Lab Notes: a novel

by Nelson, Gerrie

  Olimpia had visited medicine men and women from many Indian tribes around Colombia seeking plants used for native cures. This was her last trip within Colombia this summer. In August she would be going to the U.S.—to a conservatory in the city of Pittsburgh, in the State of Pennsylvania. There she will be teaching outstanding young students at a botany camp sponsored by the National Science Foundation.

  Here in Turbo, her goal was to track down the legendary Shaman of the Winotos tribe. She hoped she could persuade him to share some of his secret plants used for healing.

  “The Winotos have been known to shrink some heads now and then,” Gabriel warned Olimpia. “Does that not concern you?”

  “I studied everything I could find on them,” she stated confidently. “They are not threatened by female outsiders: They will not fear that I am a bandido. And they can be certain I will not rape their wives or daughters.”

  The three men lowered their eyes.

  Guilt compelled Olimpia to drop her gaze also; she had not disclosed the entire truth. According to her research, head shrinking was not the only cephalic art the Winotos practiced. Another of their specialties was mind control. It was reported that the Winotos’ Shaman used a treatment, involving local tree lichen, to render a person amenable to suggestion—even at great distances. Olimpia was not sure what it all meant, but she intended to find out. The burning objective of her jungle trek was to obtain a sample of that tree lichen, with or without the Shaman’s approval.

  Eduardo broke the silence. “How do you feel about Olimpia going into the wilderness, Padre?”

  “It may have been preordained. Olimpia has wanted to come to this area for over a year. Then I was assigned here six months ago, after the American missionary priest, Father Lawrence, contracted malaria. But enough about the Garzas. Tell us something about the Carrera brothers.”

  Gabriel explained the reason for their impending jungle trek: During the relatively dry winter season, crews had constructed four-meter high dirt levies about three quarters of a kilometer square around dense stands of catevo trees along river tributaries, and they chain-sawed the trees to the ground.

  Spring and early summer rains flooded the levies, floating the logs to the surface. Gabriel and Eduardo and their crew would be dynamiting narrow openings in eight adjacent levies, slowly releasing forty-foot logs for transport down the river.

  Mosquito screens had been rolled down, and candles that cast amber glows from wall niches burned low. After finishing a dessert of bananas and shredded coconut, the Padre said the hour was getting late and expressed his gratitude for “such a sumptuous feast.”

  Gabriel and Eduardo escorted their guests toward the door. Gabriel walked slightly behind Olimpia with his hand ever-so-lightly touching her arm.

  Outside, the air was almost liquid. A hazy three-quarter moon illuminated ghostly forms of the jungle’s steamy breath. Olimpia summoned her armed guard from the shadows of the courtyard. He lit a lantern and led the Garzas back to the rectory.

  An agreement had been struck: Olimpia and her entourage would accompany the Carrera’s flotilla as far as the confluence of the Rio Atroto and Rio Destino, a three-day trip.

  It seemed like a perfect plan.

  μ CHAPTER FOUR μ

  To: Olimpia Garza

  From: Diane Rose

  Subject: Possible career move

  Dear Olimpia: Vincent and I are being courted by a biotech company (Bayside Research Inc) in Houston. Raymond Bellfort, BRI’s president, stopped in Pittsburgh two months ago on his way home from a biotechnology convention in Boston. He phoned and invited us to lunch, stating that he was recruiting scientists.

  -DELETE-

  Dear Olimpia: In a research environment where a grant from the National Institutes of Health is far from a guarantee, I thought it well worth our time to meet with a recruiter from a Houston biotech company to determine what his organization had to offer.

  -DELETE-

  Diane spun her desk chair away from the keyboard, shaking her hands as if drying nail polish or limbering up for the Flight of the Bumblebee. An email to Olimpia frequently had false starts like this. It wasn’t writer’s block—she’d been known to plug up Olimpia’s internet server with her wordy missives. It was more like an emotional block. After the words “Dear Olimpia,” any form of expression, other than lifeless facts, seemed to get hung up between her brain and the keyboard.

