The Education of Delhomme Read online

  On each side of the room lay revolting-looking corpses with shriveled skin and cracked skulls. Sawed-off limbs were placed beside the torso. Each group purchased its own cadaver, when one became available, which was not often, and would set about working on it with some haste due to decomposition. Maggots wriggling in the cavities added to my revulsion.

  On the first day in the dissection room, one of my tablemates removed the sheet from our corpse. We had been told nothing about the person, including the cause of death. The woman’s gray hair and missing teeth led us to guess her age at sixty. Sagging skin could have been due to illness. Muscular legs and strong shoulders suggested a life of hard labor.

  “Shall we pray before beginning?” I said to the group. I thought it the least we could do before ravaging this woman’s body in the name of science. I had barely bowed my head when one zealous student grabbed a scalpel, plunged it just below her rib cage, and dragged it down to her pubic bone. The others laid claim to organs as if on a treasure hunt. “I get the heart!” said one. “I want the spleen!” shouted another.

  I turned away only to see rats in the corner gnawing on a vertebra. A flock of sparrows had swooped down and were squabbling over a pair of lungs. I felt sick and headed for the door but vomited on a skull before getting out. The miasma of flesh and fluids lingered in my nose for years.

  Shame

  I wrote to my mother:

  Why would Papa want me to forsake the sublime art of music in exchange for enduring their shrieks of pain or gloomy death rattles. I fear he will be the last doctor in this family. Please, Maman, burn this letter. I fear Papa will discover it.

  She wrote back:

  I am sure you will adjust. Try again, ChouChou (her powerful term of endearment). You can do this. I have faith in you. We will be so proud of you.

  She mentioned at the end of her letter that she had been feeling tired lately and planned to ask Papa for some advice, something she rarely did. “He has enough sickness around him,” she would say but found it comforting to have a doctor in the house. Bolstered by her confidence in me, I hurried off to class to avoid truancy.

  The fear of facing my father’s rage if I failed should have been an incentive to curb my physical responses. But one’s nervous system is not under conscious control. The instructors stressed clinical detachment. “Cadavers,” the professor explained, looking directly at me, “feel no pain. You need to suppress your own physical and emotional reaction to the willful mutilation of another human being.”

  The following week, our class filed out of the auditorium to the cadaver room after another lecture on dissection techniques. I was contemplating emptying my stomach beforehand when I caught the eye of a tablemate who also lagged. We nodded to one another. He introduced himself as Hector. He had red hair like mine, but his was a flaming, bushy mane that swung independent of his face. He had a sharp beak of a nose and thin, pinched lips.

  “Looking forward to putting those new techniques into practice, are we?” he asked.

  I looked askance. Was he making fun of me?

  He put his hand on my shoulder, and said in a low voice, “Please keep this secret, but I was violently ill yesterday, too.”

  “But you came back.”

  “Bien sûr,” he said. “My father threatened to disown me if I did not become a doctor like him.”

  His story was twin to my own!

  Hector and I dallied outside the cadaver room. But the gimlet-eyed lecturer burst through the doors and shooed us inside, mumbling something about having to attend to errant children.

  This scene proved even more revolting. Rotting flesh stung my nostrils anew, body parts littered the ground, and rodents dragged hunks of flesh out the windows to their nests.

  This carnage brought back the memory of my father caring for people injured in an accident when I was eight years old. It was a July afternoon. A torrential rain had come through town that morning. I was reading on the porch, enjoying the cooler weather when a neighbor ran up.

  “We need Dr. Delhomme. Quickly!” he said, panting. He explained that a mudslide had swept a wagon, a horse, and three people into a ravine. I shouted for Papa, but he was already on his way downstairs. He grabbed his medical bag that he kept by the door.

  “May I come, Papa?” He hesitated but thought better of leaving me alone in the house. “Yes, but you must behave.” I helped hitch up the horse, jumped into the wagon, and out of the barn we shot. I was so proud of Papa that he could save lives.

