Open Heart (19 page)

Although the train trip lasted nine hours, I couldn’t sleep a wink. The sights of Calcutta mingled with the gnawing anxiety about Einat had turned into a single entity weighing on my heart. In the end, when sleepiness almost overcame me, I went and stood in the corridor, afraid that Gaya might slip past in the night. After midnight I was ejected onto the platform, which looked like the last station at the end of the world, and picked my way carefully through the rickshaws standing outside in the hope of finding the rickshaw driver with the white turban, but he wasn’t there. Another, younger driver took me to Bodhgaya on a country road winding through pleasant hills outlined by a
slender
crescent moon. The hotel by the river was closed and dark, and for a moment I forgot where the entrance to our little
bungalow
was. On my last legs, I walked around the building, and for the first time on this trip I felt my composure collapse, and a painful, unfamiliar sob escaped my lips. Would I really have to stay outside all night in the chill rising from the river, just
because
I wanted to be ideal not only in the eyes of the Lazars but in my own eyes too? I sat down under one of the large trees to recover, and remembered I still had one sandwich left, which I ate in order to ward off sleep. Then I stood up, heartened as if by a glass of good wine, and walked around the grounds again until I recognized the bungalow. I knocked lightly and the door opened at once. It was Dori, without her glasses, her hair loose, in a thin nightgown that outlined her full body and her big, firm breasts. I saw that her slippers had high heels. At first she seemed about to bestow only one of her automatic eye-smiles on me, but her emotions got the better of her and she spread out her arms and embraced me with forbidden warmth. For a moment we lingered in the gloomy kitchen, where dirty pots stood on the stove, but Lazar immediately appeared and gripped my head in a powerful embrace of both anger and deep affection. “What’s the matter with you? Where did you disappear to? In a little while we would have left without you! Just don’t tell me that you took those tests all the way to Calcutta!”

“Didn’t you get my note?” I questioned him with a strange pride. “Was it really necessary to go all the way there?” said Lazar as if he hadn’t heard me. “Yes, it was necessary,” I replied
with a new firmness. “I got all the results possible in a reliable form, and now I know where we stand.”

“Where?” asked Lazar, who seemed offended by the way I had spoken. “In a minute,” I said. “I’ll tell you in a minute. Just let me check on Einat first.” And just as I was, without washing my hands, I went into the room where a yellow light illuminated the sick girl, who was still scratching herself in her restless sleep and who had no idea of the dangerous time bomb ticking inside her. I crouched down by her bed and laid my hand on her forehead. The fever was the same as before. Lazar and his wife looked at me impatiently. Her condition in the past twenty-four hours had not been encouraging, and now I had come back with the results of the tests and I was bending over her in such concern. I have to worry them, I said to myself, otherwise they won’t cooperate with me; otherwise the authority I’m going to need here will be compromised. I held her limp wrist to take her pulse. Her green eyes opened wide in her thin, beautiful face, but she didn’t smile like her mother. “Well?” said Lazar, irritated by my
performance
. “In a minute. Just let me wash my hands,” I said, and went into the kitchen. Lazar’s wife handed me a towel and soap, and I smiled at them, turned to Lazar, and said, “As far as
Calcutta’s
concerned, you were right. But there are good people there, and you won’t believe it, I actually saw a movie.”

But even supposing that he has really fallen in love, what can he do about it? he says to himself with a gloomy smile, his eyes caressing the supple back of the little girl bending over the atlas and gnawing her pencil She has to belong to somebody, he
reassures
himself, somebody who will come to fetch her. But the thought that the little girl has been abandoned in his kitchen goes on percolating in him, and with a new and pleasant lust, which can still, he believes, be controlled, he lays his hand lightly on her slender shoulder, in order to encourage her. He leans over the tablecloth spread out in front of him in its blue, green, and
yellow
, sweetly reading the names of towns and countries, and says to her in a tone of mild rebuke, “But what else is there to look for here, if this is the place?” And he lays his finger on a greenish stain crossed by the blue lines of rivers and announces firmly, “There, that’s the right answer. That’s enough studying now—it’s late.” And while a sharp little knife twists in his heart, he closes the atlas and the workbook, opens the safety pin, and removes the school badge from the pocket of her blouse, feeling at the tips of his fingers the outlines of the childish breast, and now he has to ask himself what she’s feeling, and what she’s capable of understanding, and if he can kiss her without
endangering
himself.

