Open Heart (26 page)

For I was sure that he was on his way to meet the woman I persisted in secretly calling “my love.” He didn’t like leaving her alone, I thought with anxiety and a spurt of lust, which hastened my steps and sharpened my senses so that I was soon able to identify the big head with the mane of curly gray hair in the distance, among the people streaming toward the hospital
parking
lot. And as I walked I took off my white coat, which I
bundled
into the Honda’s black box. I took out the crash helmet and quickly put it on, and although I didn’t have my leather jacket with me and it was quite cold outside, I started the motorcycle. Since I knew the make of Lazar’s car, which we had discussed on the long train journey from New Delhi to Varanasi, I was able to identify it as it pulled out of its reserved parking place. From the movies I was familiar with the advantages of pursuing an
automobile
on a motorcycle, but I had never considered the absolute advantage of the helmet visor, which allowed the pursuer to tail the target so closely as to be almost intimate. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and Lazar’s car wove confidently and cleverly among the traffic, aiming for the center of town and the street where Lazar’s wife’s office was. There was no parking, and he had to leave his car on the sidewalk, apologizing to the owner of the store whose display window he blocked, and wait for his wife there. She finally came out, after a few minutes of waiting which seemed interminable to me too as I sat at a little distance on my Honda, getting damp from the fine drizzle filling the air. When I saw her hurrying on her high heels, this middle-aged woman in a short skirt—perhaps too short for her age—draped in the velvety blue tunic that she had taken all the way to India but hardly worn at all, her plump face laughing, a bundle of office files tucked under her heavy arm, insisting on opening an umbrella to protect her bare head during the short distance between the office door and the car, I realized that there was no mistake about it, it wasn’t a delusion or a mirage: I was really in love with her.

I could have stopped my pursuit then, got off my bike and taken shelter in one of the building entrances until the rain stopped,
and then returned to the hospital; or I could have approached them as if it were an accidental meeting, given them the envelope with the photos, said a few words holding out a promise for the future, and gone away. But instead I remained on the bike in my light jacket, masked by my helmet, and waited for them to start off so I could go on following them—this time from a greater distance, for I was afraid of her turning around. I rode behind them, saw them stop at a bakery, and watched her go in and come out with a rectangular white box tied up with a blue
ribbon
, which reminded me of the shoe box I had voluntarily stored in my suitcase. From there they continued to a fruit-and-
vegetable
stall, where they stopped after an apparent argument, and an Arab youth came out and loaded bursting bags into the car. So they’re still cultivating their round bellies, I thought sarcastically, and although I was already soaking wet I kept on their tail,
because
I wanted to see them with my own eyes arrive at their apartment in Chen Avenue, get out of the car, help each other carry the bags and boxes, and disappear through the big glass door. So she won’t be left alone during her lunch break, I thought, and I felt a kind of relief.

But I didn’t hand over the photographs that day, even though Lazar returned to his office at four o’clock. And I didn’t take them to him the next day either, but set off to follow him again, to see if this time too he would be careful not to leave his wife alone at home during her lunch break. It was pouring, and
instead
of the short skirt and high heels she was wearing boots and tight trousers, and a black cape which gave her a new profile. How is this going to end? I scolded myself in despair, returning to the hospital drenched to the skin after they had disappeared into the door of their apartment building. It was my last day in the surgical department, and since nothing had yet been agreed with Professor Levine, who had been absent for two weeks with some mysterious disease, I felt, perhaps for the first time in my life, up in the air, without a patron or a framework. I therefore decided that in the afternoon, when Lazar returned, I would go to his office and give him the photographs and ask him one or two questions about the rights of a temporary, substitute doctor. But this time, although the secretary, Miss Kolby, was friendly, she was unable to find any free time in his tight schedule of
afternoon appointments. Only when darkness fell, as I was going from bed to bed on a private final round of farewells—without telling any of the patients that this was my last visit, because I didn’t want them to feel abandoned or betrayed during the long, hard night ahead of them—did the secretary phone the ward to look for me and tell me that Lazar had finally finished all his appointments and that he would be very glad to see me in his office.

