Chapter 177: Cholera [2]
“What are you going to do? Poop is still poop.”
Liston stopped me just as I was about to leave the room.
“Right. And you’re not feeling well, are you?”
Blundell joined in. He had been trying to dose me with opium tincture from the moment I started showing symptoms. And now, there it was in his hand. When did he even buy that? What annoyed me most was that if I took it, the diarrhea would stop immediately. Because that was what opium did. It paralyzed intestinal movement.
But then…
“It’s a miracle cure! Haha!”
“From now on, we’re an opium-free hospital!”
“Give me morphine!”
I did not think they were crazy. I understood, really. It could be used to stop coughing. Sure, it worked, because it also stopped you from breathing.
“No, but think about it,” I said. “What if there are different types of miasma?”
I had not intended it as a profound statement. It seemed obvious. Of course there would be different strains, different environments, different pathogens. Anyone with a basic understanding of disease variation would get that. But…
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“There are types of miasma?”
To them, it was a shocking idea. For people who only understood miasma as vague, invisible “bad air” that caused disease, the notion that there could be subtypes probably sounded like sorcery.
“That’s…”
I trailed off, realizing the gap in thinking.
These were nineteenth-century people. Still, I had to find a way to steer the conversation back in my favor.
Come on, brain. Think!
Luckily, I was not just anyone. I was a Master of Bluffing from Joseon, the land of mystery. Time to lean in.
“In Joseon, we have something called Pungsu. Feng Shui.”
“Feng Shui…?”
Of course, all I really knew about Feng Shui were the characters for wind, water, and something about mountains and water. It did not matter. They did not know any better.
“Different regions produce different substances based on their geography. That’s obvious, isn’t it? Look at the British Empire. Products from India differ from those in Africa. Same logic.”
Even I was impressed by what I had just said. I was not even trying that hard.
Surprisingly, the two professors nodded thoughtfully.
“True.”
“The vegetation is certainly different.”
Joseph, Alfred, Colin, and the others who had come along were nodding too. Alfred was especially enthusiastic. His father was an international trader, so he probably understood this intuitively. Even Joseph, who had picked up a lot while staying with me, seemed on board. The British had been experimenting with transplanting all kinds of crops—tobacco, coca trees, tea—so it all tracked.
“I noticed that the plants in France look very different from those in England,” I added.
“Oh, absolutely. There’s something off about them.”
“Backward.”
Now that was rich. France, the land God had surely blessed with fertile soil and abundant resources, and still they were gritting their teeth. National pride ran deep. It did not matter which country or era. We were all nationalists deep down.
For now, I decided to let it slide. Would they prefer whiskey over makgeolli too?
“Yes, even in Joseon, the vegetation and the resulting food are completely different…”
“Ah…”
“Oh, my.”
Food was always a touchy subject. I knew better than to press the point. I moved on.
“When I considered that, I started to wonder. Wouldn’t the miasma differ too?”
“Mmm… that’s possible. Now that you say it, it makes sense. Troops stationed in India and Africa always suffered more from malaria.”
“Exactly. Endemic diseases. That must mean the local miasma is different too.”
Whew. I had done it. Thank God we were in the nineteenth century. If this were the tenth century, I would have been impaled on a pike and burned at the stake for saying such things. “Black hair and yellow skin—proof of a divine curse,” they would say.
But here? These men were listening.
“I knew you gentlemen would understand. And perhaps… it’s worth investigating. Why not track how often the French vomit or defecate? Record the volume, frequency, and consistency. If we document it all, it might yield useful data.”
“Hahaha! That’s it! Just thinking about it gets me excited!”
“Yes! Let’s bring in an artist too.”
“Do it! I’ve got money!”
“Oh right, you’re rich now!”
The professors, now fully hyped, ran off somewhere and were promptly scolded by a Frenchman. I was slightly excited myself. If we could classify types of miasma, our medical research would expand immensely. Especially here in France, where they had not even fully embraced the idea of disinfection yet.
To them, the French deaths might have seemed like statistics. But to me, each one was a life, just like mine.
Back we went to the Royal Academy of Surgery. On the way, I noticed the stench from the Seine had worsened.
This is bad…
It should not be like this. People did not sleep all day. Normally, the smell would peak in the morning, when digestive systems were active, and then improve. But now? The stench was stronger at night. That meant something was wrong.
From somewhere in the distance, I heard vomiting. And there were strange fluttering sounds I did not want to imagine too clearly. The carriage sped forward.
“No one’s around tonight.”
It was not just because it was late. Just yesterday, the streets were full of drunkards and troublemakers. Now, it was eerily quiet.
When we arrived at the hospital, it was chaos.
“Ughhh.”
“Ahhhh…”
People staggered like zombies. Even our teacher, Jean-Pierre, was there, half-dead from pride and stupidity. He had drunk the Seine’s water out of nationalistic fervor.
“So, Professor… did you drink Seine River water or body water?”
“I know. The first floor was the Seine. The second floor was the body.”
“Ah…”
He looked proud. Apparently, once they saw the British do it, all the French staff joined in. Everyone drank it.
These maniacs. I had never seen anything like it in the cautious, isolated island that was Britain. Mainland Europeans, man…
I grew worried. If the environment became saturated with whatever was in the water, airborne pathogens might follow. Even I could get infected. Instinctively, I reached inside my coat and pulled out the makeshift cloth mask I always carried.
“Hmm?”
“Why the mask?”
“It’s just the usual Parisian poop smell. Besides, you smelled worse yesterday and didn’t wear that thing.”
“Take that off, will you? You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Liston and Blundell immediately scolded me. What was this, some nineteenth-century toxic masculinity thing? Compared to these people, everyone in the twenty-first century was soft.
“Professors, if the miasma differs by region, local flies might survive, but we might die.”
“Die?”
“Yes.”
“Unacceptable.”
Terrifying. Still, we masked up and entered the hospital.
At least fifty people were crowded on the first floor alone. Likely another fifty upstairs. Given the hospital’s size, that meant every space was packed.
What about the patients? No… never mind.
Honestly, considering how dangerous hospitals were at this time, perhaps the fewer patients, the better. Sometimes, the best way to help was to stay out of the way. Still, we needed to assist the poor souls who had ingested death itself.
Thankfully, our team was top-tier.
“You know what to do, right?”
“Distill water and give it to them.”
“We must dilute the miasma!”
“Already on it. I even called for a painter. We’ll remember today forever.”
“When I return, I’ll have to bring back some gifts.”
I was fired up too. Watching arrogant Frenchmen suffer like this was oddly satisfying. Any London noble would have been delighted to witness it.
“Drink this!”
“Ugh… it’s the damn water!”
“We have to dilute the miasma inside you!”
“What are you talking about?! Miasma is air!”
“Then stop drinking it, idiot. Unless you want to die.”
“Ugh…”
The French resisted, of course, but the moment Dr. Liston unsheathed his surgical blade, they gulped down the distilled water in silence.
And just like that, our lonely, absurd battle began.