Old Lovers Don't Die (24 page)

“Thank you for breakfast,” he said to Ashik, who had now introduced himself, before walking out through front of the tent, ducking underneath the flap, to join Satilde and two other doctors from the hospital in the large emergency tent.

“Good morning, Satilde. Were there any dramas overnight?”

“Good morning, Christian. No real dramas although I think we are going to be very busy today during debridement and dressings. Would you like a quick catch-up on each of the patients?”

“Yes, let’s start with the ones that you’ve already seen and then we can do the rest together. Do we have a clearer idea of what happened at the airport?”

“We do. Bosco the Butcher with his boy soldiers tried to ambush Kariba’s gang at the airport. They then started shooting and one of the bullets ignited the diesel tank. In the confusion some of the boys then tried to run and were shot; the others were obviously burned by the explosion. Bosco’s gang was the worst affected and he retreated. From what we can understand, some of his boy soldiers were captured by Kariba and tortured. Those that survive he will send to his mines to work.”

“Welcome to Africa,” said one of the doctors from the hospital who had joined them and overheard the conversation.

The first four boys they reviewed had first and second degree burns. They were well hydrated, and with some ketamine all they would require would be antiseptic to their burns and light dressings. Looking at their faces, Christian could tell their pain was well controlled, but there was still a frightened and bewildered look. He asked Satilde to ask them how they were feeling. When she spoke to them, he noticed they cast their eyes down and did not reply. He looked at Satilde and she said,

“They won’t say anything because they think that we going to sell them back to Kariba or Bosco and they might be beaten again or sent to the mines.”

Feeling powerless that he could not remove these boys from their nightmare, Christian moved on to the next boy patient. Aged about twelve years, like the others he kept his eyes cast down, as they stood at his feet looking at his chart.

“This is Michelangelo,” Satilde said. “He was the boy who was captured and was being beaten by Kariba’s gang, but managed to escape when the first ambulance arrived. He has a broken left arm that we need to reduce and set in plaster. He has multiple lacerations on his back where he was whipped, which will need to be treated and dressed.”

Christian lifted up the sheet and saw the slightly angulated left forearm. It had not broken the skin and therefore reducing it would be straightforward. As he indicated to the young boy to turn on his side so that he could inspect the deep lacerations on his back, instinct took over. In English, he whispered in his ear.

“Don’t be afraid, we won’t let you go back, I promise. Cindy will help.”

Michelangelo did not turn over. He looked Christian directly in the eye and with tears welling up, said,

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You know him?” Satilde said obviously shocked, as Christian rearranged the sheet around Michelangelo.

“I don’t know him, but I know of him. He is one of the boys who need to come back with us to Garanyi. I will explain on the way. Now let’s take one of those permanent stretchers from the back of the ambulance. We can use that as the operating table and disinfect it between cases.”

No one moved once Christian had stopped talking. They stood staring at him, he could sense their confusion. Would rescuing one boy from the situation make any difference, their eyes were saying. By the end of the day, they had completed thirty dressing changes and set six fractures. Christian had also taught Jean Miguel to suture simple wounds. As nightfall approached, Christian could not help but wonder when the relief would arrive from Medicines Sans Frontier. He was starting to feel unwell himself, nauseated with hot flushes every ten to fifteen minutes. Explosive diarrhoea he could feel was not very far away. He quickly excused himself from the large tent, and walking out into the cool night air before vomiting uncontrollably, next to a small tree on the lawn. Momentarily, he felt slightly better but then the waves of nausea returned. He searched frantically for the toilet that Satilde had mentioned. In the dark, he could just see the blue plastic constructed around four sticks two metres high. The side that faced the hospital was uncovered; the plastic doors rolled up and permanently open, for emergencies such as his. As he reached and quickly sat on the wooden seat, both ends exploded with an African velocity. He knew he was not going to be able to do any more operating that night. After what seemed like an eternity, the nausea settled and he made his way slowly back to the mattress in the small tent.

