James Tabor: The Deep Zone

A waiter appeared, removed his empty tumbler, replaced it with a full one.

“Shall we begin with some Strangford Lough oysters?” Mr. Adelheid smiled, then looked abashed. “I’m so sorry. You do like oysters, don’t you?”

The few raw oysters he had ever eaten had made him think of toilet bowls. “Absolutely,” he said.

The waiter set down silver plates with the slick, pink things in iridescent shells on crushed ice. Mr. Adelheid tipped one to his lips, slurped, savored. Steeling himself, the guest did the same. A taste like very dry champagne with a hint of salt wind. He smiled, agreeably startled.

“Incredible, no? I could eat them every day.” Mr. Adelheid lifted another. “This morning they were in the Irish Sea.”

They concentrated on the oysters. He had always known that certain people lived this way: palatial homes on estates that sprawled like counties, enormous yachts, exquisite women, the food and drink of royalty. Relishing ecstasies every day about which he could only fantasize.

He had never known how such lives were made. Now he might learn.

When he had finished eating the oysters, Mr. Adelheid pushed his plate aside, dabbed his lips.

“Let us speak now. You have a very important job at BARDA. The Biomedical Advanced Research and Development Authority, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Created in 2006 by President George W. Bush to counter biowarfare threats and responsible for, among other initiatives, Project BioShield.”

“Yes.”

“Fascinating work, I imagine. Would you care to tell me about it?”

He paused while the waiter set down new plates. Velvety, chocolate-colored filets in a scarlet sauce. “Medallions of Black Forest venison with Madeira and black truffles,” Mr. Adelheid said. Then wine, poured into crystal goblets from a bottle with a label like parchment. He had drunk wine, of course, even, on a few occasions, in very expensive restaurants. Now he understood that he had never tasted great wine.

How many other great things had evaded him in this life? He suddenly felt regret so intense it made his eyes glisten. Too quickly, he brought the wine glass to his mouth, spilling a few drops onto the immaculate tablecloth, embarrassing himself. His moist eyes, the soiled linen—he felt thick and stupid in the presence of this polished man.

“I do microbiology. MDRBs.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. Multiple-drug-resistant bacteria.”

“Is it like in the movies? You know, exotic germs, that kind of thing?”

A little flare inside him. “Calling them germs is like calling diamonds rocks. They are miracles of evolution. And beautiful. Think of a spiral nebula on the head of a pin. Every color in the universe.”

“You speak of them as friends.”

“We get along well. I respect them. And admire their good qualities.”

“Which are?”

“Astonishing evolutionary speed, for one.”

“Do you work in space suits?”

“Sometimes. Those in BSL-4.”

“What does that mean, exactly, ‘BSL-4’?”

“Biosafety Level Four. The highest security level. Positive-pressure environments. Chemturion protective suits. Respirators. Disinfectant showers and ultraviolet germicidal lights. Double-door air locks. Unbreakable labware.”

Mr. Adelheid nodded, touched his right ear with the tips of two fingers. The door swung open and Erika walked in. Even moving, she seemed to be in repose. Everything about her was … perfect . Her legs, body, face, eyes—not one dissonant curve or angle.

“Good evening, Erika. Would you care for a drink? Some champagne, perhaps?”

“No thank you, sir.”

She sat, crossed her magnificent legs, and something caught in his chest.

“Erika, you have met our friend.” No name offered, none asked for.

“Enchantée.”

“Would you like to spend time with our friend?”

“I would love to.” A voice like chimes, exultant, as if it were the greatest opportunity life had offered.

He almost dropped his fork, fumbled, felt like a fool.

“Would you find that agreeable?” Mr. Adelheid smiled at him.

He hesitated, thoroughly unsure how to respond.

“We could have Christina come in. Or Gisele.”

“No, no.” He reddened. “No. I mean, yes , of course, I would find that agreeable.”

“And Erika, would you like to accommodate our friend’s wishes?”

“Oh, yes.” She placed her fingertips on the back of his hand, four small, cool circles on his hot skin. There was something about the way she moved, slowly, dreamily, as though underwater. “There is a villa in the Mediterranean, on an island all its own, with a waterfall in the bedroom. Floors of pink marble, walls of glass.” She flicked her eyes at Mr. Adelheid.

He smiled. “No rules we do not make, the only laws those of nature.”

His thoughts twirled, huge black eyes, white fog, shining oysters, golden whiskey, scarlet wine, a turquoise sea scattered with flakes of light. This woman’s scent, heavier now, gardenia sweet. He closed his eyes, breathed.

I could use some air .

“Thank you, Erika.” She rose and turned to their guest.

“I hope to see you again.”

“And I… yes, me, too.”

He watched her leave, moving through space as though without weight.

“To the victors go the spoils.” Mr. Adelheid raised his glass again.

“God in heaven.” He drank, eyes closed.

“Would you like to learn more?”

“That’s why I came.”

Mr. Adelheid nodded. “Fine. But let us enjoy this good food first. We should never rush our pleasures.”

“Live our lives.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Adelheid did something in the air with his right hand, some ancient benediction, and picked up his knife. They ate in an island of light in the great shadowed room. With a silver knife he cut the venison and forked to his mouth pieces dripping with sauce. They ate and did not speak, the only sounds in the room those of their chewing and breathing and the insistent buzzing of one invisible fly.

THE LIGHT IN THE ROOM RIPPLED, CANDLE FLAMES DANCING with currents of air. He ate, drank wine, so overwashed with pleasures he forgot for long moments who and where he was.

After a time, with half of his venison uneaten, Mr. Adelheid laid down his silver, dabbed his lips. His fingers were slim and very long, tendrils with shining tips.

To leave food like that . His own plate had been clean for some minutes.

“Well. We would be very grateful for your help.”

“Leave BARDA and come to work for you?” He did not know who Mr. Adelheid worked for. But surely it would be made clear. Or would it?

“No. Not leave BARDA.”

“A mole, then.” Crude . He regretted it immediately, blushed.

The fly, buzzing again. An expression passed across Mr. Adelheid’s face, like clouds scudding over the moon. “An observer.”

“What would you want me to observe?”

“Most antibiotics today are derived from one original source, is that not true?”

“Yes. Actinomycetales. Discovered in 1940 by Selman Waksman. He got the Nobel for that work.”

“But germs are winning the battle. So I have heard.”

“Hundreds of thousands of people die every year from bacterial infections we can no longer treat. In the U.S. alone. Other places, the numbers are… appalling.”

“Hundreds of thousands of reported deaths. The true total is much higher, isn’t it?”

“Of course. Did renal failure or hospital-acquired infection kill Mr. Jones? One checkmark in a different box on a report. An easy choice for dirty hospitals. Which most are.”