by Primo Levi
“No, not at the time,” said Dessauer.
“Not that they explained things very well, you know how those journalists are. In any case, for a short time the entire city talked only of spiros, just as they do with the poisons. You heard about nothing else, everywhere, on the trains, in the antiaircraft shelters, even schoolchildren knew about the condensed-not-coplanar benzene nuclei, the asymmetric spiro carbon, the benzoyl in para, and versaminic activity. By now you’ve got the picture, right? It was Kleber himself who called them ‘versamines’: those substances which convert pain into pleasure. Benzoyl had nothing to do with it, or very little. What counted was precisely the nucleus made in that specific way, almost like the tail wings of a plane. If you go up to poor Kleber’s office on the second floor, you’ll see the three-dimensional models that he made himself, with his own hands.”
“Was there a permanent effect?”
“No; it lasted only a few days.”
“Too bad.” Dessauer let the words escape. He had been listening attentively, but just the same he wasn’t able to stop staring out the window at the fog and the rain, nor was he able to interrupt his train of thought: how he had found his city almost perfectly intact in terms of its buildings but internally devastated, disintegrating from underneath like a floating iceberg, full of a false joy in life, sensual without passion, boisterous without gaiety, skeptical, inert, lost. The capital of neurosis, new only in this, for the rest decrepit; no, rather, stopped in time, petrified, like Gomorrah. The perfect theater for the twisted tale the old man was spinning.
“Too bad? Wait until you hear the end. Don’t you understand that this was big? You must know that B/41 was only a first draft, a compound generating weak, unstable effects. Kleber understood instantly that with certain substitute groups, nothing hard to come by, one could do a lot more: a little like the business with the Hiroshima bomb, and the ones that followed. Not by chance, you see, nothing by chance; these guys believe that they are liberating humanity from pain, the other guys think that they are giving away free energy, none of them aware that nothing is free, ever: everything has a price. Anyway, he had hit pay dirt. I worked with him and was assigned all the work with the animals, while he continued with the syntheses and developed three or four simultaneously. In April, he prepared a compound much more active than all the others, number 160, which became versamine DN, and gave it to me for the trials. The dose was small, not more than half a gram. All the animals reacted, but not to the same degree. Some showed only a few small behavioral anomalies, like those I told you about earlier, and returned to normal within a few days; but others seemed, how to put it, turned upside down, and they never returned to normal, as if for them pleasure and pain had changed places permanently. All of these died.
“Watching them was both horrible and fascinating. I remember, for example, a German shepherd that we wanted to keep alive at all costs, in spite of himself, since his only desire seemed to be to destroy himself. He gnawed at his paws and his tail with a crazed ferocity, and when he was muzzled he bit his tongue. I had to put a rubber plug in his mouth and feed him by injections: he then learned to run in his cage and crash against the bars with all the strength he had. At first, he struck himself randomly, using his head, his shoulders, but then he saw that it was better to strike the bars with his nose, and he howled with pleasure every time. I had to tie his legs, but he didn’t complain, in fact, he wagged his tail quietly all day and all night, because he no longer slept. He had received only a decigram of versamine, in one dose, but he didn’t get better. Kleber tried to give him a dozen or so possible antidotes (he had a theory, he said, that they should have worked through I don’t know what protective synthesis), but none had any effect and the thirteenth killed him.
“Then I got hold of a mongrel, perhaps a year old, a little creature I became quite attached to. He seemed docile, so we let him free in the garden several hours a day. We had also administered a decigram to him, but in small doses, over the course of a month. He lived longer, poor thing; but he wasn’t a dog anymore. He had nothing left of the dog in him: he didn’t like meat anymore, he scraped up dirt and pebbles with his nails and swallowed them. He ate lettuce, straw, hay, newspaper. He was afraid of female dogs and instead courted the hens and cats; indeed, one cat took it badly and attacked his eyes and began scratching him and he let her do it, wagging his tail while lying on his back. If I hadn’t arrived in time, that cat would have scratched his eyes out. The warmer the weather became, the more trouble I had getting him to drink. He pretended to drink while I was there, but it was easy to see that he was repulsed by water; one time he sneaked into the laboratory, found a bowl of isotonic solution, and drank all of it. When, on the other hand, he was satiated with water (I fed it to him with a tube), then he would have continued drinking until he exploded.
