Amok and Other Stories (6 page)

Well, I won’t try to describe those hours to you … they are beyond description. I myself don’t understand now how one can go through such an experience without going mad. Then, at twenty-two minutes past three … I remember the time exactly, I was staring at my watch … there was a sudden knock at the door. I leap up … leap like a tiger leaping on its prey, in one bound I am across the room and at the door, I fling it open, and there stands
a timid little Chinese boy with a folded note in his hand. As I avidly reach for it, he scurries away and is gone.

I tear the note open to read it … and find that I can’t. A red mist blurs my vision … imagine my agony, I have word from her at last, and now everything is quivering and dancing before my eyes. I dip my head in water, and my sight clears … once again I take the note and read it. “Too late! But wait where you are. I may yet send for you.”

No signature on the crumpled paper torn from some old brochure … the writing of someone whose
handwriting
is usually steady, now scribbling hastily, untidily, in pencil. I don’t know why that note shook me so much. Some kind of horror, some mystery clung to it, it might have been written in flight, by someone standing in a window bay or a moving vehicle. An unspeakably cold aura of fear, haste and terror about that furtive note chilled me to the heart … and yet, and yet I was happy. She had written to me, I need not die yet, I could help her … perhaps I could … oh, I lost myself in the craziest hopes and conjectures. I read the little note a hundred, a thousand times over, I kissed it … I examined it for some word I might have forgotten or overlooked. My reverie grew ever deeper and more confused, I was in a strange condition, sleeping with open eyes, a kind of paralysis, a torpid yet turbulent state between sleep and waking. It lasted perhaps for quarter of an hour or so, perhaps for hours.

Suddenly I gave a start. Wasn’t that a knock at the door? I held my breath for a minute, two minutes of perfect silence … and then it came again, like a mouse
nibbling, a soft but urgent knock. I leaped to my feet, still dizzy, flung the door open, and there outside it stood her boy, the same boy whom I had once struck in the face with my fist. His brown face was pale as ashes, his
confused
glance spoke of some misfortune. I immediately felt horror. ‘What … what’s happened?’ I managed to
stammer
. He said, ‘Come quickly!’ That was all, no more, but I was immediately racing down the stairs with the boy after me. A
sado
, a kind of small carriage, stood waiting. We got in. ‘What’s happened?’ I asked him. He looked at me, trembling, and remained silent, lips compressed. I asked again … still he was silent. I could have struck him with my fist once more, but his doglike devotion to her touched me, and I asked no more questions. The little carriage trotted through the crowded street so fast that people scattered, cursing. It left the European quarter near the beach in the lower town and went on into the noisy turmoil of the city’s Chinatown district. At last we reached a narrow, very remote alley … and the carriage stopped outside a low-built house. The place was dirty, with a kind of hunched look about it and a little shop window where a tallow candle stood … one of those places where you would expect to find opium dens or brothels, a thieves’ lair or a receivers’ cellar full of stolen goods. The boy quickly knocked … a voice whispered through a crack in the door, which stood ajar, there were questions and more questions. I could stand it no longer. I leaped up, pushed the door right open, and an old Chinese woman shrank back with a little scream. The boy followed me, led me along the passage … opened another door … another door, leading to a dark room
with a foul smell of brandy and clotted blood. Something in the room groaned. I groped my way in …”

Once again his voice failed. And what he next uttered was more of a sob than words.

“I … I groped my way in …. And there … there on a dirty mat, doubled up with pain … a groaning piece of human flesh … there she lay …

I couldn’t see her face in the darkness. My eyes weren’t yet used to it … so I only groped about and found … found her hand, hot, burning hot … she had a
temperature,
a very high one, and I shuddered, for I instantly knew it all … how she had fled here from me, had let some dirty Chinese woman mutilate her, only because she hoped for more silence in that quarter … she had allowed some diabolical witch to murder her rather than trust me … because, deranged as I was, I hadn’t spared her pride, I hadn’t helped her at once … because she feared me more than she feared death.

