Spirit of the Place (9781101617021) Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  The Spirit of the Place

  THE USA BOOK NEWS BEST BOOKS NOVEL OF THE YEAR AWARD 2008

  THE IPPY BEST NOVEL OF THE YEAR AWARD 2009

  “[Shem’s] . . . real subject is the landscape of the human heart with its dangers and delights, its vertiginous cliffs and mossy woods, its comforts and contradictions . . . Vivid, enchanting . . . a wonderful book about the surprises of human connection and the infinite power of love.”

  —Susan Cheever, author of American Bloomsbury

  “A rare ode to home, not only to finding a place in the world but to connecting with someone who feels like home. It’s a love song to history, global and national and regional and local and personal. It’s an essay on the power and fallibility of medicine, told by a doctor . . . It’s the story of a man and his mother, the give-and-take of that relationship, the slow revelations that keep flowing between the two even with distance or time or death keeping them apart. What makes the book so rare is its fragile beauty. Shem’s language is simple and elegant even as he delves into the essences of his characters. And he doesn’t shy away from their complexity—rather, he embraces it, allowing us to see them as whole, imperfect, impatient, reckless, uncertain, vulnerable, delirious, selfish, loving.”

  —The Berkshire Eagle

  “Funny and wrenching . . . It’s hard to put down.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A deeply moving and profoundly intelligent exploration of the complexities and rewards of family, profession, and place . . . This book continues to resonate in the mind and heart long after it is read.”

  —Jerome Groopman, M.D., author of How Doctors Think

  “Samuel Shem, raucous and insightful physician of the soul, captures a town, a man, a time of life with all the verve and nerve that marked The House of God. Hooray!”

  —Bill McKibben, author of The Bill McKibben Reader

  “I was riveted . . . The Spirit of the Place is special—a grand, wonderfully insightful story . . . filled with larger than life characters and told with outrageous Shem-humor and authentic humanity.”

  —Michael Palmer, New York Times bestselling author of The First Patient

  “Samuel Shem’s The Spirit of the Place is the perfect bookend to his seminal work, The House of God.”

  —Diversion Magazine

  PRAISE FOR

  The House of God

  NAMED BY THE BRITISH MEDICAL JOURNAL THE LANCET AS ONE OF THE TWO MOST IMPORTANT AMERICAN MEDICAL NOVELS OF THE 20TH CENTURY, THE OTHER BEING SINCLAIR LEWIS’S ARROWSMITH

  “A raunchy, troubling and hilarious novel that turned into a cult phenomenon. It introduced characters like ‘Fat Man’—the all-knowing but crude senior resident—and medical slang like GOMER, for Get Out of My Emergency Room. Written by a psychiatrist, Stephen Bergman, under the pseudonym Samuel Shem, the novel is based on his grueling, often dehumanizing experiences as an intern at Harvard Medical School’s Beth Israel Hospital. When the novel first appeared, many doctors were hesitant to admit they had heard of it, let alone were willing to discuss it. Several prominent physicians denigrated it as scandalous . . . And based on such scabrous reviews, hundreds of thousands of medical students eagerly read it. What makes The House of God singularly compelling is its brutally honest portrayal of the absurd tragedies and occasional triumphs of hospital life.”

  —The New York Times

  “Bawdy, blistering . . . This is Catch-22 with stethoscopes.”

  —Cosmopolitan

  “Does for the practice of medicine what Catch-22 and M*A*S*H did for the practice of warfare.”

  —The Newark Star-Ledger

  “A wildly funny, sad, laugh-out-loud, frightening, outrageous, thought-provoking, moving book . . . a story of modern medicine rarely, if ever, told.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “[The House of God]—about the tortured life of a medical intern—cast an early spotlight on the grueling conditions that come with medical training, and has become historically important . . . in the history of medical writing. Asking a doctor about The House of God is often an invitation for them to tell horror stories of their sleepless hazing as interns.”

  —The Boston Globe

  “Wonderfully wild, ribald, erotic, bitter, compassionate . . . in the same spirit as Catch-22.”

  —The Seattle Times

  “Mordantly funny, brilliantly ironic . . . A writer of outstanding substance and style.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Belly-laugh humor . . . Will be one of the most talked-about books of the year.”

