Why always "a desk in a succession of crowded rooms"?

I read The Body Multiple for the first time in 2018, when I was pursuing my master’s degree at the Federal University of Minas Gerais. I was exercising the English I learned partly at school, partly at home, and partly absorbed from American pop culture.

Since then, I’ve reread the book several times — perhaps it’s more appropriate to say that I revisited loose chapters or even excerpts, at different times.

But today I needed to reread it. I’ll use it as a theoretical framework in my project — and it’s good form to get to know a little more intimately who you’re going to be tied to for a good while. I reread like my grandmother used to read: only taking necessary pauses, with the book 40 cm from my face. Right on the first page of chapter 1, I found anthropologist Annemarie Mol’s account of her ethnographic work, twice a week, at a hospital in the Netherlands:

“I had an identity card that allowed me to leave my bicycle behind a fence and drink coffee from the omnipresent vending machines. I had a library card and the use of a desk in a succession of crowded rooms…”

This excerpt reminded me of the first time I needed to walk quite a bit inside a hospital to reach my workstation.

I was immediately teleported to 2014, to the first hospital where I ever conducted research. It was in a city with fewer than 100,000 inhabitants, in the interior of Minas Gerais. Still somewhat green in research — and a bit green in life too — I arrived punctually at the door of the hospital which, unlike hospital Z where the Dutch author researched, did not offer me an access card. Most likely because I would stay only a week there, or perhaps because, being a public hospital, there were no resources to print a temporary badge — a completely dispensable luxury in that context.

At the entrance, Mr. Agenor told me to follow him to “the old papers room.” I was even relieved not to have a badge — this would imply moving around autonomously, something I would have no condition to do in that place. I remember passing through a turnstile, going up a ramp, turning left, a corridor with lined-up office doors, and Mr. Agenor walking quickly, narrating the details of the day’s agenda: “Now you’ll get the expense books…” At this point, he had already turned another left, which this time led to a maternity ward (was it?). I heard a groan of pain — was it the obstetrics wing? I saw a woman in the final moments of pregnancy, walking hunched over, with one hand on her back. I avoided our eyes meeting — it would be disrespectful — and continued walking (without seeming to run) behind Mr. Agenor, who was already turning right. That building was clearly a newer extension: lower ceiling, more modern windows, and a smell of cooking beans that invaded the air. It must have been the kitchen — the corridor had large windows covered only with a wire mesh, and through it I saw a young woman vigorously stirring a huge pot of something, maybe rice? They say hospital food has no taste — I didn’t smell garlic in the air.

Bewildered by the size of the pot, I lost track of Mr. Agenor, who was walking fast, worried about his many tasks for the day. He was the type of person who, if he had a staff badge, it would read “backbone of the institution.” A day with this man in bed would be a day when the hospital wouldn’t function.

Back to my despair: I was already beginning to disbelieve in the holy grail of research, as I lost sight of Mr. Agenor. Going forward, I found myself at an intersection of corridors and noticed, to the right, a large closed door. I could only go left, and this time I ended up in a dark and spacious room. I couldn’t believe it: it was a Catholic church. Inside, the impatient Mr. Agenor was waiting for me with a bunch of keys in his hand. I didn’t have time to look at the ceiling, but I had the impression of something neoclassical. On the left side, certainly, The Lord’s Table, with the saints and pillars; on the right, the congregation benches. There wasn’t even time to ask for a pause to see the main altar, as another door was already opening. This one I knew: it was the sacristy! I recognized it right away by the large drawers where the vestments are kept. And finally, a table! Would this be my workstation for the next few days?

I think so, because it was there that Mr. Agenor opened the windows and let the sunlight in. I was just praying that the smell of humidity would also dissipate. I looked outside: it gave a view to the congregation’s cemetery. With few words spoken quickly, Mr. Agenor placed on the table a pile of document bundles separated by folders and said: “Stay there. By around 12 I’ll get you out of here.” And he left. I heard the sound of the key turning in the lock — certainly from the 19th century.

It was the first time I needed to cross a thousand corridors and rooms to reach a research table inside a hospital — but not the last, I’ll tell about the others later. And I must say: it was the only time I was locked inside a sacristy to prevent me from escaping with ~ improperly appropriated ~ documents. I wondered who had passed through there before me and caused such a security measure (?).

The next day, I chased after Mr. Agenor properly equipped with water and snacks, because I already knew that, for that entire week, I should behave with military discipline — being released only at lunchtime.