.
“Would you like a coffee?” he interrupts me to ask.
“No, thank you.”
“You’re an honorable man, Quintana. The experiment concerns you, turns your stomach, and you’ve come here to tell me. Right to my face.”
I understand now. A year of work down the drain. No more Menéndez, no more Hello, Doctor, no more salary. Now I move to some little backwater. Hey, Doc. A house with a yard, bachelorhood, a chicken coop, manure, a wood-burning stove.
“Your colleagues, Quintana . . . Your colleagues . . . None of them came to discuss this with me. They must be wearing out their rosaries right now, wondering whether they’re going to hell or what. You’re different. Trustworthy.”
“Thank you.”
“This business of speculating with the lives of cancer cases is pretty distasteful, wouldn’t you say? I agree. You need mettle, yes, but you can’t rub out the basic emotions that make us men, make us human. When we cut off that first head, that’s when we’ll see who’s who. The one with the steady hand, the one who feels no pity for the patient, that’s who we’ll need to fire. Because God only knows what he’s capable of.”
“Are you talking about someone in particular?”
“I’m saying I agree with you. Now, tell me something.”
“What?”
“Tell me you don’t think it’s shameless to ask the patient to waste the final seconds of this life telling us what he’s glimpsed on the other side. Honestly, it’s disgusting. Coffee!” he shouts over his shoulder, then returns to his earlier tone. “You’re sure you don’t want any?”
“No, thank you.”
“You’re expecting me to say that science should always come first, or that redemption lies hidden in the experiment. But I won’t. You know why? Because redemption doesn’t exist, at least, not in the sense of moral serenity. The goal is to discover what comes with death? Great. That’s what we’ll do, because we have the means, and because we were the first to think of it. If the results help men be better men, well, great.”
A nurse walks in with coffee. Ledesma smiles at her. He settles back into his chair and interlaces his fingers, looking at me without any ulterior motive.
“If you want in, Quintana, fantastic. If you’d rather take a step back, that’s fine, too. You’re a true professional. Would you like to talk about something else?”
“For the moment . . .”
“Good, good.” He pats my hand. “Did I ever tell you about my grandparents? Lovely people. Older folk, passed, of course. They had a big house surrounded by countryside and Argentine things. I spent my summers with them. You might say, how boring for a child. Not at all. There were guinea pigs and a collection of porcelain figurines I wasn’t allowed to touch. I mention this because I broke one. Scared of being punished, I hid in the forest for a whole day, but the cold got to me. I felt feverish and had to go back. My grandmother slapped me—only once, but what a slap it was—and sent for the doctor. The help laid me down in my grandparents’ enormous bed and covered me with a sheet, a blanket, a comforter, and the embroidered shawl that gave the bed a feminine touch. Under there, I could smell the concentrated scent of my grandparents. Of old bodies. The fever went away, but that smell stayed with me a good long while, until I was twelve or thirteen and ejaculated for the first time. What a feeling, am I right? Do you remember? I was astonished. I brought my hand close to my face and looked at my semen. I smelled it, and do you know what I realized, Quintana? It was the same odor that had saturated that bed.”
He pauses. Mr. Allomby is walking into his office wearing an outrageous hat. He greets us. We have to stand.
“Well, well. Look who we have here!” Ledesma jubilates. “How are you?”
“Machine is ready,” says Mr. Allomby, looking at me. “Are you . . . me go?”
“He’s asking you to have a look at the device with him,” Ledesma says. “We’d like your opinion, Quintana.”
“Thank you,” says Mr. Allomby.
“And what about your grandparents?”
“Perhaps the moral of the story is . . . it’s about being honorable, I suppose. I’d have to think about it. Because they were honorable people, Quintana, despite the smell.”
The device is a polished mahogany box. Its lid opens down the middle and has a large, round aperture at its center. The person enters through a door at the side and sits down, and the two halves of the lid fit perfectly around his or her neck. Mr. Allomby, who sits inside pretending to be a person, says he can breathe without difficulty.
He steps out of the box, opens the lid, and shows me its inner workings. There is a sharp blade that shoots out horizontally with the speed and force of a crossbow. There is a ventilation system to make the vocal cords vibrate when the head is called upon to speak. There is a trapdoor at the bottom for dropping the body into a storage room in the basement. Mr. Allomby stresses the precision of the design: the cut and drop will take half a second, and the ventilation, synchronized with the head, will run for nine. What am I doing here? Does he want my opinion?
No. He wants to talk about Menéndez. In fact, he’s already launched in, and I’m left asking myself how he changed the subject so quickly.
“You know my truth, Mr. Quintana.”
“Doctor,” I say. “What truth?”
“That I love her.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”
“I want your help me with her.”
“You have my word. But don’t start acting all Argentine and go rushing in.”
He shows me his hands. His palms are sweaty.
“See? I’m so nervous when I talk on Menéndez. You . . .”
I take his hands and pull out my handkerchief.
“Here,” I interrupt him. “Allow me.”
