1993 - The Blue Afternoon (26 page)

“May I?” He removed the mask that covered it: the man’s skin was practically grey. Carriscant recognised him.

“The left lung collapsed,” Dr Filomeno explained.

Carriscant nodded. This was the man he had seen in Cruz’s ward just two days previously. But the nurse had said nothing about a wound in the heart. In the pericardium, she had said. Carriscant’s mind began to work: the man could not have had this gash in the heart then or he would have died within the hour. A tiny perforation perhaps, that had been his diagnosis, but not a wound of this size. So where had he received this neat wound that Cruz had sutured? Surely, not even Cruz could be so—

“Cardiac sutures,” Cruz taunted. “Cardiac sutures, Carriscant.”

“This man will die.”

“I doubt it. The bleeding has stopped. The lung will reflate.”

“Even so. No, it’s the filth of this place that will do for him. Look at you. I saw you run your fingers through your hair just before you touched his heart.”

“Modern nonsense, Carriscant. Modish dogma.”

“You might as well have operated on a cadaver.”

“Professional jealousy is the most demeaning of emotions, wouldn’t you say, Filomeno?”

“Without any kapffneu!” Filomeno sneezed, his hand going to his nose a second too late. Carriscant turned away and looked around at the foetid, badly lit room full of people in their street clothes, scratching and sniffing, the dried blood and feculence of dozens of operations stiff and crumbling on their coat fronts.

A porter appeared at the doorway. “A gentleman is here from the Manila Times, sir,” he said.

Carriscant could not resist. Later he wished he had let Cruz suffer the full force of public humiliation and ignominy but this personal victory was too sweet to be resisted.

“I congratulate you on your sutures, Cruz. Neat work, as always. But you’re too late. If I were you I would set out straightaway on the road of aseptic surgery. Who knows, you might achieve great things.”

“What do you mean,
too late
?”

“Seven years too late to be precise. The first cardiac sutures performed on a living patient—who survived—took place in 1896. Frankfurt-am-Main. Dr Louis Rehn was the surgeon.” He smiled. “Nice try. Now if you’ll excuse me I have an official entertainment to attend.”

The launch was waiting for them at the wharf by the Cold Storage buildings. Carriscant helped Annaliese down into the well behind the engine and waited as the other members of their party climbed aboard. The night air was sultry and warm and he found himself wondering why formal receptions in the tropics had to be governed by the same manners and decorum suitable for temperate climates. To be wearing a tail coat, a stiff collar and white tie to attend a function on an island in the middle of the China Sea seemed to be ludicrously pretentious, not to say sheer folly. All his satisfaction at having put Cruz so unequivocally in his place had evaporated, to be replaced by irritation and bad grace. He dropped down into the launch and it was pushed away from the wharf and began to motor up the Pasig towards the Malacanan Palace. Here at least was some relief, a little coolness, and he stretched his neck above his collar and spread his moist palms to catch the breeze created by their progress. Around him, chattering excitedly, were the members of their party—Annaliese’s friends, not his, he corrected himself. The invitation had been extended to the bishop and his staff, hence Annaliese’s insistence that they go. He looked back at them: Mr and Mrs Freer, middle-aged English, he an oculist; Monsieur and Madame Champoursin, he was a journalist; Señora Pilar Prospero, headmistress of the cathedral school; Father Agoncillo, a plump young priest and a special friend of Annaliese; and Mrs Kelly, a friend of the Freers, wife of a veterinary surgeon in Iloilo, visiting Manila for a month. What an impoverished crowd, he thought sourly. The men were all in evening dress like him, the women might have been going to a ball in any provincial city in Europe—long dresses, petticoats, demure jewels, silk, lace and taffeta, corsets and hair-combs and high-heeled slippers. One or two carried fans, otherwise they might have been in Aberdeen or Bristol, Lyons or Hamburg, Genoa or Seville. He was determined, at all costs, not to enjoy himself.

He soon saw the Palace ahead, the gardens down to the river bright with Chinese lanterns and the wide arches on its ground—and first-floor facade picked out with strings of red and yellow electric lights. They disembarked and moved through the surprising number of people to the receiving line. Governor and Mrs Taft stood on a small dais beneath a flapping sailcloth canopy. To one side the constabulary band was seated in a semicircle energetically playing a gavotte and just beyond them, laid over some lawn tennis courts, was an open-air ballroom with three banked rows of seats surrounding it. In various positions about the gardens were buffets of food and small tables with punch bowls. The Stars and Stripes was draped everywhere: how the Americans loved their flag, he thought.

