The Unit (17 page)

Right at the bottom on the other side of the form, under “Further information,” I wrote:
I am six weeks pregnant. Request transplantation/abortion of fetus to be carried out in conjunction with final donation.

Then I signed my name, wrote my ID number and the date, then turned my chair to the window. While I was waiting I looked at the pond, the trees, the snow, the birds. Watched a male wild duck as he emerged from the water, shook himself so that the droplets of water formed a ring around him, then began to waddle across the ice, up over the uneven and obviously slippery bank where he stumbled and slid several times before he managed to get up onto the flat, snow-covered ground where he stopped for a few seconds, as if to catch his breath. Then he waddled off across the snow on his orange duck’s feet which seemed to work extremely well as snow shoes, because he didn’t break the surface once, not until he began to run, clumsy and without any real rhythm, as he flapped his wings, flapped and flapped, and took off. He flew in a wide, shimmering green arc above the pond, then in among the trees where he disappeared from view.

24

Johannes was breathing. Or to be more accurate: the respirator was breathing for him. The respirator was an air pump with a thick plastic tube going into a mask that covered half his face. The respirator hissed and clicked and sucked, hissed and clicked and sucked, at regular intervals. Meanwhile the heart frequency wrote its monotonous message on a monitor next to the respirator, accompanied by a mechanical beep, also at regular intervals.

I was sitting next to the operating table on a high stool, wearing a protective lab coat, plastic gloves, a hairnet, and a mask. Most of Johannes’s body was covered with green surgical sheets, with only his head, neck, shoulders and arms visible. His skin had a yellowish tone. From beneath the covers snaked various tubes containing different-colored fluids, attached to different machines. There was another tube running between a needle inserted into the back of one hand and a drip behind the headboard.

I ignored the instructions I’d been given, took off the plastic gloves and placed one hand cautiously on the green sheet above the left side of his chest. His heart was beating as usual. Exactly as usual, just a little more evenly, the rhythm as steady as a drumbeat, and it was not affected by either my presence or my touch; no increased pulse rate, no surprised or happy double beat, no short, breathless pauses. Just this sucking noise followed by the hissing, the clicking, and the monotonous little beep.

I wished I had lived at the time when people still believed in the heart. When people still believed that the heart was the central organ, containing all the memories, emotions, capabilities, defects and other qualities that make us into specific individuals. I longed to go back to an age of ignorance, before the heart lost its status and was reduced to just one of a number of vital but replaceable organs.

The fact that Johannes’s heart was beating, that I could feel the warmth of his body and a steady pulse against my hand meant nothing more than that the blood was being pumped around the body that had been his. He was alive, but he no longer existed. And yet I leaned over, took off my mask and whispered in his ear:

“Why? Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you say you were happy? Why didn’t you let me grieve with you? While we still had the chance.”

I got no reply, of course. I straightened up, slid my hand up from the covered chest to his bare shoulder and the area around his collarbone. The skin was so warm, and the throbbing veins beneath made it feel so alive that for a fraction of a second I expected him to raise one hand and stroke my cheek gently, consoling me, just as he had done that first evening at the welcome party, exactly a year ago. I closed my eyes, caressed the length of his upper arm and lower arm, ran my fingers through the coarse hairs there and on the back of his hand, grasped his hand between both of mine. It was limp and heavy, but otherwise it felt just the way it always did: broad and rough, like that of a person who did physical labor, but with long, sensitive fingers—dream fingers for a pianist, or why not a surgeon. I turned the hand over, touched its cupped shape: the deep lines in the palm, the smooth calluses on the surfaces of the otherwise soft cushions at the base of the fingers—the hand’s equivalent of pads. With my fingertips I felt his fingertips, which had so often and so passionately touched the most sensitive parts of my body. Then I bent over his palm and kissed it. As I did so I felt—close, so close—the scent of his skin, his body. I drew that scent into my body.

“Dorrit …” The voice made me jump and open my eyes; I hadn’t heard anyone come into the room.

I straightened up immediately, let go of Johannes’s hand and turned in the direction of the voice. It was Birthmark.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But the team needs to carry on. You’ll have to …”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.” And without either looking at or touching Johannes’s body again I slipped down from the stool and followed Birthmark out.

