Beneath the Wake, page 14
“No matter what he’s calling them,” Cornelia said, “they look like night-light bulbs to me. How many watts?”
Natasha turned to the boy and mimed unscrewing a bulb from a socket. “May I?”
His eyes lit up and he nodded encouragingly. He was clearly anxious to make the sale after so much to and fro.
She removed a bulb from the string. It took some fiddling in the dim light offered by the rear of the store, but she finally found “6W” stamped on its base.
Close enough, she decided. She couldn’t help beaming at the boy. “We’ll take the whole string.”
CHAPTER 28
It was past two-thirty by the time Noah returned from the city and got his booty put away in the infirmary fridge. He set the test tubes, stains, and other reagents on a shelf beside the vaccines. The selection of culture plates fit nicely in the crisper along with the bottles for incubating blood samples. He’d placed the packet of sterile swabs in a cupboard with a sticky note attached that said DO NOT TOUCH. The swabs weren’t fragile, but they were definitely precious.
Iqbal, the gentlemanly lab tech he’d found on duty in the microbiology laboratory at Rumah Sakit St. Elisabeth — literally, St. Elisabeth’s House of Sickness — had been very helpful. The man explained that although he was a Muslim, he’d been schooled by the order of nuns who founded St. Elisabeth’s. He was proud of his facility in English and turned out to be something of a philosopher.
He took Noah on a tour of his one-man, two-bench laboratory, which was much in need of a fresh coat of paint, a good scrubbing of the floors, and the replacement of a fluorescent light tube and two smashed windowpanes. Pointing with contempt at an expensive-looking machine gathering dust in a place of honour, Iqbal said, “We are waiting for a new part to arrive from Germany. It has been two years.” Resignation consumed his gentle face. “Perhaps they have forgotten us.”
Noah shook his head in commiseration then explained that he needed a number of supplies and didn’t know where to turn. Iqbal smiled and led Noah to his storeroom. When the kindly fellow switched on the light, Noah was surprised to see it was nothing more than a closet, neatly kept and depressingly modest. For a long moment, he was struck by pangs of guilt. How could he raid from such paltry stock? But then he pictured Jung Lee on the autopsy table, neck nodes bulging with pus, and told himself he wasn’t asking for a handout. He’d pay St. Elisabeth’s triple the replacement cost of whatever he took away with him.
Iqbal gestured to the shelves and bowed his head. “It is an honour to assist a distinguished guest from far away.”
Noah looked down at his shoes. He felt anything but distinguished. Desperate was more like it.
Iqbal stroked the greying hairs of his wispy goatee then picked up a thin stick that looked like a long Q-tip. He eyed the swab with deep respect, glanced back at the expensive but idle German machine, then marvelled out loud how the identification of bacteria still depended on this little tool that cost next to nothing. It wasn’t long before he’d gathered everything on Hamish Wakefield’s list of essential lab supplies and placed them in a cardboard box.
And now, a puff of cool air from the Coral Dynasty’s spotless and high-tech infirmary refrigerator reminded Noah how thirsty he was. On a day like today when most of the passengers were away on tour until at least five, he knew the sundeck would be a good place to relax over a drink. He’d find a spot in the shade and settle, as usual, for a tall iced tea. He would prefer a nice cold Stella, but he never drank beer in public before six and limited himself to two glasses of wine at dinner. Appearances were everything, especially on a cruise ship where a doctor’s reputation could be destroyed overnight.
He climbed the stairs to the sundeck and sat at the table he favoured on port days like this. Mir signalled from a distance that an iced tea was on its way. Noah removed his sunglasses and rubbed the sweat from his eyes. Then he put the glasses on again. Was that them over there in the shade? In the double stroller? It had to be. He knew they were due to board this afternoon and staying for about a week until — what was it, Kuching? — but he didn’t expect the boys to be paraded in full view. Oh my God, what was the man thinking? James Purnama was a lawyer, for heaven’s sake. He must understand the delicacy with which these things had to be handled. What was he going to tell the other passengers when the twins disappeared? Perhaps the stress of the past couple of years had made Purnama rash and unpredictable. When they’d spoken on Skype, he’d seemed refreshingly modest and sensible, especially for a man used to operating near the top of Indonesian society.
