Open Heart (2 page)

Carole Angier,
The Independent

“Mr Yehoshua’s
A Woman in Jerusalem
is a sad, warm, funny book about Israel and being Jewish, and one that has deep lessons to impart – for other people as well as his own.”

The Economist

“…a small masterpiece, a compact, strange work of Chekhovian grace, grief, wit and compassion.”

The Washington Post

“Wonderfully dark humor gradually emerges from the ironies that occur… This is one of the most satisfying novels I’ve read this year.”

Mary Whipple, Amazon.com

“an excellent, nicely tuned translation by Stuart Schoffman.”

Ethan Bronner
The New York Times Book Review

“Mr Yehoshua, Israel’s most distinguished living novelist, is a dove. But he is one who, like his fellow writers Amos Oz and David Grossman, joins love for the unique qualities of his people with despair over their failure to make room politically and economically – but above all imaginatively – for the Arabs among them. With Mr Oz and Mr Grossman this despair comes out as a fine anger. With Mr Yehoshua … it comes out as a finer and ultimately more shattering Talmudic questioning.”

Richard Eder,
Books of the Times, The New York Times

“
Friendly Fire
goes beyond Israeli and Jewish issues to touch on universal issues affecting all of humanity. Intensely realized, thoughtful, and stunning in its unique imagery and symbolism, this unusual novel deals with seemingly everyday issues, offering new insights into the human condition – life, love, and death …”

Mary Whipple, Amazon.com

“… these lives haunted by loss are powerfully evoked.”

David Herman,
Jewish Chronicle

The incision was ready for stitching now. The anesthetist slipped the mask impatiently from his face, and as if the big respirator with its changing, flickering numbers were no longer enough for him, he stood up, gently took the still hand to feel the living pulse, smiled affectionately at the naked sleeping woman, and winked at me. But I ignored his wink, because my eyes were fixed on Professor Hishin, to see if he would finish the suturing himself or ask one of us to take over. I felt a tremor in my heart. I knew I was going to be passed over again, and my rival, the second resident, was going to be given the job. With a pang I watched the movements of the scrub nurse as she wiped away the last drops of blood from the long straight cut gaping in the woman’s stomach. I could have scored an easy success, I thought bitterly, by completing the operation with a really elegant suture. But it didn’t look as if Hishin was about to hand over the job to anyone. Even though he had been at work for three straight hours, he now rummaged, with the same supreme concentration with which he had begun the operation, through the pile of needles to find what he wanted. Finally he found the right needle and returned it angrily to the nurse to be sterilized again. Did he really owe it to this woman to sew her up with his own hands? Or perhaps there had been some under-the-table payment? I
withdrew
a little from the operating table, consoling myself with the thought that this time I had been spared humiliation at least, even though the other resident, who had also apparently grasped the surgeon’s intention to perform the suturing himself,
maintained
his alert stance beside the open abdomen.

At this point there was a stir next to the big door, and a curly mane of gray hair together with an excitedly waving hand
appeared
at one of the portholes. The anesthetist recognized the
man and hurried to open the door. But now, having invaded the wing without a doctor’s gown or mask, the man seemed at least to hesitate before entering the operating room itself and called out from the doorway in a lively, confident voice, “Haven’t you finished yet?” The surgeon glanced over his shoulder, gave him a friendly wave, and said, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He bent over the operating table again, but after a few minutes stopped and started looking around. His eyes met mine, and he seemed about to say something to me, but then the scrub nurse, who always knew how to read her master’s mind, sensed his
hesitation
and said softly but firmly, “There’s no problem, Professor Hishin, Dr. Vardi can finish up.” The surgeon immediately
nodded
in agreement, handed the needle to the resident standing next to him, and issued final instructions to the nurses. He pulled off his mask with a vigorous movement, held out his hands to the young nurse, who removed his gloves, and before disappearing from the room repeated, “If there are any problems, I’ll be with Lazar in administration.”

I turned to the operating table, choking back my anger and envy so that they wouldn’t burst out in a look or gesture. That’s it then, I thought in despair. If the women are on his side too, there’s no doubt which of us will be chosen to stay on in the department and which will have to begin wandering from
hospital
to hospital looking for a job at the end of the month. This is clearly the end of my career in the surgical department. But I took up my position calmly next to my colleague, who had
already
exchanged the needle Hishin handed him for another one; I was ready to share in the responsibility for the last stage of the operation, watching the incision close rapidly under his strong, dexterous fingers. If the incision had been in my hands, I would have tried to suture it more neatly, not to mar by so much as a millimeter the original contours of the pale female stomach, which suddenly aroused a profound compassion in me. And
already
the anesthestist Dr. Nakash, was getting ready for the “landing,” as he called it, preparing to take out the tubes,
removing
the infusion needle from the vein, humming merrily and keeping a constant watch on the surgeon’s hands, waiting for permission to return the patient to normal breathing. Still absorbed in the insult to me, I felt the touch of a light hand. A young nurse who had quietly entered the room told me in a
whisper that the head of the department was waiting for me in Lazar’s office. “Now?” I hesitated. And the other resident, who had overheard the whisper, urged me, “Go, go, don’t worry, I’ll finish up here myself.”

