The Last Good Man

by A. J. Kazinsky

  “I’ve been asked to take a look at your back.”

  “Now?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” He smiled. “I’m not on staff here, you see. The National Hospital no longer has a dermatology department. But it’s been decided that you shouldn’t be moved back and forth to various doctors’ offices. I won’t be able to make a thorough examination right now; I’m just going to have a look to determine whether any sort of treatment is required, and if so, what we should do for you. Could you turn over onto your stomach?”

  Without waiting for a reply, and using a tone of voice that made Niels feel like a baby who hasn’t yet learned to talk, the dermatologist looked at the nurse and said, “Okay? Shall we turn him over?”

  Dr. Wass pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Niels had decided not to make a peep when they took hold of him. The nurse pulled up his shirt. The dermatologist sat down. He took his time. Niels found the waiting time humiliating.

  “Do you need anything?” The student came closer to the doctor.

  “No, thanks. This will only take a minute. I hope this isn’t too uncomfortable.” The last remark was directed at Niels.

  Niels didn’t say a word as the doctor touched his back.

  “Is there any tenderness? Itching?”

  “Not really.”

  “When did you have this done?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The tattoo. Or . . .” The dermatologist fell silent. “Is this a tattoo?”

  “I don’t have any tattoos.” Niels could tell that the doctor didn’t believe him.

  “Are you sure? What about a henna tattoo? Have you been traveling abroad?”

  “I want to see it.”

  “That must be what it is.” The student had decided to voice his opinion. He spoke in a low voice to the doctor. “Or could it be Mongolian spot?”

  “I don’t have any tattoos on my back.” Niels tried to speak louder, but it was difficult while lying in such an awkward position, with his face pressed against the pillow.

  “You haven’t had one removed?” asked the dermatologist. “Have you ever had problems with fungal infections?”

  “No.”

  Niels couldn’t tell whether the doctor was talking to the student, the nurses, or him when he murmured, “A slight swelling of the epidermis. Signs of pigment variation and inflammation.”

  “I want to see it.” Niels tried to turn over.

  “If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment.” Dr. Wass scratched Niels’s back with something sharp. “I need to take a sample. Does that hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s not much to see. Shall we turn him over again?”

  “No! I want to see it.”

  Silence. The doctor didn’t want to comply. Niels could sense his opposition. “All right, but we’ll need a couple of mirrors.”

  Niels lay still while the nurses brought two full-length mirrors into the room. It took a few minutes to set them up.

  “It looks worse than it is,” the dermatologist warned him. “Don’t be shocked. With the proper treatment, maybe some cortisone cream, you should be fine in no time.”

  Niels looked at his back. The mark had taken on a shape similar to the other ones, stretching from one shoulder to the other. The pattern was starting to emerge. He couldn’t see the numbers, but he knew they were there. Three and six. Thirty-six.

  The doctor straightened up and glanced at his student. “I’ve seen this before,” he said.

  “Where?” asked the student.

  “What do you mean?” asked Niels, insisting on making eye contact with the doctor. “You’ve seen it before? Where?’

  “A long time ago. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  The doctor stood up. “I’m going to have to do some research, and then I’ll get back to you.”

  He nodded to the student. Without another word to Niels, they both left the room.

  4

  Cardiology Department, the National Hospital—Copenhagen

  Hannah’s parents thanked the nurse when she brought them some food. Hannah had been inhaling the smell for several hours. Roast pork and gravy. Her father ate his own portion, and then he ate his wife’s as she continued to weep, not saying a word. We shouldn’t let it go to waste. That was the motto of his life. A glance at his enormous belly might make anyone question whether the words were as sensible as they sounded.

  Hannah had always found it embarrassing to have her father around. She remembered with horror the time her parents showed up for her Ph.D. defense, sitting in the last row of the auditorium. Her father kept making a chuffing sound; he was so huge that he took up one and a half seats. Her mother didn’t say a word. Just like now.

  It was a lengthy visit, although little was said. Hannah had long had the impression that her parents had given up on her. After Johannes’s illness and death. And after Gustav had left her. It was all too much for them. Too foreign. Even as a child, Hannah had seemed like a stranger to them.

  Finally they left. One last question at the door: Did she want them to stay longer?

  “No, you should go. It’s best if I get some rest.”

  Hannah’s parents were planning to stay overnight with her half brother, but her father had back problems, and he could sleep well only in his own bed. He would sleep sitting up in a chair. Just for a few hours. Tomorrow they would go home.

  “My sweet little girl,” her mother whispered before she left. But Hannah was no longer anyone’s girl. Not Gustav’s and not her parents’.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” asked the nurse as she cleared away the dishes from her parents’ visit.

  “I want to talk to Niels.”

  The nurse looked at her, uncomprehending.

  “Niels Bentzon! The man who was involved in the accident.”

  “Is he here in the hospital?”

  Hannah shook her head in amazement. It must be because of Christmas, she thought. A lot of substitute nurses, who were less experienced, had been brought in for the holidays. Finally, a familiar nurse showed up. Pudgy cheeks, smiling eyes. Was her name Randi? Yes, that was it. “Randi?” said Hannah.

