Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

The elevator was wide, an open cage, and moved slowly to gain power for hauling. We passed two landings lit by yellowing fluorescent bulbs.

“This is spooky,” Diane said.

“I always say to Joey,” Harlan commented in a wistful tone, as if he were talking about the very distant past, “this is where they keep Kennedy’s brain.”

I smiled. Diane said, “I feel dumb. What do you mean?”

The elevator shuddered as it stopped. “It’s missing,” Harlan said grimly.

I pulled the elevator gate open. “We’ll find Joe and Kennedy’s brain.”

Harlan nodded, trying to smile. He moved on, turning to the right. The hall was gloomy, although wide. He passed two dented gray metal doors, stopping at the third.

I touched his shoulder as he reached for the knob. “Wait,” I said. Maneuvering around Harlan, I put my ear to the door. I heard something, too faint a noise to identify.

“Somebody’s in there,” I whispered. “Would you pretend not to be here?”

“What?” Harlan was outraged.

“I think it’s possible he’ll answer if only I call out, as if I’m alone.”

Harlan looked at Diane. She nodded encouragingly. He looked back at me. “That sucks,” he said.

“Because I’m less important to him, I’m easier to face.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

I knocked. Not loudly or insistently. Casual. I waited. No response from inside. “Joseph,” I called out, loud, but only to be heard. “It’s Rafe. I took a wild guess you’d be here.”

I thought I heard a cough. Then nothing.

“Come on, Joe, it’s spooky out here. You know me, I’m not gonna bug you. Just want to talk.”

Nothing.

Harlan whispered, “Maybe the guard has a key.”

I heard something shatter. Glass, I thought. Harlan reached for the knob. I caught his hand and shouted, “Joe! It’s Rafe. I’m alone. Don’t leave me out here. It’s too fucking scary.” I motioned for Harlan and Diane to move away. Diane urged Harlan down the hall and he allowed himself to be towed away.

I knocked again. “Come on, Joe, or I’m gonna get really scared.”

Without a warning sound of feet or a lock turning, the door opened. Joseph faced me, bare-chested under a partially unzipped black nylon warm-up jacket. He stared at me through smudged eyeglasses as if I were an intrusive door-to-door salesman. “How did you get here?”

“Harlan brought me.”

Alarm. The door began to close. “He’s here?”

“No.” I stepped in, forcing Joe to move back. “Just me.” I shut the door without locking it. I blinked at the bright, expensively furnished place, as different from the gloomy hall as possible. It consisted of two large rooms, the first an office, jammed with desks, computers, printers, file cabinets and, I noticed, an elaborate stereo system. Everything was well-ordered, the kind of neatness I associated with Joseph’s mother’s housekeeping. The partition to the other room was mostly glass, as was the door. There light also flooded a big room, dominated by row after row of chemistry tables, covered by microscopes and big machines I couldn’t recognize, as well as racks of beakers. In the lab, things were jammed together and, although it might be as organized as the first room, my eye couldn’t tell if that were so — it appeared as a jumble of incomprehensible technology.

“I don’t have to explain?” Joe said quietly.

“It’s definite?” I asked.

“Oh, he’ll do another, just for form’s sake. They’re pretty sloppy sometimes, but,” Joe grinned, “what would you think if I told you I expected a different result? Denial, denial, denial.” The grin disappeared. “You want to see something funny?” Joe opened a filing cabinet, flipped confidently through it, came out with a folder, and removed a letter. He gave it to me.

I sat on a desk and read. The letter was from a prominent AIDS researcher, apparently also an acquaintance, upbraiding Joseph for ignoring AIDS in his work. He pleaded with him at least to help raise money, if not devote himself to the search for a cure. The letter wasn’t formal: he accused Joseph of being a self-hating gay man, frightened of exposure if he associated himself with AIDS; he begged Joseph to accept his identity and become an inspiring scientific gay leader. I checked the date: two years ago.

“Such bullshit,” Joseph said when I finished. “I was scared, that’s all. Like a superstitious Jew from the shtetel. Close your eyes and it’ll go away.”

“I thought you didn’t want to come out because of your mother.”

“That’s everybody’s excuse.” I gave him the letter back. He made sure it lay flat in the folder. He returned the document to its rightful place solemnly, pushing the cabinet shut slowly. “He wouldn’t respect that. And, tell you the truth, even if Mom died I don’t think I’d,” he added mockingly, “‘come out.’” He pushed the cabinet flush with a bang of emphasis. “Why the fuck should I have to announce my sexuality? Do you have to announce you’re heterosexual? Do you come with any warning labels? Do you tell your patients your mother committed suicide?” I must have shown a pained reaction. He put his small hands out, saying, “I’m sorry. There’s no comparison.” Joseph lowered his head. I noticed his baldness had progressed a lot, leaving him little more than a laurel. He raised his head abruptly and squealed, “I just don’t care about viruses! They’re not interesting. Not compared to the brain.” He wandered away from me, pleading to his file, “I wanted to find out how we work, all of us, how we’re different from the animals, not how a fucking disease works. Who wants to study the Nazis when you can study Einstein?” Joseph walked into the second room and talked to the lab. “What kind of scientist drops everything because something is killing the people he wants to fuck?” He passed down a row of tables, turned and sat at a corner. My vision was partially blocked by a row of big white machines. I heard something crunch and wondered if he were eating potato chips.

I followed him in, stopping a few feet from his seat. The area around him was covered with glass shards, apparently from broken beakers. There was a tart odor I worried about, being ignorant. Had he allowed something toxic free?

“Why am I gay?” Joseph asked me with the innocence of a child.

I smiled.

“No, I’m serious. What’s the current psychobabble? You know where we’re at — is the hypothalamus smaller, is it bigger, is it pink? Are we genetically encoded? Can we find the address? I never really gave a shit. Small potatoes. If I found the answer to how this works,” he jabbed at his head, “then we know everything.” He reached into one of the white machines and came out with a beaker, holding it gingerly by its curved lips. He let go. It smashed on the floor. I winced, afraid of flying glass. “I’m not gonna know now, even if it’s possible to know. Maybe it’s not for us to see. Maybe the brain is the face of God. So, tell me, please tell me, why am I a faggot?”

“Are you destroying important work?” I asked.

“Of course not. This is childish,” he gestured to the circle of broken glass. “There are records of everything. It can all be done again. I’m being a great big baby.” He lifted another beaker and released. After the crash, he insisted, “Tell me. You’ve always been real polite about it. Why do I like men? ’Cause Mom is so anal? ’Cause Dad used to kiss me on the lips? ’Cause she used a rectal thermometer until I was thirteen?”

I laughed. “Well, they’re more accurate, aren’t they?”

“I really don’t want to die,” Joseph said, eyes filling suddenly. “You know, I thought I was gonna be the exception.”