The night was devoid of any sleep, Christian’s increasing fever causing him to constantly toss and turn. As waves of nausea built up into an uncontrollable surge, he crawled outside the tent to vomit. On his second or third excursion outside, Satilde lit the gas lantern. As he crawled back inside, he noticed her sitting next to his mattress with an intravenous line and bag of saline. He nodded his agreement, for he could feel that he was rapidly becoming dehydrated. Satilde inserted a needle into a vein on his hand before hooking up the bag of saline. John Miguel, who was also now awake, applied pressure to the bag to rehydrate him more quickly. He did not remember falling asleep, just a desperate act of pulling a perspiration-soaked sheet over his head to thwart the inevitable mosquito squadrons. When he did wake, small rays of sunshine were filtering into the tent and initially as he opened his eyes, he wondered whether he was delirious. Three people were sitting around his mattress with concerned looks on all of their faces. He tried to focus, squinting initially, and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. It looked like Isabella; he must be delirious, he thought. Then she leaned forward, dabbed his face with a wet cloth, and whispered in his ear,

“Hello, we need to get you out of here urgently and treat your malaria and gastroenteritis. Old lovers don’t die on my watch.” She winked at him. “We are taking you back in the ambulance, Doctor Sudani’s orders.”

Christian smiled; despite it being ten years since he had seen Isabella, he still knew her voice. Her hair was not how he remembered, for she now had it cut very short. The black-rimmed glasses gave her an authoritative air.

“Isabella, it’s so nice to see you again,” he whispered. “However we can’t leave yet as Medicines sans Frontier hasn’t arrived and all those boys need to have the dressings changed and skin grafts done. Otherwise they’re going to become infected.”

“Don’t worry. MSF will be here this evening and the Dutch or German surgeon who sometimes helps out at Garanyi has arrived. Satilde has briefed him and I went to speak to him to tell him that we are urgently evacuating you to Garanyi. I wondered whether his accent was Dutch. Some of the words he used had a South African inflection. “

“Don’t forget to bring Michelangelo with us. I promised him.”

“If you can make it in the cab, we will put Michelangelo plus three other boys in the back.”

“I’ll go in the cab.”

Isabella decided to treat Christian at the Sudani’s. The only concern was whether Christian had drug-resistant malaria. She had learnt in London that most sub-Saharan malaria infections were drug-resistant. Fortunately, she had brought some malarone to use for herself as a preventative measure; she would give that to Christian. Keeping an eye on his fluid intake would then be the only other real concern. Within two days, he should be recovering.

After twenty hours of Isabella’s care, Christian could feel his strength returning. He did not feel as delirious and although he was sleeping most of the day, he could feel the beginning of hunger and knew that was a good sign. After forty-eight hours, he stood up, clearheaded for the first time, and felt well enough to want to try Chantal’s coffee. Chantal and Isabella both turned at the same time to look at him as he walked into the kitchen, a little unsteady on his feet. He knew, after three days of no food and little fluid, that physically he looked gaunt and unwell.

“I am feeling better even though I may still look terrible,” he said trying to manage a smile.

“That you are standing is a significant advance and suggests that the malarone is dealing with the malaria.”

“I’m not sure. Would you like to check my spleen, Isabella?”

“A sense of humour that returning is also a good clinical sign,” Isabella said, raising an eyebrow in Chantal’s direction and smiling.

“Are you up to a cup of coffee yet? We have had our first one but there is still some left.”

“I would love to try.”

“Sit down and I’ll get you one then,” Chantal said. “Then I’m going to the market and you two can catch up, which I’m sure there’s a lot to do.”

The coffee did not taste quite the same, with possibly the malarone affecting his taste. However, even though the coffee had an aluminium edge, it was great to taste something other than water, and not have the feeling that it was not going to reappear immediately in front of him. He looked at Isabella, enjoying having her close again. Her velvet coal dark hair still had the rich blackness, which he had often remembered. When they had had first met in Cape Town nine years ago, she had worn it shoulder length. He had really liked the longer length as she would wear it in so many different styles, all of which seemed to suit her. Now she wore it short and cropped into her neck, which emphasised her cheekbones. The large black rim glasses gave her an academic look and a mature sexiness. One thing had not changed, which he had long wondered about: the intense passionate desire for her was still present in abundance. The way that she looked at him suggested to him that it was for also there for her as well.

“You don’t like the short hair, do you?”

“I really do. It’s just not the memory that I have of you, although I can see and feel you are the same Isabella. I do like the new version.”

“You look very much the same to me although your hair is a little bit longer, and after the last few days you are much thinner than I remember. However, when I saw you lying there on the plastic floor, burning up with a fever and delirious, I still had the same kind of feeling of desire that I had experienced when I first saw you in Cape Town.”

