The Forbidden

by F. R. Tallis

  I supposed that he wanted to hear that I intended to continue his work, and I offered him some bland promise, to the effect that, if the opportunity arose, I would certainly resume a programme of laboratory experiments. As I spoke, he seemed to become impatient and he interrupted me again. ‘No, Paul. There is more. Please, allow me to finish.’ He sighed and added, ‘I have struggled, not knowing whether it is right or wrong to . . . God created a lawful universe. If science lifts the veil . . . it is revelation, and revelation is divine.’ His speech became incoherent and I wondered if he was slipping away, but another clap of thunder seemed to bring him back. ‘Paul?’

  ‘Yes, I am still here.’

  ‘Do you remember case number six in my book on therapeutic applications?’

  ‘The woman asphyxiated by carbonic oxide?’

  ‘I lost her, but when stimulated, her respiration was restored. In my summary, I stated that she regained her intelligence and that she was able to give me information about what had happened to her. A few hours later she sank into a coma again and died.’ He pointed at a jug on the table and I poured him a drink. He took a few sips from the glass and then continued. ‘My summary is incomplete. When she regained her intelligence, it is true that she gave me information about what had happened to her, but it was not information about her symptoms. In fact, she spoke of an experience.’ A faint smile appeared on his face, and retrieving the wooden crucifix, he pressed it against his heart. ‘A remarkable experience.’

  I was unsure what he meant by this. ‘What? She recollected something from her past?’

  ‘No. Between going and returning she saw things.’

  He seemed to be making such an extraordinary claim that I thought it prudent to seek clarification. ‘Between going and returning? You are referring to the time that elapsed between the woman’s death and her being revived?’

  ‘Precisely!’ He found some last reserve of energy and beat the blanket with his clenched fist. ‘Yet she saw things.’

  ‘Some kind of hallucination?’

  ‘No. What she saw was no hallucination. She was entirely lucid and the very specific terms she employed to describe her experience persuaded me of its authenticity.’

  As he spoke, I felt as if the world outside was receding; the cascade that tumbled from the gutter, the keening wind that rattled the window panes, all of these sounds became a distant murmur. Even now, I can remember his lips moving, the sense of being drawn in – a tremor of excitement passing through my body, scepticism becoming interest, and interest becoming wonder. That night, my life was changed forever.

  2

  Duchenne’s death had made me more contemplative, more inward-looking. Instead of dining with friends, I preferred to go for solitary walks by the river. I would steal into empty churches and sit, deep in thought, until the light faded and the gloom intensified. I sought out booksellers who stocked works of theology, and found myself buying copies of Augustine and Aquinas. What I had previously dismissed as sterile debate, pointless sophistry, I now approached with interest.

  It was about this time that I first encountered Édouard Bazile. The circumstances of our meeting were unremarkable and I did not suspect that one day we would become close friends. He had engaged me to treat his wife, who was suffering from progressive loss of hearing. Prior to seeing me, she had consulted a number of doctors, none of whom had been able to improve her condition. I had been recommended to the Baziles by one of my former patients, a librarian with peripheral nerve disease. After examining Madame Bazile, I decided to use one of Duchenne’s electrical therapies – a risky undertaking because the tympanic membrane is very delicate and stimulation with strong currents can cause total deafness. I advised Madame Bazile of the dangers, but she was insistent that we should proceed, and, after six administrations, her hearing was fully restored. Needless to say, I did not expect to see the couple again.

  Several months passed, during which I moved to pleasant rooms on the ground floor of an apartment block in Saint-Germain. The great church of Saint-Sulpice was only a few streets away, and this remarkable building, magnificent and austere, became my habitual refuge. I familiarized myself with its interior, the Corinthian columns, grand arches, carved dome and chapels, the gilded pulpit, the exquisite statue of Mary as the Mother of Sorrows and its trove of curiosities.