  “Are you awake?”

  “I want to talk to Niels.”

  “Yes, I know. But he keeps slipping off to sleep, just like you do. They’ve given him some pain meds that make him drowsy. He’s awake for ten minutes, and then he falls asleep for three or four hours.”

  “Could we talk to each other on the phone? It’s really important.”

  Randi smiled. “The most important thing is for both of you to regain your strength. Am I right?” She took Hannah’s hand. “But I’ll try to arrange it. Shall I go and see him? Try to set up a time when you can call each other?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Randi left. Hannah looked out the window. It was dark now. Christmas Eve at the National Hospital. Hannah closed her eyes until she again heard cautious footsteps approaching. At first she thought the elderly woman must have gotten lost. She wasn’t wearing a white coat, and there was something rather confused and remote about the look in her eyes.

  “Hannah Lund?” said the woman, coming closer. “Is that you?”

  Hannah didn’t answer. She felt sluggish and weak.

  “My name is Agnes Davidsen.” The woman held out a frail-looking hand. Then she changed her mind and merely gave Hannah’s hand a quick squeeze. “Could I talk to you for a moment?”

  She had to be well over seventy. Her skin was like parchment, and her hair was reminiscent of a potted plant that had withered, but she had lively, intelligent eyes.

  “You were in a car accident, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were in a car that was hit by another car?”

  “I wasn’t in a car. I was hit by a car.”

  “And this happened five days ago?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “I’m here to ask you about your near-death experience
.”

  Hannah smiled and shook her head. “Doesn’t a person’s heart have to stop for that to happen?”

  Agnes looked at her in surprise. “Didn’t anyone tell you anything about what happened?”

  “Yes. They said that it was . . . serious.”

  “Hannah.” Agnes moved closer. “You died. Twice.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “I can’t understand why they haven’t told you. I guess that’s typical for the National Hospital. During the holidays, communication with the patients seems to break down entirely. Trust me: I know. I’ve worked here all my life.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The nurse came in as Hannah was trying to climb out of bed, knocking over the IV stand. Someone started protesting. She wanted to shout, “What’s happened to me?” But all she managed was a hoarse cry: “I want answers! Now!”

  “Spontaneous pneumothorax.”

  The doctor had decided that Hannah was “one of our own,” as he put it. Not just an academic but a respected scientist. For that reason, he didn’t hold back from giving her a complex explanation.

  “The small pleurae on the surface of the lungs rupture, causing the air in the pleural cavity and lung to compress. This rupture will often close spontaneously, and then the lung expands again.” He looked at her. “Do you need to rest?”

  “I want to hear all of it.”

  “In your case, because of the crash, a leak was created, which acts as a valve so that air entered the pleural cavity but not the lungs. At that point, pressure-induced pneumothorax occurred, with more and more air trapped inside the pleural cavity. That’s a serious and potentially fatal condition. But . . .” He smiled. “Now we’ve got your lungs under control again. As well as the contusion on your heart.”

  “The old woman said that I died.”

  “I’ve been trying to figure out what went wrong with conveying this information to you. It looks like we need to do a better job of doctor-patient communication during the holidays.”

  “Is it true?” Hannah insisted. “Was I dead?”

  He took a deep breath, as if it were his fault that her heart had stopped beating. “Yes. You should have been told about it long ago. I apologize. Your heart stopped. Twice. The first time we got your heart going again after a few minutes. But when I got you on the table—”

  “The table?”

  “The operating table. Your heart stopped again. Actually . . .” He smiled and shook his head. “We thought you were dead.”

  “For how long?”

  “Almost nine minutes. It’s extremely rare.”

  Silence. “I was dead for nine minutes?”

  He cleared his throat. Looked at his watch. “You can trust Agnes. If you want to talk to her, that is. If not, just tell her to leave. She’s been sitting out in the hall, waiting for you to wake up.”

  “What day is it?”

  “It’s still Christmas Eve.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. “I guess it’s not going to be much of a Christmas for you this year. But they always try to make something special for the holidays in the hospital kitchen.”

  “How long will I be here?”

  “Let’s just see how things go.”

  He stood up with a strange expression that seemed to be his attempt to smile again.

  5

  Intensive Care, the National Hospital—Copenhagen

  Niels.”

  Niels woke up with a jolt and looked around in bewilderment. He hadn’t seen this particular nurse before.

  “How are you doing?” she asked.

  “Who are you? What day is it?”

  “My name is Randi. I work in the cardiology ward, where your girlfriend is a patient. Hannah.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’ll be okay. She’s been asking about you. Would you like to talk to her on the phone?”

  “What day is it?”

  Randi ventured a kindly smile. “You both keep asking the same question. Is there something you need to do on a certain day?”

  Niels attempted to sit up, but it hurt so much in his hip and chest that he quit trying.

  “Just stay there, and I’ll go get a phone. Be back in two seconds.” She left the room.

