by Primo Levi
1. The title is from Dante, Purgatory Canto X:125.
Cladonia Rapida
The recent discovery of a parasite endemic to automobiles shouldn’t, strictly speaking, come as a surprise. Anyone who reflects upon life’s evident and prodigious ability to adapt on our planet will find it natural that there should be a highly specialized lichen whose unique and requisite substrate is made up of the interior and exterior structures of automobiles. Obviously, a comparison can be drawn with other well-known parasites typical of human habitations, clothing, and ships.
The lichen’s discovery, or rather its appearance (since it’s impossible to imagine the lichen existing unobserved), has been pinpointed with remarkable precision to the years 1947–48. The event should probably be linked to the arrival of phthaloglycerin enamels, which replaced the nitrocellulose enamels used for the automotive body’s final coats; it is no coincidence that radical fats and glycerol residue are present in these enamels—improperly referred to as “synthetics.”
The auto lichen (bot. Cladonia rapida) differs from other lichens principally because of its extremely rapid growth and reproduction rate. While the well-known crusty rock lichens have a growth rate that rarely surpasses a millimeter per year, within a few months typical patches of Cladonia rapida measure several centimeters in diameter, especially on vehicles that have been continuously exposed to rain and kept in dank, ill-lit locations. The patches are gray-brown, furrowed, and one to three millimeters thick, and the original infectious nucleus is always clearly visible at their center. It is quite rare for the patches to appear in isolation: without drastic treatment, in just a few weeks they invade the entire body of the car, with a dissemination mechanism across distances that is still poorly understood. It has, however, been observed that the infection is particularly intense and florid on surfaces that are basically horizontal (the roof, the hood, the fenders), and where the round patches appear to be distributed according to curiously regular patterns. This suggests a spore projection mechanism whereby implantation is favored by the substrate’s horizontal position.
Infection is not restricted to the enameled parts. Patches (atypical) are sometimes also observed in places that are less exposed—on the chassis, inside the trunk, on the floor of the car and the seats. When the lichen reaches certain internal organs, various disturbances to the general mobility and functionality of the automobile are frequently seen. Premature wear and tear of the shock absorbers (reported by R. J. Coney, automobile owner, Baltimore); obstruction of brake-fluid tubes (various repair shops in France and Austria); acute and simultaneous seizure of the four cylinders (Voglino, repair-shop owner, Turin). In addition, ignition trouble, spasmodic braking, poor pickup, wobbly steering, and other irregularities have often been diagnosed by undiscerning mechanics as being caused by something else, and repaired accordingly, with dramatic results. In one case, for now isolated but worrying, a car owner was himself contaminated, and had to undergo medical treatment for a diffuse and tenacious Cladonia infection on the backs of his hands and on his abdomen.
From observations made at various garages and open-air parking lots, it is legitimate to conclude that the propagation of the lichen is due primarily to de proche en proche, and is favored by the extreme overcrowding of parking lots. As for cars infected from afar, by the wind or by means of a human “carrier,” there is no reliable documentation and, furthermore, it appears to be quite rare.
At the recent automobile show in Tangier, the issue of immunity was discussed (Al Maqrizi was the speaker), and proved to be full of surprising and exciting connections. According to the speaker, no car can be considered immune; however, with regard to lichen infection, two types of receptivity exist, each manifesting clearly different symptomatologies. In the case of male cars, roundish stains, usually dark gray, and tenaciously sticky; in female cars, oblong stains running along the chassis axis, brown to hazelnut in color, not very sticky, and having a strong musky odor.
