Chapter XI

Trench was awakened by a noise, but not that of Halsted clanging into its sweltering day. He sat bolt upright, and saw Saadi Sereef. Saadi was studying a map in the Britannica, while he unconsciously tapped the desk with a nervous finger-tip.

“Good morning, Dr. Trench. It is five o’clock, and my head does not ache much, and I have bathed damfool body.”

“I usually get up at five,” said the doctor, proceeding to the telephone. “Is coffee ready? Will you bring some to Jaffer’s room?”

While the doctor was absent for his bath, Wu entered with a tray. There was a steaming coffee-pot. There were blue grapes in a blue dish, hot rolls wrapped in damask, and a tiny Chinese hen sheltering boiled eggs in a porcelain nest. Wu held up a salt-cellar. “Not pink,” he said, “like salt of Karshi, but equally good for purposes of friendship.”

Wu placed the tray on Jaffer’s desk and moved the desk to the window. “If you sit here you can see down Halsted Street and imagine the people—Austrian, Belgian, Bulgarian, French, German, et cetera.”

Saadi caught up the refrain. “Greeks, Hindus, Irish, Poles, Russians, and all other slaves. Bog milui—God help us.”

The doctor presently returned, and the two sat down. Saadi sipped his coffee and looked out into a sunsmitten vista.

“Why they call it Halsted?”

“The Halsted brothers of New York bought a frontage up by Goose Island. Dr. Halsted of the Hopkins is a son of one of them.”

“And why does doctor live here?”

“My father’s first house stood here.”

“Why you did not build house in Lake Shore Drive and doctor babies of too-busy rich?”

“Couldn’t afford to.”

Saadi cocked one eye and then the other, like a dog who much desires what is withheld. “Are you philanthropist?”

“Oh, lord, no.”

Saadi waved his hand and selected a small bunch of grapes. “I know all. Doctor has some big internal wound, like Saadi, and doctor is naturalist without courage. To Halsted he comes, same as monk goes in desert. Here in desert doctor would cure all diseases if they would permit. But when baby machines go wrong, parent machines call in gaseous vertebrates to help. Now is doctor waiting for Halsted Street to outgrow all gods and bogs and allahs, and get down to business, which is metabolism. Do I know part?”

“Yes.”

“If races will get together in Halsted and be civilised, it must be on atheistic bottom. What makes foreign boys come in Dr. Trench’s house? Is it Mirza Ameen standing on roof and calling ‘Come to prayer’? It is not. It is nice smell of clean hospital. It is microscope and Trench kymograph. And it is Dr. Trench, who did not give one damn if I died.”

“I bow, as Wu would say.”

“I bow back, Dr. Trench, for I think you are awful strong man, because you are not person; you are machine. One machine gun can lick whole army of priests and mullahs. But even if races get together on atheistic bottom, they will fight. By and by it will be war in Halsted Street. Industrial Workers will march down street under window here, and it will be much blood in gutters. I will like it if I am here.”

Trench set his coffee cup down exactly in the middle of the saucer, and addressed it. “First a suicide, then a maximalist.”

Saadi lost his sprightliness. “No, doctor. It was what you say vice versa.”

Trench had no further remark to make to his coffee cup, and presently Saadi resumed his former tone.

“Dean gave me credit for four years in Vienna.”

“Ah! That makes you a junior with us. Is Wurtz alive and well?”

“Yes, doctor, and this is way he lectures.” Saadi put one hand behind him, elevated his glance toward the ceiling, and changed his soft voice to a high nasal: “‘Meine Herrschaften! Wir kommen jetzt zur Besprechung Darmkanals—’”

Trench interrupted. “Talk English, Saadi.”

Saadi sighed and began again.—“‘Gentlemen, we now approach subject of alimentary canal. Length of life depends to very considerable extent on length of alimentary canal. In your case, gentlemen, I could wish length greater. If you had canals which would permit you to exist for ninety-five years, I could perhaps instil a few facts which I am now about to state, and you are about to forget.’”

“Capital!” laughed Trench. “You are a born actor.”

“No, I am born fool. But I can speak German. Listen, doctor, it is not six o’clock yet, and if you will let me speak language of bloody Teutons, you will know how bad man I am.”

“Fire away, if it will ease your soul. But no German. In Halsted we speak Halsted.”

“Soul? Did devil bring me ghost in night-time?”

“Well—we are talking Halsted.”

“First, will you give me physical examination?”

“Not now. You are in good shape, except for the wound that bothers you. You might tell me how you got that.”

