The Orchids (10 page)

•    •    •

“And so you want to be a doctor, Herr Langhof?” Dr. Trottman asked.

Langhof sat in the book-lined office of the powerful and decisive Dr. Trottman, his hands turning waxy in his lap. “Yes, Dr. Trottman,” he said.

“You don't need to be nervous, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said softly. “This little interview is not an inquisition.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dr. Trottman stared at the curriculum vitae of our hero as if it were a mysterious specimen from the tropics. “Quite an impressive record.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You must have applied yourself with great vigor to achieve such distinction in the gymnasium.”

“I am a dedicated student,” Langhof said, hoping he did not sound haughty or self-serving.

“Yes, I can see that,” Dr. Trottman said. He looked up from his desk, his small eyes twinkling energetically through the lenses of his glasses. “Tell me, then — why this determination to be a doctor?”

“I have been pursuing this goal for quite some time.”

“That's obvious. But why?”

“I am … simply … it is simply my greatest interest.”

Dr. Trottman squinted. “And what area of medicine interests you most, Herr Langhof?”

“Hygiene, sir.”

Dr. Trottman looked surprised. “Hygiene? May I ask why?”

Langhof cleared his throat. “Well, as you know, Dr. Trottman, the history of medicine suggests that more improvement has been brought about by hygienic changes than through all the artifice of medical science.”

“Artifice?”

“I meant no disrespect in using that word, I assure you, Doctor.”

“Then am I to infer from your remarks, Herr Langhof, that you are more interested in pursuing medical research than in private practice?”

“I would like a private practice as well, of course, Dr. Trottman. But, yes, research is very important to me.”

Dr. Trottman studied the young man carefully. “What is your … background, Herr Langhof?”

“Background?”

“Background,” Dr. Trottman repeated without elaboration.

“Well, my father was a lawyer. My mother was … well … my mother did nothing.”

“No doctors or scientists in your family history, then?”

“I'm afraid not, Dr. Trottman.”

“How about government service?”

“Nothing above the rank of civil servant,” Langhof said. He had never so pointedly felt the poverty of his history.

Dr. Trottman nodded and glanced again at the papers on his desk. “You have no acquaintance with a large university, I take it?”

“I'm afraid not.”

Dr. Trottman continued to peruse the papers on his desk.

“If I may say so, Dr. Trottman,” Langhof said, “it is precisely such an acquaintanceship that I am seeking here.”

Dr. Trottman looked up and smiled. “Very good, then, Herr Langhof. I shall recommend you for admission. Your record demonstrates great ability. I trust you will never allow yourself to be swayed from your purposes.”

And so the stiff little knight who had stared at the stars in the lonely park had found that particular star to which he wished to attach himself. Science, the study of which was allied in his mind to a vision of perfection — a sense that once all things had been made clear, they would also be made clean.

After years have passed, after the stench that rose above the Camp has been blown into the stratosphere, after the trees rooted in the corpses have come to full flower, after a thousand rains have washed the caked ash from the grasses, there will come singers to tell us what it was. They will say that only those who yearn for the extravagantly good can commit the extravagantly evil. With such illogic, romance shall build its symphony again, shading the lines between act and intent, hovering over the stacked corpses that weighed the lorries down, 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.

I
F 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?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don't doubt the seriousness of your commitment. Believe me, I don't doubt it. But you see, Herr Langhof, you were never in the Youth Group, isn't that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, in most cases only former members of the Youth Group can be considered for the Special Section.”

“I had hoped that you might recommend me, Dr. Trottman. I realize that I have been somewhat negligent in the past. I admit that politics up until now has played only a peripheral part in my life. But now I wish to correct that lapse.”

“I see.”

“Do you think it possible for me to find a place in the Special Section?”

Dr. Trottman stared thoughtfully over the upper rim of his glasses. “Perhaps.”

“That is all I can ask.”

“It is quite a lot,” Dr. Trottman said curtly.

“I don't mean to be arrogant in my request, Doctor. It's simply that I am anxious to perform what I now see clearly to be my duty.”

“I'm not offended by your arrogance,” Dr. Trottman said. He smiled. “You are a man of great ability. And you know it. You also know that small matters should not stand in the way of your advancement. That is not arrogance, my dear Langhof, that is virtue.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dr. Trottman stood up. “Be assured that I will do what I can for you.”

The man of great ability rose quickly to his feet. “I am greatly in your debt, Dr. Trottman.”

Dr. Trottman shook his head resolutely. “You are in no one's debt, Herr Langhof,” he said. “The world is changing. There is no place for false modesty, for slave moralities. Most certainly, you will learn this in the Special Section.”

“I look forward to it.”

“The eyes of the world are upon us,” Dr. Trottman said stentoriously. “But our eyes are on the stars.”

“You will never have cause to regret doing this for me,” Langhof said.

“I never expect to, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said. He rose from behind his desk, stepped back slightly, and raised his arm rigidly in salute.