She laughed, showing a great deal of her teeth.
“Ah-ha, so that’s what sent you over here!” She offered him rubbery green Eucalyptus gumdrops from a small tin box: “Go on, take one — I won’t poison you. They disinfect the throat — very good for this autumn weather with so much flu around. Ah, isn’t that just like men? Heroes, but afraid of horses.”
“While you women are not afraid of horses, not even of lions, but you’re afraid of mice and, ha-ha, you’re afraid of roaches. It’s common knowledge, of course, that roaches are far more dangerous than lions. … A fly is afraid of spiders, not crocodiles. That’s instinct — which, as they say, is never wrong. Then again, your fearsome enemy the mice know that cats are far more fearsome than lions … and that’s how those circles of fear work, hobbling anything that lives, anything that moves in one way or another. Did you ever touch a tiny insect crawling on a windowpane? It drops dead on the spot, doesn’t it, all dried up and hollow somehow. Dead my foot! It’s only faking death, the crafty little creature. It thinks: I’ll be unimportant looking like this and my enemies will pass me over. Wise — for all that it’s so minuscule! It hasn’t even got a brain.”
She was now sucking her Eucalyptus pensively: “thoughts” like these must require a grave face. Melkior had long since swallowed his, it had only impeded his speech. She’s disinfecting her breath for kisses. Perhaps there’s the smell of rotting tonsils or the matutinal empty stomach, and the Major … But this is ingratitude! He remembered and felt ashamed inside. Haven’t they both been good to me? If I had my heart in the right place I would bless their love, he went on gibing with a bitter bite.
“Maybe you’re a poet,” she said, giving him a timid glance.
“No, I’m not. I’m not talented. I know too many poems by heart — anything I might attempt would resemble one of them. But that doesn’t mean I have no right to be afraid of horses. Indeed, Byron, one of the greatest poets, was a fine horseman, perhaps because he had a club foot. But he preferred walking — he was a most handsome figure of a man.”
She looked at him with curiosity, but the buzzer turned her look off: the Major was wanting her.
“Here, report to the ward with these,” she hurriedly handed over some papers. “We’ll continue this conversation — we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other from now on.” And she disappeared behind the white door.
It was couch time, time for the divan … I mean time to talk, in Turkish, he corrected his words; but the thought lingered, filled with bitter, jealous suspicion. “We’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other from now on.” … Well, this was the first encounter and then (he remembered) goodbye, Viviana!
He went out in high spirits to look for the ward. Well, where was it? He asked a soldier in white, Medical Corps, where to report with his papers.
“Says right there above your nose,” said the soldier in white. He looked like one of those Russian men who was fighting in the snow, on skis. They did in the end lick the Finns. They were first rate, that’s for sure, shooting while the ground slid beneath their feet.
He read once again the writing “right there above his nose” on the black sign by the entrance: TUBERCULOSIS WARD. Yellow lettering on black background — an undertaker’s. Hats off!
I’ve been suckered! he whispered, crestfallen, turning to go back to the doctor’s office. He’d prefer Caesar and Nettle both to Koch’s bacilli. The hygiene teacher had drawn them on the blackboard: rod-shaped, millions upon millions of tiny vermin. She and that “very nice man” had sprung him a handy trap: Caesar and Nettle here, the Koch bacilli there — all right, take your pick. Chortling in there, I bet. “We’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other from now on.”
She was not out in the waiting room. No sounds came from in there. He had a closer listen, putting his ear to the white door. Nothing. They were being cautious. And the couch, loyal, humble, with its teeth clenched, was silent as the grave. They must’ve locked the door, too. He pressed the knob. The door opened dutifully: at your service, sir. Inertia drove his head into the room.
“Yes?” The Major was sitting at his desk, signing papers; she was ministering to him, blotter in hand, pressing signatures.
“Is something wrong?” she stopped short above a signature.
“It says TUBERCULOSIS WARD on the sign,” timidly uttered the head inside the door.
“So what?” said the Major. “Did you find that alarming?”
“I’d rather go back to the barracks …” said the head stupidly. “I’m sorry,” and it made to withdraw, “I’m disturbing you.”
“Wait.” The Major stood up, pulled him by the shoulder, drew the whole of Melkior inside. “You’re too weak, you must stay here. Don’t be afraid of what it says on the panel — the positive cases are accommodated separately, those who really have T.B. Room Seven’s clean, comfortable, five beds only, intellectuals, malingerers,” the Major gave a smile, “a bit on the skinny side, on hi-cal rations, a jolly crew, you won’t be bored.” The Major encouraged him and thumped him on the shoulder, and Melkior felt himself blush … over his it’s-a-trap suspicion … and over her, the poet’s niece. Ugo would now kneel and kiss the ground he walked on, blessed be your every footstep, you kindhearted man! His eyes filled with tears of gratitude, he was afraid he might burst into sobs. The Major intelligently guessed his condition, gave him a “manly” slap on the cheek: “Come on, back to the ward now … pay no attention to the sign. Oh well, we’re not all born to be soldiers,” he muttered to himself sitting back at his desk again.
“Much obliged, Doctor,” bowed Melkior as he retreated.
“All right, my lad, all right, goodbye,” the Major went on signing the papers. “Scary thing indeed, that T.B. WARD sign … Not the first time,” was what Melkior heard the Major add as he carefully closed the door behind him.
In hospital dress with thin blue and white stripes, his greatcoat draped beggar style over his shoulders, Melkior entered Room Seven. Hesitant. He stopped at the door, his gaze wandering anxiously from bed to bed, at faces peeking out from the covers and watching him with curiosity and, it would seem, terminal exhaustion. Melkior stood lost before the cold gazes, like someone pleading for mercy.
“Take off the mask, Tartuffe!” shouted one of the faces all of a sudden, sitting up in bed. “Come on in, no need to panic.”
“Hello, boys,” said Melkior in an undertone, but without moving from where he stood. “Is this my bed?” he indicated with his head a made-up bed next to the door.
“Yes, that’s yours,” replied a dark-haired young man with a thin moustache à la actor Adolphe Menjou. “So you’d be another of the Major’s bad cases, would you?” There were subdued chuckles from under the covers … But the eyes outside the covers offered the newcomer their profound sorrow, they had nothing to do with the ripples of laughter. What training! thought Melkior with envy. Let’s see you do your stuff here, Numbskull! And he suddenly remembered the-assembly-point-outside-the-canteen sergeant. He threw his bundle on the bed and rushed out into the corridor. They called out after him from the room, shouting: where you going — we were only joking! Perhaps he is a bad case?
The sergeant was waiting at the assembly point outside the canteen, with four men: they didn’t make the cut, thought Melkior, as one of the select of medical fortune.
“How much longer were you expecting me to wait for you, eh?” bawled the sergeant. “What is it then?”