فصل 12

TWELVE

Mrs. Fisher stands at the Information desk of Guy’s Hospital, on the Southwark bank of the River Thames. She’s waiting for someone to become free to speak to her; this is a huge and very busy hospital. Beside her stands a smallish woman in the trademark raincoat of the American tourist visiting England; her face looks younger than her grey hair. She is Jennifer Field, who has flown from Greenville, South Carolina, to London, alarmed by the astounding news that her nephew Nat is in the hospital suffering from bubonic plague. She looks around her at the bustling, echoing lobby of the hospital, feeling lost.

“I don’t know which ward,” Mrs. Fisher is saying now to a friendly face behind the desk. “They’ve had him isolated, on the top floor. It’s Nathan Field, his doctor is Dr. Ravi Singh.”

The friendly person taps at her computer keyboard, and inspects the screen. “I’m afraid you can’t see him. Not yet.”

“But this is the right time for visiting hours, isn’t it?”

“I’m awfully sorry, but it says ‘Absolutely No Visitors’ against his name.”

“This lady is his aunt, she’s flown all the way from America to see him.”

“Tell you what,” says the friendly person, “I’ll let you talk to the duty nurse.”

She reaches for the telephone, and soon Jennifer Field is explaining herself to the soothing voice of Nurse Stevens.

“Tomorrow,” says Nurse Stevens. “Or maybe the day after. Hasn’t Dr. Singh reached you yet? You’ll see your nephew, you might even be taking him out. He’s much better, we took him off his IV this morning.”

“But can’t I just see him for a moment now? He’d love to see someone from home. This is crazy—what harm could it possibly do?”

Nurse Stevens is inclined to agree, but Dr. Singh is strict, and orders are orders. “I’m sorry, really I am, but Dr. Singh wants to be careful, it being such a rare disease. Don’t worry, Miss Field—Nathan’s going to be fine.”

Jennifer Field says rebelliously, “This is all nonsense. I’m going to call Dr. Singh.”

“Please do,” Nurse Stevens says.

“Well—thank you. It’s not your fault, I guess. Tell Nat—tell him Aunt Jen is here, and sends him a big hug.”

“Indeed I will,” says Nurse Stevens. “Good-bye.” And she puts down the phone, up in the high ward, and wonders how best to communicate this message to the strange boy with the heavy accent that is not quite American and not quite West Country English. He is no longer really ill, thanks to the antibiotics, but seems wholly disoriented, with ho idea of where he is or what has been happening to him.

And what on earth, she wonders, can his background be like? He seems never to have seen a thermometer before, or a washbasin, or even a toilet. He fought like a tiger the first time she tried to put a blood pressure cuff around his arm, and when he had his first glimpse out the window of this fifteenth-floor room, he screamed. As for his personal habits. . . . He picks up food with his fingers, or on the point of his knife, and everything goes downhill from there on. Nurse Stevens plans to get him into a hath today, and to wash his long hair. She expects to become very wet in the process.

She opens the door to Nathan Field’s room, and sees his wide-eyed unhappy face turn toward her, on the pillow.

“I want to go home,” he says. “Prithee, ask thy master to let me go home.”