The Cloning

  Marc was there during the entire procedure, of course, and even though—thanks to ultra-sound—he already knew that the baby appeared perfectly normal, he was pleased to see in the flesh that it had ten fingers, ten toes, and all the other anticipated appurtenances. To his surprise, Marc found the entire birth process immeasurably more exciting than he'd imagined; he'd never envisioned the amount of sheer energy it took nor the degree of pain involved. It became quite clear why the process was called labor. Signorina Fonicelli was right . . . there was no time for smiling. There was undeniable danger too, something else he'd never grasped previously. At moments he actually wondered if Maria would live through the delivery because the strain of pushing was so hideously intense, but with each contraction, he called out the appropriate instructions to her, “Uno, due, tre, quattro,” almost by rote, and to his amazement she responded just as they'd rehearsed even though her face was dark and contorted with exertion. And when the baby finally emerged and gave his first cry, Marc experienced a thrill that he'd never known before, a feeling of being at one with the universe.

  Not only did the birth itself exhilarate him, but seeing Maria hold the baby to her breast for the first time was a transcendental experience. The smile on her face was the complete antithesis of the grotesque grimace she'd evidenced moments earlier.

  Marc couldn't fathom his reactions. He was a man of science. He understood all the physical laws involved in this birth, had even manipulated some of those laws to his own ends, yet the delivery had stirred thoughts that were more akin to a poet than to a scientist. It left him reeling as nothing had ever done before. Even the splitting of the cell back in Cambridge—the real act of creation—hadn't given him a rush like this. He was physically wiped out by the experience, as exhausted as if he'd given birth himself. Noting this, Doctor DeFeo smiled. “You and Maria both deserve a breather. Why don't you grab a few hour's sleep?” he suggested, then patted Marc on the shoulder and added, “Good job.”

  As Marc stretched out on his bed and closed his eyes, his mind drifted to thoughts of his own parents on the day of his birth. Until today, he’d never realized how much his mother had labored to bring him into the world and how happy she must have been to hold her own tiny baby for the first time. And he was certain that his father had been filled with wonder, much as he himself was today; but his dad’s experience was perhaps even more intense because, after all, Marc was his own flesh and blood. The experience must have been a tremendously bonding one for his parents; surely they loved each other deeply that day. And yet, Marc mused, their marriage began to turn sour within a few short years. His birth had brought them together, but his subsequent life hadn’t been able to keep them united. In fact, his existence had probably exacerbated their problems because, after all, they hadn’t been able to afford round-the-clock nurses to look after their baby. It wasn’t difficult for Marc to imagine how the demands of early morning feedings, the wee-hour cries of a colicky infant, and the cumulative effect of sleep deprivation could have undermined domestic bliss for the young couple, especially in a cramped apartment such as the one his parents inhabited during his early years. It hadn’t taken long for their youthful idealism to turn into mutual annoyance, then the annoyance to hate. Lesson: Avoid Marriage!

  He slept like a dead man for six hours, then woke with a start, wondering how Maria and the baby were doing. He jumped into the shower where the hot water quickly washed away his grogginess. For reasons he couldn't explain, he looked down at his nakedness and thought of Jane. God, he hadn't had sex in . . . he couldn't remember exactly how long it had been. And regular sex had always been an integral part of his life since high school; it seemed as natural as breathing and almost as essential. Yet he hadn't missed it lately. What the hell was wrong? he wondered. Had something changed? No, he’d just been preoccupied, he concluded, and dismissed the thought as he quickly toweled himself dry.

  He hurried back to the infirmary and found Maria napping quietly, her face a picture of contentment. The baby, sleeping nearby, appeared equally satisfied. His initial redness from the birth process had subsided, and Marc noted how perfect his rosy skin now appeared. His well-shaped little head was topped by a shadow of dark, silky hair. Marc tiptoed to a chair and sat to observe the idyllic scene before him, but Maria sensed his presence and opened her eyes. “Thanks,” she said softly.

  “Hey, you're the one who gave birth.”

