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Page Count: 466Year: 2025A mystical, satirical allegory about the war in Grabland, featuring President Liliputin. There is touching love, demons, and angels. Be careful! This book changes your thinking! After reading it, you’ll find it difficult to sin. It is a combination of a mystical parable, an anarchy manifesto, and a psychological drama, all presented in the form […]
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Professor Dowell’s Head by Alexander Belyaev
Page Count: 208Year: 1925READ FREEThe story takes place in Paris, where a young doctor, Marie Laurent, takes a job at Professor Kern’s clinic. She discovers that Kern is conducting experiments on organ reanimation and that he has kept the head of his teacher, Professor Dowell, alive. Marie begins to communicate with Dowell’s head and learns about his fate and […]
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First published in 1925, USSR
“Rabochaya Gatheta” newspaper and
“Vsemirny Sledopyt” magazine
This book is in the public domain
Reprint by Publishing House №10 2025
Publication date July 8, 2025
Translation from Russian
221 Pages, Font 12 pt, Bookman Old Style
Electronic edition, File size 962 KB
Cover design, Translate by Yulia Basharova
Copyright© Yulia Basharova 2025. All rights reserved
Table of Contents
The Secret of the Forbidden Tap. 15
“A Difficult Case In Practice” 177
“I dedicate this to my wife,
Margarita Konstantinovna Belyaeva “
First Encounter
“Please, have a seat.”
Marie Laurent settled into a deep leather armchair.
While Professor Kern opened the envelope and read the letter, she quickly scanned the office.
What a gloomy room! But it’s good for working here: nothing distracts your attention. A lamp with a thick lampshade illuminated only the desk, which was piled high with books, manuscripts, and galley proofs. Her eye could barely make out the solid black oak furniture. Dark wallpaper, dark drapes. In the semi-darkness, only the gold of embossed bindings in heavy cabinets shimmered. The long pendulum of an old wall clock swung steadily and smoothly.
Shifting her gaze to Kern, Laurent involuntarily smiled: the professor himself entirely matched the style of the office. As if carved from oak, Kern’s ponderous, severe figure seemed part of the furnishings. His large, tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses resembled two clock faces. Like pendulums, his gray-ash eyes moved, scanning line after line of the letter. His rectangular nose, straight-cut eyes and mouth, and square, protruding chin gave his face the look of a stylized decorative mask, sculpted by a Cubist.
“It’s strange to decorate a fireplace with such a mask,” Laurent thought.
“Colleague Sabatier has already spoken about you. Yes, I need an assistant. Are you a medical student? Excellent. Forty francs a day. Weekly payment. Breakfast, lunch. But I have one condition…”
Tapping a dry finger on the table, Professor Kern asked an unexpected question:
“Can you keep silent? All women are talkative. You are a woman — that’s bad. You are beautiful — that’s even worse.”
“But what does that have to do with…”
“Everything. A beautiful woman is doubly a woman. This means she possesses feminine flaws twofold. You might have a husband, a friend, a fiancé. And then all secrets go to hell.”
“But…”
“No ‘buts’! You must be mute as a fish. You must keep silent about everything you see and hear here. Do you accept this condition? I must warn you: non-compliance will lead to extremely unpleasant consequences for you. Extremely unpleasant.”
Laurent was confused and intrigued…
“I agree, if there’s no…”
“Crime, you mean? You can be completely at ease. And you face no responsibility whatsoever… Are your nerves in order?”
“I’m healthy…”
Professor Kern nodded.
“No alcoholics, neurasthenics, epileptics, lunatics in your family line?”
“No.”
Kern nodded again.
His dry, sharp finger pressed the electric doorbell.
The door opened silently.
In the room’s dim light, as if on a developing photographic plate, Laurent first saw only the whites of the eyes, then gradually the glints of a shiny black man’s face emerged. His black hair and suit blended with the dark drapes of the door.
“John! Show Mademoiselle Laurent the laboratory.”
The black man nodded, inviting her to follow, and opened a second door.
Laurent entered a completely dark room.
A switch clicked, and the bright light of four frosted hemispheres flooded the room. Laurent involuntarily covered her eyes. After the semi-darkness of the gloomy office, the whiteness of the walls was dazzling… The glass cabinets sparkled with gleaming surgical instruments. Steel and aluminum of apparatuses unfamiliar to Laurent shone with a cold light. Warm, yellow glints of light fell on polished copper parts. Tubes, coils, flasks, glass cylinders… Glass, rubber, metal…
In the middle of the room was a large dissection table. Next to the table, a glass box; inside it, a human heart pulsated. Tubes ran from the heart to cylinders.
Laurent turned her head aside and suddenly saw something that made her start as if from an electric shock.
A human head looked at her — a head without a torso.
It was attached to a square glass plate. The plate was supported by four tall, gleaming metal legs. From the severed arteries and veins, through openings in the glass, tubes, already joined in pairs, ran to cylinders. A thicker tube emerged from the throat and connected to a large cylinder. The cylinder and cylinders were equipped with valves, pressure gauges, thermometers, and devices unknown to Laurent.
The head looked at Laurent attentively and mournfully, blinking its eyelids. There could be no doubt: the head lived, separated from the body, an independent and conscious life.
Despite the shocking impression, Laurent couldn’t help but notice that this head was strikingly similar to that of the recently deceased renowned scientist-surgeon, Professor Dowell, famous for his experiments in reanimating organs excised from fresh cadavers. Laurent had often attended his brilliant public lectures, and she distinctly remembered that high forehead, characteristic profile, wavy, thick light-brown hair streaked with silver, blue eyes… Yes, it was Professor Dowell’s head. Only his lips and nose had grown thinner, his temples and cheeks sunken, his eyes deeper set in their orbits, and his white skin had taken on the yellowish-dark hue of a mummy. But in his eyes there was life, there was thought.
Laurent, as if mesmerized, could not tear her gaze from those blue eyes.
The head silently moved its lips.
This was too much for Laurent’s nerves. She was close to fainting. The black man supported her and led her out of the laboratory.
“It’s horrible, it’s horrible…” Laurent repeated, sinking into the armchair.
Professor Kern silently drummed his fingers on the table.
“Tell me, is that really the head…?”
“Professor Dowell’s? Yes, it’s his head. The head of Dowell, my deceased esteemed colleague, brought back to life by me. Unfortunately, I could only resurrect the head. Not everything comes at once. Poor Dowell suffered from an incurable ailment. Dying, he bequeathed his body for the scientific experiments we conducted together. ‘My whole life was dedicated to science. Let my death also serve science. I prefer a scientist-friend to dig in my corpse rather than a grave worm’ — that’s the will Professor Dowell left. And I received his body. I managed not only to revive his heart but also to resurrect his consciousness, to resurrect his ‘soul,’ to use the language of the crowd. What’s so horrible about that? People have considered death horrible until now. Hasn’t resurrection from the dead been humanity’s thousand-year dream?”
“I would prefer death to such a resurrection.”
Professor Kern made an indefinite gesture with his hand.
“Yes, it has its inconveniences for the resurrected. Poor Dowell would find it awkward to appear in public in such an… incomplete state. That’s why we keep this experiment a secret. I say ‘we’ because that is Dowell’s own wish. Besides, the experiment isn’t finished yet.”
“And how did Professor Dowell, that is, his head, express this wish? Can the head speak?”
Professor Kern was momentarily flustered.
“No… Professor Dowell’s head doesn’t speak. But it hears, understands, and can respond with facial expressions…”
And to change the subject, Professor Kern asked:
“So, do you accept my offer? Excellent. I’ll expect you tomorrow at nine in the morning. But remember: silence, silence, and silence.”
The Secret of the Forbidden Tap
Life hadn’t been easy for Marie Laurent. She was seventeen when her father died. The care of her ailing mother fell upon Marie. The small funds left by her father didn’t last long; she had to study and support the family. For several years, she worked as a night proofreader at a newspaper. After qualifying as a doctor, she tried in vain to find a position. There was an offer to go to the perilous lands of New Guinea, where yellow fever raged. Marie didn’t want to go there with her sick mother, nor did she want to be separated from her. Professor Kern’s offer seemed a way out of her situation.
Despite the work’s strangeness, she agreed almost without hesitation.
Laurent didn’t know that Professor Kern had thoroughly checked her references before accepting her.
She had been working for Kern for two weeks. Her duties were simple. She had to monitor the apparatuses that sustained the head’s life throughout the day. At night, John replaced her.
Professor Kern explained to her how to handle the taps on the cylinders. Pointing to the large cylinder from which a thick tube led to the head’s throat, Kern strictly forbade her from opening its tap.
“If you turn that tap, the head will be immediately killed. Sometime I will explain the entire system for feeding the head and the purpose of this cylinder. For now, it’s enough for you to know how to operate the apparatuses.”
Kern, however, was in no hurry with the promised explanations.
A small thermometer was deeply inserted into one of the head’s nostrils. At specific hours, it had to be removed and the temperature recorded. The cylinders were also equipped with thermometers and pressure gauges. Laurent monitored the temperature of the liquids and the pressure in the cylinders. The well-regulated apparatuses gave no trouble, operating with clockwork precision. A highly sensitive device attached to the head’s temple registered pulsation, mechanically drawing a curve. The tape was changed daily. The contents of the cylinders were replenished in Laurent’s absence, before her arrival.
Marie gradually grew accustomed to the head and even befriended it.
When Laurent entered the laboratory in the morning, her cheeks flushed from walking and fresh air, the head faintly smiled at her, and its eyelids trembled in greeting.
The head could not speak. But soon, a conventional, though very limited, language was established between it and Laurent. Lowering the eyelids meant “yes,” raising them meant “no.” The silently moving lips helped somewhat too.
“How are you feeling today?” Laurent would ask.
The head would smile with a “shadow of a smile” and lower its eyelids: “well, thank you.”
“How was your night?”
The same miming.
While asking questions, Laurent nimbly performed her morning duties. She checked the apparatuses, temperature, and pulse. She made entries in the logbook. Then, with the utmost caution, she washed the head’s face with water and alcohol using a soft sponge, and wiped its earlobes with absorbent cotton. She removed a wisp of cotton hanging on its eyelashes. She rinsed its eyes, ears, and nose — special tubes were inserted into the mouth and nose for this purpose. She tidied its hair.
Her hands touched the head quickly and skillfully. The head’s face showed an expression of contentment.
“It’s a wonderful day today,” Laurent would say. “The sky is so blue. The air is crisp and frosty. It just makes you want to breathe deeply. Look how brightly the sun shines, quite like spring.”
Professor Dowell’s lips sadly drooped at the corners. His eyes gazed longingly at the window and then settled on Laurent.
She blushed, slightly annoyed with herself. With a sensitive woman’s instinct, Laurent avoided speaking about anything unattainable for the head that might unnecessarily remind it of the pitifulness of its physical existence.
Marie felt a kind of maternal pity for the head, as if for a helpless child wronged by nature.
“Well then, let’s get to work!” Laurent hastily said, to correct her mistake.
In the mornings, before Professor Kern arrived, the head would read. Laurent would bring a pile of the latest medical journals and books and show them to the head. The head would browse. At a relevant article, it would twitch its eyebrows. Laurent would place the journal on the lectern, and the head would immerse itself in reading. Laurent grew accustomed to guessing which line the head was reading by following its eyes, and turning the pages in time.
When a mark needed to be made in the margins, the head would signal, and Laurent would run her finger along the lines, following the head’s eyes, and mark the margin with a pencil.
Laurent didn’t understand why the head made her mark the margins, and with their meager mimetic language, she didn’t expect to get an explanation, so she didn’t ask.
But one day, passing through Professor Kern’s office in his absence, she saw journals on his desk with the marks she had made at the head’s direction. And on a sheet of paper, Professor Kern’s hand had transcribed the marked passages. This made Laurent ponder.
Recalling this now, Marie couldn’t resist asking. Perhaps the head could somehow answer.
“Tell me, why do we mark certain passages in scientific articles?”
An expression of displeasure and impatience appeared on Professor Dowell’s face. The head looked expressively at Laurent, then at the tap from which the tube led to its throat, and raised its eyebrows twice. This signified a request. Laurent understood that the head wanted the forbidden tap opened. This wasn’t the first time the head had made such a request to her. But Laurent interpreted the head’s wish in her own way: the head, evidently, wanted to end its bleak existence. And Laurent hesitated to open the forbidden tap. She didn’t want to be responsible for the head’s death; she was afraid of responsibility and of losing her job.
“No, no,” Laurent replied with fear to the head’s request. “If I open that tap, you will die. I don’t want to, I can’t, I dare not kill you.”
A spasm of impatience and a sense of powerlessness crossed the head’s face.
Three times it vigorously raised its eyelids and eyes…
“No, no, no. I won’t die!” — that’s how Laurent understood it. She hesitated.
The head began to move its lips silently, and Laurent felt as though the lips were trying to say: “Open it. Open it. I beg you!…”
Laurent’s curiosity was aroused to the extreme. She felt that some secret was hidden here.
Boundless longing shone in the head’s eyes. The eyes pleaded, implored, demanded. It seemed that all the power of human thought, all the intensity of will, was concentrated in that gaze.
Laurent made up her mind.
Her heart pounded, her hand trembled as she cautiously opened the tap.
Immediately, a hiss came from the head’s throat. Laurent heard a faint, muffled, cracked voice, rattling and hissing like a broken gramophone:
“Tha-nk… you…”
The forbidden tap released compressed air from the cylinder. Passing through the head’s throat, the air set the vocal cords in motion, allowing the head to speak. The throat muscles and cords could no longer work normally: air hissed through the throat even when the head wasn’t speaking. And the severance of nerve trunks in the neck area disrupted the normal function of the vocal cord muscles, giving the voice a muffled, rattling timbre.
The head’s face expressed satisfaction.
But at that moment, footsteps were heard from the office and the sound of a lock being opened (the laboratory door was always locked with a key from the office side). Laurent barely managed to close the tap. The hissing in the head’s throat stopped.
Professor Kern entered.
The Head Began to Speak
About a week had passed since Laurent discovered the secret of the forbidden tap.
During this time, an even friendlier relationship had developed between Laurent and the head. During the hours when Professor Kern was away at the university or clinic, Laurent would open the tap, directing a small stream of air into the head’s throat so that it could speak in a clear whisper. Laurent also spoke softly. They were afraid the black man might overhear their conversation.
Their conversations apparently had a good effect on Professor Dowell’s head. His eyes became livelier, and even the sorrowful wrinkles between his eyebrows smoothed out.
The head spoke a lot and willingly, as if compensating itself for the time of enforced silence.
Last night, Laurent dreamt of Professor Dowell’s head, and upon waking, she wondered: “Does Dowell’s head dream?”
“Dreams…” the head whispered softly. “Yes, I dream. And I don’t know what they bring me more of: sorrow or joy. I see myself in dreams as healthy, full of strength, and I wake up doubly dispossessed. Dispossessed both physically and morally. For I am deprived of everything accessible to living people. Only the ability to think is left to me. ‘I think, therefore I exist,’ the head quoted the philosopher Descartes with a bitter smile. ‘I exist…'”
“What do you see in your dreams?”
“I have never yet seen myself in my current form. I see myself as I once was… I see relatives, friends… Recently, I saw my deceased wife and relived the spring of our love with her. Betty once came to me as a patient, having injured her leg getting out of a car. Our first acquaintance was in my consulting room. We somehow immediately grew close. After her fourth visit, I offered to show her a portrait of my fiancée lying on the desk. ‘I will marry her if I get her consent,’ I said. She walked over to the desk and saw a small mirror on it; looking at it, she laughed and said, ‘I think… she won’t refuse.’ A week later, she was my wife. That scene recently flashed before me in a dream… Betty died here, in Paris. You know, I came here from America as a surgeon during the European war. I was offered a professorship here, and I stayed to live near her dear grave. My wife was an amazing woman…”
The head’s face brightened with memories, but immediately clouded over.
“How infinitely far away that time is!”
The head fell silent in thought. Air gently hissed in its throat.
“Last night I saw my son in a dream. I would very much like to see him again. But I dare not subject him to this ordeal… For him, I am dead.”
“Is he grown up? Where is he now?”
“Yes, he’s grown up. He’s almost the same age as you, or a little older. He finished university. He should currently be in England, with his aunt on his mother’s side. No, it would be better not to dream. But I,” the head continued after a pause, “am tormented not only by dreams. When I’m awake, false sensations torment me. Strange as it may seem, sometimes I feel my body. I suddenly want to take a deep breath, stretch, spread my arms wide, as a person who has been sitting too long does. And sometimes I feel a gout pain in my left leg. Isn’t that funny? Though, as a doctor, you should understand this. The pain is so real that I involuntarily look down and, of course, through the glass, I see empty space beneath me, the stone slabs of the floor… At times it seems to me that an asthma attack is about to begin, and then I am almost pleased with my ‘posthumous existence,’ which at least frees me from asthma… All this is purely reflex activity of brain cells once connected to the life of the body…”
“Horrible!…” Laurent couldn’t help but exclaim.
“Yes, horrible… Strangely, in life, it seemed to me that I lived by thought alone. I truly somehow didn’t notice my body, completely immersed in scientific pursuits. And only after losing my body did I feel what I had lost. Now, more than ever in my life, I think of the scent of flowers, fragrant hay somewhere at the edge of a forest, of long walks on foot, the sound of the sea surf… I haven’t lost my sense of smell, touch, and other senses, but I am cut off from the entire diversity of the world of sensations. The smell of hay is good in a field when it’s connected with a thousand other sensations: the smell of the forest, the beauty of a fading sunset, the songs of forest birds. Artificial smells could not replace natural ones for me. The scent of ‘Rose’ perfume instead of a flower? That would satisfy me as little as the smell of pâté without pâté would satisfy a hungry man. Having lost my body, I lost the world — the entire immense, beautiful world of things I hadn’t noticed, things that can be picked up, touched, and at the same time feel one’s body, oneself. Oh, I would gladly give up my chimerical existence for the single joy of feeling the weight of a simple cobblestone in my hand! If only you knew what pleasure the touch of a sponge gives me when you wash my face in the mornings. After all, touch is the only way for me to feel myself in the world of real things… All I can do myself is touch the tip of my tongue to the edge of my dry lips.”
That evening, Laurent returned home distracted and agitated. Her elderly mother, as usual, had prepared her tea with a cold snack, but Marie didn’t touch the sandwiches, quickly drank a glass of tea with lemon, and got up to go to her room. Her mother’s watchful eyes settled on her.
“You’re upset about something, Marie?” the old woman asked. “Perhaps trouble at work?”
“No, nothing, Mama, just tired and have a headache… I’ll go to bed early, and everything will pass.”
Her mother didn’t hold her back, sighed, and, left alone, fell into thought.
Since Marie had started this job, she had changed a lot. She had become nervous, withdrawn. Mother and daughter had always been great friends. There were no secrets between them. And now there was a secret. Old Mrs. Laurent felt that her daughter was hiding something. To her mother’s questions about work, Marie replied very briefly and vaguely.
“Professor Kern has a home clinic for patients who are particularly interesting from a medical point of view. And I take care of them.”
“What kind of patients are these?”
“Various ones. There are very difficult cases…” Marie would frown and change the subject.
These answers didn’t satisfy the old woman. She even began to make inquiries on her own, but she couldn’t find out anything beyond what her daughter had already told her.
“Could she be in love with Kern, and perhaps hopelessly so, without his reciprocation?…” the old woman thought. But then she contradicted herself: her daughter wouldn’t hide such a crush from her. And besides, wasn’t Marie pretty? And Kern was a bachelor. And if only Marie loved him, then, of course, Kern wouldn’t be able to resist. There wasn’t another Marie like her in the whole world. No, it must be something else… And the old woman couldn’t fall asleep for a long time, tossing and turning on her high feather bed.
Marie wasn’t sleeping either. She had turned off the light so her mother would think she was already asleep. Marie sat on the bed with wide-open eyes. She recalled every word from the head and tried to imagine herself in its place: she gently touched her own lips, palate, and teeth with her tongue, and thought:
“This is all the head can do. One can bite one’s lips, the tip of one’s tongue. One can twitch one’s eyebrows. Roll one’s eyes. Close and open them. Mouth and eyes. Not a single other movement. No, one can also move the skin on one’s forehead a little. And nothing else…”
Marie closed and opened her eyes and made faces. Oh, if only her mother had looked at her at that moment! The old woman would have decided her daughter had gone mad.
And suddenly Marie began to grab her shoulders, knees, arms, stroke her chest, run her fingers through her thick hair and whisper:
“My God! How happy I am! How much I have! How rich I am! And I didn’t know it, didn’t feel it!”
The fatigue of her young body took over. Marie’s eyes involuntarily closed. And then she saw Dowell’s head. The head looked at her attentively and sorrowfully. The head broke free from its table and flew through the air. Marie ran ahead of the head. Kern, like a hawk, swooped down on the head. Winding corridors… Tight doors… Marie hurried to open them, but the doors wouldn’t budge, and Kern was catching up to the head, the head was whistling, hissing right by her ear… Marie felt like she was suffocating. Her heart pounded in her chest, its rapid beats painfully echoing throughout her body. A cold shiver ran down her spine… She opened more and more doors… Oh, the horror!…
“Marie! Marie! What’s wrong? Wake up, Marie! You’re moaning…”
This wasn’t a dream anymore. Her mother stood by her bedside, anxiously stroking her hair.
“Nothing, Mama. I just had a bad dream.”
“You’ve started having bad dreams too often, my child…”
The old woman left with a sigh, and Marie lay for a while longer with open eyes and a pounding heart.
“My nerves are getting completely shot, though,” she whispered softly, and this time, she fell into a deep sleep.
Death or Murder?
One day, while looking through medical journals before bed, Laurent read an article by Professor Kern on new scientific research. In this article, Kern referenced the works of other scientists in the same field. All these excerpts were taken from scientific journals and books and perfectly matched those that Laurent, at the head’s instruction, had underlined during their morning sessions.
The next day, as soon as she had the opportunity to speak with the head, Laurent asked:
“What does Professor Kern do in the laboratory in my absence?”
After some hesitation, the head replied:
“He and I continue our scientific work.”
“So, you make all these marks for him too? But you know that he publishes your work under his own name?”
“I suspected as much.”
“But that’s outrageous! How can you allow it?”
“What can I do?”
“If you can’t, then I can!” Laurent exclaimed angrily.
“Quiet… It’s useless… It would be ridiculous for someone in my position to claim authorship rights. Money? What do I need it for? Fame? What can fame give me?… And besides… if all this comes out, the work won’t be completed. And I myself am interested in seeing it completed. I must admit, I want to see the results of my labors.”
Laurent pondered.
“Yes, a man like Kern is capable of anything,” she said quietly. “Professor Kern told me, when I started working for him, that you died from an incurable disease and personally bequeathed your body for scientific work. Is that true?”
“It’s difficult for me to talk about this. I might be mistaken. It’s true, but, perhaps… not entirely true. He and I worked together on the reanimation of human organs taken from fresh cadavers. Kern was my assistant. The ultimate goal of my work at that time was the reanimation of a human head severed from the body. I had completed all the preparatory work. We had already reanimated animal heads, but decided not to publicize our successes until we managed to reanimate and demonstrate a human head. Before this last experiment, whose success I had no doubt about, I gave Kern the manuscript with all the scientific work I had done, for preparation for printing. At the same time, we were working on another scientific problem that was also close to resolution. At that time, I suffered a terrible asthma attack — one of the diseases I, as a scientist, tried to conquer. There was a long-standing struggle between me and it. It was all a matter of time: which of us would be the first victor? I knew that victory could remain on its side. And I did indeed bequeath my body for anatomical work, although I didn’t expect that it would be my head that would be reanimated. So… during this last attack, Kern was near me and rendered me medical assistance. He injected me with adrenaline. Perhaps… the dose was too high, or perhaps the asthma simply took its toll.”
“Well, and then?”
“Asphyxia (suffocation), a brief agony — and death, which for me was only a loss of consciousness… And then I experienced rather strange transitional states. Consciousness very slowly began to return to me. It seems my consciousness was awakened by a sharp feeling of pain in the neck area. The pain gradually subsided. At that time, I didn’t understand what it meant. When Kern and I performed experiments on reanimating dog heads severed from the body, we noticed that the dogs experienced extremely sharp pain after awakening. The dog’s head thrashed on the plate with such force that sometimes the tubes supplying nutrient fluid would fall out of the blood vessels. Then I suggested anesthetizing the cut area. To prevent it from drying out and being exposed to bacteria, the dog’s neck was immersed in a special Ringer-Locke-Dowell solution. This solution contained nutritive, antiseptic, and anesthetic substances. The cut of my neck was immersed in such a fluid. Without this precautionary measure, I could have died a second time very quickly after awakening, just as the dog heads died in our first experiments. But, I repeat, at that moment I wasn’t thinking about any of this. Everything was hazy, as if someone had woken me after severe intoxication, when the effects of alcohol had not yet worn off. But a joyful thought nevertheless kindled in my brain: if consciousness, however vague, had returned to me, then it meant I hadn’t died. Without opening my eyes yet, I pondered the strangeness of the last attack. Usually, my asthma attacks would cease abruptly. Sometimes the intensity of my shortness of breath would gradually decrease. But I had never lost consciousness after an attack. This was something new. Also new was the sensation of severe pain in the neck area. And one more strangeness: it seemed to me that I wasn’t breathing at all, yet at the same time I wasn’t suffocating. I tried to sigh, but couldn’t. Moreover, I lost the sensation of my chest. I couldn’t expand my ribcage, although I strenuously, as it seemed to me, strained my pectoral muscles. ‘Something strange,’ I thought, ‘either I’m sleeping, or I’m hallucinating…’ With difficulty, I managed to open my eyes. Darkness. A vague noise in my ears. I closed my eyes again… You know that when a person dies, their senses do not fade simultaneously. First, a person loses their sense of taste, then their sight fades, then hearing. Apparently, their restoration followed the reverse order. After some time, I lifted my eyelids again and saw a hazy light. As if I had descended into water to a very great depth. Then the greenish haze began to disperse, and I vaguely discerned Kern’s face before me and, at the same time, heard his voice quite distinctly: ‘Have you come to? Very glad to see you alive again.’ With an effort of will, I forced my consciousness to clear more quickly. I looked down and saw a table directly beneath my chin — at that time there was no small table yet, just a simple table, like a kitchen one, hastily adapted by Kern for the experiment. I wanted to look back but couldn’t turn my head. Next to this table, and slightly above it, was a second table — the dissection table. On this table lay someone’s headless corpse. I looked at it, and the corpse seemed strangely familiar to me, despite the fact that it had no head and its chest cavity was open. Right beside it, in a glass box, someone’s human heart was beating… I looked at Kern in bewilderment. I still couldn’t understand why my head was elevated above the table and why I couldn’t see my body. I wanted to reach out, but felt no arm. ‘What’s wrong?…’ I wanted to ask Kern, and only moved my lips silently. And he looked at me and smiled. ‘Don’t you recognize it?’ he asked me, nodding towards the dissection table. ‘It’s your body. Now you are forever rid of asthma.’ He could still joke!… And I understood everything. I confess, at first I wanted to scream, to fall off the table, to kill myself and Kern… No, not at all. I knew intellectually that I should be angry, scream, be indignant, and at the same time, I was struck by the icy calm that possessed me. Perhaps I was indignant, but somehow observing myself and the world from the outside. Shifts had occurred in my psyche. I only frowned and… remained silent. Could I be agitated as I had been before, if now my heart was beating in a glass vessel, and a motor was my new heart?”
Laurent stared at the head in horror.
“And after this… after this, you continue to work with him. If it weren’t for him, you would have conquered asthma and be a healthy person now… He’s a thief and a murderer, and you help him ascend to the pinnacle of fame. You work for him. He, like a parasite, feeds on your brain activity; he’s made your head into some kind of accumulator of creative thought and earns money and fame from it. And you!… What does he give you? What kind of life is yours?… You are deprived of everything. You are an unfortunate stump in which, to your misfortune, desires still live. Kern stole the whole world from you. Forgive me, but I don’t understand you. And do you really work for him submissively, meekly?”
The head smiled a sad smile.
“A head’s revolt? That’s dramatic. What could I do? I am deprived even of the last human possibility: to commit suicide.”
“But you could have refused to work with him!”