Purnama seemed to have brought two nannies with him. That made sense when Noah thought about it. Even healthy twins were a handful. The woman facing Noah had that silent manner you saw on housekeepers everywhere. Her head was covered, her sarong typically Indonesian. But the woman in the green and white dress, standing with her back to Noah, his view of her partially obscured by an umbrella, moved with too much confidence to be anybody’s nanny. He hair was cut short and fully exposed, and her sundress showed off her perky little figure. If she was a passenger, she was younger than most. Why wasn’t she out touring Borobudur with everyone else? She and Purnama were having an animated conversation. Noah couldn’t catch a word of it, not a syllable above the rumble of the ship’s diesel generators.
He pushed himself out of his chair. If Purnama was telling that woman his life story, Noah had to put a stop to it. Not everyone sympathized with the Endangered List’s philosophy. It embraced a view of the human condition that took many forms and did not always travel well from culture to culture. The provision of apparent hospice-style care to Mrs. Weyburn in the final days of her cancer was likely to go undetected. Likewise, Mark Grey taking nine grams of secobarb in the Quiet Room. But when a doctor and his staff resorted to unconventional measures that colleagues saw as risky or distasteful, the stakes were higher. Prying eyes might notice and jump to harsh judgment. The consequences could be disastrous.
He’d taken a few steps from his table when he recognized the perky woman in the green and white dress. Of course, she was back from her shopping trip. And smiling warmly into the stroller, trying to attract the attention of the three-year-old twins. It was a hopeless endeavour. Those boys hadn’t been able to see anything in two years, or hear a sound for twelve months, move any of their muscles for six months, or swallow their food for God knew how long. Bintang and Bulan had reached the stage where epileptic seizures and muscles spasms gripped them for hours at a time, and whatever minimal consciousness they might experience was racked with pain.
“Hi there,” Noah called from a distance. “How was your shopping?”
Natasha turned and smiled. “I hope your trip was as successful as mine.”
Noah gestured behind him. “My table’s over there. Come and join me in a refreshment. Shopping’s thirsty work.”
He extended his hand to Purnama and introduced himself.
The man didn’t seem to know what to say in response, other than his name. They’d never met in person. It went without saying that neither wanted the details of their grim discussions over Skype to become public knowledge.
“You received it?” Purnama asked.
“Yes,” Noah told him. “A very helpful summary. If you need my assistance during your short trip with us, Mr. Purnama, all you need to do is call.” He stepped back to show he was ending their conversation then glanced toward his table and pressed Natasha again, “What can I get you? I’m having iced tea.”
She accepted the offer, said goodbye to Purnama and his boys, and walked with him toward his table. When they were out of earshot, she aimed an anxious smile at the trio. “Mr. Purnama was telling me he came on board for a rest and a change of pace.” She gazed at the stroller. “Twins can be quite a handful.”
Her smile dissolved into horror as the arms and legs of one of the boys began jerking wildly and a high-pitched screech leaped from his throat. It sounded like a defenceless animal being tortured by a savage trap.
Purnama grabbed the handle of the stroller and wheeled abruptly toward the exit.
“That’s so sad,” Natasha said as they took their seats. “Mr. Purnama said the doctors have tried everything to control their seizures. He even took them to Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital in London. No one can help them.”
“It is very sad.”
“He told me the boys have a genetic condition.”
“Did he tell you what it is?”
“Tay-Sachs. He says they were perfectly normal until they were six months old. And then it started.” She gazed at her hands. “They may not live very much longer.”
