by Wilbur Smith
‘ECG,’ David guessed, and Ruby chuckled and shook his head.
‘No – it’s a little invention of my own. I’m quite proud of it, but in reality it’s only a variation on the old-fashioned lie-detector.’
‘Question time again?’ Debra asked.
‘No. We are going to flash lights at you, and see just what sort of subconscious reaction you have to them.’
‘We know that already,’ Debra told him, and they both heard the edge in her voice now.
‘Perhaps. It’s just an established routine we work to.’ Ruby soothed her, and then to David. ‘Stand back here, please. The lights are pretty fierce, and you don’t want to be looking into them.’
David moved back and Ruby adjusted the machine. A roll of graph paper began running slowly under a moving stylus which settled almost immediately into a steady rhythmic pattern. On a separate glass screen a moving green dot of light began to repeat the same rhythm, leaving a fading trail across the screen like the tail of a comet. It reminded David of the interceptor radar screen on the instrument panel of a Mirage jet. Ruby switched out the top lights, plunging the room into utter darkness, except for the pulsing green dot on the screen.
‘Are we ready now, Debra? Look straight ahead, please. Eyes open.’
Soundlessly a brilliant burst of blue light filled the room, and distinctly David saw the green dot on the screen jump out of its established pattern, and for a beat or two it went haywire, then settled again into the old rhythm. Debra had seen the light flash, even though she was unaware of it; the pulse of light had registered on her brain and the machine had recorded her instinctive reaction.
The play with light went on for another twenty minutes while Ruby adjusted the intensity of the light source and varied the transmissions. At last he was satisfied, and turned the top lights up.
‘Well?’ Debra demanded brightly. ‘Do I pass?’
‘There’s nothing more I want from you,’ Ruby told her. ‘You did just great, and everything is the way we want it.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘David can take you to lunch, but this afternoon I want you at the radiologist’s. My receptionist arranged it for 2.30, I believe, but you had best check with her.’ Neatly Ruby countered any attempt of David’s to get him alone.
‘I shall let you know as soon as I have the X-ray results. Here, I’ll write down the radiologist’s address.’ Ruby scribbled on his prescription pad and handed it to David.
See me alone tomorrow 10 a.m.
David nodded and took Debra’s arm. He stared at Ruby a moment trying to draw some reaction from him, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes in a music-hall comedian’s gesture of uncertainty.
The Brig joined them for lunch in their suite at the Mount Nelson, for David still could not endure the discomfort of the public rooms. The Brig drew upon some hidden spring of charm, as though sensing that his help was needed, and he had both of them laughing naturally with stories of Debra’s childhood and the family’s early days after leaving America. David was grateful to him, for the time passed so quickly that he had to hurry Debra to her appointment.
‘I am going to use two different techniques on you, my dear—’ David wondered what it was about her that made all males over forty refer to Debra as though she were twelve years old. ‘First of all we will do five of what we call police mug shots, front, back, sides and top—’ The radiologist was a red-faced, grey-haired man with big hands and heavy shoulders like a professional wrestler. ‘We aren’t even going to make you take your clothes off—’ He chuckled, but David thought he detected a faint note of regret. ‘Then after that, we are going to be terribly clever and take a continuous moving shot of the inside of your head. It’s called tomography. We are going to clamp your head to keep it still and the camera is going to describe a circle around you, focused on the spot where all the trouble is. We are going to find out everything that’s going on in that pretty head of yours—’
‘I hope it doesn’t shock you too much, Doctor,’ Debra told him, and he looked stunned for a moment, then let out a delighted guffaw, and later David heard him repeating it to the sister with gusto.
It was a long tedious business, and afterwards when they drove back to the hotel, Debra leaned close to him and said, ‘Let’s go home, David. Soon as we can?’
‘Soon as we can,’ he agreed.