Outside the operating room he stopped, turned to me and looked at me with the same sincere expression that Petra Runhede favored.

“What is it?” I asked crossly.

“You’re very pale,” he said. “You look completely worn out. You look as if you need to talk to somebody about what you’ve just been through.”

I didn’t feel at all worn out, oddly enough. But life had taught me that reactions after traumatic experiences are sometimes delayed, and perhaps Birthmark could see something reflected in my face that I was not yet aware of. However, I had no desire whatsoever to talk to someone right then, particularly as I suspected he meant that the someone should be him. Because what could someone like him do for someone like me in a situation like this?

As if I had spoken out loud, he said:

“As you are perhaps aware, all unit staff are trained in trauma management. Let’s go back to the break room.”

I didn’t know that, in fact, but said nothing, merely shrugged my shoulders and allowed myself to be escorted back to the little room with the view over the park.

The light had altered slightly outside. A bluish twilight was falling slowly over the whiteness.

“Sit down,” said Birthmark, closing the door then checking the handle to make sure it was locked. I presumed this was a reflex action, just like when I had tried the window.

I sat down on the chair, he sat on the bed. I threw him a venomous look—at least I hoped it was venomous—and wondered whether I should tell him that the birthmark on his upper lip did nothing for him at all, that he would be doing himself—and those around him—a favor if he had it removed.

He smiled, a serious smile, then said:

“Don’t worry, Dorrit. I have no intention of trying to get you to talk to me about your feelings and experiences. I just wanted to get away from cameras and microphones—this room is a free zone, where the staff can come to relax, knowing that nobody is sitting and studying what we do and what we say. The reason I wanted to come in here with you was to give you this.”

Out of a pocket in his short green jacket he took a small plastic card, which he handed over to me. It had the unit’s logo on the front and a black magnetic strip on the back. It looked like a credit or debit card.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked.

“I …” he began, but then he stopped, looked away, out of the window—a streetlamp was just coming on out there, and an orange glow blended with the ever-deepening blue twilight. He cleared his throat, started again:

“I presume that you, like other dispensable individuals, have already lost everything once. And now it’s happening to you again. And I feel … well, I can’t just stand and watch. Yes, you are dispensable, and no doubt you could have avoided that situation if you had just made enough of an effort. But you’re also a human being. And now you’ve succeeded in getting pregnant as well, and if that had happened just a year ago you wouldn’t even have ended up in here. And whatever happens, you ought to have the right, in the name of democracy, to your own offspring—both you and Johannes Alby ought to have had that right.”

Birthmark paused, cleared his throat.

“This,” he went on, pointing to the plastic card in my hand, “is a key card. It opens all staff areas and all the rooms and areas that are locked to residents at night. And above all, it opens all exits.”

What exits? was my first thought. I stared at the card. The idea of trying to get out, away, escape from here had never crossed my mind. Not even during the very early days when I had missed Jock so much, not even a couple of hours ago when I had tugged at the window, not even when I discovered shortly afterward that the room had no cameras, not even when I watched the wild duck flying away through the trees. Not even when I had felt Johannes’s pulse and at the same time realized that he no longer existed.

Birthmark continued:

“I didn’t send your application form through the internal post. Instead I actually took the liberty of putting it in the shredder. To give you time. Time to think this over. You can always fill out a new one; it’s never too late. But if you don’t, and instead agree to give birth to the child so that it can be adopted, then you will have seven or eight months with no experiments or any kind of interference that would put your health or that of your child at risk. And during that time you can think things over, you can plan an escape, and you can carry it out.”

He paused again, as if to give me the chance to say something. But I didn’t know what to say; I only knew what I absolutely must not say, which was that he ought to have that unnaturally perfect birthmark removed. After a silence he said:

“The card is personal. It’s a duplicate of my own key card. When, or if—it’s your decision, of course, I only want to give you the chance—when or if you use the card, then you swipe it through the reader at the edge of the doors in question. This one, for example.”

He got up from the bed, took the card from me, went over to the door and swiped the card through a reader mounted in the edge of the door frame, so discreetly placed that you would never have noticed it if you didn’t know exactly what you were looking for and where to look. A small opening in the door frame silently appeared, revealing a keypad. Birthmark punched in a code at lightning speed, and the door gave a barely audible
click
. He pushed down the door handle, opened the door an inch or so and immediately closed it again. He walked over to the bed and gave the card back to me.

