Ardor by Lily Prior Page B

to relocate to anywhere more convenient was coupled with another refusal that had the most profound effect on both his personal and professional life.
    His distrust of any mode of transport other than his own two legs had led him to reject the services of the horse, pony, or mule, either alone or with any combination of cart, wagon, trap, or buggy. Neither would any other genus of beast do: he scorned the buffalo and the ox. A childhood accident had given him, along with a cracked head, a lifelong phobia of bicycles and scooters. He renounced the motorized vehicle, be it automobile, truck, or tractor. The sled was unpopular with him, as was the boat, not that the terrain of the region would accommodate these in any case. The helicopter was also ruled out, as it was unlikely the doctor would find one acceptable, and even if he did, the cost would be too high.
    In short, the doctor was reduced to traveling on foot the length and breadth of the region, and depending upon the distances involved, a house call could take the whole day to perform.
    For this reason the citizens had come to rely for their medical services on my able mistress, Concetta Crocetta, and Dr. Croce, who always arrived too late for everything, was regarded as something of an eccentric. If he ever did manage to arrive on time, it was an unexpected bonus.
    While the doctor was nearly always late, we were always in the nick of time. The nurse never needed to be called out and somehow managed to appear at the very moment her presence was required most. Foresight seemed to guide her like a torpedo to the eruption of a boil, the appearance of a rash, or the unexpectedly early pangs of childbirth. With her customary good humor and comforting manner she would set broken limbs, treat the gorings of a wild boar, poisonings by fungi, snake bites, aneurysms, scaldings, drownings, heart attacks, fainting fits, jaundice, and apoplexy.
    Her work done, she would move on to her next case, just as the doctor arrived at the house of the first patient, sometimes out of breath, depending on the distance he had traveled. All that would be left for him to do was to stick his head around the door, apologize for his late appearance, and through gritted teeth praise the work of his colleague.
    The doctor had, it is true, grown increasingly nimble over the years and had acquired the hard, lean body of an athlete from running over the hills. But occasionally a muscle sprain forced him to remain indoors with his injured limb propped up on a pillow, gnashing his teeth in the knowledge that Concetta Crocetta was making herself even more necessary to the populace, and himself less so.
    Yet, in spite of everything, it was widely known that the doctor and the nurse were deeply in love with one another.
    The doctor’s male pride was wounded at being supplanted by the nurse in the affections and service of the patients, and yet while he did not blame her for this, he could not blame himself for it either. He could not move house. He could not take transport. These were the simple facts of the case, and he could not waste energy on those ephemeral fireflies termed “what might have been.”
    As he ran across the lonely uplands, and through the wooded valleys, splashing through crystal brooks, and traversing the wide and fertile plains, his thoughts were invariably fixed on Concetta Crocetta, and in a sense he felt he was running for her, that she was the prize awaiting him at the finish line. And yet, when he got there and sometimes, but not by any means always, was fortunate enough to see her, and her every feature, despite their familiarity, he discovered anew, he was struck again by her beauty that was maturing with every passing year that she waited for him, and every time he fell in love with her again as at first sight.
    If the nurse lingered a little longer than was necessary on departing from the patient’s house; if she accepted an unwanted glass of lemonade or an almond