“Now I need a urine sample, Mr. Kravits. If you would be kind enough to take this plastic container next door, fill it about halfway up, leave it on the ledge when you've finished, and then come back to me.”
The doctor wrote out some more notes while his patient left the room. He returned a few moments later.
“I've left the container on the ledge,” was all he said.
“Good. The next thing I need is a blood sample. Could you roll up your right sleeve?” The doctor placed a rubber pad around his right bicep and pumped until the veins stood out clearly. “A tiny prick,” he said. “You'll hardly feel a thing.” The needle went in, and he turned away as the doctor drew his blood. Dr. Royston cleaned the wound and fixed a small circular Band-Aid over the broken skin. The doctor then bent over and placed a cold stethoscope on different parts of the patient's chest, occasionally asking him to breathe in and out.
“Good,” he kept repeating. Finally he said, “That just about wraps it up, Mr. Kravits. You'll need to spend a few minutes down the corridor with Dr. Harvey, so she can take a chest X ray and have some fun with her electric pads, but after that you'll be through, and you can go home to”âhe checked his padâ“New Jersey. The company will be in touch in a few days, as soon as we've had the results.”
“Thank you, Dr. Royston,” he said as he buttoned his shirt. The doctor pressed a buzzer on his desk and the nurse reappeared and led him to another room, with a plaque on the door that read “Dr. Mary Harvey.” Dr. Harvey, a smartly dressed middle-aged woman with her gray hair cropped short, was waiting for him. She smiled at the tall, handsome man and asked him to take off his shirt again and to step up onto the platform and stand in front of the X-ray unit.
“Place your arms behind your back and breathe in. Thank you.” Next she asked him to lie down on the examining table in the corner of the room. She leaned over his chest, smeared blodges of gel on his skin, and fixed little pads to them. While he stared up at the white ceiling she flicked a switch and concentrated on a tiny television screen on the corner of her desk. Her expression gave nothing away.
After she had removed the gel with a damp cloth, she said, “You can put your shirt back on, Mr. Kravits. You are now free to leave.”
Once he was fully dressed, the young man hurried out of the building and down the steps, and ran all the way to the corner where they had parted. They hugged each other again.
“Everything go all right?”
“I think so,” he said. “They told me I'd be hearing from them in the next few days, once they've had the results of all their tests.”
“Thank God it hasn't been a problem for you.”
“I only wish it weren't for you.”
“Let's not even think about it,” said David, holding tightly on to the one person he loved.
Marvin rang a week later to let David know that Dr. Royston had given him a clean bill of health. All he had toy do now was send the first installment of $1,100 to the insurance company. David mailed a check to Geneva Life the following morning. Thereafter his payments were made by automatic debit on the first day of each month.
Nineteen days after the seventh payment had been cleared, David Kravits died of AIDS.
Pat tried to remember the first thing he was supposed to do once the will had been read. He was to contact a Mr. Levy, David's lawyer, and leave everything in his hands. David had warned him not to become involved in any way himself. Let Levy, as his executor, make the claim from the insurance company, he had said, and then pass the money on to him. “If in any doubt, say nothing,” was the last piece of advice David had given Pat before he died.
Ten days later Pat received a letter from a claims representative at Geneva Life requesting an interview with the beneficiary of the policy. Pat passed the letter straight to David's lawyer. Mr. Levy wrote back agreeing to an interview, which would take place, at his client's request, at the offices of Levy, Goldberg & Levy in Manhattan.
“Is there anything you haven't told me, Patrick?” Levy asked him a few minutes before the insurance company's claims representative was due to arrive. “Because if there is, you'd better tell me now.”
“No, Mr. Levy, there's nothing more to tell you,” past replied, carrying out David's instructions to the letter.
From the moment the meeting began, the representative of Geneva Life, his eyes continually boring into Pat's bowed head, left Mr. Levy in no doubt that he was not happy about paying out on this particular claim. But the lawyer stonewalled every question, strengthened by the knowledge that eight months before, when rigorous tests had been taken, Geneva Life's doctors had found no sign of David's being HIV positive.
