Ambroise and Manelle stood rooted to the spot for a moment, utterly defeated by the turn of events. Ambroise put his arms around Manelle.
‘It’s what you wanted deep down, isn’t it?’ he comforted her. ‘That was even the reason you followed us to begin with, I believe. Come on, he needs us.’
Then, kneeling in front of him, taking one hand each, they explained to a distraught Samuel that he was not going to die that day, that he was going to have to endure his ordeal a while longer, but that they would be there beside him no matter what, as promised, to the end.
‘Did he only see one specialist?’ asked Beth, surprised, as she perused Samuel’s medical record.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Manelle.
‘Ambroise Larnier, what has your grandmother always taught you?’
‘That specialists only see things with one eye. And that you should always seek a second opinion if you want the complete picture.’
34
‘Can you remind us who your father is, Ambroise Larnier?’ his grandmother asked him.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ muttered Ambroise.
‘Go on, answer, they’ll find it of interest,’ Beth insisted.
‘Professor Henri Larnier, Nobel thingummy laureate, 2005,’ muttered Ambroise contemptuously.
‘Medicine, the Nobel Prize in Medicine. Let’s not be afraid of saying it, if you please. And what is his specialism, this illustrious man, can you remind us?’
‘Oh no, Beth, I can see where this is going, but it’s out of the question. Not on your life.’
‘Bravo, you couldn’t find a more apt expression in the circumstances.’
‘I apologize, Samuel, I didn’t mean that, but don’t ask me the impossible, Beth, not him.’
‘What’s all this about?’ Manelle broke in.
‘Well, the father of the young man standing before you happens to be one of the most eminent oncologists in the world, but this same young man, having fallen out with him, refuses to take advantage of this privilege to consult him.’
‘But we must go there straight away, Ambroise,’ exclaimed Manelle. ‘We have nothing to lose. And we don’t give a toss that you’re not on speaking terms with your father, we’re not asking you to patch things up with him, we just want him to see Samuel.’
‘He’s the leading expert in his field, Ambroise, as you well know,’ urged Beth. ‘What’s more, luck is on our side. He should be in his office at the WHO, as he usually is at the beginning of the week. It’s a stone’s throw from here. Do it for Samuel.’
Samuel was staring at the floor, his eyes vacant, anticipating the departure he had just been refused. Ambroise swallowed his pride and gave in.
‘OK, but don’t expect me to grovel at his feet. It’s purely for Samuel.’
‘Thank you on his behalf,’ gushed Manelle, kissing him on the lips and then gently taking Samuel’s arm.
They drove along the lake shore in the direction of Geneva for some fifty kilometres. After around an hour, Ambroise drew up in front of the austere WHO headquarters. From the outside, the seven-storey building looked like a 1970s apartment complex. While Manelle stayed in the vehicle with Samuel – no point tiring him unnecessarily – Ambroise and his grandmother entered through the vast glass doors, went over to the reception desk and asked to see Professor Larnier.
‘May I inquire who wishes to see him?’ asked the receptionist.
‘His son.’
‘And his mother-in-law,’ added Beth.
The woman gazed at them inquisitively and asked them to wait while she dialled a number.
‘Professor Larnier is waiting for you in his office. Third floor, his name is on the door,’ she said on hanging up.
They went to fetch Manelle and Samuel and the four of them stepped into the vast lift that whisked them up to the third floor. PROFESSOR HENRI LARNIER, NOBEL PRIZE IN MEDICINE. A door plate the size of the man’s ego, thought Ambroise. They didn’t need to knock. The door opened to reveal an alarmed Henri Larnier. The first thing that struck Ambroise at the sight of his father was that he had aged. A grey beard covered the lower part of his face. Now over sixty, he had lost a little of the stiff bearing that imbued his presence with authority. A rather handsome man, thought Manelle, and whose son looks very much like him, even though Ambroise had a laid-back manner that was cruelly lacking in his father.
‘What’s going on?’ asked the professor anxiously, before even greeting his son.
‘Hello, Father,’ chided Ambroise.
