Hillstation (29 page)

‘I am not a Doctor,' said Dev.

‘That's enough,' said Father. ‘Professor Sharma requires some peace and quiet. Fatigue, brought on by his unfailing endeavours towards the public good, has rendered him unduly humble. Rabindra, after you have seen to the patient, remember to mop the floors.'

‘Mahadev,' I said, ‘your modesty only enhances your greatness. But greater still are the arts you spent six years perfecting in London's finest medical institutions, all for that moment when a life hangs in the balance. Revered brother, that moment is now.'

‘London wouldn't have me,' said Dev. ‘Delhi wouldn't have me. Nobody would bloody have me. I spent six years in Madras.'

‘But Madras is a most reputable establishment,' said Father, beginning to sweat, ‘with excellent facilities and world-famous teachers.'

‘I was a ward porter,' said Dev. ‘And I could have made Senior Porter only Father said it was time to come home.'

‘All this excitement about the new clinic has made you delirious,' said Father. ‘What's needed is a little research, of which I believe there is some in your desk. Prizes await, after all.' Father chuckled nervously, as he attempted to ease Dev towards his office.

‘How can I save Pol?' said Dev, bitterly, ‘when I could not even save my own mother?'

‘She was beyond medical assistance,' spluttered Father. ‘This was clear to anyone.'

‘No,' said Dev. ‘We could have sent her to the City. They could have helped. They could have tried. But you wouldn't allow it. Because everyone would know.'

‘She agreed,' said Father. ‘For your sake.'

‘For yours,' said Dev.

‘But the picture,' I said, ‘of you with the Queen. She is smiling at you. And you are smiling at the camera. Dev, I would know you anywhere. That is your face, your smile.'

‘Yes, it's my face,' said Dev, pushing through the villagers towards the far end of the waiting room.

‘No!' said Father. ‘You will not touch that picture. Nobody touches the sacred picture of my son with the Queen of England.'

‘But the rest of it,' said Dev, ripping the frame off the wall, ‘is the Turkish Ambassador. Look at him. Are my hands so pale, my belly so big? Is that my fat arse behind the bulging tails of a ceremonial suit? That's the arse of a professional diplomat and this,' he said, picking at the picture, ‘is stuck on.' He held up a little cut-out of his face. ‘Me at a friend's wedding. I don't think the Queen was invited.'

‘Then who can save my son?' sighed Malek, shaking his head.

‘I'm sorry,' said Dev. ‘But if his injuries don't kill him, I probably would.'

‘Then fetch a priest,' said Mrs Bister. ‘To bless, at least, the life to come.'

‘I'm not paying those charlatan bastards to prance around with their mumbo jumbo,' said Malek. ‘That's what got him leaping off rocks in the first place.'

‘I could take it out of housekeeping,' offered Mrs Bister.

‘That is not the issue,' said Malek. ‘They talk nothing but rubbish. That is the issue. Death means death. Not floating off in a silvery vapour to come back as a toad.'

‘This is not the time for eschatological disquisitions,' said Mr Chatterjee who had wandered in with a new-found grandeur born of his notoriety for conversing with trees. ‘The young man is likely to expire long before the rest of you have finished talking about it. Why, only recently, while conversing with a philosophical acquaintance of the arboreal variety, I put this very question: who is it that acts? To which it answered: Around here? You must be joking.'

Martina eased me into the surgery and closed the door.

‘Rabindra,' she said quietly, ‘I think it's down to you.'

‘But I am only the Clinic Skivvy,' I said. ‘I lance boils and guess medicines.'

‘We don't have a choice,' she said.

‘And if I should fail?'

‘Try. For me.'

‘For you,' I said, ‘anything.'

‘I know,' she said softly.

From outside I could hear raised voices, Father among them. Inside, it was quiet and clean, the instruments gleaming in their metal trays, the air crisp with antiseptic. Pol moved slightly, a string of blood trickling from his leg to the floor below.

‘I shall need swabs,' I said. ‘And we should wash our hands.'

Mrs Bister fetched the saucepan. Malek collected cloths. I looked at Pol.

‘Had we so enraged the gods,' I murmured, ‘that, scorning our stolen flowers, they have made an autumn rose of my friend?' Martina looked at me. ‘One of Mrs Bister's novels,' I said, plunging my hands into the sink. ‘Now, let's get to work.'