He shook Taft’s hand. The man looked grotesque in his evening wear, more obese than ever. His bulging face was pink and shiny with sweat but he greeted everybody with unchanging geniality, shaking their hands vigorously and repeating “pleased to meet you, very pleased to meet you”, in the American manner. Carriscant waited a little awkwardly as Annaliese chatted to Mrs Taft. He could not tell if the Governor recognised him—his welcome displayed the same booming familiarity to everyone—and he thought this was not the time to remind him of their last encounter. Taft smoothed his moustache and grinned at him like a jolly uncle. Carriscant gave him a little smile in return. He wondered vaguely if Bobby had told him about the murdered woman? The band struck up ‘Campdown Races’ and Taft jovially conducted a few bars.

“My absolute favourite,” he said, seemingly directing the remark to Carriscant, though he appeared to be looking into the middle distance.

“What? I’m sorry, I—”

“Such a pretty tune. Always cheers me up.”

“Indeed.”

To his relief Annaliese had finished her conversation and at last he could shake Mrs Taft’s limp hand, smile at her and move on. He steered Annaliese towards a table where punch was being served by Chinese waiters. Big chunks of ice floated in a suspiciously peat-coloured liquid. It was hard to tell what its constituents were but at least it was cold. And powerful. Carriscant drained his first cupful and went back for a refill. Already he could feel the alcohol working on him: perhaps he could survive this evening after all.

He strolled with Annaliese towards the band, stopping to exchange some words with acquaintances. They stood and watched the musicians in their blue uniforms with red epaulettes as they played the official Rigodon to start the dancing and the first couples moved on to the dance floor. Carriscant felt slowed and dulled by the rush of the alcohol, a little addled by the punch, and found his gaze resting on an elegant mestiza, her oiled hair hanging in a glossy dark sheet over a hand painted camisa with intricate whorls of embroidery worked on the fan-shaped sleeves. Never seen one quite so delicately done, he thought, and turned to point it out to Annaliese, but she had moved off some paces to talk to Father Agoncillo.

“Good evening, Dr Carriscant.” His blood stopped and he felt his innards slip and tumble.

She stood a few yards away, in a long slate-blue dress with a tightly cinched waist. She carried a slim ebony cane with a silver handle. Her hair was piled high on her head in a style he had not seen before, curled and wild. Her eyes were clear and smiling, and the low frilled front of her dress showed her collarbones and the freckled paleness of her chest.

Annaliese rejoined him.

“My dear, I don’t think you’ve met Mrs Sieverance.” He presented Annaliese. “My wife, Annaliese.”

“Mrs Sieverance, I’m glad to see you looking so well.”

“Ah, thanks only to your husband, Mrs Carriscant.”

There was a hellish silence.

“What…I mean, no. Ah, no discomfort? No difficulties in any—”

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” she said, smiling. “The cane, I must confess, is a bit of a luxury. One hates to abandon such a dashing accessory.”

“Yes,” he said, stupidly, seeing her glance at Annaliese. “Yes.”

“Is your husband here?” Annaliese asked.

“He’s in Mindanao. They’re having trouble, I believe, with the insurrectos.”

He felt he was about to collapse. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I see Chief Bobby there.” He gave a small bow and marched off, leaving them talking. He had not seen Bobby but he made directly for a crowd of people around a buffet table where he drank two more cupfuls of punch and tried to regain his composure. He filled a plate with savoury biscuits shaped in stars to take back to Annaliese. He felt…He did not know what he felt. He had never seen anyone so beautiful, he thought. He had never physically desired someone so much: the pressure of being beside her and of not being able to touch her had been intolerable, shocking. After a few moments he managed to calm himself down, saw that Annaliese was alone again and crossed the lawn to rejoin her.

“What’re these?”

“I thought you might be hungry.”

“No thank you.” He handed the plate to a passing waiter.

“Very much the Gibson Girl,” Annaliese said, patronisingly. “Very. What must she think of us poor colonials?”

“Who?”

