Gregor
by Evan Palmer
Ours was a world of sterility and toxicity: side-by-side, arm-in-arm, at each other's throats. Everything about what we did and used was in the vanguard of human capability and understanding: the stainless steel on our table tops and as our equipment cladding, even on our walls was the hardest, smoothest, least porous available; our microscopes were the best and most powerful and cost more than five large houses, (you couldn't live in them but boy-oh-boy, could you ever see!); you had to treat the "scopes" more carefully even than a human baby; and kilometers of vials and tubes and flasks, our very own artificial jungle, made of clear dense very high-quality plastic and glass. In Science (and in much else), you're only as good as your tools and we made it a point to have the best.
We had fast rules about a number of things: rule number one - whatever jeopardized that crystallization of perfection which was our laboratory or our view and implementation of it, was the enemy. We declared war on them. It was simple and barbaric. It was exhilarating. In retrospect, we were probably a threat to the civil society but back then, it was everyone else who was the threat. That's how we saw it and that's what we believed.
To me, the most important objects in our laboratories were those rows and rows of culture dishes, half-filled with their mediums; sitting in their round depressions so they wouldn't get knocked over. The devout attention we lavished on those dishes was worthy of any ancient idol, or I should more accurately say, the attention we lavished on what was in those dishes: a what of which we only knew through our precious microscopes, our camera obscura on the invisible and the confines of our consciousness: and everything, our equipment and facilities, our schooling, our knowledge and creativity, was in service of our study of those infinitesimal creatures. We felt we were on the brink of a great new age where the way of biology would lay open its tenets; where anything would be possible.
I can see us sitting there, staring, musing, recording; wondering what seeing something meant compared to hearing or feeling or intuiting something; I guess the best way to sum up our state of excited bewilderment was to make the observation that staring through a microscope is a lot like praying. We were humble and full of hope and wonder as we squinted and held still.
Micro-organisms were our universe; human tissue my personal Milky Way. Their designation, the type of tissue, their morphology and markers; the age, ethnicity and gender of the source; the reverse transcript, growth properties, virus susceptibility.
My specialty was isoenzymes, subculturing, and determining the optimal split ratios. I spent a lot of time working on the best propagation mediums and conditions. Serums, amino acids and sodium compounds were a mainstay. And always, the temperature. I was obsessive about the temperature. Everyone said it.
Gregor had become a good friend. He was good at everything to do with our line of work but particularly at remembering: the applications of each micro-organism, the pertinent references for an organism (which could run for pages) and the required bio-safety regimes. That alone explained his promotions. Single-handed, he had taken our facility from Level 2 to Level 3.
It was before seven A.M. and we were the only ones there.
"You think I get away with things?" he said to me.
The office clock's ticks were audible. No-one else was there yet.
"Why should I think that?" I said.
Gregor stared at me, his fleshy nose still as he held his breath in concentration, he smiled then quickly frowned. It was his most frequent bodily expression, the smile and frown so close together in time that I thought of it as a smile-frown. I looked away briefly.
"No," he said, "not at all. I don't get away with anything. These things I fight are things that should not be done or should not be done the way they are proposed. I am avoiding nothing that must be attended to. You see the difference?" He stopped, seemingly admiring his logic.
When I shook my head, he shrugged - which was his next most frequent bodily expression; then he cleared his throat - that was the last leg of his triad of frequent bodily expressions: smile-frown, shrug, clearing-throat cough.
"Well, down to work," he said, marching away down the hall. "Don't be a stranger."
Our pre-work conversation had ended and we now commenced doing our small parts in the pharmaceutical trade: growing cultures, planning and conducting tests.
Gregor cut through his day's work with his usual speed and precision. When he thought it would help, he would play the uncouth Russian refugee; the intellectual peasant turned loose on the soft feeble-minded city boys of the Western world. You relish that act, I had once commented. It was no act, he had replied, it was something he worked hard to camouflage.
He was a smoky hard-muscled Russian expatriate. His long torso and well-proportioned physique disguised his six-foot-three height. People were surprised when they got close to him. He liked that, to keep everyone off-guard. To lead with a jab.
