Yasmina Khadra: The African Equation

At about five, I had a visit from one of my oldest patients, Frau Biribauer, who always deliberately chose to come towards the end of surgery so that she could tell me her troubles. She was a woman in her eighties, unfailingly polite and well dressed. But today, she hadn’t put on any make-up and her dress hadn’t been ironed. She looked downcast, and her withered hands were streaked with bruises. She began by making it clear that she hadn’t come for any medical reason, apologised for constantly ‘boring’ me with her stories, then, after a pause for thought, asked, ‘What’s death like, doctor?’

‘Come now, Frau Biribauer—’

She raised her hand to cut me short. ‘What’s it like?’

‘Nobody has ever come back from the dead to tell us what it’s like,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, we aren’t there yet. All you have is a small benign tumour that’ll disappear with the right treatment.’

I tried to put my hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. ‘The reason I came to see you, doctor,’ she went on, ‘isn’t that monstrous thing that’s growing under my armpit. I really do ask myself the question. It’s the only thing I can think of lately. I try to imagine what it’s like, that big leap in the dark, but I can’t.’

‘You should think of something else. You have an iron constitution, and lots of good years ahead of you.’

‘The good years are those you share with the people you love, doctor. And what am I supposed to think about? What else is there?’

‘Your garden.’

‘I don’t have a garden.’

‘Your cat, your flowers, your grandchildren …’

‘I don’t have anybody left, doctor, and I don’t get any joy from the flowers on my balcony any more. My son only lives twenty kilometres away, but never comes to see me. Whenever I phone him, he says he’s working every hour God sends and he doesn’t have a minute to himself … Whereas I have plenty of time to wonder what death is like …’ She wrung her hands. ‘Loneliness is a slow death, doctor. Sometimes I’m not sure I’m still alive.’

She held my gaze for a moment or two, then turned away.

I reached out to take her hands, and this time she let me as if she no longer had the strength to resist.

‘Try to forget your dark thoughts, Frau Biribauer,’ I said. ‘You’re worrying unnecessarily. It’s all in your mind. Keep your spirits up. You’ve shown great courage and a clear head. You have no reason to give in now. With its joys and pains, life deserves to be lived to the end.’

‘But that’s just it, doctor, what’s the end like?’

‘What does it matter? What matters is that you take more care of your flowers. Your balcony will look a lot more cheerful. Now, show me how our little tumour has reacted to the medication.’

She took her hands away and confessed with a sigh, ‘I haven’t taken the medication.’

‘What do you mean?’

She shrugged like a sulking child. ‘I burnt the prescription as soon as I got home.’

‘You surely don’t mean that.’

‘Of course I do. Nothing matters when you have nobody left.’

‘There are places that can help you, Frau Biribauer. Why not try them if you feel alone? You’ll have company, you’ll be well taken care of, and—’

‘You mean an old people’s home? Those are just places to die in! They’re not for me. I can’t imagine ending my days somewhere as grim as that. No, I couldn’t stand people putting me to bed at a fixed time, taking me out into the fresh air like a vegetable, pinching my nose to make sure I swallow my soup. I have too much pride for that. And besides, I don’t like relying on other people. I’ll go with my head held high, standing on my own two feet, without needles in my veins or an oxygen mask attached to my face. I’ll choose the moment and the manner for myself.’

She pushed my arm away and stood up, angry with herself. I tried to hold her back, but she asked me to let her go and left the surgery without saying anything else and without looking at anybody. I heard her open the front door of the building and slam it behind her. I waited to hear her walking down the street, but as she didn’t pass my windows, as she usually did, I assumed she had gone in the opposite direction. A deep sadness took hold of me, and I quickly had the next patient shown in.

Night had fallen when Emma came and asked me if she could go.

‘See you tomorrow,’ I said.

After Emma had gone, I stayed in my consulting room for another half an hour or so, doing nothing in particular. As Jessica wasn’t due home until late, I wasn’t sure what to do with the time I had on my hands. I switched off the lights, leaving only my desk lamp on. That relaxed me a little. I loved listening to the silence of the building, a silence filled with shadow and absence that seemed to steady the things around me. People lived on five floors, along hushed corridors, and I never heard any noise from them. They shut themselves up in their homes as if in tombs. They were people of a certain age, well-to-do, of some social standing, and incredibly discreet. I’d sometimes pass one or two of them on the stairs, stooped, barely visible beneath their hats, in a hurry to disappear from my sight, almost apologising for being in my way.

It was eight o’clock by my watch. I didn’t feel like going home to a darkened living room and sitting watching TV shows I wasn’t interested in, checking the clock on the wall every five minutes and thinking Jessica was back whenever a car pulled up in the street. I glanced at my wife’s portrait in its frame. It was a photograph taken on an Italian beach two years into our marriage: Jessica sunbathing on a rock surrounded by foaming waves, blonde hair flowing over shoulders so translucent they never tanned. She looked like a mermaid sitting on a cloud, laughing, her face radiant, her eyes bigger than the horizon … What had happened? Since she had been promoted to the post of deputy head of external relations at the multinational company she worked for, Jessica had changed. She travelled a lot, from Hong Kong to New York, from Scandinavia to Latin America, and worked flat out, sacrificing her holidays, bringing bundles of files home with her to go through in fine detail; sometimes she would shut herself up for hours in her tiny office, the door double-locked, as if she were dealing with top-secret material.

I grabbed my coat, wrapped my scarf around my neck, switched off the desk lamp and went out. In the foyer of the building, the lift was waiting patiently for someone to use it. It was a beautiful old-fashioned lift, encased in wrought iron, painted black and sparkling clean.

Outside, an icy wind was raking the walls. I put my coat on and walked up the street as far as the snack bar in the square. Toni the barman gave me a broad smile when he saw me come in. He poured me a tankard of beer and placed it, frothing over, on the counter. I was a regular customer for his seafood platter whenever Jessica was late home. Toni was a lively, humorous southerner, with fiery red hair. He loved playing to the gallery with his jokes that verged on rudeness. In the neighbourhood, he was known as the Sicilian because of his spontaneity and good humour. His excessive familiarity disconcerted some customers who weren’t used to impromptu friendships, but they eventually got used to it. I liked Toni a lot, even though I was a little too reserved for his taste. He had a knack for making me loosen up, and enough tact to let it go when I didn’t react to his slaps on the back.

‘You’re not looking too good, Kurt.’

‘I’ve had a busy day.’

‘Lucky you! You should be pleased.’

‘I am.’

‘You don’t look it. I hope you didn’t leave your smile on your stethoscope.’