Christian was initially taken aback by the boldness of the statement. There was a confidence about her now, which had replaced the teenage innocence he remembered. It was that confidence which he had noted when she had calmly taken over his care. That was to be expected; medicine had also given him a similar confidence. Isabella, like him, was trained to care for people. He held her gaze, realizing that she was scrutinizing him to see whether he felt the same. He smiled back his agreement. His mind wandered back to their meeting in Johannesburg, when they had discovered they were not brother and sister. Without the horrible thought that they had previously committed incest, they had discovered a sexual chemistry, which had threatened to overwhelm them both. In the months which had followed, Christian had moved back to Australia and the relationship intensity had waned. Until he had met Petrea on the plane, he had not felt that intensity of feelings for another woman. He had thought that the chemistry that they had had experienced was unique only to Isabella. The intensity that they had previously brought to their relationship came sharply back into focus; he wanted to feel strong enough to enjoy discovering the chemistry that they had previously had, again. Christian decided to try and match her boldness.

“Any particular therapy you would recommend which would speed my recovery?”

“There is good research that suggests direct skin contact stimulates endorphin release which is therapeutic in the healing process,” Isabella replied looking directly at him and smiling mischievously.

“That was in a peer reviewed journal, I’m sure.”

Isabella took off her glasses and moved her stool closer to his. Stroking his hair, she kissed him on the cheek and said.

“I need to take that intravenous needle out now that we no longer need to give you intravenous fluids. You will need to take off your shirt.”

Christian was about to take his shirt off when he heard Chantal open the front door. He did up his top button as Isabella moved the stool back a little.

“Hello you two. Up to mischief, I hope,” Chantal said, gently knocking on the doorway, as she peered into the bedroom.

Isabella laughed as Chantal handed the
Rwandan Times
newspaper to Christian. The front page covered the shooting in the Congo under the headlines ‘Militias vie for control of resources’. He read the first few lines as Isabella read over his shoulder. The newspaper condemned the militia groups and argued that it was time that the area was controlled by a legitimate government force. Christian allowed Isabella to continue reading.

“Do you understand this fully?” Isabella said as she read on.

“I’m starting to understand it a little bit more each day. The world thinks it’s an ethnic conflict but it’s all about money and corruption and who controls one of the richest resource regions in the world.”

“Would you two like some lunch?” Chantal called from the kitchen.

Christian and Isabella walked through into the kitchen, where Chantal was unpacking the fruit and vegetables that she had bought at the local market.

“Actually Mohammed has invited me to lunch via text message this morning. I feel strong enough to go, especially if I can take my doctor with me.”

“Yes, I heard that Mohammed had been very helpful. You realize, of course, that some in the hospital might see that as Mohammed looking to gain influence with you and the community in general.”

Christian nodded. He knew going to have lunch with Mohammed may well contribute to that feeling, which principally came from Emmanuel. With that in mind, he had asked Mohammed to meet at one of the small cafés in the main street. That, at least, he thought would be neutral territory.

“Chantal, I’m aware of what people might think of that. I have arranged to meet at one of the cafés in the main street, so that it can’t be misunderstood. I am going to check on the boys in the hospital first though.”

“Isabella, do you think he is strong enough?”

“Well he is certainly getting his cheekiness back, so I suspect he will manage a quick ward round. I will go with him to make sure he doesn’t do too much and then after lunch, I have an outpatient clinic and he can walk back here.”

The walk back up to the hospital was both tiring and rejuvenating. Christian’s legs felt rubbery by the time they made it to the top of the hill, but after two days cast in bed, just walking was gratifying. Isabella told him as they walked that the four boys had been placed in the paediatric ward. The two older boys could possibly have been in the adult surgical ward, she said, however they all had burns, and it was easier to have them together in one ward for dressings and possibly skin grafting.

The paediatric ward was similar to the other wards, red plastic mattresses with a single sheet covering them, creamy yellow mosquito nets furled and tied to the ceiling above the beds. The major difference was mothers with two or three children occupied the beds. When Christian had first arrived, it had been difficult sometimes to determine which child was the patient.

