The Mirage (46 page)

“No, I’m the husband, sir,” I said as I closed the door. “This is the doctor who performed the operation.”

Perplexed, the doctor looked back and forth between us with a faint smile on his lips.

Then he asked Dr. Amin, “What operation was it?”

“It was an operation on the peritoneum,” he replied softly.

“And what was the cause of death?”

“The peritoneum was punctured due to an accident beyond my control.”

Addressing the medical examiner, I said in an agitated tone, “Ask him, Your Honor, what made him perform surgery when he isn’t a surgeon!”

The man hesitated for a few moments, then said in a loud voice, “I’ve come to perform another task. Where is the body, please?”

Madame Nazli was still standing near the door to the large parlor, scanning our faces with her tear-reddened eyes in a dazed silence. However, when she heard the doctor asking where the body was, she let out a moan and cried without thinking, “This will never happen!”

The doctor cast her a quick glance, then said to her gently, “Please bear your misfortune with patience, Madame.”

Shooting me a fiery look, she said to the doctor imploringly, “The deceased is the daughter of a prominent government employee, Gabr Bey Sayyid, chief inspector for the coastal area. Perhaps you know him, sir. I beg you to have mercy on the weakness of a woman like me, and wait until his return. I’ve wired him to inform him of the tragedy.”

The doctor replied kindly, “The body has to be examined without delay so as to allow the burial to take place at the proper time. Don’t worry, Madame. Everything will be over in a matter of minutes.”

She then flung herself helplessly onto a chair and broke into bitter sobs. Meanwhile, I preceded the doctor to Rabab’s room. When I reached the door I could hear Sabah sobbing inside. I pushed the door open and called to her without having the courage to look in the direction of the bed. The servant answered my summons and I prodded her aside to make room for the doctor, who entered the
room without hesitation. Then I closed the door behind him. She asked me about the man I’d brought, but I scolded her impatiently and nudged her out of the parlor. Then I began pacing up and down, my soul in a turmoil that enveloped my every nerve. A deadly melancholy descended upon me as I imagined my beloved wife’s body in the hands of this strange doctor, who would uncover her and handle her without feeling or compassion.

I let forth an agonized groan, and I felt a sharp pain that seemed to be tearing my heart to shreds. I spent some moments in a stupor, imagining myself the victim of a demonic nightmare. I looked around me as though I were searching for an escape hatch. But had I forgotten the pallid, handkerchief-bound face as death’s fearsome specter crouched upon her brow? Lord! Little by little I was returning to myself, leaving behind the world of madness that had taken hold of me for the real world of loss and grief. The horrific reality took shape before me in a kind of solemn stillness, as though I were comprehending for the first time that Rabab had really died. She was no longer among the living, and my life would be devoid of her forever. She would never come back to my house as her mother had said she would. Never again would I accompany her to the tram stop in the morning, and never again would I greet her in the afternoon after her return from school as she fought off fatigue with a sweet smile. Tender youth had come to an end, and a flaming love had been snuffed out. Hopes and more hopes had withered and dried up. Where was that happy history that had begun at the tram stop, woven its memories out of the ethereal stuff of love, taken me roaming through the valleys of bliss, then created me anew? Where was that enchanting history? Had it really
come to an end in a moment through the error of some foolish doctor? And what fault of mine was it?

Death is a dreadful tragedy. Yet it isn’t convincing. Hadn’t I been talking to her just a few hours earlier? Hadn’t she been like a succulent rose just a day or two before? So how could I believe that she and the first person to have died millions of years before were now one and the same? Besides, she was still alive in my soul. I could see her with my own eyes, and hear her, and touch her, and smell her! She still filled my heart and soul. So was there no way to correct a simple mistake?