Had Purnama told Natasha that his wife had committed suicide six months ago? The distraught woman, a non-swimmer, had walked into the sea. The outgoing tide carried her away.
“Kids with Tay-Sachs disease never live past age four,” he told her.
“We studied it in our genetics course. I didn’t know it occurred among people in this part of the world.”
“It’s a testament to their father’s care and devotion that they’ve lived as long as they have.” He thought of his trip to Rumah Sakit St. Elisabeth. From a distance, the hospital was an ornate old-world building perched on a hilltop like an eagle. Up close, many of its feathers were broken and it flew with neither confidence nor enthusiasm. Like so many other things in this country.
Natasha blinked at the tears now welling in her eyes. “It’s one thing to discuss a rare disease in seminars, to memorize that it’s autosomal recessive, that both parents carry a mutant gene that sits on a certain chromosome, but—”
“It’s quite another to see it in the flesh. Yes.”
They sat in silence, both of them staring at their iced teas. In a far corner, Audrey Ballantyne was sitting at a table with four men dressed in dark suits. Three were tall, sandy-haired Europeans or Americans. The fourth, a much smaller man, was definitely local. They’d hung their suit jackets on the backs of their chairs in deference to the heat, but they hadn’t loosened their ties. Though Audrey’s business meetings were serious affairs, she was a famous multi-tasker. There was no doubt she’d taken in every detail of Purnama and his boys.
Noah finished his tea and watched while Natasha sipped at hers. “What about that incubator?” he said. “Are you up to putting it together?”
“Might as well.” She looked different without her smile. “It will be ages before the others get back.”
She finished her drink then gazed at the spot where the twins had been parked in their stroller next to their father. Her cheeks were moist with tears. Noah had no idea what she was thinking.
He swiped at a prickle of sweat on the back of his neck. “See you downstairs in ten?”
He hoped she wasn’t going to be a problem.
CHAPTER 29
“Not bad, I suppose,” Natasha said. She was looking at the polystyrene cooler in front of them on the treatment-room counter. In the past half-hour, she and Noah had done their best to convert the beer-cooling Esky from Witty Market into a bacteria-cultivating incubator. Noah had got Tony, his fix-it guy, to cannibalize her string of Diwali lights. Now, one of its six-watt bulbs was hanging on a wire inside the box with an on-off switch attached. What a treat to be working in an ultra-efficient world unencumbered by red tape. She stole a glance at Noah and felt a heaviness in the pit of her stomach. A lack of red tape might allow you to write your own set of rules about far more consequential matters than wiring a six-watt lightbulb.
She couldn’t help thinking about those two little boys. She wanted desperately to be able to think of them as adorable. They’d been dressed with great care in matching shirts and overalls, their mops of black hair neatly trimmed and parted to the side. But as much as she wished for it, adorable was not the right word for them.
Part of her worried that their disease had diminished their humanity; the other part found such thinking to be harsh and judgmental, even cruel. No matter what Tay-Sachs disease had done to their minds and their bodies, Bintang and Bulan were still a pair of vulnerable little kids. Whether or not they were cute was beside the point.
She hoped Noah had been too preoccupied with modifying the Esky to pick up on her body language. She’d done her best to hide her feelings, at least until she had a better handle on the nature of the special services he was offering his patients. And if she was honest with herself, her thoughts on the issue were far from clear. The one thing she knew for certain was that no one should be forced to live their life locked inside a body that had become a torture chamber.
“You think that six-watt bulb will be okay?” he said. “You do know what will happen if it’s too strong?”
“We can switch it on for the next couple of hours and see what happens to the temperature.”
She pointed to the electronic thermometer the eager Chinese grandson had unearthed from the depths of Witty Market. The temperature sensor connected wirelessly to a palm-sized digital display they could place anywhere in the infirmary. She’d duct-taped the sensor to the inner wall of the cooler as far as possible from the lightbulb.
“What’s the sponge for?” he asked.
