Jane drank from the flask and began to speak. “A few minutes after you left, they brought in a boy of eighteen with a very bad thigh wound.” She took another sip. She was ignoring Anatoly, and Jean-Pierre realized she was so concerned about the medical emergency that she had hardly noticed the other man. “He was hurt in the fighting near Rokha, and his father had carried him all the way up the Valley—it took him two days. The wound was badly gangrenous by the time they arrived. I gave him six hundred milligrams of crystalline penicillin, injected into the buttock. Then I cleaned out the wound.”
“Exactly correct,” said Jean-Pierre.
“A few minutes later he broke out in a cold sweat and became confused. I took his pulse: it was rapid but weak.”
“Did he go pale or gray, and have difficulty breathing?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I treated him for shock—raised his feet, covered him with a blanket and gave him tea—then I came after you.” She was close to tears. “His father carried him for two days—I can’t let him die.”
“He needn’t,” said Jean-Pierre. “Allergic shock is a rare but quite well-known reaction to penicillin injections. The treatment is half a milliliter of adrenaline, injected into a muscle, followed by an antihistamine—say, six milliliters of diphenhydramine. Would you like me to come back with you?” As he made the offer he glanced at Anatoly, but the Russian showed no reaction.
Jane sighed. “No,” she said. “There will be someone else dying on the far side of the hill. You go to Cobak.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Yes.”
A match flared as Anatoly lit a cigarette. Jane glanced at him, then looked at Jean-Pierre again. “Half a milliliter of adrenaline and then six milliliters of diphenhydramine.” She stood up.
“Yes.” Jean-Pierre stood up with her and kissed her. “Are you sure you can manage?”
“Of course.”
“You must hurry.”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to take Maggie?”
Jane considered. “I don’t think so. On that path, walking is faster.”
“Whatever you think best.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Jane.”
Jean-Pierre watched her go out. He stood still for a while. Neither he nor Anatoly said anything. After a minute or two he went to the doorway and looked out. He could see Jane, two or three hundred yards away, a small, slight figure in a thin cotton dress, striding determinedly up the Valley, alone in the dusty brown landscape. He watched her until she disappeared into a fold in the hills.
He came back inside and sat down with his back to the wall. He and Anatoly looked at one another. “Jesus Christ Almighty,” said Jean-Pierre. “That was close.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The boy died.
He had been dead almost an hour when Jane arrived, hot and dusty and exhausted to the point of collapse. The father was waiting for her at the mouth of the cave, looking numb and reproachful. She could tell from his resigned posture and his calm brown eyes that it was all over. He said nothing. She went into the cave and looked at the boy. Too tired to feel angry, she was overwhelmed by disappointment. Jean-Pierre was away and Zahara was deep in mourning, so she had no one with whom to share her grief.
She wept later as she lay in her bed on the roof of the shopkeeper’s house, with Chantal, on a tiny mattress beside her, murmuring from time to time in a sleep of contented ignorance. She wept for the father as much as for the dead boy. Like her, he had driven himself beyond ordinary exhaustion in trying to save the boy. How much greater his sadness would be. Her tears blurred the stars before she fell asleep.
She dreamed that Mohammed came to her bed and made love to her while the whole village looked on; then he told her that Jean-Pierre was having an affair with Simone, the wife of the fat journalist Raoul Clermont, and that the two lovers met in Cobak when Jean-Pierre was supposed to be holding a clinic.
The next day she ached all over, as a result of having run most of the way to the little stone hut. It was fortunate, she reflected as she went about her routine chores, that Jean-Pierre had stopped—to rest, presumably—at the little stone hut, giving her a chance to catch up with him. She had been so relieved to see Maggie tethered outside, and to find Jean-Pierre in the hut with that funny little Uzbak man. The two of them had jumped out of their skins when she walked in. It had been almost comical. It was the first time she had ever seen an Afghan stand up when a woman came in.
She walked up the mountainside with her medicine case and opened the cave clinic. As she dealt with the usual cases of malnutrition, malaria, infected wounds and intestinal parasites, she thought over yesterday’s crisis. She had never heard of allergic shock before. No doubt people who had to give penicillin injections were normally taught what to do about it, but her training had been so rushed that a lot of things had been left out. In fact the medical details had been almost entirely skimped, on the grounds that Jean-Pierre was a fully qualified doctor and would be around to tell her what to do.
What an anxious time that had been, sitting in classrooms, sometimes with trainee nurses, sometimes on her own, trying to absorb the rules and procedures of medicine and health education, wondering what awaited her in Afghanistan. Some of her lessons had been the opposite of reassuring. Her first task, she had been told, would be to build an earth closet for herself. Why? Because the fastest way of improving the health of people in underdeveloped countries was to stop them using the rivers and streams as toilets, and this could be impressed upon them by setting an example. Her teacher, Stephanie, a bespectacled fortyish earth-mother type in dungarees and sandals, had also emphasized the dangers of prescribing medicines too generously. Most illnesses and minor injuries would get better without medical help, but primitive (and not-so-primitive) people always wanted pills and potions. Jane recalled that the little Uzbak man had been asking Jean-Pierre for blister ointment. He must have been walking long distances all his life, yet because he had met a doctor he said his feet hurt. The snag about overprescribing—apart from the waste of medicines—was that a drug given for a trivial ailment might cause the patient to develop tolerance, so that when he was seriously ill the treatment would not cure him. Stephanie had also advised Jane to try to work with, rather than against, traditional healers in the community. She had been successful with Rabia, the midwife, but not with Abdullah, the mullah.
Learning the language had been the easiest part. In Paris, before she ever thought of coming to Afghanistan, she had been studying Farsi, the Persian language, with the object of improving her usefulness as an interpreter. Farsi and Dari were dialects of the same language. The other main language in Afghanistan was Pashto, the tongue of the Pushtuns, but Dari was the language of the Tajiks, and the Five Lions Valley was in Tajik territory. Those few Afghans who traveled—the nomads, for example—usually spoke both Pashto and Dari. If they had a European language, it was English or French. The Uzbak man in the stone hut had been speaking French to Jean-Pierre. It was the first time Jane had heard French spoken with an Uzbak accent. It sounded the same as a Russian accent.