Just then there was a movement—I didn’t know whether it was coming from the outer parlor or from the chamber of sorrows. Be that as it may, it brought me back to my senses, and I began thinking about the doctor and what he was doing. It also brought me back to my turmoil, my anxiety, and my fears. What would I do if the doctor found nothing of significance? How would I face people later? How I hoped for God to punish the murderer! Even so, I remained in a state of such turmoil that I lost touch with myself and my reason. Time dragged on until I imagined that I’d grown old and decrepit and was dying. Then the door to the room opened and the doctor emerged with a blank expression that told me nothing. He advanced a few steps until he was in the middle of the parlor. I stood before him with my mouth open and my gaze fixed on him.

Running his fingers over his brow, he said plainly, “I’ve finished writing my report. I’ll submit it right away to the public prosecutor, and I believe it calls for an immediate investigation.”

I
should have felt relieved and vindicated. But instead, my strength suddenly gave out on me and I collapsed onto the nearest chair, then sprawled my legs out and nearly fell asleep. The only thing that happened during the waiting period that followed the doctor’s departure was that Madame Nazli and Sabah went rushing to the deceased’s room and proceeded to weep and wail at the top of their lungs. I glanced over at the small parlor, where I saw Dr. Amin Rida pacing the floor with slow, heavy steps while the policeman sat on a chair at the reception room door.

At twelve-thirty the doorbell rang. The policeman got up and opened the door, and the district attorney came in followed by a clerk and another policeman. My heart pounding with fright at the sight of the government officials, I rose to my feet and walked up to the man, then raised my hand in greeting. He asked about the deceased’s room, then proceeded there right away followed by the clerk. Not having the courage to follow them there, I waited
outside, and a few minutes later they were back. The man glanced around him, then went to the reception room with me close on his heels. He sat down on a sofa, while the clerk sat down on a nearby chair and spread his papers out on a table. After asking me my name, age, and job, he asked me to relate whatever information I had about what had happened. I complied with his request and the clerk recorded every word I said. Then he called for Dr. Amin Rida, who came in looking stony-faced and pallid. He allowed him to sit down in front of him, then addressed himself to me, saying, “You’re free to stay if you’d like.”

There was something in his tone of voice that sounded more like a command than an invitation. In any case, I was dying to be there for the interrogation. So, filled with dread and anticipation, I sat down on a chair next to the sofa the interrogator was sitting on. The man began by asking him general questions, such as his name, his age, and his occupation.

Then he said to him, “Can you tell me how you first became involved in this situation?”

Without hesitation, Dr. Amin said, “I was called upon to visit the patient at around nine this morning, and I found her in a great deal of pain. When I examined her, I found that the peritoneum was inflamed and needed immediate surgery. So I decided to perform the operation in order to save the patient’s life. I gave her mother my opinion and she agreed to allow me to proceed, so I performed the operation right away. However, it happened that the membrane was punctured in such a way that my efforts to save her were in vain, and she died.”

“Had you treated the patient at any previous time?”

“No.”

“Not even in connection with this final illness?”

“No. However, I learned that she’d been ill in bed for one night and that they thought she had a cold.”

“Has this family been in the habit of calling on you when one of its members falls ill?”

“This has never happened before. However, I’ve only been practicing medicine for a little over a year, and I don’t recall anyone in the family having fallen ill during this period of time.”

“Do you think that if any of them had fallen ill, they would have called on you?”

“The fact is that they did call on me the first time they were faced with this situation.”

“Don’t they know what your specialization is?”

“Yes, they do. However, the seriousness of the patient’s condition caused the mother to seek out my help due to the fact that my clinic is nearby, and because I’m her relative.”

“I don’t see anything in these circumstances that might influence one’s choice of physician. Besides, how could you yourself agree to treat a pathological condition that you knew to be outside your area of expertise? In such circumstances, don’t doctors generally recommend that the appropriate doctor be called upon?”

“I thought it most fitting to answer the call right away. Consequently, I went with the idea that it was a case of fainting, a severe stomachache, or something of that nature, and which wouldn’t be difficult for any doctor to treat. I believe this is what the people who called on me were thinking as well.”

