Aldaraia: Matthew Bishop, #1

Prologue

Krakow, Poland, Fall 1604

Occult philosopher John Dee walked along the dark, narrow backstreets of Krakow. At his age, the cobblestones—wet and slippery from two days of continuous rain—made walking a challenge. Using his cane like a blind man tapping out steps, he struggled to keep up with the young lantern bearer he had hired to show him the way, but then, after turning into a street so narrow it was little more than an alleyway, the lantern bearer stopped fifty feet ahead of him in front of a store window. Behind the glass there was light from a single candle. Dee looked up to read the sign above them, ‘Biblioteka Łaski.’

For a moment he thought about what brought him here. What other option did he have? The secret he carried with him was too big to be kept untold. But what was the world going to do with it? Who was ready for it? What would happen to the world if it became public? Who was to decide who would live or die? He knew he didn’t have the time to find out. Someone else would have to decide for him.

Without saying a word, he reached for the purse hanging from the belt holding his leather raincoat closed. He took out a fifty groszy silver coin and offered it to the young lantern bearer who immediately snatched it from his gloved hand and ran, leaving Dee without light and standing alone in the rain. He leaned against the shop window and raised his hands to his temples as he peered inside.

Could there be anyone working at this time in the evening? he wondered. And what would he do if there wasn’t? Where could he go? How much time did he really have? Suddenly, a flicker of light caught his attention as it bounced off the wall from the rear of the store. Dee picked up his cane and tapped at the glass to announce himself. When nothing happened, he tapped again, slightly harder, but carefully in case the copper head of his cane, which resembled a dragon’s tail, damaged the glass. A second later, a shadow approached from the back of the store. Dee watched the hulking figure take the burning candle and hold it aloft toward the window pane. Almost immediately, Olbracht Łaski recognized his old friend and hurried to open the entrance door to the right of the window.

Come in quickly, you’re getting soaked, Łaski said kindly as he opened the door, his mind racing with questions. It had been such a long time. Show me yourself. Is it really you?

Łaski removed the sopping wet scarf from his old friend’s neck and held the candle up to Dee’s face. I cannot believe it. It is really you. You look awful. Come, let me take you some place warmer, where you can dry. You must be freezing.

Directing Dee with a gentle hand on the shoulder, he raised his candle with the other hand and guided him to the back of the store, passing row upon row of books covered in gold leaf. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of books and the light of the candle bounced off each and every one of the gold pressed titles as they passed, like sparks playing over a campfire. As they walked, Dee stumbled several times over stacks of books piled on the floor, some so high they might be used as chairs.

Łaski opened a door leading to a backroom that was well lit by oil lamps and a huge roaring fire. Sit, John, my friend, he ordered as he pulled a simple wooden chair closer to the fireplace. Dee glanced about him, noticing there wasn’t one book in the room. In fact, the room was almost completely empty but for two chairs, one of which he was about to sit on. After taking off his gloves and coat, Dee grunted as it took a moment to kneel in front of the warmth. The book collector reached for the kettle hanging over the fireplace and poured hot coffee into a red clay cup with a shining silver edge.

Thank you, Dee said as he took hold of the cup, cradling it with both hands so the heat might thaw his frozen fingers. I see you still misuse the tea set I gave you to drink this filth you call coffee.

When Łaski last left England, Dee presented him with a red stoneware tea set decorated with silver. As it was the first of its kind to be fired with such detail it made the gift all the more prestigious and collectible.

I’m sorry. Łaski gave a small smile. So, how is it that you show up at my home with no announcement? Have you come from England? Before Dee had a chance to answer, Łaski stroked his thick, long beard, all fifteen inches of it, and continued speaking. No, don’t tell me. That assistant of yours, what’s his name, Conly? Kerry? No wait, Kelley. Edward Kelley. That’s him. Did he convince you that we need to work on some kind of divine project again? Has he been speaking to his old friend the Archangel Uriël again? Łaski laughed good-naturedly although he would have had good reason not to be so forgiving.

***

When Dee and Kelley last visited Łaski, some fifteen years ago, the visit had been prompted by Uriël—the angel tasked with guarding the Gate to Eden with his fiery sword. Uriël had apparently told Kelley that he should accompany Dee to Poland and share all of their possessions with Łaski, including their wives. Though it had seemed a good idea at the time, it eventually cost Łaski his marriage and sons.