David did not want it that way, but the Brig insisted on accompanying David on his visit to Ruby Friedman the following morning. For one of the very few times in his life David had lied to Debra, telling her he was meeting with the Morgan Trust accountants, and he had left her in a lime-green bikini lying beside the hotel swimming pool, brown and slim and lovely in the sunlight.
Ruby Friedman was brusque and businesslike. He seated them opposite his desk and came swiftly to the core of the business.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We have a problem, a hell of a problem. I am going to show you the X-ray plates first to illustrate what I have to tell you—’ Ruby swivelled his chair to the scanner and switched on the book-light to bring the prints into high relief. ‘On the side are the plates that Edelman sent me from Jerusalem. You can see the grenade fragment.’ It was stark and hard edged, a small triangular shard of steel lying in the cloudy bone structure. ‘And here you can see the track through the optic chiasma, the disruption and shattering of the bone is quite evident. Edelman’s original diagnosis – based on these plates, and on the complete inability to define light or shape – seems to be confirmed. The optic nerve is severed, and that’s the end of it.’ Quickly he unclipped the plates, and fitted others to the scanner. ‘All right. Now here are the second set of plates, taken yesterday. Immediately notice how the grenade fragments has been consolidated and encysted.’ The stark outline was softened by the new growth of bone around it. ‘That is good, and expected. But here in the channel of the chiasma we find the growth of some sort that leaves itself open to a number of interpretations. It could be scarring, the growth of bone chips, or some other type of growth either benign or malignant.’ Ruby arranged another set of plates upon the scanner. ‘Finally, this is the plate exposed by the technique of tomography, to establish the contours of this excrescence. It seems to conform to the shape of the bony channel of the chiasma, except here—’ Ruby touched a small half-round notch which was cut into the upper edge of the growth, ‘– this little spot runs through the main axis of the skull, but is bent upwards in the shape of an inverted U. It is just possible that this may be the most significant discovery of our whole examination.’ Ruby switched off the light of the scanner.
‘I don’t understand any of this.’ The Brig’s voice was sharp. He did not like being bludgeoned by another man’s special knowledge.
‘No, of course.’ Ruby was smooth. ‘I am merely setting the background for the explanations that will follow.’ He turned back to the desk, and his manner changed. He was no longer lecturing, but leading with authority.
‘Now as to my own conclusions. There can be absolutely no doubt that certain function of the optic nerve remains. It is still conveying impulses to the brain. At least a part of it is still intact. The question arises as to just how much that is, and to what extent that function can be improved. It is possible that the grenade fragment cut through part of the nerve – severing five strands of a six-strand rope, or four or three. We do not know the extent, but what we do know is that damage of that nature is irreversible. What Debra may be left with is what she has now – almost nothing.’
Ruby paused and was silent. The two men opposite him watched his face intently, leaning forward in their seats.
‘That is the dark side – if it is true, then Debra is for all practical purposes blind and will remain that way. However, there is another side to the question. It is possible that the optic nerve has suffered little damage, or none at all, please God—’
‘Then why is she blind?’ David asked angrily. He felt baited, driven by words, goaded like the b
ull from so long ago. ‘You can’t have it both ways.’
Ruby looked at him, and for the first time saw beyond that blank mask of scarred flesh and realized the pain he was inflicting, saw the hurt in the dark eyes, blue as rifle steel.
‘Forgive me, David. I have been carried away by the intriguing facts of this case, seeing it from my own academic point of view rather than yours, I’m afraid. I will come to it now without further hedging.’ He leaned back in his chair and went on speaking. ‘You recall the notch in the outline of the chiasma. Well, I believe that is the nerve itself, twisted out of position, kinked and pinched like a garden hose by bone fragments and the pressure of the metal fragment so that it is no longer capable of carrying impulses to the brain.’
‘The blows on her temple—?’ David asked.
‘Yes. Those blows may have been just sufficient to alter the position of the bone fragments, or of the nerve itself, so as to enable the passage of a minimal amount of impulse to the brain – like the garden hose, movement could allow a little water to pass through but still hold back any significant flow, but once the twist is straightened the full volume of flow would be regained.’
