I will fear no evil, p.35
I Will Fear No Evil, page 35
“Dr. Boyle, let us stipulate momentarily that you removed a living brain from exhibit JJ, the cadaver—”
“ ‘Stipulate?’ I did do so, you heard me say so.”
“I am not contradicting you, I am simply using appropriate language. Very well, you have so testified and you have also testified that you transplanted that brain into a young female body. Look about and see if you can identify that female body.”
“Oh, you’re being an ass again. I am neither a witch doctor nor a beauty contest judge; I am a surgeon. No, thank you. If that young woman—that composite human, female body, male brain—survived and is alive today—a point on which I have no opinion of my own knowledge and I assure you that I have had strong reason to acquaint myself both with relevant forensic medicine and medical jurisprudence; you are not about to trip me into being the ass you are—I would not today be able to single her out with certainty from ten thousand other young women of approximately the same size, weight, build, skin shade, and such. Counsel, have you ever seen a human body hooked up for extreme life support and prepared for such surgery? I’m sure you have not or you would not ask such silly questions. But I assure you that you would not recognize your own wife under such circumstances. If you want me to perjure myself, you’ve come to the wrong shop.”
“Your Honor, Petitioners seem unable to get a responsive answer on this key point.”
“The Court finds it responsive. Witness states that he can and docs identify the male body but is unable to identify the female body. Doctor, I confess that I am puzzled on one point—perhaps through not being a medical man myself; nevertheless I am puzzled. Are we to understand that you would perform such an operation without being certain of the identity of the bodies?”
“Judge, I’ve never been one to fret about trivia. Mr. Salomon assured me, in legalistic language, that ‘the fix was on’ if I have your American idiom correct. His assurances meant to me that the paper work was done, the legal requirements met, et cetera, and that I was free to operate. I believed him and did so. Was I mistaken? Should I expect an attempt to extradite me after I return home? I think it would be difficult; I have at last found a country where my work is respected.”
“I am not aware that anyone has any intention of trying to extradite you. I was curious, that’s all. What Counsel was getting at is this: There is present in this room a woman who claims to be that composite from your surgery. You can’t point her out?”
“Oh, certainly I can. Though not as a sworn witness. It’s that young lady seated by Jake Salomon. How are you, my dear? Felling chipper?”
“Very much so, Doctor.”
“Sorry if I’ve disappointed you. Oh, I could make positive identification . . . by sawing off the top of your skull, then digging out your brain and looking for certain indications. But—heh heh!—you would not be much use to yourself afterwards. I prefer seeing you alive, a monument to my skill.”
“I prefer it, too, Doctor—and truly, I’m not disappointed. I’m eternally grateful to you.”
“Your Honor, this is hardly proper!”
“Counsel, I will be the judge of that. Under these most unusual circumstances I will permit a few human amenities in court.”
“Miss Smith, I’d like to examine you before I go home. For my journal, you know.”
“Certainly, Doctor! Anything—short of sawing off my skull.”
“Oh, just chest-thumping and such. The usual rituals. Shall we say tomorrow morning, ten o’clockish?”
“My car will be waiting for you at nine thirty, Doctor. Or earlier, if you will do me the honor of having breakfast with me.”
“The Court finds it necessary to interrupt. I’m sorry to say that both of you will be here at ten o’clock. The hour of recessing is almost on us and—”
“No, Judge.”
“What, Dr. Boyle?”
“I said, ‘No.’ I will not be here tomorrow morning. I speak this evening at twenty o’clock at a dinner of one of your chop-’em-up societies. The American College of Surgeons. Until shortly before that time I am at your disposal. I suppose you can require the presence of Miss Smith tomorrow morning, but not mine. I’m off to merry old China as quickly as possible. No shortage of opportunities for research there—you would be amazed what condemned prisoners will agree to. So I shan’t waste another day on silly-ass questions. But I am willing to tolerate them now.”
“Mmm—I’m afraid that the Court must concede that this is a case of Mahomet and the Mountain. Very well, we will not recess at the usual hour.”
