Iwo Tuleya
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The Mystery of Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen
After its buildings collapsed into the ground 41 years ago, the Academy did not cease its activities and continued to function in what remained of the buildings - underground. A new patron was established, in a person of a man unknown to the public, named Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen. For nearly half a century, the Academy has been issuing authorizations to perform medical professions, with surgery at the pinnacle, even though no one could leave its underground walls.
Not only have the people underground never attempted to get to the surface, but they do not do it now, when the way out is easily accessible.
Below is the account of one of our reporters who personally participated in the inspection, which took place two days after the discovery.
*
As I leaned over the freshly drilled hole at the intersection of Boozing and Balding, I was filled with the feeling that I was looking into the abyss, and even, to quote a classic, it seemed to me that this abyss was looking back at me. It was not mere intuition, because indeed - Jakob, an instructor at the Cornelissen Academy, was looking at me, seeing the natural light for the first time in his life (he had already been born at the Academy, he explained to me later, at the Department of Obstetrics there, and never had the opportunity to leave).
Having descended the rope ladder, I leveled myself with Jakob and shook his hand. The gesture, as it turned out, was not completely alien to him. Jakob was sent to act as a messenger and to properly show me around the complex. When asked if I would have the honor of meeting the school board, he said he wasn’t entirely sure who ran the school, so he could not give me a definite answer.
After traversing through what was probably once a threshold and an a front door, we found ourselves in a cavernous hall. I was informed that this was the oldest part of the building, and that it collapsed first during the disaster and dragged the rest of the structure with it. Pieces of pre-war bricks scattered around the corners seemed to confirm these words. Small lizard-like reptiles ran between them, as if they were playing tag. When inquired of this, Jakob stated that these creatures formed the basis of the Academy's diet and could be purchased for a modest fee at a local cafeteria. He then led me to a crack in the wall and ordered me to squeeze through it. Having done so, I fell into a dark pit, which Jakob referred to as the "Department of Anatomy."
Jakob jumped in with an agile leap and shouted into the niche: "Wiłczyński!", which provoked a series of metallic bangs several meters from us. Soon out of the darkness emerged the summoned Wiłczyński, a man of considerable height, like everyone else in this place, with a stern appearance, a beard reaching his knees and an impeccably starched doctor’s coat. He invited us to a table, a bit further, where we sat down and treated ourselves to a lizard infusion.
- So you’re the first outsider to come, mister...?
- Jansen. Johann Jansen, I am a journalist. Have you really not tried to get out during the last 40 years?
- Oh, calm down, Mr. Jansen... journalists! Take a sip of our tea, there will be time for your questions.
I humbly took the cup in my hand, though I did not drink. Someone's footsteps sounded. A figure in a white apron approached Wiłczyński – a student, I thought. He leaned over his ear and whispered what sounded like a question.
- Cut it out - he said.
The figure left, drowning in darkness.
- Who was that? - I asked.
- Ah, some Spaniard - replied Wiłczyński.
- He's doing a master's degree - Jakob explained to me.
- Under your supervision? You’re the anatomy lecturer?
- Yes - he replied. - Although ‘lecturer’ is a lot to say. I'm sitting here and they come to me when they have questions.
- I understand - I said instinctively, and then quickly reflected on it. - Although not quite. Do you have an assistant? Don’t you give lectures?
- Occasionally.
- So how are students supposed to acquire knowledge?
- They learn by themselves.
- And how are they supposed to know what to learn about?
- From classes.
- So there are classes?
- Well, when I'm in the mood, you know. I explain how to apply the iodine to the skin, which end of the scalpel is the one to grab it with, and whether the gloves should be rubber or nylon.
- Isn’t that obvious?
- No, why? Ah, I know! - he lit up. - You’re a doctor!
- No, not at all.
- I know a doctor when I see one! Tell me, Mr. Jansen: should the wound be dressed with gauze or a page from a telephone book?
- You’re not asking seriously.
- No, no, please tell. Go ahead! - he added at the end, clapping his hands.
- Gauze.
- That's correct, good! Now: on which side of the body is the heart located?
- Centrally, slightly to the left.
- Not on the right? - asked Jakob, surprised.