Levy kept repeating, “However much noise you make, your company will have to pay up in the end.” He added for good measure, “If I have not received the full amount due to my client within thirty days, I will immediately instigate proceedings against Geneva Life.” The claims representative asked Levy if he would consider a deal. Levy glanced at Pat, who bowed his head even lower, and replied, “Certainly not.”
Pat arrived back at the apartment two hours later, exhausted and depressed, fearing that an attack, of asthma might be coming on. He tried to prepare some supper before he went to work, but everything seemed so pointless without David. He was already wondering if he should have agreed to a settlement.
The phone rang only once during the evening. Pat rushed to pick it up, hoping it might be either his mother or his sister Ruth. It turned out to be Marvin, who bleated, “I'm in real trouble, Pat. I'm probably going to lose my job over that policy I made out for your friend David.”
Pat said how sorry he was, but felt there was nothing he could do to help.
“Yes, there is,” insisted Marvin. “For a start, you could take out a policy yourself. That might just save my skin.”
“I don't think that would be wise,” said Pat, wondering what David would have advised.
“Surely David wouldn't have wanted to see me fired,” Marvin pleaded. “Have mercy on me, my friend. I just can't afford another divorce.”
“How much would it cost me?” asked Pat, desperate to find some way of getting Marvin off the line.
“You're going to get a million dollars in cash,” Marvin almost shouted, “and you're asking me what it's going to cost? What's a thousand dollars a month to someone as rich as you?”
“But I can't be sure that I am going to get the million,” Pat protested.
“That's all been settled,” Marvin told him, his voice falling by several decibels. “I'm not supposed to let you know this, but you'll be receiving the check on the thirtieth of the month. The company knows that your lawyer's got them by the ballsâyou wouldn't even have to make the first payment until after you'd received the million.”
“All right,” said Pat, desperate to be rid of him. “I'll do it, but not until I've received the check.”
“Thank you, my friend. I'll drop around with the paperwork tomorrow night.”
“No, that's not possible,” said Pat. “I'm working nights this month. You'd better make it tomorrow afternoon.”
“You won't be working nights once you've received that check, my friend,” said Marvin, letting out one of his dreadful shrill laughs. “Lucky man,” he added before he put the phone down.
By the time Marvin came around to the apartment the following afternoon, Pat was already having second thoughts. If he had to visit Dr. Royston again, they would immediately realize the truth. But once Marvin had assured him that the medical could be with any doctor of his choice,
and that the first payment would be postdated, he caved in and signed all the forms between the penciled X's, making Ruth his sole beneficiary. He hoped David would have approved of that decision, at least.
“Thank you, my friend. I won't be bothering you again,” promised Marvin. His final words as he closed the door behind him were, “I promise you, you'll never live to regret it.”
Pat saw his doctor a week later. The examination didn't take long, as Pat had recently had a complete check-up. On that occasion, as the doctor recalled, Pat had appeared quite nervous, and couldn't hide his relief when he'd phoned to give him the all-clear. “Not much wrong with you, Patrick,” he said, “apart from the asthma, which doesn't seem to be getting any worse.”
Marvin called a week later to let Pat know that the doctor had given him a clean bill of health, and that he had held on to his job with Geneva Life.
“I'm pleased for you,” said Pat. “But what about my check?”
“It will be paid out on the last day of the month. Only a matter of processing it now. Should be with you twenty-four hours before the first payment is due on your policy. Just like I said, you win both ways.”
Pat called David's lawyer on the last day of the month to ask if he had received the check from Geneva Life.
“There was nothing in this morning's mail,” Levy told him, “but I'll phone the other side right now, in case it's already been issued and is on its way. If not, I'll start proceedings against them immediately.”
Pat wondered if he should tell Levy that he had signed a check for $1,100, which was due to be cleared the following day, and that he only just had sufficient funds in his account to cover itâcertainly not enough to see him through until his next paycheck. All his surplus cash had gone to help with David's monthly payments to Geneva Life. He decided not to mention it. David had repeatedly told him that if he was in any doubt, he should say nothing.
“I'll phone you at close of business tonight and let you know exactly what the position is,” said Levy.
“No, that won't be possible,” said Pat. “I'm on night duty all this week. In fact I have to leave for work right now. Perhaps you could call me first thing tomorrow morning?”