“If you like, I went through that. But my rebellion wasn’t caused by Kern using my thinking apparatus. In the end, what does the author’s name matter? It’s important that the idea enters the world and does its work. I rebelled only because it was hard for me to get used to my new existence. I preferred death to life… I’ll tell you about one incident that happened to me at that time. One day, I was alone in the laboratory. Suddenly, a large black beetle flew in through the window. How could it have appeared in the center of a huge city? I don’t know. Perhaps it was brought in by a car returning from a country trip. The beetle circled above me and landed on the glass plate of my table, next to me. I squinted and watched this disgusting insect, unable to dislodge it. Its tiny legs slid on the glass, and it, rustling its joints, slowly approached my head. I don’t know if you’ll understand me… I always felt a particular squeamishness, a feeling of revulsion towards such insects. I could never bring myself to touch them with my finger. And here I was, helpless even before this insignificant enemy. And for it, my head was just a convenient springboard for takeoff. And it continued to slowly approach, rustling its legs. After some effort, it managed to cling to the hairs of my beard. It struggled for a long time, entangled in my hair, but stubbornly climbed higher and higher. Thus it crawled over my compressed lips, over the left side of my nose, across my closed left eye, until, finally, having reached my forehead, it fell onto the glass, and from there onto the floor. An ordinary incident. But it made a profound impression on me… And when Professor Kern arrived, I categorically refused to continue scientific work with him. I knew he wouldn’t dare publicly demonstrate my head. And he wouldn’t keep a head that could be evidence against him without benefit. And he would kill me. That was my calculation. A struggle ensued between us. He resorted to rather cruel measures. One late evening, he came to me with an electrical apparatus, placed electrodes to my temples, and, without yet turning on the current, addressed me. He stood with his arms crossed on his chest and spoke in a very gentle, soft tone, like a true inquisitor. ‘Dear colleague,’ he began. ‘We are alone here, face to face, behind thick stone walls. However, even if they were thinner, it wouldn’t matter, as you cannot scream. You are entirely in my power. I can inflict the most terrible tortures upon you and remain unpunished. But why tortures? We are both scientists and can understand each other. I know your life is not easy, but that is not my fault. I need you, and I cannot free you from this burdensome life, and you yourself are unable to escape from me, even into oblivion. So wouldn’t it be better for us to settle this peacefully? You will continue our scientific pursuits…’ I negatively moved my eyebrows, and my lips silently whispered: ‘No!’ — ‘You grieve me greatly. Would you like a cigarette? I know you cannot experience full pleasure, as you have no lungs through which nicotine could be absorbed into the blood, but still, familiar sensations…’ And he, taking two cigarettes from his cigarette case, lit one for himself and inserted the other into my mouth. With what pleasure I spat out that cigarette! ‘Well, well, colleague,’ he said in the same polite, imperturbable voice, ‘you compel me to resort to coercive measures…’ And he turned on the electric current. It was as if a red-hot drill pierced my brain… ‘How do you feel?’ he asked me solicitously, just like a doctor asking a patient. ‘Does your head hurt? Perhaps you want to cure it? To do that, you only need to…’ — ‘No!’ my lips replied. ‘Very, very unfortunate. I’ll have to increase the current a bit. You grieve me greatly.’ And he sent such a strong current that it seemed my head was catching fire. The pain was unbearable. I gnashed my teeth. My consciousness was clouding. How I wanted to lose it! But, unfortunately, I didn’t. I only closed my eyes and clenched my lips. Kern smoked, blowing smoke into my face, and continued to roast my head over a slow fire. He no longer tried to persuade me. And when I slightly opened my eyes, I saw that he was enraged by my stubbornness. ‘Damn it! If your brains weren’t so necessary to me, I’d fry them and feed them to my pinscher today. Bah, you stubborn fool!’ And he unceremoniously ripped all the wires from my head and left. However, it was too early for me to rejoice. Soon he returned and began to inject irritating substances into the solutions feeding my head, which caused me the most agonizing pain. And when I involuntarily winced, he would ask me: ‘So, colleague, what do you decide? Still no?’ I was unyielding. He left even more enraged, showering me with a thousand curses. I triumphed. For several days, Kern did not appear in the laboratory, and day by day I awaited my deliverer — death. On the fifth day, he came as if nothing had happened, cheerfully whistling a tune. Without looking at me, he began to continue the work. For two or three days, I watched him without participating. But the work couldn’t help but interest me. And when, while performing experiments, he made several mistakes that could ruin the results of all our efforts, I couldn’t resist and signaled him. ‘It’s about time!’ he said with a satisfied smile and let air through my throat. I explained his mistakes to him, and since then I have continued to guide the work… He outsmarted me.”
Victims of the Big City
From the moment Laurent learned the head’s secret, she hated Kern. And this feeling grew with each passing day. She fell asleep with it and woke up with it. She saw Kern in terrifying nightmares. She was genuinely sick with hatred. Lately, when she met Kern, she could barely stop herself from throwing “Murderer!” in his face.
She acted strained and cold towards him.
“Kern is a monstrous criminal!” Marie exclaimed, alone with the head. “I’ll report him… I’ll scream about his crime, I won’t rest until I expose this stolen fame, until I reveal all his wicked deeds. I won’t spare myself.”
“Quiet!… Calm down,” Dowell pleaded. “I already told you that I have no desire for revenge. But if your moral sense is outraged and craves retribution, I won’t dissuade you… only don’t rush. I ask you to wait until the end of our experiments. After all, I need Kern now, just as he needs me. He cannot finish the work without me, and neither can I without him. And that is all I have left. I cannot create more, but the work we started must be completed.”
Footsteps sounded in the office.
Laurent quickly closed the tap and sat down with a book in her hand, still indignant. Dowell’s head lowered its eyelids, like a person immersed in slumber.
Professor Kern entered.
He looked at Laurent suspiciously.
“What’s wrong? Are you upset about something? Is everything alright?”
“No… nothing… everything’s fine… family troubles…”
“Let me check your pulse…”
Laurent reluctantly extended her hand.
“It’s beating fast… Nerves are acting up… Perhaps this is hard work for a nervous person. But I’m pleased with you. I’m doubling your remuneration.”
“I don’t need it, thank you.”
“‘I don’t need it.’ Who doesn’t need money? You have a family, after all.”
Laurent said nothing in response.
“Here’s the thing. Some preparations need to be made. We’ll move Professor Dowell’s head to the room behind the laboratory… Temporarily, colleague, temporarily. Are you awake?” he addressed the head. “And tomorrow, two fresh cadavers will be brought here, and we’ll create a pair of well-speaking heads from them and demonstrate them at the scientific society. It’s time to publicize our discovery.”
And Kern again looked at Laurent searchingly.
To avoid revealing the full extent of her dislike prematurely, Laurent forced herself to adopt an indifferent expression and quickly asked the first question that came to mind:
“Whose bodies will be brought?”
“I don’t know, and no one knows. Because right now, they’re not cadavers yet, but living, healthy people. Healthier than you and I. I can say that with certainty. I need the heads of absolutely healthy people. But tomorrow, death awaits them. And an hour later, no longer, they will be here, on the dissection table. I’ll take care of that.”
Laurent, who expected anything from Professor Kern, looked at him with such a frightened gaze that he momentarily flustered, and then laughed loudly.
“There’s nothing simpler. I’ve ordered a pair of fresh cadavers from the morgue. The thing is, you see, the city, this modern Moloch, demands daily human sacrifices. Every day, with the inevitability of natural laws, several people die in the city from street traffic, not counting accidents in factories, plants, and construction sites. Well, these doomed, cheerful people, full of strength and health, will quietly fall asleep tonight, unaware of what awaits them tomorrow. Tomorrow morning they’ll wake up and, cheerfully humming, will get dressed to go, as they’ll think, to work, but in reality — to meet their inevitable death. At the same time, in another part of the city, their unwitting executioner, a chauffeur or tram driver, will also be dressing, humming just as carelessly. Then the victim will leave their apartment, the executioner will drive out from the opposite end of the city from their garage or tram depot. Overcoming the flow of street traffic, they will stubbornly approach each other, unknown to one another, until the fateful point where their paths intersect. Then, for one brief moment, one of them will be distracted — and it’s done. On the statistical tally marking the number of street traffic victims, one more tally mark will be added. Thousands of coincidences must lead them to this fatal intersection. And yet, all of this will inexorably happen with the precision of a clock mechanism, momentarily aligning two clock hands moving at different speeds.”
Never before had Professor Kern been so talkative with Laurent. And where did this unexpected generosity come from? “I’m doubling your remuneration…”
“He wants to appease me, to buy me,” Laurent thought. “He seems to suspect that I’m guessing or even know a lot. But he won’t succeed in buying me.”
New Lab Inhabitants
The next morning, two fresh cadavers indeed lay on Professor Kern’s dissection table in the laboratory.
The two new heads, intended for public demonstration, were not to know about the existence of Professor Dowell’s head. Therefore, it had been carefully moved by Professor Kern to an adjoining room.
The male corpse belonged to a worker of about thirty, killed in street traffic. His powerful body was crushed. Fear was frozen in his half-open, glazed eyes.
Professor Kern, Laurent, and John, all in white lab coats, worked on the bodies.
“There were a few other cadavers,” Professor Kern remarked. “One worker fell from scaffolding. Rejected. He might have had brain damage from concussion. I also rejected several suicides who had poisoned themselves. This fellow here turned out suitable. And this one… a night beauty.”
He indicated with a nod of his head the corpse of a woman with a beautiful but faded face. Traces of blush and eyeliner still remained on her face. Her expression was calm. Only her raised eyebrows and half-open mouth conveyed a kind of childlike surprise.
“A bar singer. Killed instantly by a stray bullet during a drunken apache brawl. Right through the heart — you see? You couldn’t hit it like that on purpose.”
Professor Kern worked quickly and confidently. The heads were separated from the bodies, and the corpses were removed.
A few more minutes — and the heads were placed on tall tables. Tubes were inserted into their throats, veins, and carotid arteries.
Professor Kern was in a pleasantly excited state. The moment of his triumph was approaching. He had no doubt about his success.
Luminaries of science were invited to Professor Kern’s upcoming demonstration and lecture at the scientific society. The press, skillfully guided, published preliminary articles extolling Professor Kern’s scientific genius. Magazines featured his portraits. Kern’s presentation with his astounding experiment of reanimating dead human heads was hailed as a triumph of national science.
Whistling cheerfully, Professor Kern washed his hands, lit a cigar, and smugly gazed at the heads before him.
“Heh-heh! Not only John’s head is on the platter, but Salome’s herself. It will be quite a meeting. All that remains is to open the tap and… the dead will live. Well then, Mademoiselle? Revive them. Open all three taps. This large cylinder contains compressed air, not poison, heh-heh…”
For Laurent, this was old news. But she, with almost unconscious cunning, showed no reaction.
Kern frowned, suddenly turning serious. Moving close to Laurent, he said, enunciating each word:
“But I ask you not to open the air tap for Professor Dowell. His… vocal cords are damaged and…”
Catching Laurent’s incredulous look, he added irritably:
“Whatever the case… I forbid you. Be obedient, if you don’t want to bring major trouble upon yourself.”
And, cheering up again, he sang drawn out, to the tune of the opera “Pagliacci”:
“And so, we begin!”
Laurent opened the taps.
The worker’s head was the first to show signs of life. Its eyelids trembled almost imperceptibly. Its pupils became clear.
“Circulation is there. Everything’s going well…”
Suddenly, the head’s eyes changed their direction, turning towards the light of the window. Consciousness was slowly returning.
“He lives!” Kern cried out cheerfully. “Give it a stronger stream of air.”
Laurent opened the tap further.
Air hissed in the throat.
“What is this?… Where am I?…” the head mumbled.
“In the hospital, my friend,” Kern said.
“In the hospital?…” The head moved its eyes, lowered them, and saw empty space beneath itself.
“Where are my legs? Where are my arms? Where is my body?”
“It’s gone, my dear fellow. It’s shattered to pieces. Only your head survived, and the torso had to be cut off.”
“Cut off how? No, I don’t agree. What kind of operation is this? What good am I like this? You can’t earn a living with just a head. I need my arms. Without arms, without legs, no one will hire me… You’ll get out of the hospital… Ugh! And there’s nothing to get out on. What now? I need to eat and drink. I know our hospitals. They’ll keep you for a bit, then kick you out: ‘cured.’ No, I don’t agree,” he insisted.
His accent, his broad, tanned, freckled face, his hairstyle, the naive gaze of his blue eyes — everything about him revealed him to be a country man.
Need had torn him from his native fields; the city had torn apart his young, healthy body.
“Maybe some benefits will come through, at least?… And where’s that one?…” he suddenly remembered, and his eyes widened.
“Who?”
“That one… who ran me over… Here’s a tram, here’s another, here’s a car, and he just drove right at me…”
“Don’t worry. He’ll get what’s coming to him. The truck number is recorded: four thousand seven hundred eleventh, if that interests you. What’s your name?” Professor Kern asked.
“Me? They called me Toma. Toma Bush, that’s it.”
“So here’s the thing, Toma… You will lack for nothing, and you will suffer neither from hunger, nor from cold, nor from thirst. You won’t be thrown out onto the street, don’t worry.”
“So, you’ll feed me for free, or show me at fairs for money?”
“We’ll show you, but not at fairs. We’ll show you to scientists. Well, now, rest.” And, looking at the woman’s head, Kern remarked with concern: “Salome is taking her sweet time.
“Is this one a head without a body too?” asked Toma’s head.
“As you can see, so you won’t be bored, we’ve taken care to invite a young lady to join you… Close his air tap, Laurent, so he doesn’t interfere with his chatter.”
Kern removed the thermometer from the woman’s nostril.
“The temperature is above cadaveric, but still low. Reanimation is slow…”
Time passed. The woman’s head did not revive. Professor Kern began to worry. He walked around the laboratory, glanced at his watch, and each of his steps on the stone floor echoed loudly in the large room.
Toma’s head looked at him in bewilderment and silently moved its lips.
Finally, Kern approached the woman’s head and carefully examined the glass tubes that terminated the rubber tubes inserted into the carotid arteries.
“Here’s the cause. This tube fits too loosely, and that’s why the circulation is slow. Give me a wider tube.”
Kern replaced the tube, and a few minutes later, the head came to life.
Briquette’s head — that was the woman’s name — reacted more violently to her reanimation. When she fully came to and spoke, she began to scream hoarsely, begging to be killed rather than left as such a monstrosity.
“Ah, ah, ah!… My body… my poor body!… What have you done to me? Save me or kill me. I can’t live without a body!… Let me at least look at it… no, no, don’t. It’s headless… how horrible!… how horrible!…”
When she had calmed down a little, she said:
“You say you reanimated me. I’m not well-educated, but I know that a head cannot live without a body. Is this a miracle or sorcery?”
“Neither. This is an achievement of science.”
“If your science is capable of creating such miracles, then it must be able to do others. Attach another body to me. George the donkey shot me with a bullet… But many girls shoot themselves in the head. Cut off their body and attach it to my head. Just show it to me first. I need to choose a beautiful body. Otherwise, I can’t… A woman without a body. That’s worse than a man without a head.”
And, turning to Laurent, she asked:
“Would you be kind enough to give me a mirror?”
Looking in the mirror, Briquette studied herself for a long time and seriously.
“Horrible!… Can I ask you to fix my hair? I can’t do my own hairstyle…”
“You have more work now, Laurent,” Kern smirked. “Your remuneration will be increased accordingly. It’s time for me to go.”
He looked at his watch and, approaching Laurent closely, whispered:
“In their presence” — he indicated the heads with his eyes — “not a word about Professor Dowell’s head!…”
When Kern left the laboratory, Laurent went to visit Professor Dowell’s head.
Dowell’s eyes looked at her sadly. A sorrowful smile twisted his lips.
“My poor, poor one…” Laurent whispered. “But soon you will be avenged!”
The head made a sign. Laurent opened the air tap.
“You’d better tell me how the experiment went,” the head hissed, smiling weakly.
Heads Having Fun
It was even harder for Toma’s and Briquette’s heads to get used to their new existence than it was for Dowell’s head. His brain was now occupied with the same scientific work that had interested him before. Toma and Briquette were simple people, and there was no meaning in life for them without a body. It’s no wonder they quickly grew despondent.
“Is this even life?” Toma complained. “Stuck here like a log. I’ve stared at all the walls till they’re worn through…”
The depressed mood of the “captives of science,” as Kern jokingly called them, greatly concerned him. The heads could wither away from melancholy before the day of their demonstration arrived.
And so, Professor Kern tried in every way to entertain them.
He got a projector, and in the evenings, Laurent and John would arrange film screenings. The white wall of the laboratory served as the screen.
Toma’s head particularly enjoyed comedy films featuring Charlie Chaplin and Monty Banks. Watching their antics, Toma would temporarily forget about his pathetic existence. Something akin to laughter would even escape from his throat, and tears would well up in his eyes.
But then Banks finished his act, and an image of a farm appeared on the white wall of the room. A little girl fed chickens. A crested hen fussily shared treats with her chicks. Against the backdrop of a cowshed, a young, healthy woman milked a cow, pushing away a calf nuzzling at the udder with her elbow. A shaggy dog ran past, wagging its tail cheerfully, and a farmer appeared behind it. He was leading a horse.
Toma somehow croaked in an unusually high, false voice and suddenly cried out:
“No! No!…”
John, who was busy with the projector, didn’t immediately understand what was wrong.
“Stop the show!” Laurent shouted and quickly switched on the light. The faded image flickered for a while longer and then finally disappeared. John stopped the projector.
Laurent looked at Toma. Tears were in his eyes, but they weren’t tears of laughter anymore. His whole plump face was contorted into a grimace, like an offended child’s, his mouth twisted:
“Just like home… in the village…” he whimpered. “The cow… the chicken… It’s all gone, all gone now…”
Laurent was already bustling around the projector. Soon the light was off, and shadows flickered on the white wall. Harold Lloyd scurried away from pursuing policemen. But Toma’s mood was already ruined. Now, the sight of moving people made him even more despondent.
“Look at him, running around like a madman,” Toma’s head grumbled. “If he were stuck like this, he wouldn’t be jumping around.”
Laurent tried to change the program again.
The sight of a high-society ball completely upset Briquette. The beautiful women and their luxurious dresses irritated her.
“No… I don’t want to watch how others live,” she said.
The cinema was put away.
The radio entertained them a bit longer.
Both were moved by music, especially dance tunes and actual dances.
“My God, how I danced that dance!” Briquette once exclaimed, bursting into tears.
They had to switch to other amusements.
Briquette became capricious, demanding a mirror every minute, inventing new hairstyles, asking for her eyes to be lined with pencil, and her face to be powdered and rouged. She grew irritated by Laurent’s ineptitude, who just couldn’t grasp the mysteries of cosmetics.
“Can’t you see,” Briquette’s head said irritably, “that the right eye is lined darker than the left? Lift the mirror higher.”
She asked for fashion magazines and fabrics to be brought to her and made them drape the small table where her head was mounted.
She reached the point of eccentricity, suddenly declaring with belated modesty that she couldn’t sleep in the same room as a man.
“Screen me off at night, or at least with a book.”
And Laurent made a “screen” out of a large open book, placing it on the glass plate near Briquette’s head.
Toma caused no less trouble.
One day he demanded wine. And Professor Kern was forced to grant him the pleasure of intoxication by introducing small doses of intoxicating substances into the nourishing solutions.
Sometimes Toma and Briquette would sing duets. Their weakened vocal cords would not obey. It was a terrible duet.
“My poor voice… If only you could hear how I used to sing!” Briquette would say, her eyebrows rising painfully.
In the evenings, they would fall into contemplation. The unusualness of their existence forced even these simple natures to ponder questions of life and death.
Briquette believed in immortality. Toma was a materialist.
“Of course, we are immortal,” Briquette’s head would say. “If the soul died with the body, it wouldn’t have returned to the head.”
“And where did your soul reside: in your head or in your body?” Toma asked slyly.
“Of course, it was in the body… it was everywhere…” Briquette’s head replied uncertainly, suspecting some trick in the question.
“So, is your body’s soul now walking around headless in the afterlife?”
“You’re the headless one,” Briquette took offense.
“I’ve got a head. It’s the only thing I have,” Toma persisted. “But the soul of your head didn’t stay in the afterlife, did it? Did it come back to earth through this rubber tube? No,” he said, now serious, “we’re like a machine. Turn on the steam — it works again. But if it breaks into pieces — no steam will help…”
And each of them would sink into their own thoughts…
Heaven and Earth
Toma’s arguments did not convince Briquette. Despite her disorganized lifestyle, she was a devout Catholic. Leading a rather turbulent life, she had no time to think about the afterlife, or even to go to church. However, the religiosity instilled in her childhood held strong. And now, it seemed, was the most opportune moment for these seeds of religiosity to sprout. Her current life was horrible, but death — the possibility of a second death — frightened her even more. At night, she was tormented by nightmares of the afterlife.
She imagined tongues of hellfire. She saw her sinful body already frying in a huge skillet.
Briquette would wake up in horror, teeth chattering and gasping for breath. Yes, she definitely felt suffocated. Her agitated brain demanded an increased flow of oxygen, but she was deprived of a heart — that living engine that so perfectly regulates the supply of the necessary amount of blood to all organs of the body. She tried to scream to wake John, who was on duty in their room. But John was tired of the frequent calls, and to get a few hours of peaceful sleep, contrary to Professor Kern’s demands, he sometimes turned off the air taps to the heads. Briquette opened her mouth like a fish out of water, and tried to scream, but her scream was no louder than a fish’s dying gasp… And black shadows of chimeras continued to roam the room, hellfire illuminating their faces. They approached her, extending terrible clawed paws. Briquette closed her eyes, but it didn’t help: she continued to see them. And strangely, it seemed to her that her heart was stopping and chilling with terror.
“Lord, Lord, will you not forgive your servant, you are omnipotent,” her lips moved silently, “your goodness is boundless. I have sinned much, but am I to blame? For you know how all this happened. I don’t remember my mother, there was no one to teach me good… I was starving. How many times have I asked you for help. Don’t be angry, Lord, I’m not reproaching you,” she continued her silent prayer timidly, “I mean to say that I’m not so much to blame. And by your mercy, perhaps, you will send me to purgatory… Just not to hell! I will die of horror… How foolish I am, for one does not die there!” — And she would resume her naive prayers.
Toma also slept poorly. But he was not haunted by nightmares of hell. He was consumed by longing for the earthly. Only a few months ago, he had left his native village, leaving behind everything dear to his heart, taking with him only a small bag of flatbreads and his dreams — to save money in the city to buy a plot of land. And then he would marry the rosy-cheeked, healthy Marie… Oh, then her father would not oppose their marriage.
And now, everything had crumbled… On the white wall of his unexpected prison, he saw a farm and a cheerful, healthy woman, so much like Marie, milking a cow. But instead of him, Toma, some other man led a horse across the yard, past a bustling hen with chicks, the horse steadily flicking its tail at flies. And he, Toma, was killed, destroyed, his head stuck on a pole like a scarecrow for crows. Where were his strong hands, his healthy body? In despair, Toma gnashed his teeth. Then he quietly wept, and tears dripped onto the glass stand.
“What’s this?” Laurent asked, surprised, during her morning cleanup. “Where did this water come from?”
Although the air tap had already been thoughtfully turned on by John, Toma did not answer. He looked grimly and unfriendlily at Laurent, and when she moved to Briquette’s head, he quietly croaked after her:
“Murderer!” He had already forgotten about the driver who had crushed him and transferred all his anger to the people around him.
“What did you say, Toma?” Laurent turned, facing his head. But Toma’s lips were already tightly sealed again, and his eyes stared at her with unconcealed anger.
Laurent was surprised and wanted to ask John about the reason for his bad mood, but Briquette had already captured her attention.
“Would you be so kind as to scratch my nose on the right side? This helplessness is horrible… There isn’t a pimple there, is there? But why does it itch so much then? Please, give me the mirror.”
Laurent held the mirror to Briquette’s head.
“Turn it to the right, I can’t see. More… That’s it. There’s redness. Perhaps some cold cream?”
Laurent patiently applied the cream.
“That’s it. Now, please, powder it. Thank you… Laurent, I wanted to ask you about something…”
“Please.”
“Tell me, if… a very sinful person confesses to a priest and repents of their sins, can such a person receive absolution and go to heaven?”
“Of course they can,” Laurent replied seriously.
“I’m so afraid of the torments of hell…” Briquette confessed. “Please, invite a curate to me… I want to die a Christian…”
And Briquette’s head, with the look of a dying martyr, rolled her eyes upward. Then she lowered them and exclaimed:
“What an interesting style your dress has! Is that the latest fashion? You haven’t brought me fashion magazines in a while.”
Briquette’s thoughts returned to earthly interests.
“A short hem… Beautiful legs look very good in short skirts. My legs! My unfortunate legs! Have you seen them? Oh, when I danced, those legs drove men wild!”
Professor Kern entered the room.
“How are things?” he asked cheerfully.
“Listen, Professor,” Briquette addressed him, “I can’t go on like this… you must attach someone’s body to me… I already asked you about this once and now I ask again. I beg you. I am sure that if only you wish to, you can do it…”
“Damn it, why not?” Professor Kern thought. Although he claimed all the credit for reanimating a human head separated from the body, in his heart he knew that this successful experiment was entirely Professor Dowell’s merit. But why not go further than Dowell? To combine two deceased people into one living being — that would be monumental! And all the credit, if the experiment succeeded, would rightfully belong to Kern alone. However, some advice from Dowell’s head could still be used. Yes, this definitely needed to be considered.
“And you really want to dance again?” Kern smiled and blew a stream of cigar smoke into Briquette’s head.
“Do I want to? I will dance day and night. I’ll wave my arms like a windmill, I’ll flutter like a butterfly… Give me a body, a young, beautiful female body!”
“But why necessarily female?” Kern asked playfully. “If you only wish, I can give you a male body too.”
Briquette looked at him with surprise and horror.
“A male body? A female head on a male body! No, no, that would be a horrible monstrosity! It would be hard to even design a costume…”
“But then you wouldn’t be a woman anymore. You would turn into a man. You’d grow a mustache and beard, and your voice would change. Don’t you want to turn into a man?” Many women regret not being born men.
“Those are probably the kind of women that men never paid any attention to. Such women, of course, would benefit from turning into a man. But me… I don’t need that.” And Briquette proudly tilted her beautiful eyebrows.
“Well, have it your way. You’ll remain a woman. I’ll try to find you a suitable body.”
“Oh, Professor, I’ll be endlessly grateful to you. Can this be done today? I can just imagine the effect I’ll make when I return to ‘Chat Noir’…”
“That won’t happen so soon.”
Briquette continued to chatter, but Kern had already moved away from her and turned to Toma:
“How’s it going, pal?”
Toma hadn’t heard the professor’s conversation with Briquette. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, he looked grimly at Kern and said nothing.
Since Professor Kern promised Briquette a new body, her mood sharply changed. The nightmares of hell no longer haunted her. She no longer thought about the afterlife. All her thoughts were consumed with worries about her upcoming new earthly life. Looking in the mirror, she worried that her face had become thin and her skin had acquired a yellowish tint. She tormented Laurent, making her curl her hair, do her hairstyle, and apply makeup to her face.
“Professor, will I really remain so thin and yellow?” she anxiously asked Kern.
“You’ll become more beautiful than you were,” he reassured her.
“No, makeup won’t help here, it’s self-deception,” she said after the professor left. “Mademoiselle Laurent, we’ll do cold washes and massage. New wrinkles have appeared around my eyes and from my nose to my lips. I think if you massage them well, they’ll disappear. A friend of mine… Oh, I forgot to ask you, did you find gray silk for the dress? Gray suits me very well. And did you bring the fashion magazines? Excellent! What a pity we can’t do fittings yet. I don’t know what kind of body I’ll have. It would be good if he found one taller, with narrow hips… Unfold the magazine.”
And she delved into the mysteries of feminine beauty and attire.
Laurent did not forget about Professor Dowell’s head. She still took care of the head and spent her mornings reading, but there was no time for conversations, and Laurent still wanted to discuss many things with Dowell. She became increasingly overworked and nervous. Briquette’s head didn’t give her a moment’s peace. Sometimes Laurent would interrupt her reading and be forced to rush to Briquette’s cry just to fix a fallen curl or answer if Laurent had been to the lingerie shop.
“But you don’t even know your body’s measurements,” Laurent said, restraining her irritation, quickly adjusted a curl on Briquette’s head, and hurried to Dowell’s head.
The idea of performing the bold operation completely captivated Kern.
Kern worked diligently, preparing for this complex surgery. He would lock himself in with Professor Dowell’s head for long periods and converse with it. Kern, despite all his desire to do without Dowell’s advice, could not. Dowell pointed out a number of difficulties that Kern hadn’t considered and which could affect the outcome of the experiment. He advised performing several preliminary experiments on animals and supervised these experiments. And, such was the power of Dowell’s intellect, he himself became extremely interested in the upcoming experiment. Dowell’s head even seemed to perk up. His mind worked with unusual clarity.
Kern was both pleased and displeased with Dowell’s extensive help. The further the work progressed, the more Kern became convinced that he would not have coped with it without Dowell. And he could only flatter his vanity by knowing that the realization of this new experiment would be carried out by him.
“You are a worthy successor to the late Professor Dowell,” Dowell’s head once said to him with a barely noticeable ironic smile. “Ah, if only I could take a more active part in this work!”
This was neither a request nor a hint. Dowell’s head knew too well that Kern would not want, would not dare, to give him a new body.
Kern frowned, but pretended not to have heard this exclamation.
“So, the animal experiments were successful,” he said. “I operated on two dogs. After decapitating them, I attached the head of one to the torso of the other. Both are thriving, the sutures on their necks are healing.”
“Nutrition?” the head asked.
“Artificial for now. Through the mouth, I only give a disinfectant solution with iodine. But soon I’ll switch to normal feeding.”
A few days later, Kern announced:
“The dogs are feeding normally. The bandages have been removed, and I think in a day or two they’ll be able to run.”
“Wait a week or so,” the head advised. “Young dogs make sudden head movements, and the sutures might come apart. Don’t rush it.” — “You’ll have time to reap the laurels,” the head wanted to add, but restrained itself. — “And one more thing: keep the dogs in different rooms. Together they will cause a commotion and might injure themselves.”
