Apostolos

-1-

6 AM was never a time of slumber for 6 Salem Street. Professor Fu was going through his morning routine. He first sat at the edge of his crackling queen bed and read aloud his bible, when an early ray of summer light luminated the cream-colored page. Today he was reading the sacrifice of Isaac. “Take your son, your only son, whom you love,” God said, “Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.”

Soon afterwards Prof. Fu turned to Billy Graham’s Hope for Each Day, the second-most important book to him besides the holy scripture. The North Carolina pastor was a saint to Fu: his shelves boasted photos and mementos of Graham. On top of them, besides his daughter’s senior photo, was the pastor’s portrait, an icon Prof. Fu meditated upon each night when he practiced his “silence.” But as for this morning, just like each morning, Prof. Fu prayed aloud along with the daily prayer given in the book.

He then tidied himself, went downstairs, and had a modest breakfast at 7. At 7:30 he was on call with fellow elders from the local Chinese congregation– they were hosting a bible study for fellow believers in China, who would have just finished supper at this time. The analysis on Acts and Paul soon descended into some middle age exchange of family, children, and business. Prof. Fu prayed again with them, for a child’s academic success, for some friends still yet to convert. When the call concluded approximately an hour later, he left for the Institute.

One would assume that the pious Professor Fu should belong to some sort of bible institute, but Prof. Fu actually worked for the Institute– that’s right, the Institute. It would surprise many more that Prof. Fu’s expertise was on biology, a subject that, since Da Vinci and Darwin, has challenged his God more than ever. Even Prof. Fu himself needed a daily reminder on his profession: as he grabbed his bag from his room and returned from upstairs, he glanced over the staircase wall. It starts from a bachelor’s degree from Beijing Medical University, awarded in 1993, which had the oath of Hippocrates below the principal’s signature.

“... I will do no harm or injustice to them.

Neither will I administer a poison to anybody when asked to do so, nor will I suggest such a course.

Similarly, I will not give to a woman a pessary to cause abortion.

But I will keep pure and holy both my life and my art ...”

Then followed a Ph.D. from the Institute in biology, and a baby photo of his daughter Isabel embellished with red patterns on four sides. And then there was a frame holding a family of three: Fu, his wife, and Isabel. And then there was Isabel’s diploma from Ashwater Academy printed in serif and black letters. Finally, at the bottom of the stairs close to the door, there was an artwork of calligraphy that said “rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks.” This everyday descent felt like a little sermon for this man of faith, reminding him his profession was but a way to receive prosperity from God, a promised blessing.

6 Salem Street was a modest two-story townhouse, with a tiny attic under its tilted roofs and a door opening directly onto the sidewalk. It had no parking space, but fortunately, it was within walking distance to the Institute, and Prof. Fu always loved a good walk in the morning to exercise. He turned at Auburn Street, then Pearl Street, to get to the bustling Main Avenue. The coffee shops and pubs and supermarkets stood chromatically under the rising sun, but the brief iridescence gradually faded into gray and darkness as more office buildings and student apartments and labs appeared, and as the hollow dome loomed near. The Institute. Yet Prof. Fu maintained his composure, focused on his strut, and did not mind any passers-by. The only exception was him giving a dubious look at the homeless man who lay at the doors of the appliance store. The man replied to the look, as he opened and lifted his foggy eyes:

“Gauhhhhd bless–”

Seizing his bag onto his chest, Prof. Fu quickly stepped into the grayness and hurried to the Institute campus a couple of blocks later. He forced himself into the heavy revolving door–push!– and squeezed his 5’4” stature in, sweaty and drenched on this summer day. Such a small door for a big hall. Walking inside the hollow main hall under the dome, he smiled and nodded back to a couple of fellow professors while checking the billboard up front. Seemed like assistant professor Marquez would be presenting her research on human hibernation today, but there was nothing much else really; the school year would end soon.

He entered a spiraling staircase nearby to get to his office on the top floor before 9.

* * *

Prof. Fu’s first task this morning was a meeting.

“So, James, we’re scheduled to meet today,” the dean checked his phone before placing it on the desk, “to talk about your recent research. I think it’s on the human fertilization process, specifically– on the generation of cortical granules.”

“Yes,” Fu replied.

The dean grinned gently, “And how’re we doing?”