He plucks up the courage to lay still lips on her forehead, listening to the lonely noise of the refrigerator in the silence of the night, and he goes on, kissing her eyes, licking the tip of her earlobe, and says to himself, So far and no further, otherwise you’re doomed. But the little girl doesn’t sense his desperation; she closes her eyes wearily and opens her mouth wide in a little yawn, until he can’t stop himself and pokes his burning tongue into the pink mouth, to lick the residue of candies sucked during 
the day. But this can’t possibly be love, he explains to himself, only a momentary, passing infatuation. Will she understand? His hand clutches her between her legs, and suddenly he swings her up to the ceiling, feeling the lightness of her childish body, so that she can enjoy gliding through the air after such a long day of study. And he believes that this strenuous effort to amuse her will prove the purity of his intentions.

But to his annoyance he feels the lust rising in her light little body as it swings through the air, for otherwise why, instead of bursting into uninhibited childish laughter, is she closing her eyes, and parting her lips in a soft spasm of pleasure, and
growing
heavy in his hands, and dropping down and wrapping her slender arms around his neck, and kissing him warmly, blinding him with her curls? Can it be possible, he asks himself in
surprise
, for such a little girl to possess lust? And very gently he lays her on the big kitchen table, and in his mind a new thought flashes. Perhaps she is sick, perhaps she is dying, and this will be the last happiness he can give her. How can he withhold it from her? And he steps back, takes off her sneakers and her white socks, which in the depths of this marvelous night, after the long day of study, have inexplicably preserved their freshness.
Breathlessly
, he bends down and cups two plump feet in his hands to warm them with light kisses, even though they need no warming, for they are blazing with lust. And even if she isn’t dying yet, he goes on reflecting painfully, perhaps she is an orphan who is about to be sent away into some distant exile, and it is the place of her exile that she is seeking in the ink-stained atlas. And so he carefully removes the pale blue blouse, noticing the little moles sweetly spotting her shoulder next to the straps of the childish white undershirt, which is all that is covering her now, and he says to himself, who could blame me now if I just washed her with soap and water before she goes to sleep? But the delicate navel, opening in front of him like a third eye, casts him into confusion, and he turns around in despair to look for help.

But is there really any help to be had from the lean and serious mystery, which finally emerges from his hiding place behind the old refrigerator humming in its loneliness, and puts on his cheap metal glasses, one of whose lenses is cracked from top to bottom, the better to see with his somber, humorless gaze the disheveled little girl sprawled out on the table, who—the would-be lover 
now realizes in his despair—is apparently his delinquent little daughter, who waits at the end of the school day next to the gate of the mental institution, in case he is released, and then she can trail behind and accompany him on his sudden visits, which are all subject to the same obsession: that the earth stands still, and every hour is eternal and sufficient unto itself, and nothing is ever lost