Michelangelo was in the second bed and as Christian and Isabella entered, he looked up. There was no smile of recognition and he quickly cast his eyes down. The boy in the first bed appeared to be about the same age as Michelangelo. Christian stopped at the foot of the first bed and looked at the chart. The pulse and temperature were significantly elevated, suggestive of a developing infection. Christian looked at Isabella and the ward sister, Margarita, who had now joined them. Anticipating his question, the ward sister said that Doctor Nikita had started antibiotics the previous day. They would take twenty-four hours to start being effective in bringing down his temperature. Christian approached the bed to exam the boy’s burns, feeling Michelangelo’s eyes watching him. As he pulled back the sheet, he turned and glanced at Michelangelo who again quickly looked down.

“I think we will need to debride those burns in theatre tomorrow,” Christian said as he pulled the sheet back up.

“Yes, Doctor Chris. I will organize that with theatre,” Margarita said, writing instructions in her notebook

“Do we know whether any of these boys have family yet?”

“None that we know of.”

“Good morning, Michelangelo,” Christian said as he moved to the foot of next bed.

Michelangelo did not look up. Christian examined his chart and noted that there was only a slight temperature. Nothing to be alarmed about; however, what did concern him was that Michelangelo now gave the impression that he did not recognize him.

“None of the boys have said a word since we admitted them,” Isabella said. “They will not even tell us their names or whether they have families. It’s almost as though they are too frightened or shocked to talk.”

Christian knew post-traumatic stress could cause such an effect. Just because violence was so endemic in the Congo did not mean that those subjected to it so frequently should be immune. Nevertheless, something still did not quite fit with Michelangelo, for he had responded initially. Christian’s intuition told him there was something else happening that they did not quite understand.

“Margarita, could we get this patient down to theatre now? His wounds need to be dressed as soon as possible.”

Isabella was about to protest when she sensed that Christian wanted Michelangelo away from the ward and the other boys. By the time they finished the rest of the ward, Josef, one of the orderlies, had already taken Michelangelo down to theatre.

“Care to tell me about this intuition with Michelangelo? Clearly you’re not going to operate on him,” said Isabella as they walked down the concrete pathway to theatre.

“Just a strange hunch at the moment.”

Michelangelo was just inside the theatre door, and Josef had put his bag of intravenous saline hooked over a window catch. He again did not look up as Christian and Isabella entered. Christian picked up the wooden chair from behind the reception desk and pulled it up next to Michelangelo. He motioned to Isabella to stand beside him as he took Michelangelo’s hand.

“Michelangelo, I know Cindy from the orphanage. She is a good friend of mine, and we’re going to look after you and make sure you never go back to fighting or the mines. Cindy is coming tomorrow to see you. I know that you speak English. Is there anything that’s frightening you that we can help with?” Christian squeezed his hand in reassurance as Isabella moved to the head of the bed and gently stroked his head. There was no response from Michelangelo. Christian looked up at Isabella who motioned to him to leave the reception area. He quizzed her with his eyes and Isabella responded by waving him in the direction of the door. He stood up, offered the chair to Isabella, and walked out the door, closing it quietly. He sat down on the concrete walkway next to the theatre door.

It seemed like half an hour before Isabella opened the door and said,

“We will need to get the dressings changed so that the other boys don’t suspect anything.”

Christian walked back in through the half-open theatre door and headed to where he knew Teresa kept the dressings. He quickly dressed the wounds, while Isabella went to organize Michelangelo’s return to the ward. As he applied to the last piece of micropore tape, he looked up to see Michelangelo watching him. His eyes were filled with tears. Christian resolved instantly that this was one boy he would never let go back to the militias, even if it meant his own life. Josef and Isabella arrived back as he looked at Michelangelo and said,

“Just remember the promise that I made you.”

“Come on. We need to make lunch with Mohammed,” Isabella said closing the theatre door behind Josef and Michelangelo.

“You need to tell me what you found out first.”

“Walk with me while I talk to you and explain.”

They headed out hand-in-hand through the main entrance of the hospital towards the dirt road that led up to the town. Within five minutes, they had reached the main street of the town. Each side of the street was lined by two-story buildings with wooden frontages The rest of the buildings were made from traditional mud bricks, creating the impression of a western movie set that you would expect to see in Hollywood - not Africa. The shop openings all had wooden planks as a footpath separating them from the dusty main road. Balconies above the shop frontages appeared to be tailor-made for damsels in distress to wave from, although he could see they also had practical value as a place to dry washing. Hitching posts in front of some of the shops, added to the strange western movie set impression, while also suggesting that horses had only recently been substituted for by motorcycles. Further, up the main street several pedal-operated Singer sewing machines were busy, each with two or three people standing around them while clothing was repaired.