Finally, the day came when Professor Kern, with a solemn expression, led a dog with a black head and a white torso into Dowell’s head’s room. The dog apparently felt well. Its eyes were lively, it wagged its tail cheerfully. Upon seeing Professor Dowell’s head, the dog suddenly bristled its fur, growled, and barked wildly. The unusual sight apparently startled and frightened it.
“Walk the dog around the room,” the head said.
Kern walked around the room, leading the dog. Nothing escaped Dowell’s experienced, keen eye.
“And what’s this?” Dowell asked. “The dog limps slightly on its left hind leg. And its voice isn’t right.”
Kern became flustered.
“The dog was limping before the operation,” he said, “its leg was broken.”
“The deformity isn’t visible to the eye, and to feel it, alas, I cannot. You couldn’t find a pair of healthy dogs?” the head asked with doubt in its voice. “I think you can be completely frank with me, esteemed colleague. Perhaps the reanimation operation took a long time, and the ‘death pause’ of cardiac activity and breathing was prolonged too much, which, as you should know from my experiments, often leads to nervous system disorders. But calm down, such phenomena can disappear. Just try to make sure your Briquette doesn’t limp on both legs.”
Kern was enraged but tried not to show it. He recognized the former Professor Dowell in the head — direct, demanding, and self-confident.
“Outrageous!” Kern thought. “This head, hissing like a punctured tire, continues to teach me and mock my mistakes, and I am forced, like a schoolboy, to listen to its lectures… A turn of the tap, and the spirit will fly out of this rotten pumpkin…” However, instead of doing so, Kern, showing no sign of his mood, listened attentively to a few more pieces of advice.
“Thank you for your instructions,” Kern said and, nodding his head, left the room.
Outside the door, he cheered up again.
“No,” Kern comforted himself, “the work was done excellently. It’s not easy to please Dowell. The limping leg and the dog’s wild voice are trifles compared to what has been done.”
Passing through the room where Briquette’s head was located, he stopped and, pointing to the dog, said:
“Mademoiselle Briquette, your wish will soon be granted. Do you see this little dog? Just like you, she was a head without a body, and look, she lives and runs as if nothing happened.”
“I’m not a little dog,” Briquette’s head replied indignantly.
“But this is a necessary experiment. If the little dog came to life in a new body, so will you.”
“I don’t understand what the little dog has to do with it,” Briquette stubbornly insisted. “I don’t care about the little dog. You’d better tell me when I will be reanimated. Instead of reanimating me faster, you’re messing around with some dogs.”
Kern waved his hand hopelessly and, still smiling cheerfully, said:
“Soon now. We just need to find a suitable corpse… that is, a body, and you’ll be in full form, as they say.”
After leading the dog away, Kern returned with a tape measure in his hands and carefully measured the circumference of Briquette’s head at the neck.
“Thirty-six centimeters,” he said.
“My God, have I really lost so much weight?” Briquette’s head exclaimed. “I used to be thirty-eight. And my shoe size is…”
But Kern, not listening to her, quickly went to his own room. He had barely sat down at his desk in the office when there was a knock at the door.
“Enter.”
The door opened. Laurent entered. She tried to remain calm, but her face was agitated.
Vice and Virtue
“What’s wrong? Has something happened to the heads?” Kern asked, looking up from his papers.
“No… but I wanted to speak with you, Professor.”
Kern leaned back in his chair.
“I’m listening, Mademoiselle Laurent.”
“Tell me, are you seriously intending to give Briquette’s head a body, or are you just comforting her?”
“Completely serious.”
“And you’re hoping for the success of this operation?”
“Absolutely. You saw the dog, didn’t you?”
“And you’re not planning to… put Toma on his feet?” Laurent began indirectly.
“Why not? He’s already asked me about it. Not all at once.”
“And Dowell…” Laurent suddenly spoke quickly and agitatedly. “Of course, everyone has a right to life, to a normal human life, both Toma and Briquette. But you, of course, understand that the value of Professor Dowell’s head is much higher than that of your other heads… And if you want to restore Toma and Briquette to normal existence, then how much more important it is to restore Professor Dowell’s head to that same normal life.”
Kern frowned. His entire expression became wary and hard.
“Professor Dowell, or rather his professorial head, has found a splendid defender in you,” he said, smiling ironically. “But such a defender is perhaps unnecessary, and you are needlessly agitated and worried. Of course, I also thought about reanimating Dowell’s head.”
“But why don’t you start the experiment with him?”
“Precisely because Dowell’s head is worth a thousand other human heads. I started with a dog before giving Briquette’s head a body. Briquette’s head is as much more valuable than a dog’s head as Dowell’s head is more valuable than Briquette’s head.”
“The life of a human and a dog is incomparable, Professor…”
“Just like Dowell’s and Briquette’s heads. Do you have anything else to say?”
“Nothing, Professor,” Laurent replied, heading towards the door.
“In that case, Mademoiselle, I have some questions for you. Wait, Mademoiselle.”
Laurent stopped at the door, looking at Kern questioningly.
“Please, come to the table, have a seat.”
Laurent, with vague apprehension, sank into the deep armchair. Kern’s face promised nothing good. Kern leaned back in his chair and for a long time stared searchingly into Laurent’s eyes until she lowered them. Then he quickly rose to his full height, firmly braced his fists on the table, inclined his head towards Laurent, and asked quietly and impressively:
“Tell me, did you activate the air tap of Dowell’s head? Did you talk to him?”
Laurent felt the tips of her fingers grow cold. Thoughts swirled in her head. The anger Kern aroused in her was bubbling and ready to burst forth.
“Should I tell him the truth or not?” Laurent hesitated. Oh, what a pleasure it would be to throw the word “murderer” in this man’s face, but such an open outburst could spoil everything.
Laurent did not believe that Kern would give Dowell’s head a new body. She already knew too much to believe in such a possibility. And she dreamed of only one thing: to expose Kern, who had appropriated the fruits of Dowell’s labors, in the eyes of society and reveal his crime. She knew that Kern would stop at nothing, and by declaring herself his open enemy, she put her life in danger. But it was not the instinct of self-preservation that stopped her. She did not want to perish before Kern’s crime was exposed. And for that, she had to lie. But her conscience, her entire upbringing, would not allow her to lie. Never before in her life had she lied, and now she was experiencing terrible turmoil.
Kern did not take his eyes off her face.
“Don’t lie,” he said mockingly, “don’t burden your conscience with the sin of lying. You spoke with the head, don’t deny it, I know it. John overheard everything…”
Laurent, head bowed, remained silent.
“I’m only interested to know what you talked about with the head.”
Laurent felt the blood drain from her face and rush to her cheeks. She raised her head and looked directly into Kern’s eyes.
“About everything.”
“So,” Kern said, not taking his hands off the table. “That’s what I thought; about everything.”
A pause ensued. Laurent again lowered her eyes and now sat with the air of someone awaiting a verdict.
Kern suddenly walked quickly to the door and locked it. He paced several times on the soft carpet of the office, hands clasped behind his back. Then he silently approached Laurent and asked:
“And what do you intend to do, my dear girl? Bring the bloodthirsty monster Kern to justice? Trample his name in the mud? Expose his crime? Dowell probably asked you to?”
“No, no,” Laurent spoke heatedly, forgetting all her fear, “I assure you, Professor Dowell’s head is completely devoid of any sense of revenge. Oh, what a noble soul! He even… discouraged me. He’s not like you; you can’t judge by yourself!” she finished defiantly, her eyes flashing.
Kern chuckled and began pacing the office again.
“So, so, excellent. So, you did have intentions to expose me, and if it weren’t for Dowell’s head, Professor Kern would already be in prison. If virtue cannot triumph, then at least vice must be punished. That’s how all the virtuous novels you read ended, isn’t that right, my dear girl?”
“And vice will be punished!” she exclaimed, almost losing control of her emotions.
“Oh yes, of course, in heaven.” Kern looked at the ceiling, paneled with large black oak squares. “But here, on earth, be it known to you, naive creature, vice triumphs and only vice! And virtue… Virtue stands with an outstretched hand, begging for pennies from vice, or hangs there,” Kern pointed towards the room where Dowell’s head was located, “like a scarecrow for crows, pondering the transience of all earthly things.”
And, coming very close to Laurent, he lowered his voice and said:
“You know that both you and Dowell’s head, I can, literally, turn into ashes, and not a soul will know about it.”
“I know you are capable of anything…”
“Crime? And it’s very good that you know that.”
Kern began pacing the room again and, in his usual voice, continued to speak, as if reasoning aloud:
“However, what shall I do with you, my beautiful avenger? You, unfortunately, are one of those people who stop at nothing and are ready to accept a martyr’s crown for the sake of truth. You are fragile, nervous, impressionable, but you cannot be intimidated. Kill you? Today? Right now? I would succeed in covering up the traces of the murder, but it would still be a bother. And my time is precious. Bribe you? That’s harder than intimidating you… Well, tell me, what should I do with you?”
“Leave everything as it was… I haven’t reported you until now.”
“And you won’t report me?”
Laurent hesitated, then replied quietly but firmly:
“I will.”
Kern stomped his foot.
“Ugh, stubborn girl! So here’s what I’ll tell you. Sit down at my desk right now… Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to strangle or poison you yet. Well, sit down.”
Laurent looked at him in bewilderment, thought for a moment, and moved to the armchair at the desk.
“Ultimately, I need you. If I kill you now, I’ll have to hire a replacement. I’m not guaranteed that I won’t end up with some blackmailer in your place who, upon discovering the secret of Dowell’s head, will start bleeding me dry before eventually reporting me. At least I know you. So, write. ‘Dear Mother,’ — or whatever you call your mother? — ‘the condition of the patients I am caring for requires my constant presence at Professor Kern’s house…'”
“You want to deprive me of my freedom? Detain me in your house?” Laurent asked indignantly, without beginning to write.
“Exactly, my virtuous assistant.”
“I will not write such a letter,” Laurent declared resolutely.
“Enough!” Kern suddenly shouted so loudly that the clock’s spring hummed. “Understand that I have no other choice. Don’t be foolish, after all.”
“I will not stay with you and I will not write this letter!”
“Ah, so! Very well. You can go in all four directions. But before you leave here, you will witness me taking the life of Dowell’s head and dissolving this head in a chemical solution. Go and scream then to the whole world about what you saw at my place with Dowell’s head. No one will believe you. They will laugh at you. But beware! I will not leave your denunciation unavenged. Let’s go!”
Kern grabbed Laurent’s hand and pulled her towards the door. She was physically too weak to resist this brutal assault.
Kern unlocked the door, quickly passed through Toma’s and Briquette’s room, and entered the room where Professor Dowell’s head was located.
Dowell’s head looked at this unexpected visit with bewilderment. And Kern, ignoring the head, quickly approached the apparatus and sharply turned the tap from the cylinder supplying blood.
The head’s eyes, uncomprehending but calm, turned towards the tap, then the head looked at Kern and a bewildered Laurent. The air tap was not open, and the head could not speak. It only moved its lips, and Laurent, accustomed to the head’s expressions, understood: it was a silent question: “The end?”
Then the head’s eyes, fixed on Laurent, began to dim as if, and at the same time, the eyelids opened wide, the eyeballs bulged, and the face began to twitch convulsively. The head was suffering the torments of suffocation.
Laurent screamed hysterically. Then, swaying, she approached Kern, clutched his hand, and, almost losing consciousness, spoke in a broken, spasm-choked voice:
“Open, quickly open the tap… I agree to everything!”
With a barely perceptible smirk, Kern opened the tap. A life-giving stream flowed through the tube into Dowell’s head. The convulsive twitching of the face stopped, the eyes took on a normal expression, the gaze cleared. The fading life returned to Dowell’s head. Consciousness also returned, because Dowell again looked at Laurent with an expression of bewilderment and even, as it were, disappointment.
Laurent swayed from agitation.
“Allow me to offer you my arm,” Kern said gallantly, and the strange pair departed.
When Laurent again sat down at the table, Kern, as if nothing had happened, said:
“So, where were we? Ah yes… ‘The condition of the patients I am caring for requires my constant,’ — or no, write: ‘my inalienable presence at Professor Kern’s house. Professor Kern has been so kind as to provide me with a beautiful room with a window overlooking the garden. Furthermore, as my working day has increased, Professor Kern has tripled my salary.'”
Laurent looked at Kern reproachfully.
“This is not a lie,” he said. “Necessity forces me to deprive you of your freedom, but I must compensate you somehow. I am indeed increasing your salary. Continue writing: ‘The care here is excellent, and although there is a lot of work, I feel wonderful. Do not visit me,’ — the professor does not receive visitors. ‘But don’t be sad, I will write to you…'” So. “Well, and add some other endearments from yourself, as you usually write, so that the letter does not arouse any suspicion.”
And, as if having forgotten about Laurent, Kern began to reflect aloud:
“This cannot continue indefinitely, of course. But, I hope, I will not detain you for long. Our work is coming to an end, and then… That is, I wanted to say that the head is not long-lived. And when it finishes its existence… Well, you know everything there is to know. To put it simply, when we finish our work with Dowell, Dowell’s head’s existence will also end. Not even ashes will remain of the head, and then you can return to your esteemed mother. You will no longer be dangerous to me. And once again: keep in mind, if you decide to blab, I have witnesses who, if necessary, will testify under oath that the mortal remains of Professor Dowell, along with his head, legs, and other professorial attributes, were cremated by me after an anatomical dissection. For such cases, a crematorium is a very convenient thing.”
Kern rang. John entered.
“John, you will escort Mademoiselle Laurent to the white room with a window overlooking the garden. Mademoiselle Laurent is moving into my house, as there is a lot of work ahead. Ask Mademoiselle what she needs to settle in comfortably, and procure everything necessary. You can order from the stores by phone in my name. I will pay the bills. Don’t forget to order lunch for Mademoiselle.”
And, bowing. Kern left.
John escorted Laurent to her allotted room.
Kern had not lied: the room was indeed very nice — bright, spacious, and comfortably furnished. A huge window overlooked the garden. But the gloomiest prison could not have filled Laurent with greater despondency than this cheerful, elegant room. Like someone severely ill, Laurent made her way to the window and looked into the garden.
“Second floor… high up… no escape from here…” she thought. And even if she could escape, she wouldn’t, as her flight would be tantamount to a death sentence for Dowell’s head.
Laurent collapsed onto the couch in exhaustion and fell into deep contemplation. She couldn’t tell how long she had been in this state.
“Dinner is served,” she heard, as if in a dream, John’s voice and raised her tired eyelids.
“Thank you, I’m not hungry, please clear the table.”
The well-trained servant carried out the order without question and left.
And she again plunged into her thoughts. When the lights in the opposite house flickered on, she felt such loneliness that she decided to visit the heads without delay. She especially wanted to see Dowell’s head.
Laurent’s unexpected visit greatly pleased Briquette’s head.
“Finally!” she exclaimed. “Already? Have they brought it?”
“What?”
“My body,” Briquette said in a tone as if the question concerned a new dress.
“No, they haven’t brought it yet,” Laurent replied, involuntarily smiling. “But they will soon, you won’t have to wait much longer now.”
“Oh, if only it were sooner!…”
“And will they attach another body to me too?” Toma asked.
“Yes, of course,” Laurent reassured him. “And you will be as healthy and strong as you were. You will save money, go back to your village, and marry your Marie.”
Laurent already knew all the head’s hidden desires.
Toma smacked his lips.
“Sooner rather than later.”
Laurent hurried to Dowell’s head’s room.
As soon as the air tap was opened, the head asked Laurent:
“What does all this mean?”
Laurent told the head about her conversation with Kern and her confinement.
“This is outrageous!” the head said. “If only I could help you… And perhaps I can, if only you help me…”
There was anger and determination in the head’s eyes.
“It’s very simple. Close the tap on the nourishing tubes, and I will die. Believe me, I was even disappointed when Kern reopened the tap and revived me. I will die, and Kern will let you go home.”
“I will never return home at such a price!” Laurent exclaimed.
“I wish I had all the eloquence of Cicero to persuade you to do this.”
Laurent shook her head negatively.
“Not even Cicero would convince me. I would never dare to end a human life…”
“Well, am I even human?” the head asked with a sad smile.
“Remember, you yourself repeated Descartes’ words: ‘I think, therefore I am,'” Laurent replied.
“Suppose that’s so, but then consider this: I will stop instructing Kern. And no torture will force me to help him. And then he himself will finish me off.”
“No, no, I beg you.” Laurent approached the head. “Listen to me. I used to think of revenge, now I think of something else. If Kern succeeds in attaching a cadaver’s body to Briquette’s head and the operation goes well, then there’s hope of bringing you back to life too… If not Kern, then someone else.”
“Unfortunately, that hope is very faint,” Dowell replied. “It’s unlikely the experiment will succeed even for Kern. He is an evil and criminal man, vain as a thousand Herostrati. But he is a talented surgeon and perhaps the most capable of all the assistants I’ve had. If he, who has used my advice until this day, doesn’t do it, then no one will. However, I doubt even he will perform this unprecedented operation.”
“But the dogs…”
“Dogs are a different matter. Both dogs, alive and healthy, lay on the same table before the head transplant operation. It all happened very quickly. And even then, Kern apparently only managed to revive one dog; otherwise, he would have brought both of them to me to boast. But a cadaver’s body can only be brought in several hours later, when, perhaps, decomposition processes have already begun. You, as a medical professional, can judge the complexity of the operation itself. It’s not like reattaching a partially severed finger. One must connect, meticulously stitch all arteries, veins, and most importantly, nerves and the spinal cord, otherwise, a cripple will result; then re-establish blood circulation… No, this is an infinitely difficult task, beyond the capabilities of modern surgeons.”
“Would you really not perform such an operation yourself?”
“I’ve considered everything, I’ve already done experiments with dogs, and I believe I would have succeeded…”
The door unexpectedly opened. Kern stood on the threshold.
“A conspirators’ meeting? I won’t disturb you.” And he slammed the door shut.
Dead Diana
Briquette’s head seemed to believe that finding and attaching a new body to a human head was as easy as trying on and sewing a new dress. The neck circumference had been measured; all that remained was to find a cadaver with the same neck circumference.
However, she soon realized that it wasn’t so simple.
In the morning, Professor Kern, Laurent, and John appeared, dressed in white coats. Kern ordered Briquette’s head to be carefully removed from the glass stand and laid face up so that the entire cross-section of the neck could be seen. The head’s oxygenated blood supply was not interrupted. Kern delved into examination and measurements.
“Despite the uniformity of human anatomy,” Kern said, “each human body has its own individual characteristics. Sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish, for example, whether it’s the external or internal carotid artery lying anterior. The thickness of the arteries and the width of the windpipe also vary, even in people with the same neck circumference. There will be a lot of work to do with the nerves as well.”
“But how will you operate?” Laurent asked. “By attaching the neck cross-section to the torso cross-section, you’ll immediately cover the entire surface of the cut.”
“That’s precisely the point. Dowell and I have worked through this issue. We’ll have to make a series of longitudinal sections — moving from the center to the periphery. It’s very complex work. We’ll need to make fresh sections on the neck of the head and the cadaver to reach the still-living, viable cells. But the main difficulty isn’t even that. The main challenge is how to destroy the products of initial decomposition or infection sites in the cadaver’s body, how to clear the blood vessels of clotted blood, fill them with fresh blood, and make the body’s ‘engine’ — the heart — start working… And the spinal cord? The slightest touch to it causes a strong reaction, often with the most severe consequences.”
“And how do you propose to overcome all these difficulties?”
“Oh, that’s my secret for now. When the experiment succeeds, I will publish the entire history of resurrection from the dead. Well, that’s enough for today. Put the head back. Let the air flow. How do you feel, Mademoiselle?” Kern asked, addressing Briquette’s head.
“Thank you, well. But listen, Professor, I’m very worried… You were talking about various incomprehensible things, but one thing I understood is that you’re going to hack my neck lengthways and crossways. That will be a complete mess. How will I show myself with a neck that looks like a cutlet?”
“I’ll try to make the scars less noticeable. But, of course, it won’t be possible to completely hide the traces of the operation. Don’t make desperate eyes, Mademoiselle, you can wear a velvet ribbon or even a necklace around your neck. As a matter of fact, I’ll give you one on your ‘birthday’. Oh, one more thing. Your head has shriveled somewhat now. When you live a normal life, your head should plump up. To determine your normal neck circumference, we’ll have to ‘fatten you up’ now, otherwise there might be problems.”
“But I can’t eat,” the head complained plaintively.
“We’ll fatten you up through the tube. I’ve prepared a special compound,” he said to Laurent. “In addition, we’ll have to increase the blood supply.”
“Are you including fatty substances in the nourishing fluid?”
Kern made an indefinite gesture with his hand.
“Even if the head doesn’t get fat, it will ‘swell’, and that’s what we need. So,” he concluded, “the most important thing remains: pray to God, Mademoiselle Briquette, that some beauty dies quickly, who will lend you her beautiful body after death.”
“Don’t say that, it’s terrible! A person has to die for me to get a body… And, Doctor, I’m scared. After all, it’s a dead body. What if she comes and demands her body back?”
“Who is she?”
“The dead woman.”
“But she won’t have legs to come,” Kern replied, laughing. “And if she does come, tell her that you gave her body a head, not that she gave you a body, and she will, of course, be grateful for this gift. I’m going on duty at the morgue. Wish me luck!”
Success of the experiment largely depended on finding the freshest possible corpse, and so Kern dropped everything and practically moved into the morgue, awaiting a lucky break.
With a cigar in his mouth, he walked through the long building as calmly as if strolling through boulevards. Muted light fell from the ceiling onto long rows of marble tables. On each table lay a corpse, already washed clean and undressed.
Hands in his coat pockets, puffing on his cigar, Kern walked along the long rows of tables, peering into faces and from time to time lifting the leather coverings to inspect the body.
Relatives or friends of the deceased also walked with him. Kern regarded them unfavorably, fearing they might snatch a suitable corpse from under his nose. Obtaining a corpse was not easy for Kern. Until the expiration of a three-day period, relatives could claim any corpse; after three days, a semi-decomposed corpse held no interest for Kern. He needed a completely fresh, preferably even uncooled, corpse.
Kern did not stint on bribes to be able to get a fresh corpse immediately. The corpse’s number could be changed, and some unfortunate woman would eventually be registered as “missing.”
“It’s not easy to find a Diana to Briquette’s taste, though,” Kern thought, examining the wide feet and calloused hands of the corpses. Most of those lying here were not among those who rode in cars. Kern walked from end to end. During this time, several corpses were identified and removed, and new ones were already being dragged into their places. But even among the newcomers, Kern could not find suitable material for the operation. There were headless corpses, but they were either of unsuitable build, had body wounds, or, finally, had already begun to decompose. The day was ending. Kern felt hunger pangs and gladly imagined chicken cutlets with steaming peas.
“An unlucky day,” Kern thought, taking out his watch. And he headed for the exit through the crowd moving among the corpses, a crowd full of despair, grief, and horror. Coming towards him, attendants carried the headless corpse of a woman. The washed, young body gleamed like white marble.
“Oh, this is something suitable,” he thought and followed the attendants. When the corpse was laid down, Kern quickly examined it and was even more convinced that he had found what he needed. Kern was about to whisper to the attendants to take the corpse away when suddenly, a poorly dressed old man with a long-unshaven mustache and beard approached the corpse.
“There she is. Martha!” he exclaimed and wiped sweat from his forehead with his hand.
“The devil brought him!” Kern cursed to himself and, approaching the old man, said:
“You’ve identified the corpse? But it’s headless.”
The old man pointed to a large mole on the left shoulder.
“Noticeable,” he replied.
Kern was surprised that the old man spoke so calmly.
“Who was she? Your wife or daughter?”
“God is merciful,” the talkative old man replied. “She was my niece, and not even a blood relative. Three of them were left from my cousin — the cousin died, and they were on my neck. I have four of my own. Poverty. But what can you do, sir? They’re not kittens; you can’t just throw them under a fence. So we lived. And then this misfortune happened. We live in an old house; they’ve wanted to evict us for a long time, but where would we go? And so we lived to see this. The roof collapsed. The other children got away with bruises, but this one’s head was cleanly severed. My old woman and I weren’t home; we sell roasted chestnuts. I came home, and Martha had already been taken to the morgue. And why to the morgue? They say people in other apartments were also crushed, and some of them were alone, so they brought them all here. I came home, poof, and couldn’t get in, like an earthquake.”
“A suitable case,” Kern thought and, leading the old man aside, told him:
“What happened cannot be undone. You see, I am a doctor, and I need a corpse. I’ll be direct. Do you want to receive a hundred francs and can go home?”
“You’re going to dissect her?” The old man shook his head disapprovingly and pondered. “It’s all the same to her, of course, to perish… We are poor people… But still, it’s not a stranger’s blood…”
“Two hundred.”
“And need is great, the children are hungry… but still, it’s a pity… She was a good girl, very good, very kind, and her face like a rose, unlike this junk…” The old man waved dismissively at the tables with corpses.
“What an old man! He seems to be starting to praise his goods,” Kern thought and decided to change tactics.
“However, as you wish,” he said carelessly. “There are many corpses here, and none are worse than your niece.” And Kern moved away from the old man.
“No, no, wait, let me think…” the old man shuffled after him, clearly inclining towards a deal.
Kern was already triumphant, but the situation unexpectedly changed once more.
“You’re here already?” an agitated old woman’s voice was heard.
Kern turned and saw a plump old woman in a neat white cap quickly approaching. The old man involuntarily grunted at the sight of her.
“Found her?” the old woman asked, looking wildly around and whispering prayers.
The old man silently pointed to the corpse.
“Our little dove, our unfortunate martyr!” the old woman wailed, approaching the headless corpse.
Kern saw that the old woman would be difficult to handle.
“Listen, Madame,” he said kindly, addressing the old woman. “I was just speaking with your husband and learned that you are in great need.”
“Whether we are in need or not, we don’t ask from others,” the old woman retorted, not without pride.
“Yes, but… you see, I am a member of a charitable funeral society. I can arrange your niece’s funeral at the society’s expense and take care of all the troubles. If you wish, you can entrust this to me, and you can go about your affairs; your children and orphans are waiting for you.”
“What have you been babbling here?” the old woman snapped at her husband. And, turning to Kern, she said: “Thank you, sir, but I must do everything as it should be. We will manage somehow without your charitable society. Why are you rolling your eyes?” she reverted to her usual tone with her husband. “Take the deceased. Let’s go. I even brought a cart.”
All this was said in such a decisive tone that Kern bowed curtly and stepped away.
“Annoying! No, today is definitely an unlucky day.”
He went to the exit and, drawing the doorman aside, quietly told him:
“So look, if there’s anything suitable, call me immediately.”
“Oh, sir, certainly,” the doorman nodded, having received a good tip from Kern.
Kern had a hearty dinner at the restaurant and returned home.
When he entered Briquette’s room, she met him with her usual recent question:
“Did you find one?”
“I found one, but it was useless, damn it!” he replied. “Be patient.”
“But was there really nothing suitable at all?” Briquette persisted.
“There were some bow-legged squids. If you want, then I…”
“Oh no, I’d rather wait. I don’t want to be a squid.”
Kern decided to go to bed earlier than usual so he could get up early and go back to the morgue. But he hadn’t even fallen asleep when the phone by his bed rang. Kern cursed and picked up the receiver.
“Hello! I’m listening. Yes, Professor Kern. What is it? A train crash right by the station? Lots of corpses? Yes, of course, immediately. Thank you.”
Kern quickly began to get dressed, called John, and shouted:
“The car!”
Fifteen minutes later, he was speeding through the night streets as if to a fire.
The doorman hadn’t lied. That night, death had harvested a large crop. Corpses were being carried in continuously. All the tables were piled high. Soon they had to be placed on the floor. Kern was ecstatic. He blessed fate that this catastrophe hadn’t happened during the day. News of it probably hadn’t spread through the city yet. There were no outsiders in the morgue yet. Kern examined the still undressed and unwashed corpses. All of them were perfectly fresh. An exceptionally fortunate case. Only one drawback: even this benevolent incident didn’t quite align with Kern’s specific requirements. Most of the bodies were crushed or damaged in many places. But Kern didn’t lose hope, as corpses kept arriving.
“Show me this one,” he said to an attendant carrying the corpse of a girl in a gray suit. Her skull was shattered at the back of her head. Her hair was bloody, her dress too. But the dress wasn’t crumpled. “Apparently, the body damage isn’t extensive… It’ll do. The physique is rather plebeian — probably some chambermaid, but such a body is better than nothing,” Kern thought. “And this one?” Kern pointed to another stretcher. “This is a real find! A treasure! Damn it, it’s still a pity such a woman died!”
A young woman’s corpse was placed on the floor, with an extraordinarily beautiful, aristocratic face on which only a deep astonishment was frozen. Her skull was pierced above her right ear. Obviously, death had been instantaneous. A pearl necklace was visible on her white neck. Her elegant black silk dress was only slightly torn at the bottom and from the collar to the shoulder. A mole was visible on her exposed shoulder.
“Like that other one,” Kern thought. “But this… what beauty!” Kern quickly measured her neck. “As if made to order.”
