The Valeditztorian (9 page)

“Straight ahead,” says Luciano, pointing out the massive church dominating the square in which we’re standing.

“What do you think?” I ask Grace.

“I’ve been there already, but I’d love to go back again. The inside is a real treat.”

Cr
ossing over São Francisco’s threshold, I can almost hear my Great Grandma Sophia—who lived to be 104-years-old and was particularly narrow minded when it came to religious tolerance—yelling in my ear, “Emma, how can you walk inside a church? If you get married in one of those places, I’m not coming to the wedding!”

Luckily Sophia
’s posthumous scolding quickly dissipates as my eyes feast upon the Igreja’s magnificent interior, nearly all of which is covered in finely detailed, brilliant gold leafing.

“Wow,” I say to Grace
. “You were right about this place. It’s stunning.”

Sorry,
Great Grandma.

After
spending some time studying the intricately sculptured walls and columns that fill the gilded church, we exit and continue roaming the side streets. Thousands of tchotchkes and some beautiful African art pieces are for sale in numerous, closet-sized tourist traps, but I’m too poor to buy anything valuable.

“How about a bathing suit?” asks Grace inside a clothing store
. “This one would look nice on you,” she says, holding up a beaded brown bikini.

“It’s a bit small, don’t you think?”

“Not by Brazilian standards,” says Grace.

“Okay,
I’ll give it a try,” I say, trying to be brave.

The itsy-bitsy brown bathing suit is, by far, the teeniest bikini I’ve ever dared to wear
. When I model it for my companions, Paula says something, and Grace immediately cracks up.

“I know…
.I look totally ridiculous,” I say, wrapping my arms protectively around my midriff.

“No, you look great,” says Grace
. “But Paula says the suit is too American.”

“What do you mean,
‘too American’?”

“She means there’s too much material
. It covers too much of your body.”

“If it showed any less
of my body, I’d be naked.”

I’m still smiling when I purchase the suit.

Under a blood red setting sun, our group grabs a table adjacent to a bandstand in a central crossroads of the Pelourinho. Since it’s dinnertime, and I’m starving as usual, I assume we’re going to eat a big meal. Instead, a few paltry appetizers are quickly devoured by our group of six people, and I’m left with a familiar gnawing feeling in my stomach. Even on special occasions, lunch is apparently the only big meal in Salvador. Nonetheless, copious amounts of alcohol soon make up for in calories our lack of actual sustenance.

“Aren’t you going to
drink?” Luciano asks, downing his second beer.

“No
, I’m not,” I say.

“Come on, Emma,” says Peter
. “You should celebrate.”

“N
ot with alcohol,” I say.

“Why not?” asks Grace, who’s already looking tipsy after a couple of caipirinhas.

“In my body, alcohol is poisonous.”

“What do you mean?” asks Luciano
.

“Whenever I drink
, I get sick,” I say.

“You mean you start throwing up?” asks Grace
. “That only happens to me if I drink too much.”

“No, that’s not what I’m
talking about. Alcohol is really bad for my immune system. Even if I drink just a little, I usually come down with a cold the next day, and nasty cold sores start popping out all around my mouth.”

“Ew
w,” says Grace. “Emma has cooties.”

“Herpes, Grace
. I have herpes, not cooties.”

“That’s even worse than cooties,” says Grace.

“At least I only get them around my lips,” I say.

“That’s the way to look on the bright side, Emma,” says Luciano, raising his glass and taking another swig
.

“I try
to be optimistic.”

The
herpetic cold sores, acquired during my very first sexual encounter, are fairly annoying, but thankfully nothing more than that. Though I already understood the basics of pregnancy, back in kindergarten I was blissfully unaware of the threat of herpes.

“Hey
, Emma,” said Matthew Perry, the six-year-old boy who lived across the street from my family during my grammar school days. “Wanna practice kissing with me?”

My five-year-old
brain was intrigued by this proposal.

“Okay,” I said.

