All these thoughts were very much in Kaplan’s mind during the course of the brief flight from Geneva to Paris. And they stayed with him as he rode into the city in a taxi from Orly airport. So engrossed was he indeed in his own concerns that he arrived at Stephanie’s address in the little street behind the old church of St Sulpice without quite realizing how he had got there.
He was immediately struck by the charm of the place. A heavy oak door opened off the street on to a wide stone staircase. This in turn led up to another heavy door on the first floor of the building. There was an iron bell-pull very much in keeping with the mediaeval atmosphere. Kaplan announced his presence by giving it a long firm tug.
She came to the door at once; she had been expecting him since six that evening and her face was a mixture of anxiety and interest.
“Dr Kaplan, come in. I’m so glad to see you.”
She was exactly like her photograph. Slim of build, with soft brown hair, clear eyes which looked straight at yours. Her skin was deeply sun-tanned as though much of her life had been spent out of doors. There were shadows under her eyes. The news of her sister’s death was still very recent.
She offered him a drink and poured one for herself. They sat together in a light spacious room which looked out onto the churchyard. The window was open and the noise of the traffic came up from the street. But it wasn’t a harsh aggressive sound; more of a gentle reminder of the world beyond the oak doors and the stone walls.
“How long have you lived here?” Kaplan asked.
“Five years. Ever since I moved to Europe. Of course I travel a lot, so I’m often away.”
“I understand you’ve been travelling recently. That’s how you missed hearing about . . .” Kaplan wasn’t sure how to phrase it, so he concluded: “missed hearing the news about your sister”.
An expression of intense pain passed across Stephanie’s face.
Kaplan said gently: “Would you like to tell me about Diane? Perhaps it would help.”
“Yes, I think it would. You’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to since I heard about it.”
Kaplan thought for a moment that she was going to cry, but she pulled herself together, took a gulp of her drink and began.
“You know, Lowell” — somehow she had switched almost without thinking from the formal Dr Kaplan to Christian names — “Diane was an amazing person. That’s just something you have to understand. She was really committed to her work, wholly committed. We were both involved in the campaign against vivisection and in the protection of wild animals more generally. She concentrated on North America. I moved to Paris and looked after the European end. But that was only part of it. Essentially, anything that concerned animals concerned us. We both of us had money. We inherited when our parents were killed in a plane crash in Africa, flying over the Nrongoro Crater in Tanzania.”
“I knew that. Dr Reuben told me.”
“So you met Isaac? He’s a wonderful man. I sometimes think he’s much more than just a family doctor. Diane was very close to him. She often sought his advice. I had the feeling sometimes that she was almost . . .” she paused “professionally involved with Reuben — as though she shared some secret project.” Stephanie laughed. “That’s nonsense, of course.”
“They were close, I know,” said Kaplan. “Diane went to Reuben when she came back to New York. He sent her to hospital.”
Kaplan remembered the day he had visited the hospital in New York, remembered the young woman lying on the bed and the blond hair falling out in handfuls.
In some uncanny way, Stephanie must have been following his thoughts.
“We may not have looked alike. She had blond hair. Mine’s brown. But we thought alike. We worked well together.”
“From what I’ve read you were highly professional. I saw the report Diane made on the trade in live animals. I found a copy of it in her place in Greenwich Village.”
Stephanie seemed surprised. “So you went there, did you? You get around.”
“We have to. We can’t afford to miss a trick.”
“You have the authority?”
“I can flash a badge if I have to.”
Stephanie digested that information. Then she said: “Diane was updating that report when she became ill.”
“Did she say anything to you before she left Europe about feeling sick?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I never heard from her again. The day she flew back to the States from Brussels, I went down to Somalia, to look at the ivory trade. A lot of poaching of elephants is going on in the Horn of Africa. The Government down there is probably involved in the illegal export of ivory. We wanted to pin it down. I was pretty much out of touch.”
Stephanie pressed Kaplan about her sister’s death and its possible or probable cause. For a moment he wondered whether it was wise to tell her everything. Then he decided that, whether or not it was wise, he was going to do it anyway. Her sister had died for the cause, so to speak, and Stephanie deserved to know the details.
He pulled out the list which the man who called himself Jean Delgrave had given him two days earlier and carefully explained his current hypothesis.
Stephanie took the list from him and studied it carefully.
“So you think Diane may have had contact with a sick monkey in the cargo shed or somewhere at Brussels airport. That’s not absolutely impossible, but I must say I find it rather odd. Diane wasn’t the kind to go around sticking her finger inside monkey cages and waiting for it to be bitten. She knew the dangers. Did she tell her doctor she’d been bitten by a monkey?”
“No, she never mentioned anything of the sort to Reuben. But once, when I saw her in hospital — she was delirious at the time — I heard her babble about monkeys, green monkeys, actually.”
“Did they autopsy her? Did they find anything there?”
“No, there never was an autopsy. They wouldn’t touch her in the hospital morgue. There wouldn’t necessarily have been a bite anyway. We have evidence of aerosol transmission.”
“Poor Diane!” There were tears in Stephanie’s eyes. “What a way to go.”