Kern tore off the expensive necklace of real large pearls, tossed it to the attendants, and said:
“I’m taking this corpse. But since I don’t have time to perform a thorough examination of the corpses here, just in case, I’m taking this one too,” he pointed to the first corpse of the girl. “Faster, faster. Wrap them in canvas and carry them out. Do you hear? A crowd is gathering. You’ll have to open the morgue, and in a few minutes there will be a real pandemonium here.”
The corpses were carried away, loaded into the car, and quickly delivered to Kern’s house.
Everything necessary for the operation had already been prepared in advance. The day — or rather, the night — of Briquette’s resurrection had arrived. Kern didn’t want to lose a single minute.
Both corpses were washed and brought into Briquette’s room, wrapped in sheets, and laid on the operating table.
Briquette’s head was burning with impatience to see her new body, but Kern deliberately positioned the table so that the head could not see the corpses until all preparations were complete.
Kern quickly performed the dissection of the corpses’ heads. These heads were wrapped in canvas and carried out by John; the cut edges and the table were cleaned, and the bodies were tidied up.
After critically examining the bodies once more, Kern shook his head with concern. The body with the mole on the shoulder was of impeccable beauty of form and especially advantageous compared to the “chambermaid’s” body — wide-boned, angular, poorly proportioned, but sturdily built. Briquette, of course, would choose the body of this aristocratic Diana. However, upon closer inspection of the body, Kern noticed a small defect in Diana, as he called her: there was a small wound on the sole of her right foot, caused by some piece of iron. This did not pose a great danger. Kern cauterized the wound; there was no reason to fear blood poisoning yet. But still, he was more confident about the success of the operation with the “chambermaid’s” body.
“Turn Briquette’s head,” Kern said, addressing Laurent. To prevent Briquette from interfering with her chatter during the preparatory work, her mouth had been gagged, meaning the compressed air cylinder was turned off. “Now we can let the air flow.”
When Briquette’s head saw the corpses, she shrieked as if she had suddenly been burned. Her eyes widened in terror. One of these corpses was to become her own body. For the first time, she keenly, painfully felt the entire unusualness of this operation and began to hesitate.
“Well, what do you say? How do you like the corp… these bodies?”
“I… I’m scared…” the head croaked. “No, no, I didn’t think it would be so terrifying… I don’t want to…”
“You don’t want to? In that case, I’ll attach Toma’s head to the corpse. Toma will become a woman. Do you want to receive the body now, Toma?”
“No, wait,” Briquette’s head said, frightened. “I agree. I want that body… with the mole on the shoulder.”
“And I advise you to choose this one. It’s not as beautiful, but it’s without a single scratch.”
“I am not a laundress, but an artist,” Briquette’s head proudly remarked. “I want to have a beautiful body. And the mole on the shoulder… Men like that so much.”
“Have it your way,” Kern replied. “Mademoiselle Laurent, transfer Mademoiselle Briquette’s head to the operating table. Do it carefully; the artificial circulation of the head must continue until the last moment.”
Laurent fussed with the final preparations for Briquette’s head. Extreme tension and agitation were etched on Briquette’s face. When the head was transferred to the table, Briquette couldn’t bear it and suddenly screamed as she had never screamed before:
“I don’t want to! I don’t want to! No! Better kill me! I’m scared! A-a-a-a-ah!…”
Kern, without interrupting his work, sharply yelled at Laurent:
“Close the air tap quickly! Introduce hedonal into the nourishing solution, and she will fall asleep.”
“No, no, no!”
The tap closed, the head fell silent, but continued to move its lips and stare with an expression of terror and supplication.
“Professor, can we perform the operation against her will?” Laurent asked.
“Now is not the time for ethical problems,” Kern replied dryly. “She will thank us herself later. Do your job or leave and don’t bother me.”
But Laurent knew she couldn’t leave — without her help, the outcome of the operation would be even more dubious. And, overcoming herself, she continued to assist Kern. Briquette’s head thrashed so much that the tubes almost came out of the blood vessels. John came to help and held the head with his hands. Gradually, the head’s twitching stopped, and its eyes closed: the hedonal was taking effect.
Professor Kern began the operation.
The silence was broken only by Kern’s brief commands, asking for one surgical instrument or another. The strain even caused veins to bulge on Kern’s forehead. He deployed all his brilliant surgical technique, combining speed with extraordinary meticulousness and caution. Despite all her hatred for Kern, Laurent couldn’t help but admire him at that moment. He worked like an inspired artist. His agile, sensitive fingers performed miracles.
The operation lasted one hour and fifty-five minutes.
“Finished,” Kern finally said, straightening up. “From now on, Briquette has ceased to be a head without a body. All that remains is to breathe life into her: make the heart beat, stimulate circulation. But I can handle that alone. You may rest, Mademoiselle Laurent.”
“I can still work,” she replied.
Despite her fatigue, she greatly wanted to witness the final act of this extraordinary operation. But Kern evidently did not want to let her in on the secret of reanimation. He insisted again that she rest, and Laurent obeyed.
Kern called her again an hour later. He looked even more tired, but his face expressed deep self-satisfaction.
“Feel her pulse,” he offered Laurent.
The girl, not without an internal shudder, took Briquette’s hand — the hand that just three hours ago belonged to a cold corpse. The hand was already warm, and a pulse could be felt. Kern held a mirror to Briquette’s face. The surface of the mirror fogged up.
“She’s breathing. Now we need to swaddle our newborn well. She’ll have to lie completely still for several days.”
Over the bandages, Kern applied a plaster splint to Briquette’s neck. Her entire body was swaddled, and her mouth was tightly bound.
“So she doesn’t try to talk,” Kern explained. “For the first twenty-four hours, we’ll keep her sedated, if her heart allows.”
Briquette was moved to a room adjacent to Laurent’s, carefully laid in bed, and put under electro-narcosis.
“We will feed her artificially until the sutures heal. You will have to take care of her.”
Only on the third day did Kern allow Briquette to “come to.”
It was four in the afternoon. A slanted sunbeam cut through the room and illuminated Briquette’s face. She lightly raised her eyebrows and opened her eyes. Still vaguely comprehending, she looked at the illuminated window, then shifted her gaze to Laurent, and finally, looked down. There was no longer emptiness there. She saw a faintly rising and falling chest and a body — her body, covered by a sheet. A faint smile lit up her face.
“Don’t try to speak and lie still,” Laurent said. “The operation went very well, and now everything depends on how you behave. The calmer you lie, the sooner you’ll be on your feet. For now, we’ll communicate with gestures. If you lower your eyelids, it means ‘yes’; up means ‘no’. Do you feel any pain anywhere? Here. Your neck and leg. That will pass. Do you want to drink? Eat?” Briquette didn’t feel hungry, but she wanted to drink.
Laurent called Kern. He immediately came from his study.
“Well, how is our newborn?” He examined her and was pleased. “Everything is well. Patience, Mademoiselle, and you will soon be dancing.” He gave a few instructions and left.
The days of “recovery” dragged very slowly for Briquette. She was an exemplary patient: she restrained her impatience, lay quietly, and followed all instructions. The day came when she was finally unwrapped, but still not allowed to speak.
“Do you feel your body?” Kern asked with some excitement.
Briquette lowered her eyelids.
“Try to move your toes very carefully.”
Briquette evidently tried, as a look of strain appeared on her face, but her toes didn’t move.
“Obviously, the functions of the central nervous system have not yet fully recovered,” Kern said authoritatively. “But I hope they will recover soon, and with them, movement will also recover.” He thought to himself, “I hope Briquette doesn’t actually end up limping on both legs.”
“‘Recover’ — how strange that word sounds,” Laurent thought, recalling the cold corpse on the operating table.
Briquette had a new preoccupation. Now, for hours, she occupied herself trying to move her toes. Laurent watched with almost no less interest.
And one day, Laurent cried out joyfully:
“It’s moving! The big toe on her left foot is moving.”
From then on, things progressed faster. Other fingers and toes began to move. Soon, Briquette could even lift her arms and legs a little.
Laurent was amazed. A miracle had occurred before her eyes.
“No matter how criminal Kern is,” she thought, “he is an extraordinary man. True, without Dowell’s head, he wouldn’t have succeeded in this double resurrection of the dead. But still, Kern himself is a talented man — Dowell’s head even confirmed it. Oh, if only Kern would resurrect him too! But no, he won’t do that.”
A few more days later, Briquette was allowed to speak. She had a rather pleasant voice, but with a somewhat breaking timbre.
“It will even out,” Kern assured her. “You’ll be singing again.”
And Briquette soon tried to sing. Laurent was very surprised by this singing. Briquette hit the high notes with a rather squeaky and not very pleasant voice; in the middle register, her voice sounded very dull and even hoarse. But her low notes were charming. It was an excellent, rich contralto.
“But the vocal cords are above the neck cut and belong to Briquette,” Laurent thought. “Where does this dual voice come from, these different timbres of the upper and lower registers? A physiological enigma. Does it depend on the rejuvenation process of Briquette’s head, which is older than her new body? Or perhaps it’s somehow connected to a disruption of the central nervous system functions? It’s completely incomprehensible… I wonder whose young, graceful body this is, what unfortunate head it belonged to…”
Without saying anything to Briquette, Laurent began to browse through newspaper issues that published lists of those who died in the train crash. Soon she came across a note that the famous Italian artist Angelica Gai, who was on the crashed train, had disappeared without a trace. Her body had not been found, and newspaper correspondents were racking their brains over this mystery. Laurent was almost certain that Briquette’s head had received the body of the deceased artist.
The Escaped Exhibit
Finally, the great day in Briquette’s life arrived. The last bandages were removed, and Professor Kern allowed her to stand up.
She rose and, leaning on Laurent’s arm, walked around the room. Her movements were uncertain and somewhat jerky. Sometimes she made strange hand gestures: up to a certain point, her hand moved smoothly, then there was a delay, followed by a seemingly forced movement that transitioned back into a smooth one.
“This will all pass,” Kern said confidently.
Only a small wound on Briquette’s foot worried him slightly. The wound was healing slowly. But in time, even that healed enough that Briquette felt no pain, even when stepping on the injured foot. And a few days later, Briquette was already trying to dance.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong,” she said. “Some movements come easily to me, while others are difficult. Perhaps I’m not yet accustomed to controlling my new body… But it’s magnificent! Look at the legs, Mademoiselle Laurent. And the height is excellent. Only these scars on my neck… I’ll have to cover them. But that mole on my shoulder is charming, isn’t it? I’ll have a dress made in such a style that it will be visible… No, I’m absolutely delighted with my body.”
“Her body!” Laurent thought. “Poor Angelica Gai!”
Everything Briquette had held back for so long burst forth at once. She bombarded Laurent with demands, orders, requests for costumes, lingerie, shoes, hats, fashion magazines, and cosmetics.
In her new gray silk dress, she was presented by Kern to Professor Dowell’s head. And since it was a male head, Briquette couldn’t help but flirt. And she was very flattered when Dowell’s head croaked:
“Excellent! You’ve handled your task wonderfully, colleague, I congratulate you!”
And Kern, arm-in-arm with Briquette, beaming like a newlywed, left the room.
“Have a seat, Mademoiselle,” Kern said gallantly when they arrived in his study.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Professor,” she said, languidly lowering her eyes and then coquettishly glancing at Kern. “You’ve done so much for me… And I can’t reward you in any way.”
“There’s no need. I’m rewarded more than you think.”
“I’m very glad.” And Briquette gave Kern an even more radiant look. “And now, allow me to leave… to be discharged from the hospital.”
“Leave? From what hospital?” Kern didn’t immediately understand.
“Go home. I can imagine the sensation my appearance will create among my friends!”
She’s going to leave! Kern couldn’t entertain the thought. He had done tremendous work, solved a complex problem, accomplished the impossible, not so that Briquette would cause a sensation among her frivolous friends. He himself wanted to cause a sensation by demonstrating Briquette before the scientific community. Later, he might grant her some freedom, but now, it was out of the question.
“Unfortunately, I cannot let you go, Mademoiselle Briquette. You must remain in my house for some time longer, under my supervision.”
“But why? I feel magnificent,” she countered, gesturing with her hand.
“Yes, but you might get worse.”
“Then I’ll come to you.”
“Allow me to decide when you can leave here,” Kern said, already sharply. “Don’t forget what you would be without me.”
“I’ve already thanked you for that. But I am not a child, nor a slave, and I can dispose of myself!”
“Oh ho, she has spirit!” Kern thought with surprise.
“Well, we’ll talk about this later,” he said. “For now, please go to your room. John has probably already brought you broth.”
Briquette pouted, rose, and, without looking at Kern, left.
Briquette dined with Laurent in her room. When Briquette entered, Laurent was already seated at the table. Briquette sank into a chair and made a careless, elegant gesture with her right hand. Laurent had often noticed this gesture and wondered whose it actually belonged to: Angelica Gai’s body or Briquette? But couldn’t the automatism of movements, somehow ingrained in the motor nerves, remain in Angelica Gai’s body?
For Laurent, all these questions were too complex.
“Physiologists will probably be interested in them,” she thought.
“Broth again! I’m tired of these hospital meals,” Briquette said capriciously. “I’d gladly eat a dozen oysters right now and wash them down with a glass of Chablis.” She took a few sips of broth from her cup and continued: “Professor Kern just told me that he won’t let me leave the house for a few more days. As if! I’m not a domestic fowl. One could die of boredom here. No, I love to live life in a whirlwind. Lights, music, flowers, champagne.”
Chattering incessantly, Briquette quickly finished her dinner, rose from her chair, and, approaching the window, looked down intently.
“Good night, Mademoiselle Laurent,” she said, turning around. “I’m going to bed early tonight. Please don’t wake me up tomorrow morning. In this house, sleep is the best pastime.”
And, nodding her head, she went to her room.
Laurent sat down to write a letter to her mother.
All letters were controlled by Kern. Laurent knew how strictly he monitored her, and therefore she didn’t even try to send any letter without his censorship.
However, so as not to worry her mother, she decided — even if she could have sent a letter without Kern’s censorship — not to write to her the truth about her involuntary captivity.
That night, Laurent slept especially poorly. She tossed and turned in bed for a long time, thinking about the future. Her life was in danger. What would Kern do to “neutralize” her?
Briquette apparently wasn’t sleeping either. Some rustling came from her room.
“Trying on new dresses,” Laurent thought. Then everything became quiet. Vaguely, through her sleep, Laurent heard what sounded like a muffled scream and woke up. “My nerves are really shot,” she thought and again fell into a deep pre-dawn sleep.
She woke up, as always, at seven in the morning. Briquette’s room was still quiet. Laurent decided not to disturb her and went to Toma’s head’s room. Toma’s head was still gloomy. After Kern “attached a body” to Briquette’s head, Toma’s longing intensified. He pleaded, begged, demanded that he also be given a new body soon, finally cursing coarsely. It took Laurent great effort to calm him down. She sighed with relief after finishing Toma’s morning toilet and went to Professor Dowell’s head’s room, who greeted Laurent with a friendly smile.
“Life is a strange thing!” Dowell’s head said. “Just recently, I wanted to die. But my brain continues to work, and no later than the day before yesterday, an extraordinarily bold and original idea came to me. If I could implement my idea, it would cause a revolution in medicine. I told Kern my idea, and you should have seen how his eyes lit up. He probably envisioned a monument erected to him during his lifetime by grateful contemporaries… And now I must live for him, for the idea, and thus for myself. Truly, it’s some kind of trap.”
“And what is this idea?”
“I’ll tell you sometime, when it’s more fully formed in my mind…”
At nine o’clock, Laurent decided to knock on Briquette’s door, but received no answer. Worried, Laurent tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside. Laurent had no choice but to report everything to Professor Kern.
Kern, as always, acted quickly and decisively.
“Break down the door!” he ordered John.
The Negro hit it with his shoulder. The heavy door cracked and tore from its hinges. Kern, Laurent, and John entered the room.
Briquette’s rumpled bed was empty. Kern ran to the window. From the window handle, a makeshift rope made of a torn sheet and two towels hung down. The flowerbed beneath the window was trampled.
“This is your doing!” Kern shouted, turning his menacing face towards Laurent.
“I assure you, I had no part in Mademoiselle Briquette’s escape,” Laurent said firmly.
“Well, we’ll talk about you later,” Kern replied, though Laurent’s resolute answer immediately convinced him that Briquette had acted alone. “Now we must focus on catching the fugitive.”
Kern went into his study and nervously paced from the fireplace to the desk. His first thought was to call the police. But he immediately dismissed the idea. The police should be involved in this matter least of all. He would have to turn to private detective agencies.
“Damn it, it’s my own fault… I should have taken security measures! But who would have thought? Yesterday’s corpse escaped!” Kern laughed maliciously. “And now, heaven help me, she’ll blab about everything that happened to her… She did talk about the sensation her appearance would create… This story will reach newspaper correspondents, and then… I shouldn’t have shown her to Dowell’s head… She caused trouble. What a thank you!”
Kern called an agent from a private detective agency, handed him a large sum for expenses, promising an even larger amount if the search was successful, and gave a detailed description of the missing woman.
The agent inspected the escape site and the tracks leading to the garden’s iron fence. The fence was high and ended in sharp spikes. The agent shook his head: “Clever girl!” On one spike, he noticed a piece of gray silk, removed it, and carefully placed it in his wallet.
“She was wearing this dress on the day of her escape. We’ll look for a woman in gray.”
And, assuring Kern that “the woman in gray” would be found within twenty-four hours, the agent departed.
The detective was an experienced man in his profession. He found out Briquette’s last address and the addresses of several of her former friends, befriended them, found a photograph of Briquette from one of her friends, and learned in which cabarets Briquette had performed. Several agents were dispatched to these cabarets in search of the fugitive.
“The bird won’t fly far,” the detective said confidently.
However, this time he was wrong. Two days passed, and no trace of Briquette was found. Only on the third day of the search did a regular at a Montmartre tavern inform the agent that the “resurrected” Briquette had been there on the night of her escape. But where she went after that, no one knew.
Kern grew increasingly agitated. Now he feared not only that Briquette would reveal his secrets. He was afraid of losing a valuable “exhibit” forever. True, he could create a second one — from Toma’s head — but that would take time and an enormous expenditure of effort. And the new experiment might not end as brilliantly. Demonstrating the reanimated dog, of course, would not produce such an effect. No, Briquette had to be found at all costs. And he doubled, tripled the reward for finding the “escaped exhibit.”
Every day, agents reported the results of their searches, but these results were inconclusive. Briquette had vanished as if into thin air.
The Sung Song
After Briquette, with the help of her new nimble, flexible, and strong body, climbed over the fence and reached the street, she hailed a taxi and gave a strange address.
“Père Lachaise Cemetery.”
But, before reaching the Place de la Bastille, she changed taxis and headed towards Montmartre. For initial expenses, she had taken Laurent’s purse, which contained several tens of francs. “One sin more, one less, and besides, it’s necessary,” she reassured herself. Repentance for her transgressions was postponed for a long time. She felt whole, alive, and healthy again, and even younger than she had been. Before the operation, by her feminine reckoning, she was close to thirty. Her new body was barely more than twenty years old. The glands of this body had rejuvenated Briquette’s head: the wrinkles on her face had disappeared, its color had improved. “Now is the time to truly live,” Briquette thought, dreamily looking into a small mirror found in the purse.
“Stop here,” she ordered the driver, and, paying him, continued on foot.
It was around four in the morning. She approached the familiar cabaret “Le Chat Noir,” where she had performed on that fateful night when a stray bullet cut short the cheerful chansonette she was singing mid-word. The cabaret’s windows still glowed with bright lights.
Not without excitement, Briquette entered the familiar vestibule. The tired doorman evidently didn’t recognize her. She quickly passed through a side door and, through a corridor, entered the artists’ area adjoining the stage. The first person she met was Red Martha. Martha shrieked in fright and disappeared into her dressing room. Briquette laughed and knocked on the door, but Red Martha didn’t open.
“Oh, Swallow!” Briquette heard a man’s voice. She was known by this name in the cabaret due to her fondness for brandy with a swallow on the label. “So you’re alive? We thought you’d been dead for ages!”
Briquette turned and saw a handsome, elegantly dressed man with a very pale, shaven face. Such pale faces belong to people who rarely see the sun. This was Jean, Red Martha’s husband. He didn’t like to talk about his profession. His friends and drinking companions didn’t consider it tactful to ask about the source of his livelihood. It was enough that Jean often had money and was a “good fellow.” On nights when Jean’s pocket was bulging, wine flowed freely, and Jean paid for everyone.
“Where did you fly in from, Swallow?”
“From the hospital,” Briquette replied.
Fearing that her new body might be taken from her by the relatives or friends of its former owner, Briquette decided not to tell anyone about the extraordinary operation.
“My condition was very serious,” she continued to invent. “I was presumed dead and even sent to the morgue. But there, a student examining the corpse took my hand and felt a faint pulse. I was still alive. The bullet passed right near my heart without hitting it. I was immediately sent to the hospital, and everything turned out fine.”
“Magnificent!” Jean exclaimed. “Everyone will be terribly surprised. We must toast your resurrection.”
The doorknob clicked. Red Martha, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation from behind the door, was convinced that Briquette was not a ghost and opened the door. The friends embraced and kissed warmly.
“You seem to have become thinner, taller, and more elegant, Swallow,” Red Martha said, examining the figure of her unexpectedly reappeared friend with curiosity and some surprise.
Briquette felt slightly embarrassed under this probing feminine gaze.
“Of course, I’ve lost weight,” she replied. “They only fed me broth. And my height? I bought shoes with very high heels. And the style of the dress…”
“But why did you show up here so late?”
“Oh, it’s a whole story… Have you performed yet? Can you sit with me for a minute?”
Martha nodded affirmatively. The friends sat down near a small table with a large mirror, cluttered with boxes of greasepaint pencils and paints, perfume bottles, powder compacts, and all sorts of small boxes with hairpins and pins.
Jean perched nearby, smoking an Egyptian cigarette.
“I escaped from the hospital. Literally,” Briquette announced.
“But why?”
“Tired of broth. You know, broth, broth, and broth… I was practically afraid of drowning in broth. And the doctor didn’t want to let me go. He still wanted to show me to students. I’m afraid the police will be looking for me… I can’t go back to my place and would like to stay with you. Or even better — leave Paris entirely for a few days… But I have so little money.”
Red Martha even clapped her hands — it was so interesting.
“Well, of course, you’ll stay with me,” she said.
“I’m afraid the police will be looking for me too,” Jean said thoughtfully, blowing a smoke ring. “I should also disappear from the radar for a few days.”
Swallow was one of their own, and Jean didn’t hide his profession from her. Swallow knew that Jean was a “big shot.” His specialty was safe-cracking.
“Let’s fly, Swallow, to the south with us. You, me, and Martha. To the Riviera, to breathe the sea air. I’ve been cooped up, need to get some fresh air. Believe me, I haven’t seen the sun in over two months, and I’m starting to forget what it looks like.”
“That’s wonderful,” Red Martha clapped her hands.
Jean looked at his expensive gold watch-bracelet:
“But we still have an hour. Damn it, you have to finish your song for us… And then we fly, and let them look for you.”
Briquette gladly accepted the offer.
Her performance was a sensation, as she expected.
Jean came out onto the stage as the emcee, recalled the tragic story that had happened to Briquette there a few months ago, and then announced that Mademoiselle Briquette, at the public’s request, had come back to life after he, Jean, poured a glass of “Swallow” cognac down her throat.
“Swallow! Swallow!” the audience roared.
Jean gestured with his hand, and when the shouts died down, he continued:
“Swallow will sing her chansonette from the very spot where she was so unexpectedly interrupted. Orchestra, ‘Kitten’!”
The orchestra played, and from the middle of the verse, to thunderous applause, Briquette finished her song. True, the noise was such that she herself couldn’t hear her voice, but that wasn’t necessary. She felt happier than ever and reveled in the fact that she hadn’t been forgotten and was greeted so warmly. The fact that this warmth was greatly heated by wine fumes didn’t bother her.
Finishing her song, she made an unexpectedly elegant gesture with her right hand. This was new. The audience applauded even louder.
“Where did she get that from? Such beautiful manners. I must adopt that gesture…” Red Martha thought.
Briquette descended from the stage into the hall. Her friends kissed her, acquaintances offered glasses and clinked them. Briquette was flushed, her eyes sparkling. Success and wine had gone to her head. Forgetting the danger of pursuit, she was ready to sit there all night. But Jean, who had drunk no less than the others, maintained control of himself.
From time to time, he glanced at his watch and finally approached Briquette and touched her arm:
“It’s time!”
“But I don’t want to. You can leave alone. I’m not going,” Briquette replied, languidly rolling her eyes.
Then Jean silently picked her up and carried her towards the exit.
The audience grumbled.
“The show is over!” Jean shouted, already at the door. “Until next Sunday!”
He carried the struggling Briquette out into the street and put her in the car. Soon Martha arrived too, with small suitcases.
“To the Place de la République,” Jean told the driver, not wanting to indicate the final destination. He was used to traveling with transfers.
The Enigmatic Woman
Waves of the Mediterranean Sea rhythmically washed onto the sandy beach. A gentle breeze barely filled the sails of white yachts and fishing boats. Overhead, in the deep blue sky, gray seaplanes purred softly, making short pleasure flights between Nice and Menton.
A young man in a white tennis suit sat in a wicker chair, reading a newspaper. Beside the chair lay a tennis racket in its case and several fresh English scientific journals.
Next to him, under a large white umbrella, his friend, the artist Armand Larey, was busy at his easel.
Arthur Dowell, the son of the late Professor Dowell, and Armand Larey were inseparable friends, and their friendship best proved the truth of the proverb that opposites attract.
Arthur Dowell was somewhat quiet and cold. He loved order and was capable of diligent and systematic work. He had only one year left until graduation from the university, and he was already being retained at the university’s biology department.
Larey, like a true Frenchman from the south, was an extremely passionate nature, chaotic, impetuous. He would abandon brushes and paints for weeks at a time, only to return to work with a binge, and then no force could tear him away from his easel.
Only in one aspect were the friends alike: they were both talented and knew how to achieve a goal once set, although they reached this goal by different paths: one by great leaps, the other by a measured pace.
Arthur Dowell’s biological works attracted the attention of major specialists, and he was promised a brilliant scientific career. And Larey’s paintings generated much discussion at exhibitions, and some of them had already been acquired by renowned museums in various countries.
Arthur Dowell tossed the newspaper onto the sand, leaned his head back against the chair, closed his eyes, and said:
“Angelica Gai’s body has still not been found.”
Larey shook his head inconsolably and sighed heavily.
“You still can’t forget her?” Dowell asked.
Larey turned to Arthur with such speed that Arthur involuntarily smiled. Before him was no longer a fervent artist, but a knight, armed with a palette-shield, with a mahlstick-spear in his left hand and a brush-sword in his right — an insulted knight, ready to destroy the one who had mortally offended him.
“Forget Angelica!…” Larey cried, brandishing his weapon. “Forget the one who…”
A wave that had crept up suddenly hissed and washed over his legs almost up to his knees, and he melancholically finished:
“How can one forget Angelica? The world has become duller since her songs fell silent…”
For the first time, Larey learned of Angelica Gai’s death, or rather, her complete disappearance, in London, where he had come to paint “a symphony of London fog.” Larey was not only an admirer of the singer’s talent but also her friend, her knight. It was no coincidence that he was born in Southern Provence, among the ruins of medieval castles.
Upon learning of the misfortune that befell Gai, he was so shocked that for the only time in his life, he interrupted his “artistic binge” in the midst of his creative frenzy.
Arthur, who had come to London from Cambridge, wanting to distract his friend from gloomy thoughts, devised this trip to the Mediterranean coast.
But even here, Larey couldn’t find peace. Returning from the beach to the hotel, he changed clothes and, boarding a train, headed to the most crowded place — the Monte Carlo casino. He wanted to forget himself.
Despite the relatively early hour, a crowd was already gathered around the squat building. Larey entered the first hall. There were few people.
“Place your bets,” invited the croupier, armed with a rake for collecting money.
Larey, without stopping, passed into the next hall, whose walls were adorned with paintings depicting semi-naked women engaged in hunting, horse racing, fencing — in short, everything that arouses excitement. The paintings exuded the tension of passionate struggle, excitement, greed, but these feelings were even more sharply and vividly depicted on the faces of the living people gathered around the gaming table.
Here, a stout businessman with a pale face extends money with trembling, plump, freckled hands covered in reddish fuzz. He breathes heavily, like an asthmatic. His eyes intently follow the spinning ball. Larey accurately determines that the fat man has already lost heavily and is now betting his last money in the hope of winning it back. And if not — this flabby man might, perhaps, go to the suicides’ alley, and there the final reckoning with life will take place…
Behind the fat man stands a poorly dressed, clean-shaven old man with disheveled gray hair and maniacal eyes. In his hands are a notebook and a pencil. He records winnings and outgoing numbers, makes some calculations… He long ago lost his entire fortune and became a slave to the roulette wheel. The casino administration gives him a small monthly allowance — for living and gambling: a peculiar form of advertising. Now he is building his “theory of probabilities,” studying the capricious nature of fortune. When he makes a mistake in his assumptions, he angrily taps his pencil on the notebook, hops on one leg, mumbles something, and again delves into calculations. If his assumptions prove correct, his face beams, and he turns his head to his neighbors, as if wishing to say: you see, I have finally succeeded in discovering the laws of chance.
