Chicano Frankenstein, page 14
“I knew you were different from all the other guys I dated,” said Faustina with a laugh.
“Ha!” said the doctor. “That’s a good one.”
“Okay,” said the man. “I promise.”
The room grew quiet. The doctor nodded slowly.
“But if I give you the address,” said the doctor, “I will also give you some background as well as a story that you can tell those you end up meeting. I know it will feel like a lie, but we will practice, and it will be for their—and your—protection. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes,” said the man. “I am okay with that. I promise.”
“And above all else, you must remember one thing,” said the doctor.
“And what’s that?” said the man.
“No matter what you learn about your former self, and no matter what cover story we come up with, the most important thing you must remember is that you are alive. Got that? Alive. In the here and now. What you are experiencing is real. It’s just different from what you had before.”
“Yes,” said the man. “I am alive.”
Faustina looked at the man and squeezed his right arm.
“Good,” said the doctor. “We can get down to business.”
“But,” said the man, “what about these?” He withdrew from his shirt pocket a bottle of pills. “I am almost out. I can’t find any more at the pharmacy. I’ve been cutting them in half.”
“Those are worthless,” the doctor laughed. “Just a simple antihistamine, nothing more.”
“I was told that I had to take it or else I wouldn’t live my full twenty years.”
“Just another revenue stream for Big Pharma,” said the doctor.
“But why would they do that?” said the man.
“Occam’s razor.”
“What?”
“The simplest explanation is preferable to one that is more complex,” said the doctor. “Greed is the answer, pure and simple. It is the great motivator. So this alleged need for a reanimation medication was part of the backroom dealmaking that a few Senators got for their pharmaceutical donors. The circle of life… for the scum of the Earth.”
“So I don’t need my medication?”
“You will live as long as any person, so just eat your vegetables, exercise, floss your teeth, and love the one you’re with, as the old song goes.”
“Oh,” said the man.
“That’s fucked,” said Faustina. “Not your health advice and loving the one you’re with. The Big Pharma bullshit.”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “Royally fucked. Cabrones, all of them! It’s emblematic of their thinking, you know that? Better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven, that’s their motto. They don’t mind being cast from heaven as long as their pockets are bulging with dinero. The almighty dollar is their god. And besides, they never viewed the reanimated community as being fully human anyway. Just some kind of… of… let me think, what’s a good metaphor? Golem. That’s it! Golem, not human.”
“What’s a ‘golem’?” said the man.
The doctor thought for a moment, then scanned the room. He let out a little grunt when his eyes landed on a pile of books set atop the coffee table. The doctor stood and walked to the table, lifted three books, and snatched a fourth, then returned the first three with an alacrity that startled the man and Faustina. He handed the book to the man as if offering a rare, bejeweled gift.
“Read this when you have a chance,” said the doctor. “Essentially, a golem is an artificial human being from Jewish folklore, but this book explains its rich history.”
The man took the book from the doctor and read its title aloud: “The Golem Redux: From Prague to Post-Holocaust Fiction.”
“It’s a fascinating book that will answer all your questions about all things golem,” said the doctor. “In some ways I prefer the golem metaphor over some of the other ones like, you know, the Shelley novel. Though I sort of like the moniker of the ‘modern Prometheus.’ Nothing beats being a Titan unless, of course, your father is Zeus and decides to punish you. Then watch out for your liver!” said the doctor as he took another drink. “Though I’d love my liver to grow back each day.”
“Poor old Prometheus,” said Faustina with a laugh. The man blinked, not certain what to think.
“But I’m no Victor Frankenstein,” continued the doctor. “And you are not a monster. You are a person. And every person has value, no? Frankly, the ones who call you a monster are the real monsters. Ni modo. We need to focus on the task at hand.”
The man placed the golem book on the couch and waited.
The doctor walked to the bookshelves that covered the far wall. He scanned the titles, muttering to himself, and then said, “Ah!” He reached for a tattered paperback book and walked over to the man and Faustina.
“Let’s begin with this,” said the doctor as he presented the book to the man.
Quetzalcoatl looked up at the humans, licked its lips, and closed its eyes again. The man received the book and scanned its cover. He mouthed to himself, “… y no se lo tragó la tierra by Tomás Rivera.”
“I read that novel in college,” said Faustina. “The English translation, though. I love the title: … And the Earth Did Not Devour Him. I mean, how many book titles begin with an ellipsis? Those three little dots say so much. Anyway, after I read the English translation, I was able to make it through the original Spanish with the help of a dictionary. So beautiful.”
“It’s a bilingual edition,” said the doctor. “The translation is actually quite good. The translator is a poet in her own right, so even the English sings!”
“Do you want me to read it?” asked the man.
“Only if you want to, later. But more importantly, you should open it,” said the doctor as he walked to the turntable and flipped the Tierra album over. As the first song of side two started, the doctor closed his eyes and hummed a little to himself, lost in a faraway happy memory. He sighed, opened his eyes, and walked slowly back to the couple.
The man opened the book, and hidden in the pages was a folded piece of paper. He carefully pulled it out, handed the book to Faustina, and unfolded the paper.