Saadi became very grave. “Doctor has sharp eyes. My father gave me that.” He rose abruptly and paced the room.

“It was such little thing to begin with. It was my brother’s fourteenth birthday. When Karoul was twelve, my father promised to give him best horse in Bokhara when he was fourteen. But Karoul did foolish thing—he played with Jewish boy. Karoul loved to put on mask and go to bazaar with Isaak Chaim. My father found it out. He sent for Karoul, and dog of mullah brought him in.”

Again the speaker paced up and down, like a wild creature.

“My father cursed Karoul, and ordered him to be whipped. Karoul said, ‘You will not whip me. You will give me horse and maybe I will give him to Isaak Chaim if I wish.’ Doctor! you do not know what such words would do to my father. My father struck, but he is fat, he cannot move quick. Karoul cries to him, ‘You beast of tyrant. Sunni boys will smash your windows soon and it will be revolution.’ Then my father draws talvar and runs him through. It was such long sword—such little boy.”

Trench involuntarily put his hand to his side.

“I was not there,” continued Saadi. “Dog of mullah told me. They put Karoul away in night. Where? Nobody dare ask. Then I went to my father. ‘Where is Karoul?’ ‘Karoul is gone to country to my villa in Kermineh.’ ‘That is lie, my father. Go in Galerie Tretiakov and see how shamed looks Ivan Fourth with dead son in front of him.’ Then my father flung talvar at me, and zip, I got it in neck. I picked up talvar and gave back. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘I will leave Bokhara-i-Sherif. I will not come back till you say you are brute. When you are shamed, you will send me word. My mother will know where to send. You can open her letters—you can open all letters in Bokhara—you will not know from letters!’”

“It is a ghastly story. We must help you to forget it.”

“You cannot help, doctor. All times I see Karoul’s face. I know where it is. It is in bottom of Zerafshan, with stone round neck.”

Though the morning was warm, Trench gave a shiver.

“I have spoiled doctor’s breakfast. I have been bad guest.”

“Forget it, Saadi. But I must say that a brother’s death doesn’t often drive men to suicide.”

“No, doctor, but it can help. My thoughts were enormous mixed. I did not intend to give you what you say surprise party.”

“I see. You received it yourself.”

“Doctor is keen. Biggest surprise was to see what is in Dr. Trench’s house. All boys of different races seemed best of friends, way down deep. Always I have preferred war. This morning again I prefer war. Last night I thought maybe science is enough.”

Trench pondered this. “Your reasons seem curiously impersonal.”

“I try awful hard, doctor, to be what you say impersonal. Persons are only damfool configurations of energy. I ought not to yelp with sorrow for Karoul’s atoms in Zerafshan. But my head hurt very bad, and I thought maybe I will go crazy. And I thought if I stay in Chicago I will get some baby and kismet will make me kill him. I said, one like my father is enough, and one like me is too much. All off. This is as far as we go.”

“I see. It was your fear of being cruel.”

Saadi hesitated, and his voice sank lower than ever. “I can tell no more.”

“You need tell nothing. But I was interested in Karoul.”

“Well, doctor, it was eight years ago when Karoul went down to feed filaria in river.”

“Wait a minute. Let me look at that wound again.”

Saadi knelt, and Trench inspected the scar. “Go on.”

“I went first to Kabul to see my older brother, Ali Khan. He is doctor—he studied in Riga. Why is Ali Khan in Kabul? He is spy for Nicky. I found out and went away quick.”

“To Vienna?”

“Oh, no, not so soon. To Russia. Same month was general strike in Russia, and everybody was happy in hopes. I took tutor with me and kept studying. I went in Moscow, waiting for letter from Papa. No letter—only letters from Mamma Ila with money and sad words. In spring I went to see her, and boys in Tashkent said, ‘Come on, Saadi, we will make revolution in Turkestan.’ So I fired tutor and went in revolution with boys. I was only seventeen. I wanted to forget Papa and be alive, and we broke down wall of prison in Tashkent, and gendarmes caught me and put me in unbusted part of prison. It was then so bad for six months. Often I wished it was gas or gun. When I came out I knew it is no use of anything. Revolution had failed, revolution will always fail, and parents do not love children. It is all blind chemical push that drives men to have children. It is no sooner done than said—and then what you say makes no damn difference.”

Trench was plunged in thought—his own thought strangely given back to him. It dawned upon him, like a differential diagnosis, that this was his own style exaggerated.

