Man, Woman and Child (16 page)

"Then operate," Bob ordered. "Operate now*'

"I can understand your concern, Mr. Beckwith. But surgeons, like everyone else, must live by the rules."

"Don't worry about a malpractice suit, dammit," Bob said angrily. "I'll indemnify you."

The surgeon remained phlegmatic and persistent. "Mr. Beckwith, my French is fluent. I can explain the entire situation to this Monsieur Venargues."

Bob was desperate.

"Doctor, may I tell you something in confidence?"

"We've both taken the Hippocratic oath," said Shelton, nodding in the direction of the intern.

"May I speak to you alone?" said Bob, steeling himself.

"Uh—I'll check on Dr. Keith's progress," said the fidgety young man. "We'll be using OR two." And he dashed off. Bob and Shelton were alone.

"Yes?'' said the surgeon.

"I can sign in loco parentis'' Bob feared this uptight martinet might think it was a dodge.

''What precisely is your relationship?"

"I-Fm his father."

"But you just told me—-"

"Out of wedlock/' Bob said quickly. "His mother is Dr. Nicole Guerin. She's on the medical faculty at Montpellier, France. I mean, was. She died a month ago."

Bob's intuition was right. The irrelevant fact that the boy's mother had been a medical colleague made a curiously positive impression on Dr. Shel-ton.

"Is this really the truth?" he asked.

"Call my wife. She'll verify it," said Bob.

The doctor was convinced.

The operation dragged on and on. Bob sat on a plastic chair in the now empty waiting room and tried to control his feeling of frantic helplessness. It was impossible. He blamed himself for ever}/'thing. At about a quarter to three he caught sight of the intern.

"Excuse me, Doctor/' he called out meekly. "May I see you for a moment?" His attitude toward the young physician had changed markedly.

"Yes, Mr. Beckwith?"

"How serious is peritonitis?"

"Well, in young children it can be a pretty dicey thing."

"Meaning what? Can it be fatal?"

"Well, sometimes in children . . ." ' "Jesus!"

"Dr. Shelton is really a fine surgeon, Mr. Beckwith."

''Still, there's a chance he could die, isn't there?'' *Tes, Mr. Beckwith/' he said quietly.

"Hello, Sheila."

*'Bob—I've been so worried. Is he all right?"

''He's got a burst appendix. They're operating right now."

"Should I come over?"

"No. Tliere's no point. Stay with the girls. I'll call as soon as there's news."

"Will he be all right?" she asked, hearing the panic in his voice.

"Yes, of course," he replied, trying to believe it, so he could at least convince her.

"Well, call me the instant you know. Please, honey. The girls are very upset too."

"Yeah. Try not to worry. Give them my love."

Bob hung up and walked back to his chair. He sat down and put his head in his hands. And at last gave in to the terrible sorrow he had, by some miracle, been able to suppress for the past six hours.

Ijrilliant lecture, Bob," said Robin Taylor of Oxford.

''Comme d'habitude," said Reae Moncourget of the Sorbonne.

^'Especially considering the hardships of your journey," added Daniel Moulton, chief of IBM in Montpellier. "Just to make your way here during all the strikes was nothing short of heroic."

Indeed, for Robert Beckwith of MIT to reach southern France during the turbulent days of May 1968 had been a Herculean task. But the hardest labor was not so much having to fly to Barcelona, then rent an asthmatic car to drive across the Pyrennees all the way to Montpellier. It was that the entire expedition was in the company of his colleague P. Herbert Harrison.

For instead of marveling at the beauty of the Mediterranean or the splendors of the Cote Ver-meille, Harrison held forth incessantly on academic politics. Or more specifically, why he disliked everyone in the profession.

''Except you, of course, Bob. Youve always been decent to me. And naturally Vve been true blue to you. Have I once complained that by seniority I

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should he chairman? No^ ifs just our wretched colleagues—boring mediocrities. Whom, after all, did the French invite to this congress? And do you know what that snide fool Jamison said to me just before we left?"

'*Say, Herb, weWe going to pass right by Nar-bonne. Don't you think we could take a half hour or so to look around? The cathedral is—"

"I think we'd better press on, Bob. I mean, we do have a commitment and it's likely with this ungodly French mess they havent even gotten our cable."

