A. Yehoshua - Open Heart

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!”