The two of us held hands and skipped to the glider in my backyard. Snuggling close to one another on that mild spring day, Matthew brushed his lips against my cheek.

“How did that feel?” he asked.

“Nice,” I replied.

At that tender age, physical closeness with a boy already felt warm and exciting.

“Let’s try kissing on the lips,” he said. “You go first.”

“
Alright.”

Tentatively, I planted a tiny kiss on Matthew’s lips.

“Was that good?” I asked, looking for feedback.

“Yup,” he said
. “Now it’s my turn.”

At first, I found myself enjoying Matthew’s gentle kiss
. Then something wet and slimy popped between my teeth, invading my mouth.

“Yuck!” I shouted, pulling away from him
. “What was that?”

“My tongue.”

“Gross. I can’t believe you just put your tongue in my mouth. That’s disgusting.”

“But that’s how my parents do it
. Don’t yours?”

“I don’t know
. I’m not really sure.”

For a moment, when I glanced toward the kitchen window, I could’ve sworn I saw my mother standing there, holding h
er sides, busting out laughing. About a week later, when I had my first outbreak of painful cold sores and a high fever, she wasn’t laughing at all.

“Oh, Emma,”
she said, “I’m sorry this happened to you, sweetheart.”

“But
I’m going to get better,” I said. “All the itchy spots will go away, right?”

“Yes, honey, but periodically they’re going to come back
.”

My mother was never one to sugar coat the truth
.

“So the next time you decide to kiss someone,
” she continued, “you need to do two things. First, be certain you don’t have any blisters, because you wouldn’t want to give them to anyone else.”

“That’s for sure,” I said.

“And second, if you notice that the other person has a rash, don’t kiss them. Okay?”

“Okay
. But what if the other person is Aunt Maude?”

“If Aunt Maude has a rash, you might have to make an exception
and kiss her anyway. Your Aunt takes everything too personally.”

Then she kissed my forehead.

After several rounds of drinks, which I steadfastly decline, the mood of my companions—and everyone around us—is raucous and jolly. As the sky darkens and the sidewalks fill with people, the sound of drum beats suddenly fills the air. A moment later, a group of about 20 male drummers wearing yellow, red, and green-striped shirts pours onto the bandstand.

Grace
elbows me in the ribs, shouting in my ear, “That’s Olodum!”

T
he band’s powerful drumming vibrates the very air, inspiring everyone nearby to leap up and start gyrating to the beat. For several minutes I stare at the enthusiastic crowd, fascinated by this physically demanding form of street dancing. In particular, I study a muscular young woman who looks like a pro. With her knees in plié, palms raised in supplication, she rapidly circles her torso from the umbilicus to the neck. The woman is a master of body isolations. Still wearing her stilettos, Paula struts to her side and manages an impressive imitation. Soon she and Luciano are plastered together, inventing their own variations.

Grace rolls her eyes and mutters, “Get a room.”

“They will,” says Peter, as Soelia yanks him onto the concrete dance floor.

Adjacent to the dancers, I notice a small group of men doing something that l
ooks like a cross between breakdancing and karate.

“That’s capoeira,” says Grace, watching the direction of my gaze.

“They’re terrific,” I murmur, amazed at the way the men balance their inverted bodies, sometimes on one hand, flipping and spinning, gracefully sweeping their legs over one another in turn.

Although
this dance clearly requires brute strength and gymnastics ability, the intricate revolution of bodies sparring together and lunging apart is also quite beautiful.

Wh
ile I’m distracted by the capoeira, someone pulls me into the throng of street dancers. As I join them, the booming drums of Olodum reverberate in unison through the atmosphere, permeating the pores of my skin. The throbbing rhythm invigorates the crowd around me, overtaking bodies like prayer consumes a mass of Quakers. Everyone is sweating with effort and beaming with happiness. The vitality is contagious, even for a generally self-conscious, uncoordinated person like me. Soon I’m digging my pelvis into the concrete, trying to find my center of gravity and losing myself in the dance.

