They went to see their pediatrician. His name was Dr. Abdel-Salaam Fawzi. He was an Egyptian who had been living in Muscat for many years. All the wealthy Arab and European families took their children to him.
Rogers remembered every detail of the awful day when they had gone to Dr. Fawzi’s clinic and heard his diagnosis. It was hot and the waiting room smelled of garlic and cigarette smoke. The nurse had called Rogers and his wife into the doctor’s office as if they were prisoners awaiting their sentences. On Dr. Fawzi’s wall, Rogers had noticed, was a medical degree from the American University of Beirut, along with plaques from various Omani medical organizations and a personal testimonial from the Emir of Abu Dhabi.
“Please sit down,” said the doctor. He was a stiff man, dressed in a three-piece suit despite the summer heat. He reminded Rogers of old pictures of Ottoman officials at the turn of the century: dignified and proper, wearing their fine clothes like uniforms of respectability, at once ennobled and embarrassed by their Arab roots. The doctor needed only a red fez to complete the picture.
“I have conducted a series of neurological tests on your daughter,” Dr. Fawzi said solemnly. “Let me explain to you the range of possibilities that could account for her difficulties.
“The simplest explanation is that she is having a slowdown in development. This occasionally happens with children. Some do not walk until they are three or four, but they do quite well as adults. Quite well. So this could be a temporary problem that will disappear.”
Jane took a deep breath. Rogers tried to steel himself for what was coming.
“There are other possibilities,” said Dr. Fawzi.
“What are they?” asked Rogers.
“Well, let me see,” the doctor said, stalling. Like many Arabs, he disliked giving bad news.
“The possibilities are several. They include polio. Which, of course, these days, is curable.”
“Amy has been vaccinated,” said Rogers.
“Yes, of course,” said the doctor. “That rules out polio.”
“What else?” asked Rogers.
“Well, in cases like this, where there are unexplained motor difficulties, we cannot rule out some of the more serious diseases.”
“Such as?” pressed Rogers.
“Muscular dystrophy,” said the doctor. Jane shuddered.
“What else?” said Rogers.
“A tumor,” said the doctor.
“A brain tumor?”
“Yes, it could be a brain tumor. Possibly.”
Jane looked as if she was going to faint.
“What about something infectious?” asked Rogers. “Or something that she ate?”
“I don’t think that’s very likely,” said the doctor quickly. “Not in the Middle East today. That sort of thing is really much more prevalent in Asia or Africa than in the Arab world.”
Remembering the doctor’s vain and defensive manner, Rogers became angry all over again.
Amy got worse. Dr. Fawzi’s demeanor grew more and more solemn. The symptoms, he said, suggested that there was a serious neurological problem. They asked friends at the embassy what to do and nobody had good suggestions. Dr. Fawzi was, after all, everybody’s favorite pediatrician.
It was about then that Rogers began to think: This is my fault. I brought my family here, put them in this miserable place while I played at saving the world. My work will come to nothing, and my little daughter is going to die.
In desperation, Rogers had gone to the local hospital in Muscat. He looked at the names of the residents, and asked where they had done their training. He eventually found a young Omani, Dr. Tayib, who had gone to medical school in America, at Boston University. He went to see the young man, introduced himself as an official at the American Embassy, and explained what was happening to his daughter. Would he be willing to come back to the house and take a look at her, Rogers asked.
Dr. Tayib came that night. He was a reserved young man, the son of an Omani army officer, who had done well at medical school. It was difficult to practice medicine in the Arab world, he said, because people so often were dishonest about their symptoms.
He examined the baby. There were neurological problems, without doubt, he said. But there was a relatively simple possibility. Had the other doctor mentioned it?
“What’s that?” said Rogers.
“Visceral larva migrans,” said the doctor.
“What is that?” asked Jane.
“Roundworms,” said Dr. Tayib. “That is the common name for them. They invade tissues and can remain alive for months. Even for years. If they aren’t treated, they can go to the brain. That may be happening to your daughter.”
Rogers wanted to vomit.
“How could she have gotten them?” asked Jane.
“By eating dirt, usually,” said the doctor.
“Dirt?” asked Rogers.
Dirt. The dirt of the Middle East, of the barren, benighted region of the globe where Rogers had chosen to spend his life.
“Does she play outside?” asked the doctor.
“Yes,” said Jane.
“And do dogs frequent the areas where she plays?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “She goes looking for them. She loves dogs.”
“And is it possible that the dogs have defecated where she plays?”
“I guess so,” said Jane.
“It is possible that this is the explanation,” said the Omani doctor. “Visceral larva migrans. We will have to run tests, of course. A biopsy of the liver. That will be a nuisance, but I would strongly suggest it.”
“Yes, please,” said Rogers.
“I can arrange for your regular doctor to supervise the tests,” said the Omani.
“No!” said Rogers. “Absolutely not. I want you to treat my daughter.”
The Omani protested that transferring the case would be awkward. But Rogers pressed him and he eventually agreed.
“Doctor,” said Jane warily. “Can roundworms be cured?”
“Oh yes,” said the doctor. “Quite often there is a complete recovery within six to twelve months.”
Jane Rogers collapsed into her husband’s arms. Rogers was still too scared to let himself believe the good news.
The Omani doctor’s diagnosis proved right. Amy was suffering from roundworms. The doctor prescribed the appropriate medicine, and she began to respond to the treatment.
But there were complications, of a political sort. Dr. Fawzi, the Egyptian, was furious at the young Omani doctor for interfering in his case. He petitioned the local medical society to withdraw the young doctor’s license. Later, as the Rogers were leaving Oman for Beirut, they heard that Dr. Fawzi was bringing pressure on the local hospital, through some of his wealthy patients, to have the young doctor removed from his residency.
Rogers was enraged. But the American Ambassador in Muscat insisted that he shouldn’t get involved any more deeply. It was a local matter.
Now, in Beirut, Amy was getting better. It was like a reprieve. Like one of the Old Testament stories where God devises a terrible punishment but in the end, for reasons that are unfathomable, relents.
The next morning Rogers left early for the office to send a message to Jamal. He showed a draft to Hoffman, who in turn showed it to the ambassador, who cabled the State Department desk officer. When the brief message had been cleared by the various layers of the bureaucracy, Rogers typed it on a blank sheet of paper and put it in a plain white envelope.
The message read: “The United States is urging the leaders of the Lebanese Christian militia to show restraint in the current crisis. The United States urges Fatah to show similar restraint.”
Rogers attached a cover note to Fuad, instructing him to pass the message to Jamal for delivery to the Old Man. He also asked Fuad to press Jamal for details on the military situation in Beirut.