Читать книгу Magdalena Mountain - Robert Michael Pyle - Страница 18

“Spring!” announced Mead, alarming Francie Chan, his lab partner. That morning he’d seen something that looked like a swelling bud. He brought it into the lab, placed it in a beaker of water on his desk, and already it had unfurled into a small leaf smelling of balsam. “Spring,” he said again more softly, carried back for the moment to a cottonwood-lined acequia outside Albuquerque. The word sounded almost foreign.

That igneous autumn in New Haven had passed quickly; then came in its place a kind of cold Mead had never known in New Mexico. Riding on particles of dampness, it penetrated his clothing and joints like frost fingers in a sidewalk. He was used to an arid chill, not this gelid breath between the ribs. Shifting between overheated buildings, the dank outside air, and his “all-season beach cottage” that wasn’t really winterized for anyone but seals or penguins, he caught a bronchitis that clutched his thorax like a robber fly and wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t stop coughing without whiskey, and the hitchhike out to Branford became a slog in the freezing slush.

Christmas came cold. Mead spent Christmas Eve lonely in his lab and Christmas Day with the Winchesters, his only invitation. He decided after the break to move into New Haven. At first he had thought his fellowship enormous. He soon found that the high tuition and East Coast prices—no free coffee refills at Dunkin’ Donuts, even—eroded his checking account like dust in a downpour. He couldn’t afford the cheapest apartment. He was bewailing the fact one afternoon to Francie, who was finishing up that semester. “Maybe you should take my studio,” she said. “I’ll be moving out soon.” Mead had heard that Francie used a room in the building as a printmaking studio. “Come on,” she said, leading him down the hall and up a fold-down ladder, and gave him a tour. When his eyes adjusted, Mead beheld a tiny, high-ceilinged round room in one of the twin castellated towers of Osborn Lab. He moved in a week later. This was not strictly legal, but generations of ecology students had camped here or used it as Francie had, as an auxiliary space for their activities. The hexagonal stone walls were still hung with her wonderful silk-screened prints of Rocky Mountain wildflowers and scenes.

The tower seemed romantic, warmer than Mead’s beach cottage, and convenient to both his lab and the museum. Plus, the price was right. By waiting late to scale the steep steel ladder to the turret, he could keep his occupancy discreet. And the move soon prompted an additional boon. Early in the new year, Winchester called Mead into his office. “James,” he said, “are you still curious about the mild scent emanating from the room down the hall?” Mead didn’t consider the stink mild, but he had grown accustomed to it. “Come along,” Winchester continued, “and let me introduce you to some truly remarkable and amenable creatures. It’s time to broaden your responsibilities, in any case. This little ceremony should be put off no longer.”

Mead kept up with Winchester as well as he could as the professor ate the long hall with his stride, opened one outer door, then one inner one on which were posted dire warnings in his hand: DO NOT INTERFERE WITH THE LIGHTS IN THIS ROOM UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. As soon as they entered the lab, a great shuffling arose as the occupants of dozens of cages scattered in alarm or expectation. The odor was stronger here—not bad, just strong, sweet, feral. “What are they?” Mead asked.

“Blaberus giganteus, the giant cave roach. Surely you recognize them from anatomy lab? And a few other species of blattids.” Then Winchester opened one of the cages and Mead beheld a score or so of the most massive roaches he had ever seen. True, he had dissected roaches nearly as large in an entomology lab, but he’d never seen one alive. His gaze must have betrayed his wonderment.

“We’ve worked on many aspects of these animals’ biology,” Winchester replied to Mead’s unspoken question. “But their behavior is poorly known. They are relatively easy to keep and breed, and they offer an experimental animal that is both evolutionarily basal and ecologically sophisticated.” Pleased to note that Mead appeared fascinated rather than revolted, always a toss-up with new students, he held up a grand roach that was nearly three inches long and asked, “How do you like them?”

“Very much,” said Mead. “Their movement is a little creepy, but cockroaches have never bothered me the way they do most people.”

“Well, these are not cockroaches. Cockroach refers to the Oriental, German, or American species: Blatta orientalis, Blattella germanica, or Periplaneta americana, all of which have become adept urban anthrophiles—or, as some would have it, pests. Anyway, the popular reaction to roaches—or rather, their unpopularity—has more to do with bad press than any actual threat they represent. The insecticides that people spray in their kitchens in an attempt to discourage them are far more dangerous than the insects themselves. Besides,” he asked with mock incredulity, “how could anyone be repelled by such gentle and handsome animals?”

Mead, duly enchanted, simply nodded.