  Too often, notes intended to be friendly read like term papers. And when asking Olimpia for advice, Diane frequently presented her problems and goals with backup research as if submitting them for a grade. Her grandmother would have called it a “Twinkie Complex.”

  Twinkie was her Grammy’s portly yellow cat who frequently yowled for help after wedging her body between the backyard fence slats or behind the clothes dryer, which had been her favorite spot during her kittenhood. Grammy said that as Twinkie grew older and rounder, she continued to judge her body clearance by the width of her whiskers, which had not changed in years.

  So, people who seemed to be hung up on self-perceptions from their early years were forever after dubbed “Twinkies.”

  Olimpia and Vincent had been Diane’s teachers before they’d become colleague and husband/research partner. And though she was intimately aware of Vincent’s foibles, and she had swum naked and showered under waterfalls with Olimpia and stood guard while she squatted to pee in the jungle, she often had to recalibrate her mindset to avoid reverting to her student roles.

  Diane knew that other scientists thought she’d had it easy, that, as a graduate student, she’d hitched a ride on Vincent’s star and never looked back. Of course there was some truth to that. But it wasn’t like she skipped ahead to a Nobel once she signed on as Vincent’s assistant—in fact, only in recent years had she emerged from the “et al” designation that followed Vincent’s name on their publications.

  Her tenure track ran uphill like everyone else’s. And even now, she sometimes felt like a shadow puppet, backlit by Vincent’s professional acclaim.

  She had to admit that the party invitation had her daydreaming about a change, about trading the political theater played out in academia for a focus on the bottom line in the corporate world, about having her income tied directly to her successes—and maybe having a star of her own someday.

  That thought in mind, she spun her chair back around and accosted the keyboard:

  Dear Olimpia:

  I haven’t heard from you since receiving your voice mail when you were in Houston. I wish I had known you were in the States; I would have flown down to see you.

  I take your silence to mean you’re in the wilderness downloading the brain of a shaman who is, in turn, planning to have yours for lunch. I’m envious. And I’m anxious for your return to civilization; I need your advice.

  Most of my rites-of-passage regarding schooling and career have been imprinted with your influence. So, once again, I seek your counsel.

  Two months ago Vincent and I were asked out to lunch by a man named Raymond Bellfort who was recruiting for his biotech company (BRI) in Houston. I accepted the invitation and talked Vincent into going along. Big mistake.

  To say that conversation did not flow at the lunch table would be a gross understatement. Vincent took the opportunity to express his scorn for the growing number of “mercenaries” lured away from their university posts by biotechnology companies who seduced them with promises of great wealth. Despite my efforts as moderator (and referee), Bellfort’s conversation became strained and disjointed. He put me in mind of a distracted bulldog, and I was sure we’d never hear from him again.

  But now we’ve received an invitation to BRI’s Christmas yacht party. And it sounds intriguing.

  At the very least, the hop down to Houston for a “Black Tie” party aboard BRI’s company yacht could be a great holiday diversion. Besides, it wouldn’t cost anything—they’ve sent plane tickets and reserved a hotel suite for us. And I wouldn’t even have to buy a dress;
I have that little black YSL—the one I spilled red wine on at the Botanical Society meeting in San Francisco. (My mother-in-law—may she rest in peace—bought that designer dress for me a few years back, fearing I’d wear my old gold lame’ to their country club dance). And Vincent, the serial award-dinner honoree, owns two tuxes. So, we’re all set.

  But for the past three days Vincent and I have been engaged in a lively debate about whether to go or not. As often happens, I see the trip as an adventure; Vincent considers it folly.

  People had warned me against marrying a man ten years my senior, but after twelve years together, I still feel his sterling qualities by far eclipse his lack of derring-do.

  However, in this case, there’s more at stake than a party. I have a premonition that our government funding will not be renewed.

  Granted, we have always thought of ourselves as intramural researchers. But, who knows, maybe Bayside Research could prove the perfect non-university venue for us. Vincent could complete the development and testing of Peruvase without funding worries. I would continue collecting and analyzing plants for medicinal compounds. And, if BRI is affiliated with a university, I wouldn’t have to give up teaching. As a matter of fact, I would stipulate that as part of our contract.