  One evening, as I was leaving Saint-Sulpice, I heard someone call my name, and when I looked up I saw a short, stocky man, with longish black hair and an untrimmed beard and moustache. He removed his hat and I immediately recognized Édouard Bazile. We shook hands and I enquired after his wife. There had been no recurrent problems and he thanked me again for my help. Our exchanges were cordial and I mentioned, in passing, that I had just moved to the area and was fond of visiting the church.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you must let me show you around the north tower.’ I had a dim recollection of his occupation having had some connection with ecclesiastical life, but its exact nature escaped my memory. Indeed, it is possible that he had never been very precise. He detected my confusion and added, ‘That is where Madame Bazile and I live. I am the bell-ringer.’ We arranged to meet by the chapel of Saint Francis Xavier the following afternoon.

  Bazile was already waiting when I arrived at the appointed time. Removing a key from his waistcoat pocket, he unlocked the door, invited me through, and we commenced our ascent up a winding staircase. Eventually, we came out onto a narrow wooden ledge. I was suddenly overcome by anxiety. I felt disorientated, unsteady, and feared that I would fall.

  ‘We’re a long way up.’

  ‘About halfway.’

  Shafts of light entered the tower through tilted panels. I looked down, and saw a complex arrangement of joists and beams that descended into darkness. Among the lattice of timbers was an array of enormous bells. They were oddly fascinating. Bazile directed my attention upwards, where I saw yet more bells, floating magically. I noticed bright patches on the inside of each one, where the surface had been repeatedly struck by the clapper.

  ‘Glorious, aren’t they?’ said Bazile. ‘For me, they are much more than pieces of metal. They are like people; each bell has its own personality.’ He smiled and added, ‘Did you know that they are baptized? It is a Church tradition. And as they grow older, their voices change, mellowing with age.’

  I felt the air move, a ghostly caress on my cheek. The woodwork creaked and the bells began to rock.

  ‘In the Middle Ages,’ Bazile continued, ‘bells were cast by itinerant founders who would travel all over France. Villagers would throw their valuables into the boiling bronze, their jewellery, candlesticks and family heirlooms – the things that they loved most – thus creating a unique alloy which gave the bell its individual voice. The bell embodied the virtue, the generosity of the people, and its chime was supposed to comfort the sick and repel evil spirits. It is no coincidence that when we think of home, the place where we were born and raised, more often than not, we think of an area which corresponds roughly with the sounding of a particular church bell.’ He brushed a cobweb from his sleeve and added, ‘There is more to see.’

  Another climb brought us to the stone arches beneath the roof of the tower. We were in a rotunda, the floor of which was perforated by a circular hole surrounded by rusty iron railings.

  ‘You can lean over, monsieur. It’s quite safe.’ I peered into the abyss. ‘Would you like to go all the way to the top?’ Bazile pointed at another staircase.

  ‘Not today. Thank you.’ I was still feeling a little unnerved by my attack of vertigo.

  Bazile was an erudite man. As we talked, it became apparent that – at least with respect to the church and its history – he was extremely knowledgeable. I asked him how it was that he knew so much, and he replied, ‘When I was younger I wanted to be a priest. I was admitted into a seminary, but left after only a few years. I suppose I had a . . .’he hesitated before adding, ‘crisis.’ I was tempted to press him for more information but resisted the u
rge. Bazile’s eyes widened and I thought he was about to disclose more, but suddenly he turned away and spoke over the void. ‘I came to Paris and became the assistant of a scholarly priest at Notre-Dame. He was a very wise man and taught me a great deal. Indeed, I learned more about Church history and theology from him, than I’d ever learned at the seminary.’ He paused again and stroked the rusty rail, dislodging a few red flakes. ‘Although I had decided against taking Holy Orders, I still wanted to maintain a connection with the Church, to serve God daily, but I wasn’t at all sure how I would achieve this. Then, quite by chance, I came across several works on campanology in the priest’s library – De Campanis Commentarius by Rocca and De Tintinnabulo by Pacichellius, wonderful books – and it occurred to me that bell-ringing might be just the solution to my predicament. I served an apprenticeship, right here, in Saint-Sulpice, and when the old bell-ringer died, I took his place.’

