Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Mrs Black

2007; Elsevier BV; Volume: 370; Linguagem: Inglês

10.1016/s0140-6736(07)61827-3

1474-547X

Liza King,

Theater, Performance, and Music History

The laughter of the women reminded her of the cackling hens they had seen on a documentary last night. Quite obscene, really, to think that people had once killed and eaten such creatures. Twiddling her glass and frowning, she suddenly realised that the others around the table had fallen quiet and glanced up swiftly. The eyes of her hostess were on her, beady and bright with curiosity. “Dorothy. You don't seem yourself tonight, darling. Are you all right?” Dorothy hastily rearranged her face into the smile that was expected, even though her cheek muscles already felt stiff from the effort of the evening. Are you all right was a loaded question nowadays. “More alcojuice, dear?” Dorothy thought that if she had to drink any more of the sweet, syrupy stuff, she might be sick, and managed to repress a shudder at the thought of the reaction this would produce. A refusal might make them think that there was something wrong, however, and that would never do. “Thank you, Betty.” She held out her glass and kept a smile pasted on as the viscous liquid trickled in. “What were you thinking of, Dorothy? You looked miles away.” Dorothy was unable to think of a convincing lie. “Chickens,” she admitted, and the other women around the table drew back in distaste. “Chickens? Oh, Dorothy—what on earth made you think of that?” “I saw some on the telescreen last night. I was just thinking that it's hard to believe people used to—” “Don't.” Betty shook her head. “It's too horrible. Think of all the…germs.” Dorothy's friend Mabel, spoke up. “You'll never guess what I heard…” The others, sensing salacious gossip, leaned in. Looking at them, Dorothy felt a momentary frisson of disgust. They were eager, mouths slightly parted, lips glistening. “Some of the others still eat things like that.” They drew back as one, delighted shock on every face. “No! Really? But the risks for them—” “But why…” Mabel shrugged. “They say they can't afford real food.” Dorothy surprised herself by speaking up. “How do you know?” Six pairs of eyes swivelled towards her like gunsights. Dorothy said nothing, cursing herself. “Her mother has dealings with them,” said Betty slyly. “Doesn't she, Dorothy?” Hating her, Dorothy nodded slowly. “Your mother doesn't mind, does she, Dorothy?” “She says,” Dorothy said, stung into retaliation, “that there's no point in having paid for an expensive super immune system if you're going to hide away.” “It's not hiding,” said one of the others with indignation. “Who wants to look at dirty, sick people?” There were a few pursed mouths at the word, but Betty nodded wisely. “She's one of the old school.” Seeing Dorothy draw breath to speak, Mabel intervened. “I had one of the others come begging at my gate the other day.” The eyes all swung to her. “Really? What did he look like?” “It was a she,” said Mabel with relish. “At least I think so. I don't know why she was out of her own area either. She was…” she looked over her shoulder and then said in a whisper, “ill, as well.” The others cooed and tutted while Dorothy felt her smile freeze in place. She had no need to hear Mabel's gruesome description since they had seen the same girl only days ago, pitifully scrawny and pale, her nose reddened by rubbing, a mangy old dog by her side that kept scratching at itself. She had dreamed of the girl the following night, her sad eyes becoming confused with those of the dog. Tuning back into the conversation she realised that they were asking Mabel what she had done. “Told her to go and find one of those doctor people. They still hang around on the outside, don't they?” Betty gave a theatrical little shudder. “A doctor. How perfectly primitive. I can't think why she came to you in the first place.” “Some people feel sorry for them,” said Dorothy. “Some people think it's not their fault they couldn't afford the genetic enhancements and that they get sick a lot.” “Like your mother, you mean?” said Betty with scorn. Dorothy fell silent. Mabel hastily began a conversation about her daughter's indecision over the colour she should select for her next baby's eyes, and Betty turned away to pass round a plate of sugar-free biscuits. Dorothy longed to leave, but she felt Betty's eyes flicker to her every time she stirred, and she had made herself far too conspicuous already. At last the chatter began to fade, and one by one they left, Mabel finally taking her arm. “Come on, Dorothy, my car's arrived. I'll give you a lift.” In the car she sat silent next to Mabel, watching the quiet streets slide by. No one walked at night these days. Sometimes the others managed to get up here, and there were dozens of lurid and horrible stories about what they did to those they caught. And who can blame them, Dorothy heard her mother saying. If you wave food under the nose of a starving dog you'll get bitten. According to her mother, one of the oldest residents of the Sanctuary at nearly 120 years old, the divide between rich and poor had not always been so distinct. Apparently, when the first genetically improved babies had begun to grow into children, doctors had been considered a necessary part of life. Hard to imagine now, when the improved shunned the profession as reminders of something as embarrassing as illness. Her mother also claimed that before genetic modifying became the norm for the rich, the lives of the rich and poor had been closely interwoven. Dorothy suspected that her stories of sharing shops and schools were exaggerated