- I thought it was on the right too. Who would have thought! - Wiłczyński was delighted. - Then you have an natural talent, that's what you should call it, Mr. Jansen. You should apply here. You won’t regret it.
- You must be kidding.
- Absolutely not!
I was about to tell him something when the student of Spanish descent returned. Again, he leaned over Wiłczyński's ear and asked him a question.
- Cut it out - Wiłczyński replied.
I took advantage of the confusion to open a notebook in which all the questions for the local “educators” were written down. The surrounding was so dark that I couldn't make out anything of it, tough. As the Spaniard left, I asked:
- Is it possible to turn on the light here?
- Ah, does the darkness bother you? - said Wiłczyński. - Jakob, go to the switch, it's in the corner.
Jakob, naturally knowing where the corner of the room was, left us for a moment. Suddenly, accompanied by sounds resembling pulling a lever and a motor engine igniting, the room was flooded with the rays of a spotlight, suspended high from the ceiling.
Only now did I realize that we were not in a room, but in a cave adapted to the needs of the clinic. The table we were sitting at stood in its center, the crack through which we had entered was behind us, while the Spanish student stood behind a curtain of stalactites, ten paces to two o'clock. His white apron kept flashing at me, but I couldn't tell what exactly he was doing.
Pretending not to be impressed, I checked my notebook. The first question in order seemed the most adequate.
- Who is Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen?
- Oh, don't you know him? - he marveled with the manner of an elementary school teacher. - Kidding! I have no idea who it is either. I've been wondering for twenty years.
- Oh... Do you know, who would know?
- Jean-Jacques, possibly. You’ll find him in the Research Department.
- Who is this Jean-Jacques?
- He teaches theory.
- Just like you teach anatomy?
Wiłczyński got a bit irritated.
- Yes, just like me. And no one’s complaining as far as I know. Our students are well educated in both theoretical and practical terms.
- And what role do you play in their education?
- I already told you. We give them resources, scalpels, nylon gloves or people like Jean-Jacques Decrétin or my humble person. I assure you, Mr. Jansen, that if you were to apply here yourself, you would not regret it.
- What a pity that I’m past my student years.
Noticing that I was about to get up, Wiłczyński quickly suggested:
- Perhaps you’d like to take a look at our student’s work, Mr. Jansen? - he asked, pointing his thumb at the Spaniard behind the stalactites.
We got up. Walking there, I expected to see a bored student bent over a microscope. Then, I saw a bloody operating table with a body devoid of a nose, eyeballs, teeth and ears. The soon-to-be master nodded awkwardly at us.
- But... - I was speechless.
- Not a bad job, is it, Mr. Jansen? - asked Wiłczyński, nudging me with his elbow.
- But... This is not medicine! - I screamed - This is...!
The Spaniard was clearly confused. Suddenly, the body on the table arched and a desperate screech broke out from his toothless mouth.
- He’s alive! - I yelled, jumping back.
If Wiłczyński hadn't grabbed me in time, I probably would have smashed my head against a stalagmite growing out of the ground. Jakob made a quick decision to escort me out of the department, not forgetting to pull the light switch on the way.
After emptying my stomach and regaining breath in my lungs, I demanded an explanation from Jakob. He was genuinely surprised.
- Of course, it wasn’t a perfect surgery, but school is there to learn - he said.
- Jakob, it was a human being, don't you understand?! - I got so angry that I yanked him by the lapels of his jacket.
- Calm down, Jansen... - he groaned.
- You’re killing people!
- I think you’re being a bit dramatic. One has to try a couple of times before something works out, right? Not only in medicine, but also in art, philosophy...
- No, for God’s sake! Such a thing could have happened in prehistory, not at a modern university. Jakob!
- So what is your idea?
- Isn't it obvious? God, you don't know anything! In the normal world, there are lecturers and students. The lecturer teaches what they have learned from their lecturer. And they taught what they had learned from the previous one, and so on. That’s what progress is about! A transfer of information!
- But of course that’s what happens here. You saw Wiłczyński explaining something to a student.
- He just kept repeating “cut it out”!
- Well, you wouldn't rather have him sew something to the man, would you?
- Dear God.
- Mr. Jansen, Professor Wiłczyński...
- Professor! I know more than him, and I have no education...