“Not bad,” Peter shouts
.

Coming from Peter, who is clearly an experienced dancer, this is a great compliment.

“What is it with you Brazilians?” I shout back, blushing. “Why are you all such incredible dancers?”

“We
are born this way,” Peter says. “It is in our blood.”

G
azing at the talent in the square, I can’t help imagining Peter dancing with his nurse in the delivery room, just as he’s being pulled from the womb.

For hours the band pounds the drums, the crowd sweats to the rhythm, and the caipirinhas flow
. Long after the stars have come out, in the wee hours of the new morning, we stumble back to Luciano’s car. For the return trip, Soelia sits on Peter’s lap in the front passenger’s seat, which he clearly doesn’t mind, while Paula, Grace, and I squeeze into the back. When the engine starts, I pray to God that Luciano gets us home safely, since he’s conceivably well beyond the legal limit. Over the last few hours, I’ve lost track of exactly how much he’s had to drink. If I knew how to drive a stick I’d offer to do it myself, but of course I’ve never mastered the technique.

Miraculously
, Luciano manages to drive home without killing us or the car. Though I’ve doubted it for years, when I finally fall into my bed, I can’t help wondering if there really is a God, despite my mother’s opinion on the matter.

Chapter Five

Animal Experimentation

Since
I’ve unexpectedly finished the leptospirosis project early, on Monday morning I approach Luciano to inquire about my future purpose in the lab.

“So what am I goi
ng to do next?” I say with a smile.

“I haven’t even begun
to think about it,” says Luciano, squeezing his eyelids together.

On
the corner of his desk sits an industrial-sized bottle of acetaminophen.

“Are you okay?” I ask
.

“Mostly
, but my head is killing me. I have an awful hangover from the weekend.”

Hangovers—y
et another reason why I avoid alcohol. I almost feel sorry for him.

“Did you go out
drinking again after Friday?” I inquire.

“Friday, Saturday, Sunday—
yes…maybe…it’s hard to remember. Right now, it’s all a big blur.”

“Do you need a
little time to think about my next project, and recover?”

“A little recovery time
would be excellent. Can you keep yourself busy for a few hours?”

“No problem
,” I say. “I’ll go write some letters.”

While Luciano nurses his hangover, I try e-mailing Thomas
and my parents, mainly to let them know that I’m still breathing. But like most technical endeavors in Salvador, my efforts are thwarted by one problem after another. First, a two-page letter that took me nearly an hour to write gets deleted when the computer crashes. Once I reconstruct the letter, being careful to hit “save” after every sentence, my internet connection dies. Despite restarting the computer several times, I’m unable to restore the connection. At the end of two hours, I still haven’t sent anything. Though somewhat annoyed, I’m not particularly worried about my inability to communicate overseas. As far as my mother is concerned, no news from me is good news.

Luciano
then appears at my station, proclaiming, “I’ve figured it out!”

“You have?”
I ask.

“Yes
! I know what you’re going to do next.”

“Leptospirosis s
train typing?” I say.

Luciano
grimaces and grabs his temples.

“Oh, n
o, no, no. Strain typing would be a terrible idea. With your coordination, you’d infect yourself with leptospirosis in no time.”

Since he’s probably right, I don’t argue
.

“Then what?”
I ask.

“You’re going to the mouse lab
. Alvin just told me that he needs some help.”

“No
way,” I say. “I’m not going there.”

“Yes
, you are,” says Luciano.

Though I vehemently protest
, Luciano marches me down the hall anyway, handing me over to Grace’s boss. A short, thin, good-looking Korean American transplant from New York Hospital, Alvin Koh initially seems to be a reasonable man. Perhaps because I’ve already completed Luciano’s project, he takes me seriously when I explain that I’d rather be force fed Vatapá than work with the mice.

“What
? You don’t like rodents?” he asks.

“That’s the problem,” I answer
. “I like them too much.”

