The Philosopher's Apprentice by James Morrow Page B

unlikely to involve alligators or quicksand—but we decided it was probably an enticement, built by Edwina to lure her more inquisitive employees away from places she didn’t want them to see. We crossed the road and continued our journey, descending toward a line of cypress trees, and in time the guttural hiss of the incoming tide reached our ears.
    Beyond the cypress windbreak, another surprise awaited us, a Spanish fortress lying in ruins like a sand castle demolished by a wave. Only the central keep remained, emerging from a rocky spit surrounded by a turbulent green bay. The longer I stared at that looming tower, the more ominous it seemed—a twin to Kafka’s castle, perhaps, or an Auschwitz chimney, or a nuclear-tipped missile. Stoicism was an admirable philosophy, and Epicureanism had much to recommend it, but no Greek school would ever equip Londa to comprehend and critique the bombs and rockets of modernity. We must advance to the Enlightenment as soon as possible.
    Having come so far without misadventure, Henry and I blithely decided to inspect the woebegone stronghold. We approached slowly, moving among lone acacias and solitary boulders, until at last we reached sea level. A gazebo appeared before us, a bamboo construction as large as a village bandstand, its funnel-shaped roof shading two human figures, one slender and birdlike, the other squat and sluggish.
    Anger rushed through me like a hit of grappa. Edwina had lied to us. She and Charnock were not in Chicago any more than Henry and I were in Istanbul.
    â€œRubbish,” my employer was saying. “Pure twaddle.” She stepped toward the gazebo bench, on which rested a glass container the size and shape of a fire hydrant. “You need a vacation, that’s all.”
    Henry and I ducked behind the nearest acacia.
    â€œThis isn’t fatigue,” Charnock said.
    â€œWho’s the troll?” Henry whispered.
    â€œBiologist named Charnock,” I replied. “Operates a genetic-engineering lab near Faustino. Overstrung, irritable, probably a little nuts.”
    â€œComing soon to a theater near you,” Henry muttered, “ The Mad Doctor of Blood Island. ”
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œThat’s a real movie.”
    â€œNo doubt.”
    Scrutinizing the glass object, I realized it was a huge beaker to which various devices—pump, compressor, oxygen tank—had been retrofitted, presumably to sustain whatever being inhabited the foggy interior.
    â€œI’m experiencing—what should I call it?—a crisis of conscience,” Charnock said. “During this past month, I’ve extinguished forty-three embryos.”
    â€œNaturally you heard their pathetic little screams.” Edwina made no effort to purge her voice of scorn.
    â€œSome screams are silent,” Charnock said.
    â€œSince you so enjoy crying crocodile tears over dead embryos, perhaps you should join a community of like-minded mourners,” Edwina said. “The Roman Catholic Church, for example, or the Republican Party.”
    â€œI had imagined our having a serious discussion.”
    Edwina offered no response but instead sat down beside the beaker and contemplated its misty reaches. “You do beautiful work,” she said at last, her tone now free of sarcasm—tender, in fact, almost reverent. “The painter has his pigments, the sculptor his stone, and you have your medium, too.”
    â€œMy medium, right,” Charnock said. “Bald egotism combined with rampant ambition and galloping self-deception.” He settled his gelatinous frame onto the bench and heaved a sigh. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need a vacation.”
    â€œThen take one, for Christ’s sake.” Edwina gestured toward the tower. “We can bring everything to fruition as early as…when? Tomorrow afternoon?”
    â€œGod rested on Sunday. I intend to do the same.”
    â€œMonday