Mr Einstein & Me

By Adam Bethlehem

Mr Einstein and Me - a story of South Africa, London and the search for an honourable life.

Ben seeks refuge from intrusive memories in the world of his imagination. Life changes when he meets Holly at a party in London - the invasion of his thoughts is complete when she appears beside him in a favourite dream. He introduces her to Albert Einstei

• Language: English
• Publisher: Triple Point Press
• Release date: Sep 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992972417

Adam Bethlehem

Adam Bethlehem was born in London but grew up on South Africa. He trained as a doctor and taught physiology before returning to England to study physics. He has also worked as a bookseller, a confectioner and a medico-legal advisor. Adam's first book, Mr Einstein and Me, was published in 2014 by Triple Point Press. His second novel, The Universal Theory of Immigration, is due for release in June 2016. More details available at triplepointpress.com Adam also writes at magicalhill.blogspot.co.uk

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

‘ARE YOU BUSY THIS EVENING?’

‘No, I’m on call tomorrow, so tonight I’m free.’ I’m watching James as he leans over his microscope. It’s pleasant in the laboratory, distant from the roar of London traffic and the chaos of my ward. ‘That looks revolting. What is it?’

‘Really, you don’t want to know.’

‘Go on, tell me. I’m not going to be frightened by something in a little plastic pot.’ I speak bravely, confident that it’s true.

I’m standing in the big room, empty except for the six students all dressed in white coats. We’re proud, in touching distance of our degrees. We’ve read The House of God and even the horrors of a medical career look glamorous from this perspective. There’s a concrete floor, suspended overhead fluorescent lights and there are beds, although that’s not really an accurate description because no-one ever wakes up here. The ten shiny platforms are made of metal and all are empty except for one which bears a body, also covered in protective white but this time from head to toe. Nobody can doubt the presence of death, the scene is familiar, we’ve seen it countless times in the lecture theatre or in movies. Medical students know how to behave. Supercilious, superior, you know to treat death as an underling long before your first personal encounter.

Never mind, we’re still in the room, standing near the body but not too close. Until the professor arrives nobody is going to touch for fear of doing something wrong. The girls are particularly sceptical. Yesterday’s manicure doesn’t sit comfortably with a corpse hiding under a sheet and we’re going to be doctors, not morticians, so what can this lifeless place teach us? It’s a formality, six regulation post-mortems, sign them up in the book and then it’s back to the library, to the clean biochemical pathways and immaculate theories about the propagation of disease. This is a bit messy but at least someone else will be doing the dirty work. All we have to do is wait, watch and then we can make our escape.

Unfortunately, there are some things you can’t avoid. You stand back while the electric saw bites into bone so that stray particles fall at your feet but the shock of what you’re going to see unprotected is something different. We don’t know that yet. Last night this group was out drinking and partying but this morning we’ve all eaten a hearty breakfast and our white coats are buttoned against the chill that fills the room. Only Shelley’s designer handbag looks out of place. The concrete floor seems clean but if you look closely you can see what’s actually there, so she’s forced to hold on to her trophy while she makes small talk, waiting for the administrative requirement to begin, to end, so that we can get back to the important business of being students.

It’s difficult to chatter with confidence but the others try. Personally, I’m not interested in fashion, clothes and the people who follow those particular gods. Today I’m a bit worried about the house I’m sharing. Recently things have been going wrong, but we’ll sort it out. I just wish the old prof would get this thing started. Actually, I prefer not to think about him. I’ve met him once or twice, his son is a friend of mine and he’s nice – the friend, that is. The father, the professor, is famous. His lecture on rape last week was needlessly graphic but we’ve seen so many pictures that film footage has lost its power. I suppose it’s just part of the process of toughening up the sensibilities. You can’t toss a schoolchild into an emergency operation unprepared so the bright young things are exposed gradually. First dead animals, then old pickled corpses before moving on to pictures of the recently deceased. Now we’re here, on the verge of the next stage. We’re going to see a freshly dead specimen. Probably when we get to see real dying people, we’ll have such thick skins that nothing will penetrate.

Essential, I suppose. You can’t have a doctor fretting about trivial feelings when the patient’s life blood is draining away. No, you need a cool head and calm detachment, but I haven’t quite got there yet.

