“Snakes have their place in nature too,” said Gray-Hippie sharply.
“Nature? I wouldn’t piss on it if it was on fire.” Bruno again was beside himself with anger. “I’d shit on its face. Fucking nature . . . nature my ass!” he muttered angrily to himself for several minutes. However, he behaved himself as the coffin was lowered, content to make clucking sounds and nod his head, as though the event had evoked thoughts which were as yet too vague to be put into words. After the ceremony, Michel tipped the two men generously—he assumed it was customary. He had fifteen minutes to catch his train, and Bruno decided to go at the same time.
They parted on the platform at Nice. Though they didn’t know it yet, they would never see each other again.
“How are things at the clinic?” Michel asked.
“Yeah, not bad, nice and cushy. They’ve got me on lithium.” Bruno smiled mischievously. “I’m not going to go back to the clinic just yet. I’ve got another night left. I’m going to go to a whorehouse, there are loads of them in Nice.” He frowned and his face darkened. “Since they put me on lithium I can’t get it up at all, but that doesn’t matter, I’d still like to go.”
Michel nodded distractedly and climbed aboard; he had reserved a sleeping car.
PART THREE
Emotional Infinity
1
When he got back to Paris he found a letter from Desplechin. According to Article 66 of the National Scientific Research Center code, Michel had to apply to be reinstated, or ask that his leave be prolonged, no later than sixty days before the end of the original term of leave. The letter was polite and witty, with Desplechin’s caustic comments about bureaucracy; Michel realized the deadline had passed three weeks earlier. He put the letter on his desk, feeling deeply uncertain. For a year he’d been completely free to determine the direction of his research, and what had he come up with? Nothing, absolutely nothing. He turned on his computer and felt queasy when he discovered he had received another eighty e-mails, though he’d been away only for two days. One of them was from the Institute of Molecular Biology at Palaiseau. The colleague who had taken his position had initiated a research program on mitochondrial DNA; unlike cellular DNA, it seemed to have no mechanisms for repairing code damaged by radical attacks—hardly a surprise. The most interesting message was from the University of Ohio: as a study of Saccharomyces demonstrated, the varieties that reproduced sexually evolved more slowly than those that reproduced by cloning; random mutation, in this case, seemed to be more efficient than natural selection. This engaging experimental model completely contradicted the standard hypothesis that sexual reproduction was the driving force behind evolution; but actually, it was only of anecdotal interest. As soon as the genome had been completely decoded (which would be in a matter of months), humanity would be in a position to control its own evolution, and when that happened sexuality would be seen for what it really was: a useless, dangerous and regressive function. But even if one could detect the incidence of mutations and even calculate their possible deleterious effects, nothing yet shed any light on what they determined; therefore nothing provided a definitive meaning or practical application for them. Obviously this should be the focus of research.
Cleared of all the books and files which had cluttered the shelves, Desplechin’s office seemed vast. “Yep”—he smiled discreetly—“I’m retiring at the end of the month.” Djerzinski stood openmouthed. It is possible to know someone for years, decades even, learning little by little how to avoid personal questions and anything of real importance, but the hope remains that someday, in different circumstances, one could talk about such things, ask such questions. Though it may be indefinitely postponed, the idea of a more personal, human relationship never fades, quite simply because human relationships do not fit easily into narrow, fixed compartments. Human beings therefore think of relationships as potentially “deep and meaningful”—an idea that can persist for years, until a single brutal act (usually something like death) makes it plain that it’s too late, that the “deep, meaningful” relationship they had cherished will never exist, any more than any of the others had. In his fifteen years of professional experience, Desplechin was the one person with whom Michel would’ve liked to have a relationship beyond the utilitarian, infinitely irritating chance juxtapositions of office life. Well, now it was too late. Devastated, he glanced at the boxes of books piled on the floor of the office. “I think it might be better if we went for a drink somewhere,” Desplechin suggested, aptly summing up the mood of the moment.
They walked past the Musée d’Orsay and settled themselves at a table on a nineteenth-century terrace. At the next table, half a dozen Italian tourists were babbling excitedly like innocent birds; Djerzinski ordered a beer and Desplechin a dry whiskey.
“What are you going to do, then?”
“I don’t know.” Desplechin looked as if he genuinely did not know. “Travel . . . probably a bit of sexual tourism.” When he smiled, his face still had great charm; disillusioned, certainly—there could be no doubt he was a broken man—but charming nonetheless. “I’m joking. Truth is, I’m just not interested in sex anymore. Knowledge, on the other hand . . . There’s still a desire for knowledge. It’s a curious thing, the thirst for knowledge . . . very few people have it, you know, even among scientists. Most of them are happy to make a career for themselves and move into management, but it’s incredibly important to the history of humanity. It’s easy to imagine a fable in which a small group of men—a couple hundred, at most, in the whole world—work intensively on something very difficult, very abstract, completely incomprehensible to the uninitiated. These men remain completely unknown to the rest of the world; they have no apparent power, no money, no honors; nobody can understand the pleasure they get from their work. In fact, they are the most powerful men in the world, for one simple reason: they hold the keys to rational certainty. Everything they declare to be true will be accepted, sooner or later, by the whole population. There is no power in the world—economic, political, religious or social—that can compete with rational certainty. Western society is interested beyond all measure in philosophy and politics, and the most vicious, ridiculous conflicts have been about philosophy and politics; it has also had a passionate love affair with literature and the arts, but nothing in its history has been as important as the need for rational certainty. The West has sacrificed everything to this need: religion, happiness, hope—and, finally, its own life. You have to remember that when passing judgment on Western civilization.” He fell silent, deep in thought. He let his gaze wander around the tables for a moment, then settle on his glass.