“Fine, thank you. We’re able to map out the entire process in which these granules are involved. Four parts. The sperm lands on the egg’s membrane, the egg reacts to the sperm, the membrane solidifies while the egg undergoes another round of division. Then the egg’s DNA meets the sperm’s, and then you get a new life. Our research aims to name and decode all the hormones and enzymes involved. ”

“Very true.” The dean paused his speech and looked out of his window, “Don’t you always find it interesting? That the egg is never fertile until it meets the sperm. Only when it receives the signal of a sperm,” He made a sign of “two” with his right hand, “does it throw away half of its chromosomes”– he reduced the “two” to a “one” simultaneously– “so they can match with the chromosomes from the sperm”– he made a sign of “one” with his other hand and juxtaposed the two index fingers in front of his grizzled chin.

“Wonderful, yes.”

“And to my understanding, your research has a huge potential, if you’re able to identify the primer, or should I say, primers, that tells the cell to throw away half of its chromosomes after the sperm has arrived.”

“That is very correct.”

“So how did that part go?”

Prof. Fu hesitated for a moment but realized his hesitation immediately. Hesitation is fatal, he has learned that in a hard way, so he quickly broke his silence: “It’s a very complicated process that happens very quick. We are able to determine most of the enzymes involved across all four stages, but we cannot determine which of them participates as the primer. Another problem is that we cannot determine the 3D structures of the enzymes. They’re too big. Very big.”

Lift your posture. Look them into the eyes. Add details, but not too much. Prof. Fu made sure he seemed as natural as he could be. Reserve your excuses– you moron, stop talking about 3D structures and don’t make yourself suspicious! He tightened his lips as he ended his speech, but he again quickly realized that and put on an embarrassed smile instead.

The dean, however, did not seem to be amused. He squinted, squeezed his eyebrows and pondered the situation.

“Thank you. (a pause) In your opinion, James, what would you do next?”

“I would put off this research for now,” he swallowed mid-speech, “I think it’s already impressive that we identified the enzymes and the major processes. I am not optimistic about modelling huge proteins such as the enzymes in these processes. They’re too rare, and they are highly active, which means they don’t survive long outside of the cell.”

“Fair enough, fair enough, I suppose.” The dean relaxed, “Well, besides all that, solid work. The spirit of innovation, as we know, does not strike often. But they always find the prepared ones, so it’s great to be prepared as you are. I look forward to reading this.”

Prof. Fu quickly bid farewell to his dean and left the office. A turn and a flight of stairs later and he found himself in his lab room. He went to his stand and took away his lab notebook. He then spent an extra couple of minutes loading out some files from the computer onto his harddrive, and put it into his bag along with the notebook. Only then did he give a deep breath and begin to sweat. He had completed his most important work of the day.

* * *

A couple of days ago.

“I’ve explained to you that an egg cell is not fertile on its own. It needs some activation. Now, suppose– suppose– I found a key that activates the egg cell,” said Prof. Fu.

“Go on.”

“And supposedly– if I activate one egg cell, and inject its DNA into another activated egg cell through some ICSI procedure, I can fertilize the second egg cell. And now I can put that fertilized egg cell back to the womb. ”

“So you– supposedly– may use an egg cell to fertilize another egg cell.”

“Now you see my fear?”

“... Yes.”

The man on the phone with Prof. Fu was Dr. Chiu, an old friend he trusted the most. When they met each other in Beijing during their college times in the late 80s, they never imagined they would share each other’s company in the next two decades. Chiu went to the states a little earlier, finished his undergrad at Chapel Hill, became an evangelical Christian, and pursued his doctorate in engineering physics. Meanwhile, Fu came in the 90s after receiving his five-year bachelor’s in medicine in China. During the most overwhelming days, those days when Fu first arrived in the States, Chiu flew to the north and stayed with the freshly landed Fu family for a couple of months. He helped them find an apartment to rent and taught them how to use a credit card. But not only that: he consoled Fu in those times when the latter felt lost and disoriented, and talked to him about faith, eventually connecting him with the local evangelical congregation.

And when the incident happened, Chiu flew to the north right on that night again and accompanied Fu throughout the hard times. He called the hospitals and all the doctors he knew. He cooked for him, drove him to work, and when everything settled down for a bit, drank with him like Chinese men always do. The two men have been an anchor for each other.

Now, Chiu cleared his throat before he spoke: “This is beyond imagination. It allows a woman to impregnate a woman… but that is not the only evil I see.”

“What is it?”

