pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

Simon looks up from the clipboard he's studying. "Can I help you?"

He's not wearing the apron Enjolras associates with a doctor at work, but the rest of his manner suggests it. Well enough.

(And he's even decently clothed. The cut of his clothing is strange, and he isn't wearing a jacket -- but then, if he's at work and likely to need his sleeves rolled up, it's sensible enough, and he is wearing a shirt and waistcoat and long trousers. At Milliways, even that is rare enough that it sets Enjolras a little more at ease.)

"I'm sorry to interrupt your work. I'm not ill nor injured, but I'd like to ask some general information of a doctor. It needn't be now, unless you're free?"

He doesn't look too busy, in this room empty of patients, but one never knows.

"Please," he says, with a gesture inviting the man further in. "I'm not working on anything that can't wait."

As bidden, Enjolras enters. He'll take a seat if invited to, but is content to stand as well for the moment.

"I'm Enjolras," he says, with the slightest sketch of a bow. "Jean-Sébastien Enjolras, late of Paris, France, in the year 1832."

"Pleased to meet you," he says. "Dr. Simon Tam. Currently of Logan City on Praxed, in the year 2527."

Enjolras's eyebrows lift sharply.

Praxed he's never heard of in the slightest, but 2527... well, if it's the same system of counting, that's astonishing. (And heartening.)

And worth asking about, later. But first, the matter he's come about. "As I say, I'm from 1832, on Earth. I'm dead. In my day, there was a great deal we didn't know about disease -- how it might spread, how to counter it. I'd like to learn."

"I know I won't understand every detail. I'm not a natural philosopher, I wasn't a medical student, though very dear friends were. But I'll do my best to grasp the basics."

Simon's eyes widen.

"Of course," he says without hesitation, "I'd be happy to help -- there's a lot that can be explained in very simple terms, that would help a great deal."

Something of the stiff formality leaches out of Enjolras's manner, at that instant agreement, and his face relaxes into a small smile. (Enjolras's smiles have been called dazzling; Simon may or may not find them anything of the sort. But this one does change the entire look of his fine-boned young face. The sincerity shines openly.)

Enjolras is not an uncertain man as a rule, and now is no exception. But there's a difference between coming to a stranger with an important request, and carrying on a conversation.

"Thank you. I'm in your debt."

(The sincerity definitely shows, and Simon finds himself warming to it a little.)

"Not at all," he says firmly. "Do you want just a general overview, or something more in depth? -- Would it help to have written materials?"

He's not entirely sure how widespread literacy was in Enjolras's time and place -- but he said his friends were medical students, surely that implies some degree of literacy.

"Quite likely," Enjolras admits. "I can get them from Bar, if you'll give me recommendations?"

Unless he happens to have lending copies right to hand, but that seems unlikely.

"I suppose a general overview to begin. I'm particularly interested in any strategies for fighting the cholera, but not solely that. And I'll need to understand it to explain matters to anyone else."

To Bossuet, that is, who like Enjolras is a law student (officially, if not in attendance record), and dear friends with a medical student but no expert himself. He'll need to understand it well enough to teach Bossuet in sufficient detail that he can pass the information on to Combeferre and Joly.

Cholera, dear god.

"I can't think of any specific recommendations -- I was thinking I could write it out for you. Though I could research some simple texts on the subject, too. It would take some time."

"Whatever you could provide, I'd appreciate very much."

It's a little awkward to put time limits on a requested favor -- but this needs to be said, so he says it.

"I'd like to learn as soon as possible. My friend who will carry this information back is Bound now, but we don't know how long that will be the case."

He nods, and glances briefly back down at the clipboard. "Would you be free later this evening? I would need to go home to let my wife know where I'll be, but after that I could meet you back here."

"Of course."

He's dead and Bound, so his appointments are minimal. But he would make time for this in any case.

"I can come at any time, or you can find me in the main room at your convenience."

Timing is always a little difficult at Milliways, but Simon does manage to find Enjolras in the main room some hours later.

He's carrying a slim folder with some printed paper in it -- plain static print, not memory plastic -- as well as some blank pages and a pen, for note-taking. Electronics, after all, are useless in a place that has no provision for powering them.

Enjolras is waiting at an out-of-the-way table with a cup of coffee, a book by Karl Marx, and several sheets of paper on which he's been taking notes. (This futuristic ink that doesn't require blotting paper or sand is really astonishingly convenient.)