They were all silent then, each of them considering the enormity of what they had heard.
‘The eyes,’ the Brig said at last. ‘They are healthy?’
‘Perfectly,’ Ruby nodded.
‘How could you find out – I mean, what steps would you take next?’ David asked quietly.
‘There is only one way. We would have to go to the site of the trauma.’
‘Operate?’ David asked again.
‘Yes.’
‘Open Debra’s skull?’ The horror of it showed only in his eyes.
‘Yes,’ Ruby nodded.
‘Her head—’ David’s own flesh quailed in memory of the ruthless knife. He saw the lovely face mutilated and the pain in those blind eyes. ‘Her face—’ His voice shook now. ‘No, I won’t let you cut her. I won’t let you ruin her, like they have me—’
‘David!’ The Brig’s voice cracked like breaking ice, and David sank back in his chair.
‘I understand how you feel,’ Ruby spoke gently, his voice in contrast to the Brig’s. ‘But we will go in from behind the hairline, there will be no disfigurement. The scar will be covered by her hair when it grows out, and the incision will not be very large anyway—’
‘I won’t have her suffer more.’ David was trying to control his voice, but the catch and break were still in it. ‘She has suffered enough, can’t you see that—’
‘We are talking about giving her back her sight,’ the Brig broke in again. His voice was hard and cold. ‘A little pain is a small price to pay for that.’
‘There will be very little pain, David. Less than an appendectomy.’ Again they were silent, the two older men watching the younger in the agony of his decision.
‘What are the chances?’ David looked for help, wanting the decision made for him, wanting it taken out of his hands.
That is impossible to say.’ Ruby shook his head.
‘Oh God, how can I judge if I don’t know the odds?’ David cried out.
‘All right. Let me put it this way – there is a possibility, not probability, that she may regain a useful part of her sight.’ Ruby chose his words with care. ‘And there is a remote possibility that she may regain full vision or almost full vision.’
‘That is the best that can happen.’ David agreed. ‘But what is the worst?’
‘The worst that can happen is there will be no change. She will have undergone a deal of discomfort and pain to no avail.’
David jumped out of his chair and crossed to the windows. He stared out at the great sweep of bay where the tankers lay moored and the far hills of the Tygerberg rose smoky blue to the brilliant sky.
‘You know what the choice must be, David.’ The Brig was ruthless, allowing him no quarter, driving him on to meet his fate.
‘All right,’ David surrendered at last, and turned back to face them. ‘But on one condition. One on which I insist. Debra must not be told that there is a chance of her regaining her sight—’
Ruby Friedman shook his head. ‘She must be told.’
The Brig’s moustache bristled fiercely, ‘Why not? Why don’t you want her to know?’
‘You know why.’ David answered without looking at him.
‘How will you get her there – if you don’t explain it to her?’ Ruby asked.
‘She has been having headaches – we’ll tell her there is a growth – that you’ve discovered a growth – that it has to be removed. That’s true, isn’t it?’
‘No.’ Ruby shook his head. ‘I couldn’t tell her that. I can’t deceive her.’
‘Then I will tell her,’ said David, his voice firm and steady now. ‘And I will tell her when we discover the result after the operation. Good or bad. I will be the one who tells her – is that understood? Do we agree on that?’
And after a moment the two others nodded and murmured their agreement to the terms David had set.
David had the hotel chef prepare a picnic basket, and the service bar provided a cool bag with two bottles of champagne.
David craved for the feeling of height and space, but he needed also to be able to concentrate all his attention on Debra, so he reluctantly rejected the impulse to fly with her – and instead they took the cableway up the precipitous cliffs of Table Mountain, and from the top station they found a path along the plateau and followed it, hand in hand, to a lonely place upon the cliff’s edge where they could sit together high above the city and the measureless spread of ocean.