“I said,” continued Saadi, “I will never marry any woman, but I will have hell of good time and forget all fool dreams. But I could not. Other boys did. It was strange in Russia to see way schools went. Government almost taught freedom. Government wanted boys and girls to be free with each like animals, and forget politics. Boys and girls had all night parties in woods, and parents could not stop them.

“So I went in Vienna and took Matura exam. and entered University to study damn chemical machine called human body. In winter of 1910 what Karoul said about Papa came true. You see, Papa was Vazee, what you say prime minister. All Sunni boys hated him for taxes. He took one-third of cotton crop. So boys in secret societies sent committee in 1909 to Emir, with demand to fire Papa, or we will yell ‘Yar charyah’—which is warcry of Sunnis. Emir would not hear, and boys smashed Papa’s windows, and beat up guard, and Emir was scared. He fired Papa in exile to Petersbourg. Now no more sits Papa every morning in Gate to settle all fool questions. Where is Papa? Shaitan belade—devil knows. But in Tashkent is still his business office, and money from cotton lands goes to him, maybe in Petersbourg or Yalta.”

Saadi paused. “Well,” said Trench, “that brings us up to 1910.”

“Yes, and next year Emir died, and all were glad in Bokhara. Last year came war with Turks, and I went to Belgrad and got in hospital corps and went to Kumanovo. So little amputation you never saw, but thousands of wounds without first aid.”

“You will go back, shall you not, and practice?”

“It is no use. In Turkestan we cure dysentery with blood of sheep poured with prayers on feet and hands. They would kill me if I used modern method.”

“What of it, Saadi! A bullet in the neck is pleasanter than gas in the throat.”

Saadi pondered this, apparently fixing the words in mind.—“It is true, doctor. But I do not love human sheep. Did I go in revolution to save sheep? No. I went for thrills in nerves. Paradise is only pipedream of thrills in nerves.”

“You are strictly selfish?”

“Yes, Dr. Trench. I will kill, I will be kind, I will lie or steal or seduce girl to please myself. When I say self, I mean body. Me is body. Person is body. Soul is just excuse of body, or else streak of phosphorus long side of body. You see how bad man I am.”

“No, Saadi. But I see how bad your English is.”

“I can say in three four languages, doctor. I am devil come to visit you. I am just body, without apology.”

“Saadi, when people talk like that and mean it, we lock them up.”

“Lock me up, doctor.”

“I don’t think it will be necessary. Just remember that language, like most other things, is no use. The world’s atmosphere is composed of spent breath, but life is the great miserable unrecorded fact, and sane people let it stay such. People who are too brave of speech get into trouble—as I did lately.”

“I understand doctor, and I did not think he was so what you say conventional. Life is only metabolism, and I do not see what is difference between clean words and dirty words.”

“That’s a lie, my dear boy.”—The words came promptly, and Edith Bridgman was responsible for them. A month earlier Trench would not have spoken them. He would have preserved a cold silence.

Saadi stopped, and tried to reflect. “Well, it is nice to have great man call Saadi liar, because I sure am liar. But Bismillah! What use is medicine if body is not me?”

“Well,” laughed Trench, “you are right enough there.”

“Well, then, I will again talk English. Body is self, and I am ended with good habits. It will be only little time to live before body will succeed to kill itself. Nothing is left but thrills in nerves, and soon I will bust loose.”

He watched to see how the doctor would take it. He saw the fine brow slowly contract till a great bunch stood out over the eyes.

“Saadi, it would have been better if you had died.”

“Yes, much better.”

“Frankly—why do we feel so?”

“Fear, doctor. Doctor is afraid of some woman. We will see if he has courage to fire Saadi if Saadi gets gay.”

“Of course I’ll fire you. If I know of your wronging a girl—well, as between murder and seduction, I prefer murder.”

“Same here, Dr. Trench. But I will do both if I damn please.”

“Saadi, we seem to be a bloodthirsty pair, but I have no doubt we are as much under social control as if we believed all the commandments to be of divine origin.”

“Speak for self, Dr. Trench, but do not speak for Saadi. You are naturalist without courage. I will not go through fool ceremony with girl. I want rich-coloured, hot-blood girl, and if she wants lover, I take her. When I get tired of her I leave her.”

Trench smiled one of the sardonic smiles which children never saw on his face. “You are like all the rest, my son. You are more or less grateful, and the next week you return to the propagation of cannon-food. The other day I saved an arm for a child named Elsie. If she were older and had the right dermal tint, she would be your proper prey. It would serve her father right, and serve me right.”