Two valets lead by the arms and seat an old woman in a black silk dress at a chair by the table, with a diamond necklace on her wrinkled neck. Her face is so powdered that it can no longer pale. At the sight of the mysterious ball, distributing sorrow and joy, her sunken eyes light up with the fire of greed, and her thin fingers, laden with rings, begin to tremble.
A young, beautiful, slender woman, dressed in an elegant dark green suit, passing by the table, casually throws a thousand-franc bill, loses, smiles carelessly, and passes into the next room.
Larey bet a hundred francs on red and won.
“I must win today,” he thought, betting a thousand — and lost. But he was not abandoned by the certainty that he would eventually win. He was already gripped by excitement.
Three people approached the roulette table: a man, tall and stately, with a very pale face, and two women, one red-haired, and the other in a gray suit… Glancing at her briefly, Larey felt some anxiety. Not yet understanding what was bothering him, the artist began to watch the woman in gray and was struck by a gesture she made with her right hand. “Something familiar! Oh, Angelica Gai made such a gesture!” This thought struck him so much that he could no longer play. And when the three strangers, laughing, finally left the table, Larey, forgetting to take his winnings from the table, followed them.
At four in the morning, someone knocked loudly on Arthur Dowell’s door. Angrily throwing on his dressing gown, Dowell opened it.
Larey entered the room with a swaying gait and, sinking wearily into an armchair, said:
“I think I’m going mad.”
“What’s the matter, old man?” Dowell exclaimed.
“The matter is that… I don’t know how to tell you… I was gambling from yesterday until two in the morning. Winnings alternated with losses. And suddenly I saw a woman, and one gesture of hers struck me so much that I abandoned the game and followed her to the restaurant. I sat down at a table and ordered a cup of strong black coffee. Coffee always helps me when my nerves are too frayed… The stranger was sitting at the next table. With her were a young man, respectably dressed but not particularly inspiring confidence, and a rather vulgar red-haired woman. My neighbors were drinking wine and chatting cheerfully. The stranger in gray began to hum a chansonette. She had a squeaky voice of a rather unpleasant timbre. But unexpectedly, she hit several low, chesty notes…” Larey clutched his head. “Dowell! It was Angelica Gai’s voice. I would recognize it among a thousand voices.”
“Unfortunate fellow! How far he’s gone,” Dowell thought and, gently placing a hand on Larey’s shoulder, said:
“You imagined it, Larey. Pull yourself together. A chance resemblance…”
“No, no! I assure you,” Larey hotly objected. “I began to scrutinize the singer. She is quite beautiful, with a sharp profile and lovely, cunning eyes. But her figure, her body! Dowell, may the devils tear me apart with their teeth if the singer’s figure is not like Angelica Gai’s figure, two drops of water.
“Here’s what, Larey, drink some bromide, take a cold shower, and go to bed. Tomorrow, or rather, today, when you wake up…”
Larey looked at Dowell reproachfully:
“Do you think I’ve gone mad?… Don’t rush to a final conclusion. Listen to me to the end. That’s not all. When the singer finished her song, she made a gesture with her hand, like this.” He demonstrated. “This was Angelica’s favorite gesture, a completely individual, inimitable gesture.”
“But what are you trying to say? You don’t think the unknown singer possesses Angelica’s body, do you?”
Larey rubbed his forehead:
“I don’t know… it could truly drive one mad… But listen further. The singer wears an intricate necklace on her neck, or rather not even a necklace, but a whole detachable collar, decorated with small pearls, at least four centimeters wide. And she has a rather wide neckline on her chest. The neckline reveals a mole on her shoulder — Angelica Gai’s mole. The necklace looks like a bandage. Above the necklace is a woman’s head unknown to me; below it is the familiar body of Angelica Gai, which I have studied down to the smallest details, lines, and forms. Don’t forget, I am an artist, Dowell. I can remember the unique lines and individual characteristics of the human body… I have made so many sketches and drawings of Angelica, painted so many of her portraits, that I cannot be mistaken.”
“No, that’s impossible!” Dowell exclaimed. “After all, Angelica…Di…”
“Died? That’s precisely the point — no one knows. She herself, or her corpse, disappeared without a trace. And now…”
“You’re encountering the reanimated corpse of Angelica?”
“Oh-oh!..” Larey groaned. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Dowell rose and paced the room. Evidently, sleeping tonight was out of the question.
“Let’s reason coolly,” he said. “You’re saying that your unknown singer has, as it were, two voices: one of her own, more than mediocre, and the other — Angelica Gai’s?”
“The low register is her inimitable contralto,” Larey replied, nodding his head affirmatively.
“But that’s physiologically impossible. You don’t suppose that a person produces high notes from their throat with the upper ends of their vocal cords, and low notes with the lower ends? The pitch of a sound depends on the greater or lesser tension of the vocal cords along their entire length. It’s like a string: with greater tension, a vibrating string produces more vibrations and a higher sound, and vice versa. Moreover, if such an operation were performed, the vocal cords would be shortened, meaning the voice would become very high. And a person could hardly sing after such an operation: scars would interfere with the proper vibration of the cords, and the voice, at best, would be very hoarse… No, it’s absolutely impossible. Finally, to ‘reanimate’ Angelica’s body, one would need a head, someone’s head without a body.”
Dowell unexpectedly fell silent, as he remembered something that, to some extent, supported Larey’s assumption.
Arthur himself had been present at some of his father’s experiments. Professor Dowell would infuse the vessels of a dead dog with a nutritive fluid heated to thirty-seven degrees Celsius, containing adrenaline — a substance that irritates and causes them to contract. When this fluid, under some pressure, entered the heart, it restored its activity, and the heart began to pump blood through the vessels. Gradually, circulation was restored, and the animal revived.
“The most important cause of an organism’s demise,” Arthur’s father had said then, “is the cessation of blood and oxygen supply to the organs.”
“So, it’s possible to reanimate a human too?” Arthur had asked.
“Yes,” his father replied cheerfully, “I undertake to perform a resurrection and will someday perform this ‘miracle.’ That is what my experiments are leading to.”
The reanimation of a corpse, therefore, was possible. But was it possible to reanimate a corpse in which the body belonged to one person and the head to another? Was such an operation possible? Arthur doubted this. True, he had seen his father perform extraordinarily daring and successful tissue and bone transplants. But all of that was not so complex, and his father had done it.
“If my father were alive, I would probably believe that Larey’s conjecture about a foreign head on Angelica Gai’s body is plausible. Only father could dare to perform such a complex and extraordinary operation. Perhaps his assistants continued these experiments?” Dowell thought. “But it’s one thing to reanimate a head or even an entire corpse, and another to attach one person’s head to another’s corpse.”
“What do you intend to do next?” Dowell asked.
“I want to find this woman in gray, get to know her, and uncover the secret. Will you help me with this?”
“Of course,” Dowell replied.
Larey firmly shook his hand, and they began to discuss a plan of action.
A Jolly Outing
A few days later, Larey was already acquainted with Briquette, her friend, and Jean. He proposed a yacht trip, and the offer was accepted.
While Jean and Red Martha chatted on deck with Dowell, Larey suggested Briquette go below to inspect the cabins. There were only two, very small, and in one of them stood a piano.
“Oh, there’s even an instrument here!” Briquette exclaimed.
She sat down at the piano and began to play a foxtrot. The yacht swayed rhythmically on the waves. Larey stood by the piano, watching Briquette intently and considering how to begin his inquiry.
“Sing something,” he said.
Briquette didn’t need much persuasion. She began to sing, coquettishly glancing at Larey. She liked him.
“What a… strange voice you have,” Larey said, looking at her face searchingly. “It’s as if two voices are enclosed in your throat: the voices of two women…”
Briquette became flustered, but quickly regained her composure and forced a laugh…
“Oh yes!… I’ve had it since childhood. One singing professor found a contralto in me, and another, a mezzo-soprano. Each trained the voice in their own way, and it turned out… besides, I recently caught a cold…”
“Isn’t that too many explanations for one fact?” Larey thought. “And why did she get so flustered? My assumptions are proving correct. There’s something here.”
“When you sing on low notes,” he began sadly, “I seem to hear the voice of a good acquaintance of mine… She was a famous singer. The poor thing died in a train crash. To everyone’s surprise, her body was never found… Her figure is extraordinarily similar to yours, like two drops of water… One might think it’s her body.”
Briquette looked at Larey with undisguised fear now. She understood that this conversation wasn’t casual on Larey’s part.
“There are people who are very similar to each other…” she said in a trembling voice.
“Yes, but I haven’t seen such a resemblance. And then… your gestures… this gesture with your hand…” He demonstrated. “And also… you just now touched your head with your hands, as if adjusting lush strands of hair. Angelica Gai had such hair. And that’s how she adjusted a wayward curl at her temple… But you don’t have long curls. You have short hair, cut in the latest fashion.”
“I used to have long hair too,” Briquette said, standing up. Her face had paled, her fingertips visibly trembling. “It’s stuffy in here… Let’s go up…”
“Wait,” Larey stopped her, also agitated. “I need to talk to you.”
He forcibly seated her in a chair by the porthole.
“I feel sick… I’m not used to the rocking!” Briquette exclaimed, trying to leave. But Larey, as if by accident, touched her neck, pulling back the edge of her collar. He saw pinkish scars.
Briquette swayed. Larey barely managed to catch her: she had fainted.
The artist, not knowing what to do, splashed water on her face directly from a standing decanter. She soon came to. Unspeakable horror shone in her eyes. For several long moments, they looked at each other in silence. To Briquette, it seemed that the hour of reckoning had come. The terrible hour of atonement for having appropriated another’s body. Briquette’s lips trembled, and she whispered almost inaudibly:
“Don’t ruin me!… Have pity…”
“Calm down, I’m not going to ruin you… but I must know this secret.” Larey lifted Briquette’s hand, which hung limply, and squeezed it hard. “Confess, this isn’t your body? Where did you get it? Tell me the whole truth!”
“Jean!” Briquette tried to shout, but Larey clapped a hand over her mouth, hissing into her ear:
“If you scream again, you won’t leave this cabin.”
Then, leaving Briquette, he quickly locked the cabin door and tightly closed the porthole.
Briquette cried like a child. But Larey was relentless.
“Tears won’t help you! Speak quickly, before I lose my patience.”
“I’m not to blame for anything,” Briquette began, sobbing. “I was killed… But then I came back to life… My head on a glass stand… It was so horrible!… And Toma’s head was there too… I don’t know how it happened… Professor Kern — he’s the one who revived me… I asked him to give me back my body. He promised… And brought this body from somewhere…” She looked at her shoulders and arms with almost horror. “But when I saw the dead body, I refused… I was so scared… I didn’t want to, I begged him not to attach my head to the corpse… Laurent can confirm this: she took care of us, but Kern didn’t listen. He sedated me, and I woke up like this. I didn’t want to stay with Kern and ran away to Paris, and then here… I knew Kern would pursue me… I beg you, don’t kill me and don’t tell anyone… Now I don’t want to be without a body; it has become mine… I’ve never felt such ease of movement. Only my leg hurts… But that will pass… I don’t want to go back to Kern!”
Listening to this rambling speech, Larey thought: “Briquette really doesn’t seem to be to blame. But this Kern… How could he get Gai’s body and use it for such a terrible experiment? Kern! I’ve heard that name from Arthur. Kern, I think, was his father’s assistant. This secret must be revealed.”
“Stop crying and listen to me carefully,” Larey said sternly. “I will help you, but on one condition: that you tell no one about what has happened to you up to this moment. No one, except for one person who will come here now. This is Arthur Dowell — you already know him. You must obey me in everything. If you disobey, a terrible punishment will befall you. You have committed a crime punishable by death. And you will not be able to hide your head and the body you have appropriated anywhere. You will be found and guillotined. So listen to me. First, calm down. Second, sit down at the piano and sing. Sing as loudly as possible so that it can be heard up on deck. You are very cheerful, and you are not going to go up to the deck.”
Briquette went to the piano, sat down, and began to sing, accompanying herself with barely obedient fingers.
“Louder, more cheerful,” Larey commanded, opening the porthole and the door.
It was very strange singing — a cry of despair and horror, set to a major key.
“Drum louder on the keys! That’s it! Play and wait. You will go to Paris with us. Don’t think of running away. In Paris, you will be safe; we will be able to hide you.”
With a cheerful face, Larey went up on deck.
The yacht, leaning to starboard, glided quickly over the gentle waves. The damp sea wind refreshed Larey. He approached Arthur Dowell and, discreetly drawing him aside, said:
“Go down to the cabin and make Mademoiselle Briquette repeat everything she told me. I’ll entertain the guests.”
“Well, how do you like the yacht, Madame?” he addressed Red Martha and began to engage her in casual conversation.
Jean, sprawling in a wicker chair, was blissful away from the police and detectives. He no longer wanted to think or observe; he wanted to forget about constant vigilance. Slowly sipping excellent cognac from a small glass, he sank even deeper into a contemplative, semi-somnolent state. This played perfectly into Larey’s hands.
Red Martha also felt wonderful. Hearing her friend singing from the cabin, she herself joined in the playful tune during pauses between phrases.
Whether it was the music that calmed Briquette, or if Arthur seemed like a less dangerous conversationalist, this time she told him the story of her death and resurrection more coherently and intelligently.
“That’s all. Well, am I to blame?” she asked with a smile now and sang a short chansonette, “Am I to Blame,” which Martha repeated on deck.
“Describe the third head that lived with Professor Kern,” Dowell said.
“Toma?”
“No, the one Professor Kern showed you! Although…”
Arthur Dowell hastily took out his wallet from his side pocket, rummaged through it, pulled out a photograph, and showed it to Briquette.
“Tell me, does the man depicted here resemble the head of my… acquaintance that you saw at Kern’s?”
“Yes, it’s absolutely him!” Briquette exclaimed. She even stopped playing. “Amazing! And with shoulders. A head with a body. Has he already managed to have a body attached too? What’s wrong with you, my dear?” she asked sympathetically and with fright.
Dowell swayed. His face paled. With difficulty controlling himself, he took a few steps, sank heavily into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.
“What’s wrong with you?” Briquette asked him again.
But he didn’t answer. Then his lips whispered: “Poor father,” but Briquette didn’t hear these words.
Arthur Dowell quickly regained his composure. When he lifted his head, his face was almost calm.
“Forgive me, I seem to have scared you,” he said. “I sometimes have these mild heart-related attacks. It’s all passed now.”
“But who is this man? He looks so much like… Your brother?” Briquette was interested.
“Whoever he is, you must help us find that head. You will come with us. We will arrange a secluded spot for you where no one will find you. When can you leave?”
“Even today,” Briquette replied. “And you… won’t take my body away from me?”
Dowell didn’t understand immediately, then smiled and replied:
“Of course not… as long as you listen to us and help us. Let’s go up on deck.”
“Well, how was your cruise?” he asked cheerfully, having gone up on deck. Then he looked at the horizon with the air of an experienced sailor and, shaking his head with concern, said: “I don’t like the sea… Do you see that darkish stripe on the horizon?… If we don’t return in time, then…”
“Oh, back sooner! I don’t want to drown,” Briquette exclaimed half-jokingly, half-seriously.
No storm was foreseen. Dowell simply decided to scare his landlubber guests to return to shore sooner.
Larey arranged to meet Briquette at the tennis court after lunch, “if there’s no storm.” They were parting for only a few hours.
“Listen, Larey, we’ve unexpectedly stumbled upon the trail of great mysteries,” Dowell said when they returned to the hotel. “Do you know whose head Kern had? My father’s head, Professor Dowell’s!”
Larey, who had already sat down in a chair, jumped up like a ball.
“His head? Your father’s living head! But is that possible? And it’s all Kern! He… I’ll tear him apart! We’ll find your father’s head.”
“I’m afraid we won’t find it alive,” Arthur replied sadly. “Father himself proved the possibility of reanimating heads severed from the body, but these heads lived no more than an hour and a half; then they died because the blood coagulated, and artificial nutrient solutions could sustain life for an even shorter time.”
Arthur Dowell didn’t know that his father, shortly before his death, had invented a drug he called “Dowell 217” and which Kern had renamed “Kern 217.” When introduced into the bloodstream, this drug completely prevents blood coagulation, thus making a longer existence for the head possible.
“But alive or dead, we must find Father’s head. To Paris, quickly!”
Larey rushed to his room to pack his belongings.
To Paris!
After a hasty lunch, Larey rushed to the tennis court.
Briquette, a little late, was delighted to see him waiting for her. Despite all the fear this man inspired in her, Briquette still found him a very interesting man.
“Where’s your racket?” she asked him, disappointed. “Aren’t you going to teach me today?”
For several days, Larey had been teaching Briquette how to play tennis. She proved to be a very capable student. But Larey knew the secret of this ability more than Briquette herself: she possessed Angelica’s trained body, and Angelica had been an excellent tennis player. She herself had once taught Larey some strokes. And now, Larey only had to align Gai’s already trained body with Briquette’s untrained brain — to fix the body’s habitual movements in her brain. Sometimes Briquette’s movements were uncertain, angular. But often, unexpectedly, she made extraordinarily agile movements. She, for example, greatly surprised Larey when she started serving “sliced balls” — no one had taught her this. And this clever and difficult technique was Angelica’s pride. And, looking at Briquette’s movements, Larey sometimes forgot that he wasn’t playing with Angelica. It was during tennis that Larey developed a tender feeling for “the resurrected Angelica,” as he sometimes called Briquette. True, this feeling was far from the adoration and reverence he had felt for Angelica.
Briquette stood near Larey, shielding herself from the setting sun with her racket — one of Angelica’s gestures.
“We won’t be playing today.”
“What a shame! I wouldn’t mind playing, though my leg hurts more than usual,” Briquette said.
“Come with me. We’re going to Paris.”
“Now?”
“Immediately.”
“But I need to at least change and grab some things.”
“Alright. I’ll give you forty minutes to get ready, not a minute more. We’ll pick you up in the car. Go get packed quickly.”
“She’s really limping,” Larey thought, watching Briquette walk away.
On the way to Paris, Briquette’s leg started hurting badly. Briquette lay in her compartment and groaned softly. Larey comforted her as best he could. This journey brought them even closer. True, he cared for her with such tenderness, as it seemed to him, not for Briquette, but for Angelica Gai. But Briquette attributed Larey’s care entirely to herself. This attention touched her greatly.
“You are so kind,” she said sentimentally. “There, on the yacht, you scared me. But now I’m not afraid of you.” And she smiled so charmingly that Larey couldn’t help but smile back. This reciprocal smile entirely belonged to the head: it was Briquette’s head smiling, after all. She was making progress without even realizing it.
And not far from Paris, a small event occurred that pleased Briquette even more and surprised the culprit of the event himself. During a particularly severe attack of pain, Briquette held out her hand and said:
“If you only knew how I suffer…”
Larey involuntarily took the outstretched hand and kissed it. Briquette blushed, and Larey became flustered.
“Damn it,” he thought, “I think I kissed her. But it was only a hand — Angelica’s hand. Yet the head feels the pain, so by kissing her hand, I pitied the head. But the head feels the pain because Angelica’s leg hurts, but Briquette’s head feels Angelica’s pain…” He got completely confused and became even more flustered.
“How did you explain your sudden departure to your friend?” Larey asked, to quickly end the awkwardness.
“I didn’t. She’s used to my unexpected actions. Anyway, she and her husband will also be coming to Paris soon… I want to see her… Please invite her to me.” And Briquette gave Red Martha’s address.
Larey and Arthur Dowell decided to place Briquette in a small, vacant house belonging to Larey’s father, at the end of Avenue du Maine.
“Next to the cemetery!” Briquette exclaimed superstitiously as the car drove her past Montparnasse Cemetery.
“That means you’ll live a long life,” Larey reassured her.
“Is there such a superstition?” the superstitious Briquette asked.
“The most reliable.”
And Briquette calmed down.
The patient was settled in a rather cozy room on a huge antique bed under a canopy.
Briquette sighed, leaning back on a pile of pillows.
“You need to invite a doctor and a nurse,” Larey said. But Briquette strongly objected. She was afraid that new people would report her.
With great difficulty, Larey persuaded her to show her leg to his friend, a young doctor, and to invite the concierge’s daughter to be her nurse.
“This concierge has served us for twenty years. We can fully rely on him and his daughter.”
The invited doctor examined the swollen and very red leg, prescribed compresses, calmed Briquette, and went into another room with Larey.
“Well, how is she?” Larey asked, not without agitation.
“Nothing serious yet, but it needs to be monitored. I’ll visit her every other day. The patient must observe absolute rest.”
Larey visited Briquette every morning. One day, he quietly entered the room. The nurse was not there. Briquette was dozing or lying with her eyes closed. Strangely enough, her face seemed to be growing younger and younger. Now Briquette could be given no more than twenty years old. Her facial features had somehow softened, become more delicate.
Larey tiptoed to the bed, bent down, looked at her face for a long time, and… suddenly gently kissed her forehead. This time, Larey didn’t analyze whether he was kissing Angelica’s “remains,” Briquette’s head, or all of Briquette.
Briquette slowly lifted her eyelids and looked at Larey, a pale smile fleeting across her lips.
“How are you feeling?” Larey asked. “Did I wake you?”
“No, I wasn’t asleep. Thank you, I feel well. If it weren’t for this pain…”
“The doctor says it’s nothing serious. Just rest, and you’ll recover soon…”
The nurse entered. Larey nodded and left. Briquette watched him with a tender gaze. Something new had entered her life. She wanted to recover quickly. The cabaret, the dances, the chansonettes, the merry drunken patrons of “Le Chat Noir” — all of it had receded somewhere far away, losing its meaning and value. New dreams of happiness were blossoming in her heart. Perhaps this was the greatest miracle of “reincarnation,” one that neither she nor Larey suspected! Angelica Gai’s pure, virginal body had not only rejuvenated Briquette’s head but also changed the course of her thoughts. The uninhibited cabaret singer was transforming into a modest young woman.
Kern’s Victim
While Larey was entirely absorbed with caring for Briquette, Arthur Dowell gathered information about Kern’s household. From time to time, the friends consulted with Briquette, who told them everything she knew about the house and the people living there.
Arthur Dowell decided to act very cautiously. Since Briquette’s disappearance, Kern must have been on high alert. It would be difficult to catch him off guard. They needed to handle the matter in such a way that Kern would not suspect an attack was underway until the very last moment.
“We’ll act as cunningly as possible,” he told Larey. “First, we need to find out where Mademoiselle Laurent lives. If she isn’t in league with Kern, she’ll help us a lot — much more than Briquette.”
Finding Laurent’s address wasn’t difficult. But when Dowell visited the apartment, he was met with disappointment. Instead of Laurent, he found only her mother, a neatly dressed, respectable old woman, tearful, distrustful, and grief-stricken.
“May I see Mademoiselle Laurent?” he asked.
The old woman looked at him with bewilderment:
“My daughter? Do you know her?… And with whom do I have the honor of speaking, and why do you need my daughter?”
“If you’ll permit me…”
“Please.” And Laurent’s mother let the visitor into a small living room furnished with soft, antique furniture in white covers with lace doilies on the backs. On the wall hung a large portrait. “An interesting girl,” Arthur thought.
“My name is Radiere,” he said. “I’m a doctor from the provinces; I just arrived from Toulon yesterday. I once knew one of Mademoiselle Laurent’s university friends. Here in Paris, I coincidentally met this friend and learned from her that Mademoiselle Laurent works for Professor Kern.”
“And what is the name of my daughter’s university friend?”
“The name? Riche!”
“Riche! Riche!… I haven’t heard of such a name,” Laurent’s mother remarked, and then, with clear distrust, asked: “Are you not from Kern?”
“No, I am not from Kern,” Arthur replied with a smile. “But I would very much like to meet him. The fact is, he works in an area that greatly interests me. I know that he conducts a number of experiments, and very interesting ones, at his home. But he is a very private person and doesn’t wish to let anyone into his holy of holies.”
The old woman Laurent decided that this seemed plausible: when her daughter started working for Professor Kern, she said that he lived very reclusively and didn’t receive anyone. “What does he do?” she asked her daughter and received a vague answer: “All sorts of scientific experiments.”
“And so,” Dowell continued, “I decided to first get to know Mademoiselle Laurent and consult with her on how best to achieve my goal. She could prepare the ground, speak with Professor Kern beforehand, introduce me to him, and let me into the house.”
The young man’s appearance inspired trust, but everything connected with Kern’s name stirred such anxiety and alarm in Madame Laurent’s soul that she didn’t know how to continue the conversation. She sighed heavily and, restraining herself from crying, said:
“My daughter isn’t home. She’s in the hospital.”
“In the hospital? Which hospital?”
Madame Laurent couldn’t bear it any longer. She had been alone with her grief for too long, and now, forgetting all caution, she told her guest everything: how her daughter had unexpectedly sent a letter saying that work required her to stay for some time at Kern’s house to care for seriously ill patients; how she, the mother, had made fruitless attempts to see her daughter at Kern’s house; how worried she had been; how, finally, Kern informed her that her daughter had suffered a nervous breakdown and had been taken to a mental hospital.
“I hate that Kern,” the old woman said, wiping away tears with a handkerchief. “He’s the one who drove my daughter mad. I don’t know what she saw at Kern’s house or what she was doing — she didn’t even tell me about it — but I know one thing: as soon as Marie started that job, she began to get nervous. I didn’t recognize her. She would come home pale, agitated, she lost her appetite and sleep. At night, nightmares tormented her. She would jump up and say in her sleep that some Professor Dowell’s head and Kern were persecuting her… Kern still sends me my daughter’s wages by mail, a rather significant sum. But I don’t touch the money. You can’t buy health with any money… I’ve lost my daughter…” And the old woman burst into tears.
“No, there can be no accomplices of Kern in this house,” Arthur Dowell thought. He decided to no longer hide the true purpose of his visit.
“Madam,” he said, “I now frankly confess that I have no less reason to hate Kern. I needed your daughter to settle some scores with Kern and… expose his crimes.”
Madame Laurent cried out.
“Oh, don’t worry, your daughter is not involved in these crimes.”
“My daughter would rather die than commit a crime,” Laurent proudly replied.
“I wanted to use Mademoiselle Laurent’s services, but now I see that she herself needs assistance. I have reason to believe that your daughter has not gone mad, but has been confined to a mental asylum by Professor Kern.”
“But why? For what?”
“Precisely because your daughter would rather die than commit a crime, as you put it. Evidently, she was dangerous to Kern.”
“But what crimes are you talking about?”
Arthur Dowell didn’t know Laurent well enough and feared her old woman’s garrulousness, so he decided not to reveal everything.
“Kern performed illegal operations. Please tell me, to which hospital did Kern send your daughter?”
The agitated Laurent barely managed to gather her strength to speak coherently. Interrupting her words with sobs, she replied:
“Kern didn’t want to tell me for a long time. He wouldn’t let me into his house. I had to write him letters. He answered evasively, trying to calm me down and assure me that my daughter was recovering and would soon return to me. When my patience ran out, I wrote to him that I would file a complaint against him if he didn’t immediately tell me where my daughter was. And then he gave me the hospital’s address. It’s in the vicinity of Paris, in Sceaux. The hospital belongs to a private doctor, Ravinau. Oh, I went there! But they didn’t even let me into the yard. It’s a real prison, surrounded by a stone wall… ‘We have such rules,’ the gatekeeper told me, ‘that we don’t let any relatives in, even a mother.’ I called the doctor on duty, but he told me the same thing. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘visits from relatives always agitate patients and worsen their mental state. I can only tell you that your daughter is better.’ And he slammed the gate in front of me.”
“I will still try to see your daughter. Perhaps I can even free her.”
Arthur carefully wrote down the address and took his leave.
“I will do everything possible. Believe me, I am as interested in this as if Mademoiselle Laurent were my sister.”
And, with various advice and good wishes, Dowell left the room.
Arthur decided to see Larey immediately; his friend spent entire days with Briquette, and Dowell headed to Avenue du Maine. Larey’s car was parked near the small house.
Dowell quickly went up to the second floor and entered the living room.
“Arthur, what a disaster,” Larey greeted him. He was extremely upset, pacing the room and ruffling his black curly hair.
“What’s the matter, Larey?”
“Oh!..” his friend moaned. “She ran away…”
“Who?”
“Mademoiselle Briquette, of course!”
“Ran away? But why? Tell me properly, at last!”