“Will do,” promised the lawyer.
When Pat returned home from work in the early hours, he couldn't get to sleep. He tossed and turned, worrying how he would survive for the rest of the month if his check was presented to the bank that morning, and he still hadn't received the million dollars from Geneva Life.
His phone rang at 9:31. Pat grabbed it, and was relieved to hear Mr. Levy's voice on the other end of the line.
“Patrick, I had a call from Geneva Life yesterday evening while you were at work, and I must tell you that you've broken Levy's golden rule.”
“Levy's golden rule?” asked Pat, mystified.
“Yes, Levy's golden rule. It's quite simple really, Patrick. By all means drop anything you like, on anyone you like, but don't ever drop it all over your own lawyer.”
“I don't understand,” said Pat.
“Your doctor has supplied Geneva Life with a sample of your blood and urine, and they just happen to be identical to the ones Dr. Royston has in his laboratory in the name of David Kravits.”
Pat felt the blood draining from his head as he realized the trick Marvin must have played on him. His heart began beating faster and faster. Suddenly his legs gave way, and he collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath.
“Did you hear me, Patrick?” asked Levy. “Are you still there?”
A paramedic team broke into the apartment twenty minutes later, but, moments before they reached him, Pat had died of a heart attack brought on by a suffocating bout of asthma.
Mr. Levy did nothing until he was able to confirm with Pat's bankers that his client's check for $1,100 had been cleared by the insurance company.
Nineteen months later Pat's sister Ruth received a payment of one million dollars from Geneva Life, but not until they had gone through a lengthy court battle with Levy, Goldberg & Levy.
The jury finally accepted that Pat had died of natural causes, and that the insurance policy was in existence at the time of his death.
I promise you, Marvin Roebuck lived to regret it.
Tomorrow it would be A.D. 1, but nobody had told him.
If anyone had, he wouldn't have understood, because he thought it was the forty-third year of the reign of the emperor. And in any case, he had more important things on his mind.
His mother was still angry with him, and he had to admit that he'd been naughty that day, even by the standards of a normal thirteen-year-old. He hadn't meant to drop the pitcher when she had sent him to the well for water. He had tried to explain to her that it wasn't his fault he had tripped over a stoneâthat bit at least was true. What he hadn't told her was that he had been chasing a stray dog at the time. And then there was that pomegranate: How was he to know that it was the last one, and that his father had taken a liking to them?
The young Roman was now dreading his father's return and the possibility that he might be given another leathering. He could still recall the last one: He hadn't been able to sit down for two days without being reminded of the pain, and the thin red scars hadn't completely disappeared for three weeks.
He sat on the window ledge in a shaded corner of his room, trying to think of some way he could redeem himself in his mother's eyes. He had spilled cooking oil all over his tunic and she had thrown him out of the kitchen. “Go and
play outside,” she had snapped, but playing outside wasn't much fun if you were only allowed to play by yourself. Pater had forbidden him to mix with the local boys.
How he hated this uncivilized country! If only he could be back home among his friends, there would be so much for him to do. Still, only another three weeks and he would â¦
The door swung open and his mother bustled into the room. She was dressed in the thin black garments favored by locals: it was the only way to keep cool, she had explained to her husband when he had seen her wearing them for the first time. He had grunted his disapproval, so now she always changed back into imperial dress before he returned in the evening.
“Can't you find anything useful to do?” she asked, addressing the sulking figure of her son.
“I was just ⦔
“Daydreaming as usual. Well, it's time for you to wake up, because I need you to go into the village and fetch some food.”
“Yes, Mater, I'll go at once,” the boy said. He jumped off the window ledge, and started running toward the door.
“At least wait until you've heard what I want.”
“Sorry, Mater,” he said, coming to an abrupt halt.
“Now listen, and listen carefully,” she began, counting on her fingers as she spoke. “I need a chicken, some raisins, figs, dates, and ⦠ah, yes, two pomegranates.”
The boy's face reddened at the mention of the pomegranates. He stared down at the stone floor, hoping she might have forgotten. His mother put her hand into the leather purse that hung from her waist and removed two small coins, but before she handed them over she made her son repeat her instructions.
