The Mirage (45 page)

The woman looked at me in bewilderment and alarm. Then, in a low voice choked with tears she said, “My daughter’s condition suddenly got worse, so I called the doctor, and he advised that an operation be performed right away.”

Having been transformed into a new, formidable person quite unlike the one the world had known thirty years earlier, I asked her, “In which part of the body?”

She said, “The doctor said it was the peritoneum.”

I was hearing the word for the first time. However, I passed over the matter and asked in the same fearsome voice, “And was the operation performed?”

“Yes,” she said, weeping, “and it ended with what you see before you!”

Stamping the floor with my foot in a rage, I screamed, “But I was here two hours ago and there was nothing wrong with her! Didn’t you assure me that her condition was nothing to worry about?”

In a voice choked with tears, she said, “Her pain got suddenly worse! What could I do? What could I do?”

“And who might be the doctor who murdered her?”

Looking at me brokenly through her tears, she mumbled, “He did everything he could. But God’s decree intervened!”

“Who might he be?”

She fell silent for a moment as though she were taking a breath, then she said, “Dr. Amin Rida.”

A violent tremor went through my body as I repeated over and over, “Amin Rida!”

Then I cried in fury and contempt, “Dr. Amin Rida? He’s just a beginner! Besides, his specialty is reproductive disorders!”

Flustered, she said he’d been the nearest doctor, that she thought doctors understood all sorts of disorders whatever their specialties happened to be, that there hadn’t been time to hesitate, and so on. Trembling with rage, I waited until she was finished.

Then I let forth a frigid laugh and cried, “An obstetrician who performs an operation on the peritoneum! It’s no wonder you killed her!”

I did an about-face, walked quickly to the door and thundered, “Doctor!”

I repeated the summons until he came from the other end of the house, his face white as a sheet. He entered the room with a meekness that ill befit his usual pompous bearing.
Feeling a hatred and bitterness toward him that would have filled the earth itself, I said to him, “The Madame tells me that you performed the operation that killed my wife. Now, would you care to tell me what prompted you to take it upon yourself to perform a dangerous surgical operation when surgery isn’t your specialization?”

With a distressed expression on his face, he shot Madame Nazli a strange look that brought to mind the way she had looked at Sabah, and I nearly exploded with rage. I’d begun to get a vague feeling that they were hiding something critical from me.

“Answer me!” I screamed at him savagely.

He turned to me with a furrowed brow, then remained silent for a moment as though he were consulting his lost dignity.

Then he said in a low voice, “She needed an urgent operation.”

Clapping my hands together, I said, “So why didn’t you call me to come? Why didn’t you call for a surgeon?”

“There wasn’t time!” said the mother nervously.

“But there was time to kill her!” I screeched.

The woman stared into my face as though she’d lost her mind, then she began to repeat, “Kill her … kill her … kill her!”

Then she lost her senses and exploded suddenly, slapping her cheeks uncontrollably. Wanting to come between the woman’s hands and cheeks, Sabah came up and tried to stop her. However, she struck the servant in the face with such force that she reeled backward in terror. Then she stopped slapping herself, turned toward us and screamed in our faces—the doctor’s and mine—in a voice
that sounded like a roar, “You’re the ones who killed her! Get out of my face!”

The doctor then slipped out the door and I remained alone, eyeing her with a cruel stare that had no regard for her outburst. “You’re the ones who killed her!” The woman was talking nonsense, and I would have no mercy on her. I wouldn’t rest until I’d done something that would send people reeling. I was faced with a crime. And unless it was merely a crime of ignorance and stupidity, he would pay for it dearly. The meek submission of an entire lifetime had now given birth in me to a devastating eruption, a fiery rage, and impending wickedness. I forgot the corpse and my grief and demons appeared before my eyes. To hell with the criminals!

Filled to saturation with the woman’s obnoxious wailing and Sabah’s incessant sobbing, I suddenly turned away from them and left the room without looking back. Then I rushed outside as though I were fleeing for my life.

