button. He was starting to get twitchy in his old age. The cries and clatter could still be heard below and he stood still, willing his heart to calm down.
It was not the thought of seeing dead people wandering around that unsettled him as much as the fact that he had no right to be here. When he was younger, he couldn't have cared less about all that. 'The truth must be told,' he would think, and plunge into the fray.
But now ...
Who are you, what are you doing here?
He was rusty, and much too uncertain to be able to fake the authority you needed in such situations like that. He pressed the button anyway.
Have to see what's going on.
The elevator rumbled into action and he bit his lip, backing away from the door. He was a little afraid after all, had seen too many movies. Elevators that arrived and someone ... something is inside. But the elevator arrived and through the narrow window in the door he could see it was empty. He stepped in and pressed the button for the level below. As the elevator descended he tried to empty his mind, switch modes to become simply descriptive, a camera whose images develop words.
The elevator starts with a jerk. Through thick concrete walls, I can hear screams. The morgue level comes into view through the window and through it I can see ...
Nothing.
A bit of a corridor, a wall and nothing more. He pushed open the elevator door.
The chill came at him. The corridor he was standing in was several degrees colder than the rest of the hospital. The sweat on his body congealed into a cold film, made him shiver. The elevator door shut behind him.
To his right, an open door gave onto a cold storage room. Outside two people were sitting on the floor, embracing with bowed heads.
What are they doing?
The clatter of metal from the autopsy room to the left made one of them raise her head and Mahler now saw that it was a young nurse. Her face was panic-stricken.
She was holding a very old woman in her arms; white hair like a halo around her head, delicate body and spindly legs that moved over the floor, trying to gain a foothold in order to stand up. She was naked apart from a white sheet that hung around her neck and down one side of the body. Someone's mother and grandmother; perhaps a great-grandmother.
Her face was nothing but hard bones under a pale yellow skin and her eyes ... her eyes. Two windows opening onto the great Nothing. Theywere a translucent blue and seemed to be covered in a film of white slime, gelatinous, expressing absolutely no emotion.
From the sunken lips-a mouth robbed of dentures-there came only a single mournful note,'Oooooommmm ... ooommm .. .'
And Mahler knew, with immediate comprehension, what it was she wanted. The same as everyone wants.
To go home.
The nurse caught sight of Mahler. She looked at him in entreaty as she said, 'Can you take over?' and inclined her head toward the old woman. When Mahler made no reply she added, 'I'm freezing to death .. .'
Mahler crouched down, put his hand on the old woman's foot. It was ice cold, stiff; it was like putting your hand on an orange that has been in the freezer. At his touch, the woman's lament began to rise-
'OOOOOOMMM!'
-but Mahler stood up with a groan while the nurse screamed at him, 'You've got to help me! Please!'
He couldn't. Not right now. Had to see what was going on. Shamed, he staggered away to the autopsy room; the photographer who takes pictures of the famine victims, goes back the hotel room and drinks to assuage his guilt.
Photographs ... the camera ...
As he walked toward the large brightly lit room, he opened the bag. White sheets lay spread along the corridor.
Later he would have trouble sorting out the scene that was laid out in front of his eyes. It was as if it should have been staged in half darkness, a battle between the living and the dead pitched in the Goya-esque lighting of some cave.
But everything was clinically precise and illuminated. The large neon
It was not the thought of seeing dead people wandering around that unsettled him as much as the fact that he had no right to be here. When he was younger, he couldn't have cared less about all that. 'The truth must be told,' he would think, and plunge into the fray.
But now ...
Who are you, what are you doing here?
He was rusty, and much too uncertain to be able to fake the authority you needed in such situations like that. He pressed the button anyway.
Have to see what's going on.
The elevator rumbled into action and he bit his lip, backing away from the door. He was a little afraid after all, had seen too many movies. Elevators that arrived and someone ... something is inside. But the elevator arrived and through the narrow window in the door he could see it was empty. He stepped in and pressed the button for the level below. As the elevator descended he tried to empty his mind, switch modes to become simply descriptive, a camera whose images develop words.
The elevator starts with a jerk. Through thick concrete walls, I can hear screams. The morgue level comes into view through the window and through it I can see ...
Nothing.
A bit of a corridor, a wall and nothing more. He pushed open the elevator door.
The chill came at him. The corridor he was standing in was several degrees colder than the rest of the hospital. The sweat on his body congealed into a cold film, made him shiver. The elevator door shut behind him.
To his right, an open door gave onto a cold storage room. Outside two people were sitting on the floor, embracing with bowed heads.
What are they doing?
The clatter of metal from the autopsy room to the left made one of them raise her head and Mahler now saw that it was a young nurse. Her face was panic-stricken.
She was holding a very old woman in her arms; white hair like a halo around her head, delicate body and spindly legs that moved over the floor, trying to gain a foothold in order to stand up. She was naked apart from a white sheet that hung around her neck and down one side of the body. Someone's mother and grandmother; perhaps a great-grandmother.
Her face was nothing but hard bones under a pale yellow skin and her eyes ... her eyes. Two windows opening onto the great Nothing. Theywere a translucent blue and seemed to be covered in a film of white slime, gelatinous, expressing absolutely no emotion.
From the sunken lips-a mouth robbed of dentures-there came only a single mournful note,'Oooooommmm ... ooommm .. .'
And Mahler knew, with immediate comprehension, what it was she wanted. The same as everyone wants.
To go home.
The nurse caught sight of Mahler. She looked at him in entreaty as she said, 'Can you take over?' and inclined her head toward the old woman. When Mahler made no reply she added, 'I'm freezing to death .. .'
Mahler crouched down, put his hand on the old woman's foot. It was ice cold, stiff; it was like putting your hand on an orange that has been in the freezer. At his touch, the woman's lament began to rise-
'OOOOOOMMM!'
-but Mahler stood up with a groan while the nurse screamed at him, 'You've got to help me! Please!'
He couldn't. Not right now. Had to see what was going on. Shamed, he staggered away to the autopsy room; the photographer who takes pictures of the famine victims, goes back the hotel room and drinks to assuage his guilt.
Photographs ... the camera ...
As he walked toward the large brightly lit room, he opened the bag. White sheets lay spread along the corridor.
Later he would have trouble sorting out the scene that was laid out in front of his eyes. It was as if it should have been staged in half darkness, a battle between the living and the dead pitched in the Goya-esque lighting of some cave.
But everything was clinically precise and illuminated. The large neon
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