“The FBI searched my hard drive and cell phone, but they were daunted by my thousands of books,” said the doctor. “They never looked into any of the volumes on these two walls because they got tired of opening book after book after book on that smaller bookcase over there,” he added with a chuckle as he pointed to a bulging bookcase near the fireplace. “I got the idea from an Edgar Allan Poe short story. Hidden in plain sight!”
The man studied the handwritten notes on the paper.
“It’s just bare-bones information on you—who you were—like date of birth, schools you attended, what you studied in college, your most recent employment, et cetera,” said the doctor. “You weren’t married, and you didn’t have any children.”
“And this name here,” said the man, “Elisa Ochoa, is that my mother?”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “And that’s her last known address. Right here in Oxnard. That’s why I asked you to pack a few things when you first called me. You can stay in my guest room, not a problem. The foldout is actually quite comfy. I am a longtime widower, and my son is across the country teaching biology at Brown, so you won’t be in the way. It’d be kind of nice to have people around this big house. I can cook a big breakfast. I was planning on chorizo con huevo, steaming corn tortillas, and gallons of coffee. But if you want, there’s also a Comfort Inn, and I think a Hilton, and other hotels not too far from here if you prefer to have your own space, as they say. Ni modo. I thought that you might want to pay a visit tomorrow to Elisa Ochoa, since it’s Sunday.”
The man looked at Faustina, who shrugged.
“We can stay here tonight,” said the man.
“And your suggested breakfast menu sounds better than anything I can think of,” said Faustina. “Thank you!”
“Por nada,” said the doctor. “And it will give us a bit more time to plot out a cover story for you. We don’t want to upset anyone.”
“Yes,” said the man. “We don’t want to upset anyone.”
At that moment, Quetzalcoatl woke from its nap, blinked, yawned, and let out a small meow.
The doctor laughed. “The mention of chorizo con huevo must have broken into Quetzi’s dreams. Let me feed my little friend first. Sadly, Quetzi will have to dine on more traditional cat food. Then we three can get down to work and get ready for your big visit tomorrow.”
“Yes, I would like that,” said the man.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Faustina.
“Yes, it does,” said the doctor as he reached down to pick up the cat. “Yes, it does.”
ATTORNEY GENERAL LAUNCHES INDUSTRY INVESTIGATION OF REANIMATION PROTOCOL BREACHES
WASHINGTON (AP)—Attorney General Joyce McCluskie launched a formal, wide-ranging investigation Thursday into the reanimation industry for what she called “egregious” and “systematic” breaches of the so-called Stitcher Protocols that had been in place prior to President Mary Beth Cadwallader’s recent banning of the reanimation procedure.
“One of the reasons the president outlawed reanimation was the brazen pattern and practice of protocol violations that undermined not only the rule of law but also the moral fiber of our society,” said the attorney general, who was joined by her legal team at the press conference.
“Recent FBI raids uncovered extensive potential violations as well as potential coverups at the highest levels of some of our largest targets,” said McCluskie. The attorney general declined to name which companies were targets, though one of the highest-profile FBI raids was conducted last month at Clerval Industries, based in Oxnard, California.
McCluskie, in rather vague terms, described the alleged protocol violations as being tied to actions by industry doctors to maintain contact with reanimated subjects in order to inculcate them with “politically correct” and “race-based” information of their prior lives.
When asked if the investigation was related to the upcoming midterm elections and the president’s desire to maintain her majorities in both the House and Senate, the attorney general vehemently denied the accusation.
“We are about doing the right thing, uninfluenced by politics or party affiliation,” said McCluskie. “We are the Department of Justice, not the department of midterms,” she added with a chuckle.
McCluskie has been mentioned as a potential replacement for Supreme Court Associate Justice Alexander Williams, who turned 87 last week and has been in ill health since suffering a series of strokes at the end of last term. Justice Williams, however, has refused to step down and issued a statement last week indicating, in his trademark colorful language, a desire to continue working until he is “carried out of my chambers, boots first.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE MAN CLOSED DR. Prietto’s front door and entered the cool evening. The few sips of Faustina’s drink had worn off after the two-hour prep session the doctor put him and Faustina through for tomorrow’s visit. He looked down at the jack-o’-lantern that offered in response a silent maniacal scream. The man made a face back at the carved pumpkin and let out a small laugh. He stretched his legs and twirled his arms in three clockwise circles. The man took a deep breath, put on his hoodie, and then started on his run. He did not remember these Oxnard streets—the reanimation process wiped those memories away—but no matter. The man needed to feel his legs and arms work against the night in preparation for tomorrow. Despite some trepidation, a growing calm was beginning to bloom now that he had made it this far on his journey. And he had Faustina to thank for that. The full moon shone brightly as it lit the man’s way down the unfamiliar street and seemed to warm his limbs with its glow.
