Death Kit

by Susan Sontag

  Diddy is amused by Comensky’s awkward zeal on his own behalf. The persistence of the born collector. Comensky, yet one more collector to have recently passed before Diddy’s view, doesn’t collect little objects or trophies. Like postage stamps, or seashells. This time, someone who collects his own ideas; then eagerly gives away, even to those who aren’t interested, printed transcriptions of them. The items he purveys aren’t the true prize, the original article of value, as is the case with stamp collectors trading real stamps. Or real shells.… More like souvenirs.

  We were all sitting (now). The two senior men, Watkins and Reager, have commandeered the comfortable lounge chairs stationed in opposite corners, facing the long couch. On the couch, the three junior men. Michaelson had been handed his offprint and pocketed it. Comensky was looking at the paper again. Diddy, just being. Trying to be.

  A very brief wait. Then the producer of “Your Community” enters the reception area through the swinging doors, his arm around the shoulder of the newscaster. “So try to work that in too, will you?”

  “Roger,” the newscaster said. “See you in an hour.” And opened the front door.

  “See you, Bud.” The door closed behind the newscaster. The producer turns to the five men. “All here?” Beaming. “Good! Let’s go into one of the rehearsal rooms, so we can start right away.…”

  “I’d rather we began our discussion out here,” said Reager, spacing out his phrases to allow for several puffs on his cigar. “There’s someone joining us in a moment. Then we can move inside.” He puffed some more on the cigar, as if to underscore how comfortable he found his chair and to demonstrate his body’s unwillingness to move.

  Diddy immediately guessed what mood Reager’s in. He was going to give the producer a hard time and see how he responded.

  How did the man respond? “Certainly, Mr. Reager.” Well, that’s that. The producer has lost. Reager, who was full of whims, scorned anyone who yielded to them without at least a token struggle. Which is what the producer had done. Changing his schedule to suit Reager, without so much as a question. Reager must want to fight. Doesn’t he know he’s already won?

  But the producer has an ally. Watkins, who wasn’t afraid of bickering and liked giving Reager a run for his money. “Now, Howard, why don’t you tell us who’s coming?” Watkins held an unlit pipe in his hand.

  Reager turned on him coolly. “It’s a surprise.”

  Who is coming, Diddy wondered? Has Reager added someone to the program without telling anyone else? Some new young man, a rising star of the company, whom he wants to flatter? Or will it just be Reager’s beloved Evie, carted along in the unquenchable hope that some day some young man will find her attractive?

  Of course, the producer didn’t know what was going on. Or how far matters had advanced. Still optimistic or merely insensitive, he was busily organizing our temporary work space. Intending by this shaping of space to assert his own authority. He’d gone out for a moment, then returned with a metal folding chair which he places in the center of the reception area. Then straddled the chair, with both arms hugging the back of the chair to his chest.

  “Now.” Looking from face to face. “As I’m sure you know, we want this show to be as informal as possible. ‘Your Community’ is a monthly public affairs show, sponsored by the Downtown Merchants Association, and designed to give people in the area served by Channel 10 a better understanding of the free enterprise system, and the problems and responsibilities of American businessmen. Your firm, being one of the oldest and most respected industries in this neck of the woods, is a natural for the show. In fact, I can’t understand why we haven’t had you folks on before.”

  Diddy knew. Until recently, the company’s directors had simply not seen any benefit for sales in public relations addressed to the general public. That Watkins and Reager had (now) consented to “Your Community” doing a show on the company was more evidence of how much, in the last year, the serenity of the management had been shaken.

  “Anyway, now we’ve got you,” continued the producer. “And we’re real pleased. But this show we’re going to do on Saturday isn’t like doing the White House Department Store, our last program’s business-of-the-month. Everybody knows about department stores. Or they think they do. But microscopes are pretty technical stuff. Am I right?”

  “Go on,” said Reager. He looked at Diddy, who looked away. “Do you mean that you don’t know much about microscopes?”

  “Well, when it comes to science, all us laymen are pretty much in the same boat. My point is this, Mr. Reager, I’m afraid this isn’t educational television. Though Lord knows, I wish it were.”

