clouds, the birds, the cars . . . ?” But he kept quiet.
The doctor pointed at his abdomen with his pen.
“Your kidneys, Mr. . . ,” he searched for his name in the report,“. . . Ariz.”
“My kidneys are moving?” he looked at his tie, as if he’d just discovered a stain.
The doctor waved his pen around again.
“On the contrary, they are ceasing to work. They are coming to a halt, they are stopping,” the doctor raised his hand, as if wanting to reassure him at the same time. “That’s what I meant before: something is moving on.”
He felt that he understood everything and nothing, that everything was moving and stopping in a dance representing something he couldn’t fathom but must have some meaning; his body, and other bodies, his classes, J. M. W. Turner, the yellow color of his tie, Polanski, his latest art review, the hydrangeas he had just pruned in the garden . . . all of it swirled around in his head, forming a puzzle of encoded messages he should have interpreted in time to prevent circumstances bringing him to the point he was at now, seated in front of a doctor who was looking at him with strange haughtiness and saying “something is moving on.”
He raised his hands as if to stop a beach ball at chestheight, a gesture that resembled the last line of defense for something to stop or to start moving, he couldn’t be sure.
“Why are they moving? I mean, why aren’t they moving?”
The doctor sat up straight in his chair, and his trimmed beard was no longer reflected in the glass of the table.
“What I mean is your kidneys are not working. That’s the main thing. We’re going to repeat all the tests, but you had better get used to the idea you’re going to need a new kidney.”
He rubbed the small of his back with apprehension.
“I feel fine . . . ,” he said.
The doctor swiveled his chair in the direction of the computer. The
click-clicks
of the mouse made the pause more intense.
“Age?” he asked without looking away from the screen.
“Fifty-two.”
“Profession?”
“University professor.” He hesitated for a moment and added,“And art critic.”
“Married?”
“Divorced.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“Any family history of nephropathy?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Diabetes?”
“No.”
“High blood pressure?”
“Possibly.”
“Smoke?”
“One a day.”
“One cigarette?”
“One pack.”
“Drink?”
“Occasionally.”
The doctor stood up and came around the table.
“Mr. Ariz,” he looked at him calmly,“the likeliest outcome is that you will have to undergo dialysis treatment, I don’t know if you understand what that means . . . You will be put on a waiting list for a kidney transplant. That’s the procedure in these cases. You should know that hundreds of operations like this are performed each year.”
The doctor struck him now as very tall. He glimpsed a pair of striped pants under his lab coat. He felt ridiculous, because fear was presenting itself in the guise of a young man with a trimmed beard who wore sport cologne and who, having assured him there could be no doubt as to the diagnosis and written “End-Stage Renal Disease (ESRD), advise immediate dialysis treatment” in his report, would probably go and play a game of padel tennis at the Golf Millennium Club.
He pointed to a gurney.
“Please lie down there.”
He felt cold while taking off his clothes. It smelled of bandages and iodine. A nurse appeared at the door, followed by two doctors. The woman’s voice sounded imperative. “Get undressed.” He felt the blood descending from his head to his toes. He looked at the ceiling. He thought he could see the profile of his figure on the stippled surface, a white stain he must have confused with the doctor’s white coat. He was certain his body was getting lighter on the metal stretcher and could float, if he wanted it to, over the table and the pages of the lab results and fly out of the window, limp and
The doctor pointed at his abdomen with his pen.
“Your kidneys, Mr. . . ,” he searched for his name in the report,“. . . Ariz.”
“My kidneys are moving?” he looked at his tie, as if he’d just discovered a stain.
The doctor waved his pen around again.
“On the contrary, they are ceasing to work. They are coming to a halt, they are stopping,” the doctor raised his hand, as if wanting to reassure him at the same time. “That’s what I meant before: something is moving on.”
He felt that he understood everything and nothing, that everything was moving and stopping in a dance representing something he couldn’t fathom but must have some meaning; his body, and other bodies, his classes, J. M. W. Turner, the yellow color of his tie, Polanski, his latest art review, the hydrangeas he had just pruned in the garden . . . all of it swirled around in his head, forming a puzzle of encoded messages he should have interpreted in time to prevent circumstances bringing him to the point he was at now, seated in front of a doctor who was looking at him with strange haughtiness and saying “something is moving on.”
He raised his hands as if to stop a beach ball at chestheight, a gesture that resembled the last line of defense for something to stop or to start moving, he couldn’t be sure.
“Why are they moving? I mean, why aren’t they moving?”
The doctor sat up straight in his chair, and his trimmed beard was no longer reflected in the glass of the table.
“What I mean is your kidneys are not working. That’s the main thing. We’re going to repeat all the tests, but you had better get used to the idea you’re going to need a new kidney.”
He rubbed the small of his back with apprehension.
“I feel fine . . . ,” he said.
The doctor swiveled his chair in the direction of the computer. The
click-clicks
of the mouse made the pause more intense.
“Age?” he asked without looking away from the screen.
“Fifty-two.”
“Profession?”
“University professor.” He hesitated for a moment and added,“And art critic.”
“Married?”
“Divorced.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“Any family history of nephropathy?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Diabetes?”
“No.”
“High blood pressure?”
“Possibly.”
“Smoke?”
“One a day.”
“One cigarette?”
“One pack.”
“Drink?”
“Occasionally.”
The doctor stood up and came around the table.
“Mr. Ariz,” he looked at him calmly,“the likeliest outcome is that you will have to undergo dialysis treatment, I don’t know if you understand what that means . . . You will be put on a waiting list for a kidney transplant. That’s the procedure in these cases. You should know that hundreds of operations like this are performed each year.”
The doctor struck him now as very tall. He glimpsed a pair of striped pants under his lab coat. He felt ridiculous, because fear was presenting itself in the guise of a young man with a trimmed beard who wore sport cologne and who, having assured him there could be no doubt as to the diagnosis and written “End-Stage Renal Disease (ESRD), advise immediate dialysis treatment” in his report, would probably go and play a game of padel tennis at the Golf Millennium Club.
He pointed to a gurney.
“Please lie down there.”
He felt cold while taking off his clothes. It smelled of bandages and iodine. A nurse appeared at the door, followed by two doctors. The woman’s voice sounded imperative. “Get undressed.” He felt the blood descending from his head to his toes. He looked at the ceiling. He thought he could see the profile of his figure on the stippled surface, a white stain he must have confused with the doctor’s white coat. He was certain his body was getting lighter on the metal stretcher and could float, if he wanted it to, over the table and the pages of the lab results and fly out of the window, limp and
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