Honk If You Are Jesus

by Peter Goldsworthy

  Putting the theory into practice was not quite so simple: getting the cells to unzip their own staircases, and remain unzipped.

  Tad began with skin cells — quick-dividers, easily harvested — then moved on to cells snipped from the lining of the gut, the body’s inner-tube: a little harder to get hold of, more reliable to work with. The pace was methodical, exact. I had mapped out a year’s careful research for Tad: the kind of work-schedule that would simultaneously please Pfitzner, and keep him at pole-length. There would be no breakthrough, I reported: no running into corridors dripping bathwater, shouting Eureka! We knew exactly where we were going, I said: step by step. Perspiration, not inspiration.

  I told various intelligent lies, in various offices, and everyone seemed happy. Pfitzner was off my back for a year; Tad, more optimistic about our chances than I, was content to fuss with his cell-cultures. Human eggs might be hard to come by, but there was no shortage of skin cells; he need look no further than his own forearm and a razor-blade. He took great pleasure in telling me this, a kind of sensual relish. Chunks of gut-lining were a little harder to come by, even for Tad; rather than use my own endoscope, and my own precious time, I came to an arrangement with the surgeons in the Operating Suite downstairs, who always seemed to be snipping out lengths of human tripe.

  I should have kept a closer eye on Tad; he was soon spending most of the day on the sixth floor in Scanlon’s empire, sharing equipment and computer-time. But I was wary of Scanlon. I had liked him too much at that first meeting; I might be immune to Pfitzner’s flattery, but I had believed too easily in Scanlon’s.

  I chanced across him from time to time in lifts or lobbies or across committee-tables: the weekly Journal Club meeting, the monthly Research Committee lunch. Research presentations were rotated among the different departments, monthly; we took turns at sketching out our current projects over sandwiches. And fielding criticism. Cross-pollination, was Pfitzner’s buzzphrase. Cross-fertilisation. Multidisciplinary Approach.

  I enjoyed the sessions. I’ve always hated the idea that there might be areas of human knowledge that I didn’t know of — not know, no one can know everything, but know of. Scanlon seemed likewise inclined; most of the cross-pollinating at Research Committee was done by him. No narrow super-specialist, he seemed to have an opinion, or idea, on everything. Mostly these were bizarre, even hare-brained, and soon rejected, but I never tired of hearing them.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ he interrupted a presentation by a visiting dermatologist. ‘You guys have a drug that will cure acne — permanently?’

  ‘It’s still early days, Professor Scanlon. But yes, we are quietly confident.’

  ‘But that’s terrible. Acne serves a necessary purpose.’

  ‘I don’t follow, Professor.’

  ‘Acne renders adolescent kids abhorrent to their parents. It makes the pain of parting as they grow older easier to bear. You should be developing a drug that worsens acne, not cures it.’

  A joke, in part — but Scanlon’s jokes seemed to act as forward scouts, searching out new, unexplored ground for the main body of his ideas to occupy.

  My turn to address the Research Committee came towards the end of that first year. I hadn’t much to talk about: Tad’s work on splitting skin cells was still very much preliminary stage. Christmas was near, and for a time I considered rehabilitating my Christmas speech at the College Dinner, years before. But the occasion was a little more serious: in the end I decided to turn the lunch into a slide-show, showing off the possibilities of my new fibre-optic toy.

  I arrived late to find a larger than usual gathering in the Blue Room: a dozen or so colleagues milling about the big table, lifting wineglasses and delicate canapes from passing trays. Something was afoot: catering at committee meetings usually amounted to a plate heaped with sandwiches, and an urn of not very hot water for coffee.

  I felt a little apprehensive. And also — absurdly — a little disappointed: Scanlon’s youthful beard and jeans were missing from this gathering of older men, all lightly armoured in summer business suits.

  Pfitzner stepped out from the group, clutching a wineglass: ‘Maya, what have you for us today?’

  ‘Nothing exciting. A few slides. An anatomy lesson.’

  He was clearly disappointed: ‘Nothing on the progress of your sperm project? An interim report?’

  ‘It’s not ready.’