13

The true nakedness of a
man lies not beneath his clothes, for under the dappled membrane of our skin, that lure for lovers and comfort of aunties, throbs a crimson charybdis of wet flesh. It is the dark underside of our prancing grace, the pumping secret of its outward poise. Doctors alone have the privilege to fiddle here. And the burden. For they know that the sweetest smile of our most beloved is twitched by glistening sinews over grey bone, and that, beyond even these indecent truths, lie truths more terrible. Believe me, there is nothing comely about a kidney, spleen or the unravelled tube of a reeking bowel. Although, fortunately, I didn't have to go quite that far with Pol.

A brutal shard of bone protruded from the torn mesh of his ragged thigh. One ankle hung loose. His arm was a crazy zig zag of random joints. Blood oozed in a steady flow from his head, some of it creeping out his ear, some of it from under his hair. I slipped slightly on the wet floor leaving a ribboned streak of red across the white glaze.

‘What would you like me to do?' said Martina.

‘Fetch my books,' I said.

‘There's no time for that,' she said.

‘Right,' I said emphatically, hoping that by saying something emphatic further words would follow. ‘While there are concerns about his legs and legs are important for walking, walking is ultimately not as important as the things we need our heads for. Heads, in fact, are so important that without one the rest of it is really not much use at all. Therefore our first priority must be the head.'

‘Should I clean it up?' said Cindy.

She was standing by the top of the bed, fondling Pol's hair. Mrs Bister was boiling some more water. Malek stood by the door, puffing nervously on a cigar.

‘I think that would be a good idea,' said Martina looking at me.

‘Yes,' I said. ‘It certainly would be. And we need to get a drip up. You'll find various appliances associated with getting drips up in the cupboard over there.'

‘Where it says “Drip Stuff Etcetera”?' asked Martina

‘Quite so,' I said, my hands on my hips, chin slightly up, looking as Doctor-like as I could manage. ‘Mr Bister, if you would like to go to my office, you will find therein a refrigerator. On the second shelf, behind various remedies for Hypertrichosis, Epidermodysplasia Verruciformis, Spasmodic Dysphonia and the like, are several bags marked “saline solution”. These were purchased a little sceptically, I have to say, salt water being easy enough to prepare in one's kitchen, but perhaps the salesman's persuasion was not, in retrospect, entirely misplaced. Can you fetch those?'

Malek hurried out to a momentary wash of angry voices.

‘They would seem to be arguing,' I said.

‘That's a surprise,' said Martina.

Although the bleeding from Pol's head had been copious, it seemed that his cranium remained intact. Which was a relief. Split skulls are notoriously difficult to treat since the brains, once interfered with, are almost impossible to get back in the right order, even with the help of text-books. As it was, he had only gashed himself badly.

‘Swabs,' I said. ‘Preferably soaked in antiseptic solution.'

‘Sure,' said Martina, fetching a handful and tipping some antiseptic over them.

‘Thank you,' I said, rather formally, hoping she'd understand how the protocols of medicine sometimes over-rode the endearments of romance. I dabbed at the wounds in Pol's scalp. ‘And we'll need suture materials. The blue cupboard, third drawer down.'

‘Where it says “lunch”?' said Martina.

‘Yes,' I said.

I had often practised my suture techniques on ripe tomatoes, just to pass the time when the clinic was quiet. The pharmaceutical rep had given me a little pamphlet on how to get the perfect stitch and, though my efforts were probably less than professional, many a torn tomato had looked much healthier as a result of my labours. Stitching Pol was little different. As the wounds closed with a gentle tug, I even thought how nice he would look in my sandwich. Which only goes to show how the mind, once habituated to a pattern of thought, repeats it for no other reason than that it does.

‘Very good,' said Martina.

‘Possibly my best tomato yet,' I said.

‘Right,' she murmured.

Malek returned with the saline solution while Martina laid out a cannula and various tubes on the surgical table. With a little help from Mrs Bister, I wheeled the drip-pole to the bed and, in no time, had a bag hooked up to a line in Pol's arm. I couldn't help a momentary smile of satisfaction.

