The Crystal Child (37 page)

“That’s one thing I know for sure,” she said.  “Aaron will be of no help to you.”

Horvath wagged his head from side to side as if he were pondering the matter.  “Perhaps not right away.  But in time … and with your assistance …  It is surely the least you can do.”

***

For the next three days Julia avoided encountering DeLeon.  Then, one late afternoon he came knocking at her door — something he had never done before.  When she answered, there he stood in the hall, smiling shamefacedly.  He turned aside and raised one shoulder to shield his face, a mock-defensive posture, as if he feared she might want to beat him with a stick.  “I come bearing apologies and gifts,” he announced, holding out a bouquet of roses in one hand, his other hand concealing something behind his back.  “And to beg your forgiveness most humbly.”  He was putting on a show of excessive humility, the fawning  persona he used to throw people off-guard.  It was a role she detested more than the domineering bully he might unpredictably become at any moment.  Yet what choice did she have but to play along with his act?   She had to share the man’s house and could not elude him indefinitely. “All right,” she said, nodding her ascent to his plea.  “But please, no more cardiac-arrest crises in the middle of the night.”

“Ah, I am so grateful,” he declared, now extending his other hand which held a bottle of his favorite cognac and two glasses.  “Please, may we have a drink on that?”  Without waiting for her answer, he squeezed through the door and took possession of the room.  The cognac was opened and served at once.  And for most of the next half hour he continued making excessively servile excuses for his bad conduct.  “Disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful,” he declared.  “I have always been able to hold my liquor.  That has been a matter of some pride.  Perhaps the years have caught up with me.”  Finally, when she signaled that his penitence had gone far enough, he steered the  conversation in another direction, clearly indicating that he considered himself forgiven.  He had brought her a book.  The title was
Cellular Symmetry: The Ultimate Secret of Life-Extension.
  Though she had no idea what the title meant, she assumed it was another of the therapeutic fads DeLeon was forever bringing to her attention.  She looked up from the cover, waiting for the explanation she knew he would offer.  “It comes straight out of NASA,” DeLeon went on, sitting forward on the edge of his seat, eager to hold forth.  “Cutting edge, absolutely cutting edge.”

It was too early in the day for her to begin drinking, but she offered her glass for more cognac.  “If you’re going to tell me about it, I may as well top up,” she said.

“That’s the spirit,” DeLeon said, glowing now with the assumption that he had won back her respect.  “As you know, the heaviest part of the cell is the nucleus.  Thus, under normal Earth-bound conditions, the nucleus is drawn to the lowest part of the cell by gravity.  And there it cannot help but impinge upon the membrane causing excessive wear.  And the membrane is our most precious possession, the first step toward individuality, an identity separate from the surrounding medium.  A boundary.  Similarly the telomeres are drawn to the lowest point of the genome, where they undergo degradation.   But if one keeps the nucleus centered, one spares the  cell wall uneven deterioration, in much the same way that rotating tires on an automobile prevents uneven wear.  This is the origin of the yogic head-stand, a primitive attempt to rebalance the cells — but alas! only temporarily.  This is where NASA’s work with astronauts comes in.  As perhaps you know, weightlessness invariably gives the astronaut a sense of tremendous euphoria.  And why is this?  Because in zero gravity, the nucleus of each cell returns to its proper central position and the cells are rejuvenated.”

“You intend to send your clients into outer space?” she asked, her tone openly mordant.

“Come now!  Of course not.  There are ways to simulate zero gravity on earth, most obviously in an anti-gravity chamber.  There is also free-fall jumping — as with bungee jumping or on the trampoline.  Even a few moments of weightlessness can result in a dynamic realignment of the cells.  And of course once one gets the feel of the fully recentered body, one can be taught to reproduce the condition at will — perhaps by visualization, as with biofeedback.  Imagine being able to realign every cell in the body.  What do you think?”

Can’t he tell
, she wondered.  “Don’t ask if you don’t wish to be told,” Julia said.

“But I do wish to be told.”

Her gaze was steady, a level rebuff.  “It’s nonsense.”

He assumed an expression of exaggerated injury.  “But at the very least worth further investigation, don’t you feel?  I am planning the first world conference on cellular recentering for next year.  I have three astronauts signed up to address us.”