- All right, Jansen. Professor Wiłczyński had a point. Let's go to Jean-Jacques, he has a knack for psychiatry. He'll talk to you.
I thought a theorist was better than a butcher, and so I agreed, having little choice.
**
The road to the Department of Research was a long one, with a dozen turns, climbs, squeezes through gaps, and one cruise on a raft across a broken sewer. It no longer surprised me that previous inspections had managed to find out so little about this complex. It was a matter of turning into a wrong tunnel to be lost forever. I was still devastated after seeing the mutilated man, but when we got there, I felt such relief that all rage drained from me, leaving only bitterness.
- It’s here - Jakob assured me as he lifted the old medical stretcher that someone had tied to the doorframe instead of a door.
The study could have been a study even before the building collapsed. It was small, though that could only be an impression caused by the amount of books piled up against the walls. A single lightbulb hung from the uneven ceiling, illuminating the book held in Jean-Jacques' hands.
Jean-Jacques (actually Jean-Jacques Decrétin, as I learned) was a slender, ruddy man, no more than sixty years old. From under the remnants of Decrétin's slicked-back gray hair, long wrinkles were crawling out like the tails of the local lizards. These wrinkles covered the doctor's forehead, but to a large extent spared its central part, which bulged outwards in the shape of a single horn or a second nose. Decrétin must have been aware of this feature of his head, for he rested his spectacles on this bulge, giving him the appearance of a playwright. As we entered the room, he quickly slid them off and eyed us suspiciously.
- Who goes there? Ah, ah, Jakob. And you, sir, a stranger from afar.
- Johann Jansen. Mr. Decrétin, I presume?
- Yes, you can call me Jean-Jacques - he said, courteously standing up and pointing us to our seats.
We sat down. Decrétin, having tucked the bookmark between the pages, laid the book face down on the desk. He looked at us expectantly.
- I wanted to ask you a few questions, sir - I began. - I would like to give your institution a chance. Although I’m not quite sure if it will make any difference after what I saw in the Department of Anatomy.
- And what did you see there, Mr. Jansen? - asked Jean-Jacques coarsely, spreading his hands in a gesture that seemed to have its roots in acting.
- Death, Mr. Jean-Jacques.
- Death of what? - he asked in the same tone.
- Medicine, ethics and the patient.
- Ah! - he sighed, then rose from his chair and went to the window, which once probably looked out on something, but now was merely keeping clods of earth from pouring inside. - The death of medicine, ethics and... the patient - he repeated thoughtfully.
- Yes, sir.
- And what do you really mean by that?
- Your student murdered a man.
- No, no. You. I’m asking specifically about you, Mr. Jansen.
- I mean that because of your mismanagement, you allow your students to do cruel things.
- Yes, yes... - Jean-Jacques murmured, and focused his eyes on something outside the window, as if something actually was there.
- Will you not answer that?
- You see, allow me to make a modest hypothesis. The reason for your visit, sir, is de facto different. You are like the hero of Zuijtbrouck's novella, who gets on a bicycle and gives himself over to the power of the element in order to find the true meaning of existence...
- Mr. Jean-Jacques, with all due respect, I have no time to talk about Zeitbrook or any other author. Can you explain to me why the student I saw fatally mutilated a man?
- Oh, it's no big deal! - he laughed. - So. We live in postmodernity, Mr. Jansen. These are no longer the times of the old Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen, when the boundaries of concepts were still clearly demarcated. Today, theory and practice are one and the same. Research is design, the soul is the body, and the thesis is the antithesis. Even the concept of medicine, you must admit, is so vague that it cannot be locked in traditional, academic models of teaching.
It crossed my mind that I was talking to a mad man. I decided not to object.
- You mentioned the name of Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen...?
- Oh, don't tell me you don't know Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen? Jakob!
- I'm sorry... - Jakob choked out.
- God, with these young people. Mr. Jansen, how can they be so stupid? You are a man of letters, explain it to me! - he scratched his forehead nervously.
- Please first explain to me who Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen is.
- You don’t know Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen?!
- No.
- Where to start, Deus meus!
- When did he die?
- Some say he's still alive - he began enigmatically. - He graduated from the Academy (of course, not of his name at the time) and then emigrated.