‘Now for the tricky bit,' I said. ‘We have to set his leg and plaster it. This will involve getting the plaster materials ready, which you will find in the store room along with a bowl for that purpose. I will also need someone to pull on his hips and another to hold him down while I ease his bones back into place.'

There are some procedures you cannot practise on a tomato. I'd read a book about plastering so at least I had something to go on, though I have to admit I'd been rather more drawn to the pictures than the text. There is something visually compelling about a broken limb grappled by confident hands. I only hoped that something of the book's bravado had rubbed off on me as I wrapped my fingers around Pol's ankle and pulled. In fact the bones were surprisingly easy to separate though getting them to fit back was more difficult, taking several attempts during which Pol began to fidget.

‘He's in pain,' sobbed Cindy. ‘My poor sweet poppadom.'

‘Let's give him a little more Novocaine,' I said. ‘In the refrigerator. And there are syringes on the medicine shelf.'

While Malek nipped off to fetch them, I fished a plaster-cloth from the water bowl, prepared by Mrs Bister, and spread it carefully across Pol's leg.

‘Nice job,' said Martina.

‘Thank you,' I said, slapping another cloth into place as best I could with Pol suddenly thrashing about.

‘That Novocaine would be useful,' I said with an edge of urgency. Cindy stroked Pol's cheeks while Martina restrained him. Malek hurried back in, hands shaking as he handed over the equipment and lit a cigar. It was a quick matter to administer some further anaesthetic and, after a moment or two, Pol calmed down a little. ‘Next, I must attend to his other leg which is severely marred by a number of alarming lacerations,' I said, professionally.

Fortunately the artery that runs along the inner thigh was undamaged, though much of the flesh around it had been ripped to shreds.

‘This is more than I can stitch,' I said. ‘And there is too much debris in it. I fear that he is already developing an infection. It is quite possible that he may lose the leg altogether.'

‘Lose it?' said Cindy, eyes wide.

‘Yes, though not in the ordinary sense of putting it down somewhere and forgetting where he left it. I mean in the clinical sense of surgical removal.'

‘Oh my poppet,' said Cindy, stroking Pol's face.

‘But this is not something that I can make a judgement on,' I said. ‘I lack the X-ray facilities and the anaesthetics. A little Novocaine isn't enough for this sort of procedure. And we'd need blood, lots of it, for transfusion. We've never collected blood around here and frankly, I wouldn't like to try.'

‘So what do you suggest?' said Martina.

‘Well, the best thing would be to get him to a hospital.'

‘But we don't have a hospital,' said Mrs Bister.

‘Not here,' said Malek. ‘But I believe there's a large one somewhere in the city. In fact, I'm sure of it. They have many departments for all sorts of complaints. In fact, so many it's a bugger, quite frankly, trying to find anywhere, it's ology this and ology that, and all you want is a little something for…' He stopped quite suddenly.

‘Could we get him there?' said Martina, turning to me. ‘And would he survive the journey?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘But he won't if we don't.'

‘We can ask the Sergeant to drive us,' said Malek. ‘He can use his siren. You know what it's like in these little villages along the way.'

‘I'm not sure I do,' I said. ‘I have only known Pushkara.'

‘Well, it's not so different. As soon as they see a car coming they jump out waving things. But he's the law, and therefore entitled to mow them down with impunity.'

‘Very well,' I said. ‘Please ask him to be ready as soon as possible.'

Malek hurried out.

‘Hold still,' said Martina.

‘I beg your pardon?' I said.

‘This is what nurses do, isn't it?' she said, dabbing my forehead with a cloth.

‘Oh yes,' I said. ‘Thank you.' But when I looked at her she was looking away.

Malek came back to announce that the Sergeant was outside with his lights already flashing, though he'd been asked to switch the siren off while the car was stationary. I stepped into the waiting room to clear a way for Pol only to find the villagers swarming in all directions, most of them shouting, with Dev running around evading their grasp as he jumped up and down waving the little picture of his face.

‘Piles?' he was saying. ‘Of what? Corns? Isn't that something you eat? Headaches? I can tell you about headaches. Don't come snivelling to me about headaches.' Some of the elders attempted to strike him, others grabbed at his shirt. ‘That itch in your armpit, that lump on your neck, those persistent nose-bleeds; I'd just scrawl random letters on a piece of paper and hand it to Rabindra who thought the illegibility of any prescription was in direct proportion to its urgency. Oh, hello,' he said, seeing me at the door.

