At the bottom of the envelope I found a paperback book, an Auto Club map of California, and a small diary bound in black vinyl, all held together by a doubled and twisted rubber band. The book was Uncommon Graves by Benjamin Bridger, a history of the Soviet invasion of Germany near the end of World War II. I recognized the wrapper art, a hammer and sickle ripping through a Nazi flag. On the inside front cover, two names had been inked in precise, adolescent block letters: Hal and Rob Cousins. We had both read a lot of history in our early teens. Bridger had been one of our favorites.
The book had vanished from my shelves when we were fourteen, and I had accused Rob of stealing it. Now he was returning it to me. I put the book aside and opened the diary. It was filled with looping scribbles. I could hardly read my own handwriting, much less Rob’s.
One last item was stuck in the bottom of the envelope. I turned it upside down and shook it out. A ring of three keys clattered on the black-and-white tiles of the bathroom floor. Attached to the ring was a paper tag bearing an address in San Jose.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Did I want to learn what Rob was thinking before his death? I knew with that insight unique to twins that my brother had enjoyed making this selection, that the contents would lead me on a goose chase. Or worse, he had laid out a puzzle for me to solve, a challenge for arrogant Prince Hal.
I took my morning dose of Integumycin and two tablets of T3—acetaminophen with codeine. I hated codeine, but a jagged buzz was better than a drumbeat of pain.
I heard Banning stir in the other room and pushed the bathroom door firmly shut.
Opened the diary to the middle.
Arrived Irkutsk this morning seven or eight hours from Moscow. Taxi. Fifty bucks and you’re king for a day. Met with Ch. and Tur. in hotel restaurant and shared local salmon, very good. Took me to their little lake museum off newly paved and renamed ul K Yenisei (used to be ul K Dzerzhinskova). Jovial fellows. Tippled a bit, peppered vodka, toasted the Decembrists, then toured the old lake lab and museum. Shunned by folks from the Limnological Institute. The lab is filled with specimens from Baikal, baby freshwater seals (in jars) called Nerpas; small ancient lab filled with old equipment.
This was where G. did his early work.
Ch. and Tur. showed me aquarium with recently harvested freshwater xenos. Massive—thirty centimeters across. Water smells of sulfides. Fan blows continuously to clear the dark little room. Ch. confirms these xenos carry ur-kinetoplasts. Very primitive, some still free-living at lake bottom. Tur. explains: Waters thick with xenos and also with curtains of gelatinous semipermeable membranes haunted by clouds of bacteria. Baikal surface in northeast corner gelatinous with polysaccharide ribbons and oily with phospholipids at times, confused with bacterially polluted runoff from infamous pulp plant (six hundred miles south), but the slime is indigenous, from lake bottom around vents.
Rain here forms little fatty drops in water, protocells, that sink to bottom and get colonized by bacteria. Bacteria use polysacc. ribbons like dogs use trees, to establish communal centers and pass on local microbe “gossip.” G. saw and studied all this in twenties and thirties (before pulp plant was in place).
Baikal is at most twenty-four million years old. But vent life here is hauntingly reminiscent of ocean communities. Like the Beginning Place, Eden?
I looked up from the diary and contemplated the wall, feeling chagrin that my brother had been on the same track, a spike of familial pride, then rank, face-flushing irritation that somebody had gotten there before either of us. And in the 1930s, if I was reading correctly. What else did they know back then?
G. wanted to understand the causes of aging. Intuited that disease and aging are strongly related. Thought perhaps bacteria benefited most from both aging and all sorts of disease, dead bodies being such wonderful opportunities for bacterial orgies. His early theories begin with that premise.
G. studied parasitic control of hosts. Parasitized ant climbs to grass tip, eaten by bird, parasite’s next stage is in bird. Rats with toxoplasmosis have cysts in brain, not afraid of cats, get eaten, cats carry toxo. Wolbachia, widespread bacteria, actually control reproduction of host insects and other arthropods. G. then moved on to studying mind-altering substances produced by parasites and compared them with bacterial products. Many gut bacteria talk to intestinal cells. They, too, alter host behavior, he found.
