As they arrive to work, the members of my team proceed to their workstations in their assigned laboratories and take up whatever tasks were left over from the previous day. Each laboratory is dedicated to a specific project (the confidentiality clause in my contract prevents me from offering further details) divided into aspects or phases of analysis. These phases are executed at the different workstations by groups of up to three scientists coordinated by a lab manager who reports to me every two weeks. It is my habit, nonetheless, to supervise each station personally at least twice a week.
At first I tried to carry out my supervisory role from my office on the executive floor, but since in practice I was spending more time among pipettes than paperwork, I opted for a vacant table in Laboratory 3 and turned it into my base of operations. I know the names of all my chemists; I treat them all with equal courtesy and expect the same effort out of all of them. But I must admit that, while I maintain personal contact with every member of my team, it was inevitable that my prolonged presence in Laboratory 3 would lead me to fraternize more with the personnel assigned to that space—so much so that they were present on the night of my fleeting resurrection.
I don’t know why I chose to invade Laboratory 3 specifically; perhaps because it seemed the least crowded. Perhaps it was because it’s the only lab that’s surrounded by glass partitions, like a showcase, presenting to anyone passing through the hallway a clear view of the experiments being carried out inside. Certainly, working without the visual impediment of four plaster walls does wonders to alleviate my claustrophobia, an unfailing acquisition for all of us who return to the world by means of slipping through the cracks in our own tombs.
On an ordinary morning, the details of which I no longer remember, I walked past Laboratory 3 on the way to my office. Although they were working busily, the lab’s occupants paused, exchanged quick glances, and smiled at me cheerfully. I remember waving at them without stopping. That lab had the only team comprised solely of women: Doctor Isadore Bellamy, lab manager, Patricia Julia Cáceres, and Mathilde Álvarez. They had studied at the same North American university, taking the same classes and participating in the same symposiums, eventually graduating the same semester, although only Isadore had done so with high honors, in addition to completing a doctorate in molecular biology. They were inseparable.
The first thing I did when I arrived at my office that day was to take care of the bureaucratic aspects of my position, reviewing and processing pending documents, making and receiving calls, meeting with superiors and subordinates. Two or three hours later I stripped off my suit jacket, put on my lab coat, and began my rounds through the different work stations, listening to each lab manager’s progress report. The last I visited was Laboratory 3, which had only one workstation, although there was room enough for two additional groups. From there I returned to my office and began to review my personal notes. My own research appeared to be completely stymied. It was at that moment that it first occurred to me that I could set myself up in one of the laboratories, given that my clerical duties required me to be in the office only three or so hours in the morning and that I dedicated the rest of my time to the labs. But, which to choose?
The question gestated alongside a detailed image of Laboratory 3 as I had seen it that morning when I’d responded to the three friends’ greeting. In the spacious, glassed-in enclosure Mathilde was squinting into a microscope, examining a culture of liverwort cells dyed with lactophenol blue in order to reveal fungal elements, but her long blonde hair kept slipping down over the lens, and she’d had to tie it back in a hasty bun. When she’d lifted her hands to her head, her lab coat had opened and the hem of her shirt underneath had ridden up to reveal firm, steely abdominals and a pristine, flat belly button in which a gothic piercing glimmered. At another table, seated upon a tall stool, Patricia Julia was carefully pouring gel into a double electrophoresis chamber, her brilliant green eyes focused on her task, her bronzed, almost metallic complexion in marked contrast with her eyes. It was strange to see her so quiet, as she was, of the three, the loudest and most garrulous. That day she was wearing a short skirt; she had propped one leg up on the cross-bars at the base of the stool, but the other leg was stretched out toward the floor, seeking stability, a perfectly smooth, sculpted column. Meanwhile, Isadore, standing next to Patricia Julia, with one hand on her hip and the other leaning on the marmolite table, was rereading a procedure. The hand at her hip caused her lab coat to open slightly, exposing a thin, floral-print dress that just barely managed to contain the flawless bulk of her jet-black breasts. Her almond-shaped eyes accentuated the roundness of her face, lending it an Asian air; her small ears sparkled with discrete earrings, and the muscles of her slender thighs stood out against her black skin each time she shifted her weight from one heel to the other.
No question, Laboratory 3 was the best choice, since, as one could appreciate from my extremely conscientious mental exploration, the team assigned to it used scarcely one-third of the total available space to carry out their work. In all likelihood, my decision was based on a simple impulse to take better advantage of underutilized laboratory space.
Almost all of the most recent political exiles, industrialists and intellectuals who defected from Baby Doc’s regime, took refuge in Arroyo Manzano, an inviting, cool, forested little hideaway in the hills overlooking the Isabela River five or six kilometers from Cuesta Hermosa. They built grandiose mansions and created, generally speaking, a highly insular and narcissistic community composed of the crème de la crème of the mulatto social ladder of the country they had renounced.
At first they didn’t feel the need to socialize with their local counterparts. They were self-sufficient and arrogant. They lived off of ancient dues and interests; some were diplomats who made a living giving lectures sponsored by international organizations throughout the world. Others were successful international businessmen who had been able to retain their lists of clients and contacts.
Everything changed when these exiles had children and needed to send them to school. This second generation had to integrate into their host society, adopting their language and customs, thus expanding their social circles beyond the borders of the small redoubt of Arroyo Manzano.
The various and predictable social obligations incurred by the new brood forced the original fugitive group to incorporate themselves as well. The small community was infiltrated for the first time during birthday festivities to which they were compelled to invite their children’s native schoolmates and during which, for better or for worse, the distrustful exiles struck up friendships with the mothers and fathers who dropped off their children and stayed to chat.
The small community’s interactions with the external world became exponentially more complicated when their sons and daughters reached adolescence and young adulthood. For example, the illustrious families of Arroyo Manzano began to receive visits from girlfriends and boyfriends, and not always of the desired color and class. In no other place on earth are the rules of racial segregation stricter than they are in Haiti. The ignorant (the racists) will declare this a great irony.
In any event, the consternated exiles decided to take matters into their own hands and put a stop to the democratization of their progeny, which required them to cultivate the right kinds of friendships and to engender proper discernment among their children. And as they did this, they gradually shed their previous pride and discovered that, beyond their cultural and linguistic differences, they were linked to these other families through the delightful and all-powerful fraternity of money—especially the women.
They didn’t always succeed; their children’s friendships were not always to the exclusive circle’s liking. In fact, some of those friends caused a visceral displeasure—friends like me, a daughter of immigrants who shared their nationality but not their social