Like being the first one into the office every morning. We were the early birds. I guess that was how we became friends, through our morning chats. Drinking tea. After five years of knowing him, I had bought him a samovar as a present for Patriot's Day. Through him I had learned about the important days on a Russian calendar. It was an impulse buy; I saw it at an auction and I knew he would like it. More than that - I suspected he would cherish it and I wanted to be the conveyor of that kind of rare gift. Intuitively, I sensed that it was a boon to have that chance and some kind of offence not to use it.
He unwrapped it carefully and was overcome with emotion when he gazed upon its gleaming polished gold-plated sides. He placed a hand on one side of it. "The fallen, the sacrifice," he whispered sadly in remembrance of Patriot's Day, adding with bitterness and a shrug, "And the incompetence."
Tea wasn't vodka but a Russian must greet everything non-trivial with a drink. "To those who give without knowing why," he toasted, raising his steaming mug filled with Earl Grey tea. I acknowledged his toast and drank down a good draught of scalding tea without flinching.
I should have suspected something when Gregor turned philosophical and started pondering out loud about the mind which he referred to as the problem of the mind. There would be a different timbre in his voice and a fleeting haunted look lurking in his eyes, hiding, flickering on and off. I could see that he was afraid of finding what he was seeking. I commiserated mentally. I thought, we all are afraid of the truth because it might be unacceptable: it might force us to either die to our present
life or to reject the truth. Either way, we'd lose.
He called me by the Russian version of my name and he had conferred on me what he dramatically called honorary Russian third-class status. "Third-class is a good person who could have been a Russian."
"Mikhail," he had begun one destiny-laden morning before anyone else was about. "It's really is a chicken and egg question. What came first: the mind or the body?" It became in retrospect, a turning point to me because in my mind that was when Gregor had made his decision: that it was the mind that came first.
I missed it then. His contentious cavalier approach to everything made it impossible to detect the single sincere pronouncement nestled in the fluttering vivacious flood of half-meant half-teasing bon mots. It was only after that I recalled it and realized its significance to him. I did try. "The mind or the soul?" I said.
He sighed and gave me a fatigued rueful smile. "Ah," he replied, "the...soul. The soul, the spirit, the psyche."
I poured more tea.
Contemplating, he then commented: "To become an honorary Russian second-class, you must learn how to drink vodka." I had said nothing in return. It seemed wildly off-topic. After a moment, Gregor continued, "In a way, vodka is the soul of the steppes. Really a soul is everywhere if you look for it. And everything important," he said, raising his voice theatrically and smiling and lifting his eyebrows, "makes a Russian think of drink."
Learning from Gregor, I let my imagination range freely. "Evolution is only part of the answer," I offered.
Gregor gave me a smile-frown. "I agree. Evolution is merely a process. A mechanism. Russians know very well about mechanisms. Not much about Evolution. (he laughed sadly) Too busy with Revolution. We died inside (he cupped a hand over his heart) when our national soul became a mechanism." He waved his hands, mocking his own words and sentiments. "But what is ... the intelligence behind the mechanism?" he asked. "What is the reasoning behind the intelligence? The so-called primitives in
the Middle Ages and earlier knew about that than us, I think." He stared at me for a response.
He didn't say out loud the question I felt certain was burning in him: about the purpose; about what was the purpose? Our conversation went on fitfully for another ten minutes or so but then other co-workers arrived and work proper commenced: Testing drugs. Testing proteins and enzymes. Developing cultures. Thinking about physical life and its constituents.
Harvey was Gregor's boss. Harvey was strategic management and did not challenge Gregor's managerial control of the operational side of the laboratories. We in the lab took direction from Gregor. Harvey had made no secret of his distrust of Gregor and his dislike of his brashness. We knew there was friction. Harvey was a trim little guy who didn't like scenes. He wanted numbers and explanations to line up. No surprises was his rule. Get along, don't make waves, quid pro quo and the like rounded
out Harvey's successful career philosophy.
"We must have excellent relationships with our suppliers," he told Gregor.
"Of course," Gregor replied, conveying his disdain for the patent simplicity of Harvey's remark.
Noticing the nick at him, Harvey said, "I'm hearing about problems with GenTex Laboratories!"
Gregor gave his smile-frown. "The relationship between buyer and supplier is not symmetrical," he stated forcefully. "We are prime. They must meet our requirements."
"If you have problems with a supplier," Harvey said, "You bring it to me. It's part of my job to manage supplier relationships."
