Don't Move by Margaret Mazzantini, John Cullen Page B

the noise drowns out the screams of the poor
victims. It’s a miracle I’m alive! Arrest that hag!
Drainage tube.
How could you, you wretch? What made you think you could ruin
me? Who did you think would believe you?
And then in my mind I slapped her hard across the face; her raffia-basket head jerked back and forth.
Surely they’ll believe me. The policemen
will apologize, and I’ll leave them one of my cards. It’s always useful to know a surgeon.
Tampons.
The man with the dark lips has
a face like someone suffering from liver disease. I’ll be magnanimous. I’ll pick up the telephone; I’ll call a couple of colleagues and
arrange for a complete checkup. I’ll skip the usual procedure and
move him to the top of the waiting list, the way I do for only my
closest friends. He’ll thank me; he’ll make a bow as he thanks me.
He’ll send me a bottle of liqueur and a police calendar, which I’ll
give to a nurse.
Recheck hemostasis.
You, on the other hand, are
going to get shoved out of here in handcuffs, little slut. You’re illegal,like your neighbors. I’ll send a bulldozer to knock down your
house.
Count the sterile towels.
My word against yours.
Needle holder.
And we’ll see who wins!
Suture thread.
    The operation was over, and I looked up again. I could feel defiance coloring my eyes, and contempt. Standing next to my second assistant, a young intern in a white coat too big for him was staring at me as though in a trance. I hadn’t noticed that he was there—he must have approached the table just a moment before. His face had the look of one who has used too much willpower on himself. Maybe he was just trying to remain on his feet. Maybe he was afraid of blood. Imbecile.
    I stripped off my gloves, left the operating room, and went into the locker room. I sat down on a bench. Looking outside, I could see the usual view of the adjoining wing of the hospital, the low windows along the interior stairways, the people going up and down. Only steps and legs were visible; faces were hidden by the wall. First, a pair of men’s pants passed, then a nurse’s white legs. I remember thinking that nothing can save us from ourselves, and that indulgence is a fruit that’s already decayed when it falls to the ground. I’d given free rein to all those indecent thoughts, and now I was as useless as a dead sniper.
    The doors to the operating room were wide open, and the room itself was in disorder. A man in a dressing gown, carrying a roll of toilet paper in his hand, was walking down the corridor toward the bathroom. I said good-bye to the nurses and the assistant surgeons and got into the elevator. Inside of me, there was nothing but what I had struggled against. I got out on the ground floor. There wasn’t anybody standing next to that door anymore, and beyond it was an ordinary room, a waiting room for dialysis patients. Two women with yellow faces were sitting in there, waiting their turn. No, Angela, she hadn’t ever been in that room, or in any other room in the hospital. She’d stayed in a heap against the wall, under the poster with the monkey. She hadn’t even raised her head.

6

    Something unexpected had already happened that year, Angela; on Easter night, I lost my father. It was painless—I almost never saw him. After my mother died, our meetings had become more and more infrequent. I knew he lived in a residence hotel, but I didn’t even know his address. He’d agree to meet me from time to time in the bar, which was a converted houseboat floating on the river, near the tennis courts. Our appointments were always at dusk, when the light was the softest. He liked appetizers, glasses rimmed with sugar, little saucers of olives. He held his stomach in and sat so as to present his best profile. He enjoyed feeling like a young man. The only thing I remember from those rare meetings is the sound of tennis balls struck by rackets and bouncing off the dusty red surface of the court.
    On the day of my