The Birth of Love (24 page)

Throughout the night, Prisoner 730004 cannot sleep. She paces the floor of her solitary cell and she thinks of how it was on the island, when every night she was lulled to sleep by the waves and every morning she woke to the sound of birds. Simple sounds, which she thrilled to; something within her was stirred by these sounds. And Prisoner 730004 remembers the glowering mutable sky, and the salt sea, and the beautiful wreckage of nature.

Now, she is in a city; perhaps she is back in Darwin C, or somewhere else she has never been before. She can hear the whirrs and grinding of the transport system, and the air-processing units throbbing, expending precious energy in their mission to keep the city habitable, and she thinks she hears landing craft whining above. Beyond, the inhabitants are sleeping and at the allotted hour they will rise and begin the day. Through the covered tunnels they will move, from one sun-protection zone to another, and all the time their lungs will be filled with generated air. And their bodies will cry out at the madness of it all, but the cries will be lost, in the pulsing hum of the city.

Surely their bodies must cry out, thinks Prisoner 730004. And she is drugged, she knows, and her mind will not work properly, so although she cannot sleep she drifts in and out
of lucidity, and sometimes she thinks she is on the island, listening to the sound of waves, the wind gusting through the grasses. Then the coldness of the cell recalls her again.

Michael Stone finds he cannot sleep, because his mouth is dry from all the wine he drank, and his head aches. So he rises from his bed, walks into the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water. And he thinks that it does not matter, the dawn will come, he only has to wait. He draws the blinds and sees the city beneath him, the lights shining from successive cars, and the street lights with their sallow glow, and all the diminished motion of the pre-dawn hours.

Michael sips the water and thinks of his heart beating. Below he traces ribbons of light and motion spanning from one stone building to the next. He hears the sirens and the hum of the night. He breathes deeply and thinks of the planet turning in space and time creeping onwards.

Time will creep, and then it will spring the dawn upon him.

Robert von Lucius wakes with a start, and finds he is thinking, ‘But what if it is really true?' This theory of Semmelweis, he realises he means. He has considered it until now only as an element in the case of Semmelweis's so-called madness, not as significant in itself. But now he is bolt upright in his bed, thinking, ‘What if he is right, and no one believes him?' This thought grips him by the throat, so he feels he cannot breathe, and he rises from his bed and walks through the corridors of his house, his footsteps echoing around the panelled walls. To one side
his grandfather gazes down at him, a bastion of propriety, a man who attracted neither censure nor praise. Further along, in another portrait, the judgemental stare of his father, a man with a straight back and a chest full of medals. A fine man, a military man, who once saved the life of a fellow officer. Admired by his troops; by thirty-five he had been decked in glory at the battle of – but Robert von Lucius stops himself from considering the battle honours of his father. His thoughts slide once again towards the asylum and the hunched figure of the doctor. The candle flickers as he hurries along. The corridor is draughty, and he draws his collar up. He does not know where to walk, and for a while he meanders, thinking of what he should do. What can he do for this man, he thinks? Then some time has passed; he finds he is in his study, and he takes a sheet of paper and begins to write …

