“Why?” he replied in affected astonishment.
“Because.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m nice.”
“But you’re terribly obstinate,” he said sternly.
“I’m not terrible at all,” she answered archly, but he insisted, “Yes, you’re terribly obstinate. You talked us into this room, and the poor boy has to sleep here next to us like a dog.”
“Why a dog?” Now she was taken aback, but she didn’t lose her self-confidence. “What kind of a way is that to talk? Can’t you see that he’s perfectly happy and pleased to be with us, even though he’s a cold type who doesn’t show his feelings?”
“Shh … Shh!” Lazar suddenly seemed nervous. “He can hear us.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “The way those youngsters sleep, nothing wakes them. Come and hold me. Let’s go to sleep — I’m afraid of what’s waiting for us tomorrow.” They must have started kissing, or so I assumed, and I immediately turned over in bed in order to stop them, and they evidently heard something, because the rustling stopped at once, and soon her faint snoring rose again. It suddenly stopped, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. And after a long time I got up and walked barefoot, careful not to look, past the two beds, which were indeed a little closer together and bathed in the light of the huge moon slowly rising over the far bank, desolate and a little frightening, of the Ganges.
In the morning they woke me ruthlessly and pressed me to eat my breakfast, which was already laid on the balcony table. Their suitcases were packed, and they had also managed to go down to the river at dawn to see the pilgrims taking their first dip. Soon two elderly Indians arrived to take our luggage, loaded it onto a pushcart downstairs, and led us to the train station through a flood of fresh pilgrims, who had apparently arrived on the night trains and were now on their way to the river. Again I had the feeling that I was in a very ancient place, as if precisely here, in this muddy swarm of humanity, between the large cows stubbornly stuck in the middle of the alleys, the world had been created, or at least begun to bubble. When we entered the frenzied station, I spotted as if by magic the diminutive porter of the previous day in the distance, a suitcase on his back as he led two elderly female tourists in big straw hats, probably to the room we had just vacated. I could not resist the impulse to rush up to him and say good-bye. To my surprise, Lazar’s wife hurried after me. The little porter was so moved by our gesture that he removed the suitcase from his back and almost knelt in the middle of the dung and the mud, putting his hands together in the Indian greeting and pleading with us in the little English at his command, “Come back to Varanasi. You didn’t see anything.”
On the train traveling east we shared our compartment, this time with two brothers in white suits who were returning home to Calcutta after cremating their father’s body. At ten o’clock in the morning, after the train left the station, they presented Lazar and me with their cards, and when we saw that one of them was a doctor, Lazar quickly told them about the object of our journey and asked if they knew anything about the hospital in Gaya. Immediately filled with interest and curiosity, they began showering us with advice and ideas. They had never seen the hospital in Gaya, but they knew by hearsay that it was small and poorly equipped, for it sometimes sent specimens to the private laboratory the Calcutta doctor was connected with a consultant and a partner. Accordingly, they advised us to take Einat as quickly as possible to the big hospital in Calcutta, where everything was more reliable. At this point Lazar informed them that I too was a doctor, that we had brought medical equipment with us, and that we had no intention of wandering between Indian hospitals but were going to take the girl home to Israel as quickly as possible. This idea seemed to them basically sound, and they wished us luck and asked if they could peep at our equipment. Now that we were approaching the patient, Lazar too was curious to know what we were bringing to save his daughter, so I opened the knapsack and displayed its contents, explaining what everything was. The Indians listened attentively, as if eager to learn from me, and Lazar took each instrument and examined it carefully, questioning me as to how it worked, as if he believed that by mastering such details he could penetrate his hospital more deeply and strengthen his control over it. His wife sat in absent-minded silence, her liveliness and gaiety extinguished, as if the approaching meeting with her daughter filled her with dread. I measured Lazar’s blood pressure, at his request, and found it to be very high, 170 over 110, but I didn’t want to upset him before the meeting with his daughter and gave him lower numbers. The Indian doctor asked for the sphygmomanometer and measured his own and his brother’s blood pressure repeatedly and at length, but since I didn’t ask for the results, he saw no reason to tell me what they were.