''Yeah. Well, would you mind taking the wheel for a bit. Herb?"

''Equity bids no less, Bob. Still, you seem to be enjoying yourself, so why stand on ceremony? Besides, you know what Mrs, Harrison says about my driving."

Oh, God, Bob thought, what did I ever do to deserve this? Why the hell couldn't Sheila have come? She seems to have a way of charming this asshole into silence.

As if the drive had not been sufficiently grueling. The Hotel M^tropole had placed the American professors Beckwith and Harrison in adjoining rooms. Bob was therefore subjected to relentless carping after each day's meetings. Everyone in the world of statistics, it seemed, was second rate. No wonder Harrison had insisted on giving the final lecture on the final afternoon. Though he loathed his colleagues, he still dreaded their criticism. His fat head was matched only by his thin skin.

After his own paper. Bob was too relieved and euphoric even to care what Harrison might say about him. And so he began to ease away from the group of well-wishers.

^'Aren't you coming to lunch with us, Bob?" called Harrison.

^'Thanks, Herb. But Vd like to unwind a bit."

Harrison now sidled up to him.

''Beckwith, you can't leave me with Moncourget and those other characters. They're lightweights. I won't be sharp for my paper. I mean, that Taylor is an absolute—"

"Sorry, Herb, but I'm really too keyed up. If I can take a little walk I'll be fresher for your performance."

"No, Bob," the colleague pleaded. "Besides, it's dangerous. Didn't you hear about the bomb they threw?"

"That was last week, Herb."

"But there are bound to be reprisals. The concierge told me there'd be some big march today. Thousands of rabid students in the streets." (Harrison always cringed when he said "students.")

"That's okay," Bob replied. "I've had rabies shots." And he started down the cobblestone street.

"Beckwith, you're deserting a colleague," called Harrison.

Tough shit, thought Bob. And prayed for the day he might actually shout it

He headed toward the Place de la Comedie, stopping every so often to admire the elegant eighteenth-century town houses. The closer he came to the center of town, the louder became the noise of the marching students. He could not help noticing police vans crouched in the tinier off-streets. Like tigers waiting to pounce. What could they possibly be expecting? ,

''Saldud! Putain de flic! Espkce de fachaudr Ahead of him in the narrow street, several policemen had stopped two female students in jeans.

They had made them turn and place their hands against the wall. What kind of bust was this? he wondered. The cops were frisking the girls, especially their hindquarters. They can't be carr}dng weapons, Bob thought. Their pants are too tight.

He drew closer. The dialogue between the police and the women was growing steadily more acrimonious, though Bob could not understand all they were saying. He stopped about ten feet away to watch the scene.

''He toi—quest-ce que tu fous U?'^

One of the policemen had noticed Bob and politely asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing.

"Nothing," he replied in his best Yale French. But now both officers were moving toward him.

''Tes papiers/' ordered the one who had just addressed him.

His papers? Both his passport and his driver's license were back at the hotel. And his tie and jacket were back in the lecture hall. He didn't look too professorial. The two policemen were now upon him. "Ef dors?'' said the junior officer.

*Tm an American," said Bob, hoping that would solve matters.

"Parle Frangais, conard'' snarled the larger officer.

'Tm a professor," Bob said, again in French.

''Sure," said the cop, ''and my ass is ice cream."

"Leave him alone," called one of the two girls, "or he'll have Nixon bomb your prefecture/"

This threat did not deter the officers, who were now crowding Bob against a wall. "Where the hell are your papers?" they demanded, grabbing him by the shirt.

"In my hotel, dammit," he said angrily. "Metro-pole, room 204."

'^Bullshit," said the cop, and slammed him against the house. Bob was now frightened and put up his hand to fend off a blow he sensed imminent.

And he was right, for he suddenly felt a sharp crack at his forehead, which stunned him. One of the girls ran up and began a torrent of abuse which somehow made an impression on Bob's aggressors. They began to back off, warning, ''Next time carry your papers."

Bob was shaking as they marched to their car and, ignoring the women, sped off.

"Thanks," he said to the girl who had saved him. She was slender and raven-haired. ''What exactly did you tell him?"

"I just showed the pig you were wearing your hello card."

"My what?"

