Open Heart (46 page)

I immediately discovered that the internal hemorrhaging had not been completely arrested, and I found additional torn blood vessels which had to be reconstructed. I ordered another unit of blood and continued with the operation, which I performed very slowly, waiting for the physician in charge to come back and take the knife from me. But he didn’t come back, and I had to continue alone, admitting to myself that maybe Professor Hishin and Dr. Nakash were right when they said that I thought too much during surgery and this hesitancy made me unsuited to being a surgeon. But here, in the English operating room, I
believed
that my slowness would be accepted in a more tolerant spirit. For although the pulse was regular again, and the
breathing
was normal, and the dark, slender body was properly
relaxed
, I was in the grip of a terrible anxiety that something
unexpected
and unknown would break out in the course of the operation and kill the child under my hands, bringing disgrace not only to me but also to Lazar and his wife, who had sent me here. And so I slowed down the pace of the operation even
further
and checked and rechecked every cut, and at a certain stage I even insisted on calling in the X-ray technician to take additional X-rays of the spine. It was already long past midnight, and the white-haired anesthetist had taken her eyes off her instruments in order to stare at me, baffled by my slowness. Perhaps it was only good manners that prevented her from asking me what was
going
on, for she had every right to do so. The young nurse,
however
, did not hide her anger, and she flung the instruments huffily and noisily into the sterilizing unit, muttering to herself. But I ignored her, and after sewing up the stomach with small, neat stitches that wouldn’t leave a scar, I finally, after five hours,
signaled
the anesthetist to begin bringing the child around. I wouldn’t allow her to be removed from the operating room until I had made sure that the words she was mumbling in her peculiar accent made sense, and that there was no brain damage as a result of the operation I had performed from beginning to end all by myself. Without removing my bloodstained gown, I walked
behind her bed as it rolled slowly into the emergency room, which at this late hour was completely quiet, and where even the patients who had not yet been sent up to the various wards had fallen asleep. I looked for the senior physician to report to him and discovered that he had retired to his room to rest long
before
, without even taking the trouble to inquire about the results of the operation he had left in my hands, so great was his trust in the new young doctor. The only signs of life were in the waiting room, where a group of tall, long-limbed Africans greeted me with grateful respect and awe. For them, it turned out, my
slowness
had been an omen of hope.

Thus I quickly found my place in the work of the hospital, and since I saw that independent operations were likely to come my way in the emergency room, I volunteered to work the evening shift and to be on call at night, to the grateful appreciation of my colleagues, who turned out on the whole to be less ambitious than Israeli doctors. And so I found myself standing in the little operating room attached to the emergency room, sometimes as an anesthetist and sometimes as a surgeon, performing quite complicated surgery on my own, albeit in my own particular way—that is, with the extreme slowness to which the
white-haired
anesthetist had already grown accustomed; and as for the impatient blond nurse, I got rid of her in favor of a placid,
obedient
Scottish nurse. At the end of each night, when I saw that nothing more of interest was going to come my way, I would walk home to our nearby apartment and wake Michaela and tell her about my adventures. She would wake up immediately and listen eagerly to everything I had to say, not only because she always liked hearing about medical matters but also because she was happy to see me full of enthusiasm. Her round belly was rising steadily like a little pink hill under the blanket, and
sometimes
as I spoke I thought I could see a slight movement stirring inside it, proof that the baby too was listening to me. Michaela’s sexual appetite diminished greatly during her last months of pregnancy, both because the strangeness of the little apartment had worn off and because of a peculiar notion she had picked up from a traveler who had returned from India: that intercourse could arouse frustrated desire in the fetus. I didn’t want to get into theological debates with her about the meaning of life and consciousness in embryos, especially since I was not particularly
keen just then on making love to her. But the memory of the love I had known on that other stomach, no less large, round, and white, at the beginning of spring in the granny’s apartment, filled my heart with longings so fierce and sweet that I had to avert my head to prevent Michaela from seeing the tears in my eyes.

