The Man Without a Shadow (8 page)

THE SPECIAL CASE.
“We'll be famous one day, Eli! You and me.”

“Will we!”—E.H. smiles at Margot Sharpe affably if perplexedly.

“You are a ‘special case'—you must know. This is why we've
been studying you for years. We are challenging the belief that complex memories are distributed throughout the cerebral cortex—not localized in a small area. We think that you suggest otherwise, Eli!”

“‘Memory'—‘cere-bral cor-tex.'” E.H. pronounces these words as if he has never heard them before. As if they are words in a foreign language, incomprehensible to him. He laughs at Margot with a kind of childlike delight which is troubling to Margot, who knows that the
essential E.H.
is a much more intelligent person, given to irony.

Is it a game he is playing with us, continuously inventing a personality like a shield?

A personality that does not offend. Inspires sympathy, not cruelty.

As if he can read Margot's thoughts E.H. says, with a frown and a wink, “Well—if you think so, Doctor—I am happy for you. I am happy for the future of neuroscience.”

Of course—it is not advised to speak with subjects about the nature of the experiments in which they are involved. Such exchanges remind Margot uneasily of brain surgery: the skull sawed open, the living brain exposed, but since there is no pain (
why no pain?—
one has to marvel) the patient is kept conscious and the surgeon can speak to him during the operation.

Margot wonders: What is the protocol for such brain surgery? Do the surgeon and his assistants
chat
with the immobilized patient, or is the exchange elevated, grave? A patient so self-aware as Elihu Hoopes might wish to entertain with comical monologues, impersonations of Jimmy Durante, Jack Benny and Rochester, Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca—(as he has been doing lately at the Institute in the interstices of test-taking) . . .

Margot chooses to laugh at E.H.'s enigmatic remark. She is moved to touch E.H.'s striped-cotton dress-shirt sleeve, lightly.
The most gossamer of touches, it is very possible to pass unnoticed by the amnesiac subject, as by anyone who happens to be observing.

“Eli, you are so very witty!”

Gentlemanly Elihu Hoopes certainly notices this touch, though he doesn't respond—this, too, a gentlemanly gesture.

And Margot knows that, within seventy seconds, and long before he has been returned to his residence in suburban Philadelphia where he lives with a widowed aunt, E.H. will have totally forgotten their exchange and this lightest of touches.

LATE-WINTER/EARLY-SPRING 1974, A
new battery of tests.

In these, E.H. is given varying lists of nonsense-terms to memorize. By degrees, the lists are lengthened. On the whole E.H. performs within the “normal” range—for this, he's given a good deal of praise by the testers.

Until now, the test is more or less routine. E.H. is told that he is performing well, as he is frequently told. With a wink he asks, “Is there a test for ‘testes'? Is it a little weeny
test-ie
?”

Margot and others laugh, awkwardly. Is E.H. simulating a kind of dementia, as a (controlled) parody of his brain-damage?

As a man with a limp might exaggerate his limp, to arouse laughter and dispel pity.

The testing resumes. E.H. performs well.

Then in the midst of one of E.H.'s recitations there is an interruption, and another set of lists is introduced. This is a short list of only three items but when E.H. is instructed to return to the first list he is hopelessly lost. Within a few seconds his frail memory has been overturned—it isn't just that E.H. can't recall the items, he is unable even to recall that there was a test preceding the current test.

Margot thinks—It's as if a shaky cart heaped with an unwieldy cargo has been pulled by an intrepid donkey up a steep and uneven hill—the cart topples over, the cargo falls to the ground.

“Eli, let's try again. Take a deep breath. Relax . . .”

The test-with-interruptions is repeated several times. Each time E.H. performs very poorly. Though he has no memory beyond seventy seconds it seems clear that, with each test, he is becoming ever more frustrated and discouraged. It is noted by examiners that the amnesiac subject is “remembering” an upsetting emotion if not its precise origin.

By the end of the battery of tests E.H. is ashen-faced, sober. His smile has long since faded.

The test is a model of sadistic ingenuity. Margot Sharpe, a codesigner, feels a flush of shame.

“Eli? Mr. Hoopes?”

“Yes? Hel-
lo
. . .”

“Your work today has been very, very good. Outstanding, in fact. Thank you!”

