presiding over the paradise of hell with angel’s wings, sifting it through the prism of their verse, sniffing in the noxious breezes that befouled the Camp some hint of misdirected good, for poetry is not a scalpel, but a veil.
I turn to the side and catch Juan in my eye. He is opening the door of the greenhouse where the orchids languish. During the day he will massage the petals gently between thumb and forefinger, stroking the stems and moistening the leaves with his saliva. He resides on the outer rim of inquiry, vaguely praying to niggling gods or practicing occult arts. Childlike, with a child’s faith and dread, he pursues the orchid’s blight with chants and oblations, a science that denies science, a magician’s tautology. He believes in his art as he believes in the evil force that stretches its rubbery wings around the globe. His is the intoxicated goodness of the supremely misinformed.
In the medical school I became informed. I learned the colors of liver, pancreas, lung. I learned to chart the brain and extract the spleen. I palpated heart, bowels, kidneys. I twirled meters of intestines in my fingers, scrutinized liters of blood, scraped bones and muscles, severed tendons, cauterized moles, threaded together acres of broken skin. And still later I learned to let frostbite and malnutrition and dysentery go. I learned that green triangles indicate criminal patients and red triangles political ones. I learned the peace of phenol and the sleep of chloroform.
But that was yet to come. For now, the nervous applicant bowed with exaggerated formality to Dr. Trottman.
“Thank you, sir. I am honored,” Langhof said.
Dr. Trottman rose. “Herr Langhof, a final inquiry, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
“Have you allied yourself to the Party?”
“To be truthful, Dr. Trottman, I’m not terribly interested in politics.”
Dr. Trottman smiled indulgently. “Scientists soar above political strife, is that it?”
“No, sir. It’s just that my personal interests are not very political.”
Dr. Trottman did not seem disturbed. “I understand, Herr Langhof, believe me. But whether you like it or not, these are intensely political times, as you must recognize yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My point here is not necessarily a political one, however.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Doctor.”
“Simply this. Think of your career. That is my point. The research you intend to pursue in the future will almost certainly reside within the auspices of the state. I’m not suggesting that it is absolutely necessary, but those who have already made connections with the new regime will, I think it’s fair to say, be given precedence in terms of appointment. This sort of thing is unavoidable, I’m afraid. Simply one of the realities of the world, Herr Langhof. I’m merely being realistic. Do you understand my concern?”
“Yes, Dr. Trottman,” Langhof said, “I appreciate your concern.”
“Think about it, then,” Dr. Trottman said. “I assure you that your current attitude will not affect your admission into the medical school. It’s later on, after graduation, that concerns me and, I think, should concern you.”
“Yes, I see. Thank you, sir.”
Dr. Trottman offered his hand. “Well, in any case, welcome to the university community.”
“Thank you, Dr. Trottman.”
Langhof walked out of Dr. Trottman’s office. Evening had fallen. The city lights were alive and winking. A small, grainy snow had begun to fall, like pellets, bluish white, into the city’s web of neon light.
IF YOU HAD BEEN there you would know the historical dimensions of the I. You would know that teleology begins with satisfaction and crumbles as it crumbles, that it is built upon the swollen hump of a full stomach and that need sucks it down like a collapsing bellows. You would know that the tailor will not forsake his shop, nor the actor his role; that the dentist will not give up his practice, nor the teacher his classes, nor the architect his plans, nor the writer his latest work of art; that the farmer will not avoid his fields, nor the painter his canvas; that the musician will not unstring his violin, the policeman forget his keys, or the shopkeeper lay waste his goods; that these and millions of others will not skip a beat in the maintenance of their quotidian affairs merely because the world is going up in smoke.
This is the catastrophe of the I, that through it we are rooted in place, nailed to professions and careers. Imprisoned in the I, we clothe ourselves in the robes of predictability, cling to our routine like insects on a floating leaf, hold with battered claws to whatever is familiar, and, above all, refuse to see the world even for one moment through a wall of flame.
And so it was the I, the ambitious medical student bent upon the road of science — anxious for his laboratory and his appointment, made whole by a thousand acquisitions, and immersed in the glories of hygiene — who pondered the generous words of the illustrious Dr. Trottman.
In the world beyond his little room a million torches flickered in parade, while drums and bugles swelled in the chorus of the Coming Order. All was to be made clean. All was to be made pure. This was the voice of the future. And yet, the anxious hygienist remained curiously impervious to the rhetoric that roared around him. Having gained some sense of the bestial from his mother’s mutterings and his stepfather’s oily fingers, the fervent student held back from final commitment. Although he listened carefully to the speeches of the Minister of Light and even felt a little tingle of nationalist pride from time to time, still the raging voice and hysterical gesticulation of the Minister struck our hero as insufferably melodramatic. Even worse were the ravings of the Minister of Biology, with his ridiculous, medieval calculations of the width of vermin noses. This was not science. This was politics. And it was between these two huge stones that the ambitious student felt himself to be inescapably wedged. Without politics there could be no opportunity for science. In order to hold forth the pure light of inquiry, he would have to pass through the net of political conformity.
And so our hero stood by the window and watched the world go by. He saw the fat little burghers strap on sleek black pistols and march out into the storm. He saw the red-robed judges bend to the new dimensions of the law. He saw writers reorient their words and poets transform their songs. He saw bakers make cakes in the shape of the Leader’s twisted symbol, and painters regenerate their canvases with flags. In this arena, the little gladiator made his choice.
“Please come in, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sit down, won’t you?”
The first-year medical student sat down and crossed his legs primly.
“What can I do for you?” Dr. Trottman asked.
“I’ve been thinking about things for the past few months.”
“Really? What things?”
“Our first conversation. The one we had before I was admitted. I’ve been thinking quite a lot about that.”
Dr. Trottman nodded. “Yes, I remember. And have you come to some decision?”
“I think that you were right, Dr. Trottman,” Langhof said. “One cannot divorce himself from the great things happening around him.”
Dr. Trottman smiled amiably. “Quite true, Herr Langhof.”
Langhof shifted slightly in his seat. “My point, Dr. Trottman, is that now I would like to ally myself more closely to Nation and People.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, I don’t agree with every aspect of the new regime.”
“No one does, of course.”
“Yes. Quite right.”
“How would you like this alliance to be made, Herr Langhof?”
“I think my best position would be in the Special Section,” Langhof said boldly.
Dr. Trottman’s eyes widened. “Special Section? That is somewhat more than mere alliance.”
“I am aware of that.”
“The Special Section is a very elite organization, Herr Langhof. Are you aware of that?”