She pointed to his shirt pocket. Pinned to it was his conference name tag, courtesy IBM:

hello! my name is:

Robert Beck with

MIT

U.S.A.

"Sorry about your head," said the girl. "You'd better let me take a look at it."

Bob put his hand to his temple. It was swollen and bleeding. And starting to throb.

"The bastard punched me," he muttered. He had never been struck in his life. "Maybe I should go to the hospital."

"No need. I'll make a house call. Or you might say a street call."

"You're a doctor?"

"Yes. And Simone over there is a third-year student. Come on, I've got my stuff in the trunk."

Bob walked, a bit unsteadily, to the red Dauphine convertible the girls were driving. Simone opened the trunk and handed the doctor her kit. She opened a bottle and began to dab Bob's wound.

''It's fairly superficial/' she said as she placed several gauze sponges on the injured area and wrapped a pressure dressing around his forehead.

''How's your equilibrium?"

*'I don't know."

"I'd better take a closer look," she replied. "That wasn't a fist he hit you with—it was his matraque."

"His billy club? Jesus! What did I do?"

"Watch him feel us up without a ticket." She smiled. "Come into the cafe down there. Can you walk okay?"

"Yes."

Once inside, she led him to a fairly dark comer, took out an ophthalmoscope and began to peer into Bob's eyes, her forehead close to his.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Smelling your aftershave lotion," she replied. "It's sexy."

Bob gave a nervous laugh. They were standing head to head.

"No, seriously," he asked again.

"I'm checking your pupillary reflexes."

"I'm not a pupil, I'm a teacher," he joked.

"You're not a comedian, either," she replied.

"Am I okay?" he asked seriously.

"I'm pretty sure, but the light in here isn't terribly good. I suggest you go back to your hotel and lie down with a cold compress. And take two aspirins."

"Ah, aspirin—now I know you're a serious doctor."

The blue-jeaned physician threw back her dark hair and laughed.

"Do you want a ride?" she asked, still smiling.

'*No, thanks. I think a walk would do me good." He started out of the caf6. She called after him.

''Listen, if you don't feel better, be sure to come to the hospital before six."

"Why six?"

"Because that's when I get off. Ask for Dr. Guerin. Nicole Guerin."

B

ECKWITH, ARE YOU IN THERE?

Someone was pounding on Bob's head—or was it the door of his hotel room? Gradually he realized it was the latter. He stood up and started slowly towards the noisy door, and opened it.

'Tou missed my lecture, Beckwith." It was Harrison.

"Sorry, Herb. I ran into a little trouble."

He finally noticed Bob's bandage. ''What happened to your head?''

''Two cops . . ."

*'0h. Have you seen a doctor?"

"Yeah. In the street."

"Bob, you're not making any sense. We'd better get out of here. This country's in chaos and the streets are full of wretched students."

"Thanks for dropping by," said Bob woozily. "I've got to lie down now."

"Beckwith, you forget I'm delivering my paper again in Salzburg day after tomorrow. We've got to start driving immediately."

"Herbert, I've just been mugged. I'm in no shape to drive anywhere."

P. Herbert remained single-minded. "Bob, if we

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drive to Milan you could get a plane to Boston, and I could fly on to Salzburg. Come on. The hotel could be bombed at any moment/'

''Relax, Herb. Don't be paranoid. We'll get a good night's sleep and leave first thing in the morn-

"Impossible. Absolutely out of the question. I have a professional duty to discharge and I won't jeopardize my good name."

''Then you'll have to drive yomselL Herb" (That'll call your bluflf.)

u.iy^^ ^^^^^" ^^^^ ^^e colleague heroically. Where are the keys?"

Though a bit surprised, Bob was still willing to part with the car if it meant getring rid of Harrison. He reached into his pocket and handed over the keys.

"I feel bad leaving you like this," said P. Herbert not lookmg at all remorseful. "How will vou eet out?" ^ ^

^]When the strike ends, I'll fly through Paris."

'But how will you contact Sheila? They don't seem to be taking any calls. Not even overseas."

'Well, you might be kind enough to phone her from Austria, okay? Don't mendon my head. Just say the IBM guys asked me to stay a few more days and 111 call her as soon as the phones work "

"I'll be glad to."

;]Thanks."