Uncomprehendingly E.H. gazes at Margot Sharpe who has been designated to tell the amnesiac subject that, despite hours of a demonstration of
severe memory loss,
he has in fact done very well.

Weakly smiling E.H. rubs his jaw which is not quite so smooth-shaven as it had been when he'd first arrived at the Institute. “Well—thank
you
.” He gazes at Margot imploringly as if he has more to say to her—something to ask of her—but has lost heart, and does not ask.

THE CRUEL HANDSHAKE
.
Promptly at 10:30
A.M.
Alvin Kaplan enters the testing-room. Margot Sharpe who has been working with the amnesiac subject on a series of tests involv
ing visual cues for much of the morning introduces him to E.H. (Close by, unobtrusively with a small camera, a graduate student is filming the encounter.)

“Eli, I'd like you to meet my colleague Alvin Kaplan. He's a professor of neuropsychology at the university and a member of Professor Ferris's lab.”

E.H. rises to his feet. E.H. smiles brightly. That look of hope in the man's eyes!—Margot never ceases to be moved.

Boldly E.H. extends his hand: “Hello, Professor!”

“Hello, Mr. Hoopes.”

E.H. has met Alvin Kaplan many times of course—(Margot might hazard a guess: approximately fifty times?)—but E.H. has no memory of the man.

It would be an ordinary exchange except as Kaplan shakes E.H.'s hand he squeezes the fingers, hard. E.H. reacts with surprise and pain, and disengages his hand.

Yet, Kaplan doesn't betray any social cue that he has deliberately caused E.H. pain, nor even that he notices E.H.'s reaction. So far as you would guess, Kaplan has shaken E.H.'s hand “normally”—but E.H. has reacted “abnormally.”

Poor E.H. is so socialized, so eager to pass for normal, he disguises and minimizes his own pain. Taking his cues from Kaplan and Margot Sharpe (who is his “friend” in the testing-room, he thinks)—he “understands”—(mistakenly)—that the aggressive young Kaplan hasn't intended any harm, nor is he aware of having afflicted harm. Post-handshake, Kaplan behaves entirely normally, speaking to E.H. as if nothing at all were amiss; nor does Margot Sharpe, smiling at both men, indicate that she has noticed—anything.

How can I do this to Eli! This is a terrible betrayal.

Fairly quickly, E.H. recovers from the surprise of the cruel handshake. If his fingers ache, after a few seconds he has no idea why; since he has no idea why, his fingers soon cease to ache.

In the original, classic experiment the French neuroscientist Édouard Claparède shook hands with his amnesiac subject with a pin between his fingers—so that there could have been no mistaking the intention of the experimenter to inflict pain. But Margot and Kaplan have devised a more subtle, possibly more cruel variant that involves, as well, a degree of social interaction as interesting in itself as the “memory” of pain.

After scarcely more than a minute E.H. is laughing and joking with his testers—Margot Sharpe, Alvin Kaplan. So long as both are in his presence E.H. is consciously aware of them. (Fascinating to Margot that the amnesiac's seventy-second limit of short-term memory can be so extended, like water flowing into water—seamless, indivisible.) But then, a few minutes later, after the arrival of another member of the lab to distract the subject, Kaplan slips away unobtrusively—and “vanishes” from E.H.'s consciousness.

Warmly Margot says: “Shall we continue, Eli? You've been doing exceptionally well.”

“Have I! Thank you for saying so—is it ‘Mar-gr't'?”

“Margot. My name is Margot.”

“‘Marr-
got
.' Gotcha!”

E.H. winks at Margot. Sometimes, peering at Margot with a look of sly intimacy, if no one else is near E.H. draws his tongue along the surface of his lips in a way that is startling to Margot, and disturbing.

Sexual innuendo—is it? Or just—E.H.'s awkward humor?

It is believed that the injury to E.H.'s brain has radically
reduced his sexual drive. In general there has been observed in the amnesiac subject a “flattening” of affect—as if the afflicted man, by nature sensitive and quick-witted, were forced to perceive the world through a bulky, swaddling scrim of some kind, or through a mask with raddled eye-holes. He tries to play a role of normalcy, but not always very skillfully. E.H. has been observed behaving in a way that might be described as warmly emotional—“affectionate and paternal”—with younger women medical workers and attendants, but no one has reported him behaving in an overtly sexual manner. Still less, in a way that might be described as sexually aggressive.

