Jules Poitevin’s secretary had told the American three times already that he should send an e-mail, but each time the American had insisted on speaking personally to Prof. Poitevin. Finally, she decided to bother the professor at his work.
“So what does he want?” Poitevin asked.
“That’s what he won’t tell me,” the secretary replied. “He just keeps calling.” Jules Poitevin is 54, he has three children, two sons of 17 and 14 and a nine-year-old daughter. He had felt that two children were more than enough, but his wife really wanted a little girl.
To keep a marriage running, you had to make sacrifices.
“So what’s this American’s name?” “Something like Limsen, I think.” ‘Limsen? Never heard of him,’ the professor said.
Poitevin and his family live in Badenweiler. That’s about a forty-five minute drive from his office in Basel.
His specialism is neuropsychiatry, and he does research for Novartis into medicines for the illness still referred to popularly as schizophrenia.
Jules Poitevin, son of a French father and a Flemish mother, studied at Utrecht and made a name for himself with a pioneering study of auto-mutilation among adolescents.
At his recommendation, the European Union at the time had declared war on auto-mutilation. The urge to carve up one’s own body had spread like a virus.
Shortly after his pioneering study appeared, Novartis hired him to lead a research group that developed new medicines against mental illnesses. With his young family, he had moved to Badenweiler. Combating mental illnesses was his life’s work.
He’d had no desire at all to live in Basel. Mulhouse had made a rather unpleasant impression on him as well. While driving around in the surroundings they had chanced upon Badenweiler, and he had decided that Badenweiler would be it.
When he made a decision, he usually did so quite quickly. Although he was a mild-mannered man with a well-groomed beard, a bit introverted perhaps, he did have an authoritarian streak, but you needed that in order to lead a research team.
His wife, who had a degree in sociology, asked him: “And what am I supposed to do in Badenweiler?” “Start a bed and breakfast,” he had said.
That was what she had done.
“If he calls again,” the professor said, “just put him through.” Two days later, the American called again.
“Professor Poitevin,” a man’s voice said, “at last we speak. My name is Patrick Lumsen. I’m calling you on behalf of the American government.” “What does the American government want with me?” Poitevin asked.
The professor was not entirely devoid of ambition, but at the same time he was skeptical about the accolades a person received. During the weekends, he went walking with his family in the hills. When his wife was done serving breakfast to the guests, they would head out. The professor took the lead, carrying the backpack with their supplies. Even when it was raining, the professor liked the rain, sunshine was too frivolous for him. His eldest son no longer walked with them. Adolescents were like that.
“I can’t tell you that over the phone,” the American said.
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.” “It’s about Paxodol,” the American said.
Paxodol had been developed by Poitevin’s team, as the successor to the medicine Fanapt.
Fanapt had been a success in the battle against schizophrenia, but Paxodol seemed like it was going to be the real breakthrough.
The American Food and Drug Administration was about to approved the medicine for the American market.
“What about Paxodol?” the professor asked.
“Listen,” the American said. “What are you doing on November 14th?” “I’m working.” “Can you come to Brussels?” “That will be difficult.” “What if we pick you up?” “Rather not.” “We can pick you up at your home at 8 a.m., you’ll be home before seven that same evening. We need your help rather badly.” The professor looked at the report he was reading, then glanced at his memo-book.
“All right,” he said. “Do you know where I live?” “We do,” the American said.
“Just a minute,” the professor said. “To be sure I’m not the victim of some sick joke, I’d like you to confirm all of this in writing. On official stationery.” During his years at college, Poitevin had on two or three occasions been the victim of a sick joke.
“Of course,” the American said. “We’re always willing to accommodate.” On November 14, Poitevin got up as usual at six-thirty. He helped his wife prepare breakfast for the children and the guests. At this time of year there were not many guests, only two of the six rooms were occupied.
Neckties were something the professor considered senseless. In the summer he preferred to wear a polo shirt, in the winter a turtleneck sweater. If necessary, he would put on one of his five sports jackets over that, but to be honest he didn’t much like sports jackets either. Clothes only served to distract from what really mattered.
He looked at his watch. It was two minutes to eight, he went outside. Poitevin was carrying the bag he always took with him to work and which dated from his college days.
It was a foggy day.
A gray Audi was parked in front of the professor’s home.
A man in a suit climbed out and held the door open for Poitevin.
The professor settled into the backseat, where three newspapers had been laid out for him.
He had his own reading material with him.
They drove to the airport at Baden-Baden.
The driver led him to a small plane. Poitevin was the only passenger. He didn’t like flying. “Do I have to get into that thing?” he asked. The driver nodded.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?” a stewardess asked.
“A glass of water,” Poitevin said.
By eleven o’clock they were in Brussels.
Two men accompanied him in the car to NATO headquarters. They said almost nothing, but the professor liked that. Social contacts cost him a great deal of energy and usually produced very little.
At the headquarters he was led into a room where eight men and a woman were sitting at a semi-circular table.
He sat down in the vacant chair across from them.
From his bag he produced a notebook, and a fountain pen he had received from his mother-in-law. He unscrewed the top of the pen.
The woman was the one who began. “My name is Deborah Horton,” she said.