Once his laughter had subsided, Łaski apologized because Dee’s face made it clear he was in no mood for humor. Okay, tell me. What are you up to?

Thank you, my old friend, Dee replied.

For what? Łaski asked as he pulled a chair up to the fire.

For letting me in, getting me warm and finally shutting up so I might explain.

Łaski grinned. This was the John Dee he knew; a serious man with a sneering sense of humor. Ever the gentleman, he was also a man of immense imagination, more than was possibly good for him at times. It was his appointment as court astronomer, mathematician and astrologer to Queen Elizabeth of England that had made him rich enough to indulge his peculiar obsessions and since then he had traveled the world, exploring the crossroads between science and magic. As a result, he had become a believer in some quite extravagant theories surrounding a number of religious, hermetic and esoteric practices. But, by and large, Dee had been nothing but a good and sincere friend to him over the years. I’ll shut up. The big man smiled. I’ll shut up for as long as you need me to shut up.

That’s helpful because I’m dying. He paused for a moment. I’m dying and I may not have too much time left. As Dee spoke he kept his face and voice emotionless. I’m almost eighty-one years old and this disease within me is finally getting the upper hand. Still, I need you one more time.

I’m sorry to hear that, Łaski replied softly.

Do you remember our last conversation by letter?

Łaski paused for a moment. It must have been over a year ago, but I seem to recollect you wanting to translate some kind of secret or sacred text that apparently holds all the secrets to the universe. Do you mean that one?

Dee replied to his friend’s sarcasm with a sly smile before slowly nodding his head. "Yes, that one. And the secret text you’re referring to is known as the Aldaraia sive Soyga vocor, or as you called it, The Book of Soyga."

Ah yes, now it comes back to me, Łaski said. Wasn’t it some kind of manuscript by an unknown author of an unknown origin and written in code. What of it? I thought you had already decoded it?

I did most of the decoding, something that took the better part of two years, and from my work I would say the larger part of the text is a basic treatise about alchemy written in a Latin alphabet governed by the laws of arithmetic. Basically, they changed numbers for letters and hid the message in all manner of calculations. Then, they changed the direction of the text to read right to left, like in Hebrew writing.

What did it say?

Łaski was always intrigued whenever Dee dug up some weird text or ancient scripture, and he dug up a lot. When he was in his prime, Dee’s library contained more than 3,000 printed books and 1,000 manuscripts, all kept at his home in Mortlake, London. A lot of the works were of an occult nature, describing various prophecies or new routes to heaven or how and when the world might end.

The text was mostly concerned with instructions on magic. Incantations, basic astrology, demonology, that kind of thing. But nothing that really excited me in anyway except....

Except? Łaski prompted when his friend fell silent.

Except for the last pages. I couldn’t figure out the last thirty-six pages. They were so different to what had gone before. Each page was made up of thirty-six rows and thirty-six columns filled with more than 45,000 letters in Latin. I had no clue as to what they stood for, well, not until a while ago.

Dee reached for his leather overcoat on the floor and from one of its pockets took out a leather-bound scroll tied together by a shoelace.

This is it. Everything, he said, and he handed Łaski the scroll. When his friend started to pick at the lace he reached out a hand to stop him. Please, open it later when I’m gone. But it was too late. The lace came away and as it did something made of glass dropped on the stone floor.

What’s this? Łaski asked, picking up the diamond shaped, emerald-colored crystal.

Please, put it back, Dee almost begged. You’ll find out when you read everything.

Łaski frowned as he looked at Dee. Why don’t you just tell me what’s inside? To please his friend, he didn’t unroll the scroll and he placed the crystal back inside of it.

A few months ago, I decided that all the standard decrypting tools were never going to solve this problem so I started experimenting with other tools, which is when I found it.

Found what?

The cypher. But that’s not important right now. Everything you need to decipher the last part of the book is in that scroll in your hands.

So, what did it say? Is it another doomsday message? Łaski looked at Dee, his eyes wide with interest as he anticipated another dark and captivating story.

The text can be whatever you want it to be—for good or for bad, or for very bad. So, here’s where you have a decision to make.

