The Last Rational Man Page 19

his way through for the next few months. If he backed out now, he would just end up doing it all over again next semester, and it would mess up his schedule pretty badly.

  He hadn't eaten properly in days. He should go down to one of the local restaurants the students frequented, and get himself a hot meal. He didn't want to. Either because he didn't want to eat by himself, or, contradictory as it may sound, he was afraid of meeting somebody that he knew. An expedition to the grocery store was more the thing. Some eggs, fresh bread, and some salad greens would be just the thing. Keeping his hands busy with kitchen tasks might help him forget what his hands had been busy doing in that lab.

  On the way back from the grocery store, he walked by a small pharmacy. He had been in there on occasion, for the usual headache pills, toothpaste or the like. He was not into stay-awake pills, preferring to take his drug in its more natural liquid form, though one could question whether the coffee he made these days was liquid or more along the lines of hot instant coffee mud.

  He paused by the store entrance, thinking he needed something, but not sure what. He walked in, figuring that if he needed something, he would recognize it inside the store. But what did he need? Possibly vitamin pills. Maybe that would make up for his lousy diet. A diet of caffeine and vitamin pills didn't seem right, and after all he had just bought some salad greens. He had plenty of soap and toothpaste, and unfortunately no need for condoms.

  Ah. Shaving cream. That was it. He picked up his usual green can and, for the first time in many years, read part of the label. Recommended for both safety razors and straight razors. But who used straight razors these days? Either a few very old men, or some nuts who were convinced that they gave a better shave than the safety blades. He could see the attraction, the ceremony of honing the blade, the feeling that you were still slightly in control of technology. It was even better ecologically, using the same blade for years, rather than throwing out dozens of disposable safety razors.

  Sure enough, this pharmacy sold straight blades. Made somewhere in Europe. He put down the can of foam, and picked up the blade, which looked so benign in its bubble pack. There were brief instruction on the back of the package on how to use the blade for a 'traditional smooth shave'. He liked the ring of that word – 'traditional'. Could shaving equipment give you a sense of roots? Well, it would be one thing that he would have in common with his grandfather.

  If he was going to do this, he would have to do it properly. He picked up some shaving soap and a brush, and even found a special cup for mixing up the foam in. He left the store carrying his 'traditional' purchases, feeling oddly proud of himself, a man who had bought some roots in the local pharmacy.

  When he got to his apartment, he dumped the bags on the kitchen table, and started getting organized for a decent meal. He washed the dirty dishes and set the table, even neatly folding a paper napkin and placing it next to his plate. A fork went on the napkin, and a dinner knife on the other side of the plate. You didn't need a very sharp knife for eating an omelet or lettuce, which was just as well, since he didn't own any sharp knives – except that now he did. That knife was for shaving, though, not for eating.

  Knives were the first tools that men created, chipping them out of bits of flint. Did they have specialized knives for different jobs, or just general all-purpose blades used for everything? Amazing how little the average person really knew about these things. Maybe they only had one blade at first, then developed specialized knives for shaving and murder and the like. Was that what they meant by 'Neolithic'?

  Making an omelet was a traditional kind of activity, as much as shaving with a straight blade was. Though, come to think of it, he doubted that his grandfather even knew how to fry an egg. That was his grandmother's role. He rubbed his stubbly cheeks. He should shave first, and then put on a clean shirt and eat in a more civilized fashion. Why did students have to live like animals?

  He took his new toys to the bathroom, and spent some time getting the soap to foam properly. You had to use warm water, have a little patience and a quick stirring wrist. The blade came pre-honed, which was just as well, since he had neglected to buy a leather honing strap. He could pick one up tomorrow. The foam spread easily enough. He followed the instructions carefully, and managed to shave without even a nick. Once he got used to it the motions would become automatic, and he would be more likely to cut himself in a moment of inattention.

  He ran his hands over his smooth face. He could see the photos from his anatomy text hiding under skin. Procerus, depressor supercilli, levator labii – they were all there. They could easily be exposed with his new sharp blade – a bit of self dissection. He shook the thought out of his head, rinsed his face, and headed to the kitchen for his healthy meal.