Gregor cleared his throat. It wasn't true but he was prepared. "This was first identified on June 15 of last year. There have been four follow-up memos: August 23 and December 3 of last year and March 12 and April 11 of this year." The knives had been firmly planted. Harvey seethed.
We had been working very hard those weeks on culturing cells and testing them. Gregor had authorized the overtime and fought with head office types who were afraid of him and who temporarily backed down.
"I'm over-qualified and financially secure," he confided to me, then he asked, "What does that make me?"
"Lucky?" I ventured.
"Dangerous," he said. "Independent. A free man."
What was perplexing was that cancer markers were turning up in most of the cultures. What should have been normal cell lines of a liver or a spleen or a brain stem. Gregor was on the verge of pulling his hair out in frustration. Finally, he called everyone together.
"We've been at this for 12 weeks," he began. "There's no way in Russia (one of his idiosyncratic expressions) that we've got this much cancer. We've got cancer everywhere! We've got to clear out everything and start over. We've got to de-contaminate everything. We've got to test everything coming in."
Sandy was the adventurous sort and had a big mouth. He piped up: "Gregor, you're going to get us fired."
Gregor gave everyone a big bold luxuriant smile. "Or," he said with a flourish, "we'll be famous."
I remember him standing there, the late afternoon sunlight partially silhouetting him, his thick arms tensed. We believed that if anyone could make us famous, it was Gregor. He had the aura around him of causality. He made things happen the way he wanted them to.
Head office went wild over Gregor's direction and his blasted budgets. They over-ran the labs for a day or two. Gregor was at his most charming and outrageous. They finally dragged the chairman down to frighten him off but it didn't work. Gregor was a dangerous free man but without him the whole clinical side of the operation would be set back a year or more. And the clinical side was the vital side. The chairman bellowed and threatened but did exactly as Gregor told him. "Go away for a month.
No interference for a month."
Sandy complained to me.
"Mike, he's throwing everything away on a hunch."
"That?"
"I don't know. He won't tell me directly."
I laughed too loudly. Sandy blushed.
Gregor prowled. "Are we clean yet?" he asked constantly. "Maximum overtime," he ordered. "Round the clock." The calendar was a bigger enemy than the budget.
Finally, after three grueling weeks, Diane, the head of the laboratory physical plant, told Gregor that we were clean. Then we brought in the first culture. The whole lab worked on one culture! It was insane. Then we brought in the second culture. Same thing, the whole lab on the one culture! It was contaminated.
"Who supplied that culture?" Gregor whispered when he got the report.
"GenTex," said Diane.
Gregor stared out the window of her office. He stood in front of her desk. GenTex was not only the company's oldest and most valued supplier but they were the world's largest supplier of every kind of micro-organism and cell line. It was an incredibly lucrative business. This was an incendiary finding.
"Ask our other labs to check for it," Gregor said. "Meanwhile, analyze the hell out of that culture."
It took another three days to hear back from our other company labs. It had been found elsewhere.
"How many of our labs?" he asked.
"All of them."
"Confined in any way to one area or another."
Diane shook her head. "No, it's global."
"Send out an advisory," ordered Gregor.
Diane blanched. She turned to Gregor. "You know what this will do to some people?" she said, tears in her eyes.
Gregor nodded grimly, he reached for her hand as he said: "Wasted research. Loss of grants and funding. Embarrassment. Possibly
unemployment."
The grapevine went nuts. The whole lab walked on eggshells for days. It was an intense enervating atmosphere.
The analysis of the culture continued.
"I must have a final analysis by next Tuesday." That was three days before the one month deadline he had given the chairman.
There are vast networks in the world of and for every type of thing and for every reason: biological networks, ecological networks, cosmological networks, human networks, scientific networks, and even laboratory networks. The over two hundred major labs for organic research received the advisory with alarm but the checking was done meticulously. The reports trickled in, leavened with caution and equivocation, but it was clear that a scientific disaster had occurred. Most of the human cell lines in the world were contaminated. Individual scientists were fighting the conclusions with a seldom seen ferocity but their efforts could only constitute a holding action. The facts were too overwhelming.
"What does it mean?" the ruddy-faced silver-hair chairman asked.
"We have to go back to square one for most ongoing research," Gregor replied.
"Everything?"
"For now, all cancer-related research."
"The other labs too?"
Gregor nodded.
"At least we'll all be even," the chairman said.
