By Beautiful Design

It was Einstein who gave us to understand that space is the same as matter, and with that realisation, the limits of our perception of the universe fell away. Space was no longer empty, it had force, it could curve around stars, bend time itself, diffuse light, keep worlds turning. Space was alive, it was humming and buzzing. Creation was assumed in the wake of its path of destruction. There was a fundamental order to the seeming chaos, every particle made its way in the ether bonding to another and then another, nothing was wasted, these particles became rock, became a star, became a planet, became water, became man, until eventually, by beautiful chance, became myself, Lawrence. Became my brother, Edwin. It was Edwin who eventually showed me the world in this light, life, an endless, ever-expanding riff on a single beautiful melody. We were bonded, he and I, proton, neutron, melded nuclei, part of the great design, integral to each other for existence. I knew this instinctively, it was unspoken knowledge buried deep within the dark warmth of my frame, I knew it long before, the words of scholars and scientists carried any weight or meant anything when set against the simple truth of a child’s immediate surroundings; the lake, the gardens, the Summer House, rarely was a day spent indoors, in the tall stone house filled with the sum total of our parents’ lives, two studies, two libraries, two laboratories, one large and inviting, if rather ostentatious, and antiquated bed, so frivolous, so at odds with their, overbearing earnestness, their obvious plainness, which appropriately reflected their disinterestedness in the mundanity of domestic life.

Edwin could always be spied, reaching under the surface of things, with his hand in water grabbing at algae, or in soil plucking up worms, unwittingly channeling the aged ghost of Darwin.  I preferred to squander away my time, gadding about with a most beloved Springer Spaniel, Galen. Loving parent as we were to one another, it was Edwin who showed me flakes of my own skin under a microscope, he grew crystals on the great stone mullion ledges of our chilly bedroom, he watched the stages of a peach as it rotted in front of our eyes day by day and neatly noted down the ghoulish signatures of decay. Where I saw its winsome beauty wrinkle and wither, Edwin saw molecules breaking down, he felt the loss of their collective strength. He saw the exposed skeleton structure of parted elements diminished in their power as if this where something you could see with the naked eye. I simply felt it a betrayal that we had not shared it. I would have taken charge and sliced it neatly in half with my army knife. We could have enjoyed ripping its flesh to juicy ribbons. I would have gladly left off my share if I could have watched Edwin in a rare moment behaving like an ordinary boy of his age, catching the prickly acid juice with his tongue before it reached his elbow.  I used to cook dinner for the two of us after school most evenings when Mother and Father were at the university. These meals were often childishly simple, eggs and beans, stewed pears and custard, for pudding, a favourite of Edwin’s. He would sit at the table, marking my Algebra, Grammar, Geography, Philosophy - all the subjects. There was not a field in which he did not hold superior knowledge and though I always took great care to please him, he would always find some error coming from some direction, that in hindsight, I could not imagine ever having overlooked. Indeed, he made me curse myself for having done so.

‘Larry, how many times ‘Affect’ and ‘Effect’ two very different things, polar- opposites, in fact. Learn the difference, one is influence, the other consequence. Think of Newton’s Laws of Motion if you will.’   

Yes, I had heard Edwin recite those laws a thousand times.

‘To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.’

I thought about this particular Law many times. I used to roll the phrase over my tongue when I couldn’t sleep. Eventually, I stored it away along with the other fragments of science my brother had given me over the years. The sketches of Da Vinci. The inventions of Tesla and Faraday. The predictions of Maxwell. The true meaning of self-sacrifice from Curie and her husband. I used to think about Newton’s force represented as a Grecian maid and her Athenian lover painted in the Italian style on the verge of succumbing to their lust, the promise of their kiss suspended in paint. Could Newton’s Law explain the true fatedness of that moment? It might acknowledge it, hold a mirror to it, it might place it in succinct, definable, measurable terms - but it could not explain every permutation of consequence for that action. In the course of our daily human interactions what exactly was equal? What was truly opposite? It was a rule used to predict, a formula applied to a given situation. Understanding mortality was one thing, experiencing the power of that mortality was another, it is at that moment every man confronts his own powerlessness.    

As if caught in our own stretched bubble of time dilation I watched Edwin gradually grow from boy to man, from each line on his changing face to every discarded pair of worn-out shoes with broken laces. He no longer formed his sentences as questions or points of observational wonder, he made statements now, expressed opinions.

‘People don’t look up enough, Larry.’ remarked Edwin, bunched over his microscope one particularly dark, wet afternoon.