though; it just seemed too unlikely and there was nothing on the net to suggest a shared history. “Don't let Betty upset you,” Mabel said. “You know what she's like—can't resist provoking people. She thinks a lot of Jade really.” “Mrs Black,” Dorothy said automatically. Her mother hated being called by her first name; as a child she had been much teased for being called something so old-fashioned. Mabel smiled. “Yes, sorry. Anyway—you do seem very distracted. Are you sure there's nothing bothering you?” Dorothy turned to look at her friend. “Can I ask you something?” Mabel looked surprised at the desperation in her voice. “Of course, dear.” Dorothy searched wildly for the right words. “I want…I've been thinking…” “Dorothy, you're starting to worry me. What on earth is the matter?” “Do…do you know anywhere that I could find a doctor?” she burst out. Mabel went very still. There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Then, very slowly, she said, “Why would you want to know that, Dorothy?” “Because my…because someone I know is ill.” Mabel's cheeks flushed and she averted her head slightly. “I'm sure you're mistaken, Dorothy.” “I'm not,” Dorothy persisted. It was easier now she had begun. “She got sick, and she's not getting any better.” “That's not possible,” Mabel said, still not making eye contact. “Even if someone should become…ill, they would recover very quickly. My advice to you is to keep your friend out of sight of other people for a few days, then no-one need know about it.” Dorothy looked at her friend's face, suddenly cold. “But where would you find a doctor?” Mabel flicked a cross look at her. “How should I know? My family are third-generation improved. Probably in their awful slums somewhere.” “Mabel, please.” “I heard tell of one on Pasteur Street,” Mabel said grudgingly. “And I don't want to hear another word, Dorothy, please. You're embarrassing me.” The rest of the journey passed in awkward silence. Mabel dropped her outside her house and nodded briefly when Dorothy suggested meeting up next week. Dorothy watched the car purr away into the distance and suspected that she had lost her friend. She went inside the house and stepped on to the moving stairway, her shoulders drooping as she heard the coughing coming from the master bedroom. The dawn light seemed brighter than usual, a relentless blaze picking her out as she hurried through the streets. She had been too scared to go out late last night, so she had waited till sunrise, tossing and turning in a light sleep that was filled with disturbing dreams. She had never been here before, although her mother had, and it was not what she had expected. The streets seemed surprisingly clean and quiet, and although the houses looked impossibly small and perhaps a little neglected, they were not the ramshackle hovels that she had been imagining. The streets were almost deserted; only a few people passed her. They looked remarkably ordinary; perhaps a little paler and certainly less attractive, but the improved were brought up on tales of spindly hunch-backed troglodytes, and despite her liberal upbringing she could not quite suppress a twinge of hurt pride. The improved were supposed to be super beings by comparison. The others looked at her as she passed, sidelong glances of curiosity, and she realised that her face and her dress would mark her out as not belonging here. The house was easy to find; it had a little plaque that said “Doctor” attached to the outside wall. She screwed up her courage and knocked at the door then waited, staring fiercely at the cracked paint to keep her from running away in panic. There was a long silence, but no answer. Although she was sure that the house was empty, Dorothy knocked again and then leaned forward to press her forehead against the door. Her legs seemed too weary to move any more, as though she had used up all of her energy in coming here at all. The hot trickle of tears slid down her cheeks, and she wondered miserably what to do next. “Can I help you?” said a quiet voice. Dorothy jerked round and gaped at the man before her without answering. She had pictured a dark, cadaverous-faced creature, not this middle-aged washed-out man with a paunch and thinning hair. “I'm Dr Rose,” he said. “Did you want to see me? I've been out all night with a patient. I hope you haven't been waiting long…” He trailed off as he looked more closely at her. “You're one of the improved, aren't you?” he said with incredulity. “What are you doing here?” “I need your help,” Dorothy managed. He sighed and leaned past her to open the door. “You'd better come in and tell me about it.” The inside of the house was faded but clean, and he led the way through into the kitchen. “Tea?” Dorothy kept a polite smile in place to mask her disgust. “No thank you.” He laughed, scooping an old cat up from a chair. “Oh yes, that's right, you don't, do you? Always struck me as ironic that people with such amazing immune systems would become so fastidious about what they ingest. Personally I'd be out enjoying myself and making the most of it.” “What's the point in having secured yourself longer life to then damage it deliberately?” Dorothy returned stiffly. He put the cat on his lap and stroked it, smiling as he saw how uncomfortable it made her. “So what do you want? I thought you found it a terrible social faux pas even to admit to being ill?” Dorothy fought down her outraged social instincts. “It's my…my mother,” she managed eventually. “She got…ill, a few days ago, and she seems to be getting worse. I'm worried about her; she's very old.” He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Oh? Don't you usually just