After washing my hands well, I injected my sleepy patient with 100 cc’s of glucose, because if there was real liver damage, even normal functioning of the alpha cells in the pancreas would fail to produce enough glucose to overcome the deficiency. The change was rapid, almost dramatic, and before long there was a marked improvement in Einat’s mood. She got out of bed and, yellow and emaciated, joined us at the kitchen table, where Lazar and his wife had already prepared a surprisingly lavish midnight feast. At first I wanted to tell them frankly about my concern over the findings I had brought back from Calcutta, centering above all on the coagulopathy, which might cause sudden
internal
hemorrhage. But a soft and wondering look from Einat, as if she had only just been struck by the actuality of my presence next to her parents, held me back. In any case, I assumed that in spite of his rich hospital experience, Lazar would not be able to understand the subtleties of organic processes, especially those associated with the coagulation system, which are somewhat
obscure
even to us doctors. I therefore buried my concern for the time being, and in spite of my exhaustion I tried to sample the food on the heaped plate set before me by Lazar. His wife’s eyes kept beaming at me, as if to let me know that not only was she happy at my safe return, but she also understood and perhaps even approved of my trip to Calcutta. Lazar hastened to
announce
that he too had not been idle in the meantime, and he already had an almost complete outline for our return journey: the day after tomorrow a flight from Gaya to Varanasi, and from there, after a wait at the airport, on to New Delhi, in the hope of getting onto the direct flight to Rome on Thursday, and from Rome the Friday afternoon El Al flight to Israel. He and his wife had managed to get all this worked out at the travel agency they
had found in Gaya, which luckily possessed a fax. “You went to Gaya with him?” I asked, turning to Dori, unable to believe that her inability to be alone had led her once again to desert her sick daughter. “Only for two or three hours,” she answered quickly, blushing slightly in embarrassment, as if she had heard the
underlying
rebuke in my words, “and we left a nice Indian maid we found in the hotel with Einat.”

“I’m exhausted,” I announced, narrowing my burning eyes, and I began getting out of my chair and propelling myself toward my bed before I collapsed on the big table itself. The two of them jumped up, alarmed by the intensity of the fatigue that had
suddenly
overtaken me, and rushed to support me, and they must have helped me to undress and take off my shoes as well, because when I woke up twelve hours later—buttoned up in my pajamas, wrapped in a white blanket, with reddish light strewn around me like pomegranate pips, signaling with its pleasantness the last hour of the afternoon—I didn’t remember having done these things myself.

But I did remember Lazar’s wife laughing long and loud, either because of my sudden collapse into their arms or because of my objections to their undressing me. Now it was quiet in the dark little bungalow. The two Lazars were absent, and their sick daughter, and also perhaps her doctor, had been left in the care of a gentle Indian girl in a blue sari, who when she saw me getting out of bed stood up straight in my honor and put her hands together in the traditional greeting. In reasonable English she told me that Lazar and his wife had gone to Gaya to arrange for our flights. I felt strangely insulted: it hadn’t occurred to them to consult the doctor they had brought all this way, as if one shot of glucose were enough to solve the whole problem. I dressed and shaved quickly before going in to examine my patient, whose limpness told me that her condition had deteriorated again even before I reached her bedside. I was accompanied by the Indian girl, who did not realize that I was a doctor and apparently took me for a family relation. The effect of the glucose shot had been short-lived. Einat’s temperature had risen, and her skin was even yellower than before. But even more worrying was the possibility that she had not passed a good amount of urine for several days. I began questioning her as I changed the dressing on her leg, and she answered rather vaguely: the hepatitis had already lasted a
month, and the borders between health and sickness had grown hazy. I helped her to take off her shift and asked her to lie on her back, so that I could feel not only her shrunken liver but also her kidneys, which were a little enlarged. The Indian girl watched me curiously as I avoided touching her exposed breasts, which in comparison to her skinny body were actually rather full. I had already heard young doctors complaining about the harmful
effects
on their sexuality of intimate contact with sick women, and although I myself had nothing to complain of in this regard, I did not take their complaints lightly; and here in Bodhgaya, in this cool, bare room, the strong presence of the attractive Indian girl standing behind me merged with the enjoyable sensation passing through my hands kneading Einat’s bare stomach, and I felt a faint flare-up of lust. I reminded myself to masturbate tonight when I went to bed, before we began the long trip home the next day—a trip I still considered rash, and perhaps even dangerous. Given with the blood profile I had brought back from Calcutta, the correct procedure would have been to keep my patient in bed for a few days, until I was sure that there was no chance of relapse and that she was on the road to recovery.