“To keep the air inside nice and humid.” She pointed to the photos she’d printed from the internet. “The boys who dreamed up this thing wrote in their blog that the culture plates dried out when they first tried it.”
“And the wet sponge solved that?”
“Clever, eh? So, if the temperature’s okay in a couple of hours, we’ll be ready to inoculate a few drops of the pus from Jung Lee’s lymph node and . . . Noah? Is something wrong?”
He wasn’t answering. He was standing there with his eyes staring into nothingness. His face had paled to a sickly green. Sweat was beading above his upper lip. The sparse bed of short black whiskers below his nose, now glistening with moisture, was surprisingly endearing. It caught her off guard. He seemed suddenly young and vulnerable, no longer a man of uncertain morals who appeared to be masterminding a euthanasia scheme in the wilds of international waters. He was a man with demons of his own. A man who cared strongly about the lives he touched every day.
“Here,” she said, pulling a chair toward him. “Sit down for a moment. I’ll get a glass of water.”
He waved away the offer of water and dropped onto the chair. He sat motionless as if consumed by a horrifying thought or a frightening memory. He’d taken Jung Lee’s death much harder than she’d realized. Had theirs been an intimate relationship? You could never tell about these things.
After a minute, perhaps longer, he took the water and drank it down. His colour improved.
“Sorry. I’m okay now.” Wiping the sweat from his lip, he said, “I know I need to inoculate three of the plates the gentleman slipped me from his stockroom at St. Elisabeth’s.”
“Slipped you? I thought he sold them to you?”
“The accounts office was closed today. I guess they have Mondays off, or it was some sort of holiday. So I gave him two hundred U.S. dollars and asked him to see that it made its way to the right people.”
“And the right people being . . . ?”
“Natasha, that cynical look doesn’t . . . Listen, the man is a true gentleman doing his best to provide reliable results under difficult circumstances. Do you have any idea how often his equipment breaks down or the power goes off?”
A two-hundred dollar “donation” was a bargain in the circumstances, she had to admit. And they did need to identify Jung’s pathogenic bacteria before more cases piled up. “Never mind. I’m sorry.” Still, she didn’t like the idea that somehow she and Noah had colluded in stealing supplies from a hospital, especially one in such an impoverished country.
She pointed to half a dozen small boxes sitting on a nearby counter. They had the look of packaged medications. “Did your gentleman slip you those antibiotics as well?”
“I purchased them with more of my hard cash. The injectable ceftazidime I bought from St. Elisabeth’s pharmacy with my man Iqbal’s assistance. The ciprofloxacin tablets are from a regular pharmacy across the street.”
She picked up one of the three identical boxes. “They sold you all these Cipro tablets without a prescription?”
“You don’t need scripts for antibiotics in this part of the world.”
She rolled her eyes. “Welcome to the medical Wild West.”
She put the metal rack she’d bought at Witty Market into the Esky and fit it into place on the bottom like a shelf in an oven. Then she moistened the sponge with water from the tap and placed it on the rack. She turned on the bulb and closed the lid.
Noah studied the numbers on the thermometer’s readout. “What temperature are we aiming for?”
“Thirty-five to thirty-seven.”
She showed him the small towel she’d found in a cupboard. “If it gets too hot, we can wedge the lid open with this.”
The temperature readout flashed thirty-one Celsius. “It’s heating up in there already,” he said.
“Did Hamish tell you we should have worn N-95 masks when we did the Gram stain?”
“Yeah, I never thought about it. Sorry.”
“We’ll have to remember to put them on when we handle any contaminated specimens or culture plates.”
“Maybe I will,” Noah said. “But you won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“While I’m inoculating the plates, you will be sipping pre-dinner champagne and hearing from Zol about the fine day you missed at Borobudur.”
“Forget that.”
“Look, Natasha. On this ship, you are a paying guest, not a lab tech. I can’t risk exposing you to that pus again. Not even with an N-95.”
