The Orchids

by Thomas H. Cook

  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?”

  “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 ca
ses 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.

  Langhof stood transfixed, not with wonder or admiration, but with astonishment. For the gesture, so melodramatic, so ridiculously perfervid, so quintessentially burlesque, was made with such complete seriousness by Dr. Trottman that it was all the ambitious student could do to keep from laughing.

  But Dr. Trottman stood completely still, his eyes staring hotly at Langhof. Finally our hero grasped what was expected of him. He brought himself to his full height, clicked his heels together and, as he had seen the others do, raised his arm. They stood for a moment facing each other, the tips of their fingers stretched out to make a triumphal arch over Dr. Trottman’s littered desk.

  “You will be hearing from me, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said as he let his arm fall slowly to his side. “I trust the news, when it comes, will be favorable.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good day.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  And then Langhof, our hero, turned smartly toward the door and marched out, closing it behind him. In the hallway he did not tremble as he had that evening in the park when Anna fled away. Nor did he hear music, martial or otherwise. He did not see a vision of perfect order or fall upon his knees, a stricken, sweating Saul of Tarsus. He did not goose-step down the hall, but merely turned slowly, strolling past the darkened professorial offices with a little smile playing on his lips. And if any thought came to him at all, it was of the laughable gullibility of people, even quite intelligent people like Dr. Trottman. How easy it seemed to charm and beguile them, to use the insufferable silliness of the times and yet rise above it all, trip lightly over it — even as he now tripped down the hall with perfect insouciance.

  HERE IN THE REPUBLIC there is much insouciance. In the village square the men and women leap in a furious guaracha, kicking yellow dust into each other’s eyes. In the bars, the old men lean toward the candles and drink mescal down to the worm while the young ones nod drowsily outside the brothel door. And in the capital, the ermine-coated and bejeweled wives of the ministers of state sit in steamy halls and watch endless fashion shows with strained and calculating faces.

  And yet, from my verandah I can see the foothills of the mountainous northern provinces, a place where, it is said, humor still exists in the form of low-minded jokes about El Presidente. Huddled around their dying fires, the insurrectionists talk of El Presidente’s teeth. It is said that they are made of gold and that he has inserted a small homing device to assure their quick recovery, should anyone be fool enough to steal them. In the northern provinces, every part of El Presidente’s body comes in for ridicule. There is much talk of a silver rectum that makes the sound of a cash register when El Presidente makes his toilet. It is said that his urine is tested by a chemical refinery built exclusively for that purpose and that the four-word motto of the Republic has been inscribed on the lead plate in his head. Just beneath the stitched scalp, it reads in elegant script: FREEDOM OBEDIENCE COUNTRY VULGARITY.

  In the far hills of the northern provinces they laugh like jackals in the blinding heat. They laugh as they flip the sticky pages of Casamira’s Official History. They laugh at the mosquitoes drowning in their coffee. They laugh at fever, vomiting, and infection. They laugh because it is absurd to laugh, and find their laughter strange as orchids growing on the moon.

  In the Camp, they laughed at the milky soup and rotten bread. They laughed at the striped uniforms and the blue tattoos. They laughed at prayer and mourning. They laughed at the ridiculousness of their ever being born. They laughed, while they had strength to laugh, at the slough of their despair.

  And in the small amphitheater that the Special Section used for scientific displays, they laughed.

  The dedicated hygienist could barely keep from smiling himself at the pitiful figure in the loose-fitting gray smock who stood before the two officers while the doctor poked at his ears and nose and legs with a thin wooden pointer.

  “One has only to observe a member of the vermin race in order to understand their inferiority,” the doctor said matter-of-factly. He turned the cringing figure before him slowly around, then told the two officers to remove the smock. They stepped forward and pulled it over the vermin’s head so that he stood naked except for a wrinkled loincloth.

  “There, now,” the doctor said. He looked up at the rows of silent, uniformed Special Section initiates. “All of you, observe for a moment.”

  They observed the figure as the doctor had commanded. Some of them scratched short entries into their notebooks. Others grinned humorously and whispered into each other’s ears.

  Rudolf Schoen leaned toward Langhof. “What do you make of that?” he asked lightly.

  Langhof pretended to nod thoughtfully. “Interesting,” he said.

  Below them, the interesting specimen of the vermin race made a weak attempt to wrap his arms around himself, but the doctor slapped at him lightly and the arms returned to their positions at his sides.

  “Now,” the doctor said, “let me make a few observations of my own.” He raised the pointer slowly up from the vermin’s foot to his waist. “Note the shortness of the legs and their spindly construction.”

  A few of the students nodded appreciatively and scratched their chins.

  “Observe the length of the legs as compared to the trunk,” the doctor went on. “As you can see, they are short in comparison. Thus, whereas the waist should be the approximate midpoint between the top of the skull and the bottom of the foot, here we have a definite and unmistakable disproportion.”

  Langhof suppressed a smile. This was not science. This was aesthetics.

  “Now,” the doctor continued, “we must concern ourselves, always concern ourselves, with the question of proportion. Proportion is the key, gentlemen. Arms that are too long appear to us as apeish. It is the same with legs, such as these, that are too short.” He watched the students. “What are we to gather from this?”

  Schoen reluctantly raised his hand.

  “Yes?” the doctor asked.

  “This disproportion is a sign of degeneracy,” Schoen said.

  The doctor shook his head. “No. Not at all. Degeneracy wou
ld suggest that people characterized by such disproportion once occupied a higher position in the hagiology of race, a position from which they somehow degenerated. No, gentlemen, this is not a case of degeneracy, but a case of … arrested development.”

  The vermin stared straight ahead, his eyes avoiding the gaze of the students.

  Schoen leaned toward Langhof’s ear. “This is an excellent way to present the facts,” he whispered.

  Below, the human orrery bent his knees, raised his arms, flared his nostrils on command as the doctor moved through the cosmology of race.

  “It is so clear!” Schoen said enthusiastically. “I never thought it could be demonstrated so clearly.”

  Langhof’s head snapped around. “Be quiet, Schoen,” he hissed.

  Sitting here now on my verandah, as I watch the river take its course, I wonder if it was cruel to speak so curtly to the imbecile Schoen. Here in the Republic — except of course in the northern provinces and certain chambers within the district prisons — no one speaks cruelly to anyone. The people are numbed by constant allusions to their greatness, their nobility, their destiny. El Presidente infuses the nation with grandeur while, on a lesser scale, Esperanza brings the consciousness of God to bear on the villagers’ running sores. Harmless illusions. Comforting illusions. In the Camp we made a factory of such ideas and piped our delusions up four square chimneys.

  Schoen, rebuked, turned quickly away and held his eyes firmly on the scientific proof coming to a close at the front of the amphitheater.

  “Well, gentlemen,” the doctor said, “I hope this presentation has been of help to you. It is important that these matters be kept in mind.” He paused, watching the students. “Are there any questions?”