“However, you found the situation to be more serious than you had expected. So what did you do?”

At this point the doctor refrained from answering. Instead, he lowered his head in embarrassment, as if he were pondering the matter.

“Why didn’t you recommend that a surgeon be called?” asked the interrogator.

“The operation needed to be performed without delay.”

“Had you done any surgeries prior to this?”

“In medical school, of course.”

“I mean, since then.”

“No.”

“I can hardly imagine your having undertaken to perform this dangerous operation!”

In a slightly altered, irritable tone of voice, Dr. Amin said, “I told you that the patient’s condition was critical, and that it required that the operation be performed without delay!”

“And how did you obtain the necessary medical instruments? Were they in your clinic?”

For the first time, the doctor hesitated before replying.

Then he said, “No.”

“How did you get them, then?”

“From a colleague of mine.”

“A surgeon?”

“Yes.”

“And why didn’t you bring the colleague himself?”

“He was scheduled to do other work at the same time.”

“Who might this doctor be?”

He hesitated again. Then his pallid face flushed and in a low voice he said, “The fact is, I brought them from the hospital, from the Fuad I Hospital.”

“Aside from the question of whether this behavior was sound from an administrative point of view, wouldn’t it
have been more appropriate for you—since you must have realized that you’d have to spend some time getting the instruments in an illegitimate manner—wouldn’t it have been more appropriate for you to call a surgeon, especially in view of the fact that calling him wouldn’t have taken any more time than it would take to bring the instruments?”

He thought for some time. Then, obviously unsettled, he said, “I was so upset over the patient’s condition, I didn’t think about that.”

“It would be more logical to say that precisely because you were upset over her condition, you should have thought about it. Supposing what you say is true, why didn’t you take the patient to the hospital, where there are plenty of specialists?”

“Her mother wouldn’t agree to have her taken to the hospital.”

“Wouldn’t this have been less dangerous than placing her in the hands of someone with no experience? However, we’ll leave this issue aside for now.…”

The interrogator spread out a piece of paper before him and scanned its contents.

Then he sat up straight and said, “What do you think of this? I’m reviewing the medical examiner’s report, which asserts that an inflammation of the peritoneum doesn’t call for the kind of haste you’re talking about. In other words, it’s different from situations such as certain cases of appendicitis, for example. What do you say about that?”

The doctor fell into a deep silence, while the gleam in his eyes revealed his disquiet and the intensity of his thoughts.

The interrogator went on, saying, “The report also says that this operation takes several hours to prepare for, during which time the patient is generally given an enema.
Were you not aware of these basic principles relating to the art of surgery?”

“I learned that the patient had been given an enema yesterday evening, and that she hadn’t eaten anything since that time.”

“Was she given the enema in preparation for the operation?”

“No. It was given to her based on the fact that she was thought to have a cold. As for the idea of the operation, it didn’t come up until after I arrived this morning.”

At this point I began paying even closer attention, and I was amazed that no one had mentioned to me that my wife had been given an enema. I remembered how she’d been kept in this house despite the fact that she could have come home, if even in a taxi, and an ominous sense of uncertainty and confusion came over me.

Then the interrogator said, “What I have here is an operation that was performed with maniacal speed for no known technical reason, by a doctor who isn’t a surgeon and who could, no doubt, have called on a surgeon with the proper qualifications. What is the meaning of this?”

The interrogator cast the doctor a cold, penetrating look. I looked back and forth between the two men with a sense of growing anxiety and a strange sort of fear, and I was in such turmoil that I tensed up all over.

Then I heard the interrogator say, “I’m wondering why it was deemed necessary for you in particular to perform this operation, and at this particular time?”

He remained silent for some time, then continued, “And what was the cause of death?”

“A puncture in the peritoneum.”

“The medical examiner states otherwise,” rejoined the interrogator coldly.