They went out to dinner in a little restaurant on the Rue Dauphin. Somewhere in the background came the strains of The Magic Flute. The waiters shimmered among the candlelit tables, napkins draped over forearms and wine-bottles at the ready. After three days of almost constant travel and activity, Kaplan began to relax.
“What kind of life do you lead here, Stephanie? Paris is a glamorous place, isn’t it? I know a lot of Americans who wouldn’t mind a few years in Paris.”
Stephanie considered his question seriously. “I’m not sure if Paris is such a glamorous place. Most Parisians live in pretty cramped apartments. You won’t find many town-houses, like you have in New York. And the traffic’s terrible. Besides, even when I’m in Paris, I’m working most of the time.”
As they ate, she described her work and her conviction that, unless the wildlife of the world could be saved, the world itself was probably not worth saving. The intensity with which she spoke had the effect of transforming her face. Stephanie Verusio passed from being arrestingly pretty to being exceptionally beautiful. Kaplan wanted to stretch out and take her hand across the table.
He did not do so. Somehow he felt too shy. He was out of practice. Too much time spent chasing strange diseases, and not enough time devoted to the pursuit of women. It was Stephanie who touched his hand lightly across the table, not the other way round.
“Tell me about your life, Lowell. I’ve said enough about mine.”
Suddenly, Lowell Kaplan found himself talking about his own life with a frankness which he would not have believed possible. Normally, he was a reticent man. He shrank from the direct answer to the direct question. When pressed to say something about himself, he tended to mumble and change the subject as though he found a hundred other topics far more interesting. But tonight was different. He felt happier than he had felt for a long time.
“I was
married for twelve years, you know.” Kaplan paused to select a variety of cheese from an incredibly well-supplied cheese-board. “Some of it was good. Most of the time we were at each other’s throats.”
Stephanie said nothing, so Kaplan continued searching for the right words. “The problem with marriage is that people grind away at each other for too long. It’s not one fight that matters. It’s the cumulative effect of a hundred, a thousand incidents. It’s too exhausting, too debilitating. I miss not having the kids though. That’s hard.”
Stephanie said gently: “I understand.”
“I wonder if you do. Have you ever been married?”
Stephanie smiled. “I’ve never been brave enough. And, somehow, the animals seem to have taken up all my time.”
They crossed the Boulevard St Germain and walked back towards St Sulpice. It had rained while they were in the restaurant. The lights of the street lamps and shop windows were reflected in the damp pavements. They stopped outside the door of her apartment.
“Come on in,” Stephanie said. “I’ll make you some more coffee.”
Kaplan did not refuse. He had enjoyed his evening more than he could possibly have imagined. And he wanted it to continue.
Upstairs, she clung to him, sobbing.
“Don’t you understand, Lowell? I loved her. I don’t know what to do now she’s gone.” The tears streamed down her cheeks. “First my parents. Now Diane. It’s too much.”
He held her to him. There was so much he understood and so much he could never understand.
Later, when she had calmed down and he was making ready to leave for his hotel, she pleaded with him.
“Lowell, don’t go. Not now. I need you tonight.”
They made love in a brass four-poster bed which Stephanie had bought in an antique shop off Les Halles when she first came to Paris. Kaplan stayed the night.
They had breakfast in bed. Then, pushing the tray aside, they made love again. There was none of the urgency there had been the previous evening. It was as though a dam had burst on a river. Now, after a temporary turbulence, the water was flowing smoothly again.
Stephanie leaned back on the pillow. Her auburn hair fell down onto her shoulder. The shadows had gone from beneath her eyes. There was no sign of the desperate sorrow of the previous evening. This was a young woman very much in control of herself and her surroundings.
“What are you going to do now, Lowell?” she asked.
“I’m not really sure.” Kaplan wondered whether in the intimacy of the previous day he might not already have told Stephanie too much.
She grabbed his arm. “Lowell, monkeys are my field. They are the most wonderful creatures on earth. They are intelligent; they are beautiful.” There was an urgent pleading note in her voice. “Diane was trying to save the monkeys, not to get them destroyed. Why not leave them alone?”
“Stephanie.” Kaplan’s voice was gentle. He put his arm round her. “It’s not as simple as you think. Even if you stamp out the trade in animals — and, believe me, I’d like to see that happen — anyone can go into the jungle and get infected. It’s not just a question of transporting the animals on planes.”
“Then, let them stay out of the jungle. Do human beings have to be everywhere, messing everything up? Have the animals nowhere to call their own? My father’s life work was trying to protect the fauna of the forests and the savannah. Not to protect it for tourism. Or for some other commercial purpose. But just because the animals — and the trees and the plants — have a right to live too. We live the way we want to. Why shouldn’t they?”
Kaplan sighed. “I wish I could help, Stephanie. I really wish I could.”
He felt her stiffen and pull away. “You’re not levelling with me, are you?”
Suddenly angry, she leapt from the bed and stood facing him across the room. Her hair was flung back from her shoulders and fire flashed from her eyes.
Kaplan couldn’t bring himself to lie. He sat upright in the bed.
