The gaunt executive fidgeted with a golf ball in his right hand, tapping it with his thumb, sometimes throwing it a few inches in the air then catching it again. Gómez stood in front of his desk and Julieta perched on it, her legs crossed under what looked like a brand-new, white clinician’s coat. My mother sat regally in her wheelchair and I was standing by her side.
Gómez gestured towards the two men. ‘Please, may I introduce Mr James from Los Angeles.’ He pointed to the gaunt, silver-haired man. ‘And Señor Covarrubias from Barcelona.’
He waved his hand in my mother’s direction. ‘This is my patient Mrs Papastergiadis and her daughter, Sofia Irina.’
The plump official smiled flirtatiously at my mother. ‘I hope you are comfortable today,’ he said.
‘It’s nice to be out and about,’ she replied.
Mr James threw up his golf ball and caught it again.
‘So, please. How can I help you?’ Gómez’s tone was polite but abrupt.
Mr James from Los Angeles leaned forward and attempted to make eye contact with my mother. The first difficulty he had to overcome was pronouncing her surname. He came up with something that was not, strictly speaking, the name of the person he was referring to. ‘I believe that you were admitted into the clinic for two nights. Could you tell us more about this?’
‘I was dehydrated,’ Rose said solemnly.
‘Indeed.’ Gómez folded his pinstriped arms. ‘And then she was hydrated with intravenous saline. This is at the more basic end of what we do here at the Gómez Clinic. You are right to be concerned about hydration. My patient cannot easily swallow water, which means she cannot easily swallow her medication.’
Mr James nodded and turned to Rose. ‘But I understand that you have been taken off all medication?’
‘I am back on track now. The doctor at the hospital in Almería was concerned, too.’
Julieta took a step forward. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ She glanced at her father.
Gómez nodded, as if some secret message had been transmitted between them. They both seemed preoccupied and on edge.
‘The treatment is proceeding,’ Julieta said. ‘It is in progress. We have work to do. We wish to conclude this meeting as soon as possible and talk to Mrs Papastergiadis alone.’
‘The treatment is over,’ my mother said. ‘It is not proceeding. I have made other medical arrangements for when I return to London.’
Señor Covarrubias flapped his tie. He spoke perfect English and pronounced my mother’s surname with ease. He asked her to list her current medication, which she did at length, while Mr James ticked the questionnaire on his clipboard.
When Rose asked him for some information about one of her new pills, Mr James’s tone was reassuring, perhaps even excited. He told her in a whisper that the doctor in Almería was a colleague and the prescription he had given her was to help erase negative internal conversations that can be harmful to the patient.
‘What sort of conversations?’ Rose leaned forward to hear him better.
‘Self-blaming or persecutory.’ Mr James seemed to suggest there were other examples but the two he had just mentioned were enough to be getting on with.
‘It erases those sorts of conversations?’
‘Quietens,’ he said.
‘Quietens,’ she repeated.
‘I think in English you say “hushes”.’ Señor Covarrubias seemed keen to get back to his conversation with my mother. His phone was vibrating in his pocket.
‘In the first instance,’ he said, ‘I want to ask if your consultant has at any time presented you with a progress plan in regard to how your treatment is advancing and what has been achieved?’
‘I have not seen a progress plan as such,’ Rose said.
‘Apologies for taking up your time, Mrs Papastergiadis, but I think we have common goals. We want to know if the treatment so far has helped you become more effective in your life.’
Rose considered the question. It seemed to have knocked her off track. She had become pale and her shoulders were trembling. She sat very still, silent and brooding. She lifted her hand and sort of waved her fingers at me. I don’t know what she was attempting to convey but it reminded me of the child in the broken house near the airport who had waved her spoon at the car. Perhaps it meant go away.
Or hello. Or help.
‘Could you repeat the question?’
Julieta Gómez stepped in. ‘You do not have to answer, Rose. It is your choice.’
Rose stared into Julieta’s kind, clear eyes. ‘Well, I get up in the morning. I get dressed. I do my hair.’
The men in suits ticked something on their questionnaires as she spoke.
‘As a child I ran for miles every day. Jumped over hedges and ditches. I could plait grass and make a whistle. But now I’m a poor owd horse.’
Señor Covarrubias looked up from his clipboard. ‘Owd?’
‘It’s an old word for “old”,’ she explained.
Mr James took over from his colleague. ‘We have called this meeting today because we are not convinced you are in safe hands.’
Gómez cleared his throat. ‘Please keep in mind, gentlemen, that so far my patient has been tested for evidence of a stroke, spinal-cord injury, nerve compression, nerve entrapment, multiple sclerosis, muscular dystrophy, motor neurone disease and spinal arthritis. We are yet to discuss the results of a recent endoscopy.’
While Mr James listened to Gómez, he was nervously fiddling with the golf ball. He was frowning as if Gómez were speaking a foreign language, which he was, because he was speaking in English in Spain even though Mr James, who was from Southern California, spoke fluent Spanish.
He threw the golf ball up in the air and it bounced against the shelf above his head.
It was the smallest sound of something shattering, not exactly a tinkle so much as a sharp, clean break. It made the executives jump. They turned around to look at the monkey, its small head fringed with white fur, its fierce, alarmed eyebrows, the long tail held high as if it was about to chirp and chitter, kek kek kek kek.
‘I apologize,’ Mr James said. ‘I had no idea it was there.’
From where I was standing, it looked as if the electrocuted monkey was levitating above their heads. Its dead, bright eyes gazed at the senior consultants from Europe and North America. They were the new Great White Hunters with their teams of porters, tent attendants, armed guards and gun bearers, enslaving the people and shooting for ivory. The ivory was my mother. Mr James couldn’t even pronounce her name, yet she had bartered with him and exchanged her legs for his stimulants. He had won the land.
Señor Covarrubias leaned forward. ‘Do you have concerns you would like to share with us, Sofia?’
The only sound in the room was the ticking of Rose’s gangster watch, its circle of fake diamonds sparkling on her thin wrist.
‘I don’t know if my mother is dead or alive,’ I said.
Julieta stared at the wall as if she had disowned me.
‘Please continue, Sofia. Don’t feel you have to use jargon.’ Mr James smiled encouragingly.
Rose thumped her hand on the side of her wheelchair. ‘Jargon is not a problem for my daughter. She has a first-class degree.’
She turned to me and spoke in Greek. It was a long time since she had done that. My mother had taught me Greek from about the age of three. We rarely spoke it at home, probably to punish my father. I had worked very hard to erase a whole language, yet it would not hush itself. I wanted to cut off its tongue but it had been in conversation with me every day since my father had left the family house. The odd thing was that she was speaking Greek to make a joke that referred to a stereotype about being born in Yorkshire. The only sentence she spoke in English was ‘And I don’t own a whippet either.’