When we got off the train at the Gaya station that afternoon and said good-bye to the two Indians — who presented us with their cards again and reminded us that they would be waiting for us in Calcutta if we needed them — we felt that the last part of the trip had passed comfortably enough, and congratulated ourselves on the ease with which we had reached the point that had seemed so remote when we looked at the map lying on Lazar’s living room table. “So this is Gaya. What a hole …” muttered Lazar as we stood outside the station, contemplating the strange, absolutely un-Indian emptiness around us. All around us were low yellow hills, and the earth was dry and hard. An apathetic porter approached us slowly, but when he heard where we wanted to go he drew back and beckoned to a more energetic friend, who took us to the hospital, which was a rather small three-story building plastered with pale brown clay. “You go in, and I’ll wait outside with the luggage,” I said to the Lazars, “and don’t tell them you brought a doctor, or you’ll make the medical staff nervous.” Lazar looked at me sharply and said, “You’re right. Quite right. Very good thinking.” And when I saw his wife’s face, rather pale, tired, and ugly, without any makeup, dark glasses covering her unsmiling eyes, I added, “And don’t be frightened if she’s yellow or even greenish — it’s hepatitis, and the color isn’t dangerous.” They nodded their thanks and went inside. I sat down on the ground next to a ruined fountain, leaned against one of the suitcases, and prepared myself for a long wait. Well, I thought, I’m on duty at last — if I had a time card here, I’d have to get it punched. But fifteen minutes later they emerged from the hospital in a state of extreme agitation. It appeared that their daughter was no longer there; the week before she had been transferred to Bodhgaya, about ten miles from Gaya, since there was no reason to keep her in the hospital any longer, whether because her condition had improved or the opposite neither of them had managed to understand.
In a panic they hailed a passing auto-rickshaw, and we hurried to Bodhgaya over a rough country road winding through soft fields. A sweet breeze caressed our faces, and in the distance, at the end of the plain, poised gently and motionlessly on the horizon, a big yellow Indian sun refused to sink. In just half an hour we were at Bodhgaya, which turned out to be a pleasant religious retreat full of leafy trees, with a broad dirt road leading from one Buddhist monastery to the next. There were no tourists or backpackers to be seen. We seemed to be the only Westerners in the place, but we had no difficulty in finding the right monastery, luxuriant entrance where green creepers twined around a big door. We were welcomed by several Thai monks, who were expecting us and even looking forward to our coming, since the telegram sent to the hospital from Israel had been attached to the patient as a kind of guarantee that she was not anonymous and somebody would soon come to claim her. Here too I stopped in the courtyard and suggested that I should wait outside with the luggage while the Lazars went in, but Lazar’s wife insisted that I go in with them, as if she couldn’t face meeting her sick daughter without a doctor on hand to calm her. So we went in with all our luggage, since Lazar was unwilling to part from it even in a Buddhist monastery, and we were led through corridors decorated with tattered carpets and statuettes of gods into a dim chamber strewn with big backpacks and rolled-up sleeping bags. Two Japanese girls who were sitting next to a gas burner and drinking tea stood up as soon as we entered the room and stayed in the corner bowing their heads politely and respectfully. The patient, a blonde with cropped hair, lay exhausted in a fetal position on a sleeping bag covered with a gray sheet, a mosquito net folded at her side. Her skin was dry and as green as the bark of a tree, and there was a grubby bandage on her right leg. Her parents went up and knelt down next to her, talking in low voices, stroking her hands and cheeks, trying to joke, but taking care not to kiss her. Lazar’s wife tried to flash her automatic smile in order to cheer her daughter up, but in the circumstances her would-be cheerful gesture came out as a strange grimace. The girl was silent and remote, and for a moment she seemed angry with her parents, either because they had come late or because they had come at all. And then I saw the despairing looks as Lazar and his wife turned mutely to me and invited me, the doctor, to approach. I stepped up and bent down next to the patient. Her father introduced me by my full name, and the girl turned her pale green face, whose features I immediately saw to be pure and fine, toward me. Even though I was a stranger to her, she tried to give me the smile she had withheld from her parents. And the flickering light green irises, drowning in the dark yellow, almost orange whites of her eyes, were very like the eyes not of her mother or father but of her grandmother, who had been sitting in their living room and longing, according to Mrs. Lazar, to meet me.