But it was not easy to make Larey speak. He continued to pace, sigh, moan, and groan. No less than ten minutes passed before Larey spoke:
“Yesterday, Mademoiselle Briquette complained of increasing pain in her leg since the morning. The leg was very swollen and bruised. I called the doctor. He examined the leg and said that the situation had sharply worsened. Gangrene had set in. An operation was necessary. The doctor refused to operate at home and insisted that the patient be immediately transferred to the hospital. But Mademoiselle Briquette would not agree for anything. She was afraid that in the hospital, they would notice the scars on her neck. She cried and said that she had to return to Kern. Kern had warned her that she needed to stay with him until full ‘recovery.’ She didn’t listen to him and is now severely punished. And she trusts Kern as a surgeon. ‘If he managed to resurrect me from the dead and give me a new body, he can cure my leg too. For him, it’s nothing.’ All my persuasions led to nothing. I didn’t want to let her go to Kern. And I decided to use cunning. I said that I myself would send her to Kern, intending to transport her to the hospital. But I needed to take measures to ensure that the secret of Briquette’s ‘resurrection’ would not indeed be revealed prematurely — I didn’t forget about you, Arthur. And I left for an hour, no more, to make arrangements with familiar doctors. I wanted to outsmart Briquette, but she outsmarted me and the nurse. When I arrived, she was already gone. All that remained of her was this note, lying on the table next to her bed. Here, look.” And Larey handed Arthur a sheet of paper on which a few words were hastily written in pencil:
“Larey, forgive me, I cannot do otherwise. I will return to Kern. Do not visit me. Kern will put me back on my feet, as he has already done once. See you soon — this thought comforts me.”
“There’s not even a signature.”
“Note,” Larey said, “the handwriting. It’s Angelica’s handwriting, though somewhat altered. Angelica could have written like that if she were writing in twilight or her hand hurt: larger, more sweeping.”
“But how did this happen? How could she escape?”
“Alas, she ran from Kern, only to now run from me back to Kern. When I arrived here and saw that the cage was empty, I nearly killed the nurse. But she explained that she herself had been misled. Briquette, with difficulty, got up, went to the phone, and called me. It was a trick. She hadn’t called me. After talking on the phone, Briquette told the nurse that I had supposedly arranged everything and was asking her to go to the hospital immediately. And Briquette asked the nurse to call a car, then with her help, got into the car and drove off, refusing the nurse’s services. ‘It’s not far, and the orderlies will take me from there,’ she said. And the nurse was completely convinced that everything was done at my direction and with my knowledge. Arthur!” Larey suddenly cried, again getting agitated. “I’m going to Kern immediately. I can’t leave her there. I’ve already called my car. Come with me, Arthur!”
Arthur paced the room. What an unexpected complication! Granted, Briquette had already told them everything she knew about Kern’s house. But still, her advice would be necessary later, not to mention that she herself was evidence against Kern. And this distraught Larey. Now he’s a poor helper.
“Listen, my friend,” Arthur said, placing his hands on the artist’s shoulders. “Now, more than ever, we need to take firm control of ourselves and refrain from rash actions. The deed is done. Briquette is at Kern’s. Should we disturb the beast in his lair prematurely? Do you think Briquette will tell Kern everything that has happened to her since she escaped from him, about our acquaintance with her, and about what we learned about Kern?”
“I can vouch that she won’t say anything,” Larey replied with conviction. “She gave me her word there, on the yacht, and repeatedly said that she would keep the secret. Now she will fulfill this not only under the influence of fear but also… for other reasons.”
Arthur understood these motives. He had long noticed that Larey was showing increasing attention to Briquette.
“Poor romantic,” Dowell thought, “he’s unlucky in tragic love. This time, he’s losing not only Angelica but also a newly budding love. However, not all is lost yet.”
“Be patient, Larey,” he said. “Our goals converge. Let’s combine our efforts and play a careful game. We have two paths: either strike Kern immediately, or first try to learn about the fate of my father’s head and about Briquette through indirect means. After Briquette escaped from him, Kern must be on his guard. If he hasn’t destroyed my father’s head yet, he has probably hidden it well. A head can be destroyed in a few minutes. If the police start knocking on his door, he will destroy all traces of the crime before he opens the door. And we will find nothing. Don’t forget, Larey, that Briquette is also ‘evidence of a crime.’ Kern performed illegal operations. Not only that: he illegally abducted Angelica’s body. And Kern is a man who will stop at nothing. After all, he dared to secretly reanimate my father’s head. I know that father allowed his body to be anatomized in his will, but I never heard that he agreed to an experiment with the reanimation of his head. Why is Kern hiding the existence of the head from everyone, even from me? What does he need it for? And what does he need Briquette for? Perhaps he is performing vivisection on people, and Briquette played the role of a rabbit for him?”
“All the more reason to save her quickly,” Larey hotly objected.
“Yes, save her, but not hasten her death. And our visit to Kern could hasten that fatal end.”
“But what should we do?”
“Go together, but by a slower path. Let’s try to make this path as short as possible. Marie Laurent can give us much more useful information than Briquette. Laurent knows the layout of the house; she cared for the heads. Perhaps she spoke with my father… that is, with his head.”
“So let’s go for Laurent quickly.”
“Alas, she too must first be freed.”
“Is she with Kern?”
“In the hospital. Evidently, one of those hospitals where people as sick as you and I are kept locked up for good money. We’ll have a lot of work to do, Larey.” And Dowell told his friend about his meeting with Laurent’s mother.
“Damn Kern! He sows misfortune and horror around him. If I get my hands on him…”
“We’ll try to get him. And the first step is for us to see Laurent.”
“I’m going there immediately.”
“That would be imprudent. We should only show ourselves in person when there’s no other option. For now, we’ll use the services of other people. You and I should represent a kind of secret committee, directing the actions of reliable people, but remaining unknown to the enemy. We need to find a trustworthy person who would go to Sco, get acquainted with the orderlies, nurses, cooks, gatekeepers — whoever proves possible. If we manage to bribe even one, half the job will be done.”
Larey was impatient. He wanted to take action immediately himself, but he deferred to the more sensible Arthur and eventually reconciled himself to a policy of cautious actions.
“But who will we invite? Oh, Shaub! A young artist, recently arrived from Australia. A friend of mine, a great person, an excellent athlete. For him, the assignment will also be a kind of sport. Damn it,” Larey swore, “why can’t I do it myself?”
“Is it that romantic?” Dowell asked with a smile.
Ravino Sanatorium
Shaub, a twenty-three-year-old, rosy-cheeked, blond man of athletic build, accepted the “conspirators'” proposal with enthusiasm. He wasn’t privy to all the details yet, but he was told he could render his friends a great service. He nodded cheerfully, not even asking Larey if there was anything objectionable in the whole story: he trusted in the honesty of Larey and his friend.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Shaub. “I’m going to Sco immediately. A sketchbox will serve as a perfect excuse for a new person to appear in a small town. I’ll paint portraits of the orderlies and nurses. If they’re not too hideous, I might even flirt with them a little.”
“If necessary, offer your hand and heart,” Larey said enthusiastically.
“I’m not handsome enough for that,” the young man modestly remarked. “But I’ll gladly put my biceps to use if needed.”
The new ally set off.
“Remember, act with all possible speed and extreme caution,” Dowell gave him his final advice.
Shaub promised to return in three days. But the very next evening, he appeared at Larey’s, very upset.
“Impossible,” he said. “It’s not a hospital, but a prison, surrounded by a stone wall. And no one from the staff leaves that wall. All provisions are delivered by contractors who aren’t even allowed into the courtyard. The head of housekeeping comes to the gate and takes whatever he needs… I walked around this prison like a wolf around a sheepfold. But I couldn’t even catch a glimpse beyond the stone fence.”
Larey was disappointed and annoyed.
“I had hoped,” he said with ill-concealed irritation, “that you would show more ingenuity and resourcefulness, Shaub.”
“Would you care to show that ingenuity yourself?” Shaub retorted with no less irritation. “I wouldn’t have given up my attempts so soon. But I happened to meet a local artist who knows the town and the customs of the sanatorium well. He told me it’s a very peculiar sanatorium. Many crimes and secrets are kept within its walls. Heirs place their wealthy relatives there who have lived too long and aren’t thinking of dying, declare them mentally ill, and establish guardianship over them. Guardians of minors send their wards there before they come of age, to continue ‘caring’ for them, freely disposing of their capital. It’s a prison for rich people, life imprisonment for unfortunate wives, husbands, elderly parents, and wards. The owner of the sanatorium, also the chief physician, receives colossal incomes from interested parties. The entire staff is well paid. Even the law is powerless here; its intrusion is guarded not by a stone wall, but by gold. Everything here is based on bribery.
“Agree that under such conditions, I could have spent a whole year in Sco and not advanced an inch into the hospital.”
“You shouldn’t have sat around, but acted,” Larey remarked dryly.
Shaub demonstratively lifted his leg and pointed to his torn trousers.
“I acted, as you can see,” he said with bitter irony. “Last night I tried to climb over the wall. It’s not a difficult task for me. But no sooner had I jumped down on the other side of the wall than huge mastiffs attacked me – and here’s the result… If I didn’t have the agility and nimbleness of a monkey, I would have been torn to pieces. Immediately, shouts from the guards echoed throughout the huge garden, and electric lights flashed. But that’s not all. When I had already climbed back over, the jailers released their dogs beyond the gates. The animals are trained exactly like dogs were once trained on South American plantations to catch runaway Negroes… Larey, you know how many prizes I’ve won in speed contests. If I had always run as I bolted last night, escaping those cursed dogs, I would have been a world champion. Suffice it to say that I effortlessly jumped onto the running board of a passing car, speeding down the road at at least thirty kilometers per hour, and only that saved me!”
“Damn it! What do we do now?” exclaimed Larey, ruffling his hair. “We’ll have to call Arthur.” And he rushed to the phone.
A few minutes later, Arthur was shaking hands with his friends.
“This was to be expected,” he said, learning of the failure. “Kern knows how to bury his victims in reliable places. What should we do?” he repeated Larey’s question. “Go straight ahead, use the same weapon as Kern – bribe the chief physician and…”
“I won’t regret giving away all my fortune!” exclaimed Larey.
“I’m afraid it won’t be enough. The thing is, the respectable Doctor Ravino’s commercial enterprise is based on the huge sums he receives from his clients, on the one hand, and on the trust his clients have in him, fully confident that if Ravino has received a good bribe, he will under no circumstances betray their interests. Ravino won’t want to undermine his reputation and thus shake the very foundations of his enterprise. Rather, he would do it if he could immediately receive an amount equal to all his future income for twenty years ahead. And for that, I’m afraid, there won’t be enough funds, even if we combined our capitals. Ravino deals with millionaires, don’t forget that. It would be much simpler and cheaper to bribe one of his smaller employees. But the whole misfortune is that Ravino watches his employees no less than his prisoners. Shaub is right. I myself made some inquiries about Ravino’s sanatorium. It’s easier for an outsider to break into a penal prison and arrange an escape than to do the same in Ravino’s prison. He selects his staff with great care, mostly people without relatives. He doesn’t shy away from those who have fallen out with the law and wish to hide from the vigilant eye of the police. He pays well, but he takes an obligation that none of the employees will leave the sanatorium during their service, and this time is set at ten and twenty years, no less.”
“But where does he find people who would dare to subject themselves to such an almost lifelong deprivation of freedom?” asked Larey.
“He finds them. Many are tempted by the idea of securing their old age. Most are driven by need. But, of course, not everyone endures. Ravino experiences, though very rarely — once every few years — escapes of employees. Not long ago, an employee, yearning for a free life, ran away. His body was found the same day in the vicinity of Sco. The Sco police are on Ravino’s payroll. A report was drawn up stating that the employee had committed suicide. Ravino took the body and brought it back to his sanatorium. One can guess the rest. Ravino probably showed the body to his employees and delivered an appropriate speech, hinting that the same fate awaits any violator of the contract. That’s it.”
Larey was stunned.
“Where did you get such information?”
Arthur Dowell smiled smugly.
“Well, there you see,” said Shaub, brightening up. “I told you it wasn’t my fault.”
“I can imagine how cheerfully Laurent lives in that cursed place. But what should we do, Arthur? Blow up the walls with dynamite? Dig a tunnel?”
Arthur sat down in an armchair and pondered. His friends remained silent, watching him.
“Eureka!” Dowell suddenly cried out.
“The Mad”
A small room with a window overlooking the garden. Gray walls. A gray bed, covered with a light gray fluffy blanket. A white table and two white chairs.
Laurent sits by the window, gazing absently into the garden. A sunbeam gilds her light brown hair. She has become very thin and pale. Through the window, an alley is visible, where groups of patients walk. Among them, the white robes with black borders of the nurses flit about.
“The mad…” Laurent murmurs softly, looking at the walking patients. “And I’m mad… What an absurdity! This is all I’ve achieved…”
She clasped her hands, cracking her knuckles.
How did this happen?…
Kern called her into his study and said: “I need to speak with you, Mademoiselle Laurent. Do you remember our first conversation, when you came here wanting to get a job?”
She nodded.
“You promised to keep silent about everything you would see and hear in this house, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat that promise now, and you may go visit your mother. You see how much I trust your word.”
Kern had found the right string to play. Laurent was extremely embarrassed. For several minutes, she remained silent. Laurent was accustomed to keeping her word, but after what she had learned here… Kern saw her hesitation and anxiously watched the outcome of her inner struggle.
“Yes, I gave you my promise to keep silent,” she finally said softly. “But you deceived me. You hid many things from me. If you had told me the whole truth from the beginning, I would not have given you such a promise.”
“So, you consider yourself free from that promise?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for your frankness. It’s good to deal with you precisely because you are at least not deceitful. You have the civic courage to speak the truth.”
Kern said this not only to flatter Laurent. Despite considering honesty foolish, at this moment, he genuinely respected her for her strength of character and moral fortitude. “Damn it, it would be annoying if I have to get rid of this girl. But what can be done with her?”
“So, Mademoiselle Laurent, at the first opportunity you will go and report me? You must know what consequences this will have for me. I will be executed. Moreover, my name will be disgraced.”
“You should have thought of that earlier,” Laurent replied.
“Listen, Mademoiselle,” Kern continued, as if he hadn’t heard her words. “Detach yourself from your narrow moral viewpoint. Understand, if it weren’t for me, Professor Dowell would have long since rotted in the ground or burned in a crematorium. His work would have ceased to exist. What the head is doing now is, in essence, posthumous creation. And I created it. You must agree that in such a situation, I have certain rights to Dowell’s head’s ‘production.’ Moreover, without me, Dowell — his head — would not have been able to carry out his discoveries. You know that the brain cannot be operated on and fused. And yet, the operation to ‘fuse’ Briquette’s head to a body was wonderfully successful. The spinal cord, passing through the cervical vertebrae, fused. Dowell’s head and Kern’s hands worked on solving this problem. And these hands,” Kern extended his hands, looking at them, “are worth something too. They have saved hundreds of human lives and will save many hundreds more, if only you do not raise the sword of retribution over my head. But that’s not all. Our latest works should revolutionize not only medicine but also the life of all humanity. From now on, medicine can restore extinguished human life. How many great people could be resurrected after their death, their lives prolonged for the benefit of humanity! I will extend the life of genius, return a father to his children, a husband to his wife. Eventually, such operations will be performed by an ordinary surgeon. The sum of human sorrow will decrease…”
“At the expense of other unfortunates.”
“So be it, but where two cried, one will cry. Where there were two dead, there will be one. Are these not great prospects? And what do my personal affairs, even crimes, represent in comparison to this? What does it matter to a sick person that a crime lies on the soul of the surgeon saving his life? You will kill not only me, you will kill thousands of lives that I could save in the future. Have you thought about this? You will commit a crime a thousand times greater than what I committed, if indeed I committed it. Think again and give me your answer. Now go. I will not rush you.”
“I have already given you my answer.” And Laurent left the study.
She went to Professor Dowell’s head’s room and relayed the content of her conversation with Kern. Dowell’s head became thoughtful.
“Wouldn’t it have been better to hide your intentions, or at least give an ambiguous answer?” the head finally whispered.
“I don’t know how to lie,” Laurent replied.
“That does you credit, but… you have condemned yourself. You may perish, and your sacrifice will not benefit anyone.”
“I… I can’t do otherwise,” Laurent said and, nodding sadly to the head, left…
“The die is cast,” she repeated the same phrase, sitting by her room’s window.
“Poor Mother,” a thought unexpectedly flashed through her mind. “But she would have done the same,” Laurent answered herself. She wanted to write her mother a letter, explaining everything that had happened to her. A last letter. But there was no way to send it. Laurent had no doubt that she was going to die. She was ready to face death calmly. She was only saddened by her worries about her mother and the thought that Kern’s crime would go unavenged. However, she believed that sooner or later, retribution would still find him.
What she had been expecting happened sooner than she had anticipated.
Laurent turned off the light and lay down in bed. Her nerves were on edge. She heard a rustle behind the wardrobe against the wall. This rustle surprised her more than it frightened her. The door to her room was locked. No one could have entered without her hearing them. “What is that rustle? Perhaps mice?”
What followed happened with extraordinary speed.
After the rustle, there was a creak. Someone’s footsteps quickly approached the bed. Laurent, startled, propped herself up on her elbows, but at that very instant, strong hands pressed her down onto the pillow and held a chloroform mask to her face.
“Death!” flashed through her mind, and, trembling all over, she instinctively struggled.
“Calm down,” she heard Kern’s voice, exactly as it sounded during regular operations, and then she lost consciousness.
She came to in the sanatorium.
Professor Kern had carried out his threat of “extremely severe consequences” for her if she didn’t keep the secret. She expected anything from Kern. He had taken his revenge, but he himself hadn’t faced retribution. Marie Laurent had sacrificed herself, but her sacrifice was fruitless. The realization of this further disturbed her peace of mind.
She was close to despair. Even here, she felt Kern’s influence.
For the first two weeks, Laurent wasn’t even allowed out into the large, shady garden where the “quiet” patients strolled.
The quiet ones were those who didn’t protest their confinement, didn’t try to convince the doctors they were perfectly healthy, didn’t threaten to expose anyone, and didn’t attempt to escape. In the entire sanatorium, no more than ten percent were genuinely mentally ill, and even those had been driven mad already in the hospital. For this purpose, Ravino had developed a complex system of “psychological poisoning.”
“A Difficult Case In Practice”
For Doctor Ravino, Marie Laurent was “a difficult case in practice.” True, during her time working for Kern, Laurent’s nervous system had been severely depleted, but her will remained unbroken. Ravino undertook this challenge.
For now, he didn’t directly engage in “processing Laurent’s psyche,” but instead studied her carefully from a distance. Professor Kern hadn’t yet given Doctor Ravino specific directives regarding Laurent: whether to send her prematurely to her grave or to drive her mad. The latter, in any case, was demanded to a greater or lesser extent by Ravino’s own system of psychiatric “treatment.”
Laurent anxiously awaited the moment when her fate would be finally decided. Death or madness — there was no other path here for her, just as there wasn’t for others. And she gathered all her mental strength to resist at least madness. She was very gentle, obedient, and even outwardly calm. But it was difficult to deceive Doctor Ravino with this, as he possessed extensive experience and considerable psychiatric abilities. Laurent’s submissiveness only aroused greater anxiety and suspicion in him.
“A difficult case,” he thought, speaking with Laurent during his usual morning rounds.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Thank you, well,” Laurent replied.
“We do everything possible for our patients, but still, the unfamiliar environment and relative deprivation of freedom have a depressing effect on some patients. A feeling of loneliness, melancholy.”
“I’m accustomed to solitude.”
“It’s not so easy to draw her out,” Ravino thought and continued:
“Essentially, everything is in perfect order with you. Your nerves are a little frayed, that’s all. Professor Kern told me that you had to participate in scientific experiments that must make a rather strong impression on a fresh person. You are so young. Overwork and a slight neurasthenia… And Professor Kern, who values you very much, decided to provide you with rest…”
“I am very grateful to Professor Kern.”
“A secretive nature,” Ravino fumed. “I need to introduce her to other patients. Then perhaps she will reveal more of herself, and thus I can study her character more quickly.”
“You’ve been indoors too long,” he said. “Why don’t you go into the garden? We have a wonderful garden, not just a garden, but a real park covering a dozen hectares.”
“I wasn’t allowed to go for walks.”
“Really?” Ravino exclaimed in surprise. “That’s an oversight by my assistant. You are not one of those patients for whom walks could be harmful. Please, go for a walk. Get to know our patients; there are interesting people among them.”
“Thank you, I will take advantage of your permission.”
And when Ravino left, Laurent stepped out of her room and walked along the long corridor, painted in a gloomy gray with a black border, towards the exit. From behind the locked room doors, insane howls, shouts, hysterical laughter, murmuring could be heard…
“Oh… oh… oh…” was heard from the left.
“Ooh-ooh-ooh… Ha-ha-ha-ha,” echoed from the right.
“Like a zoo,” Laurent thought, trying not to succumb to this oppressive atmosphere. But she quickened her steps somewhat and hurried out of the building. Before her lay a flat path leading deeper into the garden, and Laurent followed it.
Doctor Ravino’s “system” was palpable even here. A gloomy shade lay over everything. Only coniferous trees, with dark green foliage. Wooden benches without backs, painted dark gray. But what particularly struck Laurent were the flowerbeds. The flowerbeds were made to resemble graves, and among the flowers, dark blue, almost black, pansies predominated, bordered at the edges, like a white mourning ribbon, with daisies. Dark thujas completed the picture.
“A real cemetery. Thoughts of death must involuntarily arise here. But you won’t trick me, Mr. Ravino, I’ve guessed your secrets, and your ‘effects’ won’t catch me off guard,” Laurent encouraged herself and, quickly passing the “cemetery flowerbed,” entered a pine alley. Tall trunks, like temple columns, stretched upwards, covered by dark green domes. The tops of the pines rustled with a steady, monotonous, dry sound.
In various parts of the park, the gray robes of the patients were visible. “Which of them is mad and which is normal?” This could be determined quite accurately, even by observing them for a short time. Those who were not yet hopeless looked with interest at the “newcomer” — Laurent. The patients with dimmed consciousness were absorbed in themselves, cut off from the outside world, at which they stared with unseeing eyes.
A tall, gaunt old man with a long gray beard approached Laurent. The old man raised his bushy eyebrows high, saw Laurent, and said, as if continuing to speak aloud to himself:
“Eleven years I counted, then lost count. There are no calendars here, and time has stopped. And I don’t know how long I’ve wandered this alley. Maybe twenty, or maybe a thousand years. Before the face of God, one day is like a thousand years. It’s hard to determine time. And you, you too will walk here for a thousand years, to the stone wall, and a thousand years back. There’s no way out of here. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, as Mr. Dante said. Ha-ha-ha! Didn’t expect that? Do you think I’m mad? I’m cunning. Only the mad have the right to live here. But you won’t get out of here, just like me. We and you…” And, seeing an approaching orderly, whose duty it was to eavesdrop on patients’ conversations, the old man, without changing his tone, continued, winking slyly: “I am Napoleon Bonaparte, and my hundred days have not yet arrived. Did you understand me?” he asked when the orderly had passed.
“Poor man,” Laurent thought, “is he pretending to be mad to escape a death sentence? I’m not the only one, it seems, forced to resort to saving camouflage.”
Another patient approached Laurent, a young man with a black goatee, and began babbling some nonsense about extracting the square root of the quadrature of the circle. But this time, the orderly didn’t approach Laurent — evidently, the young man was above suspicion with the administration. He approached Laurent and spoke faster and more insistently, spraying saliva:
“A circle is infinity. The quadrature of a circle is the quadrature of infinity. Listen carefully. To extract the square root of the quadrature of a circle means to extract the square root of infinity. It will be a part of infinity, raised to the nth degree; thus, the quadrature can also be determined… But you’re not listening to me,” the young man suddenly became angry and grabbed Laurent’s hand. She pulled away and almost ran towards the building where she lived. Not far from the door, she met Doctor Ravino. He was suppressing a satisfied smile.
Hardly had Laurent rushed into her room when there was a knock at the door. She would have gladly locked herself in, but there were no internal locks on the door. She decided not to answer. However, the door opened, and Doctor Ravino appeared on the threshold.
His head, as usual, was tilted back, his bulging eyes, somewhat widened, round and attentive, looked through the pince-nez glasses, his black mustache and goatee moved with his lips.
“Forgive me for entering without permission. My medical duties grant me certain rights…”
Doctor Ravino found it a convenient moment to begin “the destruction of Laurent’s moral values.” In his arsenal, he had a wide variety of means of influence — from disarming sincerity, politeness, and charming attentiveness to rudeness and cynical frankness. He decided to upset Laurent’s balance at all costs and therefore suddenly adopted an unceremonious and mocking tone.
“Why don’t you say, ‘Come in, please, forgive me for not inviting you. I was lost in thought and didn’t hear your knock…’ or something like that?”
“No, I heard your knock, but I didn’t answer because I wanted to be alone.”
“Truthful, as always!” he said ironically.
“Truthfulness is a poor subject for irony,” Laurent remarked with some irritation.
“She’s biting,” Ravino thought cheerfully. He unceremoniously sat opposite Laurent and fixed his unblinking, crab-like eyes on her. Laurent tried to withstand his gaze; finally, she felt uncomfortable, she lowered her eyelids, blushing slightly from annoyance at herself.
“You suppose,” Ravino said in the same ironic tone, “that truthfulness is a poor subject for irony. And I think it’s the most suitable. If you were so truthful, you would have thrown me out, because you hate me, and yet you try to maintain a kind smile like a hospitable hostess.”
“That’s… just politeness, instilled by upbringing,” Laurent replied dryly.
“And if it weren’t for politeness, you would have thrown me out?” And Ravino suddenly laughed with an unexpectedly high, barking laugh. “Excellent! Very good! Politeness is not in harmony with truthfulness. Out of politeness, then, one can sacrifice truthfulness. That’s one.” And he bent a finger. “Today I asked you how you feel, and I received the answer ‘wonderful,’ although by your eyes I saw that you were on the verge of hanging yourself. Therefore, you lied then too. Out of politeness?”
Laurent didn’t know what to say. She had to either lie again or confess that she had decided to hide her feelings. And she remained silent.
“I will help you, Mademoiselle Laurent,” Ravino continued. “This was, if I may put it this way, a disguise for self-preservation. Yes or no?”
“Yes,” Laurent replied defiantly.
“So, you lie in the name of propriety — one; you lie in the name of self-preservation — two. If we continue this conversation, I’m afraid I won’t have enough fingers. You also lie out of pity. Haven’t you written comforting letters to your mother?”
Laurent was stunned. Did Ravino really know everything? Yes, he truly knew everything. This was also part of his system. He demanded complete information from his clients who supplied him with fictitious patients, both about the reasons for their placement in his hospital and about everything concerning the patients themselves. Clients knew this was necessary in their own interest and did not hide the most terrible secrets from Ravino.
“You lied to Professor Kern in the name of violated justice and wanting to punish vice. You lied in the name of truth. A bitter paradox! And if you count, it turns out that your truth was constantly nourished by lies.”
Ravino hit his target accurately. Laurent was overwhelmed. It had somehow never occurred to her that lies played such a huge role in her life.
“So think, my righteous one, at your leisure, about how much you have sinned. And what have you achieved with your truth? I will tell you: you have achieved this very lifelong confinement. And no forces will get you out of here — neither earthly nor heavenly. And lies? If the esteemed Professor Kern is considered a spawn of hell and the father of lies, well, he continues to exist splendidly.”
Ravino, not taking his eyes off Laurent, suddenly fell silent. “Enough for the first time; a good charge has been given,” he thought with satisfaction and left without saying goodbye.
Laurent didn’t even notice his departure. She sat with her face buried in her hands.
From that evening on, Ravino appeared every evening to continue his Jesuitical conversations. Undermining Laurent’s moral foundations and, along with them, her psyche became a matter of professional pride for Ravino.
Laurent suffered sincerely and deeply. On the fourth day, she couldn’t bear it any longer, rose with a burning face, and cried:
“Get out of here! You are not a human; you are a demon!”
This scene gave Ravino true pleasure.
“You’re making progress,” he smirked, not moving from his spot, “You’re becoming more truthful than before.”
“Get out!” Laurent gasped.
“Excellent, she’ll be fighting soon,” the doctor thought and left, whistling cheerfully.
Laurent, however, had not yet fought and probably would only be capable of fighting in a state of complete mental derangement, but her mental health was in great danger. Remaining alone, she realized with horror that she wouldn’t last long.
And Ravino missed nothing that could hasten the climax. In the evenings, Laurent began to be haunted by the sounds of a plaintive song, performed on an instrument unknown to her. It was as if a cello was weeping somewhere, sometimes the sounds rose to the upper registers of a violin, then suddenly, without interruption, not only the pitch but also the timbre changed, and it sounded like a human voice, pure, beautiful, but infinitely sad. The aching melody performed a peculiar circle, repeating endlessly.
When Laurent first heard this music, she even liked the melody. The music was so gentle and quiet that Laurent began to doubt whether music was actually playing somewhere, or if she was developing an auditory hallucination. Minutes passed, and the music continued to revolve in its enchanted circle. The cello gave way to the violin, the violin to a sobbing human voice… A single, aching note played in the accompaniment. After an hour, Laurent was convinced that this music didn’t actually exist, that it only played in her head. There was no escape from the dismal melody. Laurent covered her ears, but it seemed to her that she continued to hear the music — cello, violin, voice… cello, violin, voice…
“This could drive anyone mad,” Laurent whispered. She started to hum herself, tried to talk aloud to drown out the music, but nothing helped. Even in her sleep, this music haunted her.
“People can’t play and sing continuously. It’s probably mechanical music… some kind of obsession,” she thought, lying awake with open eyes and listening to the endless loop: cello, violin, voice… cello, violin, voice…
She couldn’t wait for morning and rushed to escape to the park, but the melody had already become an obsession. Laurent was indeed starting to hear music that wasn’t playing. Only the screams, moans, and laughter of the mad people walking in the park somewhat muffled it.