I’ll say things you never expected to hear. Sweet words. Hard words sometimes, too, so you’ll know who wears the pants. And you’ll be the one who takes mine off, like you do with the patients. On the clock and off. We’ll go out to dinner once a week. And to the opera. When no one’s around, I’ll nibble your backside. I’ll give you a stole to cover your neck, and you’ll remove it only for me.
The door says Office of the Head Nurse. I knock, and it swings open. It’s dark inside. Could she be asleep?
Don’t go in. Go in, saying, Excuse me. Stick my head in. Go in, turn on the light, and stay near the door, just in case.
False options. The real question is whether to make a restrained entrance or a virile one. Staying out here means failure. A restrained entrance builds trust. The virile entrance is more daring. Do I want to build trust?
I need to switch primates. Be a virile Quintana. A charging Quintana.
I open the door and turn on the light, vocalizing a “Menéndez” that ricochets off every wall. She’s not here. No one is. I can stay for a moment to gather information. Examine her belongings without touching them. Maybe touch them just a little.
I see a portrait of President Figueroa Alcorta hanging above her dresser, a glass bottle of perfume, never used, and a pack of inexpensive cigarettes.
I shouldn’t be here. I feel like a swine. What if I peeked in her closet?
Don’t think, just open the door and close it quickly. Take in as much as you can and don’t linger, because that’s how you get caught. Luckily, the door doesn’t make any noise. The closet contains two uniforms, numerous boxes, an evening gown, which is unexpected, and something furry all the way in the back that looks like a muff, but I can’t quite make it out because I’m already shutting the door.
I process the information. The uniforms
represent her professional dedication, the closed boxes are her secrets, the evening gown is her willingness. There’s no time for more sophisticated interpretations, so I settle for those, for now. I set aside all questions about the furry thing in the back. No pun intended: that muff could be my undoing.
I catch the scent of cigarette smoke coming from behind me. I turn with an accusatory little hop, expecting to see the version of Menéndez’s face I least want to see, her expression of utter disdain. But no. The smoke is coming from a door off to the side. The one that leads to the bathroom, which is ajar.
She heard me. She saw me going through her things. She’s smoking in there, shut in the bathroom for her five minutes, because she knows I spy on her. In her smoky discretion, she seems to be saying, “You can still leave. We can pretend this never happened.”
My first instinct is to do as she says. My feet turn toward the door like a pair of rats, but the rest of my body is still paralyzed by shock. I’m caught in a moment of indecision I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
There will be no forgiveness if I sneak out now, confirming her opinion of me. A virile Quintana, a charging Quintana. I open the bathroom door. Love will absolve me.
Inside, Papini sits on the toilet, smoking and looking despondently at the water burbling up from the only bidet in the sanatorium. Menéndez’s bidet. Droplets have splashed onto his shoes.
“It’s you,” he says.
“What are you doing here, Papini?”
“I’m in love with Menéndez.”
I look down at my hand, make a fist, and punch him in the jaw. I grab him by the throat, throw him over the tub, and kick him in the balls. He spits blood and a tooth. Aside from the odd skirmish in grade school, I’ve never been in a fight. It feels fine, but its effect is short-lived, and I’ve already calmed down. I’ll lose interest if it goes on much longer.
His eyes squeezed shut by the pain, Papini feels around for the cigarette that fell beside him, brings it to his lips, and takes a pull. A red stain spreads across the paper. He starts to cry.
He cries harder, choking, coughing. I look for a towel to dry him off and plug his mouth, but there aren’t any. There must be towels in the closet. Because of some strange acoustic phenomenon, Papini’s wailing is louder out here than inside the bathroom, and it’s probably even louder in the hallway, like he’s howling into a funnel. I swing the closet door open.
Menéndez and two of the nurses are watching me from the hall.
“Help me with this, would you?” I say, raising my voice. “Doctor Papini’s broken his face.”
Which will you be? Head Nurse or Menéndez? Will you attend to his injuries or get angry because there’s no excuse for going through a woman’s closet?
“Take care of Doctor Papini,” she instructs the nurses, who are there so she won’t have to decide right away.
The girls run toward the bathroom.
Menéndez sits on the edge of her bed and stares at the profaned closet.
“What would you do in my place?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions. I’m happy to explain everything, if you’ll allow me to, over a cup of coffee.”
“I’m not jumping to any conclusions.”
“I appreciate that, Menéndez.”
“But I’m not having a coffee with you, either.”
This is my inner primate. How many of these backdoor Brunos will I have to pummel, mutilate, destroy? I push the gurney carrying Papini and the new gap in his teeth, through which he smiles up at me (smiles!) because, without even trying to, he’s taken me out of the running, knocked me down a peg, hung me out to dry, stolen my golden goose, stripped me of my decorum.
530 intakes registered between August 1 and October 1. A solution of water, glucose, and vanilla extract labeled “Dr. Beard’s Serum” administered orally to 498 cancer patients in two daily doses, eight hours apart, in addition to injections of morphine at the physician’s discretion, not declared to the patients or their relatives. 32 patients not admitted for treatment due to imminent demise. 133 patients with tumorous growths in the pancreas, 109 in the kidneys, 94 in the liver, 60 in the stomach, 35 in the ovaries, 32 in the lungs, 22 in the prostate, 12 in the gallbladder, 1 on the palate. The stated interval produces 43 deaths, 18 suspensions of treatment, and 2 cases cured by divine grace, presented to the patients as evidence of the efficacy of Dr. Beard’s Serum.