- What did he become known for?
- Oh, he was a real virtuoso... - Decrétin dreamed. - From the accounts of witnesses, we know that he used a scalpel like a sextus finger of his hand, and his procedures... Forgive me, it was something extraordinary. Like an actor or speaker, he used to create whole spectacles out of the operating room. I have always imagined that he was not cutting the human body, but the monads imposed on men, gushing at the incision with the most beautiful riot of colors you can imagine. Maybe I'm too much of a poet, I think sometimes...
- Absolutely not - I assured him falsely.
- He died some 40 years ago - he went on - but without witnesses. It is not known where, when and how. He was an old man, so it would have been a natural death. Today he would be 119 years old. But wait, why are we talking about Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen when we should be talking about you?
- I asked you.
- And why did you ask me about him?
- I’m writing an article about your institution and trying to explain who’s responsible for its current state.
- No, no, no, Mr. Jansen! - Jean-Jacques narrowed his eyes, frowned, and waved his arms. - Why did you ask me about it?
- Why?
- Well, you surely have something you struggle with!
- I frankly doubt it.
- Will you allow me another tiny hypothesis - he offered, stretching out his index finger of one hand and placing the glasses back on his forehead with the other. - You are not so much a product of Zuijtbrouck as a young Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen! - he shouted triumphantly. - Yes! You aspire to it, you want to become a world-famous surgeon as well, I sense it in your words.
Though I knew next to nothing about Cornelissen, the connection to this asylum’s patron made me feel uneasy. At the same time, I remembered Wiłczyński persuading me to apply to the Academy. I had to leave. I wished I had asked Decrétin more questions, but I felt that if I stayed longer I would lose a part of myself.
- Thank you for the conversation. We must go now.
- Have you visited Ms. Lavinia Gonzalez?
- I haven't had the pleasure yet. Jakob?
- I'll take you, Jansen. It's not far away.
- She will open you up.
Decrétin turned for a moment to scratch his forehead, so I quickly grabbed the book from the table and looked at its cover. It was Daniel Zuijtbrouck's “The Goat Who Rode a Bicycle”.
***
The Department of Cardiology was indeed a bit closer. We ascended only five staircases, crossed three crevices, and climbed up a wall. Finally, we found ourselves in a vast dissecting room, the size of a gymnasium. Of the previous rooms we visited, this one seemed to be the most well-kept. Were it not for the fungi growing on the walls, dust and the lack of overhead lighting, it would be easy to forget that we were actually underground.
Lavinia Gonzalez, I guessed, was the person in the middle, for the spotlights on the ground were pointed at her. She was briskly explaining something to the students scattered around the room, working at the operating tables. It wasn’t until we got closer that we heard what she was saying to them:
- ...fun and adventure! Remember: above all, you have to have fun! Experiment, try, test, iterate, there are no good solutions here! Now, get to work!
Gonzalez recognized right away that we weren't late students because we weren't wearing the white aprons. She came up to us and greeted us politely. I thought that she was a distinguished woman in her fifties. However, her whole face was covered with hair, which at this stage of density should probably be better described as fur. As she offered me her hand to kiss, I realized that her palms were also covered with hair, which would not have repulsed me if it wasn't for one of her hairs that wandered into my mouth. Due to courtesy, it was better of me not to take it out right away.
- What brings you to me, Mr. Jansen? - she asked.
- Mmm... - I muttered, trying to move the hair with my tongue to a more comfortable spot.
Gonzalez looked at Jakob, who realized he had to justify our presence.
- Mr. Jean-Jacques referred us to you. He has expressed that you would be able to “open” our guest, and I assure you he has no shortage of doubts about our methods of running the school.
- Ah, I see! - she laughed. - Mr. Jansen, you are like my students, so unnecessarily uptight. You must relax!
The doctor took a deep breath through her nose, then exhaled through her mouth, making the mustache vibrate above her lip. I wanted to say something, but I still haven't managed to move the unfortunate hair in my mouth.
- Follow me, please! - she instructed.
When she turned her back to me, I tried to pull the hair out with my fingers, failing miserably. At the same time, Gonzalez managed to lead us to the nearest student. The girl was leaning over a man strapped to a pulse oximeter. His stomach was split open, though it wasn’t far from how I imagined a regular surgery to look like.