“Your parents are in a hurry to get home,” I said to her while I gave her another shot of glucose, but I refrained from saying anything about my opinion of this haste. “Yes,” replied Einat weakly, as if she too were afraid of starting off. “Daddy has to be back at work on Sunday.”

“But why?” I inquired. She didn’t know, or else she didn’t want to give me a clear answer, as if she had no desire to be her parents’ interpreter. I therefore decided to forget about satisfying my curiosity, and suggested a short walk outside. “I know you feel weak,” I said to her, “but if your parents insist on leaving tomorrow, you might as well take your first step home this
evening
, in the open air and without any pressure.” A timid smile crossed her face, hesitant, a little agonized, quick to efface itself under the pressure of some inner anxiety. At first she wasn’t interested, but then she agreed and got up, swaying on her feet. She didn’t know whether to change the long white Indian shift she wore as a kind of robe. In the end she decided to keep it on, adding a faded jean jacket, which emphasized the yellowish tinge of the whites of her eyes. I slung my camera over my shoulder and asked the Indian girl to accompany us so we could get back
safely if we got lost, although there was actually no danger in this calm, tranquil place, which in spite of its simplicity I still insisted on thinking of as a kind of little paradise, perhaps
because
of the eternal sun, immense but soft and ripe, poised
motionless
on the flat horizon.

And in its yellow light I first posed the two young women next to the little golden gate in the stone wall surrounding the
Buddha’s
sacred bo tree, which was festooned with strips of colored cloth. Then I asked the Indian girl to photograph Einat and me in the same place. But when I asked Einat to take a photo of the Indian girl and me next to the nearby lotus pond, I noticed the camera trembling in her hands, and I immediately took it away from her and asked a passing Oriental pilgrim to photograph the three of us. This is what paradise must look like, I kept thinking as I lightly supported my patient, giddy from the walk I had imposed on her after she had spent so many days in bed. “Look how steeped in spirituality everything is here,” I said
encouragingly
, and pointed to the flourishing gardens surrounding the big Tibetan monastery farther down the road. “This is what paradise must be like, full of spirituality. It’s intended for the soul, not the body, after all.” And again I took my camera out of its case and asked passersby to photograph us at various points along the road that wound among the different Buddhist monasteries, each of them belonging to a different nation. “After I die, perhaps my soul will peep into the photograph album and remember where to fly to,” I said in English to the Indian girl, but my joke did not raise the ghost of a smile. On the contrary—she bowed her head and confirmed that it was right and proper for a young man like me to start thinking seriously about his death. “It’s really a shame that your parents insist on leaving tomorrow,” I repeated to Einat, who said nothing. “If your father’s in such a hurry,” I added gently, “let him go alone, and we’ll stay for a few days, until you feel better.” But she maintained her strange silence. Was the idea of her parents’ separating for even a few days
impossible
for her to contemplate, I wondered, or was her
debilitation
making her apathetic? But precisely because I wanted to go on interrogating her about her parents, I refrained from pressing her for an immediate answer, especially since in the distance, at the end of the broad road, it was already possible to see the dumpy figures of Lazar and his wife, trailing a pinkish light from
the river behind them and picking their way gingerly through a big crowd of young backpackers who had just arrived from Gaya. Presumably they had been told at the hotel that we had gone out for a walk, and they had come hurrying to find us. “I’m suddenly beginning to like India,” I announced to the Indian girl, feeling that “like” was a temporary word, until I found a better one, to describe the strange sensation of freedom that was
welling
up in me. Then I noticed the blood beginning to flow from Einat’s nostrils, without her being aware of it at first. I not only put my arm around her, I even swung her up in the air to seat her on a stone wall, with her head thrown back and resting carefully on my knee as I sat beside her, using my handkerchief to soak up the stream of blood, which was a small but clear sign of the correctness of my medical intuition. So, I said to myself, it
is
too early to start the trip home.