‘I’m sorry. Hello, Ambroise. Hello, Elisabeth.’
Countless times his mother-in-law had asked him to call her Beth, but in vain. Calling things and people by their precise names was typical of his father’s scientific nature, Ambroise said to himself. In life as in medicine, you didn’t mess with names.
‘Sir, young lady.’
‘Manelle and Samuel,’ Ambroise introduced them.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not here on my own account.’
‘You don’t come and see me when I’m close to you, so you must appreciate that I find your presence here, hundreds of kilometres from home, accompanied by your grandmother and these two strangers, somewhat intriguing.’
‘Could we come into your office, if you don’t mind?’
‘There aren’t enough chairs. I suggest we go down to the cafeteria instead, we can talk more comfortably there,’ suggested Henri Larnier, closing the door behind him.
On neutral ground, thought his son wryly. His father had never been able to let him into his world. They found a free table and Henri Larnier repeated his question.
‘So, to what do I owe this visit?’
‘Well, I’d like . . . we’d like you to examine this gentleman and read his medical record to find out exactly what is wrong with him.’
‘So, my son is interested in the living these days,’ replied Henri Larnier snidely.
‘Please, Henri,’ entreated Beth, ‘Ambroise has taken it upon himself to come and make this request. Don’t quarrel now, I beg you.’
‘It was bound to happen,’ grumbled Ambroise.
‘Oh no,’ protested Manelle, ‘you’re not going to start. I don’t know what the problem is between you, and it’s none of my business, but that’s not what matters right now. What matters, Professor Larnier, is the tumour that’s killing our friend here, so you can resume your argument later, but meanwhile, take care of him, please!’ commanded Manelle, plonking Samuel’s medical file down in front of the flabbergasted doctor.
‘Very well,’ he conceded, opening the file.
Henri Larnier ignored his colleague’s report and skimmed the results of the tests, then scrutinized the MRI images for what felt like an eternity, without saying a word.
‘From the date, I see these images were taken around two months ago, is that correct?’
Manelle answered on Samuel’s behalf.
‘Just under two months, yes.’
‘Just under two months,’ he repeated dubiously. ‘Not possible,’ he muttered to himself.
‘What isn’t possible?’ asked Beth.
‘Forgive my candour, but given the size of the glioblastoma at the time the MRI was done, and knowing the rapid invasive power and very aggressive nature of this type of tumour, it is scientifically impossible that the gentleman here present should still be alive. I’m sorry but no, quite simply scientifically impossible. I don’t know what to think, Monsieur . . . Wendling,’ he went on, reading the name at the bottom of the images, ‘but—’
‘Dinsky,’ chorused Manelle, Beth and Ambroise.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Dinsky. Not Wendling but Dinsky,’ Manelle corrected him.
‘Look, it says Wendling here, Roger Wendling,’ insisted Henri Larnier, showing them the name written in white letters on a black background at the bottom of the scans.
There was stupefaction on all their faces except on that of
Samuel, who was too preoccupied with battling his headache. Henri Larnier put the image down and picked up the file again.
‘I see that the report written by my colleague, Doctor . . . Gervaise, is about Monsieur Dinsky but it is based on the scans labelled Wendling. Very generous, this Doctor Gervaise. To give three months’ life expectancy to a patient suffering from a glio like that, bravo, that’s not optimism, it’s science fiction. There must have been a mix-up, something which occurs less and less frequently, thank goodness, but it does sometimes still happen.’
‘So what is wrong with Monsieur Dinsky, then?’ asked Beth, with a mixture of anxiety and hope.
‘To find out, we’ll have to do more tests. How old are you, Monsieur Dinsky?’
‘Eighty-two,’ replied Samuel weakly.
‘And you were experiencing recurrent migraines, which is why you went to see the specialist, is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ replied Manelle, speaking for Samuel.
‘Fever?’
‘Yes, almost all the time over the past few days.’
‘Vomiting? Weight loss?’
‘Yes, he vomits almost everything he eats and he has grown very thin.’
‘Does he complain about his eyesight? Blurred or double vision?’