Julia put down her glass, still half filled.  “You’re a terrific salesman, Peter. I’m sure it will be a great success.  You’ll no doubt sell thousands of trampolines.”

He shook his head.  “You’re a tough nut to crack, Doctor.”

“Then why bother?  My opinion is of no value.”

“Oh, but it is.  I very much want to have your respect.”

They had talked like this many times before, DeLeon trying to win her over to one foolish fad or another.  He had to know by now how little point there was in these arguments, and yet he continued to pursue them as if one day he might hit on an idea she was willing to accept. But this time, he seemed more tentative than ever — as if he had something else in mind that he was waiting to lay before her.  After a moment, he said, “I remember every word, you know.”

“Every word of what?”

“All that you said during our unfortunate encounter the other night.  A dangerous quack, you called me.  A self-indulgent fool.”

She had no wish to tangle with him.  “I’m sorry, I lost my temper.”

“But you don’t take back the words.”

Her hands went to her temples, a gesture of advanced impatience.  “Peter, Peter.  What do you want from me?  What does it matter what I think?”

“Oh, but it does,” he insisted.  “Grant me an hour,” he said at last. It’s not much to ask.” There was a look now in his eyes that she had not seen before.  A man pleading for the chance to overcome humiliation.  There was nothing hostile in his manner, but she knew it would be a mistake to deny him.

***

Beckoning Julia to follow, DeLeon led her through the house to a room in the unfinished wing she had not seen before and across the room to a locked door.  He fetched out a key, opened the door, and invited her through.  A few moments later, they were winding their way down the same spiral stone staircase she had once descended with Isobe.  Once again, the sulphurous odors of Isobe’s heaven and hell assaulted her.  Her eyes began to tear.  Apologizing for the pungent odor, DeLeon moved ahead rapidly until they reached the locked gate that led to the deeper levels of Tlaloc, the place where Isobe had stopped.  Glowing now with anticipation, DeLeon quickly tapped a code into a digital lock and the heavy metal door swung open to reveal another flight of stairs.  “Those who blaze trails,” he said, slowing to address her over his shoulder, “are always seen as charlatans or mad men.  Nature faker that I am, I supposedly have no respect for empirical evidence.  DeLeon just makes it up as he goes along.  Isn’t that so?  I’m used to it.  But that will change.  One day they will come to me, offering money, favors, tributes.  And despite all, I shall be generous.  I will be known as the man who discovered the genetic Rosetta stone.”

They were well within the heart of the mountain now. The walls here, cold to the touch, had been left rough-hewn, the stairs barely finished, chipped and cracked.  The passage was dimly lit by florescent sconces along the walls.  From below a cool, dry stream of air washed over them.  From the moment she followed DeLeon into this deeper realm of Tlaloc, she became apprehensive, knowing that here, more than ever, she was in his power.  If he were to leave her now, she would never be found.  But would he do that?   Together, they wound around another several turns of the staircase.  At the foot of the stairs she found herself facing a thick metal door.  Beside the door was a rack on which a number of heavy garments were hung.  DeLeon plucked one from its hook and held it out to Julia, a bulky duffle coat with a hood.   “You’ll need this.  It’s a bit nippy inside.”  She slipped the jacket on.  “And do zip up,” DeLeon said as he pulled another coat from the rack for himself.

When they were both well-wrapped, he tapped a code into the lock on the door, then put his shoulder against the steel slab and forced it open.  She was greeted by a gust of frigid air that bore an unmistakable chemical odor.  Formaldehyde. DeLeon reached around the edge of the door to switch on an overhead file of glaring, blue-white lights.  “After you,” he said, gesturing her in.

Julia stepped in cautiously, making sure DeLeon was close behind her.  The air in the room was brittle with cold, more than chilly enough to serve as a meat locker.  The walls were windowless and bare, the same rough-cut stone that lined the stairway.  Under the harsh ceiling lights stood a collection of low, metal tables each holding a closed oblong box.  Approaching the first of these, Julia saw that they were coffins made of untrimmed bronze.  The place at once took on the look and feel of a morgue.  “This could be mistaken for a crypt,” DeLeon said.  “That’s what Isobe calls it.  DeLeon’s crypt.  I prefer to think of it as my repository and these as my specimens.  Studies in incipient immortality.”