“One chicken, some raisins, figs, dates, and two pomegranates,” he recited, as he might the modern poet Virgil.
“And be sure to see they give you the right change,” she added. “Never forget that the people here are all thieves.”
“Yes, Mater ⦔ For a moment the boy hesitated, wondering if he dared to ask.
“If you remember everything, and bring back the right change, I might forget to tell your father about the broken pitcher and the pomegranate.”
The boy smiled and, clutching the two small silver coins tightly in his fist, ran out of the house into the compound.
The guard who stood on duty at the gate removed a great wedge of wood and allowed the massive door to swing open. The boy jumped through, and grinned back at him.
“I hear you're in trouble again,” the guard shouted after him.
“No, not this time,” the boy replied. “I'm about to be saved.”
He waved happily to the guard and started walking briskly in the direction of the village, reciting some verses from Virgil's
Aeneid,
which reminded him of home. He kept to the center of the dusty, winding path that the locals had the impudence to call a road. It seemed as if he spent half his time removing small stones from inside his sandals. If his father had been posted here for any length of time he would have made some changes; then they would have had a
real
road, straight and wide enough to allow two chariots to pass.
And Mater would have told the serving girls a thing or two. Not one of them knew how to set a table, or even to prepare food so that it was at least clean. Since they had been stationed in Judaea, he had seen his mother in a kitchen for the first time in his life. He was confident it would also be the last. Soon his father would be coming to the end of his tour of duty, and they could all return to Rome.
He had learned many things during the past year, but in particular he was now certain that when he grew up he wasn't going to be a tax collector, or work in the census office.
The village to which his mother had sent him was a few stades from the compound, and the evening sun shone down on him as he walked. It was a large, red sun, the same deep red as his father's tunic, and it was still giving out enough heat to make him sweat and long for something to drink. Perhaps there would be enough money left over to buy himself a pomegranate. He couldn't wait to take one home to
show his friends how large they grew in this barbaric land. Marcus, his best friend, would probably have seen one as big, because his father had commanded a whole army in Asia Minor, but the rest of the class would be impressed.
When he reached the village, he found the narrow twisting lanes that ran between the little white houses swarming with people. They had all come from the surrounding area at his father's command to be registered for the census, so that each of them might be taxed according to their rank. His father's authority had been vested in him by the emperor himself, and once the boy had reached his sixteenth birthday, he too would serve the emperor. Marcus wanted to be a soldier and to conquer the rest of the world, but the boy was more interested in the law, and in teaching his country's customs to all the barbarians who dwelled in strange lands.
Marcus had said, “I'll conquer them, and then you can govern them.”
“A sensible division between brains and brawn,” he had replied. His friend didn't seem impressed, and had dunked him in the nearest bath.
The boy quickened his pace. He knew he had to be back in the compound before the sun disappeared behind the hills: His father had warned him many times that they must always be locked safely inside before sunset. He had told his son that he would be safe while it was light, as no one would dare to harm him while others could see what was going on, but that once it was dark, anything could happen. The boy was aware that his father was not a popular man with the locals, but he dismissed the plebs from his mind. (It was Marcus who had taught him to refer to all foreigners as plebs.)
When he reached the marketplace, he began to concentrate on the supplies his mother had requested. He mustn't make any mistakes this time, or he would undoubtedly end up with another leathering from his father. He ran nimbly between the stands, checking the produce carefully. Some of the local people stared at the white-skinned boy with the curly fair hair and a straight, strong nose. He displayed no imperfections or signs of disease, unlike the majority of
them. Many lowered their eyes to the ground when they saw him; he had come, after all, from the land of the natural rulers. The boy did not concern himself with such thoughts. All he noticed was that their native skins were parched and lined from exposure to the sun. He knew that too much harsh light was bad for you: It made you old before your time, his tutor had warned him.
At the last stand, the boy watched an old woman haggling over an unusually plump live chicken. He marched toward her, and when she saw him she ran away in fright, leaving the fowl behind. He looked straight into the eyes of the standkeeper, refusing to bargain with such a peasant. He pointed to the chicken and handed the man one denarius. The vendor bit the silver coin, then peered at the head of Augustus Caesar, ruler of half the known world. (When his tutor had told the boy, during a history lesson, about the emperor's achievements, he remembered saying, “Magister, I hope Caesar doesn't conquer the whole world before I have a chance to join in.”)
