The Hormone Factory Read Online Free PDF Page A

atmosphere and in decor it wasunlike any other house I’d ever been in. I was used to luxury and the display of wealth as a token of personal success. In this house, all the glitz was confined to the dollhouse down in the entry hall. Upstairs, literature, science, and art reigned. Wealth was a means that enabled one to devote oneself to those important pursuits, and not an end in itself.
    Rafaël welcomed me and introduced me to his wife, a short, stocky, severe-looking matron, her layers of fat squeezed into an old-fashioned black gown whose seams appeared ready to give at any moment. Her multiple chins billowed over the little black collar secured with an ivory brooch. Her gray hair was gathered in a tight bun by a comb whose teeth seemed to stick right into her scalp. I bowed.
    “Motke, this is my wife, Sari, my dear Dauphine. That is what we call her, on account of her majestic, commanding bearing. Please tell her you’re crazy about music, that you love to listen to piano sonatas on a daily basis, or she’ll have nothing to do with you.”
    “He exaggerates,” Sari said with a laugh, the stern expression on her face softening somewhat, “as he always does. It is fortunate, is it not, that I can contribute to this household something other than pancreatic enigmas? If it were up to my husband, our life would be nothing but hormones right now.” She said it with some disdain. “Music,” she went on, leaning closer to underline the importance of her assertion, “more than anything else in the world, expresses feelings in their most intense manifestation. Our ability to make music is what sets us apart from the animals. Without music we would live in an emotional wasteland. Can you imagine life without it?”
    I had no choice but to shake my head no. I had had no musical education to speak of and was quite ignorant on the subject.Fortunately, she wasn’t expecting a reply and went on with her harangue: “Music expresses our desires, our attachment to things over which we have no control. As Gustav Mahler once put it, ‘Music contains the pain and sorrow of life.’ Mankind needs music, the way my husband needs his microscope.” She fixed me with a piercing stare, as if she wanted to make sure that I agreed with her.
    “See, that’s just what I mean,” Rafaël chuckled, “you haven’t been here two minutes and already you’ve had to listen to one of the Dauphine’s lectures. Sari, give the poor man something to drink, and then I can introduce him to our other guests.”
    To my surprise, it wasn’t only the professor’s contemporaries who were in attendance that night. Besides his own children, I was introduced to a number of other young people, whom I assumed to be students and laboratory colleagues. Rafaël had a wide circle of friends, comprising officials and politicians, musicians, artists, and scientists. He was also, apparently, an approachable, beloved mentor to his students and younger colleagues.
    The professor introduced me to Sam Salomons, one of the top chemists he had hired to work at Farmacom. A contemporary of the professor’s, he had a similar bearing—a stern-faced, Prussian dinosaur. They had known each other since their student years in Germany. After a short exchange of pleasantries, Rafaël continued steering me around to meet the rest of the guests.
    We wound up at the circle of young people that included Rivka. She had an open face with twinkling, big brown eyes and a mouth that was prone to laugh; long, dark, curly hair; splendid tits stowed inside a black lace blouse with a rather impressive décolleté; and sturdy hips that belonged to a deliciously voluptuous body. With a wave of the hand Rafaël introduced me to theentire crew. Rivka, staring at me in surprise, exclaimed, “Rafaël, you didn’t tell me your business partner was so young! I thought he’d be your age!”
    To make a long story short, at the end of the evening, after a piano recital by the