“Right,” I said. “So where do I find these doors, then? I’ve never seen any—apart from this one just now. And how do I know which of them are exits and which just lead to staff areas?”

“All the doors of this kind in the large communal areas, for example the square and the Atrium Walkway and the big party room, lead to stairwells. In these stairwells are identical doors leading to break rooms, staff rooms, changing rooms, washing facilities and so on. Those you need to avoid, obviously. All you have to do is take the staircase down to the main door. And you haven’t seen these doors because you’ve never looked for ways out, have you? You’ve never looked for escape routes, never even given it a thought. You’ve never had the motivation.”

I gave an embarrassed snort and muttered:

“Are you a mind reader or something?”

“No, I’m not a mind reader. But I’ve done my training and I know what psychological methods and power games they use to control the dispensable residents. I know how it works, how they make sure you have no motivation to escape. But if you do manage to get motivated, if you really do want to survive, then you will find those exit doors. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s just how the human psyche works: we generally see what we are prepared for, what we expect to see.”

“But what then?” I said. “If I do decide I want to survive and I manage to get out without being discovered. Where do you imagine I could go? Without money. Without anywhere to live. Without friends. How would I manage? Where would I give birth to my child? How would I support it?”

“I don’t know,” said Birthmark. “But you’ll think of something. If you have the courage and strength to get out of here, then I’m sure you also have the courage and strength to do what’s necessary for yourself and your child once you’re out. You’re strong. I know you’ll cope.”

I’d heard that before; I’d heard it until I was completely sick of it. People had often told me I was strong, and I regarded it as something dismissive rather than a compliment—or whatever it was meant to be. Because I knew, and I know, that there are no strong people. All people are weak. Some are certainly more independent than others, but that doesn’t mean they’re strong.

But strong or not: I was holding a key in my hand, and, I thought, perhaps it will act as a substitute for strength.

We were silent for a long time, both Birthmark and I. The room grew dark, at least as dark as it can be in a room with snow and streetlamps glowing outside. I could still see Birthmark’s face. I could still see his birthmark.

“The code,” he said at last, “is 98 44. I want you to memorize it, don’t write it down anywhere, don’t tell anyone about it. Don’t tell anyone about this conversation either. Ever. Whatever you decide to do, or not do. Wherever you end up in the world.”

I nodded to show that I had understood, then said perfectly calmly:

“I don’t know what to say. You’re taking an enormous risk, perhaps even putting yourself in danger. What if I happen to drop the card? What if I’m suddenly taken ill or have an accident and they have to cut my clothes off and they spot the card? It wouldn’t take many minutes to trace it back to you. And then you’d be up shit’s creek.”

“Yes, I would,” he admitted. “That’s one of the reasons why I’m begging you to be careful. It’s for my sake as well as yours. Learn the code by heart. Never take the card out so it’s exposed to the cameras, and never take it out or look at it in a way that could make anyone curious or suspicious. Be silent, quick, and discreet. If anything beyond your control should happen, well, that’s the way it is, that’s fate. I would never blame you for that.”

I fingered the card, turning it this way and that. Then I pushed it into my pocket.

“Did you say 98 44?” I asked.

“Yep!” he said with a smile. “And if you forget the code …”

“I won’t,” I said.

“Good,” said Birthmark. “Now go home and rest. And by the way—my condolences on your loss.”

This last comment was made with a different sort of sincere tone than the professional one, a tone of voice that sounded genuinely honest.

Together we left the break room; the cold neon light in the supposedly underground corridor stabbed at my eyes. Shooting pain seared up into my head, and my eyes began to run. Dazzled and with tears in my eyes I thanked Birthmark for the helpful conversation he had found the time to have with me. Then I left the surgical department, my eyes still running, came out into the green culvert, took the first elevator up to the Atrium Walkway, then changed to elevator H.

When I reached H3 I hurried through the lounge to my apartment, into the bedroom, where I sank down on the bed, my cheek against the pillow, my legs drawn up in the fetal position, my arms around my knees. Eyes tight shut.