Eutopia: A Novel of Terrible Optimism

“I guess I’m not going to be much use to you this season,” said Andrew. I guess that’s what you’re saying in your way, he added to himself.

Dr. Bergstrom had never been what Andrew would have called a strong advocate. Andrew came here on the recommendation of Dr. Albert Mercer in New York, who had reviewed his credentials on behalf of Garrison Harper. He and Dr. Bergstrom had met face to face only after Mr. Harper had hired him. Andrew suspected that if left to his own devices, Bergstrom would prefer a white doctor to assist here in Eliada, one taught in Germany like himself.

“You are correct on that count.” Bergstrom looked down at a board on his lap and cleared his throat. “Andrew—I am profoundly sorry for what happened to you out there. I saw with my own eyes what those hooligans did in the hospital. As to your experience… My God, I can only imagine.”

“It was no pleasure,” said Andrew. “But I am alive, sir. And that is more than I dared hope.”

“Quite.”

“Now,” said Andrew. “I repeat my question: what can you tell me about Mister Juke? How are his injuries?”

“Minor,” said Dr. Bergstrom. “He is recovering well.”

Andrew drew a breath.

“I understand that he was a patient in the quarantine. But I knew nothing of his arrival or his treatments there. Was I misled?”

Dr. Bergstrom did not answer him immediately. He stood up and went to the window and drew the curtain aside a few inches. He squinted outside.

“You were misled. But only through omission. The patient is something of… a project of mine. Can you understand that?”

“So far as you have just explained. But there are questions. This Mister Juke—”

“Please. Do not call him that. It’s offensive.”

“That’s not his name?”

“No. That is what some of the others who work here named him. Mister Juke.” Dr. Bergstrom spat the words. “As though he is some degenerate.”

“Degenerate?” Andrew blinked. “Oh,” he said. “He’s named for the Jukes. Those Jukes.”

Dr. Bergstrom smiled. “You are familiar with Richard Dugdale’s book? I’d not think one such as you would find time for that sort of reading.”

“By one such as me I suppose you mean ‘Negro,’ and by ‘that sort of reading’ I am guessing you mean eugenics.” Andrew chuckled. “Dr. Bergstrom, if we all only read what sat easily with us, how would we advance? I read his book—what was it? The Jukes: something-or-other.”

“A Study in Crime, Pauperism, Disease and Heredity,” said Dr. Bergstrom.

“I read it on the ship back from France. I was inclined to toss it into the Atlantic. The notion of a family of congenital criminals struck me as—”

“Dangerous?”

“Improbable. Fanciful. Is this poor fellow thought to be a Juke?”

Dr. Bergstrom shook his head. “No. I am certain he is not. What he is, is a poor man beset by idiocy and infirmity. And certain—irregularities in his anatomy.”

“Irregularities?”

Dr. Bergstrom ignored him. “He was brought here in the winter, found wandering in the cold. I—I took him in. But I felt it was best that he remain in the quarantine, until I knew more about him. Others here—well, it became something of a joke. At the poor patient’s expense; eventually, I suppose, at nearly the cost of his life. And yours. He’s no Juke, though. Whatever that is. That I can say for certain.”

“I would not worry about his infirmities,” said Andrew. “He had a queer look about him. But I saw that fellow survive a hanging.”

“Did you?” Dr. Bergstrom tucked his clipboard under his arm, dropped his hands into his coat pockets. He regarded Andrew quietly.

“I saw it.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” said Dr. Bergstrom, “about things that you think you saw at the hanging tree. The patient suffered some injuries about his neck. But obviously, the hooligans did not have the opportunity to tighten the noose much before Mr. Green and his men came upon you.”

“I—”

“You are mistaken, Andrew.”

“I think I am not,” said Andrew, adding pointedly: “Dr. Bergstrom.” White men had too easy a time addressing him by his Christian name; Nils Bergstrom was not the first. But Andrew was not going to let it pass.

Dr. Bergstrom cleared his throat. “Well the important element is that the patient survived. As did you. That is more than we can say for Maryanne Leonard, though. Isn’t it?”

Andrew didn’t answer that one.

“Oh, I am not accusing you of anything,” said Bergstrom. “Do not fear that, Dr. Waggoner. You had jotted a theory in your notes, that someone had attempted—how shall we say it—kitchen table surgery on the girl?”

“A home abortion,” said Andrew. “That was my diagnosis. Someone had taken a knife, or a hook, or something like it, and used it to scrape her uterus. In so doing, they had—torn her. Punctured her abdomen.”

“Did she tell you this? Before she succumbed?”

“No. She wasn’t coherent. But you must have examined the body by now. You can’t dispute—”