Confused, Łaski held Dee’s gaze trying to understand whatever it was his friend was cryptically trying to tell him. Although Dee had always been a serious man, there was a hint of sadness in his eyes, perhaps even fear, and this scared him a little.

I’m not going to tell you what it says, Dee continued. Like I said, the answers to all your questions are in that scroll. It’s up to you how much you may want to know.

That bad, huh? he asked, unable to hide the skepticism in his voice. In fact, the only thing that kept him from ripping the folder right open, there and then, was that Dee had all too often presented him with packages of intrigue only to discover they involved little more than fanciful tales built on beliefs, not facts. Łaski was a religious man, but he was also a scientist and he knew the difference between evidence-based proof and the unsubstantiated power of belief.

What you hold could be that bad, yes, but it could also be the biggest blessing mankind will ever receive. It all depends on the hands that turn the wheel. Listen, I know you’re skeptical and you have every right to be considering our past so the only thing I’m asking of you is that you keep an open mind and look at the facts when I’m gone.

Well, I must say I’m flattered that you trust me with this, but... what do you want me to do with it?

As you know, ever since my first wife died, much of my family has gone the same way. For the most part, I have fallen out of grace and....

Sadly, the Black Death brought a curse on us all, but more so on you, my friend, and my heart aches for you.

Thank you. I know you care and I’m grateful for that. Unfortunately, my remaining two sons, Rowland and Arthur, have both turned to a life of crime. There’s also my daughter Katherine, but well.... Dee stopped talking and stared into the fire.

I’m sorry to hear of your troubles, John. All of them.

Dee’s fall from grace at the English court was no secret. Even Łaski had heard of it through the Polish grapevine, and he had at first assumed this was the reason for his friend’s overly glum demeanor. Now it was clear, the sadness he had seen in Dee’s eyes was more than bruised pride; it was grief. This man who had once had everything had lost everything.

I’m okay, Dee lied, reaching over to place a hand on his friend’s shoulder as tears sprang to the big man’s eyes.

This is all wrong. Łaski sniffed, resting his head on Dee’s hand. It should be me comforting you.

Not at all. I understand too well how you feel, Dee replied. But I’ve had my time and I’m ready for the next life that awaits me.

A few minutes passed before the men gathered themselves enough to sit back in their chairs, returning their eyes to the fire because it seemed easier than waiting to see who would speak first. In the end, they both spoke at once.

What do you....

So, I guess....

Please, allow me, Dee requested. I have come to beg a favor of you. As he paused for breath, a cough rattled his chest, leaving him gasping for air.

Here, drink some water. It’s fresh from the rain. Łaski quickly handed him a tin cup filled from a bowl standing next to the fire. Are you okay?

Obviously not, Dee half-laughed. "But I’ll hold on for as long as this takes. Now, that favor. I need you to keep the Soyga for me until Katherine reaches her twenty-first year. That’s seven years from now."

You don’t trust her with it?

She’s a child with all the naiveties that go with that age. I trust in two things. One, that she will be older and wiser at twenty-one. And two, in you and your judgment and that you will know whether she is ready or not when that time comes and act accordingly.

When that time comes I might well be dead and buried. Łaski placed both hands on his belly and patted his large gut to emphasize his point.

Olbracht Łaski, you’re like a rat. Every time they think they have destroyed you, you come back from the dead.

Dee was alluding to Łaski’s failed coup attempt on the Polish throne some twenty-five years previously. After being banished for ten years he was eventually allowed to return and a few years ago he was even reinstated as a nobleman—a count no less. Even so, after the fallout with his family Łaski preferred to live his life surrounded by books, with no one to irritate him and as far away as possible from anything that might accelerate the end of his miserable existence.

My guess is that you will live to a hundred years enjoying optimum health, Dee predicted.

Maybe you are right, but I’m guessing your faith in me has little to do with my potential longevity and more to do with you having no one else to turn to.

There is that, Dee acknowledged with a smile. So, will you help me?

Of course I will help you. But I cannot promise that I won’t take a peek at these papers.

I know you and therefore I trust you to do just that, and you’ll see that I’m right. Also, in the folder is a letter to my daughter explaining everything.

I’m sure there is.