We are alluding here to that rudimentary sexual distinction that by now has existed for decades, but which continues to escape the attention of official science. In the halls of General Motors, for example, one often speaks of “he-cars”* and “she-cars,”* and in Turin, contrary to all logical explanation, the Fiat 1100 is referred to by a masculine pronoun, whereas the Fiat 600 is referred to by a feminine pronoun. Actually, according to research carried out by Maqrizi himself, the number of “he”* individuals working on the assembly line for the Fiat 1100 have a clear majority, while among those working on the Fiat 600 many more take the form of “she.”* However, such cases are exceptional: usually the forms “he” and “she” are detected in assembly lines with no apparent regularity, apart from the statistical, which predicts that either group will have an average numbering around 50 percent. Among models of an equal nature, the “he-cars” have better pickup, tougher spring suspension, and a weaker chassis, and are more likely to break down as a result of motor or transmission problems. The “she-cars,” on the other hand, consume less fuel and lubricant, and have superior traction, but they have weak electrical systems, and are very sensitive to temperature and pressure variations. The differences, however, are quite subtle and recognizable only to expert eyes.
Now, the discovery of Cladonia rapida has resulted in the development of a revelatory, simple, fast, and safe technique that can be entrusted even to unskilled personnel and has in just a few years allowed for the collection of copious material of great theoretical and practical interest.
Long and serious experiments were conducted at the Paris lab, in which a large number of cars from various manufacturers were infected with the lichen. These experiments revealed that in the selection process preceding an acquisition, the sex of the car exercises an important function: “he-cars” constitute 62 percent of the cars bought by women, and 70 percent of those bought by men with homosexual tendencies. Heterosexual men’s preferences are less obvious: 52.5 percent buy “she-cars.” The choice of, and sensitivity to, the sex of the car is generally unconscious, but not always: at least a fifth of the subjects interviewed by Tarnowsky demonstrated that they were able to distinguish between “he” and “she” cars with more confidence than between male and female cats.
Finally, it is useful to recall the curious British study regarding the phenomenon of collisions, also conducted using the lichen technique. Collisions, which statistically should be homo- and heterosexual with equal frequency, turn out instead to be heterosexual in 56 percent of cases (worldwide average). That average varies considerably from country to country: it is 55 percent in the United States, 57 percent in Italy and France, 52 percent in the United Kingdom and Holland; in Germany it decreases to 49 percent. It is clear, then, that in at least one case out of ten, the rudimentary will (or initiative) of the car overrides human will (or initiative), which is somehow debilitated or suppressed in the act of driving through city traffic. Very fittingly, in this regard, the authors of the study reminded us of the term “clinamen,” first described by the Epicureans.
The concept, of course, is not new; it was developed by Samuel Butler in a precocious and unforgettable passage of Erewhon, and, even apart from the sexual sphere, it occurs with significant frequency in many of life’s everyday episodes, which are banal in appearance only. And here, if he may, the writer will take the opportunity to cite a clinical case observed directly by him.
The automobile TO 26- - - -, made in 1952, suffered serious damage in a collision that took place at the intersection of Corso Valdocco and Via Giulio. The car was repaired and changed owners several times until, in 1963, it was acquired by T.M., a shop owner, who drove on Corso Valdocco four times a day, back and forth, from home to his shop. Mr. T.M., who had no idea of the car’s case history, noticed that every time the car neared the above-mentioned crossroads, it slowed down considerably and pulled to the right. The car did not demonstrate irregular conduct at any other point along the city streets. But there is no user of the roads blessed with th
e spirit of observation who could not easily recount dozens of similar episodes.
As anyone can see, we are dealing with fascinating topics that throughout the civilized world have aroused a keen interest in the provocative issue of what occurs when the animate and inanimate worlds converge. Belistein, in an observation made only a few days ago, was able to identify and photograph obvious traces of nerve tissue in the Opel-Kapitän’s steering linkage, a subject we intend to deal with at length in an upcoming article.
Order at a Good Price
I am always happy to see Mr. Simpson. He is not one of those regular salesmen, the kind who remind me of company lawyers. He is truly in love with the NATCA machines, has total faith in them, and is tormented by their defects and breakdowns. Their triumphs are his triumphs. Or, at least, that’s how it seems, even if it isn’t true—which for all practical purposes is the same thing.