The book has his attention; nonetheless, he's been keeping an eye on the room for Dr. Tam's arrival. When he sees him, he lifts a hand in greeting.

The book gets set aside, and the notes moved to the bottom of the stack of paper.

"Mr. Enjolras," he says by way of greeting, as he approaches the table. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting long. -- May I?" with a nod to the chair opposite him.

Apparently this Praxed is either English-speaking, or Milliways translates its titles as such. Enjolras notes that, and sets it aside as irrelevant.

"Not at all." He gestures to the chair in invitation. "Please -- can I offer you something to drink?"

"Thank you. Tea would be lovely."

He sets down the folder and takes the seat. (Drinks having been offered, he finds himself inclined to wait until they've arrived before starting to business.)

Enjolras flags down a waitrat, accordingly.

"Tea for Dr. Tam, please," he says, "and another coffee for me."

The rat goes up on its hind legs. After an instant of confusion, Enjolras comprehends, and obligingly passes down his cup. (It's not quite empty, but very nearly, and what liquid remains is stone cold.) The rat squeaks and scurries away.

Which leaves them with a pause, into which it still seems a little abrupt to introduce the main subject of their meeting.

"So how long have you been at Milliways?" he asks, after a moment.

"Some months."

With a slightly wry look, "Four, I think. There was an interval when a friend and I ventured too deeply into the forest; it seemed only a short while, but we missed most of the winter in the course of that walk."

Thank God that happened before the others arrived, at least.

(He mentions this incident mostly because it seems the kind of thing people should be warned about, if they weren't already wary.)

There's a short pause, and Simon says resignedly "I almost wish I were more surprised to hear that."

Enjolras cracks a slight smile, at that.

"You've been a patron here for a while, I take it."

And he comes and goes, with a wife at home.

"Quite a while. Some years, in fact."

He could calculate how many years, if he were to think about relative ages ...

Enjolras shakes his head slightly, as if to say without saying: I can't imagine that.

(He doesn't want to try. But Dr. Tam's situation is different. He has a life outside, perhaps a purpose.)

What he says is, "Years, coming and going. You must have seen a great deal." A wry look. "There's much that's still surprising to me, I admit."

"Such as meeting people who live several centuries away from your own time?" Slightly wry right back at him. "That took a great deal of getting used to, I recall."

"Yes, that's certainly one."

"Even stranger to be told they're possible futures -- varied worlds -- and that what seems a message from the future might not apply to my own world."

A rat trundles up bearing the drinks. Tea and coffee don't exactly take long to prepare, around this place.

Simon bends to pick up his own drink, with a murmur of thanks to the rat.

"Or, for instance," he says in faint bemusement, "such as rats waiting tables."

Enjolras's mouth twitches, as he bends for his own cup.

"Yes."

For instance.

He takes a sip of Bar's excellent tea, and lowers his cup.

"In any case ... I've brought an outline for your reference," he says, indicating the folder with his free hand, "on the subject of germ theory and avoiding contagion. If you'd like to go over it?"

"Please."

Enjolras, with a may I? glance, opens the folder.

The paper on top is, thankfully, written in French. Enjolras relaxes slightly; it hadn't occurred to him until he was reaching for the folder that perhaps this might be a point of difficulty, since they spoke without a problem. He scans the page, brows drawn together intently.

It is, as Simon indicated, an outline: a few short paragraphs describing the germ theory of disease in simplest terms, and a few more about practices to prevent contagion.

The example of cholera is given, and the specific method of transmission: drinking water or eating food contaminated by the waste of someone ill.

Enjolras reads it once. Then again, slower.

So simple, these bare facts. So simple; so vast; so incredible. Reading this page is like mounting a small hill, and finding oneself on a mountain ridge, overlooking a vast cliff -- and a rolling vista below, all sunshine, all harmony, all hope, out of reach but visible now.

(Combeferre isn't here. He can't see his face, he can't show him this paper, but he can send the message.)

"Invisibly tiny creatures."

It seems beyond belief, but so do many scientific theories of fluids and forces. Enjolras is not a scientist. He wouldn't know where to begin in evaluating the theory.