Łaski rose from his chair and walked back into his bookstore. When he closed the door behind him, Dee grew curious, even more so when he heard stacks of books being dragged from one place to another. ‘Do jasnej cholery!’ Dee heard Łaski shout. He didn’t know the meaning, but he had heard the same phrase in other unfavorable situations. For ten minutes, Łaski disappeared and then, just as Dee decided to take a look, the door opened and Łaski re-entered the room laughing.

Look here! I’m sure you will appreciate this. Łaski triumphantly held aloft an old terracotta jug bearing a dark red wax seal. On one side of the jug was the Star of David pressed into the clay. Łaski walked up to Dee and handed it over.

You remember this? Łaski asked.

Dee remembered the jug very well. Łaski had brought it back with him following one of his many travels to the Holy Land where it was probably used as a burial gift. He tried to give it to Dee when he first came to England almost thirty years ago in order to persuade the Muscovy Company to stop selling arms to Ivan the Terrible. While there, he visited Dee in London and gave him the jug. It was a bribe, of course; a feeble attempt to convince Dee to move to Poland and help him with his research into alchemy. Dee not only refused the jug, but accused him of grave robbery. Even so, he did go to Poland with him.

You old grave robber, Dee joked. He took hold of the jug, immediately noticing how heavy it was. Have you put something inside?

After you went back to England that first visit, I fermented and distilled the best sugar beets I could find and made the finest vodka possible. I filled the jug knowing there would come a day when you and I would look back at our first meeting, and here we are and here it is—thirty-year-old original beet vodka matured in terracotta. Łaski reached for two small pottery jars. Tomorrow I’ll take care of your message.

Dee nodded with gratitude and smiled as he cracked the seal from the jug. He then poured the milky liquid into Łaski’s small jars.

Łaski raised his cup to make a toast. Today we drink to all that is past and to whatever will pass from this day on, and to that which has made us who we are and who we ever shall be.

I’ll drink to that, Dee said, and they both drank their jars dry in one go.

Chapter 1 – The Auction

London, 2008

A black cab, clearly in a hurry, passed St James’s Palace, the oldest royal palace in the United Kingdom that was once home to England’s royalty, including Henry III and Queen Elizabeth I.

If only these walls could talk, thought Robert Porter, watching the palace disappear from view as the cab turned a corner to take them to St James’s Street. Porter gave a wry smile—St James’s Palace, St James’s Square, St James’s Square Garden—it was no wonder he always got lost as a kid when his father was stationed there with the US military. It wasn’t just the repetitive street names either; the narrow streets and tall, Georgian and Tudor-era buildings had also worked to throw him off track more times than he could remember.

After the hackney carriage turned onto the corner of St James’s Street and King Street, Porter tapped on the partition to stop the driver.

That’ll be nine-fifty, the man said. Though clearly of Indian descent his accent was firmly east London. Doing a bit of shopping, are you?

Who knows, Porter said as he handed him a ten-pound note.

Can you believe that? asked the cabby as Porter’s eyes glanced at an advertisement on the divider for a movie called Lost in Austen.

Excuse me?

The advert, the driver replied. I saw you looking at it. That’s supposed to be Jane Austen. He pointed at the movie poster. I sometimes wonder how these great authors, who wrote such classics as Pride and Prejudice, would feel if they saw our modern take on their stories and lives.

You like Jane Austen’s ‘Pride and Prejudice?’

Sure, who doesn’t?

Porter nodded politely as he opened the door and left the cab, but in truth he had never cared much for the British classics even though he owned some very fine leather-bound first editions in his book collection. But reading them....

As Porter stepped onto the pavement he knew he cut a fairly impressive figure: tall, slender, athletic and dressed as only a man with money could be dressed. He glanced up at the face of the building standing on the corner. He must have passed this building more than a thousand times during his childhood as he rode his bike to and from school. The name Christie’s was emblazoned in gold embossed letters in the window, a little below an old-looking clock that showed it was 11:15. Clearly, he would have to hurry if he wanted to be in time for the auction. As he walked up to the entrance he looked at the words carved in stone above the huge doors: King St Chambers. Porter had read somewhere that this was where the seventeenth century’s most celebrated lawyers used to meet when the area became a residential favorite of the British aristocracy. As he recalled this information, his mind conjured up images of mahogany rooms filled with brown leather Chesterfield chairs sat on by men dressed in gray wigs sipping from tumblers of whiskey.