  Commercial biotechnology. To many, the term conjures up a brew of crazed scientists, evil clones, bioterrorism, super bugs, Frankenfood and super drugs. But in my mind, I see it as a soft landing if our government grant doesn’t come through this time.

  I understand Vincent’s resistance. If we left Pittsburgh, he’d miss the gaggle of relatives who assemble at his father’s house on Sundays and holidays. He seems to thrive on that tumultuous camaraderie. Whereas, now lacking the unifying force of grandparents; my aunts, uncles and cousins have all scattered. Family interface has been reduced to words on a computer screen. So, I can communicate with them wherever I go.

  Then there’s Vincent’s position as department chairman—he’d have to give that up if we moved on. I, on the other hand, might possibly improve my circumstance.

  Is it heresy for scientists to entertain the idea of becoming rich from their intellectual properties? Raymond Bellfort hinted at generous salaries and royalties and unlimited funding that day at lunch. I find it all tempting enough to want a closer look. But Vincent, the trust fund baby, does not in any way measure success by his income. He says (never unkindly) that salary’s such an issue with me because I’m running from my blue-collar background. Maybe so.

  I have to admit that even though it was my grandmother’s small, plastic-covered, herbal greenhouse that set me on this path, at times I avoid any disclosure of my background to colleagues—as though I’d left behind a childhood riddled with crime; as if, exposed, I’d be remanded to “et al” limbo once again.

  Am I being naïve in my thinking? Do my glossy expectations come from lack of any other experience? Has my growing up in the science world, under Vincent’s peerless tutelage, been akin to finding my way wearing sterling blinders? Is it safe for me to go out into the world at large?

  I can’t use my friends and colleagues at the university as sounding boards. They’ve made it clear that they’d consider a move to Texas akin to giving up my U.S. citizenship.

  I know you’ll be swamped when you return to civilization. But please send your thoughts on this as soon as you can.

  Having said all this, is a Christmas yacht party really the proper venue for deciding our future? Would we be able to see clearly through tinsel-dazzled eyes?

  Regards,

  Diane

  -SEND-

  Where are you Olimpia?

  μ CHAPTER FIVE μ

  The yacht Enterprise sat in BRI’s marina looking festive with evergreen garlands and blue Christmas lights adorning her deck rails. In the main salon, gaslights flickered and musicians played Christmas carols.

  Most of the invited guests were on board.

  In the pilothouse, Raymond Bellfort accepted a cigar and a light from Gabriel Carrera, his South American cousin. He puffed vigorously, feigning pleasure as he endured the obligatory Cuban cigar ritual.

  Gabriel Carrera and his father Carlos Carrera had arrived from Barranquilla the previous day for business meetings in Houston and stayed on for the Bayside Research Christmas party. Father and son had traveled separately, as usual.

  Raymond Bellfort slid open a starboard window to vent the smoke, then turned on the VHF radio and tuned it to the marine weather frequency. The announcer’s nasal tones filled the pilothouse: “This is your NOAA weather channel with the forecast for Texas coastal waters to twenty nautical miles offshore ….”

  It was a humid December evening with a low fog covering the water’s surface. Fortunately, the temperature was not predicted to dip any lower than sixty-five degrees until a dry cold front from the north moved through later that night. That meant it should remain comfortable enough for guests to step out onto the decks during their cruise down Galveston Bay.

  The Enterprise would motor the twenty-five miles to Galveston while the guests enjoyed champagne and a seafood buffet. The yacht would dock in Galveston for an hour or so before heading back up the bay to the BRI marina.

  Gabriel Carrera took a long draw on his cigar and blew the smoke toward the open window. Then he turned to Raymond. “So, you have hired the coal miner’s daughter and her husband?”

  “Steelworker’s daughter,” Raymond corrected. “I have to say, though, Diane Rose’s credentials are impressive. And she’s fluent in more languages than you are.”

  Gabriel said, “If you like, I would be glad to introduce her to the right people to expedite her plant collecting in Central and South America.”

