He plucks up the courage to lay still lips on her forehead, listening to the lonely noise of the refrigerator in the silence of the night, and he goes on, kissing her eyes, licking the tip of her earlobe, and says to himself, So far and no further, otherwise you’re doomed. But the little girl doesn’t sense his desperation; she closes her eyes wearily and opens her mouth wide in a little yawn, until he can’t stop himself and pokes his burning tongue into the pink mouth, to lick the residue of candies sucked during the day. But this can’t possibly be love, he explains to himself, only a momentary, passing infatuation. Will she understand? His hand clutches her between her legs, and suddenly he swings her up to the ceiling, feeling the lightness of her childish body, so that she can enjoy gliding through the air after such a long day of study. And he believes that this strenuous effort to amuse her will prove the purity of his intentions.
But to his annoyance he feels the lust rising in her light little body as it swings through the air, for otherwise why, instead of bursting into uninhibited childish laughter, is she closing her eyes, and parting her lips in a soft spasm of pleasure, and growing heavy in his hands, and dropping down and wrapping her slender arms around his neck, and kissing him warmly, blinding him with her curls? Can it be possible, he asks himself in surprise, for such a little girl to possess lust? And very gently he lays her on the big kitchen table, and in his mind a new thought flashes. Perhaps she is sick, perhaps she is dying, and this will be the last happiness he can give her. How can he withhold it from her? And he steps back, takes off her sneakers and her white socks, which in the depths of this marvelous night, after the long day of study, have inexplicably preserved their freshness. Breathlessly, he bends down and cups two plump feet in his hands to warm them with light kisses, even though they need no warming, for they are blazing with lust. And even if she isn’t dying yet, he goes on reflecting painfully, perhaps she is an orphan who is about to be sent away into some distant exile, and it is the place of her exile that she is seeking in the ink-stained atlas. And so he carefully removes the pale blue blouse, noticing the little moles sweetly spotting her shoulder next to the straps of the childish white undershirt, which is all that is covering her now, and he says to himself, who could blame me now if I just washed her with soap and water before she goes to sleep? But the delicate navel, opening in front of him like a third eye, casts him into confusion, and he turns around in despair to look for help.
But is there really any help to be had from the lean and serious mystery, which finally emerges from his hiding place behind the old refrigerator humming in its loneliness, and puts on his cheap metal glasses, one of whose lenses is cracked from top to bottom, the better to see with his somber, humorless gaze the disheveled little girl sprawled out on the table, who — the would-be lover now realizes in his despair — is apparently his delinquent little daughter, who waits at the end of the school day next to the gate of the mental institution, in case he is released, and then she can trail behind and accompany him on his sudden visits, which are all subject to the same obsession: that the earth stands still, and every hour is eternal and sufficient unto itself, and nothing is ever lost
After washing my hands well, I injected my sleepy patient with 100 cc’s of glucose, because if there was real liver damage, even normal functioning of the alpha cells in the pancreas would fail to produce enough glucose to overcome the deficiency. The change was rapid, almost dramatic, and before long there was a marked improvement in Einat’s mood. She got out of bed and, yellow and emaciated, joined us at the kitchen table, where Lazar and his wife had already prepared a surprisingly lavish midnight feast. At first I wanted to tell them frankly about my concern over the findings I had brought back from Calcutta, centering above all on the coagulopathy, which might cause sudden internal hemorrhage. But a soft and wondering look from Einat, as if she had only just been struck by the actuality of my presence next to her parents, held me back. In any case, I assumed that in spite of his rich hospital experience, Lazar would not be able to understand the subtleties of organic processes, especially those associated with the coagulation system, which are somewhat obscure even to us doctors. I therefore buried my concern for the time being, and in spite of my exhaustion I tried to sample the food on the heaped plate set before me by Lazar. His wife’s eyes kept beaming at me, as if to let me know that not only was she happy at my safe return, but she also understood and perhaps even approved of my trip to Calcutta. Lazar hastened to announce that he too had not been idle in the meantime, and he already had an almost complete outline for our return journey: the day after tomorrow a flight from Gaya to Varanasi, and from there, after a wait at the airport, on to New Delhi, in the hope of getting onto the direct flight to Rome on Thursday, and from Rome the Friday afternoon El Al flight to Israel. He and his wife had managed to get all this worked out at the travel agency they had found in Gaya, which luckily possessed a fax. “You went to Gaya with him?” I asked, turning to Dori, unable to believe that her inability to be alone had led her once again to desert her sick daughter. “Only for two or three hours,” she answered quickly, blushing slightly in embarrassment, as if she had heard the underlying rebuke in my words, “and we left a nice Indian maid we found in the hotel with Einat.”
“I’m exhausted,” I announced, narrowing my burning eyes, and I began getting out of my chair and propelling myself toward my bed before I collapsed on the big table itself. The two of them jumped up, alarmed by the intensity of the fatigue that had suddenly overtaken me, and rushed to support me, and they must have helped me to undress and take off my shoes as well, because when I woke up twelve hours later — buttoned up in my pajamas, wrapped in a white blanket, with reddish light strewn around me like pomegranate pips, signaling with its pleasantness the last hour of the afternoon — I didn’t remember having done these things myself.
But I did remember Lazar’s wife laughing long and loud, either because of my sudden collapse into their arms or because of my objections to their undressing me. Now it was quiet in the dark little bungalow. The two Lazars were absent, and their sick daughter, and also perhaps her doctor, had been left in the care of a gentle Indian girl in a blue sari, who when she saw me getting out of bed stood up straight in my honor and put her hands together in the traditional greeting. In reasonable English she told me that Lazar and his wife had gone to Gaya to arrange for our flights. I felt strangely insulted: it hadn’t occurred to them to consult the doctor they had brought all this way, as if one shot of glucose were enough to solve the whole problem. I dressed and shaved quickly before going in to examine my patient, whose limpness told me that her condition had deteriorated again even before I reached her bedside. I was accompanied by the Indian girl, who did not realize that I was a doctor and apparently took me for a family relation. The effect of the glucose shot had been short-lived. Einat’s temperature had risen, and her skin was even yellower than before. But even more worrying was the possibility that she had not passed a good amount of urine for several days. I began questioning her as I changed the dressing on her leg, and she answered rather vaguely: the hepatitis had already lasted a month, and the borders between health and sickness had grown hazy. I helped her to take off her shift and asked her to lie on her back, so that I could feel not only her shrunken liver but also her kidneys, which were a little enlarged. The Indian girl watched me curiously as I avoided touching her exposed breasts, which in comparison to her skinny body were actually rather full. I had already heard young doctors complaining about the harmful effects on their sexuality of intimate contact with sick women, and although I myself had nothing to complain of in this regard, I did not take their complaints lightly; and here in Bodhgaya, in this cool, bare room, the strong presence of the attractive Indian girl standing behind me merged with the enjoyable sensation passing through my hands kneading Einat’s bare stomach, and I felt a faint flare-up of lust. I reminded myself to masturbate tonight when I went to bed, before we began the long trip home the next day — a trip I still considered rash, and perhaps even dangerous. Given with the blood profile I had brought back from Calcutta, the correct procedure would have been to keep my patient in bed for a few days, until I was sure that there was no chance of relapse and that she was on the road to recovery.