The room hushed as horrified eyes flickered across my chest.

‘Pol Bister has lost a lot of blood,' I said. ‘Some of which you can no doubt see on me. It is essential that we get him to a hospital as quickly as we can. So would you mind stepping aside, please, so we can pass through with the bed?'

An aisle parted to the outside door.

‘You see?' said Dev. ‘He's your man.'

Several people gasped as Malek and Mrs Bister wheeled the bed out, less perhaps at the sight of Pol than at the Bisters acting in unison.

‘Excuse me,' whispered Malek. ‘Broken son coming through.'

Mrs Bister stifled a sniff. Cindy held the drip.

‘Nice and high,' I said.

My father was red-faced but silent. I wondered if I should nod to him but couldn't determine if he'd see that as sarcasm or the impertinence of one who doesn't know how to say ‘good day Father' in an appropriate tone. So I did nothing as his head turned slowly to follow my exit.

The Sergeant saluted as we stepped into the street. Mike was leaning against the car, smoking. Hendrix looked up from the open boot.

‘Any chance of a lift?' said Mike.

‘I'm not sure,' I said. ‘Pol has to lie down in the back, where Cindy and Mrs Bister will care for him while Martina sits in the front holding the drip.'

‘I'll sit with Marty,' said Mike, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out with his toe. ‘She won't mind.'

‘But I don't think there's room for Hendrix and Sharon,' I said.

‘That's okay,' said Hendrix. ‘We're sticking around for a bit.'

‘What about you?' said Malek.

‘Me?' I said.

‘You have to stay with him. He needs you.'

‘But there is no room for me,' I said.

‘You can take my place,' said Mrs Bister. ‘I would rather a living son miles from home than a dead one on my lap.'

‘I am not sure that I could help him any more than anyone else,' I said.

‘Why don't you discuss it on the way?' said Malek. ‘You will have plenty of time to reach a conclusion before you arrive at your destination.'

‘Alright, let's go,' said Martina, clapping her hands. ‘In the car. Come on.'

Cindy squeezed my knee as I sat beside her. Malek and Hendrix carefully lifted Pol across our laps. I squeezed Martina's knee, in the English manner, as she sat down, making her jump slightly. Mike climbed into the front and nodded to Hendrix.

‘I'll miss you,' he said.

‘How?' said Hendrix. ‘You don't have feelings.'

‘I'll feel that I ought to miss you,' said Mike, with a shrug. ‘Best I can do.'

Cindy reached out to squeeze Hendrix's hand. ‘See ya,' she said. ‘Oh, and tell Sharon she's a beat in the heart of a dancer.'

‘I think she knows,' said Hendrix, smiling. ‘Well, Robby, I guess this is it.'

‘Is what?' I said.

‘What you wanted. The open road. New life.'

‘But that was only a dream,' I said, feeling suddenly nervous.

‘Maybe it is,' said Hendrix, enigmatically. ‘Maybe that's all it is.'

‘Indeed,' said Mr Chatterjee who had managed to push through to the police car. ‘This is a view confirmed by many theologians. The phenomenal world is apprehensible only within the realm of interpretation, which is to say the mind. Therefore what we experience is, in effect, a dream. The reality itself is indefinable just as the dream figure can never know the dreamer, even though without the dreamer no dream figure could exist.'

‘And that's without dope,' said Hendrix. ‘But listen kid, maybe we'll meet up some day. London, Berlin, wherever. Just listen out for the noise. I'm usually there, cranking it up.'

‘What are you suggesting?' said Mrs Dak, groping forward. ‘Does Rabindra propose not to come back? His father would never allow it.'

‘I guess that don't matter too much if he ain't coming back,' said Hendrix.

‘But what of us?' said Mr Dak. ‘Who will run the clinic now that your brother has been exposed as a charlatan?'

‘Best get going,' said Hendrix, tapping the side of the car.

‘We can start?' said Sergeant Shrinivasan.

‘Hit the gas,' said Mike. ‘No, not the siren, the gas.'