But Michaela had no desire to notice unexpected tears pooling in her husband’s eyes. She was full of happiness at being in
London
, delighting in her freedom to roam where she would,
meeting
people connected with India, and dreaming about another trip there herself. And so when I got into bed after having a long soak in the bath to cleanse my soul of the blood and pus, I would find her fast asleep, preparing herself for her little morning job, her only obligation—sweeping and mopping the floor of the little chapel and tidying the seats for the congregation coming to pray or tourists coming to admire the quaint old building. She was quite satisfied with this simple manual labor, for which she earned a relatively handsome sum, leading me to suspect a
hidden
subsidy from Sir Geoffrey, to bolster my low salary. She would bring home candle-ends from the chapel too, and light them from time to time to create a festive atmosphere.
Sometimes
, when I emerged from the bathroom at the gray hour
before
dawn, I would see that before she had gone back to sleep she had set a half or third of a candle by my bedside, to dispel my loneliness before I too fell asleep, and in fact the flickering light would gradually calm my agitated spirit and lull me to sleep, or at least show me when it was five o’clock in the morning, when I would sometimes call my parents before they went to work, at the reduced nighttime rates. In the beginning I phoned often, because I hadn’t heard anything from Amnon and I was worried about his paying the rent on time. The two-hour time difference between London and Jerusalem ensured that I would always find my parents at home, fresh and alert, ready with news about themselves and the country but mainly eager to hear about what was going on in my life, and how Michaela’s pregnancy was progressing, and if there were any signs of an early birth. They had already reserved their flight and paid for their tickets, and Michaela had undertaken to find them a room near our
apartment
. Although they were careful not to drag out the telephone conversations that I paid for, they couldn’t resist asking for more information about rooms for rent in the area so they could
decide
what might suit them. They sounded excited, not only in anticipation of the birth of their grandchild and the meeting with us but also because of the long stay they planned in England, to which they had paid only brief visits since they had emigrated to Israel. They were now going to stay for two whole months; it was as if they were coming home, back to the land of their birth.

Sometimes
dust
collects
on
the
little
statuette,
until
its
original
color
is
dulled.
And
if
nobody
comes
to
wipe
it
off
occasionally
with
a
soft
cloth,
a
skinny
spider
will
finally
descend
from
the
ceiling
to
patiently
weave
a
great
complex
web
of
dense
transpar
ent
threads
around
it,
like
a
delicate
lacy
dress
—
until
a
sunbeam
borne
on
the
breeze
floating
in
from
the
open
window
transforms
the
forgotten
statuette
into
a
dusty
little
girl,
her
shining
dress
ruffling
softly
around
her,
ready
to
dance
with
anyone
who
asks
her.

But
who
will
ask
her?
Who
can
forget
that
death
is
death,
however
it
disguises
itself?

The birth took place on a freezing winter night in our own little apartment, a few hundred yards from the hospital. I still can’t understand how Michaela succeeded in persuading me, and
especially
my parents, to agree. But were we really persuaded, or did we simply give in to her determination to give birth at home with only a midwife present? For what, indeed, could we do? We couldn’t force her to have the baby in the hospital. “I’m sorry,” she announced with a tolerant smile at the sight of our
misgivings
, “but it was me, not you, who carried the baby all this time, so I think I have the right to decide where to bring her into the world.” And with these words the argument was closed.
Nevertheless
, I don’t think we tried hard enough to change her mind, as if we had resigned ourselves to the fact that she had a few private eccentricities that we had to accept in return for her many virtues, which in London took on a very practical aspect. Not only did she find an excellent apartment for my parents at a
reasonable rent, with a separate entrance and a little kitchenette, only a few streets away from us—a room attached to a small house surrounded by a little garden, whose owners were away on a long vacation in Italy—but she also prepared a very warm
welcome
for them when they arrived. Although she was in the
middle
of her ninth month, she insisted on going to the airport to meet them and from there bringing them back to our house, where a rich repast awaited them, with all kinds of sausages and cheeses that she knew my father liked. She surprised my mother, who was not a big eater, with a dish that had been a favorite of hers as a child—raspberries and cream, something she had picked up from a chance remark made by my Glasgow aunt. The day before they arrived, Michaela made the beds in their room with fresh, spotless linen, and she added an extra pillow to my mother’s bed, which in this room was next to my father’s, so that she could sleep with her head raised, as she did in Jerusalem. And on top of everything else she had borrowed two hot water bottles from her new friend Stephanie, in case the English heating was insufficient for my parents, especially since an intense cold had descended on the whole country in the week of their arrival, at the beginning of January.