“He howled at the sun, cried at the moon, wagged his tail for hours in front of the sterilizer and the hammer mill, and when I took him for a walk he growled at every street corner and tree. He was, in short, an anti-dog: I assure you that his behavior was disturbing enough to surprise even a half-wit. I noticed that he didn’t brutalize himself like that other one, the German shepherd. I believe that, like a human, he understood: he knew that when he was thirsty he should drink, and that a dog should eat meat and not straw, but the wrongdoing and the perversion were stronger than he was. In front of me he faked it, forced himself to do the right things, not only to please me or to make sure I wouldn’t get angry but also, I believe, because he knew, and continued to know, what was right. But he died just the same. He was attracted by the noise of the trams and that’s how he died: he suddenly pulled the leash from my hand and ran right for a tram with his head down. A few days earlier, I had surprised him while he was licking the stove: it was on, yes, almost scorching. When he saw me, he crouched with his ears down and his tail between his legs, as if waiting to be punished.
“Pretty much the same thing happened with the guinea pigs and the mice. Actually, I don’t know if you read about those rats in America all the papers were talking about: an electric stimulus was attached to the pleasure centers in the brain, the rats learned how to excite them, and then persisted in doing so until they died. Believe me, versamine was involved: it is an effect achieved with ridiculous ease and little expense. Because, and perhaps I haven’t mentioned it yet, these substances cost very little, no more than a few schillings per gram, and a gram is enough to destroy a man.
“At this point in the matter, it seemed to me that there was enough for us to proceed with caution and I told Kleber as much; I was, after all, the elder and could afford to do it, even if I was less educated than he was, and even if I had observed the entire story only from the dogs’ point of view. He responded positively, of course, but then couldn’t help himself and mentioned it around. Actually, he did worse: he made a contract with OPG and began to drug himself.
“As you can imagine, I was the first to realize what was going on. He made every effort to keep it hidden, but I saw right away how things were. You know what tipped me off? Two things: he quit smoking and he scratched himself. Pardon me if I speak frankly, but a spade should be called a spade. Actually, he continued to smoke in front of me, but I could easily see that he wasn’t inhaling the smoke, and didn’t look at it as he blew it away; and then the butts he left in his office became increasingly longer, and it was clear that he lit one, took a drag as if from habit, then immediately stubbed it out. As for scratching himself, he did it only when he believed no one was looking, or when he was distracted; but then he scratched himself ferociously, in fact like a dog, as if he wanted to flay himself. He repeatedly scratched places that were already irritated, and soon he had scars on his hands and face. I can’t tell you anything about the rest of his life, because he lived alone and didn’t speak with anyone, but I don’t think it was a coincidence that at the time a girl who often telephoned here asking for him, and a few times waited for him outside the Institute, didn’t show up a
nymore.
“As for the deal with OPG, it had obviously got off to a bad start. I don’t believe that they did much for him: they quietly launched a rather unprofessional publicity campaign in which they presented versamine DN as a new analgesic, without mentioning any of its side effects. But something must have been leaked—leaked from inside here—and since I hadn’t told anyone, it seems to me that it was clear to everyone who had talked. The next thing you knew, the new analgesic had all been bought up and the police soon found a student club here in the city where it seemed an orgy had taken place the like of which had never been seen before. News of the event appeared in the Kurier but without any details. I know the details, but I will spare you, since it’s medieval stuff. All you need to know is that hundreds of little bags containing needles were confiscated, along with tweezers, and burners to make them red-hot. At the time, the war was just over, there was the occupation, and apparently Minister T’s daughter was somehow involved in the whole mess, so everything was covered up.”