“Then h
ow about another computer project? You could help Grace analyze the results of her melanoma study.”

Ah, computer analysis
. Safe territory.

“Tell me the details,” I say.

“For the past few months, Grace has been studying a cohort of mice with melanoma. She’s conducting a researcher-blinded study to evaluate the safety and efficacy of a novel cancer drug.”

“
What do you mean by ‘blinded’?”

“At the beginning of Grace’s project, the mice were randomly injected with either the new drug, or a placebo
. No one in the lab knows which mouse received which treatment…not even me. That’s what makes the study blinded. For the past two months we’ve been observing the animals, looking for signs of disease progression or improvement.”

“Poor mice,” I say.

“No, poor Brazilian people with melanoma,” counters Alvin. “Did you know that skin cancer is the most common cancer in this country? Brazilians worship the sun. When they’re young, they spend a lot of time at the beach. Later, in their forties and fifties, sometimes even younger, they’re shocked to get skin cancer. We’re doing our best to help them, to potentially save lives.”

The furry animal lover in me is still uncomfortable.

“So, what exactly would I be doing?” I ask.

“Unblinding the study,” says Alvin.

“How so?”

“A recor
d of the initial treatment—drug vs. placebo—was sealed on a computer disk when the study began. In combination with Grace’s clinical observations, you can use the treatment data on the disk to determine whether the drug is doing anything useful. Since you’ve had nothing to do with the rest of the project, your involvement at this stage will help preserve the original blinding.”

Sounds fairly straightforward
. Plus I’ll get to spend time working with Grace. Not a bad deal.

“Okay
,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

“Terrific,” says Alvin, shaking my hand
. “Now, let me show you around the lab.”

At the doorway
to mouse central, my nostrils are greeted by an acrid, pungent smell that nearly makes me lose my breakfast. As Alvin walks me past the cages, I take a moment to observe the unlucky inhabitants. While some of the mice are nonchalantly scampering about or preening their fur, many lie dejectedly in corners, covered with the tell-tale, black lesions of melanoma. Already I’m rethinking my involvement here.

“In case you wer
e wondering,” says Alvin, “we track the mice with a silver identification band on the front right paw. See?”

“I see, but
you know, Alvin, I was just think….”

Alvin cuts me off
.

“Now that you’ve got a sens
e of the lab, let’s get you the data.”

Before I can voice my brewing misgivings, Alvin scurries me
back to his office, flays open a tightly sealed envelope with a pair of scissors, and hands over the disk.

“Please d
on’t lose this,” he says. “It’s my only copy.”

Holding the secret
data in the palm of my hand, curiosity instantly overtakes my hesitation. Hmm. I wonder whether I just got hoodwinked. Instead of backing out or pondering Alvin’s deviousness, I spend the rest of the morning reviewing the treatment data. Of the 200 mice initially enrolled in the study, about 40 percent received the drug, while the remainder were given the placebo. Once I’ve entered half the data, Grace pulls me away from the computer.

“Come on, Emma,” she says
. “It’s way past noon. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

My
perpetually rumbling stomach hopes the surprise has something to do with food. Grace is moving faster than usual, so quickly that I almost have to run to keep up with her. After turning down an unfamiliar corridor, we enter the elusive cafeteria, closed since my arrival, until this afternoon.

“Ta-da,” she says like a magic
ian, and I spontaneously break into applause.

Almost everyone in the building has turned out for the
cafeteria’s grand reopening, and we spend half an hour waiting in line with our colleagues. The wait is worth it. Arriving at the salad bar, I feast my eyes upon the multitude of fresh fruits and vegetables arrayed there. Offering up another silent prayer of thanks, I pile more food than I can possibly eat onto my plate.