I shouted for light. The boy ran off; the appalling Chinese woman, her hands trembling, brought a
smoking
oil lamp. I had to stop myself taking her by her filthy yellow throat as she put the lamp on the table. Its light fell bright and yellow on the tortured body. And suddenly … suddenly all my emotions were gone, all my apathy, my anger, all the impure filth of my accumulated
passion
… I was nothing but a doctor now, a human being who could understand and feel and help. I had forgotten myself, I was fighting the horror of it with my senses
alert and clear … I felt the naked body I had desired in my dreams only as … how can I put it? … as matter, an organism. I did not see
her
any more, only life defending itself against death, a human being bent double in
dreadful
agony. Her blood, her hot, holy blood streamed over my hands, but I felt no desire and no horror, I was only a doctor. I saw only her suffering … and I saw …

And I saw at once that barring a miracle, all was lost … the woman’s criminally clumsy hand had injured her, and she had bled half to death … and I had nothing to stop the bleeding in that stinking den, not even clean water. Everything I touched was stiff with dirt …

‘We must go straight to the hospital,’ I said. But no sooner had I spoken than her tortured body reared
convulsively
.

‘No … no … would rather die … no one must know … no one … home … home …’

I understood. She was fighting now only to keep her secret, to preserve her honour … not to save her life. And—and I obeyed. The boy brought a litter, we placed her in it … and so we carried her home, already like a corpse, limp and feverish, through the night, fending off the frightened servants’ inquiries. Like thieves, we carried her into her own room and closed the doors. And then … then the battle began, the long battle with death …”

Suddenly a hand clutched my arm, and I almost cried out with the shock and pain of it. His face in the dark was suddenly hideously close to mine, I saw his white
teeth gleam in his sudden outburst, saw his glasses shine like two huge cat’s eyes in the pale reflection of the moonlight. And now he was not talking any more but screaming, shaken by howling rage.

“Do you know, stranger, sitting here so casually in your deckchair, travelling at leisure around the world, do you know what it’s like to watch someone dying? Have you even been at a deathbed, have you seen the body contort, blue nails scrabbling at the empty air while breath rattles in the dying throat, every limb fights back, every finger is braced against the terror of it, and the eye stares into horror for which there are no words? Have you ever experienced that, idle tourist that you are, you who call it a duty to help? As a doctor I’ve often seen it, seen it as … as a clinical case, a fact … I have studied it, so to speak—but I
experienced
it only once, there with her, I died with her that night … that dreadful night when I sat there racking my brains to think of something, some way to staunch the blood that kept on flowing, soothe the fever consuming her before my eyes, ward off death as it came closer and closer, and I couldn’t keep it from her bed. Can you guess what it means to be a doctor, to know how to combat every illness—to feel the duty of helping, as you so sagely put it, and yet to sit helpless by a dying woman, knowing what is happening but powerless … just knowing the one terrible truth, that there is nothing you can do, although you would open every vein in your own body for her? Watching a beloved body bleed miserably to death in agonising pain, feeling a pulse that flutters and grows faint … ebbing away under your fingers. To be a doctor yet know of nothing, nothing, nothing you
can do … just sitting there stammering out some kind of prayer like an little old lady in church, shaking your fist in the face of a merciful god who you know doesn’t exist … can you understand that? Can you understand it? There’s just one thing I don’t understand myself: how … how a man can manage not to die too at such moments, but wake from sleep the next morning, clean his teeth, put on a tie … go on living, when he has
experienced
what I felt as her breath failed, as the first human being for whom I was really wrestling, fighting, whom I wanted to keep alive with all the force of my being … as she slipped away from me to somewhere else, faster and faster, minute after minute, and my feverish brain could do nothing to keep that one woman alive …