G. discovered “vaults” in cells 1927–8!
After arrest, G. and wife threatened with deportation (Jewish problem?). Makes lemonade from lemons—G. went to Moscow and proposed to B. that mixes of altered bacteria in subject guts could make prisoners docile, talkative. Dosed in food. Beginning of Silk.
B. released G. and financed his project. Luvvy duvvy with Koba for twenty years.
None of the initials made sense, and who in hell was Koba?
I turned a page and read on.
Useless day at Limnological Institute. Nobody will talk about G.
People at the university are more open. They say G. most interested in “Little Mothers of the World.” That’s what eastern microbiologists call bacteria when they’re being sentimental. G. interested in germ networking, that’s the word we use now, but it did not exist in that sense then. How do these bacterial societies cooperate? How do they communicate with their hosts? G. way ahead of his time. Might be ahead of some biologists even today. Can’t find these papers in the library, but my guides Tur. and Ch. from the univ. say that’s because B. took them back to Moscow. Wanted to use them to support naturalist view of Marxist theory!
Russian laughter is dark, hard. Siberian laughter is even darker.
I was so absorbed that when Banning knocked on the door I nearly fell off the toilet. I banged my knee on the edge of the shower stall, and the papers spilled on the floor.
“All right in there?” Banning asked.
“I’m fine,” I shouted, picking up the papers from the tiles. I had read just a fraction of the pages and my head swam with half-baked connections. Mind-controlling bacteria, for Christ’s sake! Rob and I had spent so much of our youth lying to each other about stupid things, especially girls. He might have been off on a tear, losing his sanity. Or he might have come under Banning’s influence . . .
“Have a heart,” Banning suggested outside the door. “My bladder’s a balloon.”
Banning and I spent the late morning buying two new shirts and a pair of pants for me. I also picked up a cheap business valise to hold Rob’s envelope. I refused to let Banning pay and drained my bank account writing checks.
That was it, I thought. I had become a pauper relying on the kindness of a homeless bigot. The extra time to think was not sufficient for me to reach any conclusion about the envelope’s contents.
Our appointment with Mrs. Callas drew near, and we took a taxi into South San Francisco.
The collar of the new shirt rubbed my bandaged neck as we climbed three flights of stairs to the top floor of a converted warehouse. The air was stifling, and sweat dripped from both of us when we finished.
A wide white door blocked the entrance beyond a small alcove. Banning pulled back a heavy iron knocker and slammed it down. Seconds later, a finger pushed aside the little brass cover from a peephole. A woman’s dark brown eye peered at us. She let the cover swing back. The steel door slid open on small rubber wheels with a squeak like frightened mice.
Mrs. Monroe Callas beckoned us into her sparely furnished waiting room. White plasterboard walls stood free within the larger space, open to the higher beams and corrugated tin roof above. Mrs. Callas was built like a heron—everything about her was a little too long, legs and neck, nose and fingers. But her strength and assurance were obvious.
We took a seat before a stainless-steel desk, bare but for a tray and two sealed plastic bottles of water—Alpine Shiver. “Have some,” she suggested. “It’s hot in here.”
The building was quiet. We seemed to be alone. Banning opened his bottle carefully and listened for the snap of the plastic protector and the hiss of escaping carbonation before drinking. I did the same.
Callas watched this ritual with some interest, then issued her pronouncement. “I’ve looked into Mr. Banning’s references. I don’t take on charity, and I don’t do nutcases.” She looked at me. “You seem to be one, and Mr. Banning is certainly the other.”
Banning adjusted his jacket with nervous dignity. “It’s hardly charity,” he said. “Dr. Cousins is a respected researcher. He might even be able to teach you a thing or two about the life sciences. Think of it as an exchange.”
“Forget it,” I muttered. I felt like a fool, and Callas was only confirming it. Her evaluation was spot on. How much loyalty did I owe Banning because he had paid my bill at Alta Bates? How desperate was I in the first place?
