The Hospital of Fatima

by Isobel Chace

  Katherine put her spoon down again, her hunger gone.

  “But that’s dreadful!” she exclaimed. “Of course you must continue to live exactly as you did before! It will — it will be rather fun in a way. I’ve never had a proper home of my own before and I expect I have a lot to learn about such things.”

  Chantal smiled briefly.

  “We cannot be good at everything,” she said obliquely.

  Katherine flushed. How could she live with her? she wondered. But she was used to hiding her emotions and making the best of the circumstances in which she found herself. The other girl

  would undoubtedly be out a great deal, and she herself could always retire to her room. But she wished it didn’t have to be this way. She would have liked to have had a friend of her own age and sex in this strange land.

  “Be quiet, Chantal!” Guillaume put in angrily. “It is not kind to antagonise Miss Lane!”

  Chantal made a face at him.

  “Are you so worried about your soft berth already?” she asked him sweetly. “You need not be. Miss Lane will never turn us out. She knows very well that that is not what Uncle Edouard intended at all. Besides,” and an odd smile of satisfaction lit her beautifully made-up face, “it is so uncomfortable to live in a foreign country without any friends.” She turned and faced Katherine squarely, her eyes contemptuous. “Isn’t it, Kat’rine?”

  The mocking mispronunciation of her name brought the point home to the English girl. Here she was not even Katherine, she was some foreigner named Katrine — was that how she had said it? — and she was dependent on these two for introducing her to the local Europeans, whom they had known since they were children, but who would only know her as a stranger, perhaps an interloper. She grew cold at the thought.

  “No,” she said, “I shall not turn you out.” But she too had a temper and she hoped very much that she was not going to lose it. There would be something rather satisfactory about allowing hot, angry words to spill out over that cold, smart face — satisfactory, but dangerous. She had to live in Tunisia. Whatever happened she had to remember that.

  Guillaume’s blue eyes danced, meeting hers in a joke that she hadn’t seen, but she liked the warm feeling it gave her. He, at least, was not her enemy.

  “We are travelling to Hammamet tomorrow,” he told her. “Why don’t you come with us? There is plenty of room in my car.”

  She was grateful to him. It would be so much nicer to arrive in a party and not to have to find her own way around the estate.

  “I should like that,” she said shyly. “Thank you very much.”

  He went on to tell her about the orchards. The oranges were just beginning to ripen and the first of the fruit was being picked

  while the late blossom still filled the air with its fragrance. The lemons and the grapefruit came just that little bit later, but it was already possible to pick them off the trees and crush them then and there for drinks. She had come at the best time of the year, when it was not too hot, and when the whole of the neighbouring countryside was covered in a carpet of wild flowers that had to be seen to be believed.

  “It sounds like Paradise,” Katherine laughed.

  Guillaume’s eyes slid on to his sister’s face.

  “Or the original Garden of Eden,” he said dryly.

  They had almost finished dinner when the man came in. Katherine knew the instant he crossed the threshold, despite the fact that the door was behind her. She knew it by the sudden glint in Chantal’s eyes and the way her hand went up automatically to straighten her hair.

  Guillaume grinned and turned in his chair to see who the newcomer was.

  “Ah! Dr. Kreistler!” he murmured. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?” his sister asked crossly.

  “Nothing,” he retorted maddeningly. “Nothing at all.”

  Katherine glanced over her shoulder and saw him, recognising him immediately, for he was none other than the man at the airport.

  “Kreistler,” she repeated, turning the name over in her mind. “Is he a German?”

  Guillaume shook his head.

  “It sounds German, but actually he’s Hungarian. He’s a refugee from the 1956 uprising. He first came to Tunisia under the auspices of the World Health Organisation and he stayed on. At present he’s in charge of the government hospital at Sidi Behn Ahmed.”

  “Sidi Behn Ahmed?”

  “Isn’t that —”

  “Your oasis?” he smiled. “That’s right. He’s a big man down there. Even Uncle Edouard treated him with a proper respect!”

  Chantal gave him an impatient look.

  “You will excuse me, I’m sure,” she said hurriedly. “It is so long since I saw the doctor.” For an instant she looked almost lovely as she rose to her feet. “I must see him now,” she added abruptly, and hurried across the dining-room to his table.

  She came up behind him and blew softly on the back of his head. Katherine saw him rise quickly to greet her. He looked pleased to see her and his smile was indulgent as he pulled out a chair for her. It was so silly to feel resentful, but somehow Katherine had been regarding him as her own personal find, and it hurt her to think that he also was a friend of the de Hallets, and had been long before she had ever met him.

  She tore her attention back to Guillaume.

  “Does he come up to Tunis often?” she asked.

  “He comes up for medical supplies at intervals,” he replied. Sardonic amusement spread across his face. “He comes also to see Chantal,” he added. “She regards him very much as her property, and she is a girl who knows very well how to look after her own.”

  Katherine didn’t doubt him for a moment. She could feel the warm, rich colour creeping up her cheeks and it made her more than a little cross.

  “I saw him at the airport,” she said unnecessarily. “That was why I was interested.”