  Pensively, Raymond rolled his cigar between his thumb and index finger. “Ahh… I don’t have the Roses’ signatures on a contract yet.” There, he had said it out loud. But he felt no relief. He knew his tale of woe had not reached the sympathetic ear of a trusted compadre. Almost two decades ago, when he and Gabriel became business partners, they ceased being friends.

  Gabriel Carrera was one year younger than Raymond Bellfort, and they had grown up together, attending Winston Military Academy in Indiana. They had been close companions and confidantes until Raymond was expelled from school in their junior year, forcing him on a different academic route. But they had always remained in touch.

  Raymond’s American grandfather and Gabriel’s Colombian grandfather had drilled for oil in South America together years before, resulting in their children—Mary and Carlos—marrying. Raymond and Gabriel’s mothers were now both deceased.

  Raymond looked outside at the empty dock, checked his watch and shrugged.

  “Relax,” Gabriel said quietly. “You know how airport traffic is on Fridays… Did you make hotel reservations for them?”

  Raymond nodded. “Maxine booked the penthouse suite for them at Bay Harbour. I’ll check with the hotel again in a few minutes.”

  Raymond heard his wife’s boisterous laughter rising from below and rolled his eyes at his cousin. “Batten the hatches; here she comes.”

  The pilothouse door burst open to admit Raymond’s wife Charlotte, a stately vision in flowing red silk and diamonds. “Gabriel, how did you ever get past me downstairs, you handsome thing?”

  “Charlotte, my dear.” Gabriel embraced her warmly.

  Charlotte stepped back to admire her cousin-in-law. “Look at you. Age only becomes you. You’re a Latin/Anglo prince.” She glanced at Raymond, then back at Gabriel. “It’s hard to believe your mothers were sisters. Why couldn’t Raymond have half your looks, your panache?”

  Gabriel dismissed Charlotte’s effusiveness with a good-natured wave of his hand. “I swear you are the only person on God’s earth who makes me blush.”

  And one of the few who makes you laugh,” Charlotte pinched Gabriel under the ribs, making him jump. “Lighten up! Come down to the salon with me. They have a nice effervescent liquid that will pop your cork, let the pressure out.” Ignoring Raymon
d, she took Gabriel’s arm and steered him toward the stairs.

  “After you,” Gabriel said, tossing his cigar through the open window. Looking back over his shoulder, he shrugged at Raymond as though he had lost all control of the situation.

  Raymond could hear his wife still fawning over Gabriel as they descended the pilot house steps to the main salon.

  “You need a nice young woman to help you with an attitude adjustment, Gabriel,” Charlotte said. “There are a few unescorted ones here.”

  Raymond turned away from the stairway. Only then did he realize he had crushed the lit cigar in his hand.

  Charlotte plowed through the crowd. “Have you met my beautiful cousin? Do you remember my handsome cousin?”

  Gabriel allowed himself to be drawn along by Charlotte through the main salon where he was handed a flute of Dom Perignon. Then he was pulled behind her to the aft, covered deck and onward to the forward deck, all the while being subjected to Charlotte’s blandishments.

  The blue Christmas lights illuminated the fog, creating a surreal atmosphere that blended with the champagne to mesmerize Gabriel, rendering him uncharacteristically docile. On their trip back through the main salon, Charlotte traded Gabriel’s empty glass for a full one from a passing silver tray. Then she led him past a blur of strange faces to the bar, which held an assortment of seafood appetizers.

  Only then did Gabriel realize what she was up to. To one side stood his father Carlos Carrera, the great patriarch.

  “Stand and cheer! Look who’s here!” Charlotte clapped in rhythm to her chant. “It’s your Father, Gabriel.” Ignoring her, Gabriel began filling a small plate with crab-stuffed mushrooms.

  “If you won’t greet him, I will.” Charlotte spread her arms wide and gave Carlos a hug. He returned a reserved embrace.

  Father and son glanced across at each other without any sign of emotion, then back at Raymond’s wife. Poor Charlotte, thought Gabriel, she was so certain the combination of champagne and her Auntie Mame routine could cure all ills, bridge all chasms.