Even aside from our business relationship, we could almost be called friends; however, in 1960, after he sold me the Versifier, I lost touch with him for a while. He was terribly committed to filling the demands for that highly successful model, working every day until midnight. He telephoned sometime in mid-August to ask if I was interested in a Turboconfessor, a portable unit, fast, in great demand in America and approved by Cardinal Spellman. I wasn’t interested and told him so flat out.
A few months later, without warning, Mr. Simpson rang my doorbell. He was beaming and, like a wet nurse with a newborn, cradled in his arms a corrugated cardboard box. He wasted no time with pleasantries. “Here it is,” he said triumphantly, “the Mimete: the copier we have always dreamed about.”
“A copier?” I said, barely concealing the wave of disappointment sweeping over me. “Sorry, Simpson, but I have never dreamed of a copier. What could possibly be better than those we already have and can swear by? Take this one, for instance. Twenty lire, a few seconds per copy, and they’re flawless; dry-functioning, no reacting agents, not one breakdown in two years.”
Mr. Simpson was not, however, easily dissuaded. “Any machine is capable, if you will pardon me, of reproducing something two-dimensional. This machine not only reproduces that which is two-dimensional but also things that have depth”; and with a politely offended air, he added: “The Mimete is a real copier.” He carefully extracted from his bag two mimeographed sheets of paper, the letterhead in color, and put them on the table. “Which is the original?”
I looked them over attentively. Yes, they were very alike, but then so were two copies of the same newspaper or two positives from the same negative.
“No, take a closer look. You will see that we have deliberately chosen for our demonstration material a thicker paper, with several foreign bodies in the mix. Furthermore, before duplication, we tore this corner here on purpose. Use the magnifying glass and take your time observing. I am in no hurry. I have dedicated this afternoon to you.”
At a certain place on one copy, a blade of straw was next to a yellow speck. In the exact same position on the second copy, a blade of straw was next to a yellow speck. The two tears were identical down to the last hair distinguishable by the magnifying glass. My distrust was mutating into curiosity.
In the meantime, Mr. Simpson had pulled an entire dossier out of his bag, Smiling, he said in his pleasing foreign accent: “This is my ammunition, my stock of twins.” The dossier contained handwritten letters, randomly underlined in various colors; stamped envelopes; elaborate technical drawings; multicolored childish sketches. Mr. Simpson showed me an exact replica, front and back, of each sample.
I carefully examined his demonstration materials: in truth, there was little room for improvement. The grain of the paper, every mark, every subtlety of color, had been reproduced absolutely faithfully. I noticed that even to the touch the copies had the same unevenness as the originals: the same oiliness to the pastel lines, the same chalky dryness of the tempera background, the stamps in relief. Mr. Simpson, meanwhile, continued his convincing pitch. “This is not about perfecting a previous model. The principle on which the Mimete is based is a revolutionary discovery of extreme interest, not only practically but conceptually as well. It doesn’t imitate, or simulate, but fully reproduces the object, creates another, identical one out of, so to speak, nothing . . .”
This gave me a start. My chemist’s gut lurched violently against the enormity of what he was saying. “Come on now! What do you mean, out of nothing?”
“You’ll have to excuse me. I let myself get carried away. Obviously, I don’t really mean out of nothing. I meant from chaos, from absolute disorder. Yes, that’s it, that’s what the Mimete does: creates order from disorder.”
He went out to the street and from the trunk of his car retrieved a small metal cylinder, similar to a liquid-gas tank. He showed me how it attached to the Mimete’s cell through a flexible tube.
