The End of Men(14)
My boss is expecting me back in three weeks, in time to start work again by January. “The European Plague is going to die out, Elizabeth. It’s clearly got some kind of genetic component.” His arrogance is breathtaking. He’s not a geneticist and neither am I. I aspire to think so much of my own opinion that, having never even seen it under a microscope, I can blithely reassure someone that a virus has a genetic element, using the justification of an area of science I don’t even have a master’s in. I know for certain that this is where I need to be. What’s the point in having spent nine years getting my undergrad degree, master’s and PhD specializing in vaccine development if not to help find a cure for a disease? This is what I did all of that work for. It’s not just to have certificates on the wall.
It’s lucky that I even saw the e-mail from Dr. Kitchen. I had been covering for Jim—who’s such a moron I still can’t believe that he a) got into Yale; b) works at the Centers for Disease Control and c) has the same job as me. In his e-mail, Dr. Kitchen sounded desperate and sensible and reasonable and terrified.
Two incredibly awkward conversations involving my dubious bosses, a long-haul flight and a car ride later and here I am. In the week since I responded to Dr. Kitchen and arranged this trip the crisis here has worsened. Back home the racist rhetoric is predictably ramping up. It’s not our Plague, it’s not our problem. This is happening to the UK because of all those African and Middle Eastern immigrants. It’s not going to happen to us. We’re going to keep them out. I’m banning flights from London as soon as I can. It hasn’t happened yet but a growing part of me is worried that my return ticket for a flight home will lose any power to get me there. As I stare up at the imposing white stone of Whitehall I’m overcome by a wave of homesickness. What am I doing here? I could be in my lovely garden back home, picking tomatoes and spinach and scallions from the soil for my dinner. Instead I shiver as I’m led through the door into a vast hallway and through a never-ending warren of corridors.
I’m still wondering why Dr. Kitchen’s office is in this massive building when the door to a conference room opens and I’m being introduced by an English man who’s saying something about a delegation from the CDC. Oh, excellent, there must be someone else more senior here.
Sixteen sets of eyes look at me expectantly. I look around the room eagerly waiting for my fellow American to stand up and introduce themselves to me. Dr. Kitchen—I assume that’s him anyway—says, “Elizabeth? Elizabeth Cooper? It is you, isn’t it?”
Shit. They think, wait, no. What? They think I’m the CDC delegation.
“Yes, it’s me,” I say dumbly and, as I always do when I’m nervous, smile as though friendliness can solve even the most challenging of professional debacles. Get it together Elizabeth, Jesus Christ. “Apologies, I’m a little jet-lagged. Let me just grab a cup of coffee and . . .”
A cup of coffee appears in front of me and I’m sitting at the table and Dr. Kitchen is looking at me as though I’m meant to be saying something but I have absolutely no idea what. This is literally a stress dream I’ve had before, coming true. Dr. George Kitchen, according to his biography on the UCL website where he is a professor, has two PhDs, in the genetic abnormalities leading to susceptibility to infection and vaccine development. Why is he looking at me like I have the answers?
“Ms. Cooper, what is your background?” asks a small, curly-haired lady who looks thoroughly unimpressed with me. I try to read the card on the table in front of her with her name and job title on it as subtly as possible. Mary Denholm, Health Secretary. Great. I’m looking like an idiot in front of one of the most powerful politicians in the UK.
“I’m a pathologist at the CDC, specializing in virus identification and vaccine development,” I say, omitting the word “junior” from my job title. “I have a PhD from Stanford in vaccine development, and I’m here to do whatever I can to help.”
“Perfect,” Mary says. “You’re exactly the kind of person we need. What other resources are the CDC providing?”
Absolutely nothing besides me? “I think that’s still not been decided. For now, it’s just me.” I’m not normally the kind of person who implies that the national organization she works for might be providing help that it absolutely doesn’t intend to, but it seems to placate her.
Dr. Kitchen shoots me a grateful smile and then I get it. Understanding dawns; I’m not here to help, not really. He doesn’t need me. He needs the impression that the CDC is helping. Part of me is completely baffled that, in a time of crisis, the political showmanship that’s endemic in public institutions is still happening. Part of me is impressed he’s so quickly managed to manipulate me without even saying a word.
I remember that his biography also mentioned he used to be a psychiatrist before switching to infectious diseases. Go figure.
I quickly gather that the task force that has been set up between Public Health England and the Hospital for Infectious Disease has nothing. A series of old white men in suits, professors at the best universities in England, give presentations in impenetrable language. The messages could be summarized as: we don’t know why it only affects men, we don’t have a cure yet, we haven’t even figured out the beginning of a vaccine because this virus multiplies 1.8 times faster than HIV and we’ve only just started to identify enough men who are suspected to be immune to test their blood and DNA to see if the key to a vaccine or treatment is in immunity, if it even exists.