voice far over the raked seats, so that, to the students standing close around the corpse, on which a white sheet rose to points at the feet and knees, the professor’s statements seemed to boom.
“The fact that its data are so complex, that it deals usually with probabilities rather than certainties, does not destroy the scientific character of medicine.” Brogante’s hands descended to the lower edge of the sheet. “It only adds a reason for greater scientific caution.”
The students rustled for a view.
“Every point I, the physician, observe is a suggestion. I look for other indications to confirm my diagnosis, or I try a certain procedure, the outcome of which will decide whether I have read the situation correctly.”
A head of black hair appeared at the top of the sheet, shining blue in the glow from the high windows. The waxy shaven face of a man emerged, followed by his torso. Brogante flattened the sheet over the legs, wrapped his fingers around a scalpel, and approached the grey neck.
“In order to expose the thoracic and abdominal cavities, we will make the first incision from the sternum …”
Professor Brogante’s voice expanded so much it seemed to have no edges, and Midhat no longer heard the individual words. He saw the blade pierce the skin of the neck, and watched the top layer of epidermis split quickly, as though it had been tied tightly shut and was just released. The first long incision complete, Brogante cut a second lateral line. Then he turned the flaps of skin back, one by one, four dry slaps. Inside was an inhuman assemblage of organs. Overripe red and purple and sick yellow. Midhat looked at the bloodless strings of sinew lacing the stomach, and gave way. His vision thronged with black spots, which crowded together and closed the cadaver from sight.
The next thing he knew he was sitting alone, in the front row of the auditorium. He saw the backs of the other students ahead, and Brogante’s voice continued, more distantly:
“The gallbladder lies to the extreme right of the epigastric zone. The caecum in the right iliac compartment and, can you see, that there is the ascending colon. Can anyone tell me what region that is in? Monsieur Havonteur?”
Midhat could not see the body for the students. One head turned: it was Samuel Cogolati, a Belgian. Cogolati twisted his neck to check no one was watching him, then bounded over and crouched beside Midhat’s chair.
“Tout va bien?”
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe? I fainted, didn’t I.”
“Yes.” Cogolati breathed a laugh. “Ça va, I caught you, you didn’t hit the floor.” He shook his head up and down very quickly. “I have to go back, but … Ça va?”
“Fine, fine, go back. I’ll take a moment. Thank you, Samuel.”
“De rien.”
In spite of the bread roll Cogolati brought from the dining hall, Midhat’s legs were still trembling when he met Laurent at noon beside the statue, and he was grateful for his umbrella to lean on.
“Philosophically speaking,” said Laurent, as they moved off down the boulevard, “your reaction was totally natural. I recall my first practical dissection. Not a … not a pleasant experience.”
“Thank you. But I still can’t help feeling ashamed of myself.”
“It will be less abhorrent, you’ll find, observing the living organism. Unfortunately they must start you on the dead because it’s better for pointing out the organs. I think there is something of the object quality of the dead that is alarming. But what one must realise, what we must accommodate, as students of medicine I mean, is that death is absolutely a part of life. And as we progress scientifically, as a race, we must overcome those social taboos that relegate death to a separate sphere. What I mean to say is, don’t worry about it.”
Midhat took a deep breath and tried not to sigh. “I am still—I feel—”
“Human nature …” said Laurent. He looked up at the sky, eyes half-shut against the sun. “The meaning of illness … We are never without death, in life. You could argue we exist in a constant state of dying, like a flame, unstable, decaying. And what is sickness, therefore? Sickness is a part of life. We talk of life as renewal, but really it is decay. The fight against decay, sometimes, but decay nonetheless.”
While Laurent spoke, Midhat thought of the tour they had taken on the first day of term, during which he had followed the other new students into an enormous hall with a trompe l’oeil ceiling.