M
inutes later Grace and I are seated at an outside table in the courtyard behind the cafeteria, ravenously inhaling watermelon, cantaloupe, grapes, tomatoes, string beans, beet salad and other healthy foods too numerous to mention. Raw vegetables have never tasted so delicious. Completely consumed with eating, we don’t speak at all. When I’m stuffed to the point of pain, I look around and find that everyone is putting their feet up, settling into a sort of post-lunch siesta. A few men have positioned themselves around a chess board, while others are deep in boisterous conversation. Momentarily I wonder whether I should take long, chatty lunches upon returning home to New York…except that I’d have no one to talk to, and Walter would probably fire me.

“Are you finished
eating?” asks Grace, interrupting my thoughts.

“De
finitely,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this full.”

“In that case, do you want to hang out here for a
while, to digest, or would you rather get back to work?”

As I study
the people in the courtyard, no one is showing any sign of movement.

“I’m ready to go back,” I say
. “You?”

“Me, too,” she says.

“Then let’s get going.”

Heading
inside, we pass by Luciano’s table.

“There go the New Yorkers
,” he teases, “rushing around like usual.”

“We never
stop working,” I shout over my shoulder. “It’s in our blood.”

Just before reaching the
mouse lab, Grace says, “Emma, let’s take a quick detour. I need to show you something, to help you understand my project.”

“Where are we going?”
I ask.

“
It’s just a few doors down. Alvin and I set up an indoor greenhouse here a few months ago.”

Entering the
so-called greenhouse, the two of us are immediately enveloped in humid, earthy-smelling air. The room is smaller than I expected, no bigger than a closet. In fact, it is a closet! The diminutive space lacks both windows and sun lamps. Glancing around I notice several dead twigs and some larger wooden branches grouped together on glass trays.

“Where are
all the plants?” I ask.

“Oh,
there aren’t any plants in here,” Grace says.

“But you said this is
a greenhouse, right?”

“Right.”

“Then what are you growing?” I ask.

“The melanoma drug,” says Grace.

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“When I first came to Salvador,
” Grace explains, “Alvin’s lab was studying a few potential melanoma treatments and not making much progress. Then I noticed that the mice in one cage were doing better than the others.”

“What do you mean
?” I ask.

“
While the others were getting sick, or dying, these particular mice seemed completely healthy.”

“Was their cancer less aggressive?”

“No. Genetically speaking, all of the mice have the same type of melanoma. Their tumors originated from one cell line with a particular genetic mutation—Mts745.”

“
Mts? What’s that?” I ask.

“Mts
is a gene that stands for ‘melanoma tumor suppressor.’ Normally Mts prevents uncontrolled cell division in skin cells—melanocytes specifically—but if the gene is mutated, the cells become immortal.”

“Immortal?”

“Yes,” says Grace. “The cells keep on dividing, indefinitely. In other words, they never die. That’s what makes them cancerous. Capiche?”

“I suppose
so. But if their tumors were all identical, why did some of the mice do better than the others?”

“Because there was
something different about their environment,” she says.

Grace picks u
p a twig and hands it to me. On close inspection, something brown, akin to a flat mushroom, is growing all over the bark. If Grace hadn’t pointed it out, I might’ve missed it altogether, particularly because the plaques are nearly the same color as the branch.

“I happened
to notice this fungus covering the wood shavings in the cage with the healthy mice,” says Grace. “I think they inadvertently ingested it when they gnawed on the wood.”

“’Shrooms…c
ool. What’s in them?”

“Nothing hallucinogenic,” Grace replies.

“How would you even know?” I ask. “Maybe the mice eat this stuff and start envisioning giant pieces of Swiss cheese.”

Once
Grace stops laughing, she says, “After we realized its potential, we started propagating the fungus and isolating its proteins. When we analyzed the interaction between the fungal proteins and the melanoma cells, one protein stood out. I nicknamed it GrR.”

Grace makes a scary face, holding up her hands like c
laws and baring her teeth.

“That’s an interesting nickname,” I say
. “Does GrR scare away the cancer cells?”

In a
familiar gesture, Grace rolls her eyes.

“GrR s
tands for Grim Reaper, and it triggers apoptosis.”