Ezembe Read online

  Ezembe

  Jeffrey L. Morris

  One

  The air, thick with the smell of drying emulsion, stung James’ nostrils. The furniture, a mountainous landscape of fresh white drop cloths, so clean, so serene a scene it would have been a shame to disturb it. But he yanked the sheets off, and stuffed them into the hallway for the workmen to pick up.

  James was glad to be back in Philadelphia. He’d enjoyed a lot of what New York City offered, but at the end of the day, the grime of the place had driven him home. If one wasn’t a part of the ultra-wealthy set, there was filth. Aside from the little bit Giuliani had cleaned up, it was one of the filthiest places he’d ever seen. James hated filth.

  Not that he was short of money—no. In fact, he was quite well-to-do. And New York had been good to him, there was no arguing that. But now he could live where he chose, and he had chosen Philadelphia. Certainly much of the City of Brotherly Love was not so clean that one could eat off the street, but this Society Hill apartment was as close as one was going to get in the real world.

  James’ issues with filth were not of his own making. He had a genuine problem: he could sense the presence of germs. Bacteria, viruses, fungi—if one of these was nearby, he knew. And, of course, microbes are always nearby. They cannot be seen or heard, of course—not in the conventional sense. If he were forced to describe this phenomenon, he might call it a kind of radio signal, a jungle drumbeat—audible only to those with ears to hear.

  James was about five when this intimacy with the world of microbes began. His mother, Karen, is a physician. This woman endured the tribulations of Job, rearing a child who balked constantly at invisible enemies on doorknobs, toilet seats, and so on. After exhausting her own bag of medical tricks on her little boy’s not-so-little peculiarity, Karen turned to the psychiatric profession. Their opinions differed: James was OCD, schizophrenic, or acting out of some deep resentment. The list of misdiagnoses was lengthy, and frequently contradictory as well. Surprising though it may seem, not one of these head-shrinkers ever even considered the possibility that James could be telling the truth.

  It was a Dr. Wharton, a man reminiscent of a tweed-draped department-store mannequin. Even his hair appeared to be painted on. A self-proclaimed Jungian, Wharton appeared to make the most progress with the young James.

  “What can you tell me about your dreams?” the doctor would ask.

  “Nothing,” James would reply. For him, dreams were a peaceful nothingness, a relief from the living world of the ever-present microscopic trolls and ogres. But the good doctor did not consider this a satisfactory answer; he pressed James, who never knew quite what to say to the man. In the interest of a peaceful existence, James took to stealing bits of plot from children’s storybooks.

  “There was this big hill and I was climbing it, but I wasn’t sure I could reach the top.”

  “Did this hill resemble a breast?” Dr. Wharton asked.

  “I don’t think so. But I said to myself, I think I can, I think I can.”

  “Please continue,” Wharton wheezed in his main-line, clogged-kazoo manner.

  James fed Wharton all sorts of stories during the years of his treatment. And this so-called doctor found something noteworthy in each and every one. He read particular meaning into James’ revision of The Hardy Boys stories.

  Giving the devil his due, Wharton’s ministrations did seem to bear fruit. By and by, James’ episodes became fewer and further between. By the time he was fifteen, the tantrums and the bad behavior vanished as if they had been bleached out in the wash. He did maintain a very un-teenage penchant for cleanliness, almost to the point of OCD, but it didn’t affect his ability to function. Wharton assured his mother that this was simply a relic of his delusion, and that this little neurosis was, in fact, a healthy way for James to reconcile his problems. This was a compromise Karen was more than happy to accept.

  Of course, James hadn’t been “cured” at all. He had simply told that gold-plated boob what he wanted to hear, and just like that, he was all better.

  A miracle of modern medicine.

  More to the point, as James had grown, he’d also learned to differentiate between the malicious bugs and the benign, much as any child would learn the difference between a junkyard dog and a playful puppy. And James never got sick—not ever. Not so much as the sniffles. Not even one single cavity. And once James learned that even the most vicious, snarling microbes could not harm him, his confidence grew. This was just as well, since Karen had found it impossible to even get him close to any doctor other than herself. He’d resisted polio and other vaccines so vehemently that in the end, she had simply given up—a difficult and, one might suggest, unusual decision for a doctor.