  The gentle breeze outside was now gathering strength, and an eerie wailing filled the rotunda. I raised the collar of my coat. ‘Ah,’ said Bazile. ‘You are cold, monsieur. On our way down – if you are not in a hurry – we could, perhaps, visit my rooms. I’m afraid I can’t offer you a brandy, but I have some very good cider.’

  Bazile’s lodgings were located directly beneath the bells. We entered a spacious parlour with rough stone walls, semi-circular windows, and a vaulted ceiling. The floor tiles were partly covered with a faded rug and the furniture was rustic in appearance. A stove stood in the corner. Its thick pipe crossed the ceiling and disappeared through a canvas sheet that had been used to replace a broken pane of glass. Next to the stove was a bookcase packed with volumes. The air smelled of cooking: not a stale smell, but homely and pleasant.

  Madame Bazile appeared, and, to my great mortification, delivered a lengthy eulogy. The term ‘miracle worker’ was used. I objected, but she would not be contradicted. When her stock of superlatives was finally exhausted, she produced a ceramic pitcher full of cider and two tankards. Bazile and I sat at the table, where we smoked, drank and continued our conversation. It was to be the first of many, for we were, in a sense, kindred spirits, and soon recognized in each other a common sensibility. There are those who discern in felicitous meetings the hand of Providence, and, I must admit, the timely entry of Édouard Bazile into my life did feel as if it had been arranged for my benefit. I had become preoccupied, isolated, and needed to unburden myself. I needed someone to talk to about theology, mysticism and the meaning of existence, a believer, but a believer for whom faith did not also mean the disavowal of reason. Bazile was such a man. He embodied these qualities and possessed many more that I would learn to appreciate as our friendship deepened.

  From that day forward, whenever Bazile discovered me, either seated at the back of the nave, or pacing the aisles of Saint-Sulpice, he would greet me and we would start a conversation that could only be satisfactorily concluded several hours later, seated at his table in the north tower. We agreed to meet on a more regular basis. I would arrive with a leg of lamb for Madame Bazile to cook, and she would prepare it beautifully with a purée of turnips and caper sauce. After dinner, Bazile would light his pipe and we would talk until the candles had burned down and the sconces were overflowing with wax.

  For many months, I remained silent on the subject that I needed to speak of most and when finally I confided in Bazile, I did so almost by accident. We were discussing, as I recall, logical proofs for the existence of God.

  ‘What could be more convincing,’ said Bazile, ‘than the moon, the sun and the stars? Or this room, with me and you sitting in it? There is something here,’ he struck the table with a rigid forefinger to emphasize his point, ‘when, so easily, there might have been nothing. Aristotle informs us that all effects have their causes. It is a universal principle and utterly irrefutable. God’s effects are the proof of his existence. There must have been a first cause, and that first cause was God. Of course, some would say that logic has no place in theology. It is not a view I subscribe to, but one must recognize that the human mind has its limits. We cannot expect reason to supply answers to all of our questions.’

  ‘My teacher, Duchenne de Boulogne, would never have accepted such a position. He was a scientist, but also deeply religious. He studied facial anatomy, because he believed that our expressions are animated by the soul, and he believed in the soul because—’ I stopped myself mid-sentence.

  ‘Yes?’

  ’Because he knew that something of us survives death: he had no doubt about this, and his unshakeable conviction was based on strong evidence.’

  ‘He dabbled in spiritualism?’

  I shook my head. ‘Do you remember the machine I used to treat Madame Bazile – the battery? It can also be used to resuscitate.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It can be used to bring patients back to life after they have died.’

  Bazile took his pipe from his mouth and looked at me in disbelief.

  ‘If the heart fails,’ I continued, ‘a jolt of electricity can sometimes start it beating again.’

  ‘I did not realize medical science was so advanced.’

  ‘The method is far from reliable and most patients are afforded only a temporary reprieve. Typically, those who have undergone the procedure report nothing. Death is experienced as a loss of consciousness, like dreamless sleep; however, there was one exception, a woman who claimed to have had what might best be described as an encounter.’