‘You haven’t looked up in the past hour.’ I said, as he delicately exchanged one slide for another.

‘I’m serious, who knows where we will be in a hundred years from now. Two hundred. It won’t be wars that kill us. It will be our own bewilderment, our own blindness . . . Mankind, left wondering why no one paid closer attention to Nature’s warnings when everything goes to Hell. We’re done for, don’t you see? I see it.’

Our parents began to take a keener interest in the maturing scientist as well. Father showed him how to tie a tie and argued jovially with him about which Sciences he intended to specialise in at the university. Suddenly, my mother woke as if from a prolonged dream and decided that we needed someone to keep a more watchful eye upon us about the house. We both protested, but with examinations looming on the horizon we had little ground upon which to argue and it was decided that our aunt should come to spend the summer with us. To mark our aunt’s arrival, Mother, with my help, cobbled together some ham and cucumber sandwiches. We stood together for a rare moment in the kitchen, our heads almost touching.

‘Use the steak knife to cut the Sandwiches, Mother. It’s sharper . . .’

‘It’s a shame, you’ll never have your brother’s brilliance, but you really are a lovely boy.’

Edwin and I sat waiting in the lounge, leaving our Parents the awkwardness of retrieving our aunt and her suitcases from the porch. I looked over at Edwin and caught him looking at his watch.

‘Samples?’ 

He didn’t need to respond for me to know this was so. He was twitchy to the point of distraction.

‘But what about Aunt Minerva, and Mother’s cucumber sandwiches?’

‘To Hell with all that!’

He tried to escape but it was too late, his exit was blocked by Minerva’s approach. He found himself shuffling backwards to stand at my side. Minerva wasn’t large or imposing, just the opposite, in fact, she was every bit our Mother’s sister, but prettier, and judging from her dress, less ill at ease with herself. To Edwin, she simply represented a stranger, an unfamiliar in his territory and he looked to me for moral support.

‘Aunt Minerva! How delightful to see you, so good of you to come.’

‘Lawrence? Lawrence, is that you? So tall now and Handsome! Never thought I’d see the day. And Edwin, yes Edwin, destined for great things like your Mother and Father, I hear.'

‘With any luck.’ He shook hands with Minerva, knowing full well, luck didn’t enter into the equation.

‘I remember what it was like with your Mother. Though that was all a long time ago to her, I daresay . . .’

A young woman in a delicate crochet dress with trumpet sleeves, appeared quietly in the doorway, head before foot as if she were expecting to see a work of fine art, six-foot-tall, upon the wall, the sort you’d expect to find in stately homes or the national galleries. She carried a book in her hand and a tooled-leather handbag, her large black curls were piled high on the crown of her head, some strands of hair had naturally come loose about her ears and neck. I turned to my brother. His expression was my own, my expression was his. By now she had realised we were watching her and caught the measure of our sorry situation in the same instant.

‘Oh hello love, don’t be shy come on in, that’s it . . . this is my Elodie.’

‘Edwin, Lawrence . . .’ Elodie took our hands in turn, it was a gift.

By this time Mother and Father had shuffled their way in with the bags.

‘Here we are, all safely ensconced.’ Father was rather enjoying his opportunity to play at being head of the household.

‘Sandwiches?’ Mother asked, a little too hopefully.

‘I’m famished!’ Minerva responded. Mother looked genuinely relieved.

‘I . . . I er. I have to go and check on some results. . .’ Edwin cut in.

‘I’d love to see your laboratory.’ Elodie said.

‘Yes, why not. Let’s all go.’ I add. Working on sheer instinct. Pure Science after all. Reflex, intuition. Desire. The three of us, acting according to our Nature, in synergy with one another, acting out of compulsion. The beautiful design continued on its trajectory and unfurled its new tendrils, such symmetry.

 Once in Edwin’s laboratory Elodie, found herself a convenient spot upon the bench ignoring the available seats as if she were already familiar with the space.

‘Oh no, you can’t sit there, I’m afraid.’ Elodie looked deeply into Edwin’s eyes and slipped back onto her feet without making a sound.

‘Larry, find Elodie a seat can’t you?’

‘I think Elodie can find her own seat.’

She smiled at this.

Edwin’s head shot up to look at me from the bench. I think it was the first time he had ever been confused by something I might say, in his life.

