Open Heart (9 page)

But they still didn’t leave. Now they were waiting in the
corridor
for a dark, very delicate boy who came to take their luggage down, and I slowly closed my door on them. In spite of my tiredness, I didn’t go back to bed but immediately began to shave, and suddenly the thought flashed across my mind, Yes, those were the right words exactly. This overweight couple was really beginning to get on my nerves, though I didn’t yet know how or why. Maybe I’m too sensitive, I said to myself, but something about the strong, deep bond shining between them, slipping to and fro with sly efficiency between Lazar’s dry, practical concern and his wife’s warm, phony charm, with her sudden, superfluous smiles, was beginning to irritate me profoundly. In spite of their openness, they weren’t frank with me, and I didn’t know what was going on in their heads, which undoubtedly worked like one constantly coordinated head. I still didn’t even know something as simple and straightforward as how much they were going to pay me for the trip. It was hard to tell what their real attitude to money was, their calculations between themselves and their calculations regarding me. And wasn’t there something strange about the fact that they were both here and dragging a doctor with them? Surely one person would have been enough to bring this sick daughter home? Suddenly it struck me that they were a little afraid of the meeting with their daughter and they had brought me along as a kind of go-between. Had Lazar been telling me the truth outside his house when he said that his wife couldn’t be without him? And if so, in what sense? It was insane. I could already sense the powerful nature of this smoothly oiled conjugality, which was only a little younger than the one between my parents, but how different they were. It would never occur to my father in a million years to take my mother’s hand like that and squeeze it in order to make her stop talking. My father would never embarrass a strange young man watching them like that. But perhaps, I said to myself as I lathered my face for the third time in anticipation of the long journey beginning tonight, perhaps I really was too sensitive,
without cause, perhaps because in my heart of hearts I was still lamenting this trip imposed on me by Professor Hishin, who at this early morning hour in Israel I could see stepping, fresh and cocky, into the operating room, where the nurses, together with the anesthetist and the second resident, are waiting for him. I could even imagine Hishin’s jokes, as he teases the patient lying on the stretcher, sedated, and pale with fear, ready for the “takeoff.” Perhaps he even makes a few ironic remarks to the
operating
team about me and the fantastic trip he has graciously bestowed on me, although he and all the rest of them know very well that all I ever wanted was to stay at his side, next to the operating table, looking and looking deep inside the human body, in the hope that one day the knife would be placed in my hand.

Is
it
possible
to
bring
up
the
word
“Mystery”
yet?
Or
perhaps
as
of
now
it
can
only
be
thought
of?
For
our
three
characters
(
three?
for
the
time
being
)
are
not
seeking
mystery;
the
relative
stability
of
their
personalities,
the
reasonable
rationality
of
their
thinking,
has
set
before
them
a
well-lit
goal
and
a
clear
road
to
reach
it.
And
if
they
only
remain
free
of
the
tyranny
of
the
imagi
nation
,
of
its
arbitrariness,
they
will
arrive
by
their
own
powers
at
the
simple
heart
of
the
matter
and
return
safely
to
their
homes,
after
parting
from
each
other
without
acrimony
or
pain.

For
what
will
they
gain
from
a
mystery
that
leads
nowhere?
And
this
young
doctor,
a
rather
reflective
and
solitary
hero,
abruptly
cut
off
three
days
ago
from
Pr
of
essor
Hishin’s
surgical
department,
which
has
filled
his
life
for
the
past
year
and
on
which
he
pinned
his
hopes
for
the
future,
is
now,
owing
to
the
sudden
trip
to
India,
left
without
even
the
possibility
of
any
other
hope
to
cling
to.
He
finishes
shaving,
washes
his
face,
and
begins
packing
in
a
mood
of
sullen
resentment.
But
before
he
finally
parts
from
the
dim
room
where
the
colorful
silk
curtains
are
still
drawn
and
prepares
himself
for
a
day
of
intensive
sightseeing
—
so
that
he
will
not
be
shamed
by
friends
and
acquaintances
at
home
for
having
traveled
all
the
way
to
New
Delhi
and
failed
to
see
the
things
you
have
to
see
there
—
he
goes
to
check
that
the
door
is
locked,
quickly
takes
off
all
his
clothes
and
lies
down
naked
on
the
bed,
and
masturbates
heavily
and
without
recourse
to
fantasy,
in
order
to
feel
freer
and
lighter
for
the
long
journey
ahead,
since
he
knows
that
the
next
bed
offered
him
by
his
pur
posive
companions
will
be
very
far
away.