  Now he felt better, properly shaven, properly fed. It was still early. He could spend some time studying before going to bed. With all of this excitement about the anatomy lab he was falling behind in his studies. He sat at his desk, intent on infectious diseases, and managed to fill his mind with the details of viral and bacterial attacks on the human body.

  He fell asleep over a chapter on antibiotic resistant pneumonia, his head comfortable on his crossed arms.

  Images of bacteria battling with antibiotics floated through his dream, the bacteria more or less realistic, the antibiotics symbolized by geometric shapes. They fought over the alveoli, prime territory for bacteria intent on destroying lungs. The bacteria were already resistant to the antibiotics, and conquered the alveoli, and eventually the entire lung. A pyrrhic victory, since they ended up killing their host. His view zoomed out as the bacteria covered individual alveoli, then lungs, and he watched from above as the entire body succumbed to the disease.

  The body was in a hospital. He followed as it was moved down to a lower level for autopsy. Disembodied hands cut and probed, doing a complete dissection, which in a dream-logic went exactly according to his anatomy text.

  Inevitably the hands reached the cadaver's face. They caressed the skin, feeling the muscles hiding under their thin cover. Procerus, depressor supercilli, and levator labii waited to be exposed. The face looked vaguely familiar, but he smiled to himself in the dream. Obviously he was fantasizing about his own traumatic experiences. The pathologist, or was it a medical student, spoke. He couldn't make out the words, but the voice was familiar. He looked directly at the student, and saw that it was himself.

  His viewpoint suddenly jumped, and he was now himself, carefully following his anatomy text as he pulled the skin off the smoothly shaven face. He had never seen such a smooth shave on a cadaver. Perhaps this victim of tuberculosis used a straight blade, just like he did. He gently pulled off the skin, felling its smoothness as the muscles were exposed, procerus, depressor supercilli, levator labii. Only then did he realize that it was his own face that he was dissecting. A strange calmness overtook him, and he continued slicing, snipping and peeling. He mumbled the Latin names as the organs became visible.

  In time the face was gone, and a small electric saw replaced the scalpel. He sawed around the top of the skull, aware that it was his own, and pulled the cap off as if he was opening a Tupperware container. His brain lay exposed, another picture out of his anatomy text. The arteries pulsated as the blood flowed through his still living brain. He saw little flashes of electricity as thoughts flickered through his mind. He knew that they didn't really exist- you couldn't see flashes of anything as the ion concentrations moved in waves between the neurons.

  Still, the flashing went on. They became more and more agitated as he gently separated the hemispheres with his left hand and sliced with his right.

  He woke up with a sore back and an all-too-familiar cold sweat. It was practically a routine now. Dream, cold sweat, shower, shave. He stayed under the hot water until his fingers looked all shriveled. He thought of going back to the safety razor, but decided that he was in complete control, that no crazy dream would make him change his habits. He would conquer his fears and shave with his stra
ight razor. Tomorrow he would go to the lab, and calmly cut, peel, and even saw.

  Six days later, in a far off city, students gathered nervously around a cadaver, ready to start on the face and head. They had been warned that "Adam" had had his throat slit, so they weren't shocked to see the damage. But there was something else wrong with "Adam". Unlikely as it seemed, somebody had already started dissecting his face. See, there, just like in the textbook - procerus, depressor supercilli, levator labii.

  An Obsession, with Music

  It had been a long week, a very long week. And the week before had been long as well. Seven weddings in two weeks. To be honest, they had skipped one wedding- it was just getting to be too much. Even so, they had driven back and forth to Jerusalem or Tel Aviv four times in the past week, and J was exhausted.

  The bottom line was that C, his wife of twenty-six years, didn't like driving at night, so when it came to driving back home at one o'clock in the morning, guess who did the work? And guess who loaded himself up on caffeine to make sure he'd stay awake while driving? And stay awake he did, so when they got home at two o'clock, he couldn't fall asleep.

  Thursday night, and they were