The Newcomer
Gradually, Marie Laurent reached such a state of nervous breakdown that for the first time in her life, she began to contemplate suicide. During one of her walks, she started pondering a way to end her life and became so absorbed in these thoughts that she didn’t notice a madman who approached her closely and, blocking her path, said:
“Those are good who know nothing of the unknown. All this is, of course, sentimentality.”
Laurent flinched in surprise and looked at the patient. He was dressed, like everyone else, in a gray robe. A brunette, tall, with a handsome, aristocratic face, he immediately caught her attention.
“Apparently, he’s new,” she thought. “Last shaved no more than five days ago. But why does his face remind me of someone…?”
And suddenly the young man quickly whispered: “I know you, you are Mademoiselle Laurent. I saw your portrait at your mother’s.”
“How do you know me? Who are you?” Laurent asked in surprise.
“In the world – very little. I am my brother’s brother. And my brother is me?” the young man cried out loudly.
An orderly walked past, subtly but attentively glancing at him.
When the orderly passed, the young man quickly whispered: “I am Arthur Dowell, Professor Dowell’s son. I am not mad and only pretended to be mad so that…”
The orderly approached them again.
Arthur suddenly ran away from Laurent, shouting: “Here’s my late brother! You are me, I am you. You entered me after death. We were doubles, but you died, not me.”
And Dowell chased after some melancholic, frightened by this unexpected attack. The orderly rushed after them, wanting to protect the small, frail melancholic from the violent patient. When they reached the end of the park, Dowell, leaving his victim, turned back to Laurent. He ran faster than the orderly. Passing Laurent, Dowell slowed down and finished his sentence.
“I have come here to save you. Be ready tonight to escape,” And, springing aside, he danced around some abnormal old woman who paid him no attention at all. Then he sat on a bench, bowed his head, and became thoughtful.
He played his role so well that Laurent wondered if Dowell was merely simulating madness. But hope had already crept into her soul. She had no doubt that the young man was Professor Dowell’s son. The resemblance to his father was striking now, although the gray hospital gown and unshaven face considerably “depersonalized” Dowell. And then he recognized her from the portrait. Evidently, he had been at her mother’s. All of this seemed true. One way or another, Laurent decided not to undress that night and to await her unexpected savior.
The hope of salvation gave her wings, giving her new strength. She suddenly seemed to wake up from a terrible nightmare. Even the annoying song began to sound softer, moving into the distance, dissolving into the air. Laurent took a deep breath, like a person released into fresh air from a gloomy dungeon. The thirst for life suddenly flared within her with unprecedented force. She wanted to laugh with joy. But now, more than ever, she needed to be careful.
When the gong sounded for breakfast, she tried to put on a gloomy face — her usual expression lately — and headed towards the house.
Near the entrance door, as always, stood Doctor Ravino. He watched the patients like a jailer watching prisoners returning to their cells from a walk. Not a single detail escaped his gaze: neither a stone hidden under a robe, nor a torn robe, nor scratches on the patients’ hands and faces. But with particular attentiveness, he observed the expression on their faces.
Laurent, passing by him, tried not to look at him and lowered her eyes. She wanted to slip past quickly, but he detained her for a moment and looked even more closely at her face.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“As always,” she replied.
“Which lie is this, and in the name of what?” he asked ironically and, letting her pass, added afterwards: “We’ll talk more this evening.”
“I was expecting melancholy. Is she falling into a state of ecstasy? Evidently, I overlooked something in the course of her thoughts and moods. I’ll have to investigate…” he thought.
And in the evening, he came to investigate. Laurent greatly feared this meeting. If she endured, it could be the last. If she didn’t, she was doomed. Now, in her heart, she called Doctor Ravino “the great inquisitor.” And indeed, had he lived several centuries ago, he could have honorably borne that title. She feared his sophisms, his intense interrogation, his unexpected trick questions, his astonishing knowledge of psychology, his devilish analysis. He was truly “a great logician,” a modern Mephistopheles, who could destroy all moral values and kill the most indisputable truths with doubts.
And so, not to betray herself, not to perish, she decided, gathering all her willpower, to remain silent, no matter what he said. This was also a dangerous step. It was a declaration of open war, the last rebellion of self-preservation, which was bound to provoke an intensified attack. But there was no choice.
And when Ravino came, fixed his usual round eyes on her, and asked: “So, in the name of what did you lie?” — Laurent did not utter a sound. Her lips were tightly pressed together, and her eyes lowered. Ravino began his inquisitorial interrogation. Laurent alternated between paling and blushing, but continued to remain silent. Ravino — which happened to him very rarely — began to lose patience and grow angry.
“Silence is golden,” he said mockingly. “Having lost all your other values, you want to preserve at least this virtue of voiceless animals and utter idiots, but you won’t succeed. Silence will be followed by an explosion. You’ll burst with rage if you don’t open the safety valve of accusatory eloquence. And what’s the point of silence? As if I can’t read your thoughts? ‘You want to drive me mad,’ you’re thinking now, ‘but you won’t succeed.’ Let’s be frank. No, you will, my dear young lady. To corrupt a human soul is no harder for me than to damage the mechanism of a pocket watch. I know every single screw of this uncomplicated machine. The more you resist, the more hopeless and deeper your fall into the darkness of madness will be.”
“Two thousand four hundred sixty-one, two thousand four hundred sixty-two…” Laurent continued to count, trying not to hear what Ravino was saying to her.
It’s unknown how long this torture would have lasted if a nurse hadn’t quietly knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Ravino said displeasedly.
“In ward seven, the patient seems to be passing,” the nurse said.
Ravino reluctantly got up.
“Passing, all the better,” he grumbled softly. “Tomorrow we’ll finish our interesting conversation,” he said, and lifting Laurent’s head by the chin, he scoffed mockingly and left.
Laurent sighed heavily and leaned over the table, almost without strength.
And behind the wall, the weeping music of hopeless melancholy was already playing. And the power of this enchanting music was so great that Laurent involuntarily succumbed to its mood. It already seemed to her that the meeting with Arthur Dowell was just a figment of her sick imagination, that any struggle was useless. Death, only death would free her from torment. She looked around… But patient suicides were not part of Doctor Ravino’s system. There was nothing here even to hang herself with. Laurent shuddered. Unexpectedly, her mother’s face came to mind.
“No, no, I won’t do it, not for her sake… at least not this last night… I’ll wait for Dowell. If he doesn’t come…” She didn’t finish the thought, but she felt with her entire being what would happen to her if he didn’t keep his promise.
Escape
This was the most agonizing night Laurent had spent in Doctor Ravino’s hospital. Minutes dragged on endlessly and tediously, like the familiar music drifting into the room.
Laurent paced nervously from the window to the door. Stealthy footsteps were heard from the corridor. Her heart pounded. It pounded and then stopped — she recognized the steps of the duty nurse, who was approaching the door to peek through the peephole. The two-hundred-watt lamp never went out in the room all night. “This helps with insomnia,” Doctor Ravino had decided. Laurent hastily, without undressing, lay down in bed, pulled the blanket over herself, and pretended to be asleep. And something unusual happened to her: she, who hadn’t slept for many nights, immediately fell asleep, utterly exhausted by everything she had experienced. She slept for only a few minutes, but it felt like an entire night had passed. Startled, she jumped up, rushed to the door, and suddenly collided with Arthur Dowell entering. He hadn’t failed her. She barely managed not to cry out.
“Quickly,” he whispered. “The nurse is in the west corridor. Let’s go.”
He grabbed her hand and carefully led her. Their steps were muffled by the moans and cries of insomniac patients. The endless corridor ended. At last, the exit from the house.
“The park guards are on duty, but we’ll sneak past them…” Dowell whispered quickly, pulling Laurent deeper into the park.
“But the dogs…”
“I’ve been feeding them my leftovers from lunch, and they know me. I’ve been here for several days, but I’ve avoided you so as not to arouse suspicion.”
The park was shrouded in darkness. But by the stone wall, at some distance from each other, like around a prison, burning lanterns were placed.
“There are some thickets over there… That way.”
Suddenly, Dowell lay down on the grass and pulled Laurent’s hand. She followed his example. One of the guards passed closely by the fugitives. When the guard moved away, they began to make their way to the wall.
Somewhere, a dog growled, ran up to them, and wagged its tail, seeing Dowell. He threw it a piece of bread.
“You see,” Arthur whispered, “the most important part is done. Now all we have left is to get over the wall. I’ll help you.”
“And you?” Laurent asked anxiously.
“Don’t worry, I’m right behind you,” Dowell replied.
“But what will I do outside the wall?”
“My friends are waiting for us there. Everything is prepared. Come on, a little gymnastics.”
Dowell leaned against the wall and with one hand helped Laurent climb onto the crest.
But at that moment, one of the guards saw her and raised the alarm. Suddenly, the entire garden was lit up by lanterns. The guards, calling to each other and their dogs, approached the fugitives.
“Jump!” Dowell commanded.
“And you?” Laurent exclaimed, frightened.
“Just jump!” he shouted, and Laurent jumped. Someone’s hands caught her.
Arthur Dowell jumped up, gripped the top of the wall with his hands, and began to pull himself up. But two orderlies grabbed his legs. Dowell was so strong that he almost lifted them with his arm muscles. However, his hand slipped, and he fell down, crushing the orderlies beneath him.
Behind the wall, the sound of a starting car engine was heard. His friends were evidently waiting for Dowell.
“Drive away quickly. Full speed!” he shouted, struggling with the orderlies.
The car honked in response, and they heard it speed away.
“Let me go, I’ll go myself,” Dowell said, ceasing to resist.
However, the orderlies did not release him. Holding his arms tightly, they led him towards the house. At the door stood Doctor Ravino in a robe, puffing on a cigarette.
“To the isolation cell. Straitjacket!” he told the orderlies.
Dowell was led into a small, windowless room, whose walls and floor were padded with mattresses. This was where violent patients were placed during fits. The orderlies threw Dowell to the floor. Ravino entered the cell after them. He was no longer smoking. With his hands in the pockets of his robe, he bent over Dowell and stared at him with his round eyes. Dowell met his gaze. Then Ravino nodded to the orderlies, and they left.
“You’re not a bad faker,” Ravino addressed Dowell, “but I’m hard to deceive. I figured you out on your very first day here and watched you, but I confess, I didn’t guess your intentions. You and Laurent will pay dearly for this prank.”
“No more dearly than you,” Dowell replied.
Ravino twitched his cockroach-like mustache:
“A threat?”
“For a threat,” Dowell retorted succinctly.
“I’m difficult to fight with,” Ravino said. “I’ve broken tougher young upstarts than you. Complain to the authorities? It won’t help, my friend. Besides, you might disappear before the authorities arrive. No trace of you will remain. By the way, what’s your real name? Dubarry — that’s a fabrication, isn’t it?”
“Arthur Dowell, son of Professor Dowell.”
Ravino was clearly surprised.
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said, trying to hide his discomfort with mockery. “I had the honor of knowing your esteemed father.”
“Thank God my hands are tied,” Dowell retorted, “otherwise you’d be in serious trouble. And don’t you dare mention my father… you scoundrel!”
“I thank God very much that you are tightly bound and for a long time, my dear guest!”
Ravino turned sharply and left. The lock clicked loudly. Dowell was left alone.
He wasn’t overly worried about himself. His friends wouldn’t abandon him and would free him from this dungeon. But he still recognized the danger of his situation. Ravino must have understood perfectly well that the fate of his entire enterprise could depend on the outcome of the struggle between him and Dowell. It was no coincidence that Ravino cut the conversation short and unexpectedly left the cell. A good psychologist, he immediately recognized who he was dealing with and didn’t even try to apply his inquisitorial talents. With Arthur Dowell, one had to fight not with psychology or words, but only with decisive actions.
Between Life and Death
Arthur loosened the knots that bound him. He managed this because he had intentionally tensed his muscles when he was being tied in the straitjacket. Slowly, he began to free himself from his restraints. But he was being watched. And as soon as he attempted to pull out his hand, the lock clicked, the door opened, two orderlies entered, and re-tied him, this time adding several more straps over the straitjacket. The orderlies treated him roughly and threatened to beat him if he renewed his attempts to free himself. Dowell didn’t respond. After tying him tightly, the orderlies left.
Since there were no windows in the cell and it was illuminated by an electric bulb on the ceiling, Dowell didn’t know if morning had come. The hours dragged slowly. Ravino hadn’t done anything yet and hadn’t appeared. Dowell felt thirsty. Soon he felt pangs of hunger. But no one entered his cell or brought him food and drink.
“Does he want to starve me to death?” Dowell thought. Hunger tormented him more and more, but he didn’t ask for food. If Ravino had decided to starve him, there was no need to humiliate himself with a request.
Dowell didn’t know that Ravino was testing the strength of his character. And, to Ravino’s displeasure, Dowell passed this test.
Despite hunger and thirst, Dowell, who had been without sleep for a long time, unwittingly fell asleep. He slept peacefully and soundly, unaware that this would cause Ravino new trouble. Neither the bright lamp light nor Ravino’s musical experiments had any effect on Dowell. Then Ravino resorted to stronger means of influence, which he applied to robust individuals. In the next room, the orderlies began to hit iron sheets with wooden mallets and rattle special noisemakers. At this hellish din, even the strongest people usually woke up and looked around in horror. But Dowell was evidently stronger than the strongest. He slept like a baby. This extraordinary case astonished even Ravino.
“Astonishing,” Ravino wondered, “and this man knows his life hangs by a thread. Even the archangels’ trumpets wouldn’t wake him.”
“Enough!” he shouted to the orderlies, and the infernal music stopped.
Ravino didn’t know that the incredible racket had indeed woken Dowell. But, as a man of strong will, he composed himself at the first glimmers of consciousness and did not betray by a single sigh or movement that he was no longer asleep.
“Dowell can only be destroyed physically” — such was Ravino’s verdict.
And Dowell, when the racket stopped, truly fell asleep again and slept until evening. He woke up fresh and cheerful. Hunger tormented him less now. He lay with open eyes and, smiling, looked at the peephole in the door. He could see someone’s round eye, intently observing him.
Arthur, to tease his enemy, began to hum a cheerful song. This was too much even for Ravino. For the first time in his life, he felt that he was unable to control another’s will. A bound, helplessly lying man on the floor was mocking him. A hiss was heard from behind the door. The eye disappeared.
Dowell continued to sing louder, but suddenly choked. Something was irritating his throat. Dowell sniffed and detected a smell. His throat and nasopharynx tickled; soon, a sharp pain in his eyes joined it. The smell intensified.
Dowell grew cold. He understood that his hour of death had come. Ravino was poisoning him with chlorine. Dowell knew he was powerless to break free from the tightly binding straps and straitjacket. But this time, the instinct for self-preservation was stronger than the dictates of reason. Dowell began to make incredible attempts to free himself. He writhed with his whole body, like a worm, arched, twisted, rolled from wall to wall. But he did not cry out, did not beg for help; he remained silent, clenching his teeth. His clouded consciousness no longer controlled his body, and it defended itself instinctively.
Then the light went out, and Dowell seemed to fall somewhere. He regained consciousness from a fresh wind that ruffled his hair. With an extraordinary effort of will, he tried to open his eyes: for a moment, someone’s familiar face flashed before him, as if Larey, but in a police uniform. The sound of a car engine reached his ears. His head was throbbing with pain. “Delirium, but I’m still alive then,” Dowell thought. His eyelids closed again, but immediately opened once more. Daylight hit his eyes painfully. Arthur squinted and suddenly heard a woman’s voice:
“How are you feeling?”
A damp piece of cotton was passed over Dowell’s inflamed eyelids. Fully opening his eyes, Arthur saw Laurent bending over him. He smiled at her and, looking around, saw that he was lying in the very bedroom where Briquette had once lain.
“So, I didn’t die?” Dowell asked softly.
“Fortunately, you didn’t die, but you were on the verge of death,” Laurent said.
From the next room, quick footsteps were heard, and Arthur saw Larey. He was waving his arms and shouting:
“I hear talking! So, he’s alive. Hello, my friend! How are you feeling?”
“Thank you,” Dowell replied and, feeling pain in his chest, said: “My head hurts… and my chest…”
“Don’t talk too much,” Larey warned him, “it’s bad for you. That hangman Ravino almost gassed you like a rat in a ship’s hold. But, Dowell, how brilliantly we outsmarted him!”
And Larey began to laugh so much that Laurent looked at him reproachfully, fearing that his overly noisy joy might disturb the patient.
“I won’t, I won’t,” he replied, catching her gaze. “I’ll tell you everything in order now. After kidnapping Mademoiselle Laurent and waiting a little, we realized that you hadn’t managed to follow her…”
“You… heard my cry?” Arthur asked.
“We heard it. Silence! And we hurried away before Ravino could send a pursuit. The fuss with you delayed his pack, and by that, you helped us greatly to escape unnoticed. We knew perfectly well that you wouldn’t be well there. It was an open game. We, that is, Shaub and I, wanted to come to your aid as soon as possible. However, it was first necessary to settle Mademoiselle Laurent, and only then to devise and execute a plan for your rescue. After all, your capture was unforeseen… Now we too had to get behind the stone fence at all costs, and that, you know yourself, is no easy matter. Then we decided to proceed as follows: Shaub and I got ourselves police uniforms, drove up in a car, and declared that we had come for a sanitary inspection. Shaub even produced a mandate with all the seals. Luckily for us, at the gate was not the regular gatekeeper, but a simple orderly, who evidently was not familiar with Ravino’s instruction, which required him to first call him by phone before admitting anyone. We kept ourselves in a position of authority and…”
“So it wasn’t delirium…” Arthur interrupted. “I remember seeing you in a police uniform and hearing the car.”
“Yes, yes, the fresh wind in the car brought you to your senses, but then you fell unconscious again. So listen. The orderly opened the gates for us, and we entered. The rest was not difficult, though not as easy as we’d assumed. I demanded that we be taken to Ravino’s office. But the second orderly we approached was clearly an experienced man. He looked at us suspiciously, said he would report, and went into the house. A few minutes later, a hook-nosed man in a white robe, with tortoise-shell glasses on his nose, came out to us…”
“Ravino’s assistant, Doctor Busch.”
Larey nodded and continued: “He informed us that Doctor Ravino was busy and that we could speak with him, Busch. I insisted that we needed to see Ravino himself. Busch repeated that it was impossible right then, as Ravino was with a critically ill patient. Then Shaub, without much thought, took Busch’s hand like this” — Larey took his left wrist with his right hand — “and twisted it like that. Busch cried out in pain, and we walked past him and into the house. Damn it, we didn’t know where Ravino was and were in a great predicament. Fortunately, he himself was walking down the corridor at that moment. I recognized him, as I had seen him when I brought you here as my mentally ill friend. ‘What do you want?’ Ravino sharply asked. We understood there was no point in playing the comedy any longer, and, approaching Ravino, quickly pulled out our revolvers and pointed them at his forehead. But at that moment, the hook-nosed Busch — who would have expected such agility from that wreck! — struck Shaub’s hand, so hard and unexpectedly that he knocked the revolver away, and Ravino grabbed my arm. That’s when the fun began, which is probably difficult to recount coherently. From all sides, orderlies were already rushing to help Ravino and Busch. There were many of them, and they, of course, would have quickly dealt with us. But, luckily for us, many were deterred by the police uniforms. They knew about the severe punishment for resisting the police, and even more so if it involved violent actions against representatives of authority. No matter how much Ravino shouted that our police costumes were a masquerade, most orderlies preferred the role of observers, and only a few dared to lay hands on the sacred and inviolable police uniform. Our second trump card was the firearms, which the orderlies did not have. And, perhaps, no less a trump card was our strength, agility, and desperation. This equalized the forces. One orderly attacked Shaub, who was bending down to pick up the fallen revolver. Shaub proved to be a great master of all kinds of fighting techniques. He shook off his enemy and, delivering skillful blows, kicked away the revolver, for which someone’s hand was already reaching. I must give him credit, he fought with extraordinary coolness and self-control. Two orderlies also hung on my shoulders. And it’s unknown how this battle would have ended if not for Shaub. He was a brave fellow. He managed to pick up the revolver, and, without thinking twice, he put it to use. Several shots immediately cooled the ardor of the orderlies. After one of them screamed, clutching his bloody shoulder, the others instantly retreated. But Ravino did not give up. Despite the fact that we held revolvers to both his temples, he shouted: ‘I also have weapons. I will order my men to shoot you if you don’t leave here now!’ Then Shaub, without another word, began to twist Ravino’s arm. This technique causes such hellish pain that even hefty bandits roar like hippos and become meek and obedient. Ravino’s bones crunched, tears appeared in his eyes, but he still didn’t give up. ‘What are you staring at?’ he shouted to the orderlies standing in the distance. ‘To arms!’ Several orderlies ran, probably for weapons; others again approached us. I momentarily moved the revolver away from Ravino’s head and fired a couple of shots. The servants again froze, except for one who fell to the floor with a dull groan…”
Larey paused for breath and continued: “Yes, it was a hot situation. The unbearable pain increasingly debilitated Ravino, and Shaub continued to twist his arm. Finally, Ravino, writhing in pain, croaked: ‘What do you want?’ ‘The immediate handover of Arthur Dowell,’ I said. ‘Of course,’ Ravino replied, gritting his teeth, ‘I recognized your face. Now let go of my arm, damn it! I will lead you to him…’ Shaub released his hand just enough to bring him to his senses: he was already losing consciousness. Ravino led us to the cell where you were imprisoned and indicated the key with his eyes. I unlocked the door and entered the cell, accompanied by Ravino and Shaub. Our eyes were met with an unpleasant sight: bundled up like a baby, you were writhing in your last convulsions, like a half-crushed worm. The cell reeked of chlorine. Shaub, not wanting to bother with Ravino anymore, gave him a light jab to the jaw from below, which sent the doctor rolling to the floor like a sack. We ourselves, gasping for breath, dragged you out of the cell and slammed the door shut.
“And Ravino? He…”
“If he suffocates, it’s no great loss, we decided. But he was probably freed and brought back to consciousness after we left… We got out of that hornet’s nest quite safely, except for having to use the remaining bullets on the dogs… And here you are.”
“How long was I unconscious?”
“Ten hours. The doctor only recently left, once your pulse and breathing had normalized and he was convinced you were out of danger. Yes, my dear fellow,” Larey continued, rubbing his hands, “there will be loud trials. Ravino will be in the dock along with Professor Kern. I won’t drop this matter.”
“But first, we need to find my father’s head — alive or dead,” Arthur said softly.
Without a Body Again
Professor Kern was so overjoyed by Briquette’s unexpected return that he even forgot to scold her. Besides, there was no time for it. John had to carry Briquette in his arms, and she was moaning in pain.
“Doctor, forgive me,” she said, seeing Kern. “I didn’t listen to you…”
“And you punished yourself,” Kern replied, helping John lay the runaway on the bed.
“My God, I didn’t even take off my coat.”
“Allow me, I’ll help you with that.”
Kern began carefully removing Briquette’s coat, at the same time observing her with an experienced eye. Her face had become extraordinarily younger and fresher. Not a trace of wrinkles remained. “The work of the internal secretions,” he thought. “Angelique Guy’s young body rejuvenated Briquette’s head.”
Professor Kern had long known whose body he had stolen from the morgue. He meticulously followed the newspapers and chuckled ironically, reading about the search for the “missing without a trace” Angelique Guy.
“Careful… My leg hurts,” Briquette winced as Kern turned her to her other side.
“You had it coming! I warned you.”
A nurse entered, an elderly woman with a dull expression on her face.
“Undress her,” Kern nodded towards Briquette.
“And where is Mademoiselle Laurent?” Briquette asked, surprised.
“She’s not here. She’s ill.”
Kern turned away, drummed his fingers on the headboard, and left the room.
“Have you worked for Professor Kern long?” Briquette asked the new nurse.
The nurse mumbled something unintelligible, pointing to her mouth.
“Mute,” Briquette realized. “And there’ll be no one to talk to…”
The nurse silently took Briquette’s coat and left. Kern reappeared.
“Show me your leg.”
“I danced a lot,” Briquette began her penitent confession. “Soon, a sore opened on the sole of my foot. I didn’t pay attention…”
“And you continued to dance?”
“No, it hurt to dance. But for a few days, I still played tennis. It’s such a charming game!”
Kern, listening to Briquette’s chatter, carefully examined her leg and frowned more and more. The leg was swollen up to the knee and had turned black. He pressed in several places.
“Oh, it hurts!” Briquette cried out.
“Feverish?”
“Yes, since yesterday evening.”
“So…” Kern took out a cigar and lit it. “The situation is very serious. This is what disobedience leads to. With whom did you deign to play tennis?”
Briquette became embarrassed: “With a… young acquaintance.”
“Won’t you tell me what happened to you at all since you ran away from me?”
“I was at my friend’s house. She was very surprised to see me alive. I told her that my wound was not fatal and that I had been cured in the hospital.”
“You didn’t say anything about me and… the head?”
“Of course not,” Briquette replied confidently. “It would have been strange to say. They would have thought I was mad.”
Kern sighed with relief. “Everything turned out better than I could have expected,” he thought.
“But what about my leg, Professor?”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to cut it off.”
Briquette’s eyes lit up with horror.
“Cut off my leg! My leg? Make me a cripple?”
Kern himself did not want to mutilate the body, acquired and reanimated with such difficulty. And the effect of the demonstration would lose a lot if he had to show a cripple. It would be good to do without an amputation, but that was hardly possible.
“Perhaps I could have a new leg attached?”
“Don’t worry, let’s wait until tomorrow. I’ll visit you again,” Kern said and left.
In his place, the silent nurse reappeared. She brought a cup of broth and croutons. Briquette had no appetite. She was feverish, and despite the nurse’s insistent mimed persuasions, she could not eat more than two spoonfuls.
“Take it away, I can’t.”
The nurse left.
“You should have measured the temperature first,” Briquette heard Kern’s voice coming from the next room. “Don’t you know such simple things? I told you.”
The nurse re-entered and held out a thermometer to Briquette.
The patient meekly placed the thermometer. And when she removed it and looked, it showed thirty-nine.
The nurse recorded the temperature and sat down beside the patient.
Briquette, to avoid seeing the dull and indifferent face of the nurse, turned her head to the wall. Even this slight movement caused pain in her leg and lower abdomen. Briquette groaned softly and closed her eyes. She thought of Larey: “My dear, when will I see him?…”
At nine in the evening, the fever intensified, and delirium began. Briquette imagined she was in a yacht cabin. The excitement grew, the yacht rocked, and from this, a nauseating lump rose in her chest and reached her throat… Larey threw himself on her and strangled her. She shrieked, thrashed in bed… Something wet and cold touched her forehead and heart. The nightmares disappeared.
She saw herself on a tennis court with Larey. Through the light netting, the sea was blue. The sun beat down mercilessly, her head ached and spun. “If my head didn’t hurt so much… This terrible sun!… I can’t miss the ball…” And she intently watched Larey’s movements as he raised his racket to strike.
“Play!” Larey shouted, his teeth flashing in the bright sun, and before she could respond, he threw the ball. “Out,” Briquette loudly replied, rejoicing in Larey’s mistake…
“Still playing tennis?” she heard an unpleasant voice and opened her eyes. Kern stood leaning over her, holding her hand. He was taking her pulse. Then he examined her leg and shook his head disapprovingly.
“What time is it?” Briquette asked, her tongue heavy.
“Two in the morning. Look, my dear little jumper, you’ll have to have your leg amputated.”
“What does that mean?”
“To cut it off.”
“When?”
“Now. We can’t delay another hour, otherwise, a general infection will start.”
Briquette’s thoughts became muddled. She heard Kern’s voice as if in a dream and barely understood his words.
“And cut high?” she asked almost indifferently.
“Like this.” Kern quickly ran the edge of his palm across her lower abdomen. This gesture made Briquette’s stomach turn cold. Her consciousness became clearer.
“No, no, no,” she said in horror. “I won’t allow it! I don’t want to!”
“Do you want to die?” Kern asked calmly.
“No.”
“Then choose one of the two.”
“But what about Larey? He loves me…” Briquette babbled. “I want to live and be healthy. And you want to take everything away… You are terrible, I’m afraid of you! Save me! Save me!…”
She was delirious again, screaming and trying to get up. The nurse struggled to hold her down. Soon John was called for help.
Meanwhile, Kern worked quickly in the next room, preparing for the operation.
At exactly two in the morning, Briquette was placed on the operating table. She came to and silently looked at Kern as one condemned to death looks at their executioner.
“Spare me,” she finally whispered. “Save me…”
The mask descended onto her face. The nurse took her pulse. John pressed the mask more tightly. Briquette lost consciousness.
She came to in bed. Her head was spinning. She felt nauseous. She vaguely remembered the operation and, despite the terrible weakness, raised her head, looked at her leg, and softly moaned. Her leg had been amputated above the knee and was tightly bandaged. Kern kept his word: he did everything to disfigure Briquette’s body as little as possible. He took a risk and performed the amputation with the intention of being able to fit a prosthesis.
All day after the operation, Briquette felt satisfactory, although the fever did not subside, which greatly worried Kern. He visited her every hour and examined her leg.