But
the
young
doctor
had
no
hidden
desire
to
imagine
this
bed
as
in
any
sense
mysterious,
even
though
as
he
emerged
from
the
hotel,
erect
and
slightly
dizzy,
straight
into
the
heart
of
the
rosy
Indian
light
floating
over
the
streets
stinking
with
stunning,
col
orful
humanity,
a
twinge
of
anxiety
entered
his
soul,
whereas
the
day
before,
in
these
very
same
streets,
even
in
the
darkness
of
night,
he
had
felt
quite
relaxed.
Because
the
English
movie
in
which
he
imagined
that
he
was
taking
part
in
order
to
protect
himself
had
completely
vanished
during
the
night,
and
now
he
was
exposed
without
any
barriers
to
the
alien
and
powerful
real
ity
.
And
this
anxiety
was
so
new
and
sudden
to
the
doctor
that
he
stopped
the
first
available
rickshaw,
even
though
it
was
drawn
by
a
bicycle
and
not
a
motorcycle,
and
threw
himself
onto
the
soft
seat,
and
said,
Take
me
first
to
Humayun’s
Tomb.
And
the
rider-driver,
a
serious
Indian
of
about
fifty
who
wore
dark
glasses
and
spoke
better
English
than
his
passenger,
turned
out
to
be
an
excellent
tour
guide
and
spent
the
rest
of
the
day
guiding
the
young
tourist
intelligently
and
efficiently
about
the
city,
so
that
he
would
see
not
only
the
sights
the
guidebooks
defined
as
not
to
be
missed
but
also
those
listed
as
optional
Thus,
after
they
had
visited
Humayun’s
Tomb,
the
Qutab
Minar
complex,
and
even
the
National
Museum,
and
after
the
guide
had
noted
that
his
tourist
was
not
a
dawdler
but
looked
quickly
and
walked
briskly,
he
suggested
that
the
tourist
pay
a
visit,
perhaps
in
his
capacity
as
a
doctor,
to
a
unique
site
—
a
hospital
for
birds,
not
far
from
the
Red
Fort.
There,
on
the
second
floor,
in
a
dimly
lit
room,
opposite
stinking
cages
in
which
lay
sick
and
wounded
birds
—
some
of
them
with
their
legs
in
splints,
among
them
crushed
and
mangy
birds
of
prey
who
would
suddenly
shriek
horribly
—
the
doctor’s
anxiety
deepened,
until
his
soul
trembled
and
he
asked
to
leave.
“What
a
crazy
idea,”
he
argued
outside,
but
when
he
saw
his
guide’s
disappointment,
he
corrected
him
self
and
said,
“Maybe
the
idea
of
a
birds’
hospital
is
original,
but
shouldn’t
human
suffering
come
first?”

And
then
the
guide
removed
his
dark
glasses,
revealing
slightly
bloodshot
eyes,
and
spoke
of
the
reincarnation
of
souls,
and
the
doctor
secretly
clenched
his
fists
and
bowed
his
head
in
silence,
and
after
the
guide
concluded,
he
paid
him
the
exact
sum
agreed
on
between
them
and
sent
him
away
without
a
tip,
and
instead
of
going
down
to
the
river
again
to
see
it
in
daylight,
as
he
had
planned,
he
turned
slowly,
feeling
rather
depressed,
in
the
direc
tion
of
the
hotel.
It
was
five
o’clock
in
the
afternoon,
and
the
softness
of
the
fading
light
was
suffused
with
unfamiliar
scents.
By
now
he
was
already
in
possession
of
a
map
of
Delhi,
and
he
could
find
his
way
without
having
to
ask
anyone
directions.
He
sat
down
in
a
restaurant
and
looked
at
the
throng
streaming
past,
and
to
his
astonishment,
among
the
many
tourists
he
sud
denly
recognized
Lazar
and
his
wife,
who
was
still
wrapped
in
the
morning’s
Indian
scarf,
walking
past
him
at
a
distance
of
a
few
paces
away,
as
if
it
were
the
most
natural
thing
in
the
world,
and
vanishing
into
a
shop
that
sold
textiles
and
rugs.
How
strange,
he
thought,
to
bump
into
them
of
all
people
in
a
city
of
millions,
in
this
little
alley
of
all
places.
How
strange,
he
repeated
to
himself,
quickly
gulping
down
his
tea,
waiting
for
the
moment
when
they
would
emerge
and
he
would
go
up
to
them
to
dispel
his
gloom
with
her
smile,
and
to
compare
what
they
had
man
aged
to
see
today
with
what
he
had
seen,
and
to
find
out
if
there
was
some
additional
sightseeing
obligation
that
he
might
fulfill
in
his
last
hours
in
Delhi.
But
they
didn’t
come
out
of
the
shop.
The
cup
stood
empty
before
him,
he
had
already
paid
the
waiter,
and
he
smiled
to
himself
at
the
insatiable
lust
for
shopping
displayed
by
this
fat
middle-aged
couple.
In
the
end
he
went
to
look
for
them
in
the
shop.
But
they
weren’t
there,
even
though
the
shop
was
not
a
large
one
and
there
did
not
appear
to
be
any
other
way
out.
Here
was
a
riddle:
suddenly
they
appear
and
then
they
dis
appear
again
?
This
story
is
beginning
to
get
mysterious,
he
whis
pered
to
himself,
not
yet
pronouncing
the
word
itself
but
only
its
adjective.