“Good. Then I’d like you to take over the feeding and basic monitoring of the colony for a term. You may then find some aspect of the roach program that interests you—if not for a thesis project, then perhaps for independent study. And your assistantship pay will increase a bit. At any rate, such an arrangement should quell Dr. Griffin’s carping about you going into the lab. Here, let me show you the routine.”

Mead adopted the roaches as if they were his own puppies (they did eat dog food), and their odor became all but imperceptible as he spent more and more time in their gentle, rustling presence.

The first committee meeting of the new year came and went. No problems attended the review of Mead’s studies, except that Dr. Griffin demanded to know the usefulness of Runic Literature to a biologist. Mead extemporized: “The process of written language development is an evolutionary one. Runes can be thought of as occupying a linguistic position roughly analogous to life in the Paleozoic. From there, the phylogeny of language offers a useful logical paradigm for organic evolution.” Phelps winked at Scotland, unseen by Griffin, who grunted and asked for no further elaboration. But when the discussion moved on to research, he let loose.

“Assuming your studies are adequate,” he led, “what about your lab experience?”

“I’ve taken over management of the giant roach colony, Professor.” Mead noticed how Griffin winced at that. “As you know, it has provided grist for several of Yale’s best biochemical and physiological papers. I find I am particularly intrigued by their nocturnal behavior, which hasn’t been much investigated, as it turns out.”

“Behavior!” Griffin grunted again. “I allow that once they have been dispatched, ground, or sectioned and placed beneath the scope, those disgusting vermin have yielded some useful material. But I cannot begin to imagine that they exhibit any ethological traits worth wasting time or money on. Besides, what you suggest, Mr. Mead, sounds merely descriptive. Do you plan to try to make something of this cockroach caper for your thesis project? And if so, where are the experimental guts of it?”

Mead began to speak, but Winchester suggested that the question was a bit premature. Then Professor Phelps butted in to remind everyone of a departmental seminar about to begin. That got Mead off the hook, and he didn’t object. Nor did Frank Griffin, eager to get off the subject of roaches.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” George said as they all rose. “Six weeks, then? And Frank,” he added, “they are not cockroaches, you know . . .” But Griffin was already out the door and down the hall, holding his nose as he passed the loathsome chamber. “Oh, well,” Winchester continued. “He just doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

The rest shared a laugh, and Scotland complimented Mead on his “masterful B.S.” regarding the runes.

“But he meant every word!” replied Winchester on Mead’s behalf, with a grave face and smiling eyes that James never did learn to interpret.

Later Mead asked the roaches, “Did he mean it or not?” but they wouldn’t let on.

Living on campus meant two more hours per day in which to study, read, sleep, or socialize. In practice, Mead seemed to socialize mostly with the forgiving blattids. He began to conduct nocturnal vigils among the great insects to see how they spent their time. He would cook some sort of a dinner substitute over a Bunsen burner in his lab while fending off the small, feral relatives of his captive subjects; then he’d spend much of the night in the colony, noting their activity before turning in for a morning’s sleep in his tower cell. This odd schedule suited him: he could rise, wash, and make a class in fifteen minutes flat. All in all, coming into town and the tower seemed a good move.

Mead had maintained his resolution to ignore October Carson’s journals since he’d transferred his work from the museum to the roach room, but his curiosity remained. At last he decided to ask Winchester about Carson. As they were about to wrap up one of their regular weekly meetings, Mead said, “Professor, there’s one other thing. Just who is, or was, October Carson? And why does the museum have his field journals?”

Winchester looked surprised, almost shocked. “Where?”

“What?”

“The journals—where are they?”

“I found them by accident in the Petrunkevitch Alcove, stacked on a deep shelf behind some works on amber spiders. I couldn’t help looking them over.” Then, afraid he might have trespassed where he ought not to have been, he said, “Gosh! I hope—”

“No. No, it’s all right. They’re no secret. I’m just relieved to know they are intact. I haven’t seen them in a couple of years, and I was worried that they’d been discarded while I was on sabbatical at Oxford. My collections manager must have been short on space, tucked the journals back there, and promptly forgot about them. I’ve been unable to locate them, despite intensive searching. I’m delighted that you turned them up.”

“Just a fluke,” Mead said. “Who is he, and why are his journals important?”

“In the opposite order,” Winchester replied. “The journals contain original field notes on many western butterflies by an excellent self-taught naturalist and very careful observer. Also, if I recall, they give something of an intimate look at a fascinating man.”

“He seems to be,” said Mead.

“Because of Carson’s unusual habit of mixing field notes with personalia in his diaries, one cannot mine the former without eavesdropping on the latter.”

“So I’ve noticed. Although some entries are more skeletal, others go on and on. I wonder when he slept! But then, I gather he often didn’t sleep, stranded by the roadside and such. But who is this guy? And how did you get the books?”

