Elias Khoury - White Masks

“Those days are over, Dad,” he says.

He’s right, of course. But why doesn’t he marry the way people do now, for love? Go out with a girl and then marry her. He doesn’t have a girlfriend and he’s never brought a girl home with him when he visits. And besides, why won’t he live at home? He says he prefers living alone, but a bachelor’s house is like a devil’s den, Dr. Bitar is sure of that. Not much he can do about it but offer his advice, which the boy disregards in any case.

As for this revolting job of his, dissecting corpses, that is. . well… What to say, but al-hamdulillah that the war broke out as it’s more or less spared him from having to continue with it. Forensic pathologists aren’t needed these days: everything’s fallen apart, people are killed and tossed into their graves just like that, no autopsy, no nothing. No more phone calls in the middle of the night, no more officers requesting his presence. So he sits at home doing nothing.

Once in a while, Dr. Bitar goes over to the American University Hospital to visit his former student, Dr. Saleem Idreess, now head of Surgery. Dr. Bitar trained him personally and he’s become an excellent surgeon. Whenever he goes to see him though, Saleem grumbles about the chronic shortage of doctors.

“They’ve all left! Sometimes a surgeon will perform ten operations in one day! Occasionally more than that; the doctors are exhausted!”

And when he asks Dr. Bitar about his new line of work, the old surgeon tells him there’s not much to do nowadays.

“Forensic pathologists don’t have much of a role to play anymore. The courts are closed and no one needs us.”

Once Dr. Bitar put a proposal to him. He suggested that dissections could be carried out on some of the corpses that are brought into the hospital from the fighting.

“It would certainly be better than working on corpses that have been preserved in formaldehyde, the way we used to when you were still a student. It would allow the medical students to see for themselves spinal cord injuries, cranial traumas, liver ailments, all manner of things.”

But he was stunned by Dr. Saleem’s answer.

“They’re of absolutely no value to us, those corpses. Nowadays, we train our students on the real thing: they participate in real-life surgical operations. You know how it is, we get a lot of hopeless cases, and we let the students practice on them. Some of them even do brain surgery, and you know how difficult that is.”

“What’s that you’re saying?”

“Dear Dr. Marwan, you’re from the old school. We have new training methods nowadays.”

“But that’s criminal,” Dr. Bitar replied. “It’s illegal. I didn’t teach all those years for you to end up doing this sort of thing! It’s a complete violation of our professional ethic. A surgeon’s not a butcher, Saleem. God is my witness, butchers are less barbaric!”

Dr. Bitar left the hospital and never went back. He won’t visit Saleem anymore. . that man’s no student of his, he’s just a common criminal. . how can they let students play around with people’s brains and organs like that, even if they are hopeless cases… and anyhow, there aren’t any hopeless cases. Doctors do everything in their power and the rest is up to the Good Lord. It’s an act of blasphemy against the Creator. What a generation!

And so it was that Dr. Bitar spent all his time at home. The phone no longer rang for him and he no longer went out. Doctors nowadays aren’t what they used to be. . Where are the likes of the famous Prussian doctor who could diagnose a patient’s ailment just by looking at him? This new generation doesn’t know a thing!

The war’s over, that’s what people are saying. But where are the authorities? Every sort of army in the country but the legitimate one. . Still, at least work has picked up again and he is getting paid 500 lira for every report he produces. It’s better than nothing. . How he wishes he were in charge though: he’d have brought out the gallows and hanged all those doctors! But in charge he isn’t, and 500 lira is better than nothing: the building doesn’t bring in a piaster anymore, it’s full of refugees and he won’t take money from Ghassan, he couldn’t, not from his own son.

Ghassan came to him one day saying that if they paid 100,000 lira, the political cadre would get the refugees out. But Dr. Bitar’s not having it, he’s not paying anyone off, and anyway, he doesn’t need money. The refugees will leave eventually, he’ll get the building back, and then Ghassan will inherit it and become the landlord of several properties. But the boy really should marry… if he doesn’t, who is going to come into all this wealth? We have to get him married off, he kept telling his wife. She should be on the lookout for him, but she doesn’t give a damn. . she spends all her time playing poker — and losing! So, here he is, chasing around after corpses while she gambles. He wonders where she finds the money. She must get it out of Ghassan. Still, he wishes she’d take an interest in marrying him off. . she’s his mother after all. But she’s not interested in anyone but herself really: all she cares about is putting on her makeup in the morning and waiting for evening to come. She often invites him to join them but he doesn’t like playing cards, he’d rather go to bed early. Staying up late shortens life expectancy and it’s not good for your nerves.

The telephone started ringing again and there was work to do. .

It is 7:30 one morning when the telephone rings. Lieutenant Yasseen is on the line. Dr. Bitar dresses quickly, runs a comb through his hair, and, without even bothering to wash his face, grabs his doctor’s bag and hurries down the stairs. He turns the ignition, waits a little while for the engine to warm up, and drives off. When he reaches the UNESCO roundabout, he parks the car a little way from the statue of Habib Abi Shahla, and walks over to shake the officer’s hand. He briefly bends to peer over the mound of garbage, straightens up and goes back to the car, puts on his white doctor’s coat and a mask over his nose and mouth, and returns to the corpse. He once again bends over the corpse, then, squatting down, pulls back the white sheet covering it, lifts one of the hands, and lets it drop. He rolls the corpse over slightly, notices the red ants crawling on the back of the neck, and tries to brush them aside, but they stick to his hands. He straightens up, rubs his hands together and blows on them, then blows on his white coat, and gets back to the job. He turns the corpse over onto its stomach and inspects the back. He stands up again, steps back, squats down once more, turns the corpse over one more time, and finally covers it with the white sheet.

He walks away, reaches his car, opens one of the back passenger doors, takes off his coat and mask and tosses them onto the seat. Lieutenant Yasseen comes up to him. The doctor tells him the murder must have occurred at least four days earlier, as the corpse has begun to putrefy and decompose, and there are clear traces of beating and torture. Lieutenant Yasseen nods.

“When was the corpse found?” the doctor asks.

“Just now — about half an hour ago.”

“That’s impossible. . unless, the corpse was dumped elsewhere initially and then was moved here.”

“What should we do?”

The doctor says the corpse must be removed to the hospital morgue.

“The autopsy should be conducted immediately, before the body decomposes any further and it becomes impossible to determine the circumstances of the crime.” The doctor gets into his car, the officer leans against his rolled-down window, and they finish the conversation. “You should advise the hospital administration that I’m on my way so that they get everything ready.”