Once more I found myself in the large, elegant room with its flowered curtains and flourishing plants, which now, at this late hour, looked very different from all the doctors’ offices in the hospital, like some cozy domestic interior, protected from all the diseases, the smells, the drugs, and the medical instruments,
remote
too from all the paperwork, the forms and the files, as if it were not the center from which the hospital was run but a refuge in which to escape it. Lazar sat behind his vast desk, his curly head, which had served as an effective signpost among the heads of the Indian crowds, wagging against the high back of his
executive
chair as he conducted an animated conversation with Miss Kolby, his devoted thirty-five-year-old secretary, who was
standing
beside him. “Aha!” he cried in friendly rebuke. “At last! Where did you disappear to?”

“I disappeared?” I repeated with a surprised smile, for during the past three weeks it had seemed to me that he and his wife had been my constant companions by day and by night. “I’ve been here all the time, in the hospital.” “I know you’ve been here,” he said with genuine friendliness, “but we haven’t seen you. Dori is already convinced that you must have taken offense at
something
, because ever since we parted at the airport you’ve shown no sign of life.”

“But I phoned one evening,” I protested, filled with joy at this new proof of her interest. “Didn’t Einat tell you? She said that Hishin and Professor Levine had already seen her, and I
understood
that I didn’t have anything to worry about anymore.”

“You’ve still got something to worry about.” Lazar laughed jovially. “But I’m not talking about Einati, even though she’s not completely out of the woods yet, and Levine, who wanted to hospitalize her in his ward and run further tests on her, is sick himself. No, I mean you should worry about yourself, because
we’ve still got some outstanding business to clear up between us.”

“Business?” I asked innocently. He folded his hands on the desk and looked right at me. “The fee we owe you for the
journey
to India.”

“There’s no need for any fee,” I said immediately, and lowered my eyes so that he wouldn’t sense any hesitation in them. Lazar tried to insist and I repeated firmly, “I don’t want you to pay me anything.” I looked into the bright, penetrating eyes of his
secretary,
who was still standing next to us. “The trip was payment enough.” And then I felt a pang, not only because of the
payment
, which I had finally waived, but also because of the brevity and haste of the trip. “I only came to bring you these,” I added weakly, holding out the envelope with the photographs. “Ah, our pictures,” he cried happily, and snatched the envelope from my hand and took out the photographs, which he glanced at rapidly, smiling and immediately passing them on to the
secretary
, who took them reverently and studied them slowly and thoroughly. “Dori always comes out wonderfully in photos,” she said in an intimate, familiar way. “Yes,” Lazar agreed with a sigh, “that’s because she’s serene inside herself, not like me. And that always makes the lines sharp and clear,” and he nodded his head at me as if to apologize for having to praise his wife in front of strangers. “But how much do I owe you for the pictures?” He whipped out his wallet. “Nonsense,” I said, shrinking. “Why nonsense?” he protested. “I can’t let you refuse everything here. Tell me how much they cost or I won’t take them.” And he took out a fifty-shekel note and put it on the desk. With my heart aching at the thought of parting from the pictures, I shook my head firmly and explained that my parents had paid for the two rolls of film to be developed. “It’s a present from them, to both of you.” This persuaded him to accept the photographs without paying for them. “A present from your parents?” he repeated, as if to obtain my confirmation. “Mind you don’t forget to thank them,” and he made haste to return the money to his pocket, and turned to his secretary. “Dori’ll be thrilled to get them—she loves photographs, and now we’ll have something to remind us of the trip, which, believe me, we’ve already forgotten completely.” Then he glanced at his watch and said with an air of surprise, “But she should have been here by now.” When he saw me
beginning
to edge toward the door—and maybe he also sensed my inner turmoil—he stood up to stop me. “Wait a minute and say hello to her. She asked about you.” I looked at my watch. It was a quarter past seven. My last hour in the surgical department was already over. “I don’t know.” I hesitated. “I still have to get back to the ward.”