Brigid is awake, though she was promised sleep; after the epidural she would be able to sleep, they told her. They took her in a lift to the sixteenth floor, and she lay on the stretcher, merely relieved that she was here. She was rattled on a trolley, along corridors, and she kept her eyes on the ceiling and breathed. The soft tones of the doctors were reassuring to her. She longed so much for release that she didn't mind the needle at all; she turned her back to the anaesthetist and waited for him to save her. He told her she must be very still when he injected her, and he was about to insert the needle when she felt a contraction beginning. ‘Stop stop,' she said, quickly, and he said, ‘Just in time, well done.' They waited – the midwife and the anaesthetist, and Patrick with his hand on hers – while Brigid lay on the bed and groaned – a weary, horrible
groan which perplexed her though she couldn't stop it – and when the surge diminished she made herself very taut and still, and the needle went in. She remembered the sensation from last time – ice-cold liquid coursing down her spine; like last time it was as if she could feel it trickling along, and then she willed the minutes down – ten to fifteen minutes said the anaesthetist and, though that seemed limitless at first, she willed them down. The contractions faded furiously, she didn't think they would ever submit to the epidural, until finally there was a contraction she only partly felt, and then she found she could breathe normally again. She emerged into an exquisite numbness, her body dulled. The midwife – a new midwife, not Gina, this one in hospital scrubs and with a short bob, less intimate than the other, but kindly all the same – said to her, ‘Now you can get some sleep. If you sleep, you'll find you get through transition unconscious, which is a very nice way to do it, and then we'll wake you when we think it might be time for an examination.' She was eager; she lay on her back and waited, but the epidural sent her into spasms; she began trembling uncontrollably, and every time she thought she might sleep she was awoken again by the shuddering of her body. ‘Nothing we can do, just a side-effect,' said the midwife, so Brigid stayed on her back, shuddering but not minding it so much. She was simply grateful they had taken away the pain.

For hours she has been lying there, still relishing this absence of pain, despite the violence of her trembling. The night has moved slowly along. Every couple of minutes she feels the distant rumbling of contractions through her body, palpable but not agonising and that is all she cares
about. Patrick is asleep in the corner, on a mattress. Brigid can see his arm slung out to one side, and the rise and fall of his body. ‘Let him get his rest,' said the midwife, as she covered him with a blanket, patted it down. ‘He'll need his strength tomorrow.'

After watching her husband for a while, Brigid closes her eyes. Her body reaches urgently towards sleep but then the shivering begins again. She is shuddered awake by one more spasm, then another, to confirm her body's self-thwarting, its confusion. The clock has moved, but only slightly. Brigid hears the sound of cars, tyres drumming across the bridge, and over the river she can see – if she turns her head she can just see the Houses of Parliament on the opposite bank, and boats moored for the night. Lights twinkling on the water. The city looks soft and tranquil; she has never seen the river before at this empty time of night.

She closes her eyes again, trying to sink into the stillness. The suspense is the worst part, being in the middle of something and knowing that it will end, somehow, but not knowing what the ending will be. The hours will flow along, but Brigid longs to escape them, to accelerate to the conclusion.

She only has to endure.

I must only endure, thinks Prisoner 730004, sitting on her thin bed, and rubbing her eyes. They have drugged her again, and everything is hazy and disturbing; her thoughts have been chemically addled, impaired by their drugs. She despises them, for invading her brain in this way, for pretending this is a cure. And she sits on her thin bed, not
really caring to consider the time, because she has so little to gain from the dawn.

Not many more hours, thinks Michael, sitting on his sofa, having glanced too recently at the clock to permit himself to glance again. Today I will see her, after many years, and she will be much changed. She will be lying in her bed. The bed she lay in with my father, who is now dead. And when I have crouched beside her, I will be free to return to this solitary life, to do anything, to live or die, however I please. Only – and now he cannot stop himself, he looks at the clock – a few more hours, and it will be over.

Only a few more hours, says the midwife quietly, to Brigid – seeing that she is still awake – and I will examine you again.

In his study, Robert von Lucius is finishing a letter.

Dear Professor Wilson, it is early in the morning, and I find I cannot sleep. I have been so concerned about the case of Professor Semmelweis. You are a sage and certain man, and I hope you can tell me the answer to this question: what does it mean if Professor Semmelweis is right? I perceive that even if this question is answered it will not necessarily save him from his rages or determine how he should be treated – though that asylum is no place for him, of that I am sure. But what does it mean for the medical profession, for mothers who give birth in our modern hospitals, if Professor Semmelweis is correct, and if he is generally ignored? And what does it mean for our notion of sagacity, of the temperance and fairness of our sciences, if he is dismissed so roundly, and it transpires he was correct all
along? Surely the case must be reopened? Surely someone must conduct a study?