  ~* * *~

  James’ new building had a lock-up in the back, a place to keep his gleaming black-enamel steel stallion—an ancient Matchless motorcycle. He guided the old bike, carefully, out of its berth and onto the road, kicked it into life, and blat-blatted down the elm-lined streets towards the University of Pennsylvania.

  The medical school, founded by none other than Benjamin Franklin when the country itself was a mere foundling, is U-P’s heart. The school’s old stone and brick structures nestle happily, and most proudly, among their leviathan steel and concrete descendants. Many a small town would gladly swap its favorite drive-in burger joint, and maybe even its softball team, for a boundary as large as U-P’s.

  Helmet under his arm, James wandered the maze of brick paths to the cafeteria, jammed to bursting with white coats and pocket liners. A well-built redheaded woman jumped up on one toe and beckoned him from a table in the corner.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  Karen offered her cheek for a kiss, then introduced her lunch companion. “James, this is Doctor Pat Roche.”

  A small, bespectacled, hawk-faced man stood and shook James’ hand vigorously. “How’re ya,” he said. His accent was unmistakably Irish. “Pleased to meet any kin of this fan-tas-tic lady,” he added with an unhinged grin. He hugged Karen around the shoulders and beamed. “Like a sister to me, so she is. Any boy of hers is a nephew to me!”

  “Um, okay. Thanks, Pat, nice to meet you too,” James replied.

  Pat wore a lab coat over a pink shirt, and a tie decorated with Smurfs. “You like?” He held it out for James to inspect. “Wear a different one every day. I got hundreds of ’em. Keeps ’em off balance.”

  Karen poked him playfully. “Who, exactly, does it keep off balance?” she said.

  Pat stroked the tie fondly. “The enemy, of course, my darlin’. So, cuppa coffee, young fella?”

  James nodded. Pat flipped a parked cup and filled it from a pot. He pointed towards the lunch counter. “The soup is shite—don’t bother. But the sandwiches won’t kill ya anyhow.”

  “I’ll have a look at them, thanks,” James said, in an uncommitted sort of way. His nostrils flared just a bit. Karen sat up and peered over her glasses.

  Karen and James spent a great deal of time and effort propping a fig leaf over James’ little issue. When he was a teenager and still at home, James would leave socks lying around his room—clean socks. Even as an adult in his own apartment, when his mother came to visit, the kitchen and bathroom were theatrically arranged to appear as slovenly as possible. This dance went on for years, and while Karen was never actually fooled, she regularly and quite happily followed James’ trail of breadcrumbs down the path of denial.

  She changed the subject. “So have you organized any shows here yet, Jimmy?”

  “No, not yet, but I’m talking to a few galleries. Gabby’s talking to a few dealers, so getting one together soon-ish should be on the cards.”

  “Ah, that’s brilliant, Jimmy,” Pat said.

  James winced. He disliked being called “Ji
mmy” by strangers.

  “You want to do my portrait?” Pat grinned, oblivious to James discomfort. “I’d probably break the canvas. I’m not what you’d call an oil painting, me!” Pat’s laugh was infectious, and he laughed a lot. Every exchange—with the cashier, the nodding passersby. Everyone and everything they did was a giggle.

  “Well, you’re welcome to come have a look, Pat. Have to warn you, though, my work isn’t everyone’s cup of meat,” James said.

  “Ah, sure, we might have a look-see anyhow. I need something to cover the cracks in my walls!” Pat snickered, and poked “Jimmy” in the ribs. When he’d giggled himself out, he said, “Well, better get back to it. Nice meetin’ ya, Jimmy.” He gave Karen a light peck and said, “See you later, love.”

  When Pat was out of earshot, James curled his lower lip, crinkled his forehead, and said, “Love? So, a love interest, eh?”

