The Memory Key (25 page)

‘Magistrate Martone instructed Caterina to go and talk to him. Apply some pressure. I don’t like the magistrate, to be honest, but you can’t really pin this on her.’

‘A barber, wasn’t it?’ asked Blume.

‘That’s right. The witness was a barber.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Kids on a motor scooter. They hit her from behind, but it wasn’t entirely their fault. Apparently, she staggered into their path. One of the kids is in hospital, too. The passenger hit the side of his head against a car.’

Blume shook his head, shaking off this extraneous information. ‘Rosario, talk to me about Caterina. What happened?’

‘I just said. She sort of fell into their path. The kids weren’t even going so fast according to the witness.’

‘There was a witness?’

‘Sure,’ said Panebianco. ‘The barber again. He was standing at his door and saw it all. He is saying Caterina had already fainted before she got hit. In fact, he says it was almost as if being hit by the scooter woke her up, and it looked like she was going to land quite softly, all things considered, but the kerb is high there and she landed badly. First on her stomach and groin, then her face, and she fell back into the road for a second time. I can’t say exactly, since I wasn’t there. She fell once, then again, is how he put it.’

‘You’ve spoken to him?’

‘No. I got this from the two
vigili
who arrived on the scene. So this is his word filtered through them, which puts us at a distance from the events themselves, I realize that.’

‘No one from our force?’

‘It wasn’t a serious incident, Alec. That’s good news. When she lost consciousness in the ambulance . . .’

‘Did you tell me before that she had lost consciousness in the ambulance?’

‘I can’t remember. I don’t think so. But if it hadn’t been for that maybe she would have been a code yellow.’

‘The doctors told you that? A code yellow for a person knocked down? That’s an automatic code red, Rosario. What sort of fucking doctors are these? Code yellow . . .’

‘Calm down, Alec. That was just me saying that. I was just trying to minimize, make you feel better.’

‘Yeah, well, where are the doctors? I want to go in there, but I’m afraid I’ll do more harm than good, bringing in germs and the outside cold.’

As if on cue, the door in front of him opened, and a slow-moving man in white emerged, head down consulting a piece of paper in his hand. Incredibly, he seemed prepared to walk right between them, ignoring their presence. Blume stuck out a restraining arm, though the man was almost small enough to walk right under it. He stopped and, without looking up properly, said, ‘Family only.’

Blume glanced at Panebianco. ‘Does her family even know?’

‘No. I thought . . . We thought maybe you would want to . . . seeing as you’re her . . .’

‘Get them in here. Her son Elia. Her mother.’

Panebianco drew his phone out of his pocket and moved away. The doctor, who had kept his head bent, looked up and revealed himself to have a bent nose, like a witch from a fairy tale.

‘You’re family, then? Partner or husband. That’s fine. Do you want to sit down?’

‘No,’ said Blume.

‘Fine. No need I suppose. Your wife . . .’

‘Partner. Why is she like that? Is she paralyzed?’

‘Paralyzed? Good God, no.’

‘But she can’t wake up?’

‘Of course she can. She’s in a pharmacological coma.’

‘What’s that?’

‘We put her to sleep. She’s having a long nap. It will help make her better.’

‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.’

‘You are the one who didn’t know what a pharmacological coma was. We are monitoring her for internal bleeding, closed head injury, concussion. She also suffered a cracked rib, and a hairline fracture in her wrist. We have scheduled a CAT scan. But she gets 12 on the Glasgow scale.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The top mark is 15. So 12 is pretty good. Better than some people walking about in the streets right now would probably get.’

Was this doctor trying to be facetious?

‘Some of her speech was incomprehensible and then – excuse me, you are standing too close.’

Blume stepped back a little.

‘As I was saying, her speech was incomprehensible, then inappropriate.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Incomprehensible is, well, incomprehensible. Not connected with reality. Inappropriate, which is an improvement, of course, means she was saying certain things. Does she usually use a lot of bad language?’

‘Not really,’ said Blume.

The doctor made a quick note on the piece of paper. ‘It’s probably nothing. You’d be surprised at the foul language that comes out of some very demure women when giving birth. That’s because there is nothing demure about giving birth. Were you present at the birth of your children?’

‘What’s this got to do with her head?’

‘It’s our main worry now.’

Blume tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs rebelled against the hospital air, and he felt his nostrils flare and his cheeks puff out as he attempted to control his frustration. Doctors did this to him. They talk normally for a bit, then suddenly go all first person plural on you, and you weren’t sure if they were talking about a consultation with other doctors, patronizing you, or using the royal we of themselves.

‘Whose main worry? I mean what main worry?’

‘Abruption. That’s what we fear. She could lose it, but I’d say it is sixty–forty in favour right now. That’s good. Seventy-thirty,’ he corrected in reaction to Blume’s expression. ‘I am sorry to have to tell you this. It depends on the way she fell. Even a minor knock, if it happens in the right place – that is to say, the
wrong
place, ha ha! – can cause the placenta to abrupt, and once that happens, the foetus can’t survive but there is grave danger to the mother, too. Even if the abruption turns out to be harmless, and I assure you it often is, the danger comes from the passage of blood from the baby to the mother. If the baby – foetus, I should be saying – if the foetus has a different blood type and some of its blood gets into the mother’s system, this causes the mother’s body to manufacture antibodies, which then start attacking the blood in the foetus, leading to Rh disease. Of course, that only happens if the foetus has a different blood group, which is common enough.’ The doctor scratched the end of his nose and glanced up at Blume. ‘Do you happen to have a different blood group from your partner?’

‘What?’

‘Well, the baby – sorry, the foetus – does. So we know that father has type O positive blood.’

