by Ted Mooney
“Which channel?” she asked. An intricately coiled rug of sisal rope covered the floor.
“BBC World,” Max said.
He and Odile seated themselves on the chrome-framed, cream leather couch facing the TV as Allegra continued to scan stations. When the quaintly familiar orange-and-black BBC logo sequence appeared, Max stopped her.
“Oh, puke-orama!” Allegra exclaimed in disgust as soon as she saw that all this excitement was over nothing more than a foreign newscast. “Boring, boring, bor-ing.” She tossed her father the remote and left the room.
“What’s gotten into her tonight?” Max wondered aloud.
“Shh.”
The anchorwoman, blond, attractive, but broad-shouldered and maternally stern in the British manner, had already begun her lead-in: “—so that what for so long seemed only a promise, at times hardly a hope, has at last been redeemed beyond all doubt. For more, we go now to King’s College, London, and our science correspondent, Vikram Gupta. Vikram?”
“Thank you, Katty,” said the slim young man, his eyes appearing very large in his tea-colored face. “Just two hours ago, right here in the staid precincts of King’s College, an announcement was made which one can safely say will change the course of medicine, if not of human life itself, for all time.”
The picture cut to a taped video excerpt from the press conference the reporter had been referring to, and immediately Odile knew what was to come. A middle-aged man at a lectern—the screen chyron identified him as “Director, Stem Cell Biology Laboratory, King’s College, London”—was declaring in deliberately understated tones that, thanks to recent breakthroughs at the lab, his team was now able to attain a one-hundred-percent success rate in transforming therapeutically cloned human embryos into viable stem cell lines, cells capable of turning into any of the more than two hundred forms of tissue that make up the human body. Here, clearly mindful of the political and moral brush fires this announcement was certain to ignite, he raised a calming hand. A therapeutically cloned embryo, he reminded his audience, was nothing more than a human egg cell whose nucleus has been replaced with that of a cell belonging to the patient to be treated. “Thus,” he added, “however one defines life, nothing of it—nothing whatsoever—is lost in this process. There can be no moral qualms, and for that we can only be grateful.” He paused briefly. “But we have still more to report.”
Max turned to Odile in astonishment. “Is this what—”
“Shh!”
The scientist adjusted his spectacles and continued. “While we have had some success in creating stem cells before—nothing like a hundred percent, of course, but some success—the real problem has always been how to direct these stem cells to grow into the kind of tissue required in any given instance, whether it be heart muscle for the cardiac patient, bone marrow for the leukemia victim, or brain cells for someone suffering from Parkinsonism. Today it is my privilege and honor to announce that, due largely to the efforts of one man—a brilliant scientist and recent arrival at our laboratory, our small band of devoted brothers and sisters—we are now able to accomplish this extraordinary task with the same one-hundred-percent efficiency attained in the stem cell production.” He appeared briefly overcome with emotion—a good portion of it envy, only partly disguised. He turned to his left. “The man I am referring to is Dr. Aleksandr Tregobov. Sasha, I don’t believe anyone has seen your face outside a laboratory in years. So would you please rise? Rise and be counted among the greatest minds of our time.”
Looking very uncomfortable, Tregobov got up from his seat. He was wearing a white lab coat and the same black-framed glasses he’d sported in the photo Rachel had been shown by the CRS. At the sight of him, the press corps rose as one to its feet, shot a flurry of photos, then burst quite unexpectedly into applause. Tregobov, looking if possible even more discomfited, acknowledged this accolade with a brief bow before sitting back down. “Thank you,” he said inaudibly.
The picture cut back to the science reporter, standing outside the lecture hall as he sketched out for his viewers the ramifications of this stunning development.
“I can’t believe it!” Max said. “How much of this did you know back when—”
“I’m not sure,” Odile replied. She’d moved so close to him that the entire left side of her body was pressed against his and her left leg slung over his right. Now she sought out his hand and squeezed it tightly.
“Odile, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Let’s listen.”
“So,” concluded the young reporter, “it is no exaggeration to call this development one of truly earthshaking proportions, its implications virtually unlimited. You can be sure we’ll be hearing a great deal more about it—and the many vexing issues it raises—in the days and weeks ahead.” He paused to sweep his straight black hair back from his brow. “Katty?”
“Earthshaking news indeed, Vikram,” the anchor replied. “Thank you.” Flashing an appropriately bedazzled smile, she reengaged the camera—and her viewers—before assuming a more solemn manner and picking up her end of the story. “Of course, with today’s rapidly changing intellectual-property laws and the corporate sector’s involvement in just about everything, from soup to nuts, it’s no surprise that science and business have become ever more closely intertwined. Here tonight to help us understand this still-evolving alliance”—she swiveled in her chair to introduce her guests, whose images now filled the screen—“are two people in the very thick of it.”
“Oh my God!” said Odile in a low voice.
“Him!” Max exclaimed. “And what’s she doing there? I thought—”
“Mr. Nikolai Kukushkin and Ms. Gabriella Moreau, codirectors of the StemTech Corporation, based here in London. Thank you both for joining us on such short notice.”
“So that’s Kukushkin,” said Odile to herself. “Unbelievable.”
