Hideo-sensei and the alchemist

Before I go, I thought it necessary to set down what happened, at least from my perspective; to set the record straight, or as straight as possible anyway given the crooked nature of the events that brought us here. Though there has been a lot in the news about the events, you can’t really trust the news in a money driven society like ours, and normally I’d say that you can’t trust me either, but for once I am not writing for money, whether you can believe that or not.

For the last 2 decades I worked in the legal department of Caduceus Pharmaceuticals, one of the largest drug manufacturers in the world, currently valued at over a trillion dollars. I am ashamed to admit this, given what I know now. I never wanted to be a lawyer, when I first went to college it was for philosophy and classics, but following the disappearance of tenure from academia, ended up doing law just so I could pay off my student loans, and before I knew it, I was pushing fifty, with nothing but regrets, but at least I paid my debt, right?

When I was first scouted by Caduceus, I had my doubts about them, foremost based on their name. The caduceus is the word for the messenger staff of Hermes, the Greek god of money and commerce. The caduceus is usually depicted as a rod with two snakes spiraling around it. Traditionally, these were ribbons that identified a messenger’s profession. With time, Hermes became associated with the underworld, and was said to take souls there after death, and so the ribbons took on the appearance of snakes, depending on the context in which a soul encountered the god.

Now, Hermes has nothing to do with medicine. The god of medicine is Asclepius, whose symbol is also a rod, but with only one snake around it. So back then I found it strange, though now entirely appropriate, that the company would choose a symbol of money over one of healing to represent itself. Though, I’m getting ahead of myself.

After my first couple of years at Caduceus, once I established a reputation for confidentiality and company loyalty, I was assigned to Hideo-sensei, a prominent biochemical researcher, respected for the many high-value patents he brought to the company. Because of the frequency of times I had to represent him in court, we became something like friends, or the closest semblance to friendship people who mainly care about themselves can share.

About ten years my senior, Hideo-sensei was an ugly man, both inside and out. His posture resembled a hunchback, even though it didn’t seem to stem from any genetic defect or injury, rather it resembled a that of a thief holding something valuable close to his chest, which he didn’t want anyone else to see. There was a frequent nervous twitch to his eyes, eyes that seemed to always be judging you with mistrust. His mouth was usually twisted into a repulsive grin, a caricature of a smile drawn by someone who never really understood joy, an ersatz expression sloppily manufactured for reasons of professional appearance, that did little to mask the contempt seething behind it.

Though my job often required me to paint him as a brilliant, compassionate, medical researcher, the truth that most everyone at Caduceus knew was that his research, if you could call it that, was driven by lies and greed. Most of the cases I had to represent him in were those involving the use of previously discovered substances that had already been proven to be dangerous, in slightly altered forms and delivery methods, which allowed them to pass regulations anew and be sold under the guise of a different name and packaging. If anything, it was research in human desperation and gullibility. Still, this was something most of us at Caduceus knowingly contributed to.

Things went on in this manner for over a decade, with me eventually becoming Hideo-sensei’s chief counsel, and so spending more and more time with him outside of work. Every month or two, he would hold lavish parties at his estate, not that he was particularly social, but because bribery and displays of wealth are vital to the pharmaceutical industry. Then, on one occasion, the regular house dealer, who procured recreational substances for the guests who sought something stronger than alcohol, was unavailable, and sent instead a representative, who he vouched for in highest terms.

This representative, who introduced himself as the alchemist, for obviously anyone in his profession would avoid using their real name, left quite the impression on Hideo-sensei. Since I don’t have a scientific background, I couldn’t really follow their conversation, but it seemed the alchemist was something of a neuropharmacological prodigy, and the two talked shop for nearly two hours, with Hideo-sensei likely trying to mine the young man’s brain for something he could use at Caduceus.

The alchemist had an eerily calm demeanor, as if he was floating above the world, not in it. He answered Hideo-sensei’s questions in a measured tone, with a strangely metered, musical quality, and was frequently able to pre-empt possible objections and follow-ups. While he was still somehow able to carry out his job there as purveyor, the alchemist never interrupted the flow of his conversation with the host, as if that was the true purpose for his visit.

The story visitor shared that most interested Hideo-sensei was about the 16th century alchemist Paracelsus, and concerned the Philosopher’s Stone. Apparently, Paracelsus was known to always carry a sword at his side, and inside the sword’s handle was a vial that contained the legendary stone, which in fact was not a stone but rather a liquid. Paracelsus, in many ways, was the opposite of what is considered an alchemist, and is remembered now as an early pioneer of clear labeling of ingredients in medication, and the use of modern language instead of Latin in medical education. So it’s less surprising that he made no big secret of what the Philosopher’s Stone was, a poppy concentrate, an opiate. The reason many traveling alchemists gained fame was they could treat almost any condition with a powerful painkiller, and seem to cure it. Provided they left long enough before the underlying condition ended up killing their patient, the result could be blamed on something else, and their reputation would remain intact. This story really amused Hideo-sensei.

As the party approached the climax, when the guests would avail themselves of the sensual pleasures someone else had pre-paid for, the alchemist took his leave, but as he went to shake Hideo-sensei’s hand, I noticed him slip a vial of liquid to his host, which the latter quickly pocketed. The rest of the night progressed as most of the previous parties at the estate, in predictable decadent debauchery into the morning hours.

Strangely, I later learned from Hideo-sensei, that when he subsequently tried to contact his regular purveyor for more information about the alchemist, the regular had no idea who he was talking about, saying that he hadn’t sent anyone, and wasn’t even aware that there was an event at the estate that weekend. This didn’t seem to particularly phase Hideo-sensei, as if he had expected as much.