Three Messages and a Warning (12 page)

My father, a popular political cartoonist in his time, told the story of a sixteenth century cartographer who marked the unknown sections of ocean incorporated in his works with chimerical monsters peeping out of the surface of the water. One day, the cartographer was surprised to hear of some sailors describing encounters with the creatures he had invented in the maps.

In Mr. Dobrunas’ project, the plants with altered genes appear to be more the product of a delusional whimsy than the experimental fruit of scientific erudition. At the beginning his annotations described in extravagant detail sprouts of webbed leaves emerging timidly from thousands of test tubes in a greenhouse laboratory. But a few pages later, the flowers, and then vegetables, evolved to form part of a dark, unearthly garden, composed mostly of gigantic carnivorous plants with extravagant bulbs in every color. The doctor’s spectral sketches were made with trembling lines reloaded with black ink. To read the notes, written with tiny, perfect handwriting, his digressions looked far from being scientific experiments worthy of being taken seriously. The findings focused more on a sort of metaphysics than genetic engineering. I thought about suggesting he first send the project to some specialist, but since the pay was good and immediate I decided to take the work. After that I dedicated myself to it. To give life to the improbable—the proposal wasn’t for me to judge.

A couple of weeks passed. Dobrunas appeared to be pleased with the sketches I showed him on the computer screen, and confirmed it had brought to life this insane botany he had created with adolescent enthusiasm. Later he showed up with a briefcase stuffed with notebooks, in which he had written up a more ambitious plan than I had expected.

The schizophrenic paradise of Dr. Dobrunas included vast prairies seeded with gigantic husks, growing human fetuses inside like mandrake roots. This was the principle of an eccentric vegetable bestiary, in which he described a symbiotic society between humanity and the giant plants, and included the details of a religion created for the coexistence of the two species. As an exercise of the imagination it attracted me, if it could be done with the tone of a crude B-movie, with superfluous explanations to create these creatures. But what impressed me more were the conclusions: his proposal for an ambitious plan to repopulate the Earth. No more, no less. This wasn’t a serious biology project, but a badly written space opera. I said so to Professor Melampus, but my mentor only urged my patience dealing with the matter.

One night, after finishing an illustration, I decided to put an end to the assignment. My mind couldn’t continue. I re-read some strange notebooks, impatient and bothered—I envied that will to create universes. An idea started to germinate in my head. Ignore the restrictions of the futuramas and build the foundations of a story, just as if I were recalling a strange allegory of the living moment. My illustrations began to tell a fictional story. In it, a pair of scientists confront small armies of carnivorous plants and insects in a kind of chess match, the game board an elaborate Victorian garden. The story explores a day in which the men of science drink tea and watch the events play out through enormous magnifying glasses.

Within hours I found myself capsized into the creation of my own world. Soon new ideas surged forth, and I looked for the metapolis with its marginal life, the robots confused by the instructions of their masters, the abandoned space colonies. The future followed the plan of a map of an unstable world, and without question we needed to confront it or we would have no way to avoid being swallowed by the sea monsters.

Satisfied with myself, and after a couple of days inventing excuses for the deliverables, I decided to call Dobrunas and tell him project was cancelled. Contrary to what I expected, he didn’t appear bothered and didn’t ask for any explanation, and said he’d come by to get his material in a few days. Minutes later, in another telephone call, I learned the true identity of my client from Professor Melampus.

He was not a doctor. His real name was Igor Feréz, efficient clerk in a technical bookstore near the university. Dobrunas-Igor Feréz had unsuccessfully tried to gain admittance to the biology faculty, converting himself over time into an elegant autodidact, albeit with gaps in knowledge. His obsession drove him to sneak into classes and wander the campus carrying heavy books. The research regarding the plants was his opportunity to demonstrate his intellectual capacity to the world. Upon learning this, I had a mix of pity and scorn for him. Without a doubt, while we both imagined utopias, the essential difference was that Dobrunas firmly believed in them, whereas I just treated it like any other project in which I created variations on the dreams of other people. Igor’s, while incoherent, was real in his
mind.

After almost twenty-four hours of continuous work I had a few drinks and vainly contemplated the illustrations of plants and insects at war. I found myself so pleased with them that the furor of the alcohol made me elucidate new possibilities, some more interesting or absurd than others. The ideas of Dobrunas had provoked an enormous and anguished explosion of creativity in me that I could hardly control. The doorbell broke through hysterically. Opening the door I found Dobrunas, or Igor Feréz, who, in addition to coming to get his inseparable briefcase, held a black bag in the other hand. I didn’t know what to say. In ordinary circumstances I would have asked him to come back the next day, but the alcohol had me in such a good mood that I let him in. His attitude was nervous indifference, like he was in a hurry, hardly thanking me for the work I had done up until then. He took out a wad of cash and offered it to me, staring raptly at the Chinese propaganda poster.