T
he whole world looked bright red to me, and I was filled with a hellish determination, the likes of which I’d never seen in myself before, to commit any sort of wickedness as a way of releasing what I felt inside. I doubted that I’d be able to achieve any sort of result that would actually quench my thirst for revenge. Even so, I didn’t hesitate for a single moment. I hailed a taxi and instructed it to take me to the public prosecutor’s office. Entering the place without any particular plan or explicit accusation in mind, I found myself in the midst of a stifling crowd and my ears were bombarded with a din like the roar of the sea. I stood there uncertainly for a few moments until I caught sight of a policeman. I came up to him and asked him to tell me where the district attorney’s office was.

“On the second floor,” he replied gruffly.

I went up the stairs and found my way to the room with the help of an employee. After receiving permission to go in,
I saw before me a desk behind which there sat a short, slender young man who was poring over some papers in front of him. He looked up when I came in, eyed me with a penetrating glance and said, “What do you need?”

Shocked by this simple question, my mind went blank, and I stood there in a daze as though I didn’t know exactly why I’d come.

With a questioning look on his face, the young man repeated his query, saying, “What do you need?”

I had to speak no matter what it took. So, letting my tongue lead the way, I said, “My wife … has died.” I nearly said, “has been murdered,” but fear held me back.

Furrowing his brow in bewilderment, he said, “What does the public prosecutor have to do with that? And who are you?”

I took a deep breath and found my fear gradually leaving me. I introduced myself, then said, “Here is my story, Your Honor: This morning I left my wife at her mother’s house, since she was feeling ill. Two hours after leaving the house, I went back and found her dead. They told me she’d suddenly begun to feel much worse and that they’d called a doctor who is a relative of her mother’s. This doctor was of the opinion that her condition required immediate surgery, so he performed the operation, and she died.”

I gulped, then stood there looking at the man for a long time. Seeing that he wasn’t satisfied with what he’d heard, I went on, saying, “The fact is that this doctor is a specialist in reproductive disorders. So, is it permissible for him to perform a surgical operation? And if the operation performed has led to the patient’s death, is he not to be held responsible for it, and shouldn’t he be brought to justice?”

The man was silent for a moment, then he asked me, “Was she taken to a hospital?”

“No. The operation was performed in the house where she now lies dead.”

“Who was it that called the doctor?”

“My mother-in-law.”

“And how is it that she called on an obstetrician with no connection to your wife’s illness?”

“I asked her the same question, and she told me that he was the nearest doctor. She also said she thought that regardless of what a doctor’s specialization happens to be, he’ll be familiar with all kinds of illness.”

“Is he the one who advised that the operation be done?”

“Yes.”

“And is he the one who performed it?”

“Yes! I asked him how he could have performed a surgical operation even though he isn’t a surgeon, and he told me that my wife’s condition called for immediate surgical intervention.”

The man thought for some time, then asked me, “Are you leveling a particular accusation at this doctor?”

Not understanding what he meant, I looked at him uncertainly without saying a word.

So he asked me, “Do you have reason to accuse him of premeditated murder?”

My heart aflutter, I shook my head in the negative.

Then he asked, “Do you suspect that an error occurred during the operation, and that this led to her death?”

“That’s very possible, Your Honor,” I said. “And it wouldn’t have been simply an error. Rather, it would have been the error of a man who has no experience as a surgeon.
Hence, there’s no doubt as to his responsibility in the matter.”

He thought again, then asked, “I can’t make a judgment until the medical examiner has examined the body and clarified the causes of death.”

His words filled me with fear and gloom, since I couldn’t bear the thought of the doctor’s tampering with my beloved’s body.

In a pained voice, I asked, “Couldn’t you call the doctor to interrogate him first?”

Disregarding my objection, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number. Then I heard him speaking to the medical examiner. He asked me for the house address, then asked the doctor to go there to examine the body and write a report on the cause of death.

After hanging up, he turned to me and said, “If it’s determined that there’s criminal liability, I’ll come to conduct the interrogation.”