  Karen blushed, and threw some sweetener packets at him. “Brat! Just a good friend. He calls all women ‘love’. Anyhow, he’s young enough to be my son! Well, just about. But still.”

  “Methinks thou doth protest too much.”

  “Oh, you!” Karen made a mock gesture as if to smack James in the ear. “No, I just find him a refreshing dose of sanity in this lunatic asylum.”

  “Hah! He seems more like one of the inmates to me!”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “It’s just part of his shtick. A little ‘kooky’ can be forgiven for folks who shine like that fellow. Expected, even.”

  “What’s he do?” James braced himself for a litany of alphabet-soup titles: an M.D. and a couple of Ph.D.’s in micro-this or organo-that, with a Master’s degree in something unpronounceable. All part and parcel of living with a doctor.

  “Research,” Karen replied. “He’s looking at a protozoan parasite that affects pregnant women right now. He gives me a hand with my pancreatic cancer research from time to time as well. His group is producing some of the most important research in medicine nowadays. There’s a bit of crossover, in fact. One of our patients acquired a post-transplant parasitic infection, and that caught the interest of the genotoxic crew, and Pat’s team also.”

  James’ eyes glazed over.

  “Okay, I know. It’s boring, but these guys are coming up with some very powerful weapons for us.”

  “Oh, I’m sure! I’m glad he’s out there doing it for me.” In spite of the facetious remark, James meant it. He simply preferred not to have to think about it.

  Karen picked up the plates and said, “Let’s get some fresh air, shall we?”

  They strolled into the old school’s mature, manicured gardens.

  “So will Peggy be joining you at any point?” Karen asked.

  “Umm, Mom, that’s really, you know?” James closed up like a cheap deck chair. “We’re still great friends and all, but it’s over, okay? Just not meant to be.”

  “Let me tell you something, James: ‘meant to be’ is not the way it works. You need to think again. She’s a wonderful girl, and she’s put up with a lot from you.”

  “I know, Mom. Just do me a favor and drop it, okay?”

  “All right. I just think—”

  “I know what you think.”

  They sat on a bench and caught up with family gossip—what Uncle and Auntie So-and-so were doing, and so on—until Karen returned to her work and James his Matchless. He tossed his leg over the saddle, fired it up, and tore off towards home, the pavement gliding beneath his feet. He filtered through traffic, enjoying the cooling evening air and the heat of the cylinders on his shins. He could do this all day, he thought.

  But a yellow cab had other plans. It ran a red light, and just like that, James was sailing over its hood, towards a bus shelter. The shelter’s glass had a poster of a koala plastered on it, inviting him to visit the zoo.

  This is going to hurt, he thought.

  Two

  But it didn’t hurt. Not a bit. One moment James was flying through space, straight at the nose of the cheery koala; the next—splash—right into a sea of goo.

  James was confused, naturally, but only at first. After a little while, he found it all very—familiar. As if he’d come home and plopped into his favorite comfy chair.

  This sea he floated in: there was no up, no down, and the goo itself was clear, silvery—the consistency of runny grease or mucus. Dots, dashes, and curlicues punctuated it in every direction, swimming around in plain view, but were difficult to see if he looked straight at them. Each time James turned his gaze to one of the elusive figures it vanished, or mated with its neighbor, forming a third figure—just as shy as its parents. When he relaxed, a face formed in the little dots. James focused on it, and a tremendous ache swelled in his head. The face loomed and swirled, at first dark, sinister, and disturbing, then softening into a pool of alabaster with a bright red halo.

  “Mom.”

  “Hello, sleepy head.” the face said. There were two other faces, all in white—nurses. The grogginess stuck to James like an afterbirth.

  “What happened?”

  Karen petted his forehead, and brushed the curls from his face. “You, you!” she stammered; then she broke into a flood of tears. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly. “That bloody bike of yours, you idiot!” She half-laughed, then sniffed, and wiped her face with her hankie.

  “Ohhhhh!” James tried to sit up, and failed. “Is it okay?”

  “The bike? No! It’s a wreck, and good riddance! I had hoped you would get a bit of sense at this point in your life.”