Hurry, he reprimanded himself, cursing his easily distracted mind.

Through the large doorway Porter entered an almost perfect white hallway with wooden beams supported by white columns. A sign next to the impressive brown staircase in the center of the room read ‘Olbracht Łaski.’ Next to the name, a brass arrow pointed upstairs and Porter looked up to see a number of men and women shuffling around with drinks in their hands like at a reception. Walking up the stairs, he was relieved to see he was in the right place after recognizing the Spanish agent Valeria Gomez standing in the far corner. A gun for hire, Valeria was usually brought in by large bidders to act on their behalf at auctions all over the world. To Valeria’s right, not far from him, he noticed Nicolas Lane. The American was a well-known collector of antiquities. Porter could almost smell the money in the room. In contrast to the others, he was a relatively small player, but he assumed these guys would be here for the bigger, more popular items up for auction.

The auction of Olbracht Łaski collectibles was the first time the property of the sixteenth-century nobleman had come up for sale publicly. This once-influential Polish family had seemingly vanished from the earth sometime in the late 1700s. Then, roughly two years ago, a farmer just outside Krakow stumbled upon Łaski’s belongings when part of a cornfield caved in on his land. Once excavated, the farmer discovered six stacks of leather suitcases containing books, papers, scrolls and alchemy equipment such as Erlenmeyer-like flasks and other small distilling apparatus. The farmer brought in a local antique dealer who gave him 370 zloty for the lot, roughly $100. Two years and three sales later, the farmer’s haul found its way to Christie’s with an estimated price tag of £1.5 million, about $1.95 million.

Making his way to a table placed a little in front of the entrance to the auction room, Porter identified himself to the lady sitting there. He handed over a form, which she exchanged for a white paddle bearing the number 13 in red. It didn’t seem the best omen, but perhaps he was being overly superstitious. Porter had always been interested in numbers and what they meant or signified in different cultures. In the realm of tarot cards, 13 stood for death, and in many western cultures it was considered bad luck to dine with thirteen people at one table. This superstition found its roots in the Last Supper. Judas Iscariot was considered the thirteenth guest, and of the twelve disciples he was the one that betrayed Jesus. Even so, it was remarkable how far the superstition traveled. At London’s Savoy Hotel, a table booked for thirteen will always be set for fourteen guests. Actually, he couldn’t think of even one example where the number 13 had a positive connotation. Porter looked at the paddle again, thinking there was little he could do about it now and with a resigned air, he took his seat in the auction room.

As the last bell sounded, the room quickly began to fill. Seconds later, the large, mahogany wood doors slammed shut behind him with a heavy bang. As was customary, they wouldn’t open again until the last hammer fell. The auctioneer, a typical Brit with a large side parting comb-over in his hair and a tweed jacket from Cordings that perfectly complemented a pair of classic Oxford shoes, took his position on the podium at the front of the room behind the auction block. Above his head, on a large video screen, were the words Olbracht Łaski, nobleman, alchemist and courtier. There was also an image of Łaski’s large and long bearded head in the form of a charcoal sketch.

Porter took one more look around the room, sizing up the competition. If he guessed correctly, he had a good chance of getting what he came for. He figured that most of the bidders would be looking to acquire the unique collection of first editions on sale. But not Porter; his mind was set on a small metal case containing a few old papers and correspondence from Łaski. To the best of his knowledge, the papers had been researched and found to be ‘of little or no consequence’ which meant they had little or no historical value. This also led Porter to believe the papers might go cheaply.

After a short introduction explaining that Łaski was one of history’s best known alchemists, the auctioneer’s assistant placed Lot Number One on the auction block. It was a Wenceslas Bible, one of the earliest German translations of the Bible dating back to the 1390s, and it was in remarkably good condition. It was only the second copy known to exist in the world. As the authenticity could not be established unconditionally, the item was being sold ‘as is.’