- Kasia, this is Mr. Johann Jansen - Gonzalez introduced me. - Could you tell us what you’re doing?
- Of course - answered Kasia. - The idea of this operation springs from my childhood, when I had problems distinguishing between right and left. My dad tried to help me with this by cutting butterfly stickers in half and sticking them to the insoles of my shoes. The butterfly's left wing went into the left shoe, and the right wing went into the right, and so I learned to tell them apart. Now that I've come of age, I've decided to swap sides of my father's internal organs.
In horror, I stared at the man. Indeed, the resemblance to the girl was uncanny, and the heart peeking out from under the open breast actually seemed to be placed more to the right side. The pulse was stable.
- Oh, Kasia, you always care so much about the concept! - the doctor chuckled. - Everything from A to Z, as you planned. You have to allow yourself to experiment, make prototypes! When you don't allow yourself to make mistakes, you have no way to learn from them.
The girl lowered her head and looked sadly at her father.
- Don't worry, Kasia. - Gonzalez reassured. - We'll figure something out!
The doctor knelt down and began to sweep the dirt off the floor. The hair on her hand served her in this task as a brush. When she had gathered a large pile of dust, she stood up and dumped all of it into the man's torso. For a moment it seemed that the pulse on the pulse oximeter froze - fortunately it only lasted a moment and continued to flow regularly. Suddenly, Gonzalez plunged her hand into the father's body, smearing and patting dust into every organ he had. The pulse jumped sharply, became ragged, until it finally stopped - the patient died.
- See? - Gonzalez shouted smugly.
- Yes, yes, that’s... very interesting indeed! - The student got visibly excited.
Jakob nodded intently, while I felt close to vomiting. I wanted to suggest we leave, but I still had a hair in my mouth and was in sight of Gonzalez.
- And now it's your turn! - The doctor turned to me.
I protested, but they forced me to the table. Fortunately, it wasn’t empty, as I expected, and there was an intact body on it. Gonzalez shoved a knife into my hand and told me to “experiment and learn from each attempt”.
Having no choice, I made a single horizontal incision, just above the navel. I hoped that in this way I would not damage any vital organ of the man I was cutting, but despite my good intentions, I must have cut one of his veins - in addition to the phlegm, a rapid stream of blood began to come out. The doctor, watching my every gesture, became annoyed with my indecisiveness, so she stuck her hands into the hole and pulled it open it as if it was a stage curtain.
At that exact moment, the hair in my mouth slipped off my palate and flew straight down my throat. I instantly threw up everything I could into the stomach of the body in front of me. The man who until then had seemed dead howled like the patient of a Spanish student. I was struck by fear. I ran away without looking back at either Gonzalez or Jakob.
****
Finding my way back turned out to be impossible on my own. I was wandering from one cave to another, passing staircases, broken rooms, always ending up in dead ends. I was disturbed by the fact that my companion still had not found me (I assumed that he must have run after me). This meant that I had wandered into such obscure parts of the complex that perhaps entering here was tantamount to being lost forever. I was losing all hope when the larger than usual presence of lizards caught my attention. Moreover, they seemed to be heading in a specific direction. I supposed there might be an exit at the end of their pilgrimage, or at least a school cafeteria. Without being picky, I started following them.
After what seemed like an eternity, I found myself in an oblong tunnel, at the end of which a light flickered regularly. As I got closer, I saw an intricately ornamented emerald-colored door, and at the bottom of it a tiny hatch that swung open as a lizard passed through, shedding some of the light hidden behind it. I opened the door. I saw a man in the prime of his life, dressed in a three-piece suit. He was sitting in the middle of an ancient study filled with walnut wood furniture. I could not find a better word to describe his beauty than a “dandy.”
- Mr. Jansen! Please - he said, inviting me to an elegant chair upholstered in leather.
- Thank you.
The man pulled out a bottle of what looked like whiskey. A desiccated lizard leg was floating inside.
- Do you fancy drink, sir? - He asked, placing a glass in front of me.
- Please.
I completely forgot how thirsty I was.
- You must be wondering who I am?