Without removing my mask, I hurried out of the shining
darkness
of the operating room and past the laughter of the doctors and nurses in the tearoom, released the press-button of the big door sealing off the wing, and emerged into the waiting room, which was bathed in afternoon sunlight. When I stopped to take off my mask, a young man and an elderly woman immediately recognized and approached me. “How is she? How is she?”

“She’s fine.” I smiled. “The operation’s over, they’ll bring her out soon.”

“But how is she? How is she?” they persisted. “She’s fine,” I said. “Don’t worry, she’s been born again.” I myself was
surprised
by the phrase—the operation hadn’t been at all
dangerous
—and I turned away from them and continued on my way, still in my pale green bloodstained surgical gown, the mask
hanging
around my neck, the cap on my head, rustling the sterile plastic shoe covers. Catching the stares following me here and there, I went up in the elevator to the big lobby and turned into the administrative wing, where I had never been invited before, and finally gave my name to one of the secretaries. She inquired in a friendly way as to my preferences in coffee and led me through an imposing empty conference lounge into a large,
curtained,
and very uninstitutionally furnished room—a sofa and armchairs, well-tended plants in big pots. The head of the department, Professor Hishin, was lounging in one of the armchairs, going through some papers. He gave me a quick, friendly smile and said to the hospital director, who was standing next to him, “Here he is, the ideal man for you.”

Mr. Lazar shook my hand firmly and very warmly and
introduced
himself, while Hishin gave me encouraging looks, ignoring the wounding way he had slighted me previously and hinting to me discreetly to take off my cap and remove the plastic covers from my shoes. “The operation’s over,” he said in his faint
Hungarian
accent, his eyes twinkling with that tireless irony of his, “and even you can rest now.” As I removed the plastic covers and crammed the cap into my pocket, Hishin began telling Lazar the story of my life, with which he was quite familiar, to my
surprise. Mr. Lazar continued examining me with burning eyes, as if his fate depended on me. Finally, Hishin finished by saying, “Even though he’s dressed as a surgeon, don’t make any mistake, he’s first and foremost an excellent internist. That’s his real strength, and the only reason he insists on remaining in our
department
is because he believes, completely wrongly, that what lies at the pinnacle of medicine is a butcher’s knife.” As he spoke he waved an imaginary knife in his hand and cut off his head. Then he gave a friendly laugh—as if to soften the final blow he had just delivered to my future in the surgical department—reached out his hand, placed it on my knee, and asked gently, in a tone of unprecedented intimacy, “Have you ever been to
India
?”

“India?” I asked in astonishment. “India? Why India, of all places?” But Hishin laughed, enjoying his little surprise. “Yes, India. Lazar’s looking for a doctor to accompany him on a little trip to India.”

“To India?” I exclaimed again, still unable to take it in. “Yes, yes, to India. There’s a certain sick young woman who needs a doctor to accompany her home to Israel, and she happens to be in India.”

“Sick with what?” I asked immediately. “Nothing terrible,” said Hishin reassuringly, “but a little tricky nevertheless. Acute hepatitis, apparently B, which got a little out of hand and led to deterioration. And even though her condition seems to have
stabilized
, we all decided that it would be best to bring the young lady home as soon as possible. With all due respect to Indian medicine, we can still give her the best care here.”

“But who is she? Who is this woman?” I asked with rising petulance. “She’s my daughter.” The administrative director
finally
broke his silence. “She left on a tour of the Far East six months ago, and last month she caught this jaundice, and she had to be hospitalized in a town called Gaya, in East India, somewhere between Calcutta and New Delhi. At first she
apparently
didn’t want to worry us and she tried to keep it a secret, but a friend who was with her there came home two days ago and brought us a letter with a few details about her illness. Even though everyone’s assured us that there’s no danger, I want her home before any complications set in. We thought it would be a good idea to take a doctor along. It shouldn’t take more than
twelve days, maximum two weeks, and that’s only because she’s stuck out there in Gaya, which is a little off the beaten track as far as trains and flights are concerned. To tell you the truth, I tried at first to entice your professor, who’s never been to India and could have done with a rest, but you know him as well as I do, he’s always too busy—and if he has got any time to spare, he prefers to go to Europe, not to Asia. But he promised to provide us with an ideal substitute.”