“This is its feeding tank. It contains a rather complex mixture, the so-called pabulum, the nature of which, for the time being, has not been disclosed. As far as I could gather from the NATCA technicians during the training course at Fort Kiddiwanee, it’s likely that the pabulum is made up of unstable carbon compounds and other vital principal elements. It’s simple to operate: between us, I don’t know why it was necessary for them to summon all the sales agents to America from the four corners of the earth. You see? You put the object you want to reproduce in this compartment, and into this other one, which is equal in form and volume, the pabulum is introduced at a controlled rate. During the process of duplication, in the exact position of every single atom of the original object an analogous atom extracted from the alimentary mixture is fixed: carbon where there was carbon, nitrogen where there was nitrogen, and so on. Naturally, almost nothing was revealed to us agents about the mechanics of this reconstruction at a distance, nor did anyone explain to us how this enormous mass of information is transmitted from one cell to another. All the same, we were authorized to report that the Mimete imitates a recently discovered genetic process, and that the object ‘is related to the copy in the same manner that a seed is related to a tree.’ I trust that all of this makes some sense to you, and I beg you to excuse the secretive behavior of my firm, but you must understand, not all of the machine’s components have been patented yet.”
Against every sane business practice, I was unable to hide my admiration. This was truly a technical revolution: organic synthesis at low temperature and pressure, order from disorder, silently, quickly, and cheaply. It was the dream of four generations of chemists.
“This wasn’t easy for them, you know. From what they tell me, the forty technicians assigned specifically to the Mimete project, having already brilliantly resolved the fundamental problem of directed synthesis, didn’t obtain anything for two years but mirror images, by which I mean reversed copies, which were useless. NATCA’s management was ready to put the machine into production anyway, even though it would have to be operated twice for every duplication, incurring twice the expense and twice the time. The first actual direct copy happened by chance, thanks to a providential error in assembly.”
“This story puzzles me,” I said. “Each and every invention that comes into existence is accompanied by widely circulated anecdotes claiming the happy intervention of chance. And these, in all likelihood, were initiated by the less ingenious competition.”
“Perhaps,” Simpson said. “In any case, there’s still a long way to go. You should know right from the start that the Mimete is not a rapid copier. To copy an object weighing around a hundred grams, at least an hour is required. There is another, rather obvious limitation: it is not possible to reproduce—or only imperfectly—objects that contain elements that are not present in the ingredients of the pabulum. Other, special pabula, more complete, have been made for particular needs, but it seems that there have been difficulties with some elements, mostly with heavy metals. For example”—and he showed me a delightful page from an illuminated manuscript—“it is still impossible to reproduce gilding, which, in fact
, is missing from the copies. It is equally impossible to reproduce a coin.”
At this point, I gave a second start; but now it wasn’t simply my chemist’s gut reacting but the gut (coexistent and inextricably connected) of a practical man. Not a coin, but a banknote? A rare stamp? Or, more favorably and more elegantly, a diamond? Perhaps the law punishes “the fabricators and dealers in fake diamonds”? Do fake diamonds exist? Who could prohibit me from placing in the Mimete a gram or two of carbon atoms so that they would be honestly reconfigured in a tetrahedral arrangement, and then selling the result? No one: not the law, and not even the conscience.
With such things, it is essential to be first, since there is no imagination more industrious than that of men eager to make a profit. So I stopped hesitating, haggled somewhat over the price of the Mimete (which, by the way, was not excessive), obtained a 5 percent discount and payment to be made one hundred and twenty days after the end of the month, and ordered the machine.
The Mimete, together with fifty pounds of pabulum, was delivered to me two months later. Christmas was around the corner. My family was in the mountains and I had stayed in the city alone. I dedicated myself entirely to work and study. To begin with, I read the operating instructions carefully and repeatedly, until I had them very nearly memorized. I then took the first object that came to hand (it was a common game die) and prepared to reproduce it.
I put it in the cell, brought the machine to the prescribed temperature, opened the pabulum’s small calibrated valve, then settled down to wait. There was a soft buzz, and from the reproduction cell’s exhaust pipe came a weak flow of gas. It had a strange odor, similar to that of dirty babies. After an hour, I opened the cell: it contained a die exactly identical to the model in shape, color, and weight. It was warm, but soon cooled to the ambient temperature. From the second I made a third, from the third a fourth, without difficulty or impediment.