“I have something else for you,” he said without looking away from the poster. He took a plant in a small flower pot out of the black bag. “Tomorrow I am going to another city.”

The news took me by surprise. His gesture of courtesy moved me. But upon looking at the gift I froze. It was a carnivorous plant with the fangs closed, so small and delicate that I thought I would destroy it with my hands. I watched Igor Feréz’s eyes, and on reflection invited him for a drink—at least I could get him to explain some things to me. Wary at first, he eventually accepted, with impulsive gratitude.

He explained to me the care the plant required, as well as his personal opinion on the latest advances in genetics and how they could be employed for the benefit of mankind. Apparently the dilettante was current with everything—perhaps he didn’t miss a single popular science magazine or channel. I listened to him attentively, feeling a little dizzy from the drinks, and at some point in his talk I came to feel compassion for him. After all, nothing had to be stopped, even though it was a huge lie. He explained to me the origins of his plants: they were a species found in the desert that the botanists couldn’t classify; he was lucky. Dobrunas had gotten ahold of a greenhouse to conserve some specimens, but he needed more funding to accelerate his research. The gift that he gave me that night was part of the first generation created by Igor Feréz.

“Moreover, they communicate with me telepathically,” he said, “and tonight I realized what they were asking for—that maybe you could help me. Will you?”

As he spoke his tongue became a paste that prevented him from articulating coherent words. I only saw the small and inoffensive plant, as incapable of sending telepathic messages as I was to receive them. I decided that was enough and began to politely get rid of him. I was feeling tired and no longer wanted to continue playing his game. I pretended to believe him. I told him maybe we could continue his plants project later. Dobrunas got my message. He raised his head with dignity, got up on his feet, made an exaggerated bow to say good-bye, and left with a full glass of alcohol in his hand. He slammed the door on his way out. To me this meant the incipient reign of the carnivorous plants had come to an end.

My first professional project was to illustrate a petroleum-drilling platform. That night I dreamed of it. I descended once again in the bathysphere, and through a porthole I saw the divers laying pipes. One of them, the one swimming without equipment, was Igor Feréz.

I woke to a bug flying around my face. I felt raw, and sitting at the edge of the bed I thought about putting the day in order. I wanted to tell Professor Melampus about Igor’s decision to abandon the city. I got up to make coffee, but walking through the studio toward the kitchen I knew something was going wrong. An empty space on the wall revealed the absence of the Chinese propaganda poster. I shouted angrily, surprised. The lock on the door looked like it had been forced. Who but Igor could be responsible for this theft? I was disturbed thinking how this guy had broken into the house while I was sleeping. The idea frightened me, since you could expect anything from him. The little carnivorous plant was still on the table. I checked every corner, making sure nothing was missing. His giant briefcase was sticking out behind the sofa, like a chubby dog waiting for its owner. He had forgotten it in his drunkenness, and I was delighted about that. Without thinking about it too much I emptied its contents. I found his notebooks, with his scrupulous description of the planet he dreamed of constructing, along with a pair of classical music records, copies of the futuramas he had made, old science journals, and a beat-up manila envelope.

I was stupefied upon opening the envelope. The Polaroids inside showed adolescent girls dancing naked in a room, like fairies, each with a red handkerchief tied around her neck. There were at least six, and they looked very happy. I got excited, laughing morbidly. In another photo was Igor Feréz wearing a white robe. He appeared to be locked in an embrace with two of them. His face depicted a sinister grimace of certainty. Laughing with guffaws, I surprised myself. I decided to forget about the robbery, satisfied to know an intimate aspect of this guy, as interesting and eccentric as his world of carnivorous plants.

A week later five half-buried bodies were found in a greenhouse on the outskirts of the city. According to the news reports, all were covered in thick tangles while an army of insects feasted on them. They were young girls, with their necks cut.

It was a huge scandal. I immediately connected the news with Igor Feréz and called the police without equivocation. I asked myself what I could have done to help him when he made the proposal to me.

Thanks to Dr. Melampus I dug up other details. Of course the plant that Igor gave me that night, and others they found in his greenhouse, did not feed on human blood. That is a trait that belongs to a rare primeval species. A team of scientists headed by Melampus studied them in the hope of revealing their secrets. I never thought that these types of creatures had so much power of attraction. Now I found them fascinating. Their unconventional form, truly anomalous, is terrifying and perfect.

No one knows where to find Igor Feréz now. It’s possible he went to the planet of the mandrakes, seeding the soil to grow giant pods and dance all night with the only nymph known to have escaped with him. People can see the faces of Igor and his dead girls on television programs, documentaries, articles, bootlegs, graffiti, and T-shirts. There are even a couple of very popular songs about the case. This is how he became part of the future. Only I could have illustrated it so well.