choice but to plunge without scruples into the most risky experience in a woman’s life, choosing a man and looking for love.
All I could see of him was his eyes. The rest of his face was always hidden behind a white protective mask and his fingers in sterile gloves. His body was concealed by the voluminous surgical gown and his feet by the surgical boots. His breath was lost in the pervasive smell of ether from the anaesthetizing equipment.
I saw him looking at me surreptitiously. We were alone in the room except for the unconscious man on the operating table whose eyes were closed and whose guts protruded from a large opening in his stomach. I wondered why he bothered to try and hide what he was doing: was he scared of the unconscious man or me or himself, or was it just his normal way of proceeding?
I heard him ask, ‘Why are you so distracted? Who are you thinking about?’
‘The man.’
‘Which man?’
‘The one whose stomach we’ve just opened up.’
He laughed, and I could hear it well enough, short and scornful, although I couldn’t see his lips or his teeth. I was silent and he began fiddling around inside the man’s stomach, feeling for his large intestine. After a bit he held it up in a pair of forceps and said, ‘There’s no point in removing it. The cancer’s eaten into it and spread into the peritoneum.’
I looked at the sleeping man’s face and felt as if a knife had been thrust into my chest. I looked down at the floor, silently swallowing back my tears.
I heard him laughing again and saying, ‘Aren’t you used to these things yet?’
‘I’ll never get used to them.’
He looked at me in silence and we stitched up the patient’s stomach without another word until he said suddenly, ‘Do you know who I’m thinking about?’
‘No.’
‘I’m thinking about you.’
He stressed every word, fixing his eyes on mine and instead of looking at the floor I looked carefully and deliberately back at him.
He stared at me as if trying to convey all the notions of desire that it was possible for a man to have. ‘Once a woman’s been married, she’s much more liberated than a young virgin.’
I looked at him angrily and said, ‘My emancipation doesn’t stem from a physical change within my body. And any restrictions on my body aren’t because I fear for an insignificant hymen which can be torn by a random blow and restored by a surgeon’s needle. I impose my own restrictions on myself voluntarily, and exercise my freedom, as I understand the word, in the same way.’
He glanced spitefully at me and said, ‘Why are you scared then?’
‘Scared of what?’
‘Of me.’
‘You!’
What did he want from me or what did I want from him? I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to know something about men or about myself which was still unclear.
I marched determinedly up to his front door and rang the bell with an air of confidence. He smiled broadly, not concealing his satisfaction at his victory, and said, ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’
‘Why not?’
‘I thought you didn’t trust me yet.’
‘I don’t.’
I sat down and he came and sat next to me, his leg nearly touching mine. So I stood up and went to sit opposite. With a sly smile he asked, ‘Why don’t you want to sit beside me?’
Looking straight at him, I said, ‘I prefer to sit facing you so that I can see your eyes.’
He didn’t reply and I tried to force him to look at me but his eyes kept darting away. He thought for a moment then rose and went into another room and returned with a tall bottle. He filled a glass from it.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Your mind’s as sharp as a sword.’ He looked greedily at my legs. ‘I want to escape from it.’
My mind was like a sword! He wanted to escape from my mind! Was this a battle? What did this man want? He had a strange smile, and as I studied his expression, I had the feeling that he was preparing himself for a battle he was determined to win. The
All I could see of him was his eyes. The rest of his face was always hidden behind a white protective mask and his fingers in sterile gloves. His body was concealed by the voluminous surgical gown and his feet by the surgical boots. His breath was lost in the pervasive smell of ether from the anaesthetizing equipment.
I saw him looking at me surreptitiously. We were alone in the room except for the unconscious man on the operating table whose eyes were closed and whose guts protruded from a large opening in his stomach. I wondered why he bothered to try and hide what he was doing: was he scared of the unconscious man or me or himself, or was it just his normal way of proceeding?
I heard him ask, ‘Why are you so distracted? Who are you thinking about?’
‘The man.’
‘Which man?’
‘The one whose stomach we’ve just opened up.’
He laughed, and I could hear it well enough, short and scornful, although I couldn’t see his lips or his teeth. I was silent and he began fiddling around inside the man’s stomach, feeling for his large intestine. After a bit he held it up in a pair of forceps and said, ‘There’s no point in removing it. The cancer’s eaten into it and spread into the peritoneum.’
I looked at the sleeping man’s face and felt as if a knife had been thrust into my chest. I looked down at the floor, silently swallowing back my tears.
I heard him laughing again and saying, ‘Aren’t you used to these things yet?’
‘I’ll never get used to them.’
He looked at me in silence and we stitched up the patient’s stomach without another word until he said suddenly, ‘Do you know who I’m thinking about?’
‘No.’
‘I’m thinking about you.’
He stressed every word, fixing his eyes on mine and instead of looking at the floor I looked carefully and deliberately back at him.
He stared at me as if trying to convey all the notions of desire that it was possible for a man to have. ‘Once a woman’s been married, she’s much more liberated than a young virgin.’
I looked at him angrily and said, ‘My emancipation doesn’t stem from a physical change within my body. And any restrictions on my body aren’t because I fear for an insignificant hymen which can be torn by a random blow and restored by a surgeon’s needle. I impose my own restrictions on myself voluntarily, and exercise my freedom, as I understand the word, in the same way.’
He glanced spitefully at me and said, ‘Why are you scared then?’
‘Scared of what?’
‘Of me.’
‘You!’
What did he want from me or what did I want from him? I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to know something about men or about myself which was still unclear.
I marched determinedly up to his front door and rang the bell with an air of confidence. He smiled broadly, not concealing his satisfaction at his victory, and said, ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’
‘Why not?’
‘I thought you didn’t trust me yet.’
‘I don’t.’
I sat down and he came and sat next to me, his leg nearly touching mine. So I stood up and went to sit opposite. With a sly smile he asked, ‘Why don’t you want to sit beside me?’
Looking straight at him, I said, ‘I prefer to sit facing you so that I can see your eyes.’
He didn’t reply and I tried to force him to look at me but his eyes kept darting away. He thought for a moment then rose and went into another room and returned with a tall bottle. He filled a glass from it.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Your mind’s as sharp as a sword.’ He looked greedily at my legs. ‘I want to escape from it.’
My mind was like a sword! He wanted to escape from my mind! Was this a battle? What did this man want? He had a strange smile, and as I studied his expression, I had the feeling that he was preparing himself for a battle he was determined to win. The
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