"You're like fucking King Canute and the waves," I bellowed back. "You can rant and rail, and deny all you want, but they're still going to die, and a word from the mighty Faneuil isn't going to prevent it! You don't want to believe me … fine! Try the CDC, the NIH, talk to some other Froggies. Montagnier at the Pasteur Institute, they isolated the goddam virus! The test has been designed as a screening mechanism for world blood banks. I used it, maybe wrongly, as a diagnostic tool, but God, we had to know. We've got to do something."
He was trembling, his nostrils pinched tight as he said, "The first thing I am going to do is get you out of my hospital. Out of my village. You have no ethics."
"I love nats. Your village? This is a joker village. And I'm a joker, and I think I have more fucking right to be here than you do. You contact the Peace Corps. I'll reveal what I've discovered here. You got lazy. You got complacent. That's bad, but it's not criminal. You ignore this, and it will be criminal."
He collapsed onto the sofa, and he began to cry. My anger cooled as if doused by the rain of his grief. I felt sick … for his pain and guilt, for our dying patients. "I'm sorry, Etienne."
He lifted a tear-streaked face, shook his head, and waved a hand helplessly. "No, no, Bradley, you were right to shout. I was being a stubborn old fool. But the time for tears is past. Now we must act."
***
They were fine words, but they were just words. For those already infected or into full blown AIDS all we could do was ease their deaths, and try to educate them to keep them from passing the disease to the few healthy members of our community.
The question which tormented me in those dark weeks was the how? How had the disease ran with such ease through the community? Even assuming ten or twelve infected jokers arriving in the village, it could not have spread this comprehensively. Each night I continued my research.
Blood transfusion? Unlikely. We didn't do that much surgery at the clinic, we weren't equipped for it, and certainly no procedure that would require a large amount of blood. We sure as hell didn't have a large gay population, and heterosexual infection, while it is a growing phenomenon, was not as easy as the media would like people to believe. No IV drug users -
My thoughts tumbled to a halt like cars in an L.A. freeway pileup. But we sterilize our needles! I told myself, laying aside that worry. We are careful.
I tried to put it out of my mind. I quizzed Margaret again and again about our sterilization techniques, and maybe it was the hostile shuttered look in her pale, pale eyes that finally led me to add a new skill to my list of credits — breaking and entering. Maybe it was also the relaxed attitude which seemed to grip the medical staff of Kilango. Having now realized that he had a bunch of dying jokers, Fanueil didn't seem to care about preventing any further spread of the disease. I felt like a wild eyed, tangled haired prophet crying to the heavens about condoms and safe sex. And like most wild eyed and tangled haired prophets I was unsung in my own country.
Anyway, it was late one night. I was coming off rounds, but instead of heading back to my hut I cruised across the lobby and down the hall to Faneuil's office. It wasn't locked, which surprised me at first (I'm a white boy from L.A. — we lock everything), and suddenly I felt very foolish. An unlocked door wasn't very sinister. Still, I'd come this far, and vilified Faneuil's image in my own mind, so I entered.
Moving quickly, I flipped through the filing cabinets. Minutes went crawling past. In my own fevered imagination I had been in the office for days. I kept having visions of myself caught by Faneuil and Margaret. His eyes sad and hurt as I tried to stammer out apologies. I almost quit, but there was only one more drawer to go. I yanked it open. Began a cursory search. An icy footed, long legged insect seemed to go stalking down my spine. I collapsed back onto my hindquarters like a trick circus pony, and read quickly through the collection of articles in my hands.
They were all from the 1970s, and they dealt with things like needle transmission of infectious hepatitis. The number of viral particles necessary on a needle to cause serum transmission. Virus survivability rates at room temperatures.
There's a logical explanation for this, my mind yammered as it ran in circles around the confines of my skull. We're sterilizing disposable needles. He's just worried and concerned. Making certain our system is as foolproof as man and science can make it.
Because if we weren't, and if there was something unthinkable occurring I … I thought of Daudi, and I couldn't finish the thought.
I replaced the articles, and slipped out of the office.
Down the hallway to the storeroom where supplies were stored, linens washed, and needles sterilized. I had never paid much attention to the sterilization process — doctor's arrogance, that. After all, Margaret handled it. Now, I was about to educate myself. I wanted to know the make-up of our final needle wash. If all was well I could release this paranoid fantasy about Faneuil.
It was hot in the storeroom. Through the south facing window I could see a line of monsoon clouds billowing purple, black and grey against the moon lit sky. Occasionally lightning shot jagged and orange from the belly of the clouds. A sharp gust of wind sent sand rattling against the dingy glass. Alarmed by the sharp reports, the flies sleeping like fat black raisins on the ceiling let out a crescendo drone, and stirred nervously. Flies are a constant in Africa. You stop noticing them after a while. I almost didn't notice this batch.
Instead I flipped on the light. Crossed to the solution. Awakened by the light the flies came spiraling down drawn by the scent of sweat and hide from my centaur body. One big motherfucker landed on my withers, and bit down hard. Grunting in pain and annoyance I cranked my torso around, and smashed the fucker. Blood squished against my palm. Disgusted, I turned back to look for a towel, and froze.
The flies were hovering over Doctor's special solution.
Sterilizing solutions all have one thing in common — they contain detergent. Flies don't like detergent. Whatever was in Doctor's Special Needle Dip, it wasn't detergent.
Suddenly paranoid, I closed the door to the storeroom behind me, and approached the tray. The needles looked like tiny deadly missiles as their points glittered beneath the surface of the fluid. I removed the tray, and set it aside. I then used the tried and true doctor approach to anything unknown. I dipped the tip of my little finger in the solution, and tasted it.
It wasn't soap, or Clorox, or alcohol. It was dilute human serum. For a second the room took on the quality of a merry-go-round. I closed my eyes, and backed up so abruptly that I drove my ass into the far wall. It bruised the dock of my tail, and hurt like a motherfucker. The pain counteracted the faintness.
All the old spy movies of my youth rose up and clamored for attention. I knew I had to hide my presence in the room, and I knew I had to have a sample of the solution. I quickly filled and corked a pipette with the liquid. I was just returning the needles to the solution when I smelled smoke. Terrified, I threw open the door, and slammed it immediately shut again at the sight of flames belching from Faneuil's office. Frantically I searched for escape. There was no way I was going to get my fat horse butt out that window. In my case it literally was out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Snatching up a towel from the linen cabinet, I wet it with tap water, then tied it across my face. I remembered clips from one of Dad's stirring firefighter dramas, so I stood to the side of the door as I opened it. Fire belched in as if shot by a small dragon. Once that initial billow passed I held my breath, and jumped through into the hall. My tail ignited as I vaulted over the fire, and boy did that serve as an incentive! If the ASPCA wouldn't get on you, I have a great way to encourage race horses.