shut the sick away until they get better or die? I mean, she's old, why bother, right?” Dorothy felt her eyes fill with tears again and she glared at him. “She's my mother. I want to help her.” He sniffed and pushed the cat down. It stalked off and sat with its back to him, tail flickering. “I would have thought it was beneath you to come to me.” Dorothy felt tiredness rush over her once again. “If you're not going to help me, could you just say so, then I can go? I don't need to sit here and be humiliated.” “Maybe you do,” he said with sudden bitterness. “Maybe it's time you thought about how the poor feel—left on the outside by you, made to feel feeble and useless because their grandparents weren't as rich as yours. And maybe you should think about how I feel too. Doctors used to be respected, you know, viewed as a valuable profession. Here they still know that they need us, but you wouldn't catch the improved helping, would you? Who wants to come and live with the disease ridden for little money and even less respect? All they get is people like me, struggling by on what I've learned, little better than a twentieth century sawbones—” “Saw what?” He looked at her blank face and laughed, a short humourless bark. “Ah, of course. You'll be relying on the net for your information, won't you? Wouldn't catch one of the improved with their noses in a book, far too grand for that. Well, my dear, your precious net is very—let's say selective, shall we? They aren't so stupid as to put information up for you all to see that tells the truth about the past. You never know—it might actually stir up some discontent.” Dorothy gazed at him. The blood had rushed into his pale face and he looked suddenly dangerous, but still she could not move. His words washed over her in an incomprehensible flood, and all she could think of was her mother's terrible coughing. He saw her look of hopelessness, and seemed almost to deflate. “All right,” he said wearily. “I am here to help, after all. What do you want; me to come to the house?” “No!” Dorothy was aghast. “Then why don't you bring her here and I'll see what I can—” “No. She wouldn't come.” Dorothy's mother's liberal views did not extend to sickness. “She says she'll get better in time.” The doctor made an exasperated sound. “Then what do you expect me to do?” “Can't you just give me some medicine?” He threw his hands in the air. “Is that what you think doctors do? How can I give her medicine if I don't know what's wrong with her?” “How would you find out what's wrong with her?” she asked humbly. “I'd start by talking to her. Describe her symptoms.” She told him about her mother's high temperature, her sneezing, her hacking cough, but he shook his head impatiently. “That could be any one of a dozen things. It's probably just 'flu. Let me think…there are some tests I can give you to do. If you bring various samples to me later today I can try to isolate the disease. Will that do?” She looked up at him, and his careworn face now seemed powerful and strangely noble. “Yes please.” When she opened her front door the following evening and found him standing there, all her new-found warmth for him drained away in an instant. “What are you doing here?” she hissed. “I told you, we can't be seen to—” “I had to come,” he cut her off bluntly. “This is critical. Life or death.” “What are you talking about?” Dorothy shepherded him into the hall and closed the door. “I already gave you the samples, what more do you—” “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “I found a bacterium in your mother's saliva called Yersinia pestis.” “So?” He swallowed hard. “I think she has pneumonic plague. You can develop it from bubonic plague, or catch it from someone else. She hasn't been near any fleas, has she?” “Don't be—,” Dorothy began indignantly, then broke off as she remembered the girl with her scratching dog. “Well…maybe. But can't you just give her some antibiotics?” “I can try.” She noticed that his forehead was beaded with sweat. “It may be too late for your mother. But the thing is, you can't just hide her away. You might have caught it. Anyone she's been in contact with could have caught it. It's highly infectious.” Dorothy shrugged, growing impatient with him. “So give us all antibiotics.” He made as though to grip her arm, then stopped. “You don't understand. No one mass produces antibiotics anymore; all the money's gone into researching chronic illnesses like arthritis. There's been a danger for years that a disease might re-emerge and threaten us.” “Well, you said pneumonia. I'm sure I've heard that—” “Pneumonic plague. They used to call the epidemic the Black Death. It wiped out half of Europe hundreds of years ago. Now where is your mother?” “In bed.” Dorothy was taken aback by his vehemence. They went up the stairs together, the doctor giving her a bewildering array of instructions on how best to quarantine her mother. Her mother's bed was empty. Voices floated through from the other room in her mother's suite and, exchanging glances, they followed the sound. The room was filled with people, laughing and drinking. Dorothy went to her mother's side. Tall and usually vigorous, she had hidden her pale face with skilful make-up and was concealing her coughs behind laughter. “Mother, you should be in bed,” Dorothy whispered. “You're still not well.” “Nonsense,” said her mother, her gaze fixing on the doctor. “Who's that man, Dorothy?” “A doctor,” Dorothy breathed. “He says that you have to be isolated or other people could get sick too.” “Don't be ridiculous, Dorothy,” said Mrs Black, shaking her off. “People don't get sick nowadays.” From behind her, somebody sneezed.