“I shouldn’t tell you this . . . because it’s a breach of security. But I’m going to because I can’t deceive you. Certainly not after last night and this morning.” He spoke gently now, trying to get her to understand. “We have to destroy the green monkeys, Stephanie. You must understand that. There’s no other way.”
She looked at him for a long second and then picked up her clothes and went into the bathroom.
“You had better go,” she said.
After Kaplan had gone, Stephanie sat alone in her apartment. For a time, she thought about him. The man attracted her, more than anyone she had met in a long time. Otherwise, whatever the circumstances, she would never have gone to bed with him. But she thought he suffered, like so many other scientists, from tunnel-vision. He simply couldn’t see the wider picture.
After several minutes’ reflection, interrupted only by the bells of the church opposite, she rose to her feet, went to a drawer and pulled out a map of Central Africa. She found the Kugumba region of Eastern Zaire and the area indicated by the coordinates on the piece of paper which Kaplan had showed her. She was sure Kaplan had not realized that she had memorized the map references when he passed her the list the previous evening. He had been too absorbed in the story he was telling.
As she looked at the map, an idea began to form in her mind. She looked at her watch. New York was six hours behind Paris; so it was four o’clock in the morning there. It was too early to call at the moment. She would wait till after lunch.
Dr Isaac Reuben’s assistant took the call, shortly after the surgery had opened for the day.
“This is Stephanie Verusio calling from Paris, France. Can I speak to Dr Reuben, please?”
She had to wait three minutes before being put through; the doctor had a patient with him. Ten minutes later when she put down the telephone, there were tears of gratitude in her eyes. For if Reuben had been surprised by her request, he had given no sign of it. Stephanie had pleaded with him.
“Kaplan told me what you did for him. Can you do it for me too? I need your help.”
Reuben had interrupted her as she began to go into the reasons. “Stephanie,” the slow kind voice brought back the image of the man across the distance that separated them, “I don’t need to know all the details. You’re your father’s daughter. That’s enough for me. And you’re your sister’s sister. That’s another reason. And there’s a third reason too. Do you know what it is?”
“No, what?”
“You’re someone very special yourself. You’ve never asked me for anything before. Now you’re asking and you must have a very good reason.”
After she had finished talking with Reuben, Stephanie set about organizing her departure. Reuben had said it would probably take twenty-four hours for the serum to arrive. She might need another twenty-four hours after that to make the necessary preparations. Today was Wednesday. If all went to plan, she could be on her way by the end of the week.
As she was getting ready for bed that evening, the telephone rang. It was Lowell Kaplan. For once, the American sounded unsure of himself.
“Stephanie, I’m sorry I had to go like that.”
There was a coolness in her reply. “It’s not really your fault, Lowell. You have your world. I have mine.”
He hesitated. “But the other thing — it was wonderful, wasn’t it?”
Her voice softened. “Of course, it was.” She replaced the receiver.
Stephanie sat up in bed, reading. She wanted to refresh her memory about the green monkey and its place in the scheme of things. Her textbook was a primitive one. Most of her library had remained in America when she moved to Europe. But it served the purpose:
New World monkeys include the spider, woolly, capuchin, howler, vakiri, saki, douroucouli, squirrel, titi and marmoset monkeys. Some species have a prehensile tail and all have round nostrils separated by a broad septum. Old World monkeys include the proboscis, langur, colobus, macaque, mandrill, mangabey and guenon monkeys. They are to be found
in Africa and Asia, including Malaysia and Japan. They range from mountain forests to open plains. Some have tails and some do not, but all have downward pointed nostrils and a narrow septum.
She couldn’t find much about the green monkey itself beyond the following statement:
One very rare species of guenon is the green monkey, occasionally reported by travellers in Central Africa. Some theorize that the greenness of the green monkey is caused by the presence of a special fungus in the fur, peculiar to this species of monkey. The green monkey is noted also for its beauty and great agility. It is to be distinguished from the cognate species, the grey-green monkey — also found in Central Africa — which does not have the distinctive fur fungus.
She put the book down and turned out the light. Her mind was full of monkeys of every type and description. Some swung by their tails through the canopy of the forest, screeching warnings as intruders entered their domain; others groomed each other contentedly, at one with their surroundings. In her dream, she saw herself living with a tribe of green monkeys, their fur a brilliant green and their eyes like emeralds. And some of them, just a few of them, say five out of twenty, had even brighter green fur than the rest and eyes that blazed with an even deeper emerald colour. These monkeys she dreamed — they were both male and female — were those that carried the virus. And in some strange way their very beauty was linked to the disease which they bore in their blood.
9
Stephanie Verusio had visited Africa half a dozen times with her parents, and once they had spent a season camping out in the Serengeti. They had criss-crossed the park, following the huge herds of migrating animals: wildebeest, hartebeest, antelope, gazelle, impala, giraffe, elephant and lion — the plains seemed to overflow with an abundance of game. For a young impressionable woman it was an unforgettable time. The tropical sun sinking swiftly to the horizon; the sudden noise of the African night; the cries of the hunter and the hunted became part of her. She lived Africa; she breathed it; she dreamed about it. It was in her blood. She could not suppress her excitement as she prepared for her departure.
The Virus Page 11