* * *
Ludwig nodded his silent thanks to the sister who in turn smiled serenely and left the room with measured prudishness. A couple of oil lamps, one on a plain wooden shelf and another on an equally unadorned table gave off a warm light, accented at times by the flash of lightning pouring in through the small stained glass window. The glass added a reddish hue that seemed to have attracted Ethan’s gaze like a moth to a fire, his face set in stone, perched inside the cups of his hands.
Ludwig took a cigarette from his pack, his hands still shaking. He was about to offer it to Ethan when he suddenly rose up from the small cot and blinked furiously as if awaking from a long, deep slumber of which he had no recollection. Ethan asked him then:
“How is everyone?”
The doctor lit the cigarette and stared outside the window, even though there was nothing to see but dark, pouring rain and a circus of fleeting, random shadows. His voice sounded unassumingly flat:
“The driver is running a high fever. He’s on antibiotics and I removed as much of the shrapnel as I could under the circumstances. Nothing can be done about his hearing. Tartoovi and Donaldson have probably gone deaf for life. I had to sedate them. They’re sleeping now. The rest, some small cuts, bruises and the occasional dislocation or sprain.”
“That’s good to hear.”
The doctor’s eyes suddenly seemed to pop while his face tensed with seeping anger at those words.
“Is that some sick joke, Mr. Owls? People died tonight, for God’s sake!”
“It could have been worse. There could have been more dead on that trail.”
A flash of lightning cast a freakish shadow in the small guestroom. A few moments passed before the sound of thunder rolled by, when Ludwig managed to speak again:
“What kind of person says such a thing? These people…”
“They’re dead, and you have to live with that. Deal with it, Ludwig. There’s nothing that can be done about it now.”
Ludwig stood with a half-opened mouth, seemingly unable to find the right words.
“How can you be so… Detached? I mean, they were… Jesus, Richard.”
Ethan gave the doctor a long hard stare. His eyes seemed to waver a little, while his visage remained stern and grave-looking. His voice was pitched lower than usual:
“It happens after a while, doctor. It keeps me sane, it keeps me alive. It’s not something to be proud of, but that’s just as human as curling up in a corner and crying, blaming yourself or others.”
Another thunder reverberated inside the small chamber, the tiny flame in the oil lamp on the shelf trembling in tune. Ludwig put out his cigarette and took off his glasses. He reached into his pockets and produced a small piece of linen with which he started cleaning his glasses. Ethan began to say something when the doctor spoke to him without meeting his gaze:
“It seems you have everything worked out. You know your way around people dying, dealing with traumatic disorders and guilt. So tell me, please, is it normal if I feel like punching you in the face?”
Ethan paused for a moment, and shrugged almost apologetically. He replied:
“If you think it’ll make you feel better, then by all means. I’m not your problem though. You’re still emotional from what happened, and that’s just –”
Ludwig’s fist connected with Ethans cheekbone and stopped him mid-sentence. Before he slammed the frail door behind him as he left the room, Ludwig shouted in a fit of rage:
“Emotional?! What would you know about emotions?”
Ethan was caught off-guard, but recovered quickly enough. He rushed outside the small guestroom and onto an ill-lit corridor. Even as he started off to follow the doctor, a figure suddenly appeared to be blocking his way. He stopped and looked genuinely surprised when he saw a tall, slender woman sporting a look that could have pierced a hole through his face. Subdued light poured off a small opening to her right. She was still holding the tattered curtain that served as a door when she sternly told Ethan in an unmistakably French accent:
“For God’s sake, be quiet!”
“I’m sorry about the noise and all, sister but it really is none of your business so –”
The slap across Ethan’s face came out almost out of nowhere. It jolted him back into the deep memory of a well-mannered childhood for only a tiny moment and the accented yet quite clear voice served to reattach his awareness into the current state of affairs and a very irate woman:
“It is my business and I’m not anyone’s sister! These people need peace and quiet!” she said and pulled back the curtain to reveal a cluster of makeshift beds, cots and matresses filled with people.
“Who the hell are you lady?”
“My name’s Nicole Heurgot, I’m a nurse and whoever you are you have a big mouth and an even bigger as-”
“Mademoiselle, ca suffit!”
The mother superior appeared through the curtain and she looked rather disappointed at such an exchange of words. She said to Ethan:
“Monsieur Owls, please. If you must, take this outside. There are sick and wounded in here and not just from your caravan. Et vous, mademoiselle Heurgot, calme toi. S’il vous-plait.”
And with that, she returned inside to the makeshift bed chamber posing as a nursing station.