For myself, I find that I must act. As soon as morning comes I will go to the asylum, and talk more to Professor Semmelweis. I feel I must champion this theory because if there is the slightest vestige of truth in it, if adhering to its precepts might save the life of a single woman, then we must – someone must – bring it to general notice again. I will go to the asylum and make sure I understand very precisely what Professor Semmelweis has proposed. If only my library were a little more extensive, it would house a copy of his book. But I will procure one as soon as I can. However, it is more important to talk to the originator himself, as I am fortunate enough to have personal access to him.

Professor Wilson, I will write to you again very soon but in the interim I beg you – so far as your studies and work allow you – to make enquiries about the reputation of this theory in your own country, and to advise me of your opinion on the matter.

Yours ever,

Robert von Lucius.

Now Brigid notices that through the window dawn has broken, and the sky has turned pale blue. Robert von Lucius thinks, at last the morning, and now he can act. Prisoner 730004 sees the light at the high window changing, and understands the day has come. And Michael thinks at least now he can rise – he has recently made one last attempt to sleep, curled up on his sofa, but hopelessly alert and stricken by nerves – and he throws off the blan
ket and moves towards the kitchen. There, he switches on the kettle and he cuts a slice of bread. He puts that in the toaster and waits for the kettle to boil. Then he pours water into a cup and when the toast is ready he spreads it with butter and jam. Normality, he thinks. All this calms him slightly, though his hands are shaking.

Now I must act, thinks Robert von Lucius, as he hurries into the breakfast room. He pours himself some coffee and takes a bite of a roll. The newspaper has been neatly arranged beside his plate and he glances through it. It is full of news he cannot digest entirely, something about the Emperor on his annual retreat. There has been a scandal at court. Robert von Lucius drinks his coffee down, and feels the warmth in his belly.

Brigid finds she is hungry, her stomach growling a reproach, and she asks the midwife if she can have some toast. But the midwife says they must wait until the doctors have assessed her. ‘There may be the need for surgical intervention,' she says, and Brigid feels only disbelief. On the mattress in the corner Patrick is stirring. When he turns towards her, she sees his eyes are bloodshot. He looks tired and as if he hasn't slept at all. But she must look far worse, she thinks, ravaged internally and still awaiting the final act.

Prisoner 730004 is given a bowl of nutri-meal, which she cannot eat. ‘Am I to be moved today?' she says to the guard, but he doesn't answer. She has been trying not to think of her fellow islanders, in order that they may stay free of her misfortune and thereby happy, but now she
allows herself to think of Oscar, and she hopes he is free, and she hopes that Birgitta and her son are not caught. She hopes they have fled into the mountains on the mainland, or the remaining forests along the coast. There is still land which no one uses, vast tracts of unusable land, of no interest to the Protectors. She hopes they have found the guides there, and can live quietly. Or die quietly, together, mother and son. And now Prisoner 730004 succumbs to tears, and she sits there for a time with her head in her hands, weeping as she has not in years, perhaps she has never wept in this abandoned way, because she thinks there is no real hope, not for her and perhaps not for them either.

This will pass, she thinks, but that does not console her.

Michael holds the phone to his ear, but Sally will not answer. He wants to tell her he cannot come. He must go to the studio, find her there, explain that he cannot speak on the radio. He will make his excuses and then he will catch a train. So he drinks his tea and finishes his toast. Beyond his window, London is rising into life. The streets are filling with cars. The traffic moves, slowly in the morning sun. In his flat, high above it all, Michael washes his plate and leaves his cup in the sink. He looks around his spartan room and does not know what he should take with him. So he takes nothing, except his wallet. He dresses in his suit, which looks a little shabby this morning. He was too drunk to hang it up the previous night, and now it is lightly wrinkled, the collar crooked. It doesn't matter, he thinks. His mother will scarcely notice him.