  “Listen, Harvey, why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re driving at?” said Reager, grimacing.

  A first name or the man’s last name? The producer, who was either First Name Harvey or Harvey Last Name, Diddy couldn’t remember (now), shifted in his flat metal saddle. “It’s really very simple, nothing to worry about. All I mean is that we are a sponsored show. And our sponsors want the viewers to have fun. You know.” He smiled, as if demonstrating the exact quantity of viewers’ pleasure he had in mind. “It’s fine if people watching the show learn something. But they should be able to enjoy themselves watching us, too.”

  “Us?”

  “Well, naturally, Mr. Reager, I have to include myself, since I’m privileged to act as your host on the show. And speaking of yours truly, this is as good a time as any for me to explain what I’m going to do. You gentlemen can get an idea of what you’ll be doing.”

  “Fire away,” said Watkins genially. Diddy had noticed that the old man usually made a point of being amiable whenever he noticed that Reager was annoyed at something.

  And Reager was annoyed, unmistakably. Isn’t it odd, thought Diddy, what irritates people? This Mr. Harvey or Harvey Something had given Reager no particular offense. Sure, he was an effusive fool. But so were most of the people with whom Reager came in contact. Why had this man been singled out? And what accounts for the instant unprovoked antipathy that sometimes arises between people? And does a person always know when—by his sheer existence or quality or smell or look, and not by anything particular he’s done—he has unwittingly created that sort of feeling in someone? If one’s instincts are in order, one should know. Something wrong with Diddy’s instincts: that he hadn’t recognized he had aroused such a feeling in Incardona, from the moment he’d broken in on the scene of his labor on the track. Likely, though, that Incardona’s sensory apparatus was in good order. Likely that he knew he’d aroused the same kind of instant antipathy in Diddy. And, knowing it, started to react to it with anger and hostility—long before Diddy knew what he himself felt. Known it, how? Felt it? Smelled it?

  Mr. Harvey or Harvey Something seemed to be receiving some of the vibrations of hostility from Reager, but wasn’t ready to admit defeat. He paused, gazed from face to face. Diddy watched from behind his wall, observes him reflecting. Has Reager already made him lose his balance? Maybe. The producer seemed to realize that the time had arrived to make a stand. Now or never. If it wasn’t too late. Without acknowledging the last words spoken, perhaps because Watkins seemed to be on his side without being asked, and without looking at Reager, he turned to the three junior men on the couch. “Mr. Michaelson, Mr. Harron, and Mr. Comensky, we haven’t heard from you. Have any questions you’d like to ask?”

  Diddy, knowing that this was a rebuke to Reager’s cantankerousness. But doubting that this move to bring them into the conversation could work. For one thing, the two men on either side of Diddy hadn’t been listening. Some minutes ago, Comensky had taken still another reprint of his article from the supply stashed in the inside of his jacket, placed it on top of the Courier-Gazette which still lay across his thighs, and had been, all this while, surreptitiously rereading it. Michaelson had a pad and pencil in his lap, ostensibly, to take notes; already has covered several pages with doodles of naked women and airplanes. That leaves Diddy, who had been li
stening. But, though listening, reluctant to say anything (now). Why should he bait this fool, since Reager seemed to have become, in a brief time, so devoted to that task? And why should he appease or mollify him, which was the role that had fallen to Watkins?

  What could Diddy say? “Well … It’s Mr. Harvey, isn’t it?” A lucky guess. The producer nodded, affably. “How long have you been doing this show, Mr. Harvey?”

  Diddy meant his words to be neutral. But they’d come out sounding like sarcasm, and Mr. Harvey flinched perceptibly at what he took to be a fresh rebuke from so unexpected a quarter.

  From across the room, Reager waved one of his precious Cuban cigars, offering it to Diddy, welcoming him to the team of baiters. Diddy the Depressed. How hard it is to say anything, just for itself. With the best will in the world, you find that you are saying it for someone. Someone, not you, whom you have no conscious desire to serve. Diddy wishing he could reroute his words.