  We arrived to find several anxious onlookers peering into the ravine that had been worn by the Madon river. The narrow road on the outskirts of town had been carved out of the hill.

  Papa pulled up on the reins. “Can I get a few volunteers?” he said to the crowd. Several men stepped up. Gripping his medical bag with one hand, he held out his other to me. “Make way,” he shouted. “Make way for the doctor.” He guided me carefully down the hill to treat the hapless family. We neared the overturned wagon. The thick mud sucked at my shoes as I scrambled to keep up. I watched the men right the wagon. Miraculously, the horse had survived without a scratch. But the man’s lacerated legs and woman’s gashed neck made my head spin. I wretched.

  Papa turned to me. “Go back to the wagon,” he said unsympathetically. “I have no time for a weak little boy.”

  I trudged up the hill, head low from shame at my uncontrollable response. It felt like hours before my father returned. Close behind him were townspeople helping the injured parents into our wagon. One placed the dead boy beside them. I sat up front with my mud-splattered father. He grabbed the reins without comment and shouted “Hyah,” to the horse.

  I had such conflicting emotions about my father. I was so proud of him yet hated his cruel words. I only wanted to learn. Why did he shame me so?

  In the dissection room, Hector and I sidled up to the table. An eager student had already removed the sheet. My tablemates lowered their heads to look at the corpse. Mine was bowed to entreat God to calm my stomach.

  “Delhomme,” the professor said, walking by our table. “Dissect the hands. They contain less blood. Oh,” he added, “the mortician forgot to remove her wedding ring. Maybe you can do that for the family.”

  I appreciated his concern about both me and the woman’s family. I set about the task. Her fingers were so flexible I could move them easily, as if she were alive. The silver wedding band, though, held fast below an arthritic knuckle. Thin and scuffed, it spoke to a life of commitment and loyalty—cooking, cooling a fevered brow, and spooning pabulum into a baby’s mouth. Maybe this old woman had even played the piano. My scalpel remained immobile.

  Meanwhile, the students continued rummaging in her torso for new prizes to examine. One of them whooped as he pulled out entrails covered in pus. “I think I found the cause of death!” he said with delight. This was the final straw for both of us. Hector grunted, yanked off his robe, and leapt out the open window. I followed suit, as if Death and all its hideous crew were at our heels.

  The following day, the director asked me to leave the school. I was not surprised. No recourse remained but to face Papa. Certain he would reject any explanation, I sent a letter to Maman in advance of my return, so she could soften the blow. That weekend, I hired a cabriolet to take me to Marainville, a ten-hour journey if we traveled quickly. We stopped at several relays for fresh horses and small meals, although I had left my appetite in Paris. I could not imagine ever eating again. Each mile heightened my dread. I rehearsed my excuses, but they all fell flat.

  The coach pulled up to my parents’ house at dinnertime. The driver unloaded my suitcase and set it beside me. I opened the door. Maman did not dare look at me. She was busy putting stewed chicken, fresh peas, and a tomato salad with chèvre on the table. The wine stood uncorked.

  Dinner would have to wait.

  “Beaulieu!” Papa bellowed from his study. “V
iens ici, maintenant!”

  I slowly opened the door. There sat father on Le Grand Trône Blanc de Jugement, with its massive oak frame and cushions upholstered with a needlepoint pattern reminiscent of a Gobelin tapestry. My sister and I, if we had committed any infraction against my father’s code, were ordered to sit across from his desk in an uncomfortable chair made of wooden slats. My chair used to be too tall and wide for my young frame back then. Now, my feet reached the ground and elbows rested easily on the wooden arms stained with perspiration. This time, as surely as night followed day, I knew I would be cast into that same lake of fire as the Christian nonbelievers for what I had done.

  I entered and sat stiffly. Father stood behind his desk leaning on his fists. Slowly, he walked behind my chair. He put his face close to my ear. His voice was lowered, tight. “You are nothing but a sniveling, spoiled brat,” he said in a controlled tone. I felt his hot breath. “Are you too stupid to continue studying medicine? Or just too lazy?”

