Biogenesis (24 page)

Tom had arrived at the conference certain that his presentation would knock the collective socks off of those in attendance. On calmer reflection, he realized that his report consisted of only a single case of anecdotal evidence. No one, not even the odd pharmaceutical representative, approached him afterward to hear more. Though disappointed, Tom returned to the island determined that Westland Hospital would employ its own researcher if that was what it took to isolate the groundbreaking substance. When he peeked inside the lab freezer, however, he made a terrible discovery. Not a single specimen had been saved for analysis. Dan had broken his promise and used up all of the sea squirts to cure his daughter, even those that had been set aside.

The next day, Tom confronted Dan, and Dan admitted what he had done.

“I tried to farm them, but it didn’t work.”

Mariko, meanwhile, unable to find any more Hope Shore sea squirts, had given up on diving.

Two years later, a certain article was published in the journal
Science
that sent ripples throughout the medical community. A substance had been discovered in shark cartilage that inhibited tumor angiogenesis and displayed anti-carcinogenic potential. Previous anti-cancer drugs had been extracted entirely from land-dwelling organisms such as plants and bacteria. It was the first time that the scientific world had turned its attention to marine life, instead. While the drug did not have as significant an effect in patients during clinical trials as had been hoped for, it did prove a great impetus. Scientists boarded this new bandwagon in droves, eager to discover the hidden potential of marine life through their own research. Five years later, an article was published in
Nature
detailing a substance with anti-carcinogenic properties that had been discovered in a species of sea squirt found in the Caribbean Sea. Attention soon turned to the biological functions of the sea squirt, such as its ability to concentrate marine bacteria and minerals. While reviewing past articles and papers in preparation for a conference, the author, John Cooper, stumbled across the abstract for Tom Anderson’s paper. He telephoned the hospital in an attempt to contact Tom, reaching instead the new director general, successor to Tom’s post.

John visited the island. There he met Sally, who still worked at the hospital and who told him the story of the Hope Shore sea squirt. Tom had passed away from colon cancer five years after the conference in Pittsburgh, and Sally had something interesting to say about the cause of death. In accordance with Tom’s wishes an autopsy had been performed on his body. Sally had prepared the pathological specimens. The cancer had not been limited to a single tumor. Instead,
it had spread throughout his colon, including many growths that were still in a precancerous state. The pathological diagnosis was hereditary colorectal polyposis—a genetically inherited disease that usually surfaced in patients while they were still relatively young. The late onset in Tom’s case remained a mystery.

That mystery grew less perplexing after John visited Dan Olson. Dan and his family had since moved to mild San Francisco. His work as a lawyer kept him busy, and his time on the island seemed a distant memory. Linda attended a local middle school and visited nearby Cleveland Clinic once per year to check for relapse. That year would be her last exam. By this point, Linda’s erstwhile battle with cancer had faded from her young mind, and she no longer even remembered her past suffering. As a patient who had experienced full recovery from late-stage neuroblastoma, Linda’s was an exceptional case. Unfortunately, no other patients were to benefit from the Olson miracle. When John asked if there was perhaps at least a small sample remaining of the Hope Shore sea squirt, Dan’s answer was a flat no.

“I sold my soul to the devil in exchange for my daughter’s life. But it was you people,” he said, a hateful gleam in his eyes, “the doctors and the researchers, who let that devil lie.” Having spoken his piece, he smiled.

As John prepared to leave, Dan shared his own theory on Tom Anderson’s death. Tom had spent his life eating the Hope Shore sea squirt. Perhaps that explained why onset was delayed in his case.

“He was a regular customer at that restaurant, and whenever a new catch would come in, he was always the first to order it. He told me once that part of the reason he became a doctor on such a small island so early in his career was because he loved seafood. And the Hope Shore sea squirt was his favorite. If they were suppressing his cancer, then that might explain his cravings.”

“I owe much to Tom Anderson,” said Dan, “and I’m the one who killed him.”

John later published an essay in
The Lancet
recounting the strange tale of the Hope Shore sea squirt. Afterwards he revisited the island several times in search of the creatures. They were, however, no longer to be found. According to John, their anti-carcinogenic properties were likely many hundredfold that of the Caribbean Sea specimen. Dan Olson, whose “selfish and unethical” behavior came under criticism from certain segments of the scientific community, also passed away this past year from stomach cancer. Desperate to save her husband, Mrs. Olson had begged Mariko to search once more for the Hope Shore sea squirt. After a week of diving without success in freezing winter seas, Mariko was forced to concede defeat. It seemed the elusive Hope Shore sea squirt had become a true enigma, forever lost to this world.

The week after Dan died, a short obituary ran in a corner of
Newsweek
about “The Man Who Saved his Daughter and No One Else.” Biting in tone, the obituary explained how, against all odds, one man had obliterated an entire species in exchange for his daughter’s life. “In short,” the piece ended, “it’s another case where the extinction of a seemingly inconsequential species has proved of tremendous misfortune to the human race.”

It was in 2005, when I came to be employed by the University of Texas, that I brought into the offices of Vertical, Inc. a puerile translation I had attempted of a story of mine. Since then, both Vertical and I have seen much, so I am all the more moved that my work is being published in English today, some ten years later. I am deeply grateful to Mr. Mentzas, who remained passionate even after changes in the company’s ownership, and Mr. Sakai, the former president. While my fiction has previously appeared in Russia and China, being published in English, the standard language of medical papers, has a special significance for someone like myself who works in the field. Though I wrote the stories in Japanese, they inhabit a space that could not be further removed from Japanese literature, which is obsessed with style; they are denizens of the anglophone sphere, likely the most amenable to describing science.

On a very personal note, that day when I brought in the manuscript, I lost something immense. Somewhere on my cab ride from New York’s Port Authority Bus Terminal to Vertical, my Olympus camera and Canon video which had captured my daughter Miyu walking for the first time went missing. Although I immediately posted this on the city’s message board, I never heard anything, and by now I’m reconciled with the probability that they’ve been burned as trash. Still, I resolved to post it in an afterword (as on an expansive message board) if and when my stories saw the light of day. Perhaps this is because loss and rebirth are eternal themes that I’ve pursued. The report on the winged mouse is certainly a tale of loss and rebirth. Loss, rebirth, loss … the final rebirth, however, never came to pass in the story.

The Center, which had been tasked with this as the base of winged mouse research, shut down on February 14, 2001 due to financial difficulties, and all that remains now is a marker on its former premises. Moreover, most of the staff from back then have left the city of Fukagawa. Yet, just as a lost memory always has a slim chance of popping back and showing its face, a winged mouse surviving somewhere might still be found and announced as the discovery of the century—or at least, I hold on to such a hope, akin to a conviction. In fact, since the explosion at the Fukushima No. 1 Nuclear Power Plant caused by the Great East Japan Earthquake, I’ve received emails about winged mice lurking under eerily glowing midwinter weed in an area with restricted access, etc. I welcome reports of sightings of winged mice, as I do any word on my camera.

Tatsuaki Ishiguro

June 2, 2015