A smile-frown from Gregor. Competitive advantage, you could almost see his thoughts - I'm worried about science and he's worried about money.
"And ..." Gregor began.
The chairman looked up.
"Pending further review, potentially other research as well."
"Cross-contamination?" asked the chairman.
Gregor cleared his throat as he nodded and gave another smile-frown. "This is preliminary but the contaminant appears to be virulent and resistant."
"Anything else?" asked the chairman.
"We'll have to re-evaluate previously issued research papers over a to-be-determined period of time."
The introduction of our new category-busting drug, code-named product-10B, was postponed. Our company's stock fell sharply and stayed down. It didn't matter that the other pharmaceuticals' stock joined us in the doldrums. Harvey was "packaged" out. Our chairman suddenly retired and landed ever so softly into a big plush golden nest.
Those who expected Gregor to be rejoicing were surprised to find him cool and restrained. He said nothing. Until he came along it had been an invisible disaster. He had stopped it from getting bigger and more disastrous but people were angry at him for making it visible. He had been unpleasant message and messenger in one.
"Mikhail," he said one morning not long after the chairman's departure. "What do you think is the greatest threat to society?"
I paused. "You know, I don't think we've ever discussed society, Gregor?"
He waved his hands. "Society is implied in every discussion, don't you
think?"
I had never openly disagreed with Gregor. I nodded.
"Greed," I said, "In all its forms."
Gregor hooted in appreciation.
"No-one can ever say you have not thought about life," he bellowed.
I blushed at his backend compliment.
"I agree," he continued.
"But what were you thinking of?" I asked.
Gregor raised his jet black eyebrows. "You are perceptive too, Mikhail."
He opened his satchel and pulled out a bottle of Absolut vodka. He carefully broke the seal and poured some into two waiting samovar cups. I looked at him, wondering if they had been set out for this purpose.
"Let's drink to comradeship," he said.
With alarm, I studied his face.
"Da," he sighed, "I'm leaving."
"But why? You were right!"
Gregor turned to gaze out the window. Still looking out, he said, "I think the enemy of society is incompetence." Turning back to me and raising his cup, he said, "To your health!"
I raised my cup and drank in melancholy silence.
Gregor returned to what he had been doing before I came: filing personal items into a card-board box on the floor behind his desk, hidden from view. I sat down in his shiny wooden guest chair, suddenly exhausted from the recent overtime. I couldn't believe he was going.
"I've recommended paid vacation for the whole lab for one week," he said.
I nodded glumly. "Everyone will like that," I said lamely. We were silent. "Before I forget," I continued with a start, "You have to tell
me the requirement for honorary Russian first class."
Gregor became stark still then he came out from behind the desk, eyes
glistening, and gave me a bear hug.
"That," he said, patting my shoulder and stepping back, returning behind his desk, "I've already told you. 'To give without knowing how it will end.'" He smile-frowned.
He finished packing. There were two full cardboard boxes. It didn't seem enough for a six year stay. I helped him carry one box out to his car. We left them at the office door and he went around to everyone. I stayed with the boxes at the door. I waited as he went around to everyone to say goodbye. I could see him when he was in the main office area. It was a complete surprise to the entire lab. There were many shrieks and tears and some quiet questions. There was a sense of something vibrant passing out of our lives. He also went into the other labs and offices down the corridor. It took almost an hour.
Finally, he returned flushed and grim-faced and we left the building and walked to his new red racing coupe. He opened the trunk. I put the box I had in. He put in the box he was carrying. He closed the trunk. We stood
there. We shook hands.
"Mikhail, you'll hear it sooner or later."
"What?" I asked.
"Where I'm going?"
"Not back to Russia," I jested.
Gregor gave a laugh-bellow. "Ahhh. No. You know I didn't think of that. There would be a ring to doing that, wouldn't there? No, no, I won't be going back. It's a cursed place. There's no way around it, is there? I love my homeland and I always will but I can see quite clearly that it's a cursed place. How else can you explain its history?" He stopped talking when he saw the shock in my face.
"Then where?" I asked quickly, worried about more revelations. I had no inkling where he was going. He was an enigma to me. I expected him to say a beach somewhere.
"GenTex," said Gregor. Seeing my incredulity, he shrugged and again patted my shoulder.
"Don't be a stranger."
The car glided out of the parking lot. It was an empty feeling.