  “But I could never have done it without you,” she told him with complete sincerity, reaching up to touch his cheek. “You were phenomenal.”

  “So were you.”

  “I want to hold him again,” she said, glancing over to the tiny crib. “Will you hand him to me?”

  Marc hesitated, suddenly feeling like a kid. “I'm allowed to pick him up?”

  “I don't know why not,” she replied with a note of indignation in her voice.

  “Shouldn't we call the nurse?” he suggested.

  “Come on, you helped bring him into the world. Just hold his head carefully,” she added.

  As Marc gently placed his hands under the infant and cautiously lifted him, he couldn't help thinking of the tiny fragment of hair that had shaped this new human being. Even to a non-believer it seemed a miracle. The baby's eyes opened, still a bit fuzzy, but he seemed to look up into Marc's face. An overpowering sense of responsibility hit Marc, a responsibility that went far beyond simply holding the little one for the first time. He felt the profound impact of being accountable for this life.

  “I think he likes you,” Maria commented.

  “This blows my mind,” was all Marc could say as he laid the infant next to her.

  “He smells so good,” she said, snuggling closer. “Isn't he cute?”

  “Beyond cute. Have you fed him?”

  “I don't have any milk yet, can you believe it? With breasts this size,” she replied. “But Doctor DeFeo says I'll have some soon. That should be a kick,” she said, making a face of mock horror.

  There was a knock on the door, and a nurse announced, “The Holy Father is outside. He would like to see you and your baby if it's convenient.”

  “Of course it's convenient,” Maria informed her matter-of-factly. “Bring him in.”

  The nurse opened the door and stood aside as the Pope entered, followed by Monsignor Lissaro and Cardinal Lucassi. The Pope moved silently to Maria's bedside, smiled down at her and the baby. Tears of joy filled his eyes, and he fell to his knees. The two other prelates knelt with him, the three joining in a prayer of praise and thanksgiving.

  *

  “STAR OF BETHLEHEM RETURNS!” one headline read. Another proclaimed, “MESSIAH HEALTHY.” Still another said, “CLONED CHRIST, 7 LBS., 8 OZ.” A Vatican news crew, wearing sterile gowns, was allowed inside for five minutes while the Pope was visiting, and when the first photographs were released, the media had a field day. “PRINCE VISITS KING,” one said. “POPE WORSHIPS AT FEET OF BABY,” still another caption read. And the inevitable was made of the photo of the Pope kneeling with Lissaro and Lucassi: “ENCORE FOR THE MAGI.”

  When Maria’s milk came in, her level of happiness seemed to heighten. To Marc’s surprise, even though he offered to leave the room while she nursed, she said that he was welcome to stay. “After all, you’re a doctor,” she reasoned.

  “Not a medical doctor.”

  “But you were in the operating room in Boston, weren’t you? And you were with me for the delivery. It’s not like we’re strangers exactly.”

  Marc conceded that point and was pleased to stay. She was modest about it, taking care not to display herself unnecessarily, but nursing was obviously an extremely gratifying experience to her. Her face was a picture of perfect contentment, suffused with gentleness. Marc had even more difficulty reconciling this young woman with the one he’d first seen a little over a year ago.

  Several days later, Doctor DeFeo told Maria and Marc that he’d soon be heading back to Boston and an excellent pediatrician, Dr. Bauer, would loo
k after the baby. DeFeo hesitated a moment, then plunged ahead, “Maria . . . before I go back, there is one thing we need to discuss.”

  “I want to keep breast feeding him, if that’s what you’re leading up to,” she announced firmly. “I don’t care if it ruins my figure forever, I want him to be healthy.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. But there is the question of circumcision.”

  Maria looked to Marc for some clarification, which was not forthcoming, since Marc had mixed feelings on this subject. She looked back to the doctor. “He’s not Jewish.”

  “Well . . . ,” DeFeo demurred, “some people don’t agree with that.”

  “In a way he is,” Marc interjected. “Remember, the original cell . . . possibly . . .”

  “Oh. Then I guess he is,” Maria agreed.

