‘Every night. Quite soon after lunch, really.’
Samuels drove them in an embassy car back to the mission where they found that Father Robertson had fouled the room and himself: he’d been sick again and there’d been a bowel movement. Pickering was professionally unoffended, actually collecting specimens from the mess before helping Snow clean everything up. Samuels remained by the door, doing nothing, face tight with disgust.
The doctor’s examination was extremely thorough. After questioning Snow about the number of times he’d had to change the sweat-soaked man, Pickering erected a saline drip to replace the lost bodyfluids. He also administered an injection to stabilize the man’s temperature.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ said Samuels, towards the end of the examination.
Pickering frowned at the question. ‘I haven’t got the faintest idea. He’s got a fever, obviously. And he’s unconscious. His blood-pressure is too high. All or any of which could indicate one of a hundred things.’
Snow withdrew near to the door, close to the diplomat, to give the doctor more room. Without looking in Snow’s direction, Samuels said: ‘He didn’t complain about feeling unwell, before you found him and saw he quite obviously was ill?’
‘No.’
‘What did he say, in the time that he remained rational?’
Snow shook his head. ‘Nothing, not really. He just kept repeating how sorry he was. He said that over and over again.’
Speaking louder, to the doctor, Samuels said: ‘I think we should move him, to the embassy infirmary, don’t you?’
The doctor looked sourly over his shoulder. ‘You making diagnoses now?’
There was the faintest flare of colour to Samuels’ face. ‘It just seemed obvious.’
‘Not to me it doesn’t. Not until I’ve found out what’s wrong with the man. The embassy facility is not an isolation unit.’
‘It could be infectious?’
‘Of course it could be infectious! You forgotten that all the major infectious diseases of the world are still considered endemic in China!’ Pickering looked directly at Snow. ‘I’m not for a moment saying it’s as serious as that. Or that you’re in any danger. I need to get back to the embassy, to make some tests on these samples.’
Snow didn’t feel the slightest apprehension: perhaps, he thought, nursing the old man through an illness – infectious or otherwise – would continue to assuage his finally self-admitted guilt.
‘You can drive the car back, can’t you?’ Samuels said, to the doctor.
‘Why?’ frowned Pickering. The doctor was collecting his medical equipment, replacing each piece carefully into its grooved and socketed place in the bags he’d brought with him.
‘I thought I might stay here.’
‘What for?’ asked Snow.
‘When was the last time you slept?’ asked Samuels.
‘I…’ started Snow and stopped. ‘The night before last, I suppose. I can’t really remember.’
‘You won’t be able properly to look after anyone if you’re totally deprived of sleep,’ pointed out the diplomat, realistically. He looked at the doctor. ‘Are you coming back today?’
‘Of course I am,’ said the man. ‘He’s on a drip, isn’t he?’
Samuels nodded, positively, returning to the younger priest. ‘You can get some rest: try at least. Maybe by the time Pickering gets back he’ll have a better idea what the medical problem is: see if we can get Father Robertson into the infirmary. If not, you’ll be better able to carry on.’
‘Suits me,’ shrugged the doctor, packed and ready to leave.
Snow didn’t think he would be able to sleep but he did, dreamlessly. He awakened suddenly and was surprised to be in bed during the day and not instantly able to remember why. Then he did, hurrying up. Samuels was in the main living-room, but with the connecting doors open to see into Father Robertson’s bedroom. The saturnine man smiled at Snow’s entry and said: ‘He’s much easier.’
Snow had been aware of that, before the diplomat spoke. Father Robertson appeared to be sleeping properly, no longer emitting the growl of unconsciousness.
‘He isn’t sweating so much, either,’ added Samuels.
‘Let’s hope it’s all ending as quickly as it all began.’
‘You’ll be telling Rome?’ asked the diplomat.
The need to inform the Curia hadn’t occurred to Snow until then, although it was obvious that he had to. Awareness tumbled upon awareness. Would this breakdown, whatever its cause, finally bring about the long-overdue retirement and withdrawal of Father Robertson? Leaving Snow blessedly alone at the mission? Not a wrong or unfair reflection, he told himself: no conflict, with his most recent remorse at the tension between himself and the older priest. His sole concern was for a worn out, overstrained old man who needed rest, not perpetual apprehension. He said: ‘It’s necessary that I do.’
‘Will they retire him?’ asked Samuels.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ve come to realize he’s extraordinarily attached to China,’ said Samuels. ‘Which, considering what happened to him, is difficult to understand.’
‘Not, perhaps, to a priest.’
‘You can’t properly practise as priests,’ contradicted Samuels, at once.
‘It’s his dream that one day things will change: that he will be able to.’
‘Do you believe that?’
Snow thought before answering. ‘I don’t think there can be any doubt that communism will crumble here, as it’s crumbled everywhere else. But I’m not sure how long it will take…’ He paused, glancing through the open doors towards where the old man lay. ‘… I certainly don’t think it’s going to be in his lifetime. So he’s going to die disappointed.’
‘Father Robertson came to see me, two or three days ago. Told me that your escort had visited again.’
‘He wants copies of some photographs I took when we were travelling.’ Snow had wondered how long it would take the subject to be raised.
Samuels came forward in his chair, and when he spoke the words were spaced even more than usual in the odd way he talked. ‘What photographs? You haven’t done anything insensitive, have you?’
‘He was an official escort!’ reminded Snow, pleased as the explanation came to him. ‘I wouldn’t have been allowed to photograph anything I wasn’t supposed to, even by accident, would I?’
Samuels continued to look at him doubtfully. ‘Offence is very easily given here. Even by doing something that would not cause a problem anywhere else in the world.’
‘I have undergone a great many lectures on the political realities of living here,’ reminded Snow.
‘With Father Robertson incapacitated – we don’t know for how long – I would like you to let me know if this man keeps turning up here,’ said the diplomat. ‘I don’t want us – at the embassy, I mean – caught out by not being prepared.’
‘I’ll keep you in touch,’ promised Snow. There was an irony here: Father Robertson’s illness would provide a valid excuse to visit the embassy whenever he liked in the immediate future, but there was no contact any more with whom he could liaise. Quickly, seeing the opportunity, he said: ‘When I was at the trade reception Foster told me he was leaving. Is there a replacement yet?’
Samuels frowned and Snow feared he had been too direct. The diplomat said: ‘Not yet. There will be. Always essential to maintain the personnel quota we’re allowed.’
‘Quite soon then?’ said Snow, risking the persistence. If the new liaison man arrived in a week or two the opportunity might still be there for them to have safe embassy encounters to plan the new system for the future.
Instead of replying Samuels’ face creased at an overlooked question of his own. ‘Where are the photographs this man wants?’
‘I sent them to England, to my family, for developing. I’ve asked for the prints to be sent back.’ Snow decided the moment was lost and that it would be wrong to try to get back to it.
‘So he’ll be returning?’
‘Obviously.’
‘I’m not happy with this.’
‘Really!’ said Snow, stressing the weariness at a repeated conversation. ‘We talked this through very fully at the reception. There isn’t anything to worry about.’