So, we are underway and we start the bidding on this remarkable item at £5,000. The auctioneer paused to look around the room. 5,000 over there, he said, pointing his hammer at the first bidder. 6,000... 7,000... 10,000... As the auctioneer was kept busy, the screen above him recorded each new bid in seven different currencies including dollars, euros, yen and rubles. When the bidding reached £60,000 the room went silent. Does no one have the common sense to further bid for this magnificent, once-in-a-lifetime item? In that case, going once, going twice... he circled his hammer threatening above the small wooden desk before bringing it down with a loud bang. Sold, to the gentleman in the front row.

Porter sat through the complete two hours of the auction, watching books go for amounts between £10,000 and £80,000 and at times his mind began to wander, such as the moment the Aztecs popped into his head. The Aztecs considered 13 to be sacred. For them, it was the number of time and it meant completion. This knowledge brought him some kind of relief.

Lot item Number 212, the last item of the day. As the auctioneer spoke, Porter shifted to the edge of his seat. A tin metal box, approximately eleven by four by one and a half inches, containing a total of six original sixteenth- or seventeenth-century documents, amongst them, handwritten letters by the count himself. The documents contain texts in Polish, English and Latin. Porter glanced to the left and right of him to see if anyone else had shifted on their seats. The room appeared calm which was in stark contrast to the tension that had thickened the air for the previous couple of hours. Unsurprisingly, Porter considered this to be a good thing and possibly advantageous. Still, he could feel the anticipation coursing through his veins as he waited for the opening bid.

Let’s open bidding on this curious item at £1,500. In a fraction of a second, before Porter even had the chance to raise his hand the auctioneer awarded the first bid to a red-haired woman in matching red dress sitting five seats to the left of him. Porter leaned forward to look at the woman. He didn’t recognize her and leaned back into his seat as the auctioneer continued. Will anyone give me £2,500? Porter raised his arm and within a second the auctioneer confirmed the bid. £3,500? After a few seconds the woman raised her hand again. Porter assumed that the pause was the result of her checking out the room for other potential bidders. Since nobody reacted, Porter concluded it was going to be a contest between him and the young woman, and he considered himself lucky. £5,000. Do I have anyone at £5,000? Porter bid again, and before he knew it the unexpected bidding war had pushed the price up £20,000, in favor of the lady. The auctioneer looked at Porter and without saying anything he opened his arms, inviting another bid. A few seconds passed and just as the auctioneer was about to raise his hammer, Porter called out £25,000. The screen above the auctioneer’s head flashed up $33,000 and everyone’s attention shifted to the woman, who after a long moment, crossed her hands, symbolizing the bidding war was over.

The auctioneer brought his gavel down on the block. Sold to the gentleman holding number thirteen.

Immediately after the doors reopened, the room emptied. When Porter queued at the table to make payment and sort the shipping arrangements, he noticed the woman in red who had bid against him furtively looking his way. He smiled playfully and gave a friendly nod, which was met by an icy stare and an unflinching face. The woman turned and walked down the stairs, leaving Porter somewhat stunned. Poor loser, he mumbled.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Porter returned to his hotel. He felt that tomorrow he would have even more reason to be pleased when he would finally begin the journey back home to the US. As well as seeing his wife and daughter again, he was especially looking forward to studying the documents he had bought in London. Although he mainly collected rare books, this time he had other plans for the papers. They wouldn’t simply be put on display.

A little over twenty hours after his victory at Christie’s, Porter found himself sitting in another taxi, but this time he was heading up Livingston Street watching his home back in the US loom into view. Although he still enjoyed traveling he was also a family man, and the two extremes of his life often played on his mind. Whenever he was away he couldn’t wait to get home to New Haven in Connecticut. But whenever he was home, after a few months, he was always looking for another excuse to get back on the road.

The taxi stopped in front of ‘Swan House,’ the luxury home once owned by a Court of Appeals judge called Thomas Walter Swan. No sooner had he opened the door than his wife, Sylvia, and his 15-year-old daughter rushed out to greet him. Porter got out of the taxi and walked up to Sylvia, dropping his suitcase on the path to gather her in his arms.

It’s good to see you again, Sylvia whispered as they hugged each other firmly.

It’s good to see you again, too, he replied and he reached out to pull his daughter into the hug—unaware that across the street from them someone was taking photographs of their reunion through the tinted windows of a car.

Let’s get inside, Porter said as he picked up his suitcase.