He led her to the first table.  “Brother Theodosius,” he announced in a hushed voice as he raised the heavy lid that covered the sarcophagus.  Beneath it, shielded by a heavy sheet of glass, lay a shriveled brown figure curled into a fetal posture.  The body was still recognizably human, though only barely.  The face had been all but erased by decay, but the teeth, what was left of them, showed through the ruined features, the familiar grin of death.  Julia winced to see it.  “Come now,” DeLeon laughed.  “Not squeamish, are you?  Please take a good look.  Brother Theodosius was rumored to be the oldest of his long-lived brethren.  The Brothers of the Ascension.  One of the oldest Greek Orthodox monastic orders.  The monks who stayed on after the Turks overran the eastern Mediterranean were allowed no holy ground of their own, you see.  So they took to eviscerating and mummifying their dead.  But even the Anatolian highlands cannot provide perfect desiccation.  None of the bodies left from before the early twentieth century survive as more than bone and ash.  If the fathers can be believed, there were members who lived more than two-hundred years.  But none of their remains have survived into our time.  Brother Theodosius was one-hundred and forty-three when he passed on.  That was in 1937.  I was able to purchase his remains in 1974, by which time he was somewhat the worse for wear.  But there has been no further decay since I transferred him here.  Helium in an air temperature of 5 degrees Celsius is the ideal preservative.  Pity the ancient Egyptians knew nothing about it.  We might have perfect mummies.”

At her side, Julia felt DeLeon waiting eagerly for a response.  “How very ghoulish,” she said, pulling her coat closer at the throat.  She was chilling with more than the cold.  She cast a glance at the other tables.  “There are more of these?”

“Eight more,” DeLeon answered.  “But I won’t ask you to view them all, not today.  Only the best preserved. That will be enough to let you appreciate my intention.  To save the whole body guarantees the source.”

“The source of what?”

“The source of the sample.  I intend to open a laboratory, the best in the industry.  It will begin with a unique collection of specimens.  The oldest of the old.  I have no interest in monopoly.  I hope to be the vanguard of an international effort, a sort of gerontological Manhattan Project.  Immortality Incorporated.  I’m quite willing to make tissue samples available to researchers around the world.”

“You must realize that you’ll be dismissed as a crank.”

“Possibly, but why?  Because I believe longevity has a locus in the body?  Is that so far-fetched?  Well, I can be patient.”  He raised the lid on the next coffin to reveal another brown and shrunken cadaver, this one in a better state of preservation.  The facial features could still be made out.  “From Shangri-la, you might say.  Western Tibet.  Unfortunately, the gentleman is anonymous.  His lamasery was unorthodox.  Rather than burning their dead, they stored them in ice caves above twenty-thousand feet.  I was shown corpses from as far back as the sixteenth century, many in nearly perfect condition.  This fellow passed on in the year of George Washington’s birth.  He was the oldest in the collection, between one-hundred fifty and sixty, once again based on local memory.  There were others nearly as old, but I could not bargain more than one away from the Grand Lama.”

“What exactly do you think anyone can learn from material as deteriorated as this?”

“What any forensic scientist would be able to glean from even more decomposed remains.  Physical evidence.  The story of their DNA.  The secret of their longevity.”  There was a strained note running through his words, someone trying to impress her.

“Peter, no reputable laboratory would accept tissues like this.  You have no way to verify how old these people were.”

“Perhaps not.  But what would that matter if anomalies were found in their genes? Undeniable anomalies.”

Again he waited for some reaction, but Julia, now shivering with cold despite her coat and baffled by the macabre spectacle, could find nothing to say beyond asking if they were finished.  Disappointment flashed across DeLeon’s face, a dark resentment he quickly fought back.  “I see that I’m wasting my time.  Marvelous, isn’t it, how empiricists pick and choose their evidence.”

“It’s simply that I’m freezing,” she said.  His voice had taken on a petulant edge she did not like.  He was pouting in a way that bordered on becoming vindictive.  Perhaps if she appeased him, he would let her leave.  But he went on, more surly now.

“One more exhibit, I insist.  My proudest possession.”  They moved to the last coffin in the series.  “Even by your rigorous professional standards, I believe you’ll find this my most reliably documented exhibit.”  He opened the lid.  “I spent years haggling over these bones and finally paid handsomely for them.  The Comte Benigne Marie du Pré La Calprenède.  Born 1714.  Died … well, take a guess.”