“I’m no biologist like you, but I know that the egg has the X chromosome only. Suppose this process results in a child… it will have to be a girl. And suppose this girl, supposedly, out of whatever reason, does the same process with another girl…”

“– and they do it all among themselves– ”

“You get my point. It will potentially remove a sex out of the reproductive process, a God-given sex… which is another of its evil.”

The two scholarly men fell into another period of silence. They have both learned that human words are often too weak, and most things would rather belong to the “ineffable,” like the enormity of the matter at hand, as if speech itself is but a fragile lily sprouted on the barren plains of eternal reality. They have also both learned the valuable skill of staying silent, a crucial survival skill. So they each held their phones and let the static noise click and pop in the air, until the temperature cooled down and turned into a freezing coldness upon this late summer night.

Chiu broke the ice: “With all these ‘supposes’ of yours... I hope such evil will not come into this world.”

“Right, as I said, it’s all some ‘suppose’...” Prof. Fu followed suit.

“This bothers me more and more when I think about it,” Chiu interjected, “especially about the part that it may remove the male sex out of the reproductive process. In this way, the male sex becomes… optional, even useless.”

Chiu went on in his analytical voice, “Christianty has always managed to find its meaning in each and every society throughout history, but in a world like this? Jesus Christ our Savior... is undoubtedly a man. Our God, our heavenly father… you may argue that it’s a ‘he,’ especially if you think about the first human created after God’s image, Adam, is a man, and the notion of woman is from his ribs… I mean, you may have different interpretations of Genesis, but that’s the text… Can our faith survive in a world like that? ”

Fu did not respond. He did not have an answer, so he sought the Billy Graham portrait above while the coldness fell like snow, while snowflakes came sizzling like the electrostatic noises coming through the phone. He sat until his ankles were buried, then his knees, his laps, his neck. And he remained silent in the whirling snow that night.

-2-

He first saw the Apostle when he was 18.

The village’s secretary had notified the villagers weeks before Graham arrived in China. The young Fu, as the to-be college student of the village, was selected by the secretary to join the crowd welcoming the “international friend.” So he set off on a brisk morning walking to Huai An (it was called Huai Yin in those days), a little before sunrise. April still had its chillness, so he seized his shirt close to his chest, clutched his cap, and carefully trod the dirt road. He had walked this trail from his village to Huai An for so many times; he would really miss this walk and eventually name his daughter An in Chinese, but that would be decades later. This morning, the wetness of the dew, the chirps of the bugs, the murmur as a breeze swept through the wheat, the smoke slowly rising from the houses on both sides of the street as the day began, all of them felt so familiar but special to this native of the land. It’s spring in the plains. As he proceeded, the tattered walls of the ancient canal city approached under the rising red sun, whose light beamed across the blue powdery horizon.

While he was walking, he began to imagine this “international friend” he would see. He did not know much about him. He heard from the radio that the premier had granted the man a brief reception in Beijing a few days ago– such news even went up to the People’s Daily. The name of the man, Ge-pei-li, had a nice ring to it when the radio reporter said it. The mere thought of Beijing made Fu excited too– he wanted to go to the capital city to study medicine. He couldn’t wait to see the man, and thus hastened towards the city faster.

His white shirt joined the crowd of more than a hundred green, blue and gray tunics in front of a historical hospital house, a three-storey western structure built of red bricks that stood out on a canvas of cement bungalows. All stood silent towards the road, along with a handful of guards and some officials in black. And the car came. The man, elaborately dressed in a striped navy suit matching his wife’s royal blue dress, stepped down and shook the hands of the officials, and the crowd began to cheer. Fu saw the man shaking hands with a couple of locals– are they some Christians from around?– went into the hospital for a brief tour, and appeared again on the balcony.

And the man began to speak to the crowd in English.

* * *

Until that day Fu thought English was ineffable. When he was younger– we’re talking about the 1960s, the cultural revolution– he found his father’s pocket English dictionary one day, one-half missing, jarred by fire, firmly pressed and hidden under a jar of pickled radish. He picked it up and studied it in the dim-lit pantry. Since he learned the Pinyin system in grade school (a system to represent Chinese pronunciations with the Latin alphabet), he was able to recognize the letters and pronounce them.

“Wu-Te-Ru-Sze,” he mumbled and looked at the Chinese definition, “womb.”

Like all children, the young Fu was curious and fond of learning. An afternoon passed away while he perused the dictionary. When his father limped back from work, the young Fu said proudly to his father,

“He-Lo.”

