“Yes, I was,” said Paul. He wasn’t surprised Berman would know that he had been. It had been in the papers and even on the evening news. “In comparison to Dr. Grazdani, I am fine.” Paul held up the forefinger and middle finger on his left hand palm toward himself. The fingers were bound together with white adhesive tape. “This is the extent of my injuries.”
Berman looked at the fingers. Was the doctor giving him the middle finger, knowing the digits were attached? Berman allowed himself to smile. In spite of the situation, he liked the guy. He had an attitude that Berman could appreciate. “I’m glad there were no other consequences,” added Berman.
“Other than this,” said Paul indicating Pia with a nod of his head.
“Perhaps her driving skills are not what they should be, or maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. When she’s better, we’re looking forward to having her back at Nano, where she belongs.”
“We’ll see,” said Paul. This man was truly reprehensible, he thought.
“If there’s anything I can do, please let me know,” said Berman, looking back at Pia. He smiled to himself, knowing what he’d like to do.
“There is one thing,” said Paul. “You can stop sending the flower arrangements. It’s a bit much. Too funereal. And particularly the lilies are stinking up the place.”
Berman smiled again. This guy was a trip, but he held his tongue. Instead he just nodded and left.
Paul looked back at Pia, who surprised him by staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Well, hello, stranger. What a nice surprise. How do you feel?”
“Paul! Where am I?” Her voice was hoarse. She tried to cough but it was feeble.
“You’re in the Memorial. You’ve been here a week.”
“A week?” Pia managed with consternation. “What happened?”
“There was an accident. A car accident.”
“I’m starting to remember. We were looking for the white van.”
“We were,” Paul agreed. “But I don’t think you should be worrying about it now. There will be time. How do you feel in general?”
“I hurt. I feel groggy and like I’ve been run over by a garbage truck.”
“I can imagine. I’m sorry. Listen, we kept you in a drug-induced coma for a few days because we were a little worried about you. Among other things, you had a bad concussion. But you’re going to be fine. You’ll feel progressively less groggy as the drugs wear off.”
“My head hurts.”
“I’m not surprised. You probably hurt elsewhere, too. We’ll have a self-administered narcotic piggybacked into your intravenous line as soon as I let your hospitalist know you are awake. But don’t worry about it now, just rest.” He stepped up alongside the bed and lifted the call button attached by a safety pin to Pia’s pillow. He showed it to her. “If you need pain medication before the do-it-yourself is in place, just push the button.”
“Why are my arms tied up?” Pia had tried to raise her arms but couldn’t.
“They are just wrist restraints,” Paul said as he undid Velcro straps. “We didn’t want you pulling out your IV.”
“Tell me! Was that Zachary Berman who was just here?”
“It was.”
“What was he doing here?”
“Beats me!”
“Was George here while I’ve been out of it or was I dreaming? I seem to remember his voice.”
“You’re right. He is here in Boulder. At the moment I made him go get something to eat. He’s going to be very pleased you are awake.”
“Why on earth did Berman come here? That makes me feel… I’m not sure how it makes me feel. But it’s not good.” Pia’s speech was getting clearer, and Paul could tell from its timbre that she was getting agitated.
“Try to stay calm! Don’t worry about anything for now. If you’d like, I’ll tell the powers that be that you don’t want any visitors except George and me. You should just concentrate on feeling better. Berman will not be allowed back in, trust me!”
“Thank you, Paul. I appreciate it.”
CHAPTER 35
Zach Berman knew his rider wasn’t in contention to win the rather short final stage that was the finish of this year’s Giro d’Italia, let alone the race itself, but he felt extremely nervous nonetheless. A huge crowd had gathered in Milan’s main square, which was dominated by the massive yet somewhat delicate cathedral. Berman had marveled at the structure on a visit with Jimmy Yan earlier that day, not least because it had taken six hundred years to complete. The fourteenth-century stonemasons and artists would probably have loved to know that their work was going to be part of a team effort that would go on for literally hundreds of years, all for the glorification of their God. Berman felt his task of marrying nanotechnology to medicine was as monumental as the cathedral, but unlike the builders of the cathedral, he had so little time to finish his own work.
Berman looked at his watch. The riders had left the Piazza Castello fifteen minutes before, and if they rode at forty to fifty kilometers per hour, they would come into sight in ten minutes or so. From his aluminum bleacher seat next to Berman in the temporary grandstand, Jimmy Yan stood and tapped his watch. Berman nodded and stood up. Yan was prepared, as Berman knew was his habit.
“They are close,” said Jimmy, watching events through a small pair of opera glasses. The throngs of people were waving flags of all the nations represented in the race, but they were all outnumbered by Italian flags. The loud cheering of the boisterous crowd was punctuated by klaxons and car horns, and even some fireworks, which made the din deafening.
Jimmy stood on his tiptoes, looking at the lead group. This last short stage was mostly a formality. A dominant Spanish rider was going to win the Giro overall, as long as he didn’t fall down, but three Italians were vying for second, and it was these riders who were causing the crowd’s excitement. From the spectators’ point of view it was a great way to finish the nearly monthlong race. Now everyone in the grandstand was on his feet, and Berman couldn’t see through the phalanx of raised arms. Then he caught a glimpse of the peloton as they made their circuit of the piazza — did he see the blue, red, and green of his team? He couldn’t be sure.
“There!” Jimmy grabbed his arm and pointed, and Berman definitely saw the team’s colors, all the riders in a group in the middle of the pack as the massed ranks of riders crossed the line.
“I saw Bo,” Jimmy said. “I’m sure of it.”
Thank God, thought Berman. His rider had to finish the race, and this was only the first hurdle of many to come in the next few months. Not that finishing a race was a great obstacle in itself, but the officials in China had made it clear, there were to be no more problems or failures: certainly no injuries during public events; no more riders going down on the back roads of Boulder; and no more visits to emergency rooms in American ambulances. Berman wished he had the power to control each situation to such an extent.
“We should go down and see the team,” said Berman, who felt that their finishing the race without any disasters was a cause for modest celebration.
“As you wish,” said Jimmy. “I will go and see Liang once more before we leave.”
Liang was the rider selected to take the place of Han, who had been flown back to the United States to have his Achilles operated on out of sight of potentially curious European surgeons. Han’s injury had baffled Nano’s scientific team. They knew of such injuries to juiced-up baseball players who had added too much muscle and overtaxed their tendons, sometimes shearing them clean off the bone. But Han hadn’t been putting on bulk to hit home runs, he was leaner and built for speed and endurance. If anything, his muscles had become smaller in girth, just much more efficient and able to avoid lactic acid buildup entirely.