How long are you here for, Dad? his daughter Jennifer asked.

I don’t have any plans to leave anytime soon again, dear, he replied, trying to sound reassuring.

It’s okay, Dad. I understand.

Chapter 2 – The Legacy

New Haven, CT, USA, 2018

A young woman barged through the doors of Yale New Haven Hospital, her long blonde hair waving behind her. Clearly knowing where she was going, she raced past the atrium and the café, took a sharp right and hurried up to the Smilow Cancer Hospital, which became part of Yale University’s hospital in 2009. The fourteen-story, 500,000-square-foot clinic—largely made possible by the hundreds of millions of dollars donated by former Playtex CEO and Yale alumni Joel E. Smilow—heralded a new era of cutting-edge research, advanced cancer treatment and humane patient care. Reaching Yale New Haven Hospital’s north pavilion, the young woman came to a halt at the front desk. The receptionist eyed the attractive, if sweaty woman gasping for breath before her. It was a full minute before she was able to ask for directions.

You need the third floor, room 301, the receptionist replied. Take the elevator to your right.

The young woman immediately started running again, this time toward the elevator, just reaching it in time to throw an arm between the closing doors. Apologizing to the people inside, she joined them and pressed the still-unlit button for the third floor before urgently pressing the close door button more than a few times. Some seconds later, the doors closed and she released a huge sigh, noticing the whiteness of the finger that had been pressing so hard on the buttons.

It took only seconds to reach the third floor, but it felt like an eternity to the young woman and when the loud ping signaled their arrival she pushed through the doors even before they were fully open.

Ahead of her was a sign that read 300-324 with an arrow pointing left and another reading 325+ with an arrow pointing right. Still struggling for breath, she ran into the first room on the left where a woman somewhere in her fifties was sitting in front of a closed curtain, behind which indistinct voices could be heard discussing medical matters. The room wasn’t a typical hospital room; it was made to look as much as possible like a combination of a normal living room and a bedroom. Only the presence of medical equipment—such as monitors and infusion devises—revealed its true purpose, but they were more or less obscured by an IKEA-like landscape painting of the Manhattan skyline in black and white. The walls were also decorated with wood paneling painted in pastels.

The young woman turned to the older woman in the room. What uhhh?

We don’t know yet, the older woman replied as she tapped her hand on the seat next to her, inviting the young woman to sit down. This morning your dad didn’t respond when I tried to wake him up so I called 911 and they brought him here again.

Do they know anything yet?

If they do, they’re not telling me. They ran some scans on him earlier, but they haven’t revealed the results yet.

With a loud swoosh, the curtain in front of them opened and two nurses and a doctor emerged. Behind them, on a bed, was Robert Porter lying motionless, looking pale, his eyes closed.

Is he uh...? Sylvia Porter stammered.

Are you family? the doctor asked as the two nurses left the room.

Sylvia Porter, Robert’s wife, she said by way of introduction. And this is our daughter, Jennifer.

As she nodded to the doctor, Jennifer thought back to the last time she had really felt like a daughter. She had always enjoyed a good relationship with her parents, but three years ago, at nineteen, she had grabbed the opportunity to move out of the family home in New Haven to live on the university’s campus as an undergraduate in anthropology. Fascinated with languages, but even more by how language influenced social life, she had chosen to major in linguistic anthropology and right from the start of her academic career she had planned to spend a fourth year traveling in Europe. The need to travel was something she had inherited from her father.

For the past ten years Jennifer had known her father as a weak and ill man. It made her think of her father as frail and always in need of some form of medical care, a man who experienced more incoherent periods than coherent. He was suffering from all kinds of weird illnesses or new types of cancer. As the years went by it became harder for her to remember the strong father of her early teens. The father she had always pictured as some kind of Indiana Jones. At school, when she was asked what kind of work her father did, she would always describe him like the movie character. In truth, she never exactly knew what he did in those days, and when she was old enough and curious enough to ask he had already fallen ill. Jennifer shook her head to concentrate on what the medic was saying, a man who had introduced himself as Dr. Weston.

"I’m afraid I cannot give you any definitive news yet, but honesty obligates me to tell you it doesn’t look good. Though I’m new to the hospital and Robert’s case, I have studied his medical files. I see