“But what happened to Kleber?” Dessauer asked.
“Hold on, I’m getting to that. I wanted to tell you just one more thing, which I learned from Hagen, the one with the brandy, who was the minister of foreign affairs at the time. OPG had sold the license for versamines to the U.S. Navy for I don’t know how many millions (because this is how the world works) and the Navy used it for military purposes. In Korea, one of the landing divisions was versaminized. It was believed that the troops would exhibit some superior measure of courage and contempt for danger, but instead something terrifying happened: they certainly had more than enough contempt for danger, but it appears that they behaved in an absurd and abject manner before the enemy, and, worst of all, they all got themselves killed.
“You asked me about Kleber. It seems to me that, from what I’ve told you, you can deduce that the following years were not very happy ones for him. I kept an eye on him day after day and repeatedly tried to save him, but I never did succeed in talking to him man-to-man: he avoided me, he was ashamed. He lost weight, consumed like a man stricken with cancer. One could see that he was trying to hang on, to keep for himself only the good, that flood of pleasant, perhaps pleasurable sensations, easily induced by versamines, and free. Seemingly free, you understand, but the illusion must have been irresistible. So he forced himself to eat, even if he had lost all love of food; he couldn’t sleep anymore, but he had kept the habits of a methodical man. Every morning he arrived punctually, at exactly eight o’clock, and began to work, but it was easy to see on his face the signs of the fight he was forced to wage against the false messages that bombarded him from all his senses.
“I couldn’t tell you if he continued to take versamine out of weakness, or out of obstinacy, or if instead he had quit and the effects had become chronic; then, in the winter of ’52, which was very cold, I surprised him right here in this room: he had just taken off his sweater and was fanning himself with the newspaper when I came in. Even his speech was full of errors, sometimes he said ‘bitter’ instead of ‘sweet,’ ‘cold’ for ‘hot’; he often corrected himself in time, but I noticed his hesitation when faced with certain word choices, and he donned an expression of irritation and guilt whenever he became aware of my awareness. It was an expression that pained me: it made me think of the other one, his predecessor, the mongrel who crouched with his ears down when I surprised him doing things the wrong way around.
“How did it end? Well, if we stick to the facts reported in the newspapers, he died in a car accident here in the city on a summer night. He didn’t stop at a red light; this is what is written in the police report. I could have helped them to understand, explained to them that for a man in his condition it wouldn’t have been so easy to distinguish between red and green. But I felt it more charitable to remain quiet. I’ve told you these things because the two of you were friends. I must add that among the many things he did wrong, Kleber did do one thing right: just before he died he destroyed the entire file on versamines, along with all the specimens he could find.”
Here old Dybowski stopped talking, and Dessauer didn’t say anything, either. He thought of many things all in a jumble, and promised himself that he would untangle them later, calmly, maybe even that evening. He had an appointment, but perhaps he could change it. He then thought of something that hadn’t occurred to him for a long time, because he had suffered so much: pain is not something that should be got rid of, we mustn’t do it, because it is our guardian. Often it is a silly guardian, because with a maniacal obstinacy it is inflexible and faithful to its assignment, and it never tires, while all the other sensations get tired, worn out, especially pleasant ones. But we mustn’t suppress it or silence it, because it is one with life and it is life’s guardian. He also thought, paradoxically, that if he had that drug in his possession, he would have tried it; because if pain is the guardian of life, pleasure is its aim and prize. He thought that to prepare a little 4–4' spiro-diamine wouldn’t have been too difficult; he thought that if versamines knew how to convert into joy even the greatest and most lasting of pains, the pain of absence, of an abyss surrounding you, the pain of irreparable failure, the pain of feeling yourself done for, well then, why not?
However, through one of those associations that memory is generous with, he thought again of a Scottish moor, never seen, better imagined; a moor full of rain, lightning, and wind, and the cheerfully sinister chant of three bearded witches, experts in pain and in pleasure and in corrupting the human will:
Fair is foul, and foul is fair;
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
Sleeping Beauty in the Refrigerator:
A Winter’s Tale
Characters
LOTTE THÖRL
PETER THÖRL
MARIA LUTZER
ROBERT LUTZER
ILSE
BALDUR
PATRICIA
MARGARETA
Berlin, in the year 2115.