He looks up. There's a burning intensity in him, banked, controlled, hot. "Soap, boiled water, strong spirits -- that's truly sufficient? Boiling water, cooking vegetables?"

The lives this would save. The thousands of lives.

Edited 2014-06-25 18:53 (UTC)

That intensity's a little scary, but also weirdly familiar somehow; he's finding himself warming to the man even further.

(He won't place the familiarity until some time later.)

"It's not a failsafe preventative, but it'll cut down your chances of contagion by ... call it ninety percent, at a conservative estimate. The more people you can get to adopt the safety measures, the better everybody's chances become. Fewer people catching the disease means fewer people to spread it."

Enjolras looks back at the page.

Such simple words. A handful of paragraphs, half of them theory: call it a ninety percent reduction of the chances of contagion.

"I don't know if you can understand, monsieur," he murmurs at last, "what this will mean to France."

(sometimes you need a doctor)

(ha sa te ka na e ku ta ma e)

Quietly: "I have some idea."

Enjolras looks at him: largely preoccupied still, but sober and studying, and just for a moment his attention is all on Simon.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

He means it. Sincerity is Enjolras's natural state.

The man has been at Milliways for years. His world has its understanding so far advanced that this is a simple outline to him, but who knows what other worlds he's helped?

His eyes return to the paper; his focus returns to the problem at hand, and the problems of a country far away.

"I doubt we can do much in the short term to affect the source of disease. We haven't the power to enact policy, nor the influence." In the long term -- well, that depends on many, many things. "But even a few doctors with this knowledge will make a difference. Especially when their preventatives and remedies work."

Remedies that work reliably in an epidemic were in very short supply.

He turns back a page, reads over certain paragraphs again, more thoughtfully. At length, he returns his attention to Simon.

"I hardly know what to ask next. So I ask you, Dr. Tam: what else do you think a man in my position should know?"

"That ..." Slowly. "That may depend on what you already know. I'm afraid I don't have the clearest idea of the state of medicine in your time."

"It will seem very primitive to you."

(The narration, once again, would like to apologize for Enjolras's context, and the fact that 'primitive' and 'civilization' and 'progress' are words he doesn't think twice about using.)

He thinks, quite suddenly, of Combeferre and Joly in the back room of the Musain one night. Gilded by stovelight, in the close air of a warm room in winter. Gilded too, in memory, by affection. They were speaking of the advances of future generations, of how the future would look back at the sorrows and sufferings of France in 1830 and think its newest science poor and primitive. A joyful thought. A triumph of Progress.

A moment's recollection only. It doesn't make him hesitate more than he was already doing to collect his thoughts. The best tribute and gift he can give them is the work he's doing right now.

"As I said, we didn't know the causes of disease. There were many theories. Miasmas, imbalance of the humors, physical contact, magnetic fluids. I don't know them all." Nor does he really know which of them are ruled out by this 'germ theory' and which of them are simply a part of it; perhaps there are miasmas of germs, perhaps tiny organisms in the body alter the balance of humors. He'll do his best to summarize, and let Dr. Tam sort it out.

"To combat disease -- to fight fever or infection from a wound -- again, many approaches. Some well-established, many experimental. Bleeding, purgatives, broth or rich food, tinctures and medicines of various sorts. Laudanum. Bed rest. Many injuries there was very little to be done about."

Edited 2014-06-27 21:18 (UTC)

Simon's face stays fairly neutral while Enjolras is talking. None of this is precisely new to him; it's still appalling, of course, but not shocking.

"Some of those are closer to the truth than others, of course," he says. "The components of the body are considerably more complicated than the old idea of humors, but it is true that an imbalance of body chemistry can cause illness. And physical contact definitely does spread some diseases, though not all ... I can tell you that bleeding as a treatment for illness has been completely discredited."

The corner of Enjolras's mouth quirks a little, in some private and complicated emotion.

He's never liked being bled. No one with whom he's share the sentiment is at this table; the urge to look over to catch someone's eye is hard to suppress.

(And if he can't see the extent of Simon's courteously suppressed horror, he can at least guess that some of that polite neutrality is deliberate. It only stands to reason for a man of so far into the future.)

"I'll pass that on."

"Laudanum, on the other hand -- well, it's an opiate, and has some use for pain management, but it's dangerously addictive...."

The discussion goes on for quite some time, as the remains of the tea and coffee grow cold.