“I didn’t feel a thing. I didn’t feel a thing, and I don’t feel anything now either,” Lazar apologized repeatedly to his wife for the little incident, and then turned to admire the baby and try to ingratiate himself with her. Shiva had been removed from her sling and was lying comfortably in the arms of the woman whom I suddenly wanted to drop to my knees before and beg for forgiveness for my earlier failure. Lazar indeed seemed perfectly healthy. And although I could have added something at this stage and shed some light on the medical picture with the little I had understood of Dr. Arnold’s analysis of the EKG results, I decided not to add to the general confusion but to leave the Lazars with Sir Geoffrey, for I knew I would be seeing them again later, at the little reception the hospital had arranged for Lazar to recruit Jewish and non-Jewish supporters for the hospital in Israel. And that evening, in a black suit and a red tie, freshly washed and combed, Lazar looked healthy and fit. He spoke vigorously about the problems of our hospital in Tel Aviv, in a heavy Israeli accent and a basic but surprisingly effective English, which reminded me again of our trip together to India. Michaela, who was sitting next to me, listened to him with a mocking smile as she secretly breast-fed Shivi, for whom we were unable to find a baby-sitter.
Fourteen
My parents’ visit to Glasgow, which my aunt was looking forward to so much, was somewhat spoiled by a severe cold that my mother had probably caught from the baby. When my father told me about it on the phone, I remembered that streptococci in infants can cause a dangerous abscess in the throats of adults, and I rebuked myself for not warning my mother to avoid close contact with Shivi when she showed the first symptoms of her cold. Although my aunt looked after my mother devotedly and the two of them no doubt enjoyed reliving their childhood experiences, they were forced to stay at home while my father toured the wild and beautiful landscapes of the north of Scotland and the Isle of Skye with my uncle and my bachelor cousin, who was a physician like me. Because of my mother’s illness they had to stay in Glasgow for an extra three days, and when I met them at the train station and saw her pale face and heard her dry cough, I decided that in spite of the help she and my father gave Michaela with the baby, I should encourage them to return home as soon as possible, because the damp London air would only make things worse. From the station I drove them to their room, and when I carried the suitcase in, I was hit by a wave of longing for Dori, so much so that while they were hanging up their clothes I slipped into the house itself and made my way along the route which she had confidently charted, straight to the bedroom, which was still illuminated by the pale ray of light coming through the uncurtained corner of the window. I was startled to see a large, handsome leather suitcase standing on the double bed, covering the exact spot of my failure, which now, on second thought, seemed to me not just human and forgivable but even attractive in its velvety softness, until I felt a strange desire to fail in the same way again. I hurried back to my parents, who disapproved strongly of my intrusion on the privacy of their anonymous landlords, who as far as they knew were expected back any day now. They’re already back, I almost cried, but I controlled myself. “But what were you looking for?” my mother asked, looking very perturbed. “I see that you were here while we were away too.” She had spotted the two cups I had set out for Dori and myself and immediately come to her own conclusions. I had given up trying to lie to my mother when I was a child, not only because she had infinite patience and cunning in getting at the truth, but also because I had been taught that the punishment for a lie was always worse than the punishment for the truth. I therefore avoided answering her question directly and began telling them in detail about the Lazars’ visit. I described the little medical uproar over Lazar’s EKG and told them about the evening for the Friends of the hospital, which had gone very well in spite of Lazar’s elementary English, and in the end I told them of the cute little overall for Shiva and the promise he had given me that he would try to arrange a permanent half-time job for me at the hospital as an anesthetist.
“An anesthetist?” asked my father, without disguising his disappointment. “Only an anesthetist? And why only a half-time job?” he continued in the demanding tone he had adopted vis-à-vis Lazar ever since the trip to India. “Because for now that’s all that’s available,” I replied with a smile. “Dr. Nakash is retiring next year, but I’m not getting his job.”
“Dr. Nakash is already retiring?” my parents, who remembered him favorably from the wedding, exclaimed in surprise. I too had been surprised when I heard about his retirement. The darkness of his skin and the smooth freshness of his face had misled us about his real age. “But why did you have to bring Lazar and his wife to our room? I don’t understand.” My mother returned doggedly to the original subject of our conversation. I lowered my head slightly so she would not be able to look into my eyes and said, “Not both of them, only his wife. Lazar was busy checking out some equipment Sir Geoffrey wanted to offer our hospital, and in the meantime, so that she wouldn’t be bored, I took his wife to see Shivi in the nursery, and then I showed her around the hospital, and after that I took her for a little walk, and I thought I might as well show her this great room that Michaela found for you. Maybe they’ll want to rent it themselves one day.” At this my mother pointed out that I had been wasting my time — the house was being sold in the summer, and the new owners would doubtless want to use all the rooms themselves. “So then I misled her,” I said, trying on the green cardigan my father had brought me — for the first time in his life on his own initiative — as a souvenir from the Isle of Skye. My mother was silent. Although she was not satisfied by my explanation for Mrs. Lazar’s visit to their room, what other explanation could she possibly imagine? She was not a worldly woman, and there was certainly nothing in her experience that might prompt her to guess the impossible truth. She gave up and sat there, sad and exhausted, coughing from time to time. I didn’t like the sound of her cough, but since I had never dared to auscultate her heart or lungs with a stethoscope, I could only hope that the cough syrups my physician cousin had given her would help.
But they didn’t, and for the last week of my parents’ stay in London she refrained from taking the baby into her arms, which I could see was a real sacrifice for her, since Shivi had obviously captured her heart, and not only because she was her granddaughter. Michaela, who could see my mother’s sadness, tried to set her fears at rest. “Take her,” she said persuasively. “You won’t infect her with anything, don’t worry. She’s as healthy as an ox.” But in spite of my mother’s longing to rock the sweet little “ox” in her arms, she was careful not to come too close to her and only gave her sometimes to my father, who looked at the baby in his arms with an expression of playful reproof. We were all sorry for my mother, whose visit to England was ending so sadly. To make up for it to her, a few days before they were due to leave Michaela insisted on inviting them to an Indian night. Stephanie volunteered to baby-sit, and I was instructed to take a day off, for our night began at twilight with a lavish meal at an excellent and far from cheap Indian restaurant, after which we were to attend a performance by traveling troupes of singers, musicians, dancers, storytellers, and acrobats who had been gathered from all over India and brought to Europe by the Parisian Cirque du Soleil, which had taken upon itself the mission of fostering the art of the Third World, in the belief that it was important and worthy of support. This belief was shared by Michaela, who was very excited about the event, not only because of the enjoyment she expected to have herself but also because she was very curious to see how the rest of us would react. Since she had presented herself from the beginning as a missionary for India in the non-Indian world, she felt responsible for the evening’s entertainment, which was quite expensive, since the tickets were priced as if it were a charity performance. But as far as the money was concerned, at least, nobody could object, since the whole evening was being paid for by Michaela.