A nurse has just handed us the report. Papini keeps his distance but says something funny to Sisman about cap-toe shoes, and I’m the only one wearing a pair.
The patients don’t take their eyes off us. We’re about to have a meeting, yes? To discuss what to do with you all. Not as coldly as you assume, but we’re not exactly giving ourselves heartburn over it, either.
The office door opens. There’s a duck on the table. Another decapitation? Ledesma confides to me in a whisper that today’s duck is symbolic. I take my place in an overstuffed chair near him and Mr. Allomby. A few of my colleagues grumble in their uncomfortable seats, at odds with their buttocks, thinking I landed a good spot because I pushed others out of the way. Others can tell I’ve gotten cozy with the administration and don’t know whether to hate me or what.
The last to sit are Gigena and Gurian, who shoot conspiratorial glances at me. My complicity with them is more scrupulous: I do not return their gaze.
Menéndez closes the door and sits in a chair behind the director. In the rote silence that marks the beginning of every meeting, she looks at me, only me, and lights a cigarette.
She’s going to share her five minutes with the entire staff. My secret of hers, out in the open. Like . . . like spreading her legs for the whole pack of them to take her.
The smoke reaches us one by one: first Ledesma and Mr. Allomby, followed by me and Papini, and then on to the rest in a chain that grows with each pull.
“Are you feeling all right, Quintana?” Ledesma asks.
“I’m fine.”
“My dear colleagues,” Ledesma says emphatically, “it’s time to fail.”
And so it begins. Some understand the reference to the anticipated “failure” of the serum, but others, less alert, part their lips, cough, and rub their noses in primitive bewilderment. Ledesma looks at them, pleased.
“We have enough patients to begin the exercise, and it would be a shame if they started dying on us first. A few of the more impatient ones already have. In my hand is a list of several individuals to whom we should propose donation. Since the subject is a bit dicey, if you’ll pardon the pun, I took the liberty of laying out the process. If Doctor Gurian would be so kind as to read this . . .”
Gurian takes the stack of papers. Before he begins, he takes a moment to don his glasses and push the curls back from his forehead. I like Gurian, but I don’t understand why they chose him when my voice is deeper, more resonant.
a)Failure
Failure resides simultaneously in two moments: when the individual establishes a goal, and when that goal is shown to be unattainable or specious. Oscillating between the goal and its ruin, searching for the error (failure is experienced as a defining quality), the individual’s linear sense of time is shattered.
When they sign up for treatment, these patients declare a goal: to rid their body of cancer. Two months later, as could be expected, Dr. Beard’s Serum has produced no results. We give them the bad news. A few will see the failure in the doctor’s face; they will pity him and die peacefully. Most, however, will assume the failure as their own: “I am my cancer.” Sparing them more of this misery in what remains of their lives, the doctor will use the donation to reestablish the patient’s timeline in the form of a countdown.
b)Indignity
The body is measured according to its utility. A good uterus, thriving progeny. Strong arms, men’s work. Lithe fingers, piano. Health is a prerequisite for the body’s successful incorporation into the workings of the world. Illness devalues. How does one restore the dignity of the terminally ill? By
returning their bodies to the realm of the useful, postmortem.
c)Behavior toward the patient
On the day scheduled for the interview, the physician’s brow should be clearly visible and pomade used sparingly. The patient will be shown in and offered tea or coffee. The unexpectedness of the gesture, so far from the conventions of a standard medical consultation, will prepare him to receive the terrible news: Dr. Beard’s Serum is not working, and his demise is imminent. Once this news is on the table, a respectful silence will be observed while the patient does what he will with his pain.
The silence should not last for more than two minutes, at which time the doctor will stand up, cross the threshold of his desk, and touch the patient’s back with one or both hands. If the patient resists this contact, the physician will make it clear that this gesture of compassion is not optional.
d)Suitable communications
Having returned to his side of the desk, the physician will begin negotiations to acquire the body on behalf of Temperley Sanatorium. His tone should be deliberate and his phrasing, direct. It is recommended that he rehearse the conversation in advance, following these examples:
Correct phrasing: “Your body will help assure the well-being of future generations.”
Incorrect phrasing: “Do it for your loved ones.”
Correct: “We appreciate your discretion.”
Incorrect: “Let’s keep this between us.”
Correct: “Donate your body to science.”
Incorrect: “Donate yourself to science.”
e)Discretion
Once the consent of the patient, who will henceforth be referred to as the donor, has been secured, absolute discretion is required. He will be asked to sign a confidentiality agreement explaining that his body will be returned to his family in a closed casket and listing the laws that protect the experiment. These laws will be drafted by the sanatorium’s owner, under the supervision of its director.
If the donor has children for whom no one can take responsibility, a good-faith effort shall be made to ensure that the care of these future patriots does not fall into improvident hands. The sanatorium will assume responsibility for having them admitted to the appropriate state institution.
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