LOTTE THÖRL, alone.
LOTTE: . . . And so another year has passed, once again it’s December 19, and we’re waiting for our guests to arrive for the same old party. (Sounds of dishes and of furniture being moved) I don’t particularly love guests, myself. My husband even used to call me the Great Bear. Not anymore; he has changed quite a bit over the past few years and has become serious and boring. The Little Bear would be our daughter, Margareta: poor thing! She’s only four years old. (Footsteps; noises as above) It’s not that I’m shy and unsociable: it’s just that it annoys me to find myself at a reception with more than five or six people. The situation inevitably deteriorates into pandemonium, with pointless arguments, and I’m left with the pathetic impression that no one has even noticed I’m there, except when I pass around trays of food.
On the other hand, we Thörls don’t have people over very often: two or three times a year, and we rarely accept invitations. It’s natural; no one can offer their guests what we can offer ours. Some have beautiful old paintings, Renoir, Picasso, Caravaggio; others have a trained orangutan, or a live dog or cat; some have a bar with all the latest intoxicants, but we have Patricia. . . . (Sigh) Patricia!
(Doorbell) The first guests have arrived. (Knocking on a door) Come, Peter, they’re here.
Enter PETER THÖRL; MARIA and ROBERT LUTZER
They all exchange greetings and pleasantries.
ROBERT: Good evening, Lotte; good evening, Peter. Terrible weather, isn’t it? How many months has it been since we’ve seen the sun?
PETER: And how many months has it been since we’ve seen you?
LOTTE: Oh, Maria! You look younger than ever. And what a beautiful fur coat. A gift from the husband?
ROBERT: They’re not such a rarity anymore. It’s silver marten: apparently the Russians imported great quantities; they can be found in the eastern sector at very reasonable prices. On the black market, of course; it’s rationed merchandise.
PETER: I admire and envy you, Robert. I know very few Berliners who d
on’t complain of the situation, but I don’t know anyone who breezes through it with your confidence. I’m increasingly convinced that true, passionate love of money is a virtue that isn’t learned but inherited by blood.
MARIA: So many flowers! Lotte, what a marvelous birthday perfume I smell. Happy birthday, Lotte!
LOTTE (to both husbands): Maria is incorrigible. But you may rest assured, Robert, that marriage is not what has made her so delightfully empty-headed. She was already like this at school: we called her “the forgetful girl of the Colony,” and invited friends of both sexes from other classes to watch her take her oral exams. (With mock severity) Mrs. Lutzer, attention, please. Is this any way to prepare your history lesson? Today is not my birthday: today is December 19. It’s Patricia’s birthday.
MARIA: Oh, forgive me, dear. I really do have the memory of a chicken. So tonight will be the defrosting? How wonderful!
PETER: Of course, as it is every year. We’re still waiting for Ilse and Baldur to arrive. (Doorbell) Here they are, late as usual.
LOTTE: Show a little understanding, Peter! Have you ever seen an engaged couple arrive on time?
ILSE and BALDUR enter. Greetings and pleasantries as above.
PETER: Good evening, Ilse; good evening, Baldur. Blessed are those who catch a glimpse of you two; you’re so lost in each other that your old friends no longer exist.
BALDUR: You’ll have to forgive us. We’re drowning in bureaucracy: my doctorate, the papers for city hall, the permit for Ilse, and the Party approval. The stamp from the mayor has already arrived, but we’re still waiting for the one from Washington, the one from Moscow, and mainly the one from Peking, which is the most difficult to obtain. It’s enough to drive one mad. It’s been centuries since we’ve seen a living soul: we’ve become savages, ashamed to show ourselves in public.
ILSE: We’re late, aren’t we? We really are rude. But why didn’t you begin without us?