I stand watching the draped corpse, wondering if someone in the class has ever recognised the person under the sheet. I’m bound to my group by upbringing and culture but the others are all friends and they leave me to my thoughts. It seems inappropriate to be having a conversation about holidays while we’re standing this close to someone’s tragedy. I know the body is dead. At least I haven’t sunk far enough into conspiracy theories to believe that it’s the professor himself beneath the shroud, waiting to pop out and shock us. I must admit, though, I’m pleased to have thought about it, in case it’s true. I stand a little apart from the group and we wait for our teacher.

At last he arrives, nothing dramatic about his entrance except for the lab coat he’s wearing. It’s covered in bits and pieces of blood and gore, which are human of course – he’s not a vet or a butcher. Nobody in the student canteen wants to look like him so we protect ourselves in pristine white while he wallows in squalor, daring us to notice. He gestures and we gather round as instructed. The big white professor, the six white medical students, the corpse covered in white.

‘Today we are going to look at stab wounds. Ante-mortem and post-mortem.’

Someone in the group nods, he’s keen and he’s read up on the subject. The others, me included, have waited for this lecture. Before the exam we’ll cram in what we learn today and hope to pass. Still, it’s good to have someone who knows the answers to every question. Danny goes through the characteristics of a wound. He knows about mechanisms and common modes of assault though I doubt he’s ever been confronted with these things in real life, real death.

So beneath the shroud there’ll be a body, an adult with an injury to his chest. Of course the knife hasn’t been left in place or we would have seen the shape below the sheet. I try to keep my mind on the subject. The blade comes from this direction, you can tell the size, the shape, the assailant’s left hand or right. I need to fit all this into my mental picture, the heavy metal penetrating the ribs and pushing down into the heart. I imagine the characteristics of the wound. There’s so much to know, so much information, and it’s difficult to keep track. Much easier if we could actually see for ourselves. That’s going to happen next.

‘Thomas,’ the professor speaks sharply to his assistant, also wearing a white coat although it’s obvious he’s a servant. I don’t want to think about that now. I’m steeling myself for the next phase of my medical toughening-up process. The important thing is to be able to maintain your composure whatever the threat, no sudden or strange movements that will single you out as weak, like that rugby-playing brute who fainted so delicately when he saw a fly settling on the patient’s injured leg last week. I’ve seen a lot and I think I’ll be all right.

The sheet is pulled away. We could have done this ourselves but our leader doesn’t want us to be distracted and he watches the shock on our faces as the body is laid bare. I was ready for an old man lying under the shroud but I was wrong. We’re trying to concentrate. According to the professor, this isn’t some horrific murder, it happens day after day. Well, he’s right and he’s wrong. This is South Africa under apartheid and murder on the streets is commonplace. But the professor has been doing this for years. There’s nothing under the sun he can’t stomach and the only thing that touches him is the satisfaction he gets as he watches us view our first fresh corpse from up close, and he rubs our noses in it.

The body, the man, is my age. Looks fit. Doesn’t take long to realise that my fantasy was entirely incorrect. There is a stab wound on the chest but that’s not all. There are more, maybe ten or fifteen on his body.

My education and training have worked. After a moment I can look down at the body and not identify too closely with the victim. Indeed, the only point of similarity is our age, except that now he’s been stopped and I’m still going. He’s thin like me, although probably not from jogging and playing squash. Most likely for him it was hunger and running away from people with knives. Of course I can’t be certain but even if a well-fed white boy managed to get himself murdered, you can be pretty sure he wouldn’t be left lying on a slab for the pleasure of an old professor. No, I think my presumption is justified, he can’t have had a comfortable life. But now the professor is teaching and we want to focus on particulars, distract ourselves from the situation. That’s the real lesson. When something traumatic happens, it’s no good considering the case holistically, you’ve got to focus on the specific. It helps to deal with the problem, protects you.

It’s pretty clear in this case. Danny speculates about the weapons, for it seems likely there was more than one. The death was caused by stabbing. The ante-mortem signs are clear, like a textbook.

Now I’m over the initial shock, I’ve done the thing with the particulars to get myself over the hump, back to thinking again, about where we are, how it is that the rich white kids are standing around a dead black kid, we’re the same age. But it’s too soon, forgot that the lecture was announced as ante-mortem and post-mortem stab wounds. I look up at the professor and I should know there’s something more. Standing there, smiling, looking relaxed, with hands behind his back. Every year he gets a new bunch of fresh-faced intellectuals and every year he has his sport.

The others are quiet. I’m sure, like me, they’re hoping it will be over soon. It’s more shocking than you realise at first and, once you’ve weathered the storm, you’re just waiting for it to end.

