Free A Fierce Radiance by Lauren Belfer

Revolution. In ’39, he came here on a fellowship for a year’s work. Then the Germans conquered France and he ended up staying for the duration.” The duration meant however long the war went on. “His family is in Tours at the moment, he believes. A wife, two daughters, an elderly mother. He hasn’t heard from them directly since the Occupation.”
    Claire watched Sergei Oretsky shift the rope back and forth to adjust the now-invisible bucket.
    “The point is, bacteriophage research has a history in Russia, as you may not know. Troops on the battlefield use phages to fight dysentery. But Americans and Brits don’t do much phage research. Too sensitive to the fact that most bacteriophages come from raw sewage.”
    “You believe Americans and Brits will be less sensitive about a medicine produced by green mold?”
    “Absolutely.” His amusement held a trace of shyness. “No doubt about it.”
    Oretsky’s bucket of sewage was safe now on the promenade. Spotting them, Oretsky waved. “Hoskins,” he called. “Come, have a look.”
    “Shall we?” Hoskins asked.
    “Why not.” Claire gathered her equipment, leaving the towel for passing vagrants. After waiting for a lone car to pass, they crossed the highway.
    “Look, Hoskins, you see—the color, brilliant,” Oretsky said when they reached him. The water in the bucket was a sludgy brown, with a few soft brown pieces floating on the top. It smelled like what it was, sewage. “Ha, ha, wonderful.” He smacked his lips. “Perfect.”
    “Mmm,” Hoskins agreed. “I see what you mean.”
    “You wait and you’ll really see what I mean—when I discover a cure for meningitis and you’re still growing mold in milk bottles and bedpans. Who is this lovely lady?” Oretsky half-bowed to Claire. He reached to take her hand, even to kiss her hand, but with his own hands wet with sludge, Claire made a quick move to rearrange the cameras.
    “This is Claire Shipley.”
    “Ah—the famous photographer! Very pleased to meet you.”
    “And you.” Alas, Claire wasn’t as invisible at the Institute as she’d hoped.
    “You would like to photograph me and my bucket?”
    How could she refuse? And the picture might prove valuable somewhere down the road. “Of course.”
    “I knew it.” He lifted the bucket and posed like a fisherman on a pier with a giant catch.
    “A beautiful shot,” Claire said.
    “You send me?”
    “Certainly.”
    “This is the future, this bucket.” He shook it, and brown water splashed onto his shabby shoes. He didn’t notice. On his right shoe, the cracked leather had separated from the sole. Water seeped in. “You tell your children someday, you saw the future. In this bucket.”
    “I will,” Claire said.
    “Yes, yes, you never know what you find or where you find it. No stone unturned, no bucket untested. I collect effluence from everywhere, Madame Shipley. My friends bring me jars of sewage from across the world. Or at least they did, until our current situation. Alors !” He shook off the Russian Revolution, the Nazis, the torment of his family. “Excuse me, excuse me, I must conduct my tests while the little creatures are fresh and frolicky. I hope to meet you again, Madame Shipley.”
    Off he went, humming a tune that sounded like Gershwin, crossing the highway and heading toward a small door that was open now in the cliff. His body swayed from the weight of the bucket.
    “Well,” Claire said, astonished.
    “My thoughts exactly,” Hoskins replied.
    “But if it works, it works.” Mold, sewage, who was she to doubt any of it, as Emily’s laughter sounded within her? “I’m photographing the laboratory this afternoon. Shall we go back?”
    “No, no—I came out here expressly to escape. Children in a laboratory. What was Stanton thinking?” The muscles tightened around his mouth, as if he were working hard to make his words sound mellifluous and amusing. “I don’t care for children, I must confess.”
    “That issue