  Scanlon wandered in as I was loading a slide-cassette. My pulse jumped; I realised, simultaneously humiliated and excited, that it was for him, alone, that I had come. It was his approval I most sought.

  He was wearing the same shirt he’d been wearing the day before. And, evidently, the day before that. I hadn’t seen him the day before, but this was no guess. The rings of dried sweat spread concentrically from the armpits of his shirt. The number of days since he had last changed that shirt could be counted precisely, chronologically, in the manner of dating cross-sections of tree trunks.

  I tried to get his attention as the wineglasses moved off trays and back on again, emptied, at a fast clip: ‘Why such a crowd? Someone’s birthday?’

  ‘You must live a sheltered life,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘We have a guest of honour today. I believe he has come to hear you.’

  ‘Who?’

  No answer was needed. At that moment the door opened, a vaguely familiar figure appeared and was immediately surrounded — no, fêted — by smiling committee-members, Pfitzner foremost among them. This was Hollis Schultz, certainly — although looking a little older than the framed portraits that were scattered on various walls about the Medical Centre. He was short, and thickset: a rugby-necked strongman with a low centre of gravity. There’s a particular American look, seen best in athletes and astronauts (and comic-book heroes): a wholesome, tanned, crew-cuttedness. Schultz’s version of the look was older, and more grizzled, but the key traits were present: small nose, widely separated eyes, strong chin, cropped hair.

  Scanlon was still at my side, amused by the fuss: ‘He likes to drop in on the occasional meeting. Informally.’

  ‘I thought he was overseas.’

  ‘Back yesterday. Still jet-lagged. You are privileged.’

  I fidgeted with the slide-cassette, forced to rethink its contents. How appropriate were some of my slides, given the presence of Hollis Schultz? Small talk flowed about me; at one stage Schultz’s eyes caught mine, he nodded and smiled, but movement through the thicket of summer suits was impossible. Then the room darkened a little, and it was too late for self-censorship; the wine-waiter was drawing the drapes. Pfitzner tugged a large wall-screen down from a hidden recess. Schultz seated himself at the head of the table; the rest of the gathering quickly followed. Pfitzner turned to welcome the audience, ‘especially that good friend of science, Dr Hollis Schultz’, then handed the floor to me.

  ‘Professor Fox tells me that she has brought along some slides of a recent trip.’

  There were a few murmurs of curiosity; I passed the packed slide-cassette to the wine-waiter, who doubled as a projectionist.

  ‘Lights, please.’

  The lights were dimmed, a projector hummed somewhere, a square of light splashed on to the screen.

  ‘First slide, please.’

  Half the screen was filled with a curved, white surface; in sharper focus it revealed itself as the corner of some vast glistening planet.

  ‘The north pole of Saturn,’ I said. ‘As seen from Mariner 5.’

  There were a few appreciative titters.

  ‘Of course it’s an ovary,’ I continued. ‘Via fibre-optic salpingoscope. Next slide.’

  Another view of the same planet appeared.

  ‘Same ovary. The volcanic formation at the pole is corpus luteum, about to disgorge an egg.’

  I sensed a general leaning forward in the darkness, a hushed intensity: the clarity of the photography was astonishing. I say this without pride; I had merely ste
ered the lens to its destination. The hardware, the precision optics, deserved the praise.

  ‘How old is this patient?’ Scanlon’s voice asked from the darkness.

  I hesitated: ‘About my age.’

  Chuckles all round; none realised the true extent of the joke.

  ‘Next slide,’ I said.

  A pink, glistening crater appeared: a doughnut of flesh, filling the entire screen.

  ‘Cervical os,’ I said. ‘I thought we might start this journey from the beginning. Base camp, so to speak. I appreciate that most of you gentlemen are well acquainted with the route to this point. Next slide …’

  There were a few more easy laughs — or were they uneasy? The presence of Hollis Schultz, preacher, was an unpredictable factor, a wild card. It was too late to change the script. My heart was thumping a little; the risk I was taking excited me.

  ‘From here we are entering unmapped territory. The next slide finds us inside the uterine cavity.’