  Bazile could see that I was hesitant, and poured me another drink. I thanked him, sipped the sweet liquid and said: ‘She told Duchenne that her soul had risen up from her body, and that she had found herself floating just beneath the ceiling. Looking down at the lifeless person below, she registered the closed eyes and bluish pallor – the right arm hanging limp off the side of the bed. She observed Duchenne, dashing out of the room and returning with a battery. The woman was not frightened. On the contrary, she felt very calm and pitied the doctors and nurses, who appeared agitated and distressed. She wanted to say to them, “Do not worry, there is no need, I am perfectly comfortable and happy.” The hospital melted away and the mouth of a tunnel materialized in front of her. She glided, without effort, into the opening and coasted towards a light that was emanating from the other end. Her speed increased, she was drawn rapidly through space and expelled into an expanse of uniform brilliance. It was not light as we understand it, but rather something far more wondrous and pure. She said it was like being irradiated with love. This experience was utterly overwhelming: rapturous, ecstatic. She sensed an immanence in the light and presumed that she must be in the presence of a higher being, an emissary.’

  Bazile frowned. ’An emissary? What did she mean by that?’

  ‘The woman remained in this state of blissful suspension for an indeterminate period of time. Then, quite suddenly, she was pulled by a powerful force back into her body. Duchenne was standing over her, removing the electrodes from her chest. She felt no joy, only a terrible, crushing sadness. She wanted to return to the light. When her condition had stabilized, she told Duchenne what she had experienced. Two hours later, she became comatose and died; however, at the moment of death, Duchenne observed something very strange. She smiled. And her smile seemed to be directed at someone, or something, quite invisible.’

  The creases on Bazile’s forehead deepened. ‘Extraordinary, a fascinating account, but . . .’ He hesitated before adding, ‘Deathbed visions are not so uncommon. Ask any parish priest and he will tell you such stories. How the blacksmith’s wife claimed to see the Virgin Mary or the baker’s daughter heard a heavenly choir. They might, or might not be, authentic. We can never know. Is it not possible that Duchenne’s patient was simply hallucinating?’

  ‘Édouard, dead people do not hallucinate. Her heart had stopped and there was no blood circulating through the arteries of her brain. There was no breath in her lungs. Only a living brain is capable of dreams and hallucinations. Moreover, her observations of Duchenne’s activiti
es, made while she was unconscious, were entirely accurate.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bazile. Removing the now-extinct pipe from his mouth, he tapped it against the table leg in order to dislodge a plug of tobacco and fell into a troubled reverie, during which he worried the tangled mass of his beard with restless fingers. After a very considerable interval, he said, ‘If I am not mistaken, you have just recounted the most compelling evidence for life after bodily death ever reported. Would it not be appropriate, therefore, to inform the scientific community of Duchenne’s remarkable discovery?’

  ‘It was Duchenne’s dying wish that I should continue his work and offer the world irrefutable proof of the life hereafter. He hoped that the provision of such evidence would change the hearts of men: that if people knew, with absolute certainty, that they would one day be judged by their Maker, they would not stray so easily from the path of righteousness.’

  ‘And did you agree to do as he asked?’

  ‘I did.’

  Bazile pressed his palms together. ‘A grave responsibility.’

  ‘Indeed. And thus far, I have done nothing.’

  3

  1876

  I began my programme of research using animals: rats, initially, and then stray cats. There was no shortage of equipment at the Salpêtrière and I had use of the very latest chloride of silver batteries. Death was ‘administered’ by means of chloroform intoxication. A particularly successful trial resulted in one of my cats being revived after an unprecedented four minutes. She was very weak, but over the next two days she regained her strength and was able to chase a ball of paper tied to a piece of string. As far as I could tell, she had retained all of her feline faculties. On the morning of the third day I gave her a dish of milk and a sardine that I had saved from my breakfast, and released her into the hospital grounds. She scampered off and soon disappeared from view.