by Michel Faber
‘Well, would you like to see my X-rays,’ suggested the old man.
‘Please,’ she agreed