After completing the official procedures, I left the public prosecutor’s office. By this time my impulsiveness had left me, and I was aware of the seriousness of what I had done. This was no joke: It involved a prosecutor, a medical examiner, police, scandal, and gossip. The investigation might lead nowhere, in which case we’d be left with nothing but the scandal and the gossip. And how would I face people after that? How would I face her family, my family, and everyone else? Wasn’t it enough that my wife had suffered such a miserable fate without my subjecting her to forensic examination and making her the talk of the town? Oh, my smoldering heart! As I went back to the house, my soul was weighed down with worry and endless thinking. As I
came within sight of the building, I paused, with a voice inside me urging me to turn on my heels and run. However, there was no escaping what I had to do. I had no choice but to drink the bitter potion to the dregs.

I rang the bell, then went in, despondent and resigned.

A
ll the doors were closed with the exception of the door to the reception room, which was ajar. The house was devoid of the commotion that usually engulfs households when one of their members has died. Consequently, I was filled with an astonishment that drowned out my inner turmoil. It was past eleven in the morning. How was it that they still hadn’t rushed the heartbreaking news to the houses of family and relatives? I was revisited by feelings of rancor and suspicion.

I looked at the young servant who had opened the door for me, her eyes red from weeping, and asked her, “Hasn’t anyone come to the house?”

She shook her head in the negative in silence and grief. Then I pointed to the reception room’s half-open door and asked her, “Is there anyone in there?”

“Dr. Amin,” she murmured.

My body trembled with rage and hatred. The servant went over to the door to the large parlor, pushed the door
open and went in, after which she proceeded to the room where Rabab lay at the other end of the house. As for me, I stayed alone in the small parlor, not knowing what to do. I was terrified at the thought of what I’d done, while the atmosphere around me aroused feelings of anger and hatred. Then I heard footsteps coming from inside. A moment later Madame Nazli, clad in black, emerged through the door to the large parlor.

Shooting me a frigid look, she asked me irritably, “And where have
you
been, sir?”

Her appearance and her question aroused my fears, as well as the feeling of shame that had ridden me since the moment I left the public prosecutor’s office. Even so, I couldn’t bear any longer to keep the terrible secret to myself, and I had the urge to confess, to meet the danger head-on.

So I said calmly, “I went to the public prosecutor and asked for an investigation to be done.”

Her eyes grew large as saucers and her mouth dropped open.

Then, gaping at me as though she couldn’t believe her ears, she muttered in astonishment, “The public prosecutor!”

With a terrible coolness, and in a voice loud enough to make myself heard by those in the reception room, I said, “Yes. I went to the public prosecutor’s office, and the medical examiner will be here soon.”

Before long the doctor emerged from the guestroom. He stood not far away, looking ashen and somber.

Then the woman, dumbfounded, asked, “And what are you accusing us of?”

Enjoying my ire and desire for revenge, I said fiercely, “There isn’t any accusation. However, I’m certain that the death resulted from a serious mistake, a mistake that comes
as no surprise from someone who has no experience as a surgeon, and who takes it upon himself to toy with people’s lives!”

A tense, painful silence ensued, in the course of which people looked at each other, then looked away.

Then the woman gasped nervously and exclaimed, “How could you find it so easy to turn your wife’s body over to the public prosecutor!”

Pierced to the quick, I nearly collapsed. However, I concealed my pain with a feigned rage and shouted, “It’s easier for me than to see her die in vain!”

The doctor opened his mouth to say something. However, just at that moment the doorbell rang so loudly, we all nearly jumped out of our skins.

I went to the door and opened it. I was greeted by a policeman, who asked me, “Is this where we can find the late wife of Mr. Kamil Ru’ba, an employee at the Ministry of War?”

I answered in the affirmative. Then the man stepped aside, saying, “His Honor, the medical examiner.”

There then entered a medium-sized man carrying a doctor’s satchel, who was followed inside by the policeman. Happening to meet Dr. Amin on his way in, the medical examiner asked him, “Are you the husband who informed the public prosecutor?”