The Unit (16 page)

She broke off again.

“
Out with it, woman
!” I yelled.

Then Amanda Jonstorp looked up from her papers, and after a quick glance at Petra she turned to me, opened her mouth and said:

“What Petra is trying to tell you is that Johannes Alby was taken in this afternoon to donate his liver to a carpenter with three children and six grandchildren. We’re very sorry.”

23

I ran. I ran along the hallway into the clinic, past one consulting room after another, past nurses, doctors, patients, cleaners and others who stepped aside, shocked. I ran through the waiting room, past reception, tore open the fire exit door—the elevators were too slow—and raced down the spiral staircase. My footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell; the echo bounced off the walls and hammered into my head, where it got mixed up with the echo of those words:
hasn’t told you then … been decided for more than a week … that you have to find out this way …
And I ran along another corridor, down another spiral staircase, a third corridor—alongside the swimming pool this time—and a third staircase: round and round and the words went round and round—
too late for him … donate his liver … carpenter … six
grandchildren … We’re very sorry
…—and the words and the echo and the stairs made me dizzy, and I staggered out into yet another corridor, down one last winding staircase, out into the culvert on the upper basement level, and finally in through the heavy metal doors of the surgical department.

There I was met—of course I was met, the cameras had been following me, obviously, and Petra had naturally understood where I was heading and had rung down to warn them—by two sturdy young nurses in green scrubs. They blocked my way, forming a human barricade, like the riot police but with masks and protective headgear like shower caps instead of visors and helmets. One took off his mask, revealing a large birthmark on his upper lip. He said:

“It’s already happened, Dorrit. Johannes Alby is already on the operating table. We’re very sorry.”

I stared at him. I stared at his birthmark; it was dark, like dark chocolate, about a quarter of an inch in diameter, and perfectly round. It looked unreal, as if it had been painted on, and in his place I would have had it removed—particularly as he was surrounded at work by surgeons and scalpels. When I had finished staring I tried to force my way through the two-man wall, the living riot shield, by quickly ducking and diving in between the two nurses, but of course I didn’t succeed; they were too big, too strong, too well-prepared, and the second one—who hadn’t yet had time to take off his mask—grabbed me, gripped my arms firmly behind my back, and held me tightly from behind so that I was forced to lean forward. All I could see were my own legs and shoes and the dingy green floor. I struggled to free myself, but then the grip tightened so that it hurt my upper arms.

His voice was strangely gentle against the back of my neck as he said: “It’s already happened, didn’t you hear?” As if he was trying to sound calming, as if he was trying to console me—a stark contrast to the police hold he had on me. He carried on, in the same gentle voice:

“There’s nothing you can do. The narcotics specialist has already caused his brain to die. Johannes Alby is gone. Clinically dead.”

I made a final effort to free myself, but realized that I was only wearing myself out, and gave up. He must have felt in my limbs that I’d given up, because he let me go. I smoothed my shirt and turned to the two men, rubbing my upper arms, and said in as controlled a voice as I could manage:

“I want to see him anyway.”

“There’s no point,” said the one with the gentle voice and the police hold, as he took off his mask to reveal a pointed nose and a pair of thin lips. “He isn’t alive,” he went on, “even if it looks as though he is. His breathing is being supported by the respirator, his heart is beating and his blood is being oxygenated, but there is no real life there, and you know that perfectly well. He has no perception of anything. He can’t hear or feel anything.”

“But I can,” I said. “Let me see him.”

“They’re operating right now, they’re getting ready to remove the liver, and a team is waiting in a helicopter outside the building to take it. It’s impossible for you to go in there now. It’s too late. I’m sorry. You need to go back, go home. If you want we can book an emergency appointment with your psychologist. Who do you see?”

“I don’t need any psychologist. I need to see Johannes. That’s the only thing I need, the only thing I want, and the only thing I’m going to agree to. If I don’t get it, I shall kill myself. And I can assure you that I know how I’m going to do it, and it will be so quick and effective that nobody will have time to stop me or save me.”