“It is our pleasure to be here,” intoned the Russian, who, in addition to his usual boxy British suit, had donned a tie for the occasion. Beside him, Gabriella smiled fetchingly in a soberly cut turquoise dress.
“Ms. Moreau,” the anchorwoman said, “could you begin by telling our viewers what StemTech does, exactly? Or rather what it will do, since I gather it’s a very recently formed enterprise?”
“Yes, this is correct. As you perhaps know, Katty, it has for several years now been possible, under the Worldwide Patent Cooperation Treaty, to patent things not previously covered by copyright law. I’m speaking of genes and other living matter, whether ‘natural’ or ‘artificial’ in origin; the scientific processes that make them available for practical use; previously unknown applications for naturally occurring substances; and so on. Accordingly, all the processes announced at King’s College this afternoon have been duly patented, as is common practice today, and StemTech was formed as the sole licensing agency for those wishing to make use of those procedures. The corporation, in other words, was designed to be the most efficient conduit to the patent-holding party, so as to minimize bureaucracy and quicken response time. We are very concerned about accessibility.”
Katty, who appeared mildly dissatisfied with this answer, turned next to Kukushkin, and as she sought to formulate her question, Max said to Odile, “You never actually met Kolya back then, did you? Kukushkin, I mean.”
She shook her head. “No. Just his minions.”
“Mr. Kukushkin, your background is mostly in banking. What drew you to this project?”
“Such revolutionary advances, such exciting possibilities, who would not be drawn to them? Is for the good of mankind, and how often does one get a chance to be part of such work? But, speaking more personally, I have known Dr. Tregobov for a number of years, back when he was virtual slave to state of Belarus, from which he has now fortunately emigrated. The fact is this: he, like any true research scientist, is concerned only with his work and where it leads him. He does not want to be bothered by legal details and trivialities, of which there are bound to be an infinite nu
mber in this case. And so we may say it is only natural that he should turn to me, his loyal and admiring friend, at this critical time. Part of StemTech’s mission, besides to act as conduit and licensing agent, will be to shield this great scientist from the countless distractions he must otherwise face, distractions that would likely be overwhelming and make further research very difficult for him, maybe impossible.”
“But surely you would agree,” said Katty, who seemed to feel her story slipping away from her, “that a great deal of money will be made from Dr. Tregobov’s discoveries.”
“Money will perhaps be made, yes. But it will go to the patent-holding party, not to StemTech. Profit is not a factor in this instance.”
“Then why patent these processes in the first place? Shouldn’t they be available to anyone who needs them?”
“This is not for me to say. But as previously mentioned, it has become common practice in recent years to patent such discoveries.” Kukushkin could not suppress a laugh. “You know, Katty, there are genes in the bodies of all of us sitting here tonight that have been patented by the people who first identified them, people we will never meet and who will put them to uses we will never hear about. Whether, in future, this practice will stand up to legal challenge, I do not know. Is simply current situation.”
“A brave new world, by any standard,” said Katty, glancing quickly at the studio clock. “Ms. Moreau, in the few seconds left to us, is there anything you would like to add?”
“Only this,” said Gabriella, her eyes flashing satisfaction. “That Dr. Tregobov’s discoveries will save countless lives and can only be cause for celebration. Yesterday we were without these tools, which now will help so many. Today we have them. It is a kind of miracle.”
“Indeed it is,” said Katty, bringing the interview firmly to an end. “Nikolai Kukushkin, Gabriella Moreau, thank you for being with us.”
“Thank you, Katty,” replied Gabriella. Kukushkin, looking deeply into the camera, nodded once in grave farewell.
“In today’s other top stories,” said Katty, swiveling back to fill the screen with her indomitable presence, “mudslides in Indonesia have left more than three hundred dead or missing, as monsoon rains—”
Max hit the remote, and the screen went black.
Odile slowly disengaged her body from Max’s. Getting to her feet, she walked over to the glass wall, arms folded across her chest, looked out past the pool, and brooded over what she’d just learned. Max remained where he was.
“It’s a story of which we each must know quite different parts, isn’t it?” she said, after awhile.
“No doubt,” Max replied. “But you definitely know a lot more of it than I do.”
A silence.
Then Odile said, “That night, the night of the auction and everything that happened after, you said you’d just come from having drinks with Kukushkin. At his private club, you said. Was that true?”
“Yes. I’d gotten to know his fiancée a little, more or less by accident, and when I ran into her at the auction, she introduced us.”
“His fiancée,” Odile repeated thoughtfully. “She wears a floral perfume, maybe? Gardenia?”
Max laughed. “That’s right.”
“I wonder what happened to her.” Odile’s thoughts drifted idly for a moment before she corrected course. “What’s her name?”
“Véronique.”
“Véronique.” She mused over this answer, half aware of her own reflection in the plate glass in front of her even as she stared through it at the shimmering pool. “So I suppose Gabriella—” But she stopped herself in time. “My God, Max. All that seems so very, very long ago. Almost,” she added, “as if it happened in another lifetime.”
“It was another lifetime. Anyway, don’t brood. It’s bad for the baby.”