  —Memphis Press-Scimitar

  Works by Samuel Shem

  Novels

  THE HOUSE OF GOD

  MOUNT MISERY

  FINE

  THE SPIRIT OF THE PLACE

  Plays

  BILL W. AND DR. BOB (WITH JANET SURREY)

  ROOM FOR ONE WOMAN

  NAPOLEON’S DINNER

  Nonfiction (with Janet Surrey)

  WE HAVE TO TALK: HEALING DIALOGUES

  BETWEEN WOMEN AND MEN

  The

  SPIRIT

  of the

  PLACE

  Samuel Shem

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa • Penguin China, B7 Jaiming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2008 by Stephen J. Bergman.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Kent State University Press hardcover edition / June 2008

  Berkley trade paperback edition / December 2012

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Shem, Samuel.

  The spirit of the place / Samuel Shem. — Berkley trade paperback ed. p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-1
01-61702-1

  1. Physicians—Fiction. 2. Homecoming—Fiction. 3. New York (State)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.H39374S66 2012

  813'.54—dc23

  2012030061

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Samuel Shem

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  Part Two

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  PART THREE

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  About the author

  For three generations:

  Rose Fuchs Bergman

  Janet Lynn Surrey

  Katie Chun Surrey-Bergman

  For some years

  I have been afflicted

  With the belief that

  Flight is possible to man.

  —Wilbur Wright, Letter,

  May 13, 1900

  Part One

  Beware of foreign entanglements . . .

  —George Washington (apocryphal)

  · 1 ·

  Even a shy American can be happy in Italy, and Orville Rose was about as happy as a childless man can be. From a low point two years ago when, in a test tube in New Jersey his sperm had failed to impregnate a hamster egg and medical science had declared him sterile, he felt that his life had gotten a whole lot better.

  Now, the summer of 1983, he was steadying the oars of a red rowboat as Celestina Polo was pushing away from a dock. With that sweet sense of gliding over ice, they were off. Orville always felt great when setting out, running off, and he sighed happily. He took a first pull against the weight of the water.

  As her hand pushed against the rough wood of the dock and she sensed the rowboat ease out onto the lake, Celestina felt a hit of apprehension. Leaving land made her nervous. She settled uneasily onto the plank seat.

  “Two bad things will happen today.”

  “What?”

  “This will be a bad day, caro. Two bad things will happen today.”

  Orville laughed. In her years of Buddhist study in India, Celestina claimed to have seen things that he, a doctor, saw as outrageous. A man who was 132 years old. A yogi who could transmit and read thought. Another who could levitate, however briefly. A woman who could predict the future. Lately, Celestina herself had been trying to predict the future. She had ventured several predictions, none of which had happened.

  “So far, kid,” Orville said, “you’ve been wrong every time.”

  “Of course I am being wrong every time,” she answered. “I am learning. I know it is hard for you to believe, dottore, but I am not yet totally enlightened.” She smiled. “Two bad things will happen today.”

  “Are you talking about money? I mean, if you’re talking about money, I agree. We’re almost broke. We can’t keep staying at these expensive hotels and—”

  “Do not talk to me about money! Never to talk to me about money! I don’t care about money, and if you—”

  “But you don’t care about money! You don’t seem to understand that if you put it on that little plastic card now, you have to actually pay for it later. With interest. With Mafia-type interest. You’re overdrawn, I’m in debt, deep in debt. We’re almost broke.”

  “In our very brokenness,” she said mischievously, “is our wealth.”

  “Oh boy!”

  “And in our very wealth is our brokenness.”

  “Terrific.”

  “The two bad things are not about money, no.” She closed her eyes and pointedly took a meditative breath. “Not about American Express.” Another. “Not even about the Diners Club.” And another.

  He chuckled. She opened her eyes and smiled at him. The gap between her two front teeth was suddenly endearing to him. He shook his head.

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Sì, caro, nuts enough to love you.”

  “Yeah, well, try it from my side. You are insano. Discumbobulo!” Laughing, Orville grasped the worn handles of the wooden oars. He glanced over his shoulder toward the tiny island of San Giulio, set like a child’s sand castle, off center, in Lake Orta, the smallest of the northern Italian lakes. He pulled at the oars.

  It was past noon. The August sun was hot. The water, still as air, gave off that subtle lake scent that reminds you of wet earth. The day so far had been smooth, suffused with all the glossy luminescence of summer.