“I remember a boy I knew in the première when I was sixteen. He was very confused, very tortured. His family were rich, extremely traditional; and actually he completely accepted their values. One day when we were talking he said to me, ‘The value of any religion depends on the quality of the moral system founded upon it.’ I stood there, speechless with surprise and admiration. I didn’t know if he’d come to this conclusion by himself, or whether he’d read it in a book somewhere; all I know is that it impressed me deeply. I’ve been thinking about it for forty years, and now I think he was wrong. It seems impossible to me to think of religion from a purely moral standpoint; Kant was right, though, when he said that the Savior of mankind should himself be judged by the same universal ethics as the rest of us. But I’ve come to believe that religions are basically an attempt to explain the world; and no attempt to explain the world can survive if it clashes with our need for rational certainty. Mathematical proofs and experimental methods are the highest expressions of human consciousness. I realize that the facts seem to contradict me. I know that Islam—by far the most stupid, false and obfuscating of all religions—currently seems to be gaining ground, but it’s a transitory and superficial phenomenon: in the long term, Islam is even more doomed than Christianity.”
Djerzinski looked up, having listened closely; he would never have imagined that Desplechin w
as interested in such things. Desplechin hesitated, then went on:
“I lost touch with Philippe after the baccalauréat, but a couple of years later I found out that he’d committed suicide. Anyway, I don’t think the two things are connected: being homosexual, strictly Catholic and a monarchist can’t exactly have been easy.”
At that moment, Djerzinski realized he’d never really thought seriously about religion. This despite knowing that materialism, having destroyed the religious faiths of previous centuries, had itself been destroyed by recent advances in physics. It was curious that neither he nor any of the physicists he’d ever met had the slightest spiritual doubts.
“Personally,” said Michel, the idea coming to him only as he spoke, “I think I needed to stick to the basic, pragmatic positivism that most researchers have. Facts exist and are linked together by laws; the notion of cause simply isn’t scientific. The world is equal to the sum of the information we have about it.”
“I’m no longer a researcher,” Desplechin said with disarming simplicity. “Maybe that’s why I’m starting to think about metaphysical questions rather late in the day. But you’re right, of course. We have to go on investigating, experimenting, finding new laws—nothing else is important. Remember Pascal: ‘We must say summarily: This is made by figure and motion, for it is true. But to say what these are, and to compose the machine, is ridiculous. For it is useless, uncertain, and painful.’ Once again, he’s right and Descartes is wrong. So tell me . . . have you decided what you’re going to do? I’m sorry about”—he made an apologetic gesture—“all this trouble with deadlines.”
“Yes. I need to get a position at the Galway Center for Genetic Research in Ireland. I need to quickly set up simple experiments, in very specific conditions of temperature and pressure, with a good range of radioactive markers. What I need more than anything is a lot of processing power, but if I remember correctly they have two Crays running in tandem.”
“Are you thinking of taking your research in a new direction?” Desplechin’s voice betrayed his excitement. Realizing this, he smiled his small, discreet smile again, almost in self-mockery. “The thirst for knowledge . . .” he said quietly.
“I think that it’s a mistake to work only from natural DNA. DNA is a complex molecule that evolved more or less by chance; there are redundancies, long sequences of junk DNA, a little bit of everything. If you really want to test the general conditions for mutation, you have to start with simpler self-replicating molecules with a maximum of a hundred bonds.”
Desplechin nodded, his eyes shining; he was no longer trying to hide his excitement. The Italian tourists had left, and they were the only people left in the café.
“It will be a long haul,” Michel went on. “There’s nothing in principle to distinguish configurations prone to mutation, but there have to be some conditions for structural stability at a subatomic level. If we can work out a stable configuration with even a couple hundred atoms, it’s just a matter of the power of the processor. But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.”
“Maybe not . . .” Desplechin’s voice had the slow, dreamy quality of a man who has just glimpsed phantasmagorical new ideas from a great distance.
“My work would have to be completely independent of the center’s bureaucracy. Some of this is no more than pure speculation: too long and too complicated to explain.”
“Of course. I’ll write to Walcott, the director there. He’s a good man, he’ll leave you in peace. You’ve already done some work with them, haven’t you? Something about cows?”
“Something small, yes.”
“Don’t worry. I’m retiring anyway”—this time there was a trace of bitterness in his smile—“but I still have some influence. From an administrative point of view, you’ll have a completely independent position which can be extended year by year for as long as you like. Regardless of who gets my job, I’ll make sure there’s no way the decision can be reversed.”