There is an essential restraint, a kind of emotional
goodness
in the man, Margot has thought.

This is nothing Margot Sharpe can ever “record”—unfortunately!

One hour and ten minutes later, at the conclusion of a battery of tests, when E.H. is resting in a chair by a window, carefully hand-printing in his little notebook, there is a knock at the door, and Margot Sharpe goes to open it—and Alvin Kaplan steps inside.

“Eli, I'd like you to meet my colleague Alvin Kaplan. He's a professor of neuropsychology at the university and a member of Professor Ferris's lab.”

E.H. rises to his feet. E.H. smiles brightly and puts away his little notebook. That look of hope in the man's eyes!—Margot feels a pang of apprehension.

Boldly E.H. extends his hand: “Hello, Professor!”

“Hello, Mr. Hoopes.”

When Margot first met Alvin Kaplan in 1965, as a first-year graduate student, he'd been an assistant professor in the Department of Psychology at the university; young, without tenure,
yet one of Milton Ferris's “anointed”—already the recipient of a coveted research grant from the National Science Endowment. In the intervening years Kaplan has been promoted in the department, with tenure; he is still wiry-limbed and inclined to irony, though he has gained about fifteen pounds, and seems less uncertain of himself now that he has married, has become a father, and has begun to publish extensively. Margot never challenges Alvin Kaplan, whom she recognizes as very smart, and very shrewd; she guesses that he feels rivalrous toward her, as another of Milton Ferris's protégés, his only serious competitor in the lab for the elder scientist's admiration, favoritism, and affection. Yet Margot is self-effacing in Kaplan's presence, and finds it easy to admire him—to praise him. For Kaplan does have very good ideas. She knows that it would be a terrible blunder to offend him.

Though E.H. has met Kaplan many times, he appears to have no memory of him, as usual.

Or does he? As Kaplan reaches out to shake E.H.'s hand, E.H. hesitates, as he has never hesitated previously; clearly, he is wary about shaking this stranger's hand, assesses the situation and seems to make a stoic decision yes, he will shake Kaplan's hand—and again, Kaplan squeezes his hand unnaturally hard, and E.H. reacts with surprise and pain, in wincing silence; and quickly disengages his hand.

Yet—once again—Kaplan doesn't betray any social cue that he has deliberately caused E.H. pain, nor even that he notices E.H.'s reaction. So far as you would guess Kaplan has shaken E.H.'s hand “normally”—but E.H. has reacted “abnormally.”

After just a few minutes the encounter ends with a remark of Kaplan's—a signal to the graduate student who has been filming.

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Hoopes! I've heard much about you.”

E.H. smiles, guardedly. But doesn't ask what the visitor has heard.

Kaplan and Margot exchange a glance—it is a fact, the amnesiac hasn't reacted identically each time, with each handshake. His behavior has been modified by the “cruel handshake”—even as he has forgotten the specific circumstances of the handshake.

In the women's restroom to which she flees as soon as she can, Margot trembles with excitement over this discovery. It is a profound discovery!

The amnesiac subject is “remembering”—in some way.

As a seemingly blind person may “see”—in some way.

Some part of the brain is functioning like memory. This is not supposed to be happening,
yet it is happening.

Suddenly Margot is feeling nauseated. The very excitement she feels over her discovery is making her sick
.

At the sink she bends double, and gags. Yet she does not vomit.

The sensation returns several times. She gags, but does not vomit. To the mirror-face she says, “Oh God. What are we doing to him. What am I doing to him. Eli! God forgive me.”

AS PLANNED KAPLAN
enters the testing-room. It is 11:08
A.M.
of the following Wednesday—a week after the most recent confrontation.

Margot Sharpe and two other researchers have been working with E.H. for much of the morning. The tests they've been administering to the amnesiac are variants of the “distraction” test, with visual, auditory, and olfactory cues and interruptions. Margot has remained in the room with E.H. more or less continuously through the morning, and he has not seemed to “forget”
her; though, when she slips away to use a restroom, and returns, she half-suspects that the amnesiac is only just pretending he isn't surprised to see her, a stranger close beside him, smiling at him as if she knows him.