When the man returned to Dr. Prietto’s home after his run, he took a long, hot shower and then snuggled behind Faustina in the guest bed. She stirred but did not wake. The man buried his face in the back of her neck and drifted to sleep within three minutes. The man fell into a dream, and it initially seemed to be the same dream he’d had each night since his reanimation. In the dream, faces—some familiar, some not—flickered and ebbed into view. Lips moved, words muttered, but the man could not discern their meaning. And then silence. Not a sound to be heard. Suddenly, the amorphous surroundings transformed into a beach, and the man found himself standing at the edge of the water. He looked down, and this is where his dream diverged from the other nights. A small boat floated on the water before him, but instead of carrying a body draped in a white shroud, there sat Faustina dressed in a flowing white dress. A voice commanded the man to step into the boat.
“Where are we going?” the man asked the disembodied voice.
“All will be revealed if you are ready to see,” the voice answered.
And the man did what he was told. He settled in near Faustina, and the boat started to move forward of its own volition, the rippling water making a strange whispering sound.
As the boat steadily moved across what appeared to be an endless lake, the man forgot about Faustina sitting near him. His stomach rumbled and he allowed his mind to drift to imagined sumptuous meals that—unlike prior versions of this dream—he now had memories of consuming before. These foods were so wonderful, they filled him with great joy and warmth. The boat finally reached the other side of the lake. The man disembarked and then gave his hand to Faustina and helped her out of the boat and onto the warm sand. The man grew angry with himself because he had forgotten to ask the disembodied voice for further direction. But no matter. They would trudge forward. As they did, the man noticed that the terrain changed. Strange trees and plants sprouted from what was now a rocky, craggy ground. The man and Faustina marched a very long time, and they grew weary, each step becoming more and more difficult. The man’s bare feet started to bleed as they were cut by the sharp, rocky ground. Faustina did not seem to encounter sharp rocks, and her steps remained light and unfettered by pain or discomfort, though she grew as weary as the man. The man eventually realized that the terrain had grown more fantastical with each step. Indeed, the shapes he saw seemed to become something more than terrain, something akin to a language. Not merely a language but a hieroglyph, ancient and mysterious, that spoke only to him. For some reason, Faustina did not understand what the shapes said, and she didn’t seem to care. Without much effort, he deciphered the message. The man now knew what he needed to do and where they must go.
The man, armed with knowledge, finally reached the place where he could allow himself to rest and gather his wits. Faustina found a smooth boulder upon which to sit, and this gave the man great comfort. The man looked up and saw a large boulder shaped like a hand holding a ripe fig. The boulder balanced upon a pedestal of rock that jutted up from the sand. With an agility he did not possess while awake, the man scrambled up to the boulder and examined it. He placed his right hand on the boulder and the rock and felt the coolness of the stone. The man closed his eyes and offered a simple benediction for the emptiness he caressed: “May your history be complete.” He removed his hand, nodded, and then scrambled back down.
After a few moments of silence, the man and Faustina started their long trek back to the boat. They walked through the strange, craggy terrain, which eventually gave way to the gentle sand that they had first encountered. The sun warmed their bodies and the gentle sand seeped through their toes with each step. But their serenity was dashed when a group of dark figures without faces surrounded them. The man tried to scream but couldn’t open his mouth. Faustina suddenly disappeared. These dark figures pulled at the man’s arms—first his left, then his right—and bit his face and body as they snarled like rabid dogs. This torture went on and on and on. The only consolation the man felt was that Faustina was spared this fate because she was nowhere to be seen. Finally the dark figures dropped the man onto the ground and lurched away, muttering obscene sounds that were not quite words. The man lay bruised and bleeding, but in time he gathered himself up and stood. The man felt his body and confirmed that he was intact. And slowly he resumed his journey, limping in pain with each step. He wondered where Faustina was, but he could not bring himself to search. The man felt compelled to move forward.
The man made it to the boat, which seemed to be waiting for him. He got in, sat down, and closed his eyes. The man could feel the boat move, sliding slowly across the vast lake in the direction from where they had come. He eventually felt a presence near the boat, floating out before him in the water. The man’s eyes popped open, and what he saw made him smile. A few yards from the boat’s bow floated the dark figures that had accosted him previously. There is justice, thought the man. The boat slid by the bodies and the man grinned in satisfaction at the flotsam and jetsam that had been his tormentors.
In time the man’s boat reached the shore. His bruises and lacerations had miraculously healed, and he felt fit and strong. He closed his eyes to rest. When he opened them, Faustina sat next to him as she had when they first started their journey. Oh joy! The boat finally reached the shore, and the man stepped out of the boat first. He offered his right hand to Faustina, but at that moment, before she could grasp his hand, the man fell into darkness—fast and dizzying, deep, deep, deep into an abyss. Before the man hit the bottom, he awoke from his dream.
The man sat up and looked around room. At first he could not remember where he was, then he realized he was in the doctor’s guest room. He saw Faustina on her side facing him, curled into a ball like a cat and snoring, face half buried in the man’s pillow. The sheet had fallen to the floor, and the soft amber light of the nightstand lamp bathed Faustina in a gentle glow. The man softly touched Faustina’s cheek. The man sighed, pulled the sheet around Faustina, snuggled into her, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
