Part 1 (1/2)
Chris Lawson.
Unborn Again.
Take lamb's brains fresh from the butcher's block and soak them in icy water. Starting from the underside, peel off all the arteries under running water, add lemon and salt, and boil in water. Once boiled, dry the brains, quarter them, and marinate them for ten minutes. Serve them with steamed custard and Tabasco sauce.
The delicacy of the dish is exquisite, and I can easily digest two portions. Eating is more than a necessity; sometimes it is a pleasure; now it is a duty.
The brains slide down like oysters. I love the texture and the tang of the sauce. The pinot noir is a touch dry, but not enough to tarnish the flavor of the brains. Good wine is virtually unaffordable in Hong Kong nowadays.
The marinade is an old family secret, but I don't want it to die with me, so here it is: ginger, spring onion, rice wine, sesame oil, and oyster sauce. And my own variation: a dash of pituitary extract.
”In here.” The nurse shows the way into the room. The walls are antiseptic white. The bed is made with clinical precision. Sitting in a chair is the room's sole occupant: a woman in her mid-forties who rocks and drools like a demented centenarian.
”Ignore it,” says the nurse. ”She always does that when a visitor comes.
She's perfectly able to hold one end of a conversation during the day. She only becomes confused at night.”
Stepping into the room is a small man in a brown suit. His tie is knotted too tightly, and the purple paisley teardrops clash with the khaki suit so gratingly that his colleagues have been known to grind their teeth down to the gums. His hair has somehow defied the short cut and fallen into disarray.
”She has Alzheimer's?” the brown-suited man asks the nurse.
”Something like that,” the nurse says. ”If you need anything, just hit the buzzer there.”
The nurse leaves, and the brown-suited man finds himself standing, briefcase in hand, in front of this woman. Her face and skin look young, but she sways in time as she hums an unrecognizable tune.
”Dr. Dejerine? I'm from the customs department.”
Dejerine smacks her lips and fixes the visitor with an unfriendly stare.
”You look like a cheap detective.”
”I suppose I am. My name is Gerald Numis.”
”I won't remember that, you know. Not by tomorrow.”
Numis nods. ”I'll give you a business card. How's your long-term memory?”
”Better than my short-term memory, I'm disappointed to say. I didn't expect it to be this way. I can quote verbatim the monograph I wrote twenty years ago.”
”What was it?”
”It's called Utilitarian Neurology.” Dejerine looks at Numis as if that should mean something.
”What's it about?”
Dejerine laughs. ”I don't know. Maybe, if you're interested, you could look it up and then you can tell me what it means.”
Numis coughs. ”Do you remember what prions are?”
Dejerine nods. ”Of course I do.”
”There was an outbreak of Lethe disease in Hong Kong last year. Two people have already died and another five are infected. It's unprecedented - a prion disease that was once confined to the Papuan highlands, and a disease that has virtually disappeared with the decline of ritual cannibalism. The Chinese health ministry was terrified that they had a new, virulent form, so they posted the amino acid sequence on the Internet. It corresponds to a rare variation that was registered to your lab.”
”What a remarkable coincidence,” says Dejerine.
Numis continues. ”Coincidence? Lethe disease has never been known to jump a thousand miles overseas to a non-cannibal culture, and no one can suggest a natural vector for this unprecedented event. And there's the matter of ten missing vials from your lab. And the visas. You visited Hong Kong twice five years ago, which just happens to be the incubation period of Lethe disease. The coincidences are piling up.”
”A close shave with Occam's razor,” she says.
”I beg your pardon?”
”Occam's razor. Very good for shaving.” She laughs.
Numis thinks for a moment. This woman is blatantly demented, or an exceptional actor; either way he doubts that charges will ever be laid.
The Director of Public Prosecutions will probably let her rot in this room. If the Chinese police see her, they will lose interest in extradition. Numis concludes that the whole visit will be a waste of his efforts. However, he has a job to do and he believes in procedure.
”Did I mention the visas?” Numis asks.
”No,” says Dejerine, and smiles crookedly.
Numis knows he mentioned the visas. He knows her short-term memory is not that badly affected. He decides this woman is not nearly as demented as she makes out. He wonders how much of her disability is from disease and how much is a sham.
”Dr. Dejerine, I have to caution you that transporting a biohazard without customs approval is a serious offense. You may request legal advice before answering any further questions.”
”So convict me. It's just a change of prison.”
”Are you declining legal counsel?”
”Did you know that 'prison' is just 'prion' with an s?” She giggles at her own joke.
”Dr. Dejerine, are you declining legal counsel?” he asks again.
”Yeah, sure.” Dejerine nods in agreement.
Numis places a tape recorder on the bed and taps the record b.u.t.ton. ”This is a taped recording of an interview with Dr. Claudia Dejerine. Present are Dr. Dejerine and Mr. Gerald Numis, Senior Customs Investigator, Biomedical Division.” He checks his watch. ”The time is 2:47 p.m. on the 19th of March. Tell me what happened, Dr. Dejerine. In your own words.”
Dejerine says, ”I wrote it down somewhere so I could explain it when someone like you came along. Now where did I put it?” She rummages in her bedside drawer and withdraws a foolscap notebook, bound in leather. ”Here it is.”