Two days later, Ra Mahleiné said:
“Brenda slit her wrists while drunk and got into the tub. Fortunately old Mrs. Hougassian saved her. She used to be a nurse. Brenda’s hands are bandaged up now, though one finger won’t move. She and Harry must have loved each other more than they let people see. I prefer Lorraine to push me on my outings; she’s stronger. Laila can’t manage when one of the wheels gets stuck in a pothole. You can see she’s pregnant now. Maybe that’s the reason she’s weaker. In the house she walks around in nothing but her bandages and panties. She says she’s hot. I think it’s indecent, because she’s healed a lot and doesn’t have that many bandages now, so practically everything shows. Her skin is like parchment and pinker even than before. Her panties are full of holes. Zef may have screwed her once, but now all he cares about is the book. The only man in the house is old Mass, and he doesn’t get out of bed, after his attack of sciatica.
“I smacked Anabel in the mouth and pulled her hair, because the toilet was dirty. Not only that, but she also spilled coffee on the bed. You wouldn’t believe how humble she was, offering her face so I could hit it. Afraid to die, she puts up with everything, never resists. It becomes meaningless, this paying her back. Later I felt stupid. I don’t make a good torturer. I’ve decided to leave her alone unless she gets arrogant again.”
48
The closed-circuit television at the institute showed old films with all dead actors. They ran a lot of Lola Low and Maslynnaya. Gavein didn’t care for it.
The physical exam showed that he was a healthy man of thirty-five with the beginnings of rheumatism, was slightly anemic, and had two bad teeth. He was spreading no mysterious contagion in the form of bacillus or virus. He was permitted to take off the uncomfortable plastic suit, and his bad teeth were fixed at the cost of the Davabel taxpayer, over three excruciating visits to the dentist.
Saalstein informed him that Marius Balakian, the physician heading the research team, had suffered a fatal heart attack. The chief had been a highly secretive man. The monitors showed a picture of Balakian: bald, overweight. The first casualty at the DS after Gavein’s arrival.
There was a change in the way people treated Gavein. It was hard to pin down but palpable. The bacteriological tests all completed, exploratory surgery was suggested next, but Gavein balked at that. He agreed instead to a series of x-rays.
Nurse Winslow, old, enormous, with a jutting jaw, mixed a white powder in a small amount of saline solution, while Chechug, the radiologist, fussed with the scanner. Gavein waited for them to hook him up to the IV. Doctor Hepditch, Balakian’s successor, supervised.
“You’ll be able to see my veins, with this?”
“Please confine your comments,” said Winslow, “to what you are experiencing in the course of the procedure.”
“It’s cold here. There’s a draft coming from under the door.”
Winslow began filling the syringe.
“In my rear?” asked Gavein. He was in good humor.
“It can be in your rear,” muttered the nurse.
Chechug was preparing the plates as Winslow took the IV bottle and injected the white fluid into it.
“Aren’t those plates for tomography?”
Both Winslow and Chechug started.
“That’s right. They’re used with dye,” said the technician.
“In that case you need my permission, don’t you? Because there is risk involved in taking that kind of picture.”
Winslow dropped the little bottle with the prepared fluid. It shattered on the floor. Chechug turned abruptly to see what had happened, and the sleeve of his lab coat knocked over another bottle.
Gavein couldn’t help laughing.
“Shit,” said Chechug. “I spilled the rubbing alcohol.”
Winslow looked at Dr. Hepditch without a word, waiting for her to say something. There was the characteristic smell of alcohol.
“Nurse, take another bottle of the saline solution and prepare another dye,” said the doctor coldly. “And have the orderly come in and clean up this mess you’ve made.”
“But—”
“The bottle on the second shelf from the top.” Dr. Hepditch said, making a note on her clipboard.
Winslow took another bottle and started over. Chechug was fiddling with the x-ray machine’s transformer. The alcohol stank.
“You aren’t afraid they’ll think we’ve been drinking?” Gavein said to the doctor. Being the principal here, he could take the liberty of joking.
“You’re right,” agreed Hepditch, opening a window. “But it will be colder now.”
Chechug swore again. “The blasted transformer is out. I’ll call maintenance. It’s probably from the quake we had.”
That morning, one could definitely feel it. Even the lamps shook. Earthquakes were common only in Ayrrah.
“What now? We go back?” Gavein wasn’t eager to have that big needle embedded in a vein in his thigh.
“I suppose…,” said Hepditch, hesitating. “We’ll start again tomorrow, at twelve. The other room will have to be made ready.”
“The DS isn’t doing so well, is it?”
Gavein’s remark drew no response.
They wheeled him down the corridors on a hospital gurney, per regulations. He would have preferred to walk, but they said no. Winslow pushed this time.
49
Sixty-three people had died in the last twenty-four hours. In forty-eight cases, Medved’s group established a clear link to Gavein; in the others, the link was unclear, the facts unavailable. Until evening, idiotic sitcoms were shown.
Winslow came to give Gavein an injection for his radio tomography. It turned out that the schedule had been changed; the x-raying was moved to later, because the MRI would be done on him early the next morning.
She handed him a bunch of pills he had to swallow first. Because he grimaced at her as he swallowed, the last pills stuck in his throat, and he choked. He strained and wheezed, while Winslow stood by, seemingly not knowing what to do. Then he remembered an old trick: he put his hands on the floor near a wall and kicked up to stand on them, his feet resting on the wall. He coughed out the obstruction: two colored tablets, their coating half dissolved. He got to his feet, red in the face and covered with sweat.
“Bad to choke like that,” said the nurse. “Every year, a number of people die from choking.”
“You can’t be serious,” he said with a sour smile. “People actually died before I got here?”
Winslow prepared the injection, a cloudy brown fluid in a vial with a cork. Gavein wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of this dark stuff entering his bloodstream. Winslow inserted the needle through the cork and, holding it to the light, carefully drew the fluid into the syringe. She squirted a few drops from the needle.
Suddenly the building shook. The vibration was so strong that some plaster crumbled from the ceiling. Losing her balance, Winslow put her hand on the glass table for support. The table, though on wheels, didn’t roll away under her considerable weight; it tipped. From its surface slid beakers, stirring rods, spatulas, test tubes, syringes. Unable to control her fall, Winslow stuck herself with the needle she was holding and in addition pressed the plunger.
“Now they can give you an MRI,” Gavein joked, helping her up.