  Niels tried again to sit up. He needed to get control of his body, find out how to move his limbs enough so that he could get away. Away from the hospital. He thought about the participants in the Special Olympics. Some of them had no arms or legs, but they were able to accomplish the most remarkable things. Surely he could drag his carcass downstairs to a taxi.

  Randi came back with a phone. “All right. Here we are.” She punched in the number. “This is Randi. I’m over here with Hannah’s friend. Is she awake? Gone? Who was it?” She listened, looking concerned. “Okay.” She put down the phone and looked at Niels. “Someone has taken her out of her room.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me, neither. Unless she was feeling worse.”

  “What do you mean by ‘worse’?”

  Randi left the room after promising to return soon. Outside, Niels heard a voice that was all too familiar. Self-confident, brusque, capable of being charming if he felt like it. Niels closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. It wasn’t hard to do. He heard footsteps approaching. Hugo Boss aftershave. The slight trace of a woman’s perfume clinging to his jacket.

  “Bentzon?” Sommersted whispered. “Bentzon? Can you hear me? No. You’re not looking too good, are you?”

  Sommersted didn’t speak for several minutes. He just sat there. Niels pretended to be far away.

  “Well. I’ll come back tomorrow, Niels. I hope you’re going to be all right. I—” Sommersted stopped abruptly. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “You were right, dammit. About Venice. I don’t know how you knew. But you were right.”

  Sommersted stood up. Muttered something about what Niels had told him, that the National Hospital would be next. Followed by total silence. Niels was convinced that his boss had left. Or else he had fallen asleep.

  6

  Corridors of the National Hospital—Copenhagen

  Doesn’t she have anywhere else to be on Christmas Eve? Hannah couldn’t help thinking as Agnes pushed her hospital bed into the elevator.

  “So far, so good. Be sure and tell me if you’re in pain.” The old woman smiled. From her chapped lips came a hoarse, almost soundless laugh that revealed a long life as a smoker. “I’m a retired midwife, and I worked here in the maternity ward until ten years ago, when I was diagnosed with cancer. The doctors gave me two years, tops. So I’ve devoted my time to something that has always interested me. And that’s why I’ve come to see you.”

  “You’re interested in car accidents?”

  “Not exactly. Near-death experiences. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time thinking about death that I’m still here. You might even say that death scared my cancer away.” She smiled. “At any rate, it hasn’t got me yet. Do I sound morbid? Feel free to say whatever you’re thinking. You think I’m a crazy woman, right?”

  “No.”

  “It’s okay. For me, there’s a certain logic in following up my work as a midwife with a study of near-death experiences. I spent the first part of my life helping people into the world; I’m using the second part to try and understand what happens after we leave it.”

  Hannah looked at the woman, who cleared her throat. Maybe she was expecting Hannah to say something.

  “But I didn’t have a near-death experience.”

  “I want to show you what happened. Where you died. Maybe it will jog your memory.”

  The elevator arrived at the ground floor, and Agnes rolled the bed out into the corridor. She was clearly on familiar turf. Holding on to the headboard with both hands, she pushed the bed along the hall. Hannah stared up at her chin until Agnes noticed and said, “Let’s start with the phenomenon of the near-death experience. What is it, exactly?” She took a deep breath. “The phenomenon has been kn
own for a very long time. People who died but then came back to life and recounted what they’d experienced.”

  “The last convulsions of the brain?”

  “Perhaps. Few people take the stories seriously. Most people merely laugh. But medical techniques have gradually gotten better, and we’ve been able to revive more and more people, so we know a lot more. Doctors and scientists are beginning to take the phenomenon seriously. Have you heard of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and Raymond Moody?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Two doctors who carried out groundbreaking research into the phenomenon in the seventies. According to them, there are nine basic elements often seen in connection with near-death experiences. Am I talking too fast?”

  “I’m an astrophysicist.”

  Agnes laughed. “The nine elements are: a humming or ringing sound; pains that subside; an out-of-body experience in which the dying person floats, so to speak, out of his body; the feeling of being pulled through a dark tunnel at a furious speed; the feeling of hovering above the earth and looking down on it as if from the vantage point of another planet; encounters with people who seem pervaded by an inner light, often friends and relatives who have died; an encounter with a spiritual force . . .”

  “God?”

  “Perhaps. This encounter is followed by a brief summing up of the dying person’s life. His life passes before his eyes, as we say. Finally—and this may be the strangest thing of all—an offer either to return to life or to remain where he is.”

  “You mean the person is asked whether he wants to live or die?”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “And at that point most people choose the new place?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Holy shit! Life after death.”

  “Yes, at least according to Kübler-Ross and Moody. For them, there was no doubt. They considered it proof that a significant number of patients were able to describe these experiences. Of course, there were tons of skeptics. One of them was the well-known cardiologist Michael Sabom. Dr. Sabom carried out his own research. To his great surprise, his studies showed that up to sixty percent of the patients who were revived at the heart clinic where he worked were able to describe near-death experiences. And in these cases, with great detail.”