Norman Manea - The Lair

Sleep, Professor Gora, the end will find you the green waters of dreams, an old child, blessed with numbness. For the time being, pain is merely the prologue to numbness.

“Taxus,” said the voice of the Australian. “Express Two.”

A final, hostile claw. The patient clenches his teeth. The experiment of the previous month seemed a gentle trap, to cheat his vigilance, this was now truly the end of him.

“Taxus. Express Two.”

The nurse leaned down to the open drawer, pulled another package out, opened it, extended the tube.

Time slowed, long seconds, stretched out. The tenacious pain was cutting the captive’s respiration. Terminal torture.

“Taxus. Express Two.”

He gnashed his teeth, his eyes closed. He was no Buddhist, the tortured body could not separate itself from the tortured mind. He was counting the slowly solidifying seconds in his stabbed chest.

“How is it going?”

Whom was the doctor addressing, God, Death? The magic of computerized rejuvenation had its own rules and lexicon. “How is it going, Professor? How is it going?”

“Ah, so. So, so.”

“There isn’t much more to go. Ten minutes, maybe twenty.”

So, then, an hour, two hours. The stabbing sensation advanced, long razors, his chest weighted down by a granite tombstone. His leather-cuffed hands and legs. The ceiling was sliding down, a giant granite press on top of his chest. An air vacuum, suffocation.

“Express Two.”

Maybe he ought to yell, though! Americans respect the ability to grin and bear one’s suffering, but also to express it. A jungle yell: please, stop! S top! This is the patient’s entitlement to stop his own torture! Death, that old whore, is enjoying herself, she knows that the rebellion of the dying is pure futility.

“Express Two. There’s only a little farther to go, Professor Gora. I know it’s hard … just a little further.”

An hour, two hours, nine, it no longer mattered, the sacred ten minutes are still an eternity. He could no longer yell, he was exhausted, he’d missed his chance to cancel the deal with Meph-istopheles, he’d lost his final strength, he couldn’t stand another moment, not another moment here.

“All right, we’re finished.”

Ten minutes, that was all, ten minutes. No, not quite, another second, two, five, eight seconds, done.

“I know it was hard. Five stents! Difficult positions. It was no fun for me, either.”

The doctor took off his sweaty scrubs and threw them in the corner of the room. Naked and solid from the waist up, he left the room just like that, naked and shameless.

The scrawny little mustached man wheeled the bed toward the elevator, then toward door 568. A bright room, separated into two by a curtain. In each half, an empty bed. The metal nightstand, the television, the screen that registers his blood pressure, the window toward the courtyard.

“I heard it took a long time. Two and a half hours. A long time! Five stents. You first had two, now there are seven. A major overhaul.”

He recognized the voice. The deep, Polish timbre. Just back from the other world, he had too low a tolerance for the dish of the day.

The major overhaul doesn’t remove the body from the head. He’s connected to the sphygmomanometer and the pulse monitor, the bedpan, the needle in his vein.

“Try to sleep. The bandaged spot will be painful. It’s called an Angio-Seal Vascular Closure Device. The wound will gradually heal, the plug will be absorbed by the body in ninety days. If you end up needing another procedure … but that won’t happen. Anyway, the puncture would be made at least a centimeter from where it is now. Take the pills, sleep. The bell is by the nightstand, call if you need anything.”

Eyes closed. He couldn’t move, he didn’t even want to move. All he wanted was to sleep. The flushing of energy, dizziness, dozing off, intangible sleep. Anesthetized, delirious. Eternity.

The noise from the neighboring bed sounded like a crisis. The patient, the wife, the daughter, the son-in-law. They interfered one at a time, or together.

“I’m Bill McKelly. Kelly & Kelly Corporation, New Jersey. Well known, I realize. A month ago we had proceedings in New Jersey. We need to redo it. That’s why I came here. I’m friends with Dr. Chase. John Chase, the dermatologist. The head medic of dermatology. Everyone knows him, I’m sure. As I’ve said, I want my wife to remain here tonight, with me. I know, I know the rules, there are also exceptions. The armchair, yes, she’ll sleep in the armchair. Okay, I’ll call Chase.”

Irritated, Bill explains to his wife that John had promised to arrange everything, he just needs to keep his word. A heated discussion with Johnny followed, two brave lads appeared, carrying a cot. The commotion continued. There was talk of a wedding in Minnesota in two weeks. Plane tickets, gifts, clothing.

The Polish woman brought new pills, the antacid tea. And a large, thick book.

“You forgot your picture album. In the morning. In the preopera-tive room. Maybe you can use it, if you can’t sleep. Along with the sedatives, it should do the trick.”

Halina smiled, revealing teeth as white as Polish snow.

“Would you like me to turn on the TV? Would that entertain you?”

No, it wouldn’t. Mr. McKelly’s daughter and the son-in-law had left. The wife was quiet, the husband was snoring. Gora groped for the sedatives.

He awoke in the middle of the night. He ought to have opened his eyes, but he couldn’t. He could sense a streak of light coming from the street, through the window, he would have liked to open his eyes, but his lids were too heavy.

On the screen, a chessboard, a glass half-full. A black liquor with big bubbles. Nearby, a metal can. A Coca-Cola. The game of the century! Peter had become a celebrity, the New World loves celebrities. The patient doesn’t open his eyes, his lids are as heavy as a tombstone. Noise, agitation, someone had overturned the chessboard. The king, the queen, the bishops tumbling mercilessly on the floor, toward the phosphorescent corner of the room.

“A little bit more, a little bit more, to the left. Just a little more. You must wake up.”

He awoke groggily, recognizing Halina’s cooing voice.

“A little bit, just a little bit, and you should wake up.”

She’d fluffed his pillow higher, was raising him up slowly from the waist. He saw her, he was finally opening his old lids.

“Your blood pressure is high. Your pressure went up.”

“How do you know?”

“We’re watching the monitor. The general monitor connected to the monitor in the room.”

On the screen, Peter is no longer playing chess with Mephistoph-eles. Green diagrams and digits appeared instead. The whirlpools of panic, difficult breathing. In the left part of his chest, a hostile armor. His pressure had risen: two hundred over ninety-nine. The doctor on call, a Chinese resident, and a tall, red-haired assistant had arrived. “Yes, we’ll try an injection.” The syringe, another two syringes, for the blood test.

“What medication do you take for your high blood pressure?”

Someone murmured, “Fifty milligrams of Cozar. The blue pill, one hundred milligrams of Cozar.”

“Rest now, we’ll return in an hour.”

Halina gestured toward the bell by the bedside.

The diagrams varied. He closed his eyes, he opened his eyes. One hundred ninety-one over 92, 194 over 93.

Halina leaned down attentively to give him the glass of water.

“The control enzyme is too high. You’re going to stay another day.”

Was that how tests were done, instantly? Who had made the decision to keep the patient an extra day in the hospital against the rules of economy? The situation must be serious, otherwise they wouldn’t be spending more money. “We are just numbers, accounts, nothing more,” the Soviet man had warned.