This Stephanie, a mature woman from South Africa whom Michaela had met in the neighborhood choir and had become very friendly with, was the source of some of her new ideas, including the idea of giving birth at home with a midwife, which apparently was fashionable then among young women in North London, who besides relying on their own sturdy health were looking for some kind of meaning in the simpler ways of former generations. I knew that Michaela was searching for something; she wanted to experience the birth on a basic, elemental level, and if half the human race was still giving birth at home without making a fuss about it, there really was no reason for me to be concerned. Her pregnancy had been absolutely normal, and she herself was a strong, healthy young woman. She had also
participated
in a Lamaze course, and she knew what to expect; in case of an emergency the hospital was just around the corner, and I myself was a doctor after all, as Michaela reminded me in a slightly mocking tone, for it amused her that a doctor, and a young one at that, should be prey to fears that would never even occur to a layman. It was true that I had accumulated plenty of
experience over the past few months in the little operating room next to the emergency room, but I had never delivered a baby—let alone this particular one, whom I was already calling Shiva to myself, but with a
beth,
not with a
vav
. This was my condition for agreeing to the birth at home, and Michaela was forced to accept it, in spite of her protests. “You’re wrong, Benjy,” she said. “Shiva with a
vav
is more elegant than Shiva with a
beth.
And it’s also connected to the word
shivayon,
equality, or even, if you want, to something religious like
Shiviti
elohim
l’negdi,
‘I have set God always before me.’”

“But you mean a completely different god,” I said
immediately
. “Why different?” she wondered. “It’s always the same god, Benjy. Why can’t you understand? But never mind, let it be with a
beth
in the meantime, and when she learns to read and write she can decide for herself how to spell her name. In any case, in English it’s the same, and that’s the important thing,” and this concluded the negotiations between us, with an echo of her refusal to go home to Israel after the year was over.

My parents had already heard this echo too, on the way back from the airport, and they remarked on it to me, but their
immediate
concern was with Michaela’s plan to give birth at home. In the beginning they tried to pressure Michaela tactfully into changing her mind, as they had tried and succeeded in the matter of the size of the wedding. But this time I wasn’t neutral. I felt obligated to stand up for Michaela and reassure my parents—after all, I was a doctor, wasn’t I? And that should count for something. Fortunately, my father’s niece and her pale, thin,
bespectacled
husband, the one with the slightly mysterious
appearance
, called as soon as my parents arrived and invited them to dinner and the theater, distracting them to some extent from their anxieties about the approaching birth, which I intended to tell them about only when it was over. This wouldn’t be easy, for they were staying nearby, and in spite of their discretion and promise not to make a nuisance of themselves, they called several times a day. When I received a phone call at six o’clock in the evening from Michaela, who was already a few days overdue, to tell me that her water had broken, I told her not to say anything to my parents and hurried home from the hospital. There I was met by Stephanie, who liked taking part in these private births and who was chiefly responsible for giving Michaela the
confidence
to go through with it. Michaela was already lying, pale and smiling, on the mattress on my side of the joined twin beds, for her own mattress, soaked with amniotic fluid, had been put in front of the radiator in the next room to dry. I wondered if amniotic fluid had a smell. The first contraction had not come yet, so while we waited I made coffee and sandwiches for
Stephanie
and myself, but I forbade Michaela to eat, so that she wouldn’t vomit later. Even though Michaela had assured me that the midwife would bring “everything necessary,” I had prepared myself for the delivery by purchasing some polydine disinfectant, something to stop the bleeding, and three shots of Pitocin to accelerate the contractions, at a pharmacy; the Marcaine
injections
to anesthetize the pelvic nerves, which proved impossible to obtain at a pharmacy, I secretly “borrowed” from the medicine cabinet in the hospital delivery room, in the hope that we wouldn’t have to use them. Prompted by a premonition that something might go wrong and that I should be prepared for any eventuality, without asking permission I put a few simple but essential instruments in my bag, such as forceps, scalpels, long, curved scissors, and needles, and as soon as I got home I threw them all into a pot of boiling water to sterilize them. How strange, I thought, that I should be sitting here in our little kitchen, full of fear and apprehension, watching the bubbling water, when only a stone’s throw away was a hospital with
modern
operating rooms to which I had free access. If I really loved Michaela, I wondered, would I have given in to her so easily?

