From her to eternity

“I do not want to die,” says the Dictator. “Mark my words carefully. Read my lips. Dying is not in my vocabulary. ”

The two men are in the sauna. The Tyrant and his personal physician. They sit on narrow wooden benches. Sweat runs like olive oil down their naked bodies. The room smells of eucalyptus, mint, and lavender. Steam hangs between them like a menace.

“As you know, you are not my first personal physician,” says the Despot. “I don’t even know how many doctors I had before you were chosen. Twenty? Thirty? However, I still remember the names of some. But honestly, I’ve forgotten most of them.”

The personal physician straightens his back. He takes a towel and wipes the moisture from his forehead, his arms, his legs, his stomach. Drops of water lie in the hollow of his navel.

“One might suspect that I am difficult,” says the Ruler. "Because I place unreasonable demands on my caregivers. Because I may be asking for things that are scientifically impossible. But is that so bad? Do I have to settle for the known, the familiar? Am I—as a Strongman—not allowed to ask for more? To push the limit?"

His confidant nods. He yawns. The heat, the strong smells, the steam. It makes him drowsy. He'd like to close his eyes and sleep. To forget. The order, the death sentence that has been pronounced.

"If you were in my shoes," says the Oppressor, "wouldn't you command the same as what I do? Eternal life?"

The personal physician's chin falls against his wet chest. He wakes with a start. Has the Dictator noticed something? Seen something?

Fortunately, he’s still talking. Like no one’s in the room.

"You're well paid for it," says the Leader. “Your wife, your children will be forever grateful that you're dedicating your life to my health. And who knows? Maybe you'll find the elixir that will stop aging. Perhaps your research will stumble upon breakthroughs and real innovations, which allow me to live forever.”

* * * *

“So? Do you think we've made any progress?” the personal physician asks his assistant. She peers at the numbers on her computer screen. The results of a week of research.

“I think I see a slight trend,” she says. The doctor rolls his office chair next to hers. Now they stare at the data together.

“That's the danger of this kind of research,” he says. “You want to observe what you're hoping for. For positive results. For outcomes that confirm your hypothesis. Because there's so much at stake.”

The personal physician and the analyst browse through their notebooks, the voluminous reports, the test results, the statistical analyses, the publications. It's almost ten o'clock in the evening. The entire research department has gone home. Only the light is on in the laboratory where the personal physician works.

"We'll have to repeat the tests tomorrow," says the doctor. "To know if we're on the right track, we need more data, much more certainty. We're in the dark about whether we're making progress."

The assistant nods and hands her mentor a cup of hot coffee.

"One more before we go home?" she asks. The two researchers drink the coffee in silence. They are surrounded by pH meters, centrifuges, microscopes, spectrophotometers, analytical balances, gas chromatographs, and mass spectrometers.

"How old is our research subject now?" asks the doctor.

"He's eighty-two," says the analyst. "You're the thirty-fifth doctor to attempt this. To find the elixir of life. All your predecessors have failed. They were all highly respected and exceptionally bright scientists. But most experts threw in the towel after a few weeks."

The personal physician isn't ready to give up hope. But he knows, his assistant realizes, that it's only a matter of time.

He's no magician, he's no god. He, too, will sooner or later have to admit that he hasn't succeeded. There's no magic potion, no elixir. No one will ever find a way to live forever.

"Again tomorrow?" the personal physician asks. The analyst puts on her coat. She looks at the lab one last time and turns off the light.

* * * *

"I don't want to die!" says the personal physician. "I'm far too young to die. I still have so many plans. So many ideas I want to explore. I must live at least two hundred years to realize all my ambitions, all my projects, all my aspirations."

It's been a month since the Dictator appointed him to develop the elixir of life. The doctor sits with his wife in the living room.

The rain beats against the window. Branches are being torn from the unsuspecting chestnut trees. Inside, a cozy fireplace burns. A wine bottle and two glasses sit on the side table. The delicate piano music of Peer Gynt is trotting around the room.

"Why was I chosen?" the scientist laments. "Surely the Dictator must know this is an impossible task? A dead-end street?"

His wife cuts a piece of cheese, puts a cracker on it, and hands her husband the delicacy. The personal physician looks at her lovingly and begins to eat the delicacy. He realizes, he will miss this later.

"Have I told you about our research subject?" the man asks. "So far, all our treatments haven't affected any aging process. It's all far too short, of course. This research really needs years and years."

The woman refills the glasses again. She reads the label of the bottle. Château Ausone Saint Emilion. Grand Cru Classe A.

"The Dictator has no patience," says the doctor. "He wants immediate results. And he has no clue about science. But he calls the shots. And we—the scientists—just have to follow."

"What happened to your predecessors?" his wife asks off the cuff.

"My predecessors?" repeats the physician. "Do you really want to know? They were beheaded. Every single one. As soon as it's known they haven't succeeded in making an elixir, the executioner will be at their door. There’s no way to escape it."

The man bursts into tears. His shoulders shake, the wine gushes from the crystal glass. The woman puts an arm around him.

"I don't want to die! I don't want to die!" he mutters. "It's not fair! It's cruel! Why is the Dictator doing this to us?"

"What would you do if you weren't a scientist?" his wife asks.

* * * *

"You're the first person to convince the Dictator," says the patient. "But you're also the only person I've ever met who told a story. And didn't bring a whole laundry list of facts and analyses with him."

They hear the Tyrant leaving. He is humming and has a spring in his step. Like he's just been told that the elixir of life exists.

"Can I take off my makeup now?" asks the research subject. He's lying on a hospital bed. Before the Despot came in to hear the progress of the research, the personal physician had spent hours working on the old man. The doctor's wife had given him several tips on how to make an older face look younger. Eyebrow pencils, light eyeshadow, peachy blush, glossy lipstick, a wig with a soft, natural colour, moisturiser for dry skins, sun protection.

The man climbs out of bed. He pulls the wig from his head. The harsh, sharp light reflects smoothly on his bald pate.

"Are you even a personal physician, an expert, a scientist?" the patient asks. "What you told the Oppressor was completely wrong. You claimed without batting an eyelid that I'd lost ten years in the past four weeks. And the numbers you showed to the Ruler —even a child could conclude you'd simply made them up."

The personal physician stands by the sink, washing his hands. The presentation can still be admired on his laptop screen.

"When you tell a Dictator the truth," the doctor explains, "they don't believe you. That's been the mistake of all my predecessors. Of all those bright, hardworking scientists. They were too honest."

In the meantime, the elderly man pours himself a glass of gin.

"I told the Autocrat what he wanted to hear," says the personal physician. "And you saw how happy, how delighted, how relieved he was with the story, with my explanation. But yeah, it also made him very gullible, very naive, very unsuspecting."

After downing the glass in one go, the research subject wants to know if the doctor isn't afraid that the Dictator will sooner or later realize the elixir isn't working. That he's getting older after all.

"But which elixir do you think I'm going to administer to the Dictator?" says the Personal Physician. With a sinister undertone.