“Come on, come on. I haven't got all day,” the boy said, trying to sound like his father.
The man did not reply, as he had no idea what the boy was saying. All he knew for certain was that it was never worth annoying the invaders. He held the chicken firmly by the neck and, unsheathing a knife from his belt, cut its head off in one movement. He passed the bleeding fowl over to the boy together with some local coins, which had stamped on them the image of the man the boy's father had described so often as “that useless Herod.” The boy kept his hand held out, palm upward, and the man continued to place bronze talents in it until he had no more.
Once the boy had left the man talentless, he moved on to another stand, where he pointed to bags containing raisins, figs, and dates. The new standkeeper measured out a libra of each, for which he received five of the near-worthless Herod coins. The man was about to protest, but the boy stared him fixedly in the eyes, the way he had seen his father do so often. The man backed away and simply bowed his head.
Now, what else did his mother want? He racked his brains. A chicken, raisins, dates, figs, and ⦠of courseâtwo pomegranates. He walked into the next street, and searched among the stands of fresh fruit until he found the largest pomegranates on display. He selected three and immediately broke one open, dug his teeth into it, and savored the cool taste. He spat out the pips, nodded his approval to the standkeeper, and paid him with two of the three remaining bronze talents (he wanted to keep one to add to Marcus's coin collection when he returned home).
He felt his mother would be pleased that he had carried out her wishes and only spent one silver denarius. Surely even Pater would be impressed by that. He finished his pomegranate and, with his arms laden, began heading slowly out of the market and back toward the compound, trying to avoid the stray dogs that continually ran into his path, barking and sometimes snapping at his ankles. They obviously didn't realize who he was.
When the boy reached the edge of the village he noticed that the sun was already melting behind the highest hill, and, recalling his father's words about being home before dusk, he quickened his pace. As he walked up the middle of the stony path, those still on their way down toward the village stood to one side, leaving him a clear path as far as his eye could see (which wasn't all that far, because he was carrying so much in his arms).
But there was one sight he could not fail to notice. A little way ahead of him was a man with a beardâa dirty, lazy custom, his father had often told himâwearing the ragged clothing that signified that he was of the tribe of Jacob. He tugged at a reluctant donkey that was laden down with a very fat woman who was, as their custom demanded, covered from head to toe in black. The boy was about to order them out of his way when the man pulled the donkey over to the side of the road, tied it up to a post, and entered a house that, from its sign, claimed to be an inn.
In his own land such a building would never have passed the scrutiny of the local citizens' council as a place fit for
paying guests, but the boy realized that for many people during this particular week, even a mat on which to lay their head would be a luxury. By the time he reached the house, the bearded man had reappeared at the door with a forlorn look on his tired face. There was obviously no room at the inn.
The boy could have told him that before he went in, and was puzzled as to what the man could possibly do next. Not that he was really all that interested: As long as they paid their taxes, both of them could sleep in the hills for all he cared. It was about all they looked fit for.
The man with the beard was telling the fat woman something, while pointing behind the inn. She nodded her agreement, and without another word he led the donkey off around the side of the building. The boy wondered what could possibly be at the back of the inn, and decided to follow them. As he turned the corner of the building, he saw the man coaxing the donkey through the open door of what looked like a barn. The boy followed, and when he came to the open door he stopped and stared inside.
The barn was covered in filthy straw. It was full of chickens, sheep, and oxen, and smelled not unlike the sewers in the side streets back home. He held his nose, beginning to feel sick. The man was clearing away some of the dirtiest of the straw from the center of the barn, trying to make a clean patch for them to rest onâa near hopeless task. When he had done the best he could, he lifted the fat woman down from the donkey and placed her gently in the straw. Then he went over to a trough on the far side of the barn from which one of the oxen was drinking. He cupped his hands, and having filled them with water, returned to the fat woman, trying to spill as little as possible.
The boy was growing bored. He was about to leave and continue on his journey home when the woman leaned forward to drink from the man's hands. Her shawl fell from her head, and he saw her face for the first time.