- You are Cornelis Corneliszoon Cornelissen - I replied.
- Bravo! - he laughed and applauded. - I expected it wouldn't be a problem for you. So, with the introductions behind us, let's get down to the nitty gritty. You’re most right to be wishing clarification. Hit me.
- I have just one question, Mr. Cornelissen. Why?
- Don't you have a guess? Maybe you can crack that one too?
- Hatred. You have a deep hatred of medicine.
Cornelissen laughed quite sincerely, and although I still resented him, he won me over with that laugh.
- Hatred? Well, there's something of hatred about it. It is the kind of hatred that caregivers have for their children, knowing that they grow up in an environment far more accessible and comfortable than it was given to them.
- What do you mean?
- Philosophers have often heralded the end of history - he replied. - Likewise, the end of medicine has been heralded as well. And the end has now arrived, Mr. Jansen. You must have been told that I was brilliant, but no one ever knew how much indeed. I did it. I have done what thousands before me have failed to do, from the ancients onwards.
I looked down at my empty glass, then straight into Cornelissen's eyes. He nodded. I jumped back as if burned, hitting my back against the door.
- Take it easy, Mr. Jansen. As I said, I'm brilliant. There are no side effects. Nor are you in danger of the same fate as me, for you have been given a minimum dose. You will happily live to ninety, perhaps even a hundred years, and no disease will touch you.
- How is this possible? - I asked, still pressing my back against the door.
Cornelissen pointed to something beneath my feet. A lizard's head peeked out from under the hatch flap and sniffed curiously at my shoe before moving on.
- It's over - he whispered, staring into the void.
- Why don't you give it to the world? - I asked.
- Imagine that you wrote an impeccable article. What would happen? People would stop writing articles. What for? You’ve already written everything. Now please take this to the realm of life and death. That would be pure nihilism - he stressed.
My interlocutor had the authority of 119 years of life, which made him difficult to argue with. Although I lacked the courage to enter into an axiological polemic with him, his young appearance gave me enough courage to ask about the details of the project.
- Why did you blow up the building?
- Where did you take this idea from? - he laughed.
- You’ve been officially dead for 40 years, and 40 years ago the building collapsed.
- Has it occurred to you that perhaps everyone thinks I'm dead because I've been underground for 40 years?
- These are the words of Jean-Jacques, no one from the outside.
- Jean-Jacques! - he swung his hand. - He’s a blatant moron, good sir. He barely distinguishes psychiatry from psychology. To answer your question: blowing the building up wasn’t necessary. Breaking a few supportive columns was enough. And for what? I intended to delay the progress of medicine so that no one like me would ever discover the remedy again.
- Is this what the Academy's program was for?
- Precisely. Infantilization, cruelty and backwardness. Even in my youth, such practices and theories would have passed for quackery or plain barbarism.
- How many human lives did it cost?
- Plenty, I assure you.
- I would like to disagree with you, sir.
- Me too, Mr. Jansen. I don’t expect you to understand me. Therefore, I will give you a choice. You can stay here, enjoy immortality ad nauseam, read all the literature in the world, and write from it the perfect article I used earlier as a metaphor. You will also be able to look down on the fools who lecture here and get used to the sight of mutilated bodies. Or I can show you the way back home, but then I’m forced to ask you never to tell anyone about me, the panacea, or what really goes on within the walls of the Cornelissen Academy.
The prospect of eternal life I could spend at the side of a brilliant scientist was enticing. At the same time, I thought of those who were expecting me outside - the editorial office, the readers, my family. What would they think of my disappearance? On the other hand - was it possible that the lecturers I met on my way were so wrong? Perhaps, somewhere deep inside, I was not a journalist but a surgeon, just like Cornelissen. Surely he wouldn't have offered it to me if he didn't see the potential in me? Maybe the panacea can be weakened and released into the world without ethical complications?
However, the most important questions concerned the art itself. Would I be able to create in the company of its decay, in the itch of cremated bodies?
Cornelissen watched me patiently, with the eyes of an old man locked inside body of a youngster. I think he knew before me what decision I would make. If the reader holds this scripture in their hands, they know it too. Whoever finds this text should take it to the editorial office of the Courier, if it still exists. Let it be a greeting from an old friend.