Nicole’s stare was still hard when she said to Ethan, who was almost stunned in place:
“Not an English gentleman at all, are you?”
Ethan tried to sound apologetic when he said:
“Listen, I’m sorry but some people died today and we got into a heated debate. I wouldn’t expect you to be that understanding.”
He actually sounded more like some kind of elitist snob who thought people were incapable of doing anything right.
Nicole retorted with an accusing, yet hushed tone:
“People tend to do that thing around here. You assume too much. Perhaps you’re in the wrong place.”
Her feisty attitude only served to make Ethan’s head cock sideways before he replied with a sleight hint of aggravation:
“I’d be inclined to say the same about you.”
“And you’d be wrong,” Nicole said before adding:
“Your sort usually are. Why don’t you take some pictures in there? Isn’t that what you came here for after all?”
It was a verbal attack; even though her voice was kept low at all times, she sounded positively miffed. Ethan found that agressiveness almost attractive. He was smiling thinly when he told her:
“You really don’t like me at all, do you?”
With a gaze slightly reminiscent of the mythic gorgon she simply answered with another thinly veiled insult: “Vultures you mean? Nobody does.”
Ethan pondered about that word for a moment and thought it funny that a journalist could draw more fire than a solder. He then told Nicole, “I think you’re biased. I said I’m sorry and I really mean it. I was trying to apologise to Ludwig when I ran into you.”
Pointing to the small nursing station behind her she said with demanding undertones in her voice:
“Well you should apologise to these people as well.”
Ethan tried to sound like a gentleman, using a grin that was in truth better suited to guile the unscrupulous sort of women that seemed already hooked by the sight of a Royal Marine uniform:
“Can I start by apologising to you?”
“If this is your idea of English charm, you’re more misguided than you look,” replied Nicole with a shake of her head and an almost sympathising grimace on her face.
The more distant she became, the more Ethan’s interest was piqued by what he felt like was a genuine example of the kind of women he rarely met: the hard ones. “You’re a very unforgiving person for a nurse, do you know that?” he said, this time without a grin or a smile.
Nicole kept at him in the same vein:
“And you’re hardly a person yourself.”
“Listen, I think we’ve started on the wrong foot here. Please, give me a ch
ance to make amends,” said Ethan, sounding genuinely sincere. It had little effect:
“I think I’ve wasted enough time with you already, Mr. Owls. Go back to your room and be thankful there are people who care, like the mother superior. People tolerant enough even to the likes of your kind.”
“Ah, vultures you mean? You make it sound like this whole bloody mess is my fault.”
She shrugged and said, looking suddenly morose instead of angry: “I just don’t see how taking pictures of death, destruction and starving children can do any good.”
Ethan replied in a very serious tone, in an almost dangerous display of frankness, “Would it do any good if I was carrying a rifle instead?”
She paused for a moment, looking at Ethan with a set of piercing blue eyes that seemed to be trying to peer beyond those last few words of his:
“We wouldn’t even be talking if that was the case. Now please, haranguing me like that won’t get you anywhere. I have much more pressing matters to attend to,” she said and made to leave while Ethan’s gaze floated around until it met her left arm, where a piece of gauze stuck out from under her sleeve.
“Like that arm of yours? You’re injured yourself, aren’t you?”
“You think you have a keen eye for misery? If only you were so thoughtful of everyone else as well,” she said with evident disapproval.
Ethan just threw his hands in the air and said:
“For God’s sake, you haven’t even given me a chance, right from the start.”
Nicole was looking at him when she suddenly smiled ironically and said: “You think it’s unfair?”
Ethan waved a hand above his head and replied: “This whole business is unfair to everyone here. Shouldn’t you allow for some leeway, even when dealing with vultures?”
She paused for a moment, as if measuring everything about Ethan with a casual glance from head to toe:
“If you want some leeway and if you’re willing to really apologize and make amends, then come lend a hand. You can carry things around without taking any pictures, can’t you?” she said, following her question up with a smile that might not have been as ironic as the last one.
“The lighting’s all bad anyway,” replied Ethan with a grin that came across as a bad touch.
“I find your sense of humor out of place,” said Nicole flatly.
“I try, but I always end up in the wrong place for some reason,” said Ethan and nodded to himself. Nicole replied with a frank voice:
“You’re a complex man, Mr. Owls.”
Ethan smiled thinly before he crossed his arms and said:
“I thought I was a vulture.”
“You might still prove to be just that.”
“I can’t really change your mind, can I?” he said and shook his head.
As she pulled the curtain to the nursing station aside, she showed the way inside and said with what seemed to be her genuine smile:
“You can try.”
On The Riverside Of Promise Page 8