‘Like me. I mean, that is me.’

‘Are you sure you don’t need to sit down?’

Blume allowed the little man to guide him into an armchair, incongruously soft and cushiony, set into a small alcove a few metres away. Vague notions of the diseases lurking in the threads of the material and the dangers these posed for Caterina floated through his mind.

‘What sex is the child?’

The doctor, who was finally a little taller than the seated Blume, looked at him and shook his head in pity at the ignorance of laymen. ‘Indeterminate. The foetus hasn’t decided yet, so to speak. Or won’t tell us. Are you sure you’re the father?’

Blume stood back up again.

‘I am merely explaining why it was decided to give . . .’ he checked his notes, ‘Caterina an intramuscular injection of Rho(D) immune globulin.’

‘Is it possible that she did not know she was pregnant?’

The doctor pursed his lips, producing an effect that, combined with the nose and his receding hair, made him one of the ugliest people Blume had ever seen. But even as he thought this, he was overwhelmed with a wave of immense gratitude for the little medical troll as he set about explaining how he was trying to save his child, and secure Blume’s place in the world.

‘It is possible, yes. But it usually takes a particularly ignorant, young, or underweight sort of woman not to realize what missed periods mean – along with all the other signs, from mood to tenderness.’

‘Nausea? I thought morning sickness was after . . .’ Blume stopped. He had no idea what morning sickness was. He had merely heard the term and somehow associated it with babies and therefore with the aftermath rather than the process of pregnancy.

He hadn’t a clue.

‘Oh, yes. Nausea is common.’

‘And what about contraceptives?’

‘Someone was not using them,’ said the troll with what could have been a leer.

‘She was dieting.’

‘Dieting while pregnant is very foolish and, if I might add, morally reprehensible. But it would explain a lot, and, from an aetiological perspective, I am very glad you mentioned it. If she was dieting, that would explain her fainting, and we can concentrate on the effects of the accident rather than searching for its cause. Good.’

The doctor started shuffling away.

‘Wait! Can I go in there?’

The doctor made a victory sign. ‘Two minutes. No more. She is unconscious. You’d do better to go in, say hello, then come back tonight. Except on second thoughts you can’t, because no visitors after seven, so come back tomorrow.’

Half an hour later Caterina’s mother arrived. She stood behind the glass and gazed in at Caterina with far more calm that Blume was expecting. Still looking at her daughter, she said, ‘I have already spoken with the doctors. They assure me her injuries are not serious, and I believe them.’

‘So does Rosario.’

‘Is that one of your colleagues?’

Blume nodded, feeling foolish. Had the doctors also mentioned the pregnancy to Mrs Mattiola? If so, she was giving no sign.

‘We cannot stay the night. That is also a good sign. If a loved one is likely to die, they allow you to stay.’

Blume nodded as if all this had occurred to him.

‘I have taken Elia off your hands. I am sure you’ll be glad of that.’

‘No. I like Elia. We get on great.’

Finally she turned round and regarded him levelly. ‘I am delighted to hear that. Thing is, you like him, but he
needs
me.’

‘And you
need
him,’ said Blume before he could stop himself.

Caterina’s mother did not seem offended. ‘This is my family. This is what it has all been about. My entire life. Will I see you here in the morning?’

‘Of course,’ said Blume.

‘Well, good night.’

‘Good night, Mrs Mattiola.’

While Blume was driving back to Caterina’s, Pitagora phoned to tell him he had missed his appointment. Blume listened to him without a word, then hung up.

Chapter 27

Blume went back to the hospital at eight the following morning. Caterina’s mother was already there, but not Caterina, who, he was frostily informed, was out of the coma and now undergoing a ‘battery’ of tests, which was an excellent sign. Only she didn’t say Caterina, she said ‘my daughter’.

Blume said he would stay, though he did not relish hanging around in the hospital with Mrs Mattiola.

‘You don’t have to stay. I am sure you have work to do.’

‘It can wait.’

‘No, do it now, because you will be needed later. Do I need to remind you that my husband is in a nursing home?’

Blume said he did not need reminding.

‘Good, because I need to see him, too. And someone needs to be ready for Elia when he comes home from school. That someone has always been me. Unless you want to pick him up, give him lunch. He has karate in the afternoon.’

Blume started to speak.

‘I understand,’ said Mrs Mattiola, shaking her head in automatic disagreement with whatever it was he was planning on saying. ‘It’s hard to predict your schedule, isn’t it?’

Blume had said nothing about schedules.

‘That is why it is better for you to come here this afternoon,’ concluded Mrs Mattiola. ‘Whenever you get a chance. I shall cover the morning shift. Go and get your work done so you can be free later on. Agreed?’

Blume agreed.

Fifteen minutes later, he turned off the Via Appia into the recess in front of Professor Pitagora’s villa. The gate before him was shut. The back of Blume’s car jutted out on to the narrow road behind, at risk of being hit and possibly killing anyone travelling too fast, which was everyone, across the slippery cobbles.

He pressed the intercom button on the gatepost.

The gate swung open, revealing a lawn that might have once been tended but was now knee-high with soaking crabgrass and wild oats. A swimming pool surrounded by ferns and covered with a sagging tarpaulin gave the appearance of long disuse. Goosefoot, dandelion, and shepherd’s purse had pulled up the tarmac on the drive. He got back in his car and drove up to the house, a sprawling three-storey villa, to which a modern excrescence of cheap concrete and gold-coloured aluminium windows had been added sometime in the 1970s, like an illegal extension to a low-quality pizzeria. The fine old villa had been repainted a delicate rose, but the new part had been left to sag and rot.