  I led them on, deeper inside, playing them gently for laughs. Of course the real joke was mine, on them. I was revealing the most intimate bodily parts, my bodily parts, parts no woman had shown them before. I was treating them to the ultimate bucks’ party stripshow, and they would never know it. Not that this was my intent — mine were merely the most perfect slides I had: ovaries, cervix, uterine cavity. The subject whose innards I had investigated most thoroughly happened to be myself.

  ‘Human egg, salpingeal tube.’

  The last slide clunked out of view, the lights came up; my male colleagues sat blinking in the glare. For a time no-one spoke, deferring to Hollis Schultz, awaiting his verdict.

  ‘I’d like to thank Professor Fox for a most stimulating presentation,’ he said, quietly. There were a few titters. His voice bore no resemblance to the strident voice I had imagined.

  He appeared at my side as I was gathering the slides; we spoke for the first time:

  ‘Professor Fox? I’m sorry that we have not been able to meet before.’

  He shook my hand: a firm, practised grip. ‘May I call you Mara?’

  The skin was pulled tightly across his broad face, stretched between the various bony points. When he smiled, a shiny tautness appeared on his cheeks. I realised suddenly — almost close enough to see the scars — that it was the smooth shine of a face lift.

  ‘Certainly,’ I said, ‘Dr Schultz.’

  ‘Hollis, please. I’ve wanted to talk with you for some time. About — ah — something more … personal. Mrs Schultz and myself … have not been blessed with children. I was hoping — I’m sure you are very busy — but perhaps you might find time to dine with us.’

  This was more the Hollis Schultz I had expected; not in the tone of voice, perhaps, still quietly conversational, almost hesitant, but in the content. There was something very American about it, almost cartoon-Californian: confiding such secrets to total strangers in only the second or third sentence spoken to them. He smiled again, stretching his taut skin. If I looked closely enough I suspected I’d be able to find my reflection there.

  ‘I’d be delighted.’

  ‘Shall we say lunch — Sunday?’

  ‘Sunday should be fine.’

  ‘And your … companion? Mr Romanowicz? Would he care to join us?’

  ‘He might be in Brisbane.’

  He smiled, knowingly. How much had he heard of Tad?

  ‘Twelve-thirty for one? I am preaching in the morning.

  ‘I must come and hear you.’

  He laughed, dismissively: ‘It’s not compulsory, Mara.’

  For a moment I had nothing to say; his flippancy caught me off-guard.

  ‘I’d like to hear you,’ I said. ‘My father was a preacher.’

  He wasn’t remotely interested: ‘Till Sunday, then?’

  Pfitzner reappeared at his side, enmeshed him in smiling pleasantries, tugged him gently away.

  I turned to find Scanlon hunched over the table next to the projector, leaning on his arms, watching me with that clear, open gaze. I reached across him to unpack the slides.

  ‘I’d heard about you,’ he said.

  ‘Good things, I hope.’

  ‘I’d heard you have one weird sense of humour.’

  ‘Anything Tad tells you I’d take with a grain of salt.’ He shook his head from side to side, amused; the eyes stayed fixed on me: ‘I had to sit through all that trying not to laugh.’

  I gazed back at him, serenely: ‘What could possibly be funny in a few anatomical slides?’

  ‘You are one beautiful lady,’ he said. ‘And I don’t mean your ovaries.’

  I busied myself with the slides; the joke was meant to be private, my joke. How had he guessed?

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You’ve shown me something special. I’d like to return the favour.’

  ‘You’re going to take off your clothes?’

  He laughed again: ‘My intellectual clothes. Come up to the department tomorrow morning. You won’t be disappointed.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Whenever,’ he said, and rose abruptly — our conversation over — and left me there, packing my slides.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I called after him.

  5

  Usually I left the house before Tad rose each morning — he was not a pretty sight first thing — but he emerged from his bedroom wrapped in a silk kimono as I opened the front door the following morning.

  ‘I’m under instructions to remind you. No excuses, chérie. The boy-genius had something he wants to show you.

  ‘Something?’

  ‘Something special.’