Elodie brought a chair closer to the bench and I moved mine closer to hers. I felt her fingers reach for mine undulating against the wooden strut like a sprig of kelp being pulled along with the current.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked Edwin.

‘It’s er quite complicated.’ Edwin was growing increasingly flustered by this most unexpected intrusion. One would think we were locked in a nightmare of his at the point where he discovered he was naked but felt he had no choice but to continue bravely on as though nothing had changed.

‘It’s not complicated.’ I chime in rather childishly. ‘He is looking at tiny slithers of rats brains after zapping them with electric probes.’

‘All right then. Larry.’ What am I doing it for?’

Elodie spoke in my place. ‘I cannot speak for what drives your scientific preoccupations, though I would presume you are concerned with deep neural stimulation . . .’   

‘Good. Go on . . .’ He urged, There was a flicker in his eye, and he swayed ever so slightly on his feet, he licked his lips. Grabbed his hair. I knew he was lost, hopelessly, utterly lost.

‘There would be many applications for this kind of research, gaining a deeper understanding of cranial compartmentalisation, the interplay between left and right sides . . .’

‘Anything else?’

‘Potentially Repair. Regeneration of the neural pathways.

 Yes, good. Your exams, what are you intending to study?’

‘Literature . . .’

‘Oh . . .’

‘ . . . and Philosophy.’

 ‘I see, like Larry …’

Elodie and I exchanged polite smiles.

‘I don’t just take heed of the poets.’ she said.

‘Or the Scientists I hope.’ replied I.

 Edwin put down his scalpel.

“And new philosophy calls in doubt:

The element of fire is quite put out;

The sun is lost, and the earth, and no man’s wit

Can well direct him where to look for it.

And freely men confess that this world’s spent,

When in the planets and the firmament; they see that this

Is crumbled out again to his atomies.

Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone; . . .”

‘John Donne.’   Elodie said, reluctant to break Edwin’s pause.

‘I heed the poets well enough. . .’ 'Edwin meant in reproach to me. 'We are fragile, Elodie. Extremely so.'

Elodie considered this a moment, ‘That is just a thought, a fleeting thought that fires up the synapse then is gone.’ 

And so our summer with Elodie began. To my shame, I told myself I was being generous allowing Edwin the pleasure of having her with him in his laboratory during the day. Hopeless with women as he was, he saw her more in the spirit of a pet that he could train and reward. Elodie learned her way around, she soon knew where the instruments were kept and which ones would be required for the day’s experiments. I had never been permitted this level of access into his inner sanctum myself. I would spend the afternoons brooding at the pair of them from my usual armchair in the corner by the window. It occurred to me that Edwin was working his way towards something, an idea, a theory. He was figuring something out for himself. Whether he was conscious of it or not, he used Elodie.  He tested himself, his limits, tested hers. He would lean back on the two legs of his tall lab stool running his eyes over the athletic curves of her figure, every crease of her clothing. It was so obvious and yet she said not a thing.

‘So, Elodie, if you had the chance to save a person, would you do it, even against their will?’

‘No, never against their will, never.’

‘But if you knew what was best, even when they didn’t see it themselves in that very moment … if it was in my power, I would be negligent to do anything less. . . now you ask me Elodie, ask me anything you like, I insist.'

‘How will the universe end, do you suppose?’

‘It will expand and expand then simply fade away, all the atoms that made us will drift apart.’

‘Poetic.’

‘And probably true.’

‘Don’t you care?’

‘The universe doesn’t care about us.’

‘Are we so insignificant?’

‘We are absurd. We are pitiful. We are undermined at every turn, by our false Gods, our greed, our lust, our weakness.’

 ‘Then why do all this?’

‘To see past our human failures. Our insignificance, as you put it. Conquer new frontiers. Life must be lived while it is ours to live. We must do what is our want.’

The endless questions, these flirtations, turned into practical demonstrations, became experiments, challenges, tests of loyalty, or excuses for forms of physical contact. Little did he know of course that we were making love in the Summer House every night when the house had gone to bed.

‘I want you to be more careful of Edwin. You know he is in love with you. Don’t you see, it will not end well.’

‘How do you know I’m not in love with him?’

‘I don’t, in some ways, I assume that you are. He is one of those people, a mystery, a miracle even. My own heart aches with admiration for him, but he could never give you a life, or a home.’

‘But you could, don’t you see how happy we could be Larry? I could pursue my work, he is my natural mentor, you must see that.’

‘You can’t marry both of us, Elodie. I won’t share you. I would also see my brother protected.’