  Guillaume raised one expressive eyebrow. He still looked amused, but he looked a little sorry for her as well.

  “So?” was all he said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE INSTANT that Katherine awoke she knew that she was no longer in England. There was a quality in the hot sunshine that she had never seen before and the noises coming up from the busy street below sounded strange and yet, in an odd way, also familiar. She went over to the window and pushed back the shutters, gazing down at the scene below her. There was a man selling sweetmeats on the corner and a group of veiled women giggling among themselves as they passed him. Katherine watched them with a rising sense of excitement, suddenly anxious to hurry out and explore all she could in the short morning that she had at her disposal. Guillaume had said they would be setting out for Hammamet straight after lunch, but she had all of three — she glanced at her watch — no, four hours before she need meet

  the de Hallets at the entrance of the hotel.

  She dressed quickly, taking advantage of the shower in her room, and packed her bags before she left so that she would have less to do when she came back. In less than a quarter of an hour she was ready and made her way downstairs to the dining-room for breakfast.

  It was practically empty when she went in, with only a few tables laid up at the far end. She chose a table, and was on the point of sitting down when she saw Dr. Kreistler coming towards her.

  “Do you mind if I share your table?” he asked her.

  She smiled up at him.

  “Of course not.”

  He sat down and signalled to the waiter to bring them both some coffee.

  “I had not realised at the airport yesterday that you were the Miss Lane we have been waiting for so long. I hope you are not up so early because you couldn’t sleep?”

  “Oh, no! I slept very well.” She bit her lip. It was not often that she wanted to impress anyone, but there was something about this man that made her want him to like her. She wanted it so much that it gave her a funny, tight feeling round her middle and made her nervous.

  He smiled at her and she
found herself smiling back.

  “That is good,” he said. “I am told you have the whole morning to yourself? Perhaps you will allow me to show you something of Tunis?”

  She chuckled.

  “I’d love it!” she said frankly. “If you’re sure you can spare the time? I shouldn’t like to impose —”

  “I have the time,” he replied.

  She spread her roll thickly with butter and apricot jam and prepared to enjoy it. For the moment she was completely happy and it showed in the slight sparkle in her eyes and the way that her mouth couldn’t quite stop smiling.

  “How big is your hospital?” she asked him.

  He seemed surprised that she should ask. His eyebrows flew up, and though he quickly veiled his astonishment, for an instant it was plain in his eyes.

  “We have about fifty beds in the main block,” he told her. “There is a smaller eye hospital also, though in the last few years we have practically got on top of trachoma. One can still see children who have had the beginnings of it, though. At best it leaves a terrible squint, at worst the patient becomes completely blind. There is still a great deal of work to be done in the more backward areas.”

  Katherine’s quick sympathy was caught.

  “And do the parents co-operate by bringing their children in to the clinics?” she asked.

  He laughed.

  “Oh yes, they come! They come from curiosity if for no other reason.”

  Katherine’s eyes sparkled.

  “I should love to see it all!” she exclaimed on a sigh.

  “If you come to Sidi Behn Ahmed I shall show you around,” he offered. “But I doubt that you will come. It is too hot in the south for people like you.”

  “Like me?” She was hurt, and it showed in the sudden quiver of her lips.

  His face hardened and his eyes were grey and remote.

  “We all work at the oasis,” he said abruptly. “We would not have the time to entertain you properly. You will do better to stay at Hammamet with Chantal and be amused by the quaint customs of the country.”

  The piece of roll she was eating grew dry and tasteless.

  “And what gave you the right to be so superior, Dr. Kreistler?” she asked in dangerously quiet tones.

  He reached across the table and picked up one of her hands in his.

  “This, Miss Lane?” he suggested. He ran his thumb down the edge of her forefinger with a slight smile. “They are lovely hands, but they do not bear the marks of toil!”

  Katherine froze. The touch of his hand on hers had done odd things to her breathing and she was so indignant that she could hardly speak.

  “I look after my hands!”

  His smile grew until it reached right up into his eyes.

  “I’m sure you do,” he agreed indulgently. He put her hand back on her side of the table with gentle fingers. “They are active

  hands as well as being pretty. Do you play the piano?”

  “No, I do not!” she said crossly.

  He shrugged slightly, dismissing the matter. “Have you finished your coffee?” he asked her. “Shall we go?”

  She rose and followed him out of the dining-room, still fuming at his stupid, arrogant superiority. A doctor should know better than to jump to such conclusions, she thought angrily. And why those particular conclusions? Did she look as though she had been living in the lap of luxury ever since she had been born?

  They were selling flowers in the Avenue Habib Bourguiba. The central pavement, lined with thick, shady trees to keep off the sun, was massed with blooms of every colour and variety. There were marigolds and orange-blossom, daffodils and tulips, wild gladioli and bougainvillea, already drooping in the hot atmosphere. Katherine hesitated and then stood stock-still in the middle of the stalls, savouring the sweet perfume and the harsh cries of the sellers.

  “You would like some flowers?” Dr. Kreistler asked her, smiling down at her bright fair hair. The neat, prim way that she wore it was so at odds with the temper he had seen reflected in her eyes and the easy laughter that came to her lips.