  To be given no details meant very special: the quantity of Tad’s gossip varied inversely with the quality. In fact I needed no reminder; as I walked briskly along the lake’s edge towards the Medical Centre I was thinking of one thing only: how early I could decently appear on the sixth floor.

  It was Saturday; my own Department was deserted. I pottered aimlessly about until nine, then jerked open the fire-exit door and climbed the stairs two unladylike steps at a time.

  The sixth floor also appeared deserted: a corridor lined with closed doors. Muffled laughter and shouting could be heard from somewhere: I pushed open several of the closed doors and found nothing but empty laboratories. I poked my head through a fourth door: SEMINAR ROOM 2. The noise was suddenly louder, surrounding me, stereo. Two women and two men — Scanlon among them — were sitting around a large table, talking. The accents were mostly American. A small alp of buns rose from a central platter, hands were reaching into it, and into the tub of butter that was being passed clockwise around the table.

  ‘Lakers versus 39ers?’ Scanlon shouted.

  The table was round, but he somehow seemed to be at its head: his elbows staking out more tabletop, his colleagues seated in subtle configurations of deference. Wherever he sat would be the head.

  ‘Lakers,’ one of the women spoke up — an Australian voice, oddly foreign-sounding among the others.

  Scanlon ticked a sheet of paper: ‘Any of you guys not picking the Lakers?’

  The vocabulary was beyond me: ‘What exactly is a Laker?’

  Four faces turned towards me.

  ‘Professor Fox,’ Scanlon accused. ‘You’ve never heard of the LA Lakers? The world-famous basketball team?’

  ‘I’m happy to confess I know nothing about basketball.’

  ‘None of us know anything about basketball,’ the Australian voice said, then leaned towards me, and added in a mock whisper: ‘But it’s compulsory.’

  ‘Someone fetch Professor Fox a chair,’ Scanlon ordered.

  Both of the women half-rose, then sat again, simultaneously, leaving the task to the other. Both laughed, amused. I pulled a chair from the wall myself as Scanlon introduced the small gathering:

  ‘Mara, the uncouth Australian to your left is Heather Sims. Resident Zoologist. Feel free to ignore her. B.B. Greaves across the table — chief computer hacker. On your right, Ruth Bogart. Ru
th and B.B. both worked with me in Stanford.’

  Smiles and the American ‘hi’ arrived from various quadrants. The two women might have been near-identical twins: dark-eyed and dark-haired, wearing ponytails and white lab coats. Only their differently-accented versions of English set them apart. Tad had lied: of the group, only the computer expert, B.B. Greaves, bore any resemblance to a Mad Scientist. He had a pale, underfed look about him: the look of too many Science Projects and not enough sunlight as a child, perhaps. A corner of what looked suspiciously like pyjama-top peeped from the collar of his sweater.

  ‘Would you care for a bun?’ Scanlon asked.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Butter?’

  ‘A smear.’

  He tore a bun in half, and began spreading it with a butter-smeared finger. Heather Sims was smirking off to one side, I tried to avoid her eye.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ I said. ‘I had a large breakfast.’

  Scanlon shrugged, bit into the bun himself, picked up his pen, and spoke, still chewing: ‘Okay, let’s move on. Celtics–Giants?’

  It amused me: this five-foot-nothing geneticist, obsessed by a game played in a stratosphere high above him, by giants.

  ‘What exactly are you working on up here?’ I said. ‘Cloning basketball players?’

  The American twin, Ruth, adopted a mock-stern look: ‘Professor Fox, this is morning tea. We never talk shop at morning tea.’

  ‘I didn’t come for morning tea.’ I turned to Scanlon: ‘You had something to show me.’

  ‘First the basketball pool,’ he said. ‘Let’s see the colour of your money.’

  ‘You expect me to place a bet?’

  ‘The pool takes priority over everything.’

  Scanlon bit another chunk from his hand-buttered bun, chewed it once or twice, then spoke to me through the mouthful: ‘Ever seen a Tasmanian Tiger?’

  ‘I remember an ancient film: the last tiger in captivity, I think. A sort of dog with stripes.’