  Soon they were far out from shore. Back across the water the ancient resort town of Orta San Giulio had diminished to a colorfully painted toy. Above it, amid the grave green cypress, Orville could see the occasional spires of the twenty chapels of the celebrated pilgrimage site on top of the Sacre Monte. He lowered his eyes from the tiny mountain to Celestina’s long face, a Modigliani face framed by silky black hair cut smartly short, to her walnut eyes, to her white gauzy dress molding transparently to her breasts, to her browned toes that during their lovemaking that morning had intertwined with such strength with his—she was tall for a woman, he short for a man—and felt a rush of love.

  She felt it, too, and smiled. Smiled at his short chestnut hair with the bald spot; at his tanned face with substantial forehead, Sephardic hawk’s nose, fine lips, close-cropped beard, eyes the color of the Mediterranean set off by his rose-toned shirt, and at his browned toes. She smiled at all this and at their passion.

  “This is getting serious,” he said.

  “Allora, we are laughing.” She reached over, the hollow of her breasts distracting him so that when she suddenly squeezed his toes hard, he squeaked in pain. “So serious, tesoro, we must keep on laughing.”

  “Tesoro?”

  “Treasure.” The word hit him hard. He blushed.

  Had he ever been loved like this before? Been loving like this before? Sure, there had been a non-Jewish first love back in high school in Columbia, New York, which had been destroyed by his parents, and in med school a Jewish practical kind of love that had led to marriage. In those loves, like in this one, there had been that same astonishing feeling when your heart seems made of feathers and diamonds and floats up sparkling in your chest when you even think of her or see her hairbrush or her car or her toes.

  But this was different. This love was surprising and familiar all at once. The things she said were so outrageous—sometimes seeming totally kooky and sometimes totally wise, as if she really had understood a few secrets of life. So outrageous that they seemed to expand the usual things that rolled around his head day and night. This love seemed always fresh—maybe because she was so different, and yet so known. Or maybe fresh because she seemed so known, and then took his hand and led him someplace so unknown; led him not only into it, kicking and screaming, but through it to a strangely peaceful place. Nothing like this ever before, no.

  This is it, Orville thought. You’ve really found something here. Something lasting, something of real depth. Please, God, don’t let me screw it up!

  “You know,” he said, his voice wobbling like a dying top, “that—that tesoro—it’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to m
e.”

  Celestina blushed, smiled shyly, and said nothing.

  “I love you so much!”

  They embraced, holding each other close, losing track of time.

  Shouts!

  Their rowboat had drifted into the path of another rowboat. He picked up the oars. There were tears in her eyes, too.

  They docked and walked around the tiny island, hand in hand. She opened a small tin of licorice. They popped the tiny flecks into each other’s mouths. The sharp violet taste was a comfort.

  It had started a few months ago in Woudschoten, Holland. Orville was working as the Sportsdoktor at Camp Zeist, a center where athletes from all over Europe came to train. He had spent years dealing with injured, diseased, and dead bodies, first in suburban New Jersey and then, after his divorce, in the worst trouble spots around the world with Médecins Sans Frontières. Being a doctor in the thick of horrific situations had taken its toll. In the past, finding himself up to his elbows in blood and gore and trying to put noses back in the approximate middles of faces and make bones as straight as a five iron, he had come to wonder about the stupidity and viciousness of men toward other men, women, and children. He had discovered that he did not like disease and that he had a particularly hard time with handicaps. He shied away from deformities of all kinds. Hollowed out, he had drifted to Holland to heal. He chanced on a job dealing with healthy bodies. As the Sportsdoktor, for almost a year he’d had a practice of the best bodies in Europe. He had many opportunities to engage a woman member of a team during its stay at Zeist, but he resisted. Somehow it seemed pointless. He still hurt too much, from the vicious end of his marriage, and from what he had seen out in the world and could not forget.

  Celestina Polo had arrived at Zeist as the yoga teacher and motivator of the Italian women’s swim team. His first sight of her had been one morning at dawn as he walked up the graveled pathway between the soaring pines and had seen, in a place in the woods cleared of trees, her leading a class in meditation and yoga. Several young women sat in a circle with her, their eyes closed. She was the only one all in white, and the only one sitting in a full lotus. Shafts of sunlight lit up the limpid mist of the low-country morning. The pine scent was flecked with burning incense. Smoke spiraled up along the trunk of a pine. The sight of this woman sitting there so still, a forest spirit in white amid the deep green of these ancient trees took his breath away. He stopped and stared, taken with the moment, reluctant to keep walking lest his shoes on the loose gravel disturb the silence. It wasn’t just the beauty or the quiet; it was something to do with the stillness. The word that came to his mind was a strange one for him: serenity.