  “They would die long before we could get them home,” she said regretfully. “It doesn’t seem possible, does it, at this time of year?”

  He stood aside for a man to pass him.

  “Why not at this time of the year? Later on it will be too hot. Now is the best time.” He picked up a single blossom and fastened it to her collar, flicking a small coin to the owner of the stall. “You have forgiven me for whatever I said that annoyed you so, no?”

  “There was nothing to forgive,” she said stiffly. She smelt the bloom timidly. It was yellow and she did not know its name, but its scent was familiar, soft and clinging and — expensive! Her eyes swept up to meet his, wide and innocent. “Was there, Dr. Kreistler?”

  To her surprise he laughed.

  “You’re not at all what I was led to expect somehow,” he said. “Just what were you to Edouard de Hallet?”

  I was his nurse! That was what she should have told him. But she was too proud. It seemed to her that Chantal had done all the telling that was necessary — and Chantal was a privileged friend of his. She forced herself to smile a smile that might have meant anything at all.

  “I thought you already knew,” she said.

  He didn’t press her. He stood for an instant, looking tall and forbidding, and then he relaxed and smiled at her.

  “I’ll keep an open mind,” he said lightly. “Shall we go to the

  medina?”

  They hurried down the broad Avenue, past the Cathedral towards the entrance of the old Arab town that hid behind thick, defensive walls as though it were still a hotbed of pirates that could expect angry retribution from across the sea.

  It had been built long before cars had been thought of, with narrow winding passages that led one into the other, and all looked exactly the same, to the bewilderment of the stranger. First came the souks, streets of cell-like shops, gathered into their various trades, and selling everything from Woolworth ersatz to beautiful hand-made carpets from the holy city of Kairouan.

  The passageways were thronged with people of every hue. Here and there a European would stand out against the flowing mass of Arabs, Moors and Berbers all around them. The women, full of eager talk and laughter, would stroll past them, modestly veiling their faces with a corner of their haik, while their dark eyes gleamed with curiosity. The men, a trifle more self-assured, would stand and gossip, or bargain for hours as they did the shopping. It was always the men who would do the shopping, for the women were still mainly illiterate and couldn’t count the money.

  Katherine was glad of Dr. Kreistler’s firm hand on her wrist. She was scared of getting lost in these long, bewildering passages that seemed to have no beginning and no end. The shopkeepers smiled at her and invited her in. There was no need to buy, they assured her. They would find chairs and she could sit and look at their wares in comfort. Perhaps she would like some coffee? Or some mint tea? When she passed them by, they would shrug their shoulders sadly, and she felt that they were genuinely sorry not to have had the chance of conversing with her.

  The cobblers sat in the dark recesses of their shops, making the sandals that hung in clusters all round the entrance. The silversmiths on the other hand seemed to need more light and they would sit almost in the street, beating the silver with a tiny hammer, or picking out an intricate pattern with quick, confident hands. Mostly they made the typical Bedouin jewellery of enormous crescent moons and the ubiquitous Hand of Fatima that, with a bit of imagination, did look very like the hand of a woman.

  Katherine picked one up and fingered it curiously. The filigree work on it, joining the fingers, was clumsy, but had a charm of its own. She put it down again with a faint feeling of regret.

  “Bring you good luck, mademoiselle!” the silversmith told her, peering up at her over his work. “Keep away the evil eye!”

  She shook her head. She had no need of charms, she didn’t believe in them, but it w
as pretty and it was quaint, and she was beginning to think that she would need some kind of protection from Chantal’s tongue. Resolutely she turned away from the shop and walked with quickened footsteps up the narrow alleyway. When people got to know her everything would be all right, she was sure of that. She had to be sure. And yet she couldn’t say to everyone she met that she was a nurse and that she had hated having to give up her profession. And who would bother to ask her?

  The husky whine of an Egyptian singer blared forth from half a dozen transistor sets, monotonous and yet strangely insistent to the ear, just as they were entering the Souk El Attarine. A Jewish cobbler on the corner sewed away on his treadle machine with a dreamy look on his face, his head bobbing up and down in time with the music. Katherine picked up two pins that had fallen down beside him and placed them carefully on the polished wood of his machine. He gave her a little nod of thanks, the smile just touching his eyes, though he was too shy to look at her for long.

  Dr. Kreistler had no such scruples. He seemed to enjoy the sight of her expressive face as she looked about her.

  “See a pin and pick it up, and all day you shall have good luck!” he teased her.

  She blushed faintly, the pink rising slowly up her cheeks.

  “How do you come to know English nursery sayings?” she asked him. “It sounds so strange coming from you!”

  He was amused.

  “I learned English at school,” he said. His jaw tightened slightly. “English, French and Russian. We had a good teacher. I speak all three languages very well.”

  Katherine believed him. She wondered if he knew that that was why she had picked up the pins. She gave him a quick glance through her eyelashes, but he was no longer looking at her. He was staring down at the far end of the souks where Chantal was standing, the light from one of the skylights picking her out like a spotlight.

  “So she came after all!” the doctor muttered to himself. He turned, almost impatiently, to Katherine. “Come, we can catch her if we hurry!” he said.