"Oh, shut up," said Mendel. He was tired. He took the postcard back, got out of the car and walked away towards the hospital. There was no news at the hospital. Smiley was still unconscious. The C.I.D. had been informed. Mendel would do better to leave his name and address and go home. The hospital would telephone as soon as they had any news. After a good deal of argument Mendel obtained from the sister the key to Smiley's car. Mitcham, he decided, was a lousy place to live.
VIII
REFLECTIONS IN A HOSPITAL WARD
He hated the bed as a drowning man hates the sea. He hated the sheets that imprisoned him so that he could move neither hand nor foot. And he hated the room because it frightened him. There was a trolley by the door with instruments on it, scissors, bandages and bottles, strange objects that carried the terror of the unknown, swathed in white linen for the last Communion. There were jugs, tall ones half covered with napkins, standing like white eagles waiting to tear at his entrails, little glass ones with rubber tubing coiled inside them like snakes. He hated everything, and he was afraid. He was hot and the sweat ran off him, he was cold and the sweat held him, trickling over his ribs like cold blood. Night and day alternated without recognition from Smiley. He fought a relentless battle against sleep, for when he closed his eyes they seemed to turn inwards on the chaos of his brain; and when sometimes by sheer weight his eyelids drew themselves together he would summon all his strength to tear them apart and stare again at the pale light wavering somewhere above him. So the problem of dying once more became an academic one--a debt he would postpone until he was rich and could pay in his own way. It was a luxurious feeling, almost of purity. His mind was wonderfully lucid, ranging like Prometheus over his whole world; where had he heard that: "the mind becomes separated from the body, rules a paper kingdom..."? He was bored by the light above him, and wished there was more to look at. He was bored by the grapes, the smell of honeycomb and flowers, the chocolates. He wanted books, and literary journals; how could he keep up with his reading if they gave him no books? There was so little research done on his period as it was, so little creative criticism on the seventeenth century. It was three weeks before Mendel was allowed to see him. He walked in holding a new hat and carrying a book about bees. He put his hat on the end of the bed and the book on the bedside table. He was grinning. "I bought you a book," he said; "about bees. They're clever little beggars. Might interest you." He sat on the edge of the bed. "I got a new hat. Daft really. Celebrate my retirement." "Oh yes, I forgot. You're on the shelf too." They both laughed, and were silent again. Smiley blinked. "I'm afraid you're not very distinct at the moment. I'm not allowed to wear my old glasses. They're getting me some new ones." He paused. "You don't know who did this to me, do you?" "May do. Depends. Got a lead, I think. I don't know enough, that's the trouble. About your job, I mean. Does the East German Steel Mission mean anything to you?" "Yes, I think so. It came here four years ago to try and get a foot in the Board of Trade." "When did they go?" "3rd January. Same day as Fennan was murdered." He looked at Smiley quizzically. Smiley thought for a minute and said: "Get hold of Peter Guillam at the Ministry of Defence and bring him here tomorrow. By the scruff of the neck." Mendel picked up his hat and walked to the door. "Goodbye," said Smiley; "thank you for the book." "See you tomorrow," said Mendel, and left. Smiley lay back in bed. His head was aching. Damn, he thought, I never thanked him for the honey. It had come from Fortnums, too. Why the early morning call? That was what puzzled him more than anything. It was silly, really, Smiley supposed, but of all the unaccountables in the case, that worried him most. Had Eisa Fennan, in her panic,
VIII
REFLECTIONS IN A HOSPITAL WARD
He hated the bed as a drowning man hates the sea. He hated the sheets that imprisoned him so that he could move neither hand nor foot. And he hated the room because it frightened him. There was a trolley by the door with instruments on it, scissors, bandages and bottles, strange objects that carried the terror of the unknown, swathed in white linen for the last Communion. There were jugs, tall ones half covered with napkins, standing like white eagles waiting to tear at his entrails, little glass ones with rubber tubing coiled inside them like snakes. He hated everything, and he was afraid. He was hot and the sweat ran off him, he was cold and the sweat held him, trickling over his ribs like cold blood. Night and day alternated without recognition from Smiley. He fought a relentless battle against sleep, for when he closed his eyes they seemed to turn inwards on the chaos of his brain; and when sometimes by sheer weight his eyelids drew themselves together he would summon all his strength to tear them apart and stare again at the pale light wavering somewhere above him. So the problem of dying once more became an academic one--a debt he would postpone until he was rich and could pay in his own way. It was a luxurious feeling, almost of purity. His mind was wonderfully lucid, ranging like Prometheus over his whole world; where had he heard that: "the mind becomes separated from the body, rules a paper kingdom..."? He was bored by the light above him, and wished there was more to look at. He was bored by the grapes, the smell of honeycomb and flowers, the chocolates. He wanted books, and literary journals; how could he keep up with his reading if they gave him no books? There was so little research done on his period as it was, so little creative criticism on the seventeenth century. It was three weeks before Mendel was allowed to see him. He walked in holding a new hat and carrying a book about bees. He put his hat on the end of the bed and the book on the bedside table. He was grinning. "I bought you a book," he said; "about bees. They're clever little beggars. Might interest you." He sat on the edge of the bed. "I got a new hat. Daft really. Celebrate my retirement." "Oh yes, I forgot. You're on the shelf too." They both laughed, and were silent again. Smiley blinked. "I'm afraid you're not very distinct at the moment. I'm not allowed to wear my old glasses. They're getting me some new ones." He paused. "You don't know who did this to me, do you?" "May do. Depends. Got a lead, I think. I don't know enough, that's the trouble. About your job, I mean. Does the East German Steel Mission mean anything to you?" "Yes, I think so. It came here four years ago to try and get a foot in the Board of Trade." "When did they go?" "3rd January. Same day as Fennan was murdered." He looked at Smiley quizzically. Smiley thought for a minute and said: "Get hold of Peter Guillam at the Ministry of Defence and bring him here tomorrow. By the scruff of the neck." Mendel picked up his hat and walked to the door. "Goodbye," said Smiley; "thank you for the book." "See you tomorrow," said Mendel, and left. Smiley lay back in bed. His head was aching. Damn, he thought, I never thanked him for the honey. It had come from Fortnums, too. Why the early morning call? That was what puzzled him more than anything. It was silly, really, Smiley supposed, but of all the unaccountables in the case, that worried him most. Had Eisa Fennan, in her panic,
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