‘Yes, he has been complaining recently, but how do you know?’
Henri Larnier rose and went over to Samuel. He felt his temples and examined his temporal arteries, which were abnormally swollen.
‘If I touch your scalp here, does it hurt?’
‘Yes,’ groaned Samuel.
‘Have you ever heard of Horton’s disease?’
The question was addressed to all of them. The ensuing silence invited him to continue: ‘It is a disease that chiefly occurs in the elderly, generally over the age of eighty, and which displays the symptoms we’ve just mentioned. If it isn’t treated rapidly, the most serious risk is the deterioration of the eyesight, sometimes resulting in total blindness. But don’t worry, it is a disease that is easily treatable nowadays. I’m going to prescribe Monsieur Dinsky an emergency treatment based on powerful corticosteroids and if it is indeed Horton’s disease – which the tests will confirm very quickly – his general condition should improve rapidly and the headaches cease within a few days, a few hours even.’
Ambroise, Beth and Manelle all stared at Samuel Dinsky, a Samuel Dinsky who was utterly befuddled and whose world, for the second time that day, had just been turned upside down.
35
The man of science had Samuel do a blood test at the WHO laboratories. The results would come through that afternoon. At the same time, he wrote out a prescription for the pharmacy in the basement so that the corticosteroid treatment could begin as soon as possible.
‘There you are. You can collect the medication from reception in a few minutes with the dosage to be followed to the letter and a note for the GP. Take the first dose right away, there’s no time to lose. Goodness, it’s been ages since we have practised like this,’ beamed a smug Henri Larnier. ‘It’s a bit chaotic, I admit, but it reminds me of my years as a junior doctor.’
For the first time, Ambroise detected nostalgia in his father’s voice, nostalgia perhaps for the time before the Nobel laureate had replaced the doctor.
‘I must leave you,’ he went on, glancing at his watch, ‘I have a lecture to prepare, but you are welcome to stay here for lunch if you wish. The canteen food is good, you’ll see. And I don’t know what to do with all the luncheon vouchers I’m entitled to every month.’
Henri Larnier put the vouchers down on the table and gave Samuel a few words of reassurance.
‘If we are correct, Monsieur Dinsky, everything should soon be back to normal, don’t worry.’
Ambroise smiled. He had forgotten his father’s strange habit of using the royal ‘we’ when he spoke of himself, a habit that came from his countless scientific publications in which it is standard to use the firstperson plural.
Once he’d left, Manelle and Ambroise looked into each other’s eyes, which held a fresh glimmer of hope. Emma Besuchet and her goodbye cocktail were far away. Samuel was going to live. Today, which was to have been his last, was going to be a new birth. Beth, with her usual practical nature, brought everyone back down to earth.
‘We’d better go and have something to eat before it gets too busy. It’s midday and people are beginning to arrive.’
‘Go on,’ commanded Ambroise. ‘Have what you like. I’m going to reception to see if the medication is there.’
Ambroise returned clutching the bag containing the precious packets of corticosteroids to his chest. In accordance with the dose prescribed by Henri Larnier, Manelle took out three pills which she set down in front of Samuel. Laboriously, he swallowed the pills one at a time with a glass of water, urged on by his guardian angels. Guardian angels who ate quickly and with appetite, released from the weight that had been burdening them since the morning. When it was time to leave, Ambroise gave Manelle the keys and excused himself.
‘Wait for me in the car. I’ll be out in five minutes.’