  Comensky went on reading his own article; Michaelson was still doodling. Diddy, who thought he might be blushing, imagines he is somewhere else.

  “Okay, here goes,” said the producer, flinging out his cheerful tone as if it were a net in which he might entrap the others. “We’re all busy executives, right? So I’ll make this as brief as I can.” Reager yawned. Watkins finally lit his pipe. “Here’s the format of the show. First, I’ll give a little introductory material on microscopes. You know, background. Then I’ll be commenting on some stills we’ll project that show activities of the company from its beginnings, over the decades, down to the present day. Then the panel discussion in which Harron, Comensky, and Michaelson are participating, that I’ll moderate. Then I’ll introduce Mr. Watkins, who’ll tell us, I hope, a little about his grandfather, his father, and himself. You know, the human interest aspect. After that, some remarks by Mr. Reager, your managing director. We’ll follow with footage of the factory and offices as they look today, and close with some shots of the company picnic at Lake Canandaigua last May. All the visuals have been supplied by Mr. Wurst; and we’ve made a selection from what he gave us which I’ll run off for you tonight.”

  Diddy looked over at Reager to see how he was taking it. Not too well, Diddy suspected. The producer apparently thought otherwise. So confident was Harvey that his adversary had at last calmed down that he thought he could afford to say something just to please Reager.

  “Some of you may not know that these last photographs were loaned to us courtesy of Miss Evie Reager.”

  “A Bolex was what she used.”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Reager. They certainly are fine pictures.”

  “They should be! She’s got an eye, that girl of mine. I’ve asked her to watch this evening and give us the benefit of her criticism. I’m sure we can all use it, Harvey. She should have been here by now. I don’t know what’s keeping her.”

  Diddy leaned back in the center of the couch, stretched his legs, lit another cigarette. It was going to be a hard evening.

  * * *

  After the run-through of Saturday’s program, Reager and his daughter invited everyone back to their house for a nightcap. None of us really wanted to go. Watkins said no with the practiced brusque delivery of a man who’s always been rather sparing with his yes. The junior men, for whom the invitation was in fact intended, hesitated a moment. Diddy, wary of his habit of humoring his employers, tried to keep his voice casual but decisive. Pleading fatigue, he begged off.

  We left the television studio. Harvey’s car was parked behind the station, so he left us immediately. Watkins’ chauffeured Lincoln Continental was waiting at the curb to carry him away. Evie, explaining that she’d had to park two blocks down the street, led the way for what was left of the group. Comensky and Michaelson flanked her father. Diddy, intending to see them as far as the car, brought up the rear. Carrying his panda doll again.

  “We’ll drop you at your hotel, Harron,” said Reager. To accept the ride would have been prudent: then they would have seen him going into the hotel, headed for rest. Whereas, if he took a cab, the suspicion was bound to cross at least Reager’s wary mind that Diddy wasn’t tired at all, but just had other, gayer plans for the evening.

  But Diddy didn’t want to ride with them. Anyway, Diddy is past prudence, or should be, after all he’s gone through. “Thanks, Mr. Reager. I’ll get a cab.” To hell with the old buzzard. Let him think what he likes. “Evie, would you like to have this?” The stuffed panda. He put the large black and white creature in her arms.

  Succeeded in finding a taxi almost immediately.

  When he returned to the Rushland, it was already midnight. Passing the industrious student night clerk with a nod. And with not a thought of staying up until the “City Edition” of the Courier-Gazette was dumped at the hotel at two o’clock.

  Diddy took another hot bath, gratefully pulled back the freshly changed sheets, and crawled into bed. Tired. But not, he thought, sleepy: assuming that his anxiety over Hester’s operation tomorrow would keep him awake most of the night. He was wrong. Falling asleep turned out to be easy, since in his sleep Diddy could dream of Hester. And think thoughts even more fearful than those he allowed himself in his most anxious sleepless hours.

  In Diddy’s dream, he’s visiting Hester at the hospital on the eve of her operation. Diddy enters the familiar white room, which in the dream is just as it really is. But Hester isn’t wearing the same dark glasses. These frames are square, not oval. And hold lenses of a blacker hue than the ones she always wore; made of thick celluloid rather than glass. There’s a tiny hole in the center of each lens.