Irrespective of whether they believed my threat or not, I knew it was an argument they had to take notice of. It’s just like when the police get information about a bomb threat in a department store, for example; they have to evacuate the building whether or not they believe there really is a bomb. I knew I was valuable as a dispensable person; I was in perfect health, had excellent readings, was very fit, still had almost all my organs, and on top of that I was carrying a child—fresh human capital—beneath my heart. I was, literally, worth my weight in gold. They couldn’t afford to risk losing me.

The nurse with the birthmark on his upper lip said:

“Perhaps we might be able to arrange it. It’s possible they might agree to let you in for a short while when they’ve finished with the liver.”

“But then they’re going to take …” began the one with the police hold.

“Yes, but there’s no real hurry with that,” interrupted Birthmark. “Most of it’s only going into the banks anyway.”

The banks, that’s where they keep the organs and tissues that can be preserved; the other parts of Johannes’s body were going to be kept there, the parts they always take if they are medically viable: some of the remaining vital organs plus corneas, cardiac valves, bone and other tissue. Everything that can be used is removed and placed in a nutritional fluid or deep frozen and preserved. It’s purely routine, and naturally applies also to needed individuals who are brain-dead as a result of accidents or violent crimes.

The nurses showed me to a small break room, closed the door behind me and tried the handle from the outside, presumably to make sure it was locked.

The room was furnished with a bed, a chair and a desk. And it had a window. Yes, a window, a real one. A real window looking out over a park. There was snow in the park. It was winter. There was a frozen pond with a gap in the ice in the middle, with ducks, grebes and other waterfowl walking to and fro, taking a quick dip like winter swimmers. The pond was partly surrounded by bushes and tall trees, the snow lying on the bushes like little caps, and like a soft, shimmering mattress on the ground. A gust of wind shook the treetops, and the snow drifted from the branches like sifted powdered sugar.

Something didn’t add up; I was on level K1. In the basement. But now it turned out that this upper basement level was above ground. There was no doubt that this was a real window and a real view—when I went right up close I could feel the draft through the gaps, a draft that was cold and smelled of winter. In a pure reflex action I grabbed hold of the handles on the window and tried to lift it upward, but it was locked, and I let my arm drop and remained standing there, upright, gazing out at this whiteness, this reality. This outdoor space.

In the end I managed to tear myself away from the window and allowed my eyes to travel slowly over the walls, the ceiling, the corners, the furniture, the light, and it was as I’d thought: no cameras. At least I couldn’t see any. Unless they were as tiny as the head of a pin, there were no cameras. Clearly the two nurses were more afraid that I would run amok in the operating room than that I would kill myself, despite everything.

Birthmark came back.

“That’s fine,” he said. “But it’ll be about another hour, and you’ll have to wait in here. And we’ve been ordered to lock the door. I hope you understand.”

I nodded.

“Would you like anything while you’re waiting? Coffee? Tea? A sandwich?”

“No.”

He had backed out and was about to close the door when I changed my mind.

“Actually, yes. One of those application forms, you know the ones.”

“What kind of application form?”

“One of those you fill in when you want to make a final donation as soon as possible.”

An expression of dismay appeared on Birthmark’s face.

“Are you sure?” he said. “You’re … you’re expecting a child, aren’t you?”

I didn’t reply, just gave him a long stare. He looked away, slightly embarrassed I thought; he looked as if he felt stupid.

He went away, came back with an application form, and left me alone once again. I sat down at the desk. The first question was:

1.
This application comprises

A. a request to be moved to another section. (Proceed to question 2)

B. a request to be moved to another unit. (Proceed to question 5)

C. a request to make a final donation. (Proceed to question 8)

D. a request for postponement of a final donation (Proceed to question 9)

I ticked box C and went on to question 8, where I ticked box A:

8.
I wish my final donation to be carried out

A. as soon as possible.

B. with effect from this date: year _______, month _____, day _____.