Ideal for what, I asked myself gloomily, to drag a girl with hepatitis around India on dilapidated old trains? But I held my tongue and turned to look at the secretary, who came into the room with a story about someone who had been waiting a long time to see the director. “Just don’t move,” commanded Lazar, “I’ll get rid of him in a minute,” and he disappeared, leaving the Hishin and me facing each other. I knew that Hishin had already sensed my disappointment and resentment of this strange
proposal
, because he suddenly rose to his feet and stood towering over me and started talking to me gently. “Look, I can see that you’re not enthusiastic about the idea of suddenly dashing off to India like this, but in your place I’d accept the offer. Not only for the sake of an interesting free trip to a place you might never have the chance to go to again, but for the opportunity to get to know the man himself. Lazar is someone who can help you if you want to go on working at this hospital, in internal medicine or any other department. The hospital is run from this room, and Lazar holds the reins. Apart from which, he also happens to be a nice, decent man. So listen to me and don’t turn him down. You should go. What have you got to lose? Even if all you get out of it is a pleasant adventure. And besides, there’s not much to do for hepatitis. I don’t believe the young lady has managed to do any real harm to her liver or kidneys, but even if she has, it’s not the end of the world—the body will heal itself in the end. All you have to do is watch out for sudden hemorrhages, prevent the glucose level from falling, and of course keep her from becoming febrile. I’ll collect a few good articles on the subject for you, and tomorrow we’ll consult Professor Levine from internal medicine. Hepatitis is his baby—he knows everything there is to know about it, including things nobody needs to know. And we’ll put together a nice little kit for you as well, so you’ll be ready for anything that might crop up. And another thing, you can say
good-bye to them in Europe if you like and take a vacation. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw your file—in the whole year you’ve been with us you’ve only taken one day’s leave.”

So he can’t wait to get rid of me, I thought miserably. He can’t even wait one more month till the end of my trial year. It was unbelievable. And then Lazar came back. “Well?” he asked with a broad executive smile. “It’s agreed?” But Hishin immediately and sensibly slowed him down. “Just a minute, Lazar, what is this? A man has the right to think things over.”

“Of course, of course,” replied Lazar, and glanced at his watch. “But till when? There are so many technical arrangements to make, and I planned on leaving the day after tomorrow, to catch the Tuesday flight from Rome.” But he must have sensed the threat of refusal in my continuing silence, since he stopped pressuring me and invited me to his home that evening to talk over the details and to give me time to make up my mind. It would have been churlish to refuse the invitation, and besides, I felt that these two assertive men wouldn’t allow me to start
resisting
them now. As I was making my way out of the room, address and directions in hand, Lazar called after me, “Wait a minute. I forgot to ask, are you married?” When I shook my head, his spirits immediately soared; he turned to Hishin with raised eyebrows and asked, “In that case, what has he got to think about?” and the two of them laughed good-humoredly.

The afternoon turned very rainy, and as I hurried from bed to bed in the intensive care unit, battling to stop a sudden
hemorrhage
in the young woman who had been operated on that morning, I made up my mind to refuse. If it was only for the sake of some weird trip to India that I had suddenly become ideal in the eyes of the head of the department, why should I give up the last month of rounds to which I was entitled? Every day I was
learning
new and fascinating things, every minute in the operating room thrilled me, even if I was only watching. What could I possibly gain from a sudden trip to India in the middle of winter? But as dusk descended and I arrived at my apartment wet and tired, prepared to call Lazar and give my decision, I had second thoughts. Why insult a man who might be useful to me one day? The least I could do was listen politely to the details before
finally
turning him down. I hurried to take a shower and change my clothes. At eight o’clock I rode north to an apartment block
standing in a broad avenue of oak trees rustling in the wind and the rain. I covered my motorcycle with its tarpaulin, but when I saw that the rain was coming down harder I changed my mind and dragged it under the foundation pillars of the building. On the top floor, in a large, elegant apartment, I was impatiently greeted by Lazar, dressed in a loose red flannel shirt which made him look bulkier and older. “But how could I have forgotten to tell you to bring your passport?” he greeted me plaintively. “Is it valid? When was the last time you went abroad?” The last time I had been abroad had been two years earlier, on a short trip to Europe after graduating from medical school. I didn’t have the faintest idea whether my passport was still valid, and I tried with an embarrassed smile to fend off his enthusiasm and to indicate that although I had kept the appointment, I was still very
undecided
and had come only to hear him out again and think it over. “What’s there to think about?” cried Lazar in astonishment and a kind of childish anger. “But if you insist, come and see where I want to take you, and don’t panic; even if it looks like the end of the world on the map, we can make it there and back in two weeks, and even take in a few sights on the way, because I don’t want to turn the trip into one long
via
dolorosa
either.” And he pulled me into a large, attractive living room. A boy of about seventeen in a pale blue school uniform shirt, very like his father except that his hair was long and soft, immediately stood up and left the room.