“What will I do now without a leg?” Briquette asked him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make you a new leg, better than the old one,” Kern reassured her. “You’ll be able to dance.” But his face was grim: the leg had reddened above the amputation site and swelled.
By evening, the fever intensified. Briquette began to thrash, moan, and become delirious.
At eleven o’clock that night, her temperature rose to forty point six degrees.
Kern swore angrily: it became clear to him that a general blood infection had begun. Then, not thinking about saving Briquette’s body, Kern decided to reclaim at least part of the exhibit from death. “If I flush her blood vessels with an antiseptic, then a physiological solution, and introduce fresh, healthy blood, the head will live.”
And he ordered Briquette to be moved back to the operating table.
Briquette lay unconscious and didn’t feel the sharp scalpel swiftly make an incision on her neck, above the red sutures left from the first operation. This incision separated not only Briquette’s head from her beautiful young body. It severed from Briquette the entire world, all the joys and hopes by which she had lived.
Toma Dies a Second Time
Toma’s head withered with each passing day. Toma was not suited for a life of pure consciousness. To feel well, he needed to work, move, lift heavy things, tire his powerful body, then eat a lot, and sleep soundly.
He often closed his eyes and imagined straining his back, lifting and carrying heavy sacks. He felt as if he could sense every tensed muscle. The sensation was so real that he would open his eyes, hoping to see his strong body. But beneath him, only the table legs were visible.
Toma gritted his teeth and closed his eyes again.
To entertain himself, he would start thinking about the village. But then he would immediately remember his fiancée, who was forever lost to him. More than once, he asked Kern to quickly give him a new body, but Kern would playfully put him off:
“We still haven’t found a suitable one, be patient for a bit.”
“Just any old body,” Toma would plead; so great was his desire to return to life.
“With a dilapidated body, you’d be lost. You need a healthy body,” Kern would reply.
Toma waited, days passed, but his head still sat on the high table.
The sleepless nights were especially tormenting. He began to hallucinate. The room spun, a fog spread, and from the fog, a horse’s head appeared. The sun rose. A dog ran in the yard, chickens made a fuss… And suddenly, from somewhere, a roaring truck would appear and rush towards Toma. This scene repeated endlessly, and Toma died an infinite number of times.
To get rid of the nightmares, Toma would start whispering songs — it seemed to him that he was singing — or counting.
Once, a game captivated him. Toma tried to hold a stream of air in his mouth. When he then suddenly opened his mouth, the air escaped with a funny sound.
Toma liked this and started his game again. He held the air until it burst through his clenched lips on its own. Toma began to twist his tongue while doing this: it produced very funny sounds. And how many seconds could he hold the air stream? Toma began to count. Five, six, seven, eight… “Sh-sh-sh,” the air broke through. Again… Must reach a dozen… One, two, three… six, seven… nine… eleven, twelv…
The compressed air suddenly struck his palate with such force that Toma felt his head lift on its stand.
“At this rate, you’ll probably fly off your perch,” Toma thought.
He squinted his eyes and saw that blood had spilled across the glass surface of the stand and was dripping onto the floor. Evidently, the air stream, by lifting his head, had loosened the tubes inserted into the blood vessels of his neck. Toma’s head was terrified: was this the end? And indeed, his consciousness began to cloud. Toma felt as if he was lacking air; it was the blood, nourishing his head, that could no longer reach his brain in sufficient quantities, bringing vital oxygen. He saw his blood, felt his slow fading. He did not want to die! His consciousness clung to life. To live at all costs! To wait for the new body Kern had promised…
Toma tried to push his head down, contracting his neck muscles, tried to sway, but only made his situation worse: the glass tips of the tubes slipped further out of the veins. With the last glimmer of consciousness, Toma began to scream, to scream as he had never screamed in his life.
But it was no longer a scream. It was a death rattle…
When John, who was a light sleeper, woke from these unfamiliar sounds and rushed into the room, Toma’s head was barely moving its lips. John, as best he could, put the head back in place, pushed the tubes deeper, and carefully wiped away the blood so that Professor Kern would not see traces of the night’s incident.
In the morning, Briquette’s head, separated from her body, was already in its old place, on a metal table with a glass top, and Kern was bringing her back to consciousness.
When he “flushed” the head of the remnants of spoiled blood and introduced a stream of fresh, healthy blood heated to thirty-seven degrees, Briquette’s face turned pink. A few minutes later, she opened her eyes and, not yet understanding, stared at Kern. Then with visible effort, she looked down, and her eyes widened.
“Without a body again…” Briquette’s head whispered, and her eyes filled with tears. Now she could only hiss: her vocal cords had been cut above the old section.
“Excellent,” Kern thought, “the vessels fill quickly with moisture, if only it’s not residual moisture in the tear ducts. However, one should not lose precious fluid on tears.”
“Don’t cry and don’t grieve, Mademoiselle Briquette. You severely punished yourself for your disobedience. But I will make you a new body, better than the old one; just bear with me for a few more days.”
And, stepping away from Briquette’s head, Kern approached Toma’s head.
“Well, how is our farmer doing?”
Kern suddenly frowned and looked closely at Toma’s head. It looked very bad. The skin had darkened, his mouth was half-open. Kern examined the tubes and cursed at John.
“I thought Toma was sleeping,” John excused himself.
“You slept through it yourself, you ass!”
Kern began to fuss around the head.
“Oh, how horrible!” Briquette’s head hissed. “He died. I’m so afraid of dead people… I’m afraid to die too… Why did he die?”
“Close the air flow to her!” Kern ordered angrily.
Briquette fell silent mid-sentence, but continued to look at the nurse with fright and pleading, helplessly moving her lips.
“If I don’t bring the head back to life in twenty minutes, it will only be fit to be thrown away,” Kern said.
Fifteen minutes later, the head showed some signs of life. Its eyelids and lips trembled, but its eyes stared dully, senselessly. Two more minutes passed, and the head uttered a few incoherent words. Kern was already celebrating victory. But the head suddenly fell silent again. Not a single nerve twitched on its face.
Kern looked at the thermometer: “Corpse temperature. It’s over!”
And, forgetting Briquette’s presence, he maliciously yanked the head by its thick hair, tore it from the table, and threw it into a large metal basin.
“Take it to the icehouse… An autopsy will be necessary.”
The black man quickly grabbed the basin and left. Briquette’s head watched him with eyes wide with horror.
The telephone rang in Kern’s study. Kern angrily flung the cigar he was about to light onto the floor and went to his room, slamming the door shut.
It was Ravino calling. He informed Kern that he had sent him a letter by messenger, which Kern should have already received.
Kern went downstairs and personally took the letter from the door’s mailbox. Ascending the stairs, Kern nervously tore open the envelope and began to read. Ravino reported that Arthur Dowell, having infiltrated his sanatorium disguised as a patient, had kidnapped Mademoiselle Laurent and escaped himself.
Kern stumbled and nearly fell on the stairs.
“Arthur Dowell!… The professor’s son… He’s here? And he, of course, knows everything.”
A new enemy had appeared, one who would show him no mercy. In his study, Kern burned the letter and paced the carpet, planning his next move. Destroy Professor Dowell’s head? He could always do that in a minute. But he still needed the head. He only needed to take measures to ensure this evidence didn’t fall into the hands of outsiders. A search was possible, an invasion of his home by enemies. Then… then he needed to accelerate the demonstration of Briquette’s head. Victors are not judged. Whatever Laurent and Arthur Dowell said, it would be easier for Kern to fight them when his name was surrounded by the aura of universal recognition and respect.
Kern picked up the phone, called the secretary of the scientific society, and asked him to come over to discuss arranging a meeting where he, Kern, would demonstrate the results of his latest work. Then Kern called the editorial offices of the largest newspapers and asked them to send interviewers.
“I need to create a media frenzy around Professor Kern’s greatest discovery… The demonstration can be held in about three days, once Briquette’s head has somewhat recovered from the shock and grown accustomed to the thought of losing her body. Well, then…”
Kern went into the laboratory, rummaged through the cabinets, took out a syringe, a Bunsen burner, picked up some cotton, a box labeled “Paraffin,” and headed towards Professor Dowell’s head.
The Conspirators
Larey’s house served as the headquarters for the “conspirators”: Arthur Dowell, Larey, Shaub, and Laurent. At a general meeting, it was decided that it would be risky for Laurent to return to her apartment. But since Laurent wanted to see her mother as soon as possible, Larey went to Madame Laurent and brought her to his house.
Upon seeing her daughter alive and unharmed, the old woman nearly fainted with joy; Larey had to support her arm and seat her in an armchair.
Mother and daughter settled in two rooms on the third floor. Madame Laurent’s joy was overshadowed only by the fact that Arthur Dowell, her daughter’s “savior,” was still ill. Fortunately, he hadn’t been exposed to the suffocating gas for too long. His exceptionally healthy body was also playing its part in his recovery.
Madame Laurent and her daughter took turns nursing the patient. During this time, Arthur Dowell became very good friends with the Laurents, and Marie Laurent tended to him more than attentively; unable to help her father’s head, Laurent transferred her care to the son. Or so it seemed to her. But there was another reason that made her reluctantly yield her place as a nurse to her mother. Arthur Dowell was the first man to strike her girlish imagination. Their acquaintance had occurred in a romantic setting — he, like a knight, had abducted her, freeing her from Ravino’s terrible house. His father’s tragic fate also cast a tragic shadow over him. And his personal qualities — masculinity, strength, and youth — completed the charm that was difficult to resist.
Arthur Dowell met Marie Laurent’s gaze with no less tenderness. He understood his feelings better and did not hide from himself that his tenderness was not merely the duty of a patient towards his attentive nurse.
The tender glances of the young people did not escape those around them. Laurent’s mother pretended not to notice anything, although, apparently, she fully approved of her daughter’s choice. Shaub, in his passion for sports, had a disdainful attitude towards women, smiled mockingly and secretly pitied Arthur, while Larey sighed heavily, seeing the dawn of another’s happiness, and involuntarily remembered Angelique’s beautiful body, now more often associating Briquette’s head with it than Guy’s. He even resented himself for this “betrayal,” but justified himself by saying that only the law of association was at play here: Briquette’s head always followed Guy’s body.
Arthur Dowell couldn’t wait until the doctor allowed him to walk. But Arthur was only allowed to speak without getting out of bed, and those around him were instructed to protect Dowell’s lungs.
He had to, willy-nilly, take on the role of chairman, listening to the opinions of others and only briefly objecting or summarizing the “debates.”
And the debates were heated. Larey and Shaub brought particular fervor.
What to do with Ravino and Kern? Shaub, for some reason, had chosen Ravino as his victim and developed plans for “robber attacks” on him.
“We didn’t finish off that dog. And it must be destroyed. Every breath of that dog defiles the earth! I will only be at peace when I strangle him with my own hands. You say,” he fumed, addressing Dowell, “that it’s better to hand this whole matter over to the court and the executioner. But Ravino himself told us that the authorities are bribed.”
“Local ones,” Dowell interjected.
“Wait, Dowell,” Larey interrupted. “It’s bad for you to talk. And you, Shaub, are not talking about what’s important. We’ll always manage to settle accounts with Ravino. Our immediate goal should be to expose Kern’s crime and find Professor Dowell’s head. We need to get to Kern by any means necessary.”
“But how will you get in?” Arthur asked.
“How? Well, how burglars and thieves get in.”
“You’re not a burglar. That’s no small art either…”
Larey pondered, then slapped his forehead: “We’ll invite Jean on tour! Briquette, as a friend, revealed the secret of his profession to me. He’ll be flattered! For the only time in his life, he’ll pick locks not for selfish reasons.”
“What if he’s not so selfless?”
“We’ll pay him. He can just clear the way for us and disappear from the stage before we call the police, which, of course, we will do.”
But here his fervor was cooled by Arthur Dowell. Quietly and slowly, he began to speak: “I think all this romanticism is unnecessary in this case. Kern probably already knows from Ravino about my arrival in Paris and my involvement in Mademoiselle Laurent’s abduction. So, I have no more reason to remain incognito. That’s first. Then, I am the son… of the late Professor Dowell, and therefore, I have a legal right, as lawyers say, to intervene, to demand a judicial investigation, a search…”
“Judicial again,” Larey waved his hand hopelessly. “The legal snares will entangle you, and Kern will wriggle out.”
Arthur coughed and involuntarily winced from the pain in his chest.
“You’re talking too much,” Madame Laurent, sitting next to Arthur, said with concern.
“It’s nothing,” he replied, rubbing his chest. “It will pass…”
At that moment, Marie Laurent entered the room, looking very agitated.
“Read this,” she said, handing Dowell a newspaper.
On the front page, printed in large type, was:
PROFESSOR KERN’S SENSATIONAL DISCOVERY
A second subheading, in smaller type:
DEMONSTRATION OF A REANIMATED HUMAN HEAD.
The article reported that Professor Kern would be delivering a lecture tomorrow evening at the scientific society. The lecture would be accompanied by a demonstration of a reanimated human head.
It then detailed the history of Kern’s work, listing his scientific papers and his brilliant operations.
Below the first article was an essay signed by Kern himself. It broadly outlined the history of his experiments in reanimating heads — first of dogs, then of humans.
Laurent watched with intense attention, alternating between the expression on Arthur Dowell’s face and the gaze of his eyes, moving from line to line. Dowell maintained his outward composure. Only at the end of his reading did a mournful smile appear and disappear on his face.
“Isn’t it outrageous?” Marie Laurent exclaimed when Arthur silently returned the newspaper. “That scoundrel doesn’t mention your father’s role in this whole ‘sensational discovery’ with a single word. No, I cannot let this stand!” Laurent’s cheeks flushed. “For everything Kern has done to me, to your father, to you, to those unfortunate heads he resurrected for the hell of disembodied existence, he must be punished. He must answer not only before the court but before society. It would be the greatest injustice to allow him to triumph for even an hour.”
“What do you want?” Dowell asked quietly.
“To spoil his triumph!” Laurent answered passionately. “To appear at the scientific society meeting and publicly accuse Kern to his face of being a murderer, a criminal, a thief.”
Madame Laurent was genuinely alarmed. Only now did she understand how severely her daughter’s nerves were frayed. For the first time, the mother saw her meek, reserved daughter in such an agitated state. Madame Laurent tried to calm her, but the girl seemed to notice nothing around her. She was burning with indignation and a thirst for revenge. Larey and Shaub looked at her in surprise. With her fervor and untamed anger, she surpassed them. Laurent’s mother looked imploringly at Arthur Dowell. He caught her gaze and said:
“Your action, Mademoiselle Laurent, no matter how noble the feelings that dictate it, is reckless…”
But Laurent interrupted him: “There is a recklessness that is worth wisdom. Don’t think I want to play the role of a heroic accuser. I simply cannot do otherwise. My moral sense demands it.”
“But what will you achieve? You can’t tell all this to the investigating judge?”
“No, I want Kern to be publicly shamed! Kern builds his glory on the misfortune of others, on crimes and murders! Tomorrow he wants to reap the laurels of fame. And he must reap the fame he deserves.”
“I am against this action, Mademoiselle Laurent,” Arthur Dowell said, fearing that Laurent’s outburst might too greatly shock her nervous system.
“It’s a pity,” she replied. “But I will not abandon it, even if the whole world were against me. You don’t know me yet!”
Arthur Dowell smiled. He liked this youthful fervor, and Marie herself, with her flushed cheeks, even more so.
“But this will be a rash step,” he began again. “You are putting yourself at great risk…”
“We will protect her!” Larey exclaimed, raising his hand as if holding a sword ready to strike.
“Yes, we will protect you,” Shaub loudly supported his friend, shaking his fist in the air.
Marie Laurent, seeing this support, looked reproachfully at Arthur.
“In that case, I will also accompany you,” he said.
A flicker of joy appeared in Laurent’s eyes, but immediately she frowned.
“You can’t… You’re still unwell.”
“But I will go anyway.”
“But…”
“And I will not give up this idea, even if the whole world were against me. You don’t know me yet,” he repeated her words with a smile.
A Ruined Triumph
On the day of the scientific demonstration, Kern meticulously examined Briquette’s head.
“Listen,” he told her when he finished the examination. “Tonight, at eight o’clock, you will be taken to a crowded assembly. There, you will have to speak. Answer briefly the questions you are asked. Don’t babble unnecessarily. Understood?”
Kern opened the air valve, and Briquette hissed: “Understood, but I would ask… allow me…”
Kern left without listening to her.
His anxiety grew. It was no easy task to transport the head to the scientific society’s meeting hall. The slightest jolt could prove fatal to the head’s life.
A specially adapted car was prepared. The table, on which the head and all its apparatus rested, was placed on a special platform, equipped with wheels for moving on flat ground and handles for carrying it up stairs. Finally, everything was ready. At seven in the evening, they set off.
…The enormous white hall was bathed in bright light. The stalls were predominantly filled with the grey hair and shining bald heads of men of science, dressed in black tailcoats and frock coats. Eyeglass lenses glinted. The boxes and amphitheater were reserved for a select audience, having some connection to the academic world.
The luxurious attire of the ladies and sparkling diamonds recalled the setting of a concert hall during the performance of world-renowned celebrities.
A subdued hum of anticipation filled the hall as the audience awaited the start.
Near the stage, at their tables, newspaper correspondents bustled like a lively anthill, sharpening their pencils for stenographic notes.
On the right, a row of cinematographic cameras was set up to capture every moment of Kern’s presentation and the reanimated head. On the stage, a distinguished presidium of prominent scientists was seated. In the center of the stage rose a podium, with a microphone for broadcasting speeches worldwide. A second microphone stood before Briquette’s head. It was elevated on the right side of the stage. Skillfully and moderately applied makeup gave Briquette’s head a fresh and appealing appearance, mitigating the heavy impression the head might otherwise have made on unprepared viewers. The nurse and John stood by her table.
Marie Laurent, Arthur Dowell, Larey, and Shaub sat in the front row, just two steps from the platform where the podium stood. Only Shaub, being “undeciphered” by anyone, appeared in his usual attire. Laurent arrived in an evening gown and a hat. She kept her head bowed low, shielded by the brim of her hat, to prevent Kern from recognizing her if he happened to glance her way. Arthur Dowell and Larey were disguised, their black beards and mustaches artfully crafted. For greater secrecy, they had decided to pretend they were “unacquainted.” Each sat silently, casting a distracted glance at their neighbors. Larey was in a state of distress; he nearly fainted upon seeing Briquette’s head.
Exactly at eight o’clock, Professor Kern ascended the podium. He was paler than usual but carried himself with dignity.
The assembly greeted him with long, sustained applause.
The cinematographic camera whirred. The bustling newspaper correspondents fell silent. Professor Kern began his report on his supposed discoveries.
It was a brilliantly structured and cleverly delivered speech. Kern did not forget to mention the preliminary, highly valuable work of the untimely deceased Professor Dowell. However, while paying tribute to the deceased’s work, he also highlighted his own “modest contributions.” For the audience, there was to be no doubt that the entire credit for the discovery belonged to him, Professor Kern.
His speech was interrupted several times by applause. Hundreds of ladies aimed their binoculars and opera glasses at him. Men’s binoculars and monocles, with no less interest, were directed at Briquette’s head, which offered a forced smile.
At Professor Kern’s signal, the nurse opened the valve, released a stream of air, and Briquette’s head gained the ability to speak.
“How do you feel?” an elderly scientist asked her.
“Thank you, well.”
Briquette’s voice was muffled and hoarse, the strongly propelled air stream producing a whistle; the sound was almost devoid of modulations. Nevertheless, the head’s performance made an extraordinary impression. Even world-renowned artists rarely heard such a storm of applause. But Briquette, who once revelled in the laurels of her performances in small cabarets, this time only wearily lowered her eyelids.
Laurent’s agitation steadily increased. A nervous fever began to shake her, and she tightly clenched her teeth to prevent them from chattering. “It’s time,” she told herself several times, but each time she lacked the resolve. The atmosphere overwhelmed her. After each missed moment, she tried to calm herself with the thought that the higher Professor Kern was exalted, the deeper his fall would be.
The speeches began.
A small, gray-haired old man, one of the most prominent scientists, ascended the podium. In a weak, cracked voice, he spoke of Professor Kern’s brilliant discovery, of the omnipotence of science, of the victory over death, and of the joy of communing with such minds that bestow the greatest scientific achievements upon the world.
Then, when Laurent least expected it, a whirlwind of long-suppressed anger and hatred swept her away. She was no longer in control.
She lunged towards the podium, nearly knocking over the stunned old man, almost throwing him off. She took his place, and with a deathly pale face and the feverishly burning eyes of a furies pursuing a murderer, she began her fiery, incoherent speech in a breathless voice.
The entire hall erupted in commotion at her appearance.
For a fleeting moment, Professor Kern faltered, instinctively moving towards Laurent as if to restrain her. Then he swiftly turned to John, whispering a few words into his ear. John slipped out through the door, unnoticed in the general confusion.
“Don’t believe him!” Laurent shrieked, pointing at Kern. “He’s a thief and a murderer! He stole Professor Dowell’s work! He killed Dowell! He’s still working with his head, torturing him and forcing him to continue scientific experiments, then presenting them as his own discoveries… Dowell himself told me Kern poisoned him…”
The audience’s confusion escalated into panic. Many leapt from their seats. Even some correspondents dropped their pencils, frozen in stunned disbelief. Only the cinematographer vigorously cranked his camera, delighted by the unexpected drama that guaranteed sensational footage.
Professor Kern quickly regained his composure. He stood calmly, a faint smile of regret on his face. Seizing the moment when a nervous spasm constricted Laurent’s throat, he used the brief pause to turn to the ushers by the doors and commanded them imperiously:
“Take her away! Can’t you see she’s having a fit of madness?”
The ushers rushed towards Laurent. But before they could push through the crowd, Larey, Shaub, and Dowell reached her, escorting her into the corridor. Kern watched the group with a suspicious gaze.
In the corridor, police officers attempted to detain Laurent, but the young men managed to get her out onto the street and into a car. They drove off.
Once the commotion had somewhat subsided, Professor Kern reascended the podium and apologized to the assembly “for the regrettable incident.”
“Laurent is a nervous and hysterical girl. She couldn’t endure the intense experiences of spending day after day in the company of Briquette’s reanimated head, which I artificially brought to life. Laurent’s psyche broke. She went mad…”
This speech was met with a chilling silence in the hall.
A few claps sounded, but they were quickly stifled by hisses. It was as if a whisper of death had swept through the room. Hundreds of eyes now looked at Briquette’s head with horror and pity, as if she were a revenant from the grave. The mood of the attendees was irrevocably soured. Many in the audience left without waiting for the conclusion. Pre-prepared speeches, congratulatory telegrams, and official declarations of Professor Kern’s election as an honorary member and doctor of various institutes and academies of sciences were hastily read, and the meeting was adjourned.
Behind Professor Kern, the Black man appeared and, with an imperceptible nod, began preparing Briquette’s head for its return journey. The head, once vibrant, now seemed instantly faded, weary, and frightened.
Left alone in the closed car, Professor Kern gave full vent to his rage. He clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and cursed so vehemently that the chauffeur repeatedly slowed the car, asking through the speaking tube:
“Hello?”
The Last Meeting
The morning after Kern’s ill-fated presentation at the scientific society, Arthur Dowell presented himself to the chief of police, identified himself, and requested a search of Kern’s apartment.
“A search of Professor Kern’s apartment was already conducted last night,” the chief of police replied dryly. “That search yielded no results. Mademoiselle Laurent’s statement, as expected, proved to be the product of her distraught imagination. Haven’t you read about it in the morning papers?”
“Why did you so readily assume that Mademoiselle Laurent’s statement is the product of a distraught imagination?”
“Because, consider it yourself,” the chief of police replied, “it’s an utterly inconceivable thing, and besides, the search confirmed…”
“Did you interrogate Mademoiselle Briquette’s head?”
“No, we didn’t interrogate any heads,” the chief of police replied.
“A pity! She too could confirm that she saw my father’s head. She personally informed me of this. I insist on a second search.”
“I have no grounds for that,” the chief of police sharply responded.
“Is he perhaps bribed by Kern?” Arthur thought.
“And besides,” the chief of police continued, “a second search would only stir up public indignation. Society is already sufficiently outraged by that madwoman Laurent’s outburst. Professor Kern’s name is on everyone’s lips. He’s receiving hundreds of letters and telegrams expressing condolences to him and indignation at Laurent’s actions.”
“And yet, I insist that Kern has committed several crimes.”
“You cannot make such baseless accusations,” the chief of police said moralistically.
“Then give me the opportunity to substantiate them,” Dowell retorted.
“That opportunity has already been provided to you. The authorities conducted a search.”
“If you categorically refuse, I will be compelled to approach the prosecutor,” Arthur said decisively and rose.
“There’s nothing I can do for you,” the chief of police replied, also standing.
The mention of the prosecutor, however, had its effect. After a moment’s thought, he said: “I might, perhaps, authorize a second search, but unofficially, so to speak. If the search yields new information, then I will report it to the prosecutor.”
“The search must be conducted in the presence of myself, Mademoiselle Laurent, and my friend Larey.”
“Isn’t that a bit much?”
“No, all these individuals can be of significant help.”
The chief of police spread his hands and, with a sigh, said: “Very well! I will assign several police agents to your disposal. I’ll also invite the investigator.”
At eleven o’clock in the morning, Arthur was already ringing Kern’s doorbell.
John the Black man partially opened the heavy oak door, keeping the chain on.
“Professor Kern is not receiving visitors.”
The police officer who stepped forward compelled John to let the unexpected guests into the apartment.
Professor Kern met them in his study, adopting the air of offended virtue.
“Please,” he said in an icy tone, throwing open the laboratory doors and casting a fleeting, annihilating glance at Laurent.
The investigator, Laurent, Arthur Dowell, Kern, Larey, and two police officers entered.
The familiar surroundings, with which so many distressing experiences were connected, agitated Laurent. Her heart pounded heavily.
Only Briquette’s head was in the laboratory. Her cheeks, devoid of blush, were the dark yellow color of a mummy. Seeing Laurent and Larey, she smiled and blinked her eyes. Larey turned away with horror and a shudder.
They entered the room adjacent to the laboratory.
There, on a stand, was the completely shaven head of an elderly man with a huge, fleshy nose. This head’s eyes were hidden behind completely black spectacles. Its lips twitched slightly.
“My eyes hurt…” Kern explained. “And that’s all I can offer you,” he added with an ironic smile.
Indeed, upon further inspection of the house, from the basement to the attic, no other heads were found.
On the way back, they again had to pass through the room where the thick-nosed head was kept. A disappointed Dowell was already heading for the next door, and behind him, the investigator and Kern moved towards the exit.
“Wait,” Laurent stopped them.
Approaching the head with the thick nose, she opened the air valve and asked: “Who are you?”
The head’s lips moved, but no voice sounded. Laurent released a stronger stream of air.
A hissing whisper was heard: “Who is that? You, Kern? Open my ears! I can’t hear you…”
Laurent peered into the head’s ears and pulled out dense pieces of cotton.
“Who are you?” she repeated the question.
“I was Professor Dowell.”
“But your face?” Laurent gasped with emotion.
“My face?…” The head spoke with difficulty. “Yes… they even deprived me of my face… A small operation… paraffin injected under the skin of my nose… Alas, only my brain remains mine in this disfigured skull… but even it refuses to serve… I am dying… our experiments are imperfect… although my head has lived longer than I theoretically calculated.”
“Why do you have glasses?” the investigator asked, approaching.
“Lately, my colleague doesn’t trust me,” and the head tried to smile. “He deprives me of the ability to hear and see… The glasses are opaque… so I don’t betray myself to his undesirable visitors… Take off my glasses…”
Laurent, with trembling hands, removed the spectacles.
“Mademoiselle Laurent… is that you? Hello, my friend!… But Kern said you had left… I feel ill… I can’t work anymore… My colleague Kern only yesterday mercifully declared an amnesty for me… If I don’t die today, he promised to free me tomorrow…”
And suddenly, seeing Arthur, who stood aside as if petrified, utterly pale, the head joyfully uttered: “Arthur!… Son!…”
For a moment, its dim eyes cleared.
“Father, my dear!” Arthur stepped towards the head. “What have they done to you?…”
He staggered. Larey supported him.
“Here… good… Once more we’ve seen each other… after my death…” Professor Dowell’s head hissed. His vocal cords barely worked, and his tongue moved with difficulty. In the pauses, air whistled from his throat.
“Arthur, kiss my forehead, if it’s… not… unpleasant…”
Arthur bent down and kissed him.
“That’s good… now it’s fine…”
“Professor Dowell,” the investigator said, “can you tell us the circumstances of your death?”
The head turned its dull gaze to the investigator, seemingly understanding little of what was happening. Then, comprehending, it slowly glanced at Laurent and whispered: “I told her… she knows everything.”
The head’s lips stopped moving, and its eyes became clouded.
“It’s over!” Laurent said.
For a while, everyone stood in silence, overwhelmed by what had happened.
“Well then,” the investigator broke the heavy silence, and turning to Kern, he said: “Please follow me to the study! I need to question you.”
When the door closed behind them, Arthur sank heavily onto a chair beside his father’s head and covered his face with his hands: “Poor, poor father!”
Laurent gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Arthur rose impulsively and squeezed her hand tightly.
A gunshot echoed from Kern’s study.