She let the blanket fall away from under her arms and pushed me down underneath her.

‘Would this destroy us? She caught my throat in her lips and sucked. ‘Or this?’ She pulled her lips up to my mouth. ‘Perhaps, if you feel so strongly, you should tell your brother yourself. Let him know how things stand between us.’

Those passionate nights morphed into languid days and in turn, those hot frustrated days led to fervent nights. Our ardour was fueled, I realise now, by our shared connection to Edwin. He had a way of breeding dissatisfaction in those who followed him with their hearts as well as their minds.  The weeks rolled by and I never said a word to my brother. That morning I came down late to breakfast, I cursed myself for allowing a situation whereby Elodie would have to enter the laboratory with Edwin alone. When I got to the door I could not bring myself to go through. I steeled myself, went for the handle. He had jammed it.

‘Edwin! . . . Edwin . . .’

I tried not to betray the alarm in my voice.

‘Let me in man, can’t you? The latch appears to be stuck.’

‘Go away, Larry.’ Came Edwin’s laconic tone from within.

‘Go away? What do you mean, Man? What’s going on in there?’

Silence.

‘Is Elodie in there with you? Elodie!’ I rapped on the door. ‘Why isn’t she answering? Edwin, tell me! Why doesn’t she answer?’  

‘She’s busy Larry, she doesn’t have the time for you now. She never had the time, don’t you see?

‘Elodie!’

‘If you stop shouting I’ll open the door . . .’  His footsteps moved closer towards me. The legs of the stool scraped across the floor as he dislodged it from under the door handle. I didn’t allow him to open the door for me. I burst through.

‘Bloody Hell, Edwin. What are you playing at?’

I turned my attention from him to Elodie, she had her back to me, her hair was loose and covered the back of the chair.

‘Elodie?’

The sight of her I can never erase. She had not died, not at that point. The side of her face had dropped she appeared to have suffered a kind of stroke. The skin had been pulled back from her skull, a fragment of the skull removed, there was a sickening smell of electricity and burnt flesh, but she was still alive, still alive!

‘Lar-Lar . . .’

‘Shhh – shh – sh . . . Don’t speak, my darling. Don’t speak. My God Edwin, what have you done? What have you done . . .?’

‘It’s what she wanted, don’t you see?’

‘We need to get her to a fucking hospital!’

‘It’s too late’

I looked down at Elodie and indeed, it was so, she could no longer outlive the shock of her ordeal. Her eyelids fell, her chin dropped, the life went out of her. I looked at my brother, horrified, appalled. I wondered how time might ever move forward from this moment. This life, my life, my brother’s, a binary star, its gaseous strands entwined, how could we now separate from each other and survive?  

‘You have to help me, Brother!’

‘What?’

‘We have to stitch her up. They must never know.’ Sensing my inertia, he added. ‘Think of her mother, for God’s sake.’  There was not a hint of agitation in his voice.

I rolled up my sleeves. He placed the needle and thread in my hands, I watched Edwin pull the folds of Elodie’s scalp back into position.

‘Beautiful mind. Beautiful brain, so open, so curious. I hope you enjoyed my gift Elodie, this compliment. Soon this shock will become a distant memory for my brother, for your mother. Those that loved you will become old and die, no one will remember an impressionable, young woman named Elodie. The universe casts itself outwards and the world dreams for itself new questions to new problems. We are all so easily forgotten, 'a fleeting thought' - isn't that what you once said?’

My hands trembled as my fingers fumbled for the pulpy-soft seam of the scalpel’s entry hidden amid those once lush, and ornate curls, now matted with blood. I pulled the stitch taught, gently and carefully as if one firm tug would prematurely make her body crumble into dust and nothing.

‘Shall I not open a window, Brother?’ Edwin asked.

The wind caught against the window, banging it loudly against the wall. I looked up. My pulse quickened. A pigeon flew in from outside and landed on the well-trodden Indian hearth-rug inherited from Father’s laboratory. Edwin knelt beside it and cupped two hands around it. I went and knelt opposite him.

‘Look, Brother, look what we’ve been given. Pure white, not a speck of grey.’

Carefully, I extracted the pigeon from his small clammy hands and placed it in a cage. I closed the window. I shut out the violent gusts that wanted to burst through the glass. I walked around the body, an expanding stain, which now cast its shadow in the middle of the room. I picked up the needle and thread once more.

By Robyn Hunt (c) August 2016

Blog Image: Gavin Roberts