Stanislaw Lem - Hospital of the Transfiguration

“Those atolls were the bacteria,” Staszek remarked.

“Yes, but I didn’t see bacteria. So where is our common world? When you look at a book, do you see the same thing as a bookbinder?”

“So you doubt even the possibility of communication with another person?”

“This discussion is too academic. All I will admit is that I do exaggerate certain lines in my sketch of the world, and that the attempt to be consistent can lead to inconsistency. Nothing more.”

“Logical absurdity, in other words? That is a possibility, but I don’t know why…”

“Each of us is a possibility, one of many, that has emerged from necessity,” Sekułowski interrupted, and Stefan recalled an idea that had come to him in solitude one day. He voiced it, thinking it might be impressive.

“Did you ever think, ‘I, who was once one sperm and one egg’?”

“That’s interesting. Do you mind if I make a note of it? Unless, of course, you’re gathering your own literary material?” Sekułowski asked. Stefan said nothing, feeling robbed but unable to make a formal protest. The poet wrote several words in a large, sloping hand on a sheet of paper he took from a book. The book was Joyce’s Ulysses ,

“You have been speaking, gentlemen, about consistency and its consequence,” said Staszek, who had been silent until now. “What do you have to say about the Germans? The consequence of their ideology would be the biological annihilation of our nation.”

“Politicians are too stupid for us to be able to predict their actions through reason,” answered Sekułowski as he carefully replaced the cap of his green and amber Pelikan pen. “But in this case your hypothesis cannot be ruled out.”

“What should be done, then?”

“Play the flute, collect butterflies,” retorted Sekułowski, who now seemed bored with the conversation. “We achieve our freedom in various ways. Some do it at the expense of others, which is ugly, but effective. Others try to find cracks in the situation through which they can escape. We should not be afraid of the word ‘madness.’ Let me tell you that I can perform acts that seem mad in order to manifest my freedom.”

“Such as?” asked Stefan, although he thought that Staszek, whom he glimpsed out of the comer of his eye, was making some sort of warning gesture.

“For example,” said Sekułowski amiably, at which he wrinkled his face, opened his eyes wide, and bellowed through distended lips like a cow. Stefan turned red. Staszek glanced off to the side with a grimace that bore the hint of a smile.

“ Quod erat demonstrandum ,” said the poet. “I was too lazy to resort to something more eloquent.”

Stefan suddenly regretted his effort. Why cast these pearls before swine?

“This has nothing to do with genuine madness,” Sekułowski said. “It was only a small demonstration. We should expand our potential, and not only toward the normal. We should also look for ways out of the situation that others don’t notice.”

“How about in front of a firing squad?” Stefan asked drily, but with inward passion.

“There it may be possible to distinguish oneself from the animals in the manner of meeting death. What would you do in such a situation, doctor?”

“Well, I’d… Stefan did not know what to say. Until then he felt that the words had been sliding off his tongue automatically, but now an emptiness filled his mouth. After a long pause he croaked, “It seems to me that we are marginal. This whole hospital—it isn’t a typical phenomenon. The atypical made typical.” His formulation cheered him. “The Germans, the war, the defeat, here it’s all felt very indirectly. At most, as a distant echo.”

“A yard full of wrecks, is that it? While undamaged ships sail the seas,” said Sekułowski, looking up at the ceiling. “You, gentlemen, try to mend the works of the Creator, who has botched more than one immortal soul.”

He got up from the bed and paced the room, loudly clearing his throat several times as though tuning his voice.

“Is there anything else I can demonstrate for you, gracious audience?” he asked, standing in the center of the room with his arms crossed. His face lit up. “It’s coming,” he whispered. He leaned forward slightly, looking up so intently that they all froze, drawn into a vortex of strange anticipation. When the tension became unbearable, the poet began to speak:

Place gently on my grave a ribboned spray

Of pearly worms. Let those worms crawl

Through my skull, a decaying ballet

Of ptomaine, raw flesh whitening, that’s all.

Then he bowed and turned toward the window, as if he could no longer see them.

“I thought I told you…” Staszek began as soon as they left.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You provoked him. You have to speak to him gently, and you put the pedal to the floor right away. You were more concerned with being right than with listening to him.”

“Did you like that poem?”

“In spite of everything, I have to say I did. God knows how much abnormality there is in genius sometimes, and vice versa.”

“So. Sekułowski the genius!” said Stefan, his feelings hurt as if he were the one being judged.

“I’ll give you his book. You haven’t read Blood without a Face , have you?”

“No.”

“It’ll knock you out.”

At that Staszek left Stefan, who realized that he was standing in front of his own door. He went inside to look for some piramidon in his drawer. He had a pounding headache.

During evening rounds, Stefan tried in vain to avoid the withered blonde. She pounced on him. He took her to Nosilewska’s office.

“Doctor, I want to tell you everything from the beginning,” she said, nervously wringing her emaciated fingers. “I was caught with lard on me. So I acted mad, because I was afraid they’d send me to a camp. But this is worse than a camp. I’m afraid of all these lunatics.”

Stefan asked her a series of questions.

“What’s your name?

“What’s the difference between a priest and a nun?

“What are windows for?

“What do you do in church?”

Her answers suggested that she was indeed completely normal.

“How did you manage to convince them?”

“Well, I have a sister-in-law at John the Divine’s, and I saw and heard. I pretend to talk to somebody who’s not there, I pretend to see him, and then the fun starts.”

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

“Let me out of here.” She reached out her hands to him.

“It’s not that simple, my dear lady. You’ll have to spend some time under observation.”

“How much time, doctor? Oh, why did I do it?”

“You wouldn’t be any better off in a camp.”

“But I can’t stand being with that woman who messes herself, doctor. Please. My husband will show his gratitude.”

“None of that,” Stefan said with professional indignation. Now he had hit upon the right tone. “I’ll have you transferred to the other room, where they’re more peaceful. You can go now.”

“It doesn’t even matter anymore now. They squeal and scream and sing and roll their eyes, and I’m afraid I’ll go crazy too.”

Over the next few days, Stefan got the hang of how to write a case history without thinking about it, stringing a few hackneyed phrases together. Almost everyone else did the same. He also figured Rygier out. The psychiatrist was undoubtedly an educated man, but his intelligence was like a Japanese garden: make-believe bridges and paths, very beautiful but quite narrow and purposeless. His understanding ran in grooves. The elements of his knowledge were cemented to each other so that he could use them only as if they were entries in a textbook.