“Witness will stand down. Do Petitioners offer more witnesses?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Counsel?”
“Miss Johann Smith offers no further evidence.”
“Mr. Salomon, is it your intention to present an argument or summary?”
“No, Your Honor. The facts speak for themselves.”
“Petitioners?”
“Your Honor, is it your intention to bring this to a terminus today?”
“That’s what I am trying to find out. We’ve been at this for many weary days and I find myself in sympathy with Dr. Boyle’s attitude: Let’s sweep up the mess and go home. Both sides agree that there are no more witnesses, no more questions, no more exhibits. Counsel for Miss Smith states that he will not offer an argument. If Petitioners’ counsel wishes to argue, he may do so—in which case Miss Smith, in person or through counsel or both, is privileged to rebut. What I had in mind, Counsel, was a recess . . . then, if you have your thoughts in order, you can say what you wish. If you can’t, we can let it go over till tomorrow morning. You may at that time argue for a postponement—but I warn you that a lengthy postponement will not be tolerated; the Court has become impatient with delaying tactics and red herrings, not to mention language and attitudes flavored with contempt. What is your wish?”
“May it please the Court, if we continue this evening, how long a recess does the Court contemplate?”
“—and rebuttal having been concluded, we are ready to rule. But first a statement by the Court. Inasmuch as a novel point in Constitutional Law is involved in this matter, if an appeal is made, the Court will, under the Declaratory Relief Act of 1984, on its own motion send the matter directly to Federal Appellate Court with recommendation that it be referred at once to the Supreme Court. We cannot say that this will happen but there are aspects which lead us to believe that it could happen; this matter is not trivial.
“We have heard the petition, we have heard witnesses. and seen exhibits. It is possible to rule in one of four ways:
“That both Johann Sebastian Bach Smith and Eunice Evans Branca are alive;
“That Eunice is alive and Johann is dead;
“That Eunice is dead and Johann is alive;
“That both Eunice and Johann are dead.
“The Court rules—please stand up, Miss Smith—that this person before us is a physiological composite of the body of Eunice Evans Branca and the brain of Johann Sebastian Bach Smith and that in accordance with the equitable principle set forth in ‘Estate of Henry M. Parsons v. Rhode Island’ this female person is Johann Sebastian Bach Smith.”
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“—take it that you are offering me your lovely body. Sorry, m’dear. I have no interest in women. Nor in men. Nor in rubber garments or high heels or other toys. I’m a sadist, Miss Smith. A genius sadist who realized quite young that he must become a surgeon to stay out of the clutches of Jack Ketch. Sublimation, y’know. Thanks just the same. A pity, you do have a magnificent body.” (Well, Boss, you got turned down. It’s a lesson every woman must learn. So you bresh your hair and start all over again.)
(Eunice, I’m relieved. But he was entitled to the lagniappe if he wanted it.) “I’m your Galatea, Dr. Boyle; I owe you anything you care to name—short of sawing off my skull. The debt remains on the books. All I was offering was symbolic down-payment. But you don’t respond like a typical Australian—nor sound like one, either.”
“Oh, that. I’m a fake, dear. From the Sydney slums into a sadists’ finishing school—a stylish British boarding school, a ‘public’ school right out of the second drawer. Then on to the University of London and the best surgeons in the world. Put your pretty robe on and I’ll be going. I say, would you mind having that extr’ordinary slow-motion somersault filmed in stereocinema for my archives?”
“Where shall I send it, Doctor?”
“Jake Salomon knows. Keep your pecker up, m’dear, and try to live a long time; you’re my masterpiece.”
“I’ll certainly try.”
“Do. Ta ta!”
An unidentified flying object roughly disc-shaped was reported to have landed in Pernambuco and its humanoid crew to have visited with local yokels; the report was denied officially almost faster than it reached the news services. The number of licensed private police in the United States reached triple the number of public peace officers. Miss Joan nee Johann Smith received over two thousand proposals of marriage, more than that number of less formal proposals, one hundred eighty-seven death threats, an undisclosed number of extortion notes, and four bombs—not any of which she received in person as they were diverted to Mercury Private Courier Service under procedures set up years earlier. The waldoes of one package-opening bunker had to be replaced; the other bombs were disarmed.