He ignored the lift and raced up the stairs to the third floor. He hadn’t thanked his father for having devoted a little of his precious time to them. Most of all, he wanted to embrace him, the way a son should embrace his father when they part. His timid knocks went unanswered. ‘Papa?’ He went in. The office was deserted. Then he saw. And the minute he discovered Henri Larnier’s lair, all the stupid certainties about the great man that he’d cultivated over the years – egocentrism, pride, coldness, lack of sensitivity – were annihilated, swept away by the sight that met his eyes. Everywhere around him, hanging on the walls, displayed on the bookshelves, standing on the mahogany desk, were photos of Ambroise and his mother. Ambroise as a baby in Cécile’s arms, Ambroise as a child playing with a stethoscope, his mother in a swimsuit posing by the pool, radiant in the sunshine, Ambroise as a teenager, playing the guitar, Ambroise by the Christmas tree unwrapping his presents, Cécile with Ambroise on her knees, deciphering his first words, Ambroise in his father’s white coat, way too big for him, Cécile absorbed in reading Louis-Ferdinand Céline’s Journey to the End of the Night. A sanctuary – Henri Larnier’s office was a sanctuary dedicated to his ghosts, that of the wife he had loved and of the son who had escaped him. Ambroise raised his hand to his mouth on discovering the bookcase. Not for a moment would he have imagined that his father might be interested in his work. But there, carefully arranged on the centre shelf, were several books on the art of embalming and the profession of embalmer. Books including some recent works on the latest innovations. Shaken, Ambroise wrote his mobile phone number on a piece of paper which he placed on the blotter, inviting his father to call him as soon as he had the results of the tests. Then he added at the bottom of the note those words that were never said, words that remained trapped at the back of his throat out of embarrassment, words that sometimes find expression on the base of a funeral bier when it’s too late, words which were worth a thousand embraces: Your loving son.
36
That Wednesday morning, sprawled in his vast hotel bed, Samuel Dinsky woke up amazed. Something had jolted him awake, something he hadn’t experienced for ages: hunger. His empty stomach was gurgling with discontent and his taste buds were crying out for breakfast. The vice which, still the previous day, had been compressing his head, had now completely relaxed its grip, and the pain had evaporated. Now his head was breathing, as if there were a light breeze behind his frontal bone which had blown the last vestiges of pain far away. He got up and half opened the curtains. The ray of light that broke through and landed on the bed did not bring with it the millions of needles that usually pierced his retinas. No, he only felt the normal dazzle of daylight entering after a night spent in the dark. Samuel stretched, giving a contented moan as he lay in the sun, letting his body soak up the warmth. Only then did he see them. Manelle, Beth and Ambroise, standing at the foot of the bed, greeting him with a chorus of, ‘We
ll?’
Back from Geneva, Samuel, dropping with exhaustion, had gone to bed and fallen asleep at once. ‘The day turned out to be longer than planned,’ he’d joked before falling asleep. Manelle, Ambroise and Beth had stayed with him, more vigilant than ever. Death, deprived of this long-promised prey, perhaps hadn’t had its final say. Samuel had sweated out his fever through every pore of his skin and Manelle, assisted by Ambroise, had had to change his pyjamas for a dry T-shirt. Despite their insistence that she should go and rest in her room, Beth had refused point-blank. ‘It’s not every day you have the opportunity to watch over an eighty-two-year-old newborn,’ she had whispered with the utmost seriousness. And so they had all kept a vigil at Samuel’s bedside in room 101, watching over him in the dark, listening to his breathing, alert for the slightest wobble, until sleep overcame them too in the dead of night, Manelle in the armchair, Beth on the sofa and Ambroise on the floor where he had eventually lain down.
Samuel gazed at the trio staring at him on tenterhooks, waiting for his reply. The huge smile that lit up his face said more than any words could.
‘What about your fever?’ inquired Manelle, going over to give him a kiss.
His forehead was warm and dry.
‘D-day plus one, Monsieur Samuel Dinsky. The first day of the rest of your life,’ announced Ambroise solemnly, referring to the film by Rémi Bezançon.
The previous day, at the very same hour when he should have been drinking his lethal potion, Manelle had woken Samuel to give him his second dose of corticosteroids. And that morning, instead of lying on a stainless-steel table, waiting for the embalmer in the chill of death, he was before them, outstretched among the bedclothes, basking in the sunlight, more alive than ever. An eighty-two-year-old newborn. Beth could not have put it better. Alive thanks to an out-of-date ID card, thought Ambroise, horrified. And to the farsightedness of his father who had called him later that afternoon to confirm that it was indeed a case of Horton’s disease.
The Rest of Their Lives Page 12