matter of moments, word exchanges became blows, and young Lucius Malenko found himself on the ground being punched and kicked. Like the rest of the peasant rabble of the village, these boys harbored a contempt for Jews not because Jews had different rituals or an arcane tongue or because their Sabbath was on Saturday, or even because they were “Christ-killers.” It was because the Malenkos were smart and successful—the source of the unstated resentment that the boys’ parents had passed on to them. And because the locals were poor and stupid.
In one stunning moment, while Oleg Samoilovych and Ivan Vorsk held him down to make a target of his head, Nestor Kravchuk, a fat oaf whose father worked at a foundry, kicked the soccer ball full blast into his face. The blow was so powerful that for several days Lucius could not see out of his left eye. When the vision returned, the blood sac had sunk to the anterior chamber; and given the poor medical care in Kiev, nobody noticed the minor deformation of the pupil. But over the years, the condition gave way to traumatic glaucoma that eventually impaired his vision. Eye surgery years later restored it enough for him to finish medical school and conduct his research. He had even managed to establish his stateside practice that prospered magnificently. But then the darkness began to close in, and he was forced to abandon a lucrative practice for part-time consulting.
The ring of Malenko’s pager stopped him.
He mopped the perspiration from his head and called in for the voice message. Sheila MacPhearson had received the video: All was set for Saturday night.
That was good news. It would be a real surprise party. Too bad he would miss it.
“Where are we going to get that kind of money?” Rachel asked on the way home.
“Do you have any idea what your mother’s open-heart surgery will cost? About two hundred thousand when all is said and done. Maybe more.”
“But insurance will pay for most of that.”
“And thank God,” Martin said. “The point is the operation will probably keep her going for another ten years. Enhancement will benefit Dylan for a lifetime. And it’s not like we don’t have the resources. We could sell some stocks and cash in mutual funds.”
Rachel looked at him while he drove. “You’re serious.”
“Yeah, I’m serious.” And he went on about what an investment it would be—how smart people accomplished more in a lifetime than less brainy ones, which is why so many prodigies become millionaire CEOs by the time they turn thirty.
“There are still too many things I’m uncomfortable with.”
“Like what?”
“Like sending my son off to have a brain operation and not knowing where the hell he is. I want to be outside the operating room. I want to be there when they wheel him to recovery. What if something happens?”
“But they’ve been doing this for a dozen years. Look at their success stories.”
“But something can still go wrong. He could end up brain-dead.” The very thought sent a bolt of electricity through her.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“We don’t know that. Another thing, why all the secrecy if it’s so successful? Why an undisclosed location?”
“He explained that. It’s a revolutionary thing, and he can’t get FDA approval because of all the social stuff. Like he said, think of it as abortion before
“Yeah, butchers in back alleys.”
“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”
“Because I don’t like it. We also don’t know anything about Malenko. He could be some kind of a quack.”
Martin laughed. “Quacks don’t have a wall full of degrees and plaques. The guy’s a leading neurosurgeon and child development expert. Besides, look at Lucinda. She was turned into a prodigy. So was Julian Watts. So were dozens of other kids.”
“Yeah, and Lucinda’s a bossy little bitch and Julian’s a human sewing machine who’s ground his teeth to nothing.”
“That’s got nothing to do with enhancement. Lucinda will grow out of that, and Julian might be a little compulsive, nothing that a little Ritalin won’t solve. The point is, two slow kids got turned into geniuses, and that’s what I want for my son.”
He had an answer for everything. And maybe he was right. Maybe deep down she wanted to be convinced. In her mind, she saw the planar cuts of the distorted ventricles of her son’s brain.
“What if there’s something about the procedure that’s just not right? Something not medically right. I don’t know … We don’t even know how he does it.”
“Why should he give away trade secrets?”
Rachel stared out the window as they drove down their street. “Maybe I’m just paranoid,” she said. “It’s just that I can’t blithely send him off to have his brain cut open. Besides, he could have a perfectly happy life the way he is.”
“Rachel, we live in a meritocracy where an eighty IQ is a formula for losing.”
That was just like Martin: He thought in numbers. They were the fundamental condition of his existence— how he gauged business and people. An IQ was just another way to keep score—like rank in class, sales quotas, revenue figures, stock options, salary.
“That’s not true,” Rachel said, her eyes filling up.
“You know what I mean. Of course, there are happy people with belowaverage intelligence. But they spend their days stocking shelves at Kmart, making eighteen thousand dollars a year and living in tiny apartments watching reruns of
“But a fancy job isn’t the end-all of life.”
“No, but it’s one hell of an advantage.”
And in her mind Rachel heard Martin’s familiar refrain: “
“Think of his self-esteem,” he continued. “You know what it’s like when you meet someone with a mental handicap. You instantly dismiss him: He’s not good enough to take seriously, to do business with, to be my friend. You smile in his face and thank God he’s not you—or yours. It’s sad and cruel, but it’s reality. And I don’t want that for my son—even if it costs me a million dollars.”
As they pulled into their driveway, Rachel suddenly realized that she was trembling. Her eyes fixed on Dylan’s soccer ball that lay on the grass beside his sandbox. While her pursuit of Sheila’s lead had never been whimsical, Rachel had deep down not considered enhancement a real possibility. It was just something in the speculation mode—an option to consider. But nothing was definite, and no irrevocable action was in place. Even their visit to Malenko Rachel had thought of as reconnaissance—a fact-finding mission. Now, in the matter of an hour, Martin was talking about cashing in investments to buy their son a new brain.
She looked at Martin. “You’ve got this all figured out.”
“Rachel,” Martin said, softening his voice, “before we ever heard about Lucius Malenko, we had resigned ourselves to raising a mentally challenged child. Whatever went wrong with the genetic dice, he came out impaired. Now we have a second chance—a privilege open to only a handful of kids. The implications are mind-boggling. So are the possibilities for him. A second chance to begin his life near the top.” His eyes were wet from tears. “Don’t you want to do this for him? Don’t you?”
In a voice barely audible, she said, “I don’t know.”
38