The Postmaster General died from an overdose of barbiturates; the career Assistant Postmaster General declined an interim appointment and put in for retirement. A woman in Albany gave birth to a “faun” which was baptized, dead, and cremated in eighty-seven minutes. No flowers. No photographs. No interviews—but the priest wrote a letter to his seminary roommate. The F.B.I. reported that recidivism was up to 71%, while the same rate figured only on major felonies—armed robbery, rape, assault with a deadly weapon, murder, and attempted murder—had climbed to 84%. The paralysis at Harvard University continued.
“Jake, the last time you refused to marry me, you did promise me a night on the town if we won.”
Mr. Salomon put down his cup. “A delightful lunch, my dear. As I recall, you told me at the time that a nightclub check was no substitute for a marriage license.”
“Nor is it. But I haven’t nagged you about marrying me since you accorded me the honor of first concubine. Uh . . . erase ‘first.’ I have no idea what you do with your time when you’re not here. Well, I don’t have to be ‘first.’ ” (Twin, never crowd a man about sex. He’ll lie.) (Pussy cat, I’m not crowding Jake about sex; I’m confusing the issue. He’s going to take us nightclubbing and we’re going to wear that lush blue-and-gold job—it’s meant to be seen, not just modeled for Winnie and put away.)
“Eunice, surely you don’t think I have anyone else?”
“It would be presumptuous of me to have an opinion, sir. Jake, I’ve stayed close to home all during this hearing—a little shopping, mostly with Winnie along. But now we’ve won and I see no reason to be a prisoner. Look, dear, we can make it a party of four—a girl for you and a boy for me—and you can come home early and not lose any sleep you don’t want to.”
“You surely don’t think that I would go home and leave you at a nightclub?”
“I surely think I can stay up all night and celebrate if I want to. I’m free, over twenty-one—my God, am I over twenty-one!-and can afford a licensed escort. But there is no reason to keep you up all night. We’ll call Gold Seal Bonded Escorts and fill out our party. Winnie’s been teaching me what the kids call dancing—and I’ve been teaching her real dancing. Say, maybe you’d rather escort Winnie than some dollikin picked out of a catalog? Winnie thinks you’re wonderful.”
“Eunice, are you seriously proposing to hire a gigolo?”
“Jake, I’m not going to marry him, I’m not even going to sleep with him. I expect him to dance with me, smile, and make polite conversation—at about what a plumber charges. This is doom?”
“I won’t have it.”
“If you won’t—and Heaven knows I would rather be on your arm than that of a paid escort—will you take a nap? I’ll get a nap, too. Do you need help to get to sleep? Money Hums, I mean, not horizontal calisthenics. Although we have that in stock, too.”
“I don’t recall saying that we were going out. Nor is there anything to celebrate, Eunice. We haven’t won until the Supreme Court rules on it.”
“We have plenty to celebrate. I’m legally me—thanks to you, darling—and you no longer have to report as my conservator; my granddaughters have lost on all points. If we hold off celebrating until the Supreme Court maunders over it, we might both be dead.”
“Oh, nonsense! You know I’m about to leave for Washington; I expect to be able to arrange for an early spot on the calendar. Be patient.”
“ ‘Patient’ is what I’m not, dear. Surely, you’ll arrange it; you always do arrange things—and the Administration owes me that and will expect more from me. But, Jake, your jet might crash—”
“That doesn’t sway me, it’s my death-of-choice. Since my genetic background doesn’t permit me to hope for heart failure, I’ve been counting on cancer. But a crash is still better. Anything but a long, slow, helpless dying.”
“You’re rubbing my nose in the mistake I made, sir. Will you let me finish? You once pointed out that you had only ten or twelve years, based on the actuarials—whereas I had at least half a century. Not true, Jake. My life expectancy is null.”
“Eunice, what the devil are you talking about?”