The sounds of the city came up two thousand feet to them, tiny and disjointed, on freak gusts of the wind or bouncing from the soaring canyons of grey rock – the horn of an automobile, the clang of a locomotive shunting in the train yards, the cry of a muezzin calling the faithful of Islam to pray, and the distant shrilling of children released from the classroom – yet all these faint echoes of humanity seemed to enhance their aloneness and the breeze out of the south east was sweet and clean after the filthy city air.
They drank the wine together, sitting close while David gathered his resolve. He was about to speak when Debra forestalled him.
‘It’s good to be alive and in love, my darling,’ she said. ‘We are very lucky, you and I. Do you know that, David?’
He made a sound in his throat that could have been agreement, and his courage failed him.
‘If you could, would you change anything?’ he asked at last, and she laughed.
‘Oh, sure. One is never absolutely content until and unless one is dead. I’d change many small things – but not the one big thing. You and I.’
‘What would you change?’
‘I would like to write better than I do, for one thing.’
They were silent again, sipping the wine.
‘Sun is going down fast now,’ he told her.
‘Tell me,’ she demanded, and he tried to find words for the colours, that flickered over the cloud banks and the way the ocean shimmered and dazzled with the last rays of gold and blood – and he knew he could never tell it to her. He stopped in the middle of a sentence.
‘I saw Ruby Friedman today,’ he said abruptly, unable to find a gentler approach, and she went still beside him in that special way of hers, frozen like a timid wild thing at the scent of some fearful predator.
‘It’s bad!’ she said at last.
‘Why do you say that?’ he demanded quickly.
‘Because you brought me here to tell me – and because you are afraid.’
‘No,’ David denied it.
‘Yes. I can feel it now, very clearly. You are afraid for me.’
‘It’s not true,’ David tried to reassure her. ‘I’m a little worried, that’s all.’
‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘There is a small growth. It’s not dangerous – yet. But they feel something should be done about it—’ He stumbled through the explanation he h
ad so carefully prepared, and when he ended she was silent for a moment.
‘It is necessary, absolutely necessary?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he told her, and she nodded, trusting him completely – then she smiled and squeezed his arm.
‘Don’t fret yourself, David, my darling. It will be all right. You’ll see, they can’t touch us. We live in a private place where they can’t touch us.’ Now it was she who was striving to comfort him.
‘Of course it will be all right.’ He hugged her to him roughly, slopping a little wine over the rim of his glass.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘Tomorrow you will go in, and they’ll do it the following morning.’
‘So soon?’
‘I thought it best to have it over with.’
‘Yes. You are right.’
She sipped her wine, withdrawn, fearful, despite her brave show.
‘They are going to cut my head open?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and she shuddered against him.
‘There is no risk,’ he said.
‘No. I’m sure there isn’t,’ she agreed quickly.
He woke in the night with the instant knowledge that he was alone, that she was not curled warm and sleeping beside him.
Quickly he slipped from the bed and crossed to the bathroom. It was empty and he padded to the sitting-room of the suite and switched on the lights.
She heard the click of the switch and turned her head away, but not before he had seen the tears glowing on her cheeks like soft grey pearls. He went to her quickly.
‘Darling,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said.
‘That’s all right.’ He knelt before the couch on which she sat, but he did not touch her.
‘I had a dream,’ she said. ‘There was a pool of clear water and you were swimming in it, looking up at me and calling to me. I saw your dear face clearly, beautiful and laughing—’ David realized with a jolt in his guts that she had seen him in her dream as he had been, she had seen the beautiful dream-David, not the monstrous ravaged thing he was now. ‘Then suddenly you began to sink, down, down, through the water, your face fading and receding—’ Her voice caught and broke, and she was silent for a moment. ‘It was a terrible dream, I cried out and tried to follow you, but I could not move and then you were gone down into the depths. The water turned dark and I woke with only the blackness in my head. Nothing but swirling mists of blackness.’