  Diddy sitting stiffly in the chair near the end of the bed. “New glasses?” he says stiffly.

  “New treatment,” Hester replies. “The doctors say I should have been wearing them ever since my condition was diagnosed.”

  There’s some good news in these odd glasses, Diddy thinks. What is it? Of course! The tiny hole in each lens signifies that Hester retains some power of sight. She’s not totally blind. But that’s not the same as being able to see. Can she? Could she see all along? Then why didn’t she see him leave the compartment last Sunday?

  But then Diddy feels apprehensive. Because the new glasses also signify something wrong with Hester that he hasn’t understood. He’s heard of these glasses before. They’re the kind prescribed for a detached retina. How did that happen to Hester? Through an injury? Or an infection? The similarity of the two lenses indicates that both retinas are detached. But that’s serious. The element of time is crucial if she’s not to become completely blind. As soon as this condition is diagnosed, the patient should be put in a hospital, kept in bed, not allowed to move. Any move might detach the retina further. Until the operation, Hester should be treated like a crate of raw eggs.

  But if that’s the care she needs, Hester has already undergone great and unnecessary risks. The train ride itself, its high-speed velocity, its rocking and swaying motion. The abrupt stop in the tunnel. Diddy remembered how, when the train convulsively started up again, Hester had cried out. Then he’d thought that, being unable to see, she was afraid; he knew (now) it was because her eyes pained her, were coming further unstuck. And worst, and least necessary among all the risks, making love in the lavatory. Why didn’t she tell Diddy she was so fragile? Had he known then what he (now) knows, he would never have gone with her to that small room. In her condition, that was nothing less than committing an act of assault. Is that what Hester had been trying to make him do? As Incardona had provoked him, until Diddy struck him with the crowbar. The two of them, accomplices? Hester trying to lead Diddy to injure her, or be the agent of her physical injury? To commit, involuntarily, still another crime?

  Diddy cries out in his sleep with despair. Almost flings open his eyes, then falls back into the dream.

  The scene changes to the hospital operating theatre. From the lamps overhead bright light flows down, drenching the covered figure on the table, the doctors and nurses in white, the instrument trays o
n their trolleys, the anaesthetist’s equipment. Diddy above, in the gallery with many other spectators. But not just sitting and watching. He’s standing in an aisle, holding something: a Bolex camera. Taking pictures of the operation. Diddy has some reason to be here among the medical students, though he’s not one himself. And the reason isn’t his personal relation with Hester. It’s his job; he’s a professional photographer. In the dream, Diddy is working for a studio that does legal and medical photography. Footage of operations, to be shown in medical schools for the instruction of students, and in hospitals for interns learning their art; still photographs of accidents and homicides, to be used as evidence in law suits and in murder trials. (Now), very carefully, he’s photographing Hester’s operation. The operation is delicate.

  Until recently, the most advanced method used in such operations was cryo-surgery. A very slender tube containing extremely cold gas is carefully aimed, and the gas fired through the tube. If the surgeon’s aim is accurate, the spike of high-speed gas pierces the front of the eyeball, passes through the water, and strikes the rear wall of the eye at the exact spot where the retina is unhinged. The velocity and force of the gas are such that in seconds the loose ends of the retina are glued or welded together.

  But Hester’s doctor is trained in the newer technique, in which a laser beam is used. The same target, however. And the same principle: assault and puncture at a distance, without hard metal tools, but with gas and light instead. There’s a murder weapon to confound the experts!

  The doctor holds the miniature laser in his hands, pointing it like a toy machine gun at Hester’s head. The gun gets closer. Her eyelids held widely apart with clamps. He fires. But there’s no smell, not even that of burning flesh. Does she feel the tiny light burning through her eye? How can the surgeon be sure the light isn’t traveling right past the eye, into the brain? She must be in pain. See how she’s turning restlessly on the table. The doctors continue. Diddy would like to do something, but he’s too far away. So he goes on photographing, his camera clicking.