“The truth. Truth you have conveniently forgotten—but which I am aware of every golden second. I’m a transplant, Jake. A unique transplant. No statistics apply to me. Nobody knows, no one can guess. So I live each wonderful day as all eternity. Jake my beloved master, I’m not being morbid—I’m being happy. When I was a little boy there was a prayer Mama taught me. It goes—
“Now I lay me down to sleep;
“I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
“If I should die before I wake,
“I pray the Lord my soul to take.
“It’s like that, Jake. I had not used that prayer in almost ninety years. But now I use it . . . and go happily to sleep, unworried about tomorrow.” (Twin! You lying little bitch! All you ever say is a Money Hum.) (It’s the same thing, Puss. A prayer means what you want it to mean.)
“Joan Eunice, you once told me that you had no religion. So why do you say this child’s prayer?”
“As I recall, what I told you was that I had been a ‘relaxed agnostic’—until I was dead for a while. I’m still an agnostic—meaning that I don’t have any answers—but I am now a happy agnostic, one who feels sure deep in her heart that the world has meaning, is somehow good, and that my being here has purpose, even if I don’t know what it is. As for that prayer, a prayer means whatever you make it mean; it’s an inner ritual. What this one means to me is a good intention—to live every moment as Eunice would live it, did live—serenely, happily, and unworried by any later moment including death. Jake, you said you were still worried about Parkinson.”
“Somewhat. As a lawyer, I don’t see how he can get his hands on it again. But as a shyster at heart—don’t quote me!—who has taken part in many a back-room deal, I know that even the Supreme Court is made up of men, not angels met in judgment. Eunice, there are five honest men on that court. . . and four from whom I would never buy a used car. But of the honest ones, one is senile. We’ll see what we shall see.”
“So we will, Jake. But don’t give Parky a thought. The worst he can do is to strip me of money. Which I wouldn’t mind; I’ve discovered that more money than is needed for current bills is a burden. Jake, I’ve got enough tucked away that even you don’t know about that I’ll never miss any meals. Parky can’t touch it. As for Parky himself, I’ve erased him from my universe and suggest that you do likewise. He’s damned by his own I.Q.—leave him to nature.”
Salomon grinned. “Okay, I’ll try.”
“And now you go do whatever it is you have to do and forget that I tried to inveigle you into a pub crawl.” (Twin, you’re giving up too easily.) (Who is giving up?)
“Eunice, if you really want to—”
“No, no, Jake! Your heart’s not in it. While you are in Washington I may sample the fleshpots of this decadent village but I promise you that I will be closely guarded. Shorty, probably; he frightens people just with his size. Nor will I go alone; Alec told me that he and Mac didn’t have much trouble slipping the leash, and Winnie can make a fourth.”
“Eunice.”
“Yes, dear?”
“I am like hell going to step aside for those two wolves.”
“Why, Jake, you sound jealous!”
“No. God save me from falling prey to that masochistic vice. But if you want to see the seamy side of this anthill, I’ll find out where the action is and take you there. Dress for it, girl—I’m going to shake the moths off my drinkin’ clothes. Formal, I mean.”
“Bare breasts?” (Could you have done better, Pussy Cat?) (Pick up the pup, twin. I concede.)
“ ‘Much too good for the common people.’ Unless you intend to paint heavily, plus a lot of that sparkly glitter stuff.”
“I’ll try to do you proud, dear. But you will take a nap? Please.”
“A long nap at once and a dinner tray in my room. H-hour is twenty-two hundred. Be ready or we jump off without you.”
“I’m scared. Want help to get to sleep? Me? Or Winnie? Or both?”
“No, I’ve learned how to do it by myself. Perfectly. Though I admit it’s more fun with two pretty little girls chanting with me. You get a nap. I may keep you up all night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now, if I may be excused.” Mr. Salomon stood up, bent over her hand and kissed it. “Adios.”
“Come back here and kiss me right!”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Later, my dear. I don’t believe in letting women be notional.” He left.
(Who won that round, Boss?) (He thinks he did, Eunice—and you tell me that’s how it ought to be.) (You’re learning, twin, you’re learning.)