  The room was a visual riot of plumbing, wires, and monitors. The nurses tinkered with his IVs. James had to close his eyes to relieve his aching head.

  “Oh, and by the way, you are going to be okay—if you’re interested.”

  “Ah, great, good to know. I would have asked.” James grunted and tried to sit up again. “So I’m in your hospital? They brought me back?”

  “No, no, you were taken to Hahnemann. They’re looking after you just fine.” Karen smiled.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “A little over thirty hours now. I just found out about twelve hours ago, though. You only had your New York ID, and the police had to trace you through that address. It took them a while to find Peggy, and then she called me. I’ll tell her you’re okay now. She was frantic, but I put her off coming down until you came to.”

  James grunted. His body throbbed from one end to the other. “What did I break?”

  “Well, there was some hemorrhaging, but they got it under control. And you were concussed, but the pictures are good and there doesn’t seem to be any damage.” Karen frowned. “You should see your helmet. I swear, young man, if you ever go near another bike, I’ll...” She raised her fist to his nose and shook it.

  “Sure, Mom.” The harsh lights and the effort it took to talk were too much. James blinked. “Sure.” His eyelids flickered, and he was out.

  Happier now that she had seen James awake and alert, Karen remained by the bed as he dozed. For Karen, Hahnemann, or any hospital, was a comforting place—a quiet, serene cathedral of steel and glass.

  Night fell, and only the remote sounds of traffic on Broad Street punctuated the stillness. She sat by James’ bed in silence, and worried for him as he slept. The slight damage to his intestines had been repaired easily enough, but the concussion was a bigger worry. A head injury, you never knew with those—not for sure. She ran her fingers through his hair, then leaned back in her chair, and eventually fell asleep herself. A passing nurse covered her with a blanket.

  ~* * *~

  Some twenty-four hundred years prior to this eventful night, give or take a decade, another mother in another place fretted over her only child.

  Desperate, she had taken this boy, her one and only, to the gleaming white hospice the old master, Hippocrates, had founded on a lofty perch overlooking the blue Aegean.

  The woman had tried everything to appease the gods, sacrificing two goats as well as chickens by
the score—as any responsible mother would. But this had done the child no good whatsoever, and now her desperation had driven her to take this larger leap of faith. The boy’s name was Zozimus, and he was about four years of age. The mother was about twenty-three, but worry had made her old before her time.

  Hippocrates’ student and assistant, Pamphilos, examined the lad outside of the Hospice—well outside. Zozimus had simply refused to come any closer to the entrance than fifty meters or so. Of course, it is not unusual for children of that age to throw tantrums when taken someplace new or strange, but this boy’s agitation was well beyond the norm. However, Zozimus was soon calmed by the white-robed student, and allowed Pamphilos to examine him closely. The boy’s skin glowed as healthily as a ripe olive, and his eyes were as clear as the night sky. His hair was clean and black, and he had energy enough for half a dozen children.

  “I am sure it is the Sacred Disease,” the mother told Pamphilos, “the Sacred Disease” being the Greeks’ name for epilepsy in those days. The belief was that victims were being assaulted by demons, or possessed by the gods. The young student knew this was nonsense, but there was little point telling that to this simple woman.

  “I see no signs of that,” Pamphilos told her. “In fact, I see no signs of illness whatsoever.” If there was anything unusual about the boy, it was that he was positively rude with health.

  “Please, I beg of you!” the mother wailed. “When he is near certain people or places, he is seized with demons!”

  “Very well, we will have the master examine him.” Pamphilos took Zozimus by the hand and led him towards the entrance, but the boy dragged his heels and emptied his lungs in a piercing howl. The young apprentice lost all patience, picked the boy up, and carried him through the gates under his arm, directly to Hippocrates’ rooms, Zozimus kicking and screaming the whole way.

  The master was bandaging a man’s leg with clean linen and crushed sage leaves—an attempt to balance the man’s humors. As any schoolchild knows nowadays, he was sterilizing the wound with those leaves, but this was a major breakthrough at that time.