  “There’s been a good deal of controversy in Israel . . . and New York. Some members of the Jewish community feel that he must be circumcised even though he’s not precisely a Jew.”

  “Precisely?” Maria asked.

  “Since his mother’s not Jewish,” the doctor explained, “he’s not technically Jewish himself.”

  “All I’m interested in is what’s best for him, health-wise,” Maria stated.

  “Most doctors today recommend the procedure.”

  “Then let’s do it . . . as long as it won’t hurt him.”

  DeFeo assured her that the baby would be fine, then turned to Marc as if to cue him.

  “Maria . . . ,” Marc opened tentatively, “there’s one other thing we have to discuss. The public wants to see the baby.”

  “He’s already been on television,” she replied, dismayed. “They’ve repeated the tape a hundred times.”

  “They want to see him in the flesh. So the Pope has had a special nursery built . . . right here in the Vatican . . . with one-way windows.”

  Maria’s eyes flashed angrily. “No way!” she asserted.

  DeFeo stepped into the discussion quickly to clarify. “It would only be for certain hours each day. And the baby wouldn’t even be aware of it.”

  “But I would!” she contended. “I’d feel like a monkey in a cage.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Marc insisted.

  “Oh, you’ve already seen it, huh?”

  “The Pope asked me to broach the subject with you, so he showed it to me first.”

  “How long has this been in the works?” Maria demanded.

  “Oh,” Marc replied evasively, “a couple of months.”

  “And you didn’t even bother to mention it to me. Why is that?”

  “Because we didn’t want to take a chance on upsetting you during your pregnancy. But you’re doing so well now . . .”

  “Thanks a lot for being so honest.”

  “I wasn’t dishonest,” Marc insisted.

  “When do I get to see this place?”

  “Anytime you like. Right now if you want to.”

  “Okay. Let’s go. But I’m not making any promises.”

  *

  The Vatican Viewing Room—as it had been dubbed—was a large, bright, modern space, almost antiseptic in appearance, which had been created in an area of the Vatican Library. Since the building was already open to the public, no tremendous structural changes were required to handle the anticipated crowds. But great controversy had raged behind the scenes when the idea was first introduced about its design and decor. Some traditionalists wanted to create a Rococo fantasy of gilt and velvet in which to ensconce Maria and her baby. Others felt that Gothic would be more appropriate to the solemn display. But finally, the Pope agreed with those who pointed out that Maria would have to be happy in the setting, and she'd obviously feel more at home in something contemporary. Besides, the well-being of the baby had top priority, and clearly it would be easier to keep the Viewing Room meticulously clean if it weren't cluttered. So the walls, ceiling, and floor were all spotless white.

  The first thing Maria's eyes lit upon when she entered was the centerpiece of the room, an impressive crib of polished stainless steel with a sort of canopy draped in sheer white silk. The crib faced a long window of dark glass.

  “You see, the people will be behind that glass, so you won't even know they're there,” Marc suggested reasonably.

  “Oh yes I will,” Maria insisted loudly.

  “But you won’t be able to see them, and pretty soon you won't even think about it any more.”

  “You expect me to nurse my baby with a bunch of strangers watching me through a one-way mirror?”

  “No, no,” Marc said. “You can do that in private. There are other rooms behind this one. But when he's sleeping, or just playing, then people could see him.”

  “How many people?” she doggedly inquired.

  “Well, there are three moving sidewalks on the other side of the glass.”

  “You mean like in an airport?”

  “That's right. They’re like a stairway so people on the rear row can see over the heads of the others.”

  “Three of them? That's nuts! It's like a factory.”

  Marc was becoming exasperated. “Do you realize that there are over ten thousand people standing out in the square at this very minute . . . just hoping that you might hold him up to a window?”

  “I saw them,” she admitted.

  “And don't you have any feeling about that? Some of them have come halfway around the world just on the chance that they'll get a glimpse of him. Some of them have spent their last dime to come here. Don't you feel a little compassion for them?”

  “Well, what about you?” she asked. “You wouldn’t care about all those people gaping at you?”