The midwife had not yet arrived, even though she had said that she was on her way some time ago. Michaela showed no signs of anxiety; she was well prepared and confident that
everything
would go smoothly. Stephanie and I watched as she greeted the first contraction with the special breathing exercises she had learned, without uttering a sound. In the meantime my parents phoned, and guessed by the tone of my voice that something was happening. I made them swear not to come until I called them, and they promised to wait for my permission—but half an hour later I saw them through the window, walking up and down the street as if they wanted, in spite of the bitter cold, to be close to the scene of the event. They were wearing heavy coats, and from time to time they raised their eyes to our lighted windows. Then they disappeared, into a nearby pub as it turned out, from which
they phoned to say that they were close by and if I needed them they could be there in a minute. The midwife, presumably stuck in the busy evening traffic, had still not arrived, and I started to become really worried about what I would do if, God forbid, she didn’t come at all and it proved impossible to transfer Michaela to the hospital against her will. The rate of the contractions
increased
slightly, but there was still no sign of an opening. Michaela was quiet, she didn’t let out a single moan, and it was a wonder to me that she, who screamed and moaned wildly when we made love, was so restrained in the face of pains so severe that her face went white and she closed her eyes for long stretches at a time. For a moment I felt angry at myself for
leaving
all the arrangements for the midwife and the delivery to her. But before I took more drastic steps, such as going around to the hospital to fetch someone qualified to help, I decided to bring my parents up to the apartment, not only in order to leave someone more reliable than Stephanie with Michaela, although she seemed quite calm and collected, but also to get encouragement from their presence, and maybe even to get some practical advice from my mother, who had also given birth, even though it had been only once, and thirty years ago at that.

I ran down to the pub to call them. At first I couldn’t find them in the crush, because instead of sitting in a corner, as I expected, they were standing at the bar like veteran customers, drinking beer and holding an animated conversation with a group of
Englishmen
. When they saw me pushing my way toward them, looking agitated, my father had been having such a pleasant time that he thought it was already over and I had come to give them the news. He hurried to introduce me to his new acquaintances, and the friendliness of their nods led me to understand that here too I had been one of the subjects of his conversation. When we left the pub he complained again, as he had done since his
arrival
, of my poor English vocabulary and the mistakes I kept making, and offered once more to speak to me in English in order to improve my command of the language. But my mother, who sensed my deep excitement, cut him short: “Not now. Let’s wait for Shiva to be born first.” There was something very
agreeable
and reassuring in the way she pronounced for the first time the name of the baby who had not yet been born—who was apparently in no hurry to be born, either, judging by the lack of
change in Michaela’s dilation. My father, of course, did not go into the bedroom and only looked in politely from the door, but my mother sat down next to the bed and began talking intensely with Michaela and Stephanie, who were becoming increasingly concerned at the failure of the midwife to arrive. Three hours had passed since she had been summoned, and there was no sign of her; and they had both been relying on her, not only medically but spiritually.