Odile turned around, a wan smile on her face. “You’re right. And it’s completely useless. So I think I’ll go take a bath, if anything so mundane can be had in a place like this.” She kissed him in passing and went off in search of a tub.
“Keep an eye out for Allegra, will you?” Max called after her. Then, to himself, in a voice from an old movie: “It’s quiet. Too quiet.”
IN HER BATH, amid billowing steam, Odile found herself thinking about her father. Predictably, he’d refused to see Bateau ivre or comment on its success. But she thought she’d lately detected a softening in his attitude toward Max, perhaps because she herself had grown visibly happier over the past year. Soon she would inform the old Trotskyite of her pregnancy, for once telling him something he didn’t already know, and Bastien would come around at last, accepting Max as his worthy son-in-law, co-custodian of the Mével genes. The thought pleased, but also amused her. In the end, she’d proven more stubbornly ascetic than Bastien, and now that she was sure of her victory on this score, she was content to let the competition fade away unacknowledged. Life required no less.
And life, as one was always being told, had its reasons of which reason knew nothing. Gabriella, for instance, who’d succeeded after all in having her eggs substituted for those of Kukushkin’s fiancée, this Véronique of whom Odile until now hadn’t heard a word, though she’d caught scent of her perfume on Max that night aboard the Nachtvlinder. Obviously, too, Gabriella was now co-holder with Tregobov of the patent rights to the various processes just described on the news, making her quite soon an unimaginably wealthy woman. Whether Thierry had found a place for himself amid these arrangements was hard to say, but Odile thought it unlikely. He’d already been rendered redundant the moment the doctor boarded the boat. Maybe the plan—or the counterplan—had called all along for Thierry to be jettisoned once he’d served his function, and from what Odile had gathered about Kukushkin, she could only imagine the worst. In any case, the Russian would now be getting his share of the licensing fees through Gabriella, whom he had perhaps even married in place of Véronique to give the deal more legal heft. Odile recalled with embarrassment her own envy of Gabriella’s youth as, hiding in Thierry’s closet, she’d watched her undress to try on the lingerie he’d left her as a gift. Folly and foolishness. Odile herself felt far younger now than she had on that day. Or, rather, younger and older. Renewed.
She didn’t know how much Max had deduced or been told about all that she’d kept secret from him. It didn’t matter. She didn’t know, either, what or how much he himself had kept from her, nor how their separate silences had intersected to bring them to this new and unexpected place in their life together. But again, not knowing didn’t matter, and she felt no need to find out. They had come this far, she and Max. They would go farther still.
She closed her eyes in weariness. From downstairs came the sound of the TV again, an old movie, American, undubbed. She distinctly heard Cary Grant say, “Yes, I will say you do things with dispatch. No wasted preliminaries.” Allegra giggled at something Max said.
Some time later, Odile jerked up out of her own drowsiness, uncertain where she was. The water had gone cold. She got out of the tub and, taking a towel from the rack, stepped out onto the balcony to dry herself. She turned her face to the night sky.
From the southeast, a storm was approaching. Lightning flickered, and thunder followed more and more closely. Along the coast, the lights of Nice, Antibes, Cannes, and Fréjus shone like the precious stones of a necklace cast negligently aside after a long evening. The storm had yet to make landfall.
Putting on her old silk robe, Odile slipped quietly downstairs. She heard Grace Kelly say, “Let me do something to help you.” But instead of joining Max and Allegra to watch the movie, she continued out onto the veranda and sat down on the stone steps. They were still warm from the heat of the day.
Below, along the coast, the storm came in hard and fast, blotting out the stars as far as she could see, from northeast to southwest. Lightning bolts, accompanied by teeth-rattling cracks of thunder, darted from sky to ground, sometimes in multiples or jagged forks, giving the air a pungent ozone smell. Then came the r
ain, which she could hear falling on the towns below and could feel as a sudden temperature drop rolling uphill like a runaway fog, but which she could see only by lightning flash. Sometimes the bolts were almost constant, but at other moments were separated by intervals of darkness during which Odile grew tense, anticipating the next burst of light.
She sat where she was, too absorbed to move, as the storm continued to roll inland. It came on so fast that there was a period, just before it reached her, when the lights of the coastal towns emerged from darkness, the bad weather already done down there. It cheered her to see the lights again, as if, in some childish game of wishes, she’d come out ahead.
Then, quite nearby, there was a tremendous flash, a shower of sparks and a violent explosion. In that fraction of a second, she saw that lightning had struck one of the rows of electrical pylons that ran up the mountainside like gigantic, narrow-waisted warrior figures, abstractly humanoid in appearance. Knowing what must follow, she turned back toward the coast just in time to see the towns lose their power, each cluster of lights winking out in sequence in less than two seconds.
Then the hillside power failed too, casting everything around her—the villa, its neighbors, the flanking fields of jasmine and tuberose, things she was already trying to visualize—into total, placeless darkness.
She stayed where she was. Inside the villa she heard Allegra’s half-pretend shriek followed by Max’s teasing, coaxing words.
When he came out onto the veranda and sat down silently next to her, Odile rested her head on his shoulder.
The rain arrived, falling in sheets. They watched.