  Marc was nonplused by her question. “I'm not going to be here,” he replied.

  “Sure you will,” Maria informed him with a steely look. “You're the one who made all this happen in the first place. They want to see you too.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Tell you what,” she continued in a conniving tone. “I'll do it if you'll do it.”

  “You've flipped out.”

  “No, I haven't. We'll both be on view together . . . with the baby. Or else forget it.” She took a moment let that sink in, then added, “It's up to you.”

  *

  Four days later, the Vatican Viewing Room was fully operative and open to the public. In the dim light behind the one-way window, three rows of people moved past, continuously conveyed on the moving sidewalks. Schubert’s Ave Maria played discreetly in the background. Some of the older pilgrims were reminded of the viewing of Michelangelo’s Pieta at the 1963-64 New York World’s Fair where a similar arrangement was used to convey as many people through the pavilion as possible. For the most part, the viewers in the Vatican were silent, totally respectful if not awed by the sight before them.

  On the first day, a lucky few got to see a special ceremony, which was the highlight of the inaugural. Those who didn’t see it in person could watch on television, which beamed it around the world. It was the b’rith milah, the circumcision, which was carried out on the eighth day after the birth with great pomp befitting the occasion.

  The Pope was dressed in his full clerical apparel, complete with miter and staff. Included in his entourage were Cardinals Lucassi and Nani in scarlet, Archbishop Dicopoulis, Bishop Bottero, and Monsignor Lotti, all dressed in full regalia as well. Cardinal Dugan was unable to cross the Atlantic due to illness. Since the service was an ecumenical one, there was naturally a large Jewish contingent too, clad less ostentatiously, but nevertheless impressive in their solemnity. The rite was altered somewhat to omit the actual naming of the baby since Maria hadn’t been able to settle on a name.

  The Pope, acting as the sandek, held the baby on his lap while an orthodox Rabbi read from the Torah in Hebrew. Maria and Marc, dressed sedately for the occasion, were nearby.

  At the appropriate moment in the service, the mohel moved with his surgical instrument to the infant, and the actual circumcision took place. Maria looked on with maternal co
ncern, then turned her face away at the last second.

  Marc reflexively grimaced. “Ouch,” he muttered, but, in fact, it wasn’t nearly as bloody as he’d feared.

  *

  That first day in the Vatican Viewing Room was so filled with ceremony and opening-day jitters that Maria hardly had time to be aware of the thousands of people looking through the window. But the next day, she and Marc were left to their own devices during the viewing hours, and she became increasingly conscious that they were not alone. Not that it was on her mind every single moment because she was often involved with the baby. But whenever he fell asleep in his crib, or whenever she and Marc weren't having some sort of discussion, she'd glance at the window and try to imagine what all those tourists were thinking.

  “Don’t you hear that rumble?” she asked. “It’s the motors from those moving sidewalks.”

  “I don’t’ hear a thing,” he replied honestly. “It’s just your imagination.”

  In fact, Marc wasn't enjoying the experience any more than she, but he was determined to make the best of it since she'd twisted his arm to be part of the exhibition. If he reneged now, Maria would certainly follow suit, and the Pope would be very disappointed because he was convinced that the Viewing Room was an integral part of the spiritual revival that seemed to be on the upswing. On the other hand, Marc reminded himself, he didn’t give a good goddamn about a spiritual revival; he got into this deal originally to buy a Ferrari, and his beautiful F512M was sitting unused in a garage in Cambridge. Still, at Swanson’s suggestion he’d taken the year off as sabbatical, so there was no reason to rush back to the States, and he wanted to be certain that no anomalies showed up in the baby’s development. So Marc privately decided that he’d give Maria a few months to settle down into this arrangement; then he’d quietly make an exit back to a normal life.

  Thus, it became necessary for him to hold his tongue each time he was tempted to say something negative about their bizarre arrangement of living part-time in a goldfish bowl. But Maria made no attempt to hide her feelings. Several days later, while he was reading the Boston Globe that was flown in daily at his special request, she quipped, “Smile. You're on Candid Camera.”