What happened next was unexpected. From his father’s silent and dull complexion grew out a fear. Then a rage, as the father’s eyes glimmered with fire for a moment when he saw the half-of-a-dictionary in his son’s hands. He suddenly shook out a surprising strength out of his feeble body, as he approached the young Fu and reached for the book.

“Give me the book.”

But the young Fu did not want to give up his marvel, so things quickly fell into a tug-of-war between the frail man and the defiant boy, until the man, using his height as an advantage, swung and slammed his son on the ground.

“But dad–”

“FUCK OFF!”

The silent man did not say a word. He clenched his teeth, turned his head around, and snatched a broomstick from the corner of the pantry. Then he gave his son a good beating, a beating which the young Fu never experienced. He never knew there was such strength in his weak father, such rage in his meek father, this outcast who limped and bowed his head all day– until that day.

Quickly exhausted by the strenuous labor of beating his child, the father soon gave up the broomstick and left the room with the tattered dictionary, now soaked with the child’s tears. The young curious Fu eventually found the dictionary inside the stove, about to be burnt along with the coal to cook dinner. Seeing that his mother was coming to the kitchen, he quickly grabbed the dictionary and ran in pains and bruises. He was looking for a safe place to store it when he realized he should put it back under the jar of radish and pretend that it was burnt; his father wouldn’t even suspect that the dictionary would resurrect itself. So he did.

Since then, he learned the merit of silence and did not mutter a single English word.

Until he saw the man.

* * *

Fu recalled that the man began to preach, yet his interpreter, who just helped him greet the local officials, said nothing. Fu observed that the man paused for a miniscule moment due to this deliberate silence, but he quickly accepted the fact that no one in the yard would ever understand his message, that someone wished his “good news” rather not be delivered. Yet the man was never embarrassed or irritated. He started to preach with his charismatic power, sometimes gentle, sometimes sweeping. He would clutch his hand to his chest for a moment, then raise his fist and flex his arm, then point upwards with his digit, as if he was talking to a group of his fellow Americans.

No one expected that Fu would be the only one in the crowd to understand the preacher that morning. From the man’s speeches Fu was able to pick up a handful of simple words he learned, like “hope”, “love” and “life”, but there were a couple more words that he needed to look up afterwards, like the name “Jesus Christ”– the man said it so many times! – and the word “God”– his half-of-a-dictionary only had the letter H and afterwards. Yet besides the foreign vocabulary, there was something else that striked Fu deeply in heart: the special feeling of liberating a secret hidden for so long. English was no longer a curse but a blessing, for there is a world out there yet to be known, symbolized by the man in the striped navy suit, who was clasping his hands and saying “Amen” on the hospital balcony.

The man left after the sermon, and Fu walked back home with the impression that the man was a saint. He did not understand the sermon better than his illiterate counterparts, but he learned something at least. From that day he realized that knowledge, even in secret, still has power. As he would encounter in the Bible years later as a believer, the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.

-3-

Later that day Prof. Fu went down the hall for the presentation of Assistant Professor Marquez, but he did not catch a thing in his oblivion. Everything fell into his mind in phrases like the Graham sermon: “Rattus norvegicus, the brown rat... somnolence for three weeks... maintained through external support...” In the dark presentation hall, the projector’s pale light reflected and fluctuated on his wrinkled face, the light of a prairie wrapped in snow at midnight.

With the papers, he left the Institute to his house in the early afternoon of that summer, only to be greeted with a surprise: a gay parade. He soon learned the news in fear and disgust, that the supreme court has made some decisions that would allow homosexual marriage. Now rainbow colors blossomed in the pitch-grey institute in confetti, powder, T-shirts, banners, hair. And yet another surprise– leading the march was no one else but Assistant Professor Marquez! Afraid to be recognized and called out, Prof. Fu closed his eyes and walked alone. A mark of grayness in the gayness.

He came home and descended into the basement. He fumbled open the safe and unloaded his bag into it, making sure he tossed all his documents and the hard-drive in. While he mechanically checked the bottoms of his bag he couldn’t help wonder. What will happen to Christianity in a world where homosexuality is celebrated? What will happen to Christianity in a man-less world? Prof. Fu did not dare to think about these questions as he pounded the safe’s door back, astonished at the power exerted by his 5’4” stature. Even in the darkness, the light still shines.