‘The ward?” exclaimed Lazar. “But today is your last day there!”

“You know that too?” I cried in genuine admiration. “And even smaller and less significant details too,” said Lazar with a sigh, and closed his eyes in agreeable weariness. “That’s what I’m here for. I also know, for example, that Professor Levine might employ you as a substitute in his department until June.” “July,” I said, trying weakly to correct him. “No, only until June,” he stated decisively. “The position’s only available until June. But what does it matter—June, July, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime we’ll have to wait until he gets
better
, because he insists on clarifying some little thing with you.” “Clarifying?” I whispered. “It’s no big deal,” said Lazar
dismissively
. “Didn’t Hishin tell you? He’s bothered by the blood
transfusion
you gave Einat.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard, but I don’t understand what bothers him about it.”

“I don’t understand what his problem is either. Hishin didn’t get it either. So you’ll have to talk to him yourself and explain exactly what your intention was. He’s a fair man, but
impatient
.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked. “Something or other,” said Lazar, smiling faintly to himself. “But what exactly?” I
persisted
, consumed with curiosity about my future employer’s
mysterious
disease. Lazar exchanged a glance with his secretary, who apparently knew the secret of Levine’s disease but warned Lazar with a look not to reveal it to me. “Never mind, never mind.” He waved his hand to silence me, and all of a sudden he cocked his head in a gesture of profound attention. “Here comes Dori, I can hear her footsteps.” Neither I nor the secretary, who also
inclined
her head slightly, could hear any footsteps—on the
contrary,
the silence in the wing only seemed to deepen. But Lazar insisted that he could hear his wife’s footsteps in the distance, by
virtue of the strong bond between them, which had upset and excited me during the trip to India. And sure enough, we soon heard the sound of footsteps, soft but self-confident, and joy flooded me as I discovered that I too was able to recognize them. She hesitated slightly outside the door of the next room, but then advanced briskly toward the door of her husband’s office, which she opened quietly but without any hesitation, smiling her warm smile. She entered the room, dragging her left foot slightly and definitely surprised to see me, but greeted the secretary with an affectionate hug and kiss before she turned to me and asked, repeating her husband’s formula, in the same tone of mild
rebuke
, “What have you been up to? Where did you disappear to?”

“Where did
you
disappear to?” Lazar interrupted her angrily. “What took you so long? You said you’d be here by six and it’s already twenty past seven!” “Don’t get excited.” A tender smile spread over her plump face. “You can’t tell me you didn’t have plenty to keep you busy in the meantime.”

“That’s not the point,” he said petulantly. But he was
obviously
pleased by her answer, and he stood up to collect his
belongings
. “Tomorrow I’ve got a crazy day. But look at the nice present we’ve got for you here.” He handed her the photographs, which she snatched from him with a childish cry of delight, and still without meeting my eyes, she slipped her cape off her
shoulders
and said enthusiastically, “And we thought that we must have overexposed the film by mistake.” She immediately opened her umbrella to dry in a corner of the room, sat down calmly in the armchair between the two giant plants, took off her glasses, and began to examine the pictures one by one, at the same time gladly accepting the secretary’s offer of a cup of tea and
overcoming
Lazar’s objections that they were in a hurry to get home with a smiling protest: “Just a minute, let me me relax for a minute, I’m freezing to death.” The secretary, who seemed happy to wait on her, now turned politely to me to ask me if I would join them, and although I was already standing poised on one foot, ready and perhaps also eager to leave, I couldn’t refuse, and suddenly I felt the full power of the hypnotic mystery riveting me to this woman, clumsy in her winter clothes, her freckled face flushed, her bun coming unraveled again, crossing her legs,
which the black boots made even longer, and studying with open enjoyment and occasional soft laughter the pictures of herself and her husband on the trip, which according to him they had already almost forgotten.