The Orchids

FEAR IS a great constrictor. In his terror of the fever and what it might portend, Dr. Ludtz mires his mind in the rudiments of the physical. It is in the nature of illness to reduce the parameters of one’s world to a tight little knot of injury. Nothing contracts the self into a small, aching center of restricted consciousness more than a sudden assault upon the integrity of health. The I that is not in pain, the I that is not afraid may follow the ballerina in her flight, may feel the swell of symphonies, may soar along the glimmering rim of verse. But once under assault, once in the grip of terror, the I draws in upon itself in a horrible deflation of sense and understanding. I know this to be true because I am a doctor, and my becoming one had to do with stars.

After his dismal march through the workings of the city, the boy found himself in the park once again. Though weary, he still resisted the idea of going home. He sat down on a bench, stretched his legs before him, and looked up at the sky. And there they were, the stars. Above all else, they seemed to him immensely clean. In his tortured brain he tried to think of something in his earthbound existence that might bear some relationship to this shining cleanliness, this perfect radiance. Nothing appeared. He waited. The stars were silent overhead, as, of course, he fully expected them to be. And so, in the end, he left the park with no grand vision. But that does not mean that he left it with nothing at all. For somewhere during those moments as he sat mournfully watching the sky, the process began that ultimately fused two ideas in his mind: one concerning the workings of the physical universe and the other concerning the workings of man. The thought was simple enough: that man only approached the beauty and clarity of the physical order when he himself studied that order; that is, in the practice of scientific investigation. Later he would find the nature of man’s disorder in the metaphor of disease, and that would lead him to what he fully expected to be his life’s work: hygienic research. His dream was to discover the secret formula of health, to comprehend the very roots of malady, to touch the darkest pits of sickness, and then to cauterize them until they blazed visible before him.

• • •

“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.