Winchester leaned back in his swivel chair, his big hands behind his fuscous hair, and considered for a moment before replying. “I don’t actually know very much about him.” He became pensive, as if trying to recall the name of a boyhood pet. “I’ve never met him, and our correspondence was slender. But he supplied the museum with much good material, in superb condition, always meticulously labeled, and eventually he sent me his field books as well.”

“So he was a professional collector?”

“Yes, among other things. What used to be called, in Alfred Russell Wallace’s day, a ‘flycatcher,’ but much more curious than most and, in his way, more scientific too. And more than that . . . he was, I would say, sort of a quixotic searcher and scavenger. He moved about a great deal, never married, as far as I know.”

“Footloose?”

“Very. He filled the niche of a kind of peripatetic forager of patchy habitats—like a high-class, curious tramp or rambler.” He paused, looked thoughtful, and went on. “Maybe he sought to escape some past, somebody? It seems as though he was always after something, anyway. Butterflies filled that need to a substantial extent in summer, and the market we provided gave him a modest grubstake. I could always weasel some funds from museum sources to buy his best material, just as I set aside a little fund for the purpose of scouring the amber markets in New York for spectacular specimens and new species. But beyond that, I know little of him.”

“How about his name?” Mead asked, unwilling to let it lie.

“I asked him the origin of his interesting first name once in a letter. I think you’ll find his reply in the files—let’s look now!” At that sudden inspiration Winchester wheeled about and the two of them stalked over to the prof’s rank of filing cabinets. “Carson, Hampton . . . great picture-winged fly man in Hawaii . . . Carson, Rachel” (ignoring Mead’s incredulous “Golly, you knew her?”) “. . . should be in between—yes, here it is.” A thin sheaf of letters emerged from the gray filing cabinet in the great paw of George Winchester. “Here, you may as well read them all, since you’re reading the journals. Please make a photocopy of each, charge it to my account, and put them with the journals. Then return these precisely here. I’d not like to lose the originals.”

The letter in question began, “Dear George,” and went on: “Since you ask, I’ll tell you what I’ve been told about my name. My parents had five children, of which I was the last. The first four were named for their birth months—April, May, June, and August. Those were fairly ordinary names. So when I came along, the pattern stuck, and I was called October. Only sometimes I think it was an expression of the bleakness my mother felt as a recent widow during that lonely Depression autumn of 1932.”

“And that,” said George, “is all I know of October Carson’s early life. And that he wandered the West for some ten years or more.”

“And since? What’s become of him?”

“I honestly don’t know. The letters tell nothing, and the journals stop just over three years ago. That same fall, I received a large package containing the journals and a very extensive consignment of butterflies from all over the West. There was a brief note that I must not have saved, asking me to send payment to general delivery in Allenspark, Colorado . . . I’d never have remembered that, except that I used to frequent that part of the Front Range when I worked out of CU’s Science Lodge above Ward.”

“So that was it?”

“I sent the museum’s check, it was cashed, and then I heard no more. I’ve never known whether he simply resumed his scavenging rambles, minus his butterfly net, or vanished somewhere, like Gauguin in the South Seas. I hadn’t thought about Carson for many months, until you mentioned the journals just now.” Winchester sighed and smiled high in one corner of his mouth. “So you see,” he mused, “I’m just as curious as you are.”

“I’ve just begun the journals. But with your permission,” Mead said, forgetting his resolution, “I’d like to read the rest. Maybe I’ll catch some clues.”

“If you have time, feel free. Just don’t let it become a detour from your important work. Do let me know what you discover. Well, I must get home, James. Jane and I have a rare date with the TV. Peter Freulich’s going to appear on The Tonight Show, with yet another Carson, not yet represented in my files—and I want to see him. You know his important work on fritillaries and their population biology, but did you know we cofounded Natural Limits to Growth?”

“NLG—really!”

“Yes, and his famous book, Nuking Ourselves, has gained even more notoriety than his scholarly work and has had him on the talk shows ever since. He’s a special favorite of Johnny Carson, who really seems to get the message. In any case, you’ll be needing to see to our mutual friends down the hall.”

For once, Mead didn’t feel a bit like seeing to the noble roaches. He’d been learning some interesting things from their nighttime revels, but now, spurred on by Winchester’s revelation and invitation, he was truly piqued by Carson and eager to learn more about him. So, after a perfunctory feeding and cleaning, he made a fresh path in the snow across to the museum, gathered up the journals, and returned to Osborn, his tracks already covered. As the snow swaddled the world outside, Mead took to his tower with the first volume of Carson’s journal and a flask of hot tea from the Bunsen. He followed as Carson carried on across the pallid, frigid sagelands, eking food and shelter from his chancy pursuits through the coldest winter in almost forty years.