11
The inside of the hospital reeked of antiseptic. The orphanage director walking alongside me had shrunken into old man. When I had been at the orphanage, he had still been spry in his middle age. When he first saw me again, he had smiled and embraced me happily, saying, “You’ve grown.” Then he asked me in detail about university, about my family, about my life. I answered each question in turn, but, maybe because of the stench of the antiseptic, I grew irritable. He talked a lot about me when I was little. About how — for a child at the orphanage — I had caused surprisingly few problems, about how I did what I was told, about how I studied hard — he spoke without pausing; I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Then, just as I expected, he said, “But that was exactly why, on the contrary, I was worried about you.” He went on, “Though seeing you now, there was no need to worry.”
I told him I wanted to smoke a cigarette, although quite a long time had elapsed from when I had first wanted to say so until I was able to. “Good idea,” he said, “let’s take a little break,” and he led me to the hospital cafeteria. All I wanted was a smoke, but he offered me something to drink, so I asked for coffee. He ordered the same thing, and like me he lit a cigarette. Boy, he said, I was all grown up now; time really did fly.
“But, well, the person you’re about to see is your father, so you must be nervous. I know it’s really none of my business, but I think that later on, when you’re older, you would probably have regretted not seeing him. I wanted you to know about him, so when I heard you were coming, honestly, I was relieved and happy.”
“Is he really in critical condition?”
“Oh, they say it won’t be long now. He has cancer of the liver, you know. It’s already spread to his throat, that’s what the doctor at the hospital was saying. Even your father knows this. He’s conscious, but only just barely, you know, and he keeps repeating that he wants to see you.”
“But I wonder, why does he want to see me?”
“Oh, I can understand how you must feel, but I bet that, staring death in the face, he must want to apologize for things. I think I can understand that too. Lately, there are times when the faces of those I want to say I’m sorry to flicker through my mind.”
“You’re all right, aren’t you?”
“Oh no, I’m fine, but I did some terrible things when I was young, too. It’s just that, when I look back, there are stories I’m ashamed of.”
I wanted to hurry up and get this over with. Ever since firing the gun, I had felt elated, and my general mood had been similarly improved. As far as I was concerned, going to the hospital meant killing my own buzz. I didn’t want to get involved with unnecessary things. I had used up two of the bullets the other night, and now I had to think about how I would get more bullets when I needed them. I also needed to consider whether anyone had actually seen me that night. I had a lot of things to do. I saw no reason to let someone I was merely related to by blood get in the way of all that. Wanting to deal with it quickly, I proposed to the director that we get going, then considered it further, and thought to add that I was anxious to see the man. The director nodded, and paid the bill. He suggested that it might be best for me to go in and see him on my own. “I’ll just wait somewhere,” he said.
The door was white, and the area near it was quiet. I opened the door, and as promised, the director made no attempt to enter, he simply nodded at me. I had known he would nod, so seeing him do so was satisfying somehow. The room was cramped, with three beds lined up in the center of it. Each bed had an IV drip attached, and various tubes extending off it; I felt as though I had stepped into some kind of laboratory. The white curtain over the window had been left closed, and there was a scrawny arrangement of sorry-looking flowers near it on a stand. The apparatus by the bed in the middle was larger than those by the other two, and seemed like it must have been expensive. I approached the bed that was closest to me, and looked down on the man who was lying there. He looked like an ordinary, unremarkable old man. His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping, and he was covered in wrinkles — he reminded me of a mummy. I had a hard time imagining that this person was my father, but what did I expect? I remembered the time long ago, when I learned about DNA on the television at the orphanage. It had given me a serious shock. I had thought that the idea of bloodlines was more like a kind of superstition or something, but DNA gave it the ring of truth, and I had to admit that heredity was an established fact. Biologically half of me was made up of genes from that bastard, and the other half from some woman I’d never known, who had disappeared. The realization had caused me to lose interest in myself. It was better not to engage in introspection or self-awareness; in order to go on with my life, I sort of shut down, in a childlike way. I reminded myself that I didn’t need to think about it; I had bummed myself out a little, but I quickly got over it.
I was conscious of the gun, and then I remembered that I had left it at my apartment that day. It wasn’t like I thought if I had it with me I might shoot my father, but I had the feeling it was better that I hadn’t brought it. To me, it seemed a shame for the precious gun to be in the presence of my father. In fact, as soon as I entered the room, I was glad I didn’t have it. The air was stuffy, the mood somber. It didn’t fit with the nature of the gun, which was much better suited to my apartment or the crisp air of the park that night.
The IV was filled with a dull yellow fluid, which passed through a translucent tube and was being infused into the man’s body. I became intrigued by the idea of what would happen to him if I were to yank this out. His eyes would probably pop open as he stared at me in surprise. It would likely create a scene. A son with a grudge pays a visit to his father and takes his life. I thought it would make quite a fascinating story for the public. But I wasn’t about to do that. I had no interest in this man, and resentment was one of several emotions that I didn’t really comprehend. It made no difference to me. I didn’t care if he died right here, or if he recovered and lived a happy life.