It took months for people in the village to stop talking about my performance. While I had previously been met exclusively with respect and deference, there were now several people who grasped my hand harder, pounded me on the back, the men in particular, and spoke to me with a half smile and poorly disguised sarcasm. And the words expand to their full potential, Nature’s Bible and exotic sea monsters pursued me for years. Nobody ever forgot Swammerdam, either, and his name was later used in many and extremely diverse contexts. When the horses mated on the meadow, it was described as “Swammerdam-like activity.” Drunk men who had to relieve themselves at the tavern in the evening said that they were going out to “air the Swammerdam,” and the local bakery’s signature dish, an oblong meat-filled pie, was suddenly only called “Swammer pie.”
It bothered me astonishingly little. In a way my decline in status was worth it. At least that’s what I thought when a few months later Mathilda Tucker and I were wed. I had long since had the opportunity to notice her narrow, typically British lips, by the time we walked down the aisle of the church. I had ventured to steal a kiss during the proposal and discovered to my dismay that they did not have the ability to open up like a large, secret, sticky flower, or perhaps a Swammerdam sea monster, as I had fantasized about in the late-night hours. They were just as dry and stiff as they appeared. And the nose was, truth to be told, a smidgen too big. But nonetheless, my cheeks were flushed when our marriage was blessed by the priest. I was, after all, getting married, and truly becoming part of adult life, without understanding then that adulthood contained features that made most of my dreams impossible, that forced me away from the world of science. Because Rahm was right—although I continued with some half-hearted research projects, I had opted out, abandoning my passion for the discipline.
But I was so certain, so completely convinced that Thilda was the one for me. Her sedateness fascinated me enormously, she always thought carefully before she answered a question. Her pride as well; I was filled with admiration for how she truly stood behind what she believed, a quality one seldom found in young women. It was only later, though not much later, only a few months into our marriage, that I understood she actually considered each answer for so long because she was not especially bright and I recognized the pride for what it actually was: an indomitable stubbornness. She never gave in, as it would turn out. Never.
But the most important reason of all for why I wanted to marry her was one I wouldn’t even admit to myself, but which I only now, in my sickbed, could bear to take in, a recognition that was about my still being just as primitive and greedy as a ten-year-old child: the fact that she was a living, soft body. That she was mine, that she would be accessible to me. That very soon I would have the chance to squeeze up against this body, lay it down beneath me, pound my body against it, as if it were raw, moist earth.
Unfortunately, that part didn’t turn out as I had imagined, either, but was instead a dry and hurried affair with far too many buttons and ribbons, corset wires, prickly wool stockings and a sour smell of armpits. I was nonetheless drawn to her with the instinct of an animal, a drone. Again and again, ripe for procreation, even though the last thing I wanted were descendants. Like the drone, I sacrificed my life for procreation.
Chapter 17
TAO
“They’re doing what they can. They’ve said they are doing what they can.” Kuan filled a teapot a nurse had just given us with tea leaves. With calm hands he poured tea into a cup. As if we were at home, as if it were an ordinary day.
A day. Another evening. Had I eaten? I didn’t know. They brought in food and drink for us on a regular basis. Yes, I had managed to get something down, a few spoonfuls of rice, a little water, to stop the gnawing of my stomach. The leftovers had hardened into a cold, rubbery lump in the aluminum bowl. But I hadn’t slept. Hadn’t showered. I was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, before everything happened. I had dressed up, put on the nicest outfit I owned, a yellow blouse and a skirt that went down to my knees. Now I hated the feeling of the synthetic fabric against my body, the blouse was too tight under the arms and the sleeves were too short, so I went around constantly stretching them.
“But why don’t they tell us anything?”
I was standing. I never sat down. Stood and walked, running a marathon in captivity. My hands were sticky, with a constant cold sweat. My clothes stuck to me. There was an odor around me, a scent I had never smelled before.
“They know more about this than we do. We just have to trust them.”
Kuan took a sip of tea. It filled me with rage. The way he drank, the steam from the cup, how it floated up under his nose, the faint slurping sound. It was something he had done thousands of times before. He couldn’t be doing it now.
He could scream, shout, scold, blame me. That he just sat there like that, with the cup between his hands, warming himself on it, his completely calm hands.
“Tao?” He put the cup down suddenly, as if he understood what I was thinking. “Please.”
“What do you want me to say?” I stared hard at him. “Drinking tea doesn’t help, that’s for sure!”
“What?”
“It was an example.”
“I understood that.” His eyes were shiny now.
It’s our child, I wanted to scream. Wei-Wen! But I just turned away, couldn’t bring myself to look at him. The sound of the teapot being lifted and hot tea being poured. He stood up and came towards me.
I turned around. There he was, holding a steaming cup of tea out to me, in a steady hand.
“Maybe it will help,” he said softly. “You need to get something down.”
A cup of tea was supposed to help matters… drinking a cup of tea. Was that his plan? Do nothing, just sit here. So passive, without any will for change, for control, to do something.
Once again I turned my face away. I couldn’t say all of this. He had too much on me.
The weight between us was not equally balanced. But nonetheless, he didn’t blame me, didn’t put the responsibility on me. He just stood there, holding out the teacup, his arm sticking straight out from his body, almost unnaturally rigid. He drew a breath, was perhaps about to say something else.
At that moment the door opened. Dr. Hio came in. Her facial expression was impossible to read. Regret? Dismissal?
She didn’t say hello, merely nodded to us in the direction of the hallway. “Please accompany me to my office.”