  I looked at the ground.

  He came around front to look at me with his piercing gaze. He said, “What will you do with your life now? You have wasted this opportunity. The professors are laughing at your mewling and puking like a baby. Jumping out a window, indeed!” He wagged his finger at me: “I hope you have a good, strong spine. You will need it to help the peasants scythe the wheat at harvesttime.”

  Excuses were non grata.

  “Get out of my sight,” he said, returning to his chair. “You are no son of mine.”

  I went to my room. Maman, sympathetic with my problem, brought a plate of food. I thanked her but left the meal untouched.

  Death

  I left for Paris before dawn (I could not bear seeing my father after that debacle in his office) to collect my belongings from the school. I wanted to say goodbye to my friends and begin looking for work.

  The coach lumbered along the familiar route, stopping at the same places to change horses and allow riders to purchase a meal. I never spoke with the other three—a mother traveling with her well-behaved small boy and a man in his mid-seventies whose forlorn expression reflected my mood. The mother played games with her son and recounted a few La Fontaine fables she knew by heart. She delivered the tales in a pleasant, sing-song voice. She made sure the boy understood the lessons behind each one. But one spoke to me in a special way. La Fontaine called it The Wagoner Mired. A peasant's cart was mired in mud. The man called on a powerful god to help. The god said, “Stop whining! Put your shoulder to the wheel and urge on your horses.” Soon, he freed his wagon, proud he had solved the problem himself.

  “Do you know what that fable means?” asked the mother.

  “That the peasant should be more careful?” said the boy.

  The mother smiled. “Yes,” she said. “It also means that you should rely on yourself first to solve a problem before calling on the gods.”

  He seemed to understand her explanation, but then asked, “How do I call on a god, Maman?”

  It was late afternoon when we arrived in Paris. I trudged up the five flights to my attic apartment, gripping my suitcase laden with sorrow and worry. Exhausted, I fell into bed without unpacking.

  Within days of my return, I lay in bed pondering how I, like la Fontaine’s peasant, could help myself when I heard quick footsteps up to my apartment and someone shouting “Monsieur Delhomme! Monsieur Delhomme!” I opened the door to a breathless messenger. “Monsieur, I was told to deliver this right away.”

  The letter announced more bad news: My father had died. Lucky to have reached fifty years old, he had not been ill and never complained. Maman told me as he lay in bed, he cried out and fell onto the floor clutching his chest. Traditionally, the eldest son had the duty of closing the deceased’s eyes, but I was not able to return in time to perform the ritual.

  The funeral was scheduled that weekend, so I had the luxury of delaying that pain by a few days.

  When I returned, Maman was dabbing her swollen eyes.

  “ChouChou!” she said as she ran into my arms. What would become of her? I thought. Would she be able to live in this big house by herself? Should she move to Paris where I could keep watch on her? Neither solution seemed ideal. Surely, she would miss the rolling hills of Marainville, the chirping birds, and tulips blanketing the meadows in the spring. My parents had lived in this home for almost thirty years. Their son and daughter had played in the trees and swum in the river on hot summer days. Paris’ filth and crime would shock her system, to be sure. I wanted to help her stay in her house.

  I spoke about the situation with my sister, Marie, a dressmaker. She and her husband, a railroad worker, had moved from France to find employment in jobs-rich industrial England years ago. I used to play tag with their son, Marc. I would hide in the most unlikely places. But he always found me. I missed his laughter and bright eyes.

  In those traumatic first days after my father’s passing, Marie attended to our overwrought mother with tea and kind words. Meanwhile, before I helped tidy the house, I slowly opened the door to their bedroom. Would I feel Papa’s ghost? Would it fly at me and scold me for disappointing him? I crossed the threshold. The bedroom looked the same—the simple maple bed he had made with my mother’s red and white quilt lying across the foot of it. I walked over to his bureau. His gold fob watch and loose change lay on the lace runner. Time and money—both useless to him now. Amid the coins was a well-worn medal of Saint Raphael the Archangel, patron saint of healing. It was small, cold. A remembrance of his dedication to healing, I slipped it into my pocket along with the watch.