They parted just past the Pont Royal. Desplechin extended his hand. He had never had a son; his sexual preference precluded it, and he’d always found the idea of a marriage of convenience ridiculous. For the several seconds they shook hands, he thought that this kind of relationship was infinitely more satisfying; then, realizing he was very tired, he turned and started back along the quai past the bookstalls. For a minute or two, Djerzinski watched as the man walked away in the fading light.
2
He had dinner at Annabelle’s the following evening and explained clearly and precisely why he had to move to Ireland. His research had been mapped out, everything was coming together. The important thing was not to become fixated on DNA, but to look at the living being as its own self-replicating system.
At first Annabelle didn’t say anything, though she couldn’t keep the corners of her mouth from turning down. Then she poured him another glass of wine; she’d cooked fish that evening, and more than ever her little studio seemed like a ship’s cabin.
“You weren’t planning to take me with you . . .” Her words resounded in the silence; the silence continued. “It didn’t even occur to you,” she said, her voice a mixture of surprise and childish petulance; then she burst into tears. He didn’t move, and if he’d made a gesture at that moment she would certainly have pushed him away; you have to let people cry, it’s the only way. “It’s strange,” she said through her sobs. “We got along well when we were twelve . . .”
She looked up at him. Her face was pure and extraordinarily beautiful. She was talking without thinking: “I want to have your child. I need someone to be close to me. You don’t have to help raise him or look after him, you don’t even have to acknowledge him. I’m not asking you to love him, or even to love me; I just want you to give me a baby. I know I’m forty, but so what? I’m prepared to take the risk. This is my last chance. Sometimes I regret having the abortions, even though the first guy who got me pregnant was a shit and the second was an irresponsible fool. When I was seventeen, I never imagined that life would be so constrained, that there would be so few opportunities.”
Michel lit a cigarette to give himself time to think. “It’s a strange idea . . .” he said between his teeth. “It’s a curious idea to reproduce when you don’t even like life.”
Annabelle stood up and began to take off her clothes. “Let’s make love anyway,” she said. “It must be more than a month since we made love. I stopped taking the pill a couple of weeks ago; I’ll be fertile about now.” She put her hands on her stomach and moved them up to her breasts, parted her thighs slightly. She was beautiful, desirable, loving: why then did he feel nothing? It was inexplicable. He lit another cigarette, then suddenly realized that thinking about it would get him nowhere. You make a baby, or you don’t; it’s not a decision one can make rationally. He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray and murmured: “All right.”
Annabelle helped him off with his clothes and masturbated him until he could penetrate her. He felt nothing except the softness and the warmth of her vagina. He quickly stopped moving, fascinated by the geometry of copulation, entranced by the suppleness and richness of her juices. Annabelle pressed her mouth to his and wrapped her arms around him. He closed his eyes and, feeling the presence of his penis more acutely, started to move inside her once again. Just before he ejaculated he had a vision—crystal clear—of fusing gametes, followed immediately by the first cell divisions. It felt like a headlong rush, a little suicide. A wave of sensation flowed back along his penis and his sperm pumped out of him; Annabelle felt it too, and exhaled slowly. They lay there, motionless.
“You were supposed to come in for a smear about a month ago,” the gynecologist said in a weary voice. “Instead of which you stop taking the pill without consulting me and then go get yourself pregnant. You’re not a girl anymore, after all!” The office seemed cold and humid; when she left Annabelle was surprised by the June sunshine.
She telephoned the following morning. The smear had shown “pretty serious” anomal
ies; they would have to do a biopsy and a D&C. “As for getting pregnant, now would not be a good time. Let’s take one thing at a time, okay?” He didn’t sound worried, just a little annoyed.
Annabelle had her third abortion—the fetus was only two weeks old, so a little suction was enough. The technology had advanced since her last termination and, to her surprise, it was all over in less than ten minutes. The results arrived three days later. “Well . . .” The doctor seemed terribly old, sad and wise. “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it. I’m afraid you have stage one uterine cancer.” He resettled his glasses on his nose and looked at the papers again; the impression of general competence was greatly enhanced. He was not surprised: cancer of the uterus often attacks women in the years before menopause, and not having had children simply increased the risk. There was no question as to the treatment. “We have to do a hysterectomy and a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy. They’re standard surgical procedures nowadays, and complications are almost unheard of.” He glanced at Annabelle; that she hadn’t reacted was irritating. She simply sat there openmouthed; she probably would have a breakdown. It was standard procedure for practitioners to refer patients to a therapist for counseling—he’d prepared a list of addresses. Above all, it was important to emphasize the main point: that the end of fertility did not mean that one’s sex life was over; on the contrary, many patients found their desire increased.
“You mean they’re going to remove my uterus . . .” she said incredulously.
“The uterus, the ovaries and the fallopian tubes; it’s best to avoid any risk of the cancer spreading. I’ll prescribe hormone replacement therapy for you—in fact it’s commonplace to prescribe it even for menopause nowadays.”