And then, to add to my torment, there was something else too … as I sat at her bedside—I had given her
morphine
to relieve the pain—and I saw her lying there with burning cheeks, hot and ashen, as I sat there, I felt two eyes constantly fixed on me from behind, gazing at me with terrible expectation. The boy sat there on the floor, quietly murmuring some kind of prayer, and when my eyes met his I saw … oh, I cannot describe it … I saw something so pleading, so … so grateful in his doglike gaze! And at the same time he raised his hands to me as if urging me to save her … to me, you understand, he raised his hands to
me
as if to a god … to me, the helpless weakling who knew the battle was lost, that I was as useless here as an ant scuttling over the floor. How that gaze tormented me, that fanatical, animal hope of what my art could do … I could have shouted at him, kicked him, it hurt so much … and yet I felt that we were both
linked by our love for her … by the secret. A waiting animal, an apathetic tangle of limbs, he sat hunched up just behind me. The moment I asked for anything he leaped to his bare, silent feet and handed it to me,
trembling
… expectantly, as if that might help, might save her. I know he would have cut his veins to help her … she was that kind of woman, she had such power over people … and I … I didn’t even have the power to save her from bleeding … oh, that night, that appalling night, an
endless
night spent between life and death!

Towards morning she woke again and opened her eyes … they were not cold and proud now … there was a moist gleam of fever in them as they looked around the room, as if it were strange … Then she looked at me. She seemed to be thinking, trying to remember my face … and suddenly, I saw, she did remember, because some kind of shock, rejection … a hostile, horrified expression came over her features. She flailed her arms as if to flee … far, far away from me … I saw she was thinking of
that
… of the time back at my house. But then she thought again and looked at me more calmly, breathing heavily … I felt that she wanted to speak, to say something. Again her hands began to flex … she tried to sit up, but she was too weak. I calmed her, leaned down to her … and she gave me a long and tormented look … her lips moved slightly in a last, failing sound as she said, ‘Will no one ever know? No one?’

‘No one,’ I said, with all the strength of my conviction. ‘I promise you.’

But her eyes were still restless. Her fevered lips
managed
, indistinctly, to get it out.

‘Swear to me … that no one will know … swear.’

I raised my hand as if taking an oath. She looked at me with … with an indescribable expression… it was soft, warm, grateful … yes, truly, truly grateful. She tried to say something else, but it was too difficult for her. She lay there for a long time, exhausted by the effort, with her eyes closed. Then the terrible part began … the terrible part … she fought for another entire and difficult hour. Not until morning was it all over …”

He was silent for some time. I did not notice until the bell struck from amidships, once, twice, three times—three o’clock. The moon was not shining so brightly now, but a different, faint yellow glow was already trembling in the air, and the wind blew light as a breeze from time to time. Half-an-hour more, an hour more, and it would be day, the grey around us would be extinguished by clear light. I saw his features more distinctly now that the
shadows
were not so dense and dark in the corner where we sat—he had taken off his cap, and now that his head was bared his tormented face looked even more terrible. But already the gleaming lenses of his glasses were turned to me again, he pulled himself together, and his voice took on a sharp and derisive tone.

“It was all over for her now—but not for me. I was alone with the body—but I was also alone in a strange house and in a city that would permit no secrets, and I … I had to keep hers. Think about it, think about the circumstances: a woman from the colony’s high society,
a perfectly healthy woman who had been dancing at the government ball only the evening before, suddenly dead in her bed … and a strange doctor with her, apparently called by her servant … no one in the house saw when he arrived or where he came from … she was carried in by night in a litter, and then the doors were closed … and in the morning she was dead. Only then were the
servants
called, and suddenly the house echoes with screams … the neighbours will know at once, the whole city will know, and there’s only one man who can explain it all … I, the stranger, the doctor from a remote country station. A delightful situation, don’t you agree?

I knew what lay ahead of me now. Fortunately the boy was with me, the good fellow who read every thought of mine in my eyes—that yellow-skinned, dull-minded creature knew that there was still a battle to be fought. I had said to him only, ‘Your mistress did not want anyone to know what happened.’ He returned my glance with his moist, doglike, yet determined gaze. All he said was, ‘Yes, sir.’ But he washed the blood off the floor, tidied
everything
—and his very determination restored mine to me.