The big room settles into a cold silence, the shifting and shuffling of feet stop and no-one looks at a watch to avoid attracting attention. Ticking from a clock on the wall dominates the room for a few moments. The emptiness is irresistible and into the breach steps our teacher. He turns to Danny who has managed to process the information about ante-mortem stabbing and now he gives us chapter and verse about wounding after death. As if it matters. Ah, I’m naïve. It’s important to be able to tell when things happen, to determine the cause of death and who committed the crime. The facts of forensics make a difference, it’s just that I’m still having trouble with visualisation.

Our professor understands the problem and he’s going to provide a solution but for the moment we’re on safe ground. We’re used to academic discussion and the presence of a corpse doesn’t seem to make a difference. Our group has everything: Danny with the facts and figures; Shelley, handbag hidden behind her, does a fine line in philosophical discussion. She’s a rising student politician and fervently opposed to wrongdoing. Myself, I stand at the edge as they debate the issues, watching the body, feeling strange, and then I look up at the professor.

He’s licking his lips. At first I think he’s got his eye on one of the girls who’s dressed a little inappropriately for a forensic cutting room. Her strategically arranged lab coat leaves little to the imagination but he’s not interested in what she’s wearing. Maybe it’s her innocence. He sees a ripe young virgin – which we all are to him – and can’t contain himself. He’s still standing over the body with hands behind his back, but he shifts on his feet, seeking a comfortable position, and then brings us once more to the matter at hand. Death, stab wounds, ante- and post-mortem. He calls me out. I haven’t answered a single question so I can’t complain. I don’t know if he remembers that we’ve met.

‘So, Doc, how many stab wounds do you see?’

I’m going to be careful. I may not have read the textbook in preparation but I should be able to deal with this. ‘Twelve, but I suppose there could be more on his back.’

I’m not anxious to be manhandling the body which seems to have had enough for the time being.

‘What do you think?’ he asks, eyes sparkling as he guides me along. He’s enjoying himself and I know there’s a trick somewhere.

‘I don’t understand,’ I say. He could be asking about almost anything.

‘Do you think he was killed by stabbing?’

Still confusing.

‘Yes, of course. We’ve looked at the whole body and he doesn’t have other injuries ... Do you mean blood loss or heart failure? Are you asking about the physiological mechanisms of death?’

‘No, no. Let’s stick to these injuries for now. Can you describe the difference between an ante-mortem and a post-mortem assault?’

This isn’t too bad. I tell him what he’s just told us, bleeding at the margins of the incision, all that stuff. I think I’m doing well.

Then he asks me, ‘Are you sure none of the wounds on the body was made after death?’

I think about the lecture he’s given us and look back over the body.

‘Ante-mortem. All of them.’

If I make a mistake, the worst that can happen is that I’ll be wrong. So what? But I’ve misinterpreted his interest. I’m just the bait and he’s chosen to quiz me because he can tell I’m not really part of the group who are tittering behind me as they enjoy my discomfort. I don’t care. I don’t like being abused but I can deal with a direct assault.

‘Okay,’ he says, ‘what about here?’

He puts his finger on the body but I’m not sure what he means because there’s no injury where he’s pointing. I don’t say anything and incomprehension must be written on my face. Nobody else seems to understand either. I look across the body towards the professor and shrug, which seems to please him. He shifts once more on his feet and from behind his back brings out a knife – a dagger, since we’re trying to be accurate – and smiles at me before he starts stabbing the dead body in front of us.

‘It’s nothing special, the usual run of analyses today and I know how squeamish you are ... Oh, I forgot, why don’t you come to a party tonight?’

‘Thanks, but I don’t think I should go if I’m not really invited.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’m inviting you now. We’re all going to Jonny’s housewarming.’

‘We’re all going,’ he said. It’s nice of him to think of me. These people make friends easily and I’m included in a way that seems effortless. If they knew me better, I don’t think they’d be so relaxed, but this isn’t the time to disabuse them. They probably think I’m like the rest of them, a travelling doctor, here for a few years before I get back to my normal life. They can’t know that normal life was too confusing and I’ve decided not to go back to South Africa. I don’t yet know what’s on offer in this new city but I’m going to give it a try.

‘Sure, I’d like to come. What time are you going?’ It sounds as if I should know this Jonny but I’m bad with names. I don’t have to worry long, because he appears at the door and James introduces me.

‘Jonny, how are you? Do you know my friend, Ben?’

Of course