He figured she was about thirty-five. Perhaps even a bit younger. She had something fiery about her, a boldness he could appreciate.
“Along with these gentlemen, I am responsible for the Task Force Saving Democracy. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of us?” “No,” he said.
“The Task Force was set up five years ago at the president’s request,” Horton said. “At a point when it became clear that the electorate in America and Europe, and in other places as well, was radicalizing, and when it also became clear to us that this, unfortunately, was no temporary development. The electorate has stopped responding to economic uncertainty or prosperity, to the urgency or abatement of terrorist threats. It has, to put it concisely, gone hog-wild. We have therefore – of necessity – begun viewing democracy as a sort of endangered species, a species of which you could say that it is suffering from an disease of the immune system. And the president – who is, as you know, a great lover of democracy – decided then: it’s up to me to rescue this species. I will deploy my best men and women to help this endangered species survive. This…” She looked around her.
“…is the result. I have been with the Task Force for eighteen months now. We have drawn up a number of scenarios, we have considered various possibilities, but after intensive consultations, with experts from outside but also with the president and his closest advisers, everyone has agreed that you are our only hope. Or, to put it differently, the fate of democracy is in your hands.” Poitevin put the cap back on his pen.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
One of the men intervened. “My name is Michael Grady. I won’t bore you with the details, at least not at this stage, but if you are interested I can send you the reports. It appears that people who take Paxodol on a daily basis exhibit sixty to seventy percent less likelihood of voting for extremist parties, from whichever end of the political spectrum, than those who have taken a placebo. Of course, we carried out more than one experiment. We have tested your medicine on people of various backgrounds: educated, uneducated, black people, white people, Latinos, minors, senior citizens. The results were encouraging, Professor Poitevin, and that is putting it mildly.” “What are you trying to say?” the professor asked.
An older man began to speak. “I’m David Halperman, I’m the ethical consultant to this Task Force and a professor of philosophy at Princeton University. We are, of course, not out to control the electorate, the citizens, the people; we have no desire to hamper their free will, although experts disagree as to whether there is any such thing, we want to leave that will intact as a concept, as a raw material. Our intention is merely to file away the rough edges, the irregularities, temporarily, and hopefully to no other end than to save something all of us love dearly: democracy. Things cannot, and almost everyone is in agreement on this, be allowed to go on this way. We are extremely aware of the risks at hand, but we have come to the conclusion that to do nothing is more dangerous than to act.” A bald man said: “The other alternatives are: to eradicate democracy or eradicate the electorate. The former would be a defeat for everyone who holds high the ideals of humanism, the latter – if only from an economic point of view – would be a catastrophe.” Deborah Horton opened a laptop. She said: “We have selected three test areas in Europe. The Austrian province of Carinthia, the Dutch province of Limburg and Lombardy in Italy. Firstly, because these are places where the population has become more radicalized than elsewhere, but also because we have effectively infiltrated the water-supply companies in Lombardy, Carinthia and Limburg.” The bald man spoke up again. “Professor,” he said, “you mustn’t see this as an American operation. Top European officials support this experiment. And the Chinese government supports this experiment as well, and not only in words. China has agreed to see to half the project’s budget. This is a global rescue operation, professor.” Deborah Horton said: “Under your expert leadership, we hope to gradually enrich the water supply in the regions just mentioned with Paxodol.” “Paxodol has contraindications,” the professor said.
“It certainly does,” Deborah Horton said, “reduced sexual sensitivity being one of the major ones. We are well-informed about all of the possible side effects.”
The Princeton philosopher said: “After talking to various ethicists, sexologists and experts from the pharmaceutical industry, we have come to the conclusion that is probably wise to enrich the drinking water with a substance that can neutralize the side effects of Paxodol. Our goal is not to endanger human reproduction or to deny people their rightful enjoyment of sex. What we do not want, and this cannot be emphasized too strongly, is to control anyone, we do not wish to obstruct anyone’s ability to choose between good and evil. All we want is to save democracy. In fact, almost without exception, the experts who have been informed of our study no longer have any doubts: Paxodol is our only, final hope. And you are the man who developed Paxodol.” Deborah Horton began to applaud. The others joined in.
The professor bowed his head.
He was proud, but at the same time he felt slightly embarrassed: he did not receive applause very often.
“Humanism stands at the crossroads,” the philosopher said. “If it takes one road, it will disappear forever, but if it takes that other road, with your help, we may be able to save it.” The professor hesitated, he looked at his empty notebook, but it was already too late; intuitively, he had already decided: he could not say no. If this were to be a global rescue operation, there was no way he could shirk his responsibility.

The two taciturn men brought him back to the airport. In the same small passenger plane, he was back at Baden-Baden within the hour.
At home, his wife already had dinner on the table, but the professor wanted to take a shower first. Then he sat down at his desk in his underpants.
He put on some music. An old song by Leonard Cohen. He sang along quietly as he read his e-mails.
“It’s coming through a crack in the wall; on a visionary flood of alcohol; from the staggering account of the Sermon on the Mount, which I don’t pretend to understand at all.” He tapped his finger lightly on his desktop.
“Democracy is coming,” he sang. “Democracy is coming.” Then he went downstairs.