“Your Mrs Sieverance. She’s certainly
got right there
as they say. Must have six inches of hair pads. At least.”

“She’s made an excellent recovery.”

“I think that all that untidy hair makes them look like shop girls.”

“To be out and about after an operation of that seriousness is—”

“Vulgar. So American.”

Later, when Annaliese was sitting round the dance floor with Mrs Freer and Madame Champoursin, Carriscant took his opportunity to slip away and go in search of her. He saw her standing under a frangipani tree talking to some Americans—he thought he recognised one from that night on the Luneta—and he passed close enough to the group so that she would see him. He went to a table draped in the Stars and Stripes and ordered yet another punch—he felt awash with punch, but there was nothing else for it.

“Hello again, Dr Carriscant.”

He turned to face her. He felt tears sting his eyes. Beyond her he noticed the others glancing over.

“Would you like a—? Can I offer you—?”

She seemed so calm, so controlled. They stood two feet apart. He handed her the punch cup. His hand was trembling and the liquid slopped over the rim.

“You didn’t tell me your wife was so attractive. She was very…polite, I thought.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said thickly. “It’s not important. There’s nothing between us, nothing, I told you.”

“I was a bit surprised, I must say.”

“I’ve missed you,” he said in a low voice, trying to look like he was engaged in superficial chitchat. “I have to see you again. Can you come to the hospital?”

“No. Come to the house, the day after tomorrow. Three in the afternoon. Return my book.”

“I love you,” he said. “I adore you.”

“I know.” She looked at him, that way, then raised her voice. “I’ll bear that in mind, Dr Carriscant. Thank you.”

He looked round. Paton Bobby, beaming, was striding across the lawn towards them.

“Evening, Doctor, you look almost distinguished. Almost. Evening, Mrs Sieverance.”

They shook hands. It was clear, much to Carriscant’s surprise, that Bobby knew her fairly well. Bobby made an appointment to see him the next day and they chatted a while about the situation in Mindanao. After a minute Bobby moved on.

“I must go now,” she said, her eyes big with secret messages.

“Yes,” he said lamely. He felt a thick-tongued dullard. A Cruz semi-mute.

She turned away and sauntered back to her friends. The trembling in Carriscant’s legs forced him to move quickly to the low wall that marked the edge of the garden, where he sat down. It was five minutes before he felt able to go and find Annaliese and suggest that it was time they returned home.

S
he locked the door and turned to face him. He could see she was excited also, her chest rising and falling.

“We have ten minutes,” she said.

They kissed. He held her fiercely to him, his face in the angle of her neck and shoulder. His lips touched her moist skin, feeding off her salt. He breathed in her smell.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “My God, you don’t know how—”

“Don’t cry,” she said, smiling at him. “You’ll set me off.”

“Is the nurse—”

“No. But there are servants. I can’t risk anything.”

They sat down opposite each other, he held both her hands in his, and made every banal declaration to her that he could think of. He kissed her knuckles, pressed them to his forehead.

“I have to be with you,” he said. “It’s killing me. We have to find some way.”

“But what?”

“I don’t know,” he said, real despair in his voice. “I just can’t think.”

“An hotel?”

“In Manila? There are no secrets in this wretched place. Everyone knows me. Everyone watches everyone else. Impossible.” He felt the frustration build in him. “Damn this place. Damn this stinking city.” He sank to his knees in front of her, putting his arms round her hips, burying his face in her lap, feeling her hands on his head, his shoulders.

“I could come to the hospital again,” she whispered. “Maybe just once more. I can’t go unaccompanied too often. I could have another crisis or something. A relapse, maybe.”

“Wednesday, the same time. No-one will be there.”

“Her day off is Friday.”

“Friday, then.” He kissed her, his tongue in her mouth. Her cool mouth, her slick quick tongue. He squeezed her breasts.

“Salvador, no.” She stood up and unlocked the door. She rang a small handbell and sat down, leaving the door ajar. “We have to be careful,” she said. “So very careful. Stay and have tea with me, let all the servants see. Nothing could be more natural. When I write to Jepson I’ll tell him about your visit. Everything must be above suspicion.”

P
antaleon’s hands gripped the edge of the uppermost blade of the propeller. The Aero-mobile stood outside its shed; in front of it stretched eighty yards of new planked roadway.