  The funeral was held the next day. Hundreds of mourners crowded around his coffin to pay their respects, most of them probably his patients at one time. I felt numb as I looked at him lying with his hands placed just so across his chest holding a rosary. Many others cried at the loss to their community. Scenes flashed in my mind about his cruel words and punishments for defying his strict rules. Yet, I felt immense pride in his humanitarian practices. “Help the poor,” he would say. “Make a better place for those around you.” But I never understood why he would bestow patience and empathy onto complete strangers while I, his only son, felt the sting of his paddle and words. Those opposing emotions sat uneasily in my mind.

  We pallbearers placed his casket in a special wagon and set out for the cemetery located on a high hill overlooking the river. The graveside service was mercifully short.

  After the burial, our family took a coach home. Friends gathered in the living room drinking tea and consuming sweets the neighbors had so thoughtfully brought.

  Afterwards, Maman and I sat in the kitchen. She looked more ill than grief stricken but not too sick to deliver one more bitter blow. “Your father just wanted you to continue his legacy.” She said that without rancor or bitterness, but I heard blame for his death tucked inside her comment.

  Marie and I helped Maman impose order on her life. We pulled his books from the shelves and stacked them in wooden boxes. We cleaned out his closet and drawers and donated the goods to charity. She warned us against looking at the financial records. “They are private,” she said.

  Two weeks passed. My sister and her family returned to London. I expected to leave by the end of the week.

  Guilt weighed on my chest like an anvil for having let down my father. But it was assuaged after I sneaked a forbidden look at the bank account information. It told me I would not have been able to continue medical school, even if I had controlled my gastric responses. Ministering to the poor had not been very lucrative. Perhaps he died from his own shame of not being able to keep his promise to support me. But then it occurred to me that there would be no money to inherit. Therefore, Maman’s care fell entirely on my shoulders. I felt light-headed at the thought. Where would I get the money for that? Would I have to move back here and take care of her myself? Was I to become a farmer to earn money after all?

  As if
hearing my thoughts, Maman asked when I would move back to Marainville. She repeated her complaint about not feeling well and said she could not cook or clean very much.

  I looked at her. “I thought Lili was helping with that.”

  Lili Millefeuille was a young neighborhood girl who came once a week to do light chores. Petite, blond, with greenish-gray eyes. Pretty, I thought when I first saw her. She was learning how to use medicinal herbs from her mother. The medical community, including Papa, disparaged such practices. “What about dosing?” he would say as he stomped around the house, fulminating against such imprecise measures. “Do you mean to tell me that someone can yank a fistful of weeds from the ground, make a tincture, spoon it down someone’s gullet, and think that would cure someone of anything?” His diatribe was always the same about herbal remedies, so I knew what was coming next. “Medicine is best left to men who know about the scientific method,” he railed, throwing his hands in the air. “Quackery!”

  “Lili is quitting. Getting married.” She paused, then said, brightening, “I know. What about clerking for Monsieur Argent in the seed store again? He still asks about you.”

  Inside I groaned. “Maman, there is no work here.” I patted her hand and noticed her own silver wedding band that someone would remove one day when she died.

  It crushed my spirit just to think of returning to that cramped office with that repetitious stamping and mindless recordkeeping of who bought how much of which seed, day after dull day. “Let me talk to Lili,” I said. “Perhaps she has a friend.”

  “Please, ChouChou.” She wiped tears from her cheeks. “Stay.”

  My parents had been married thirty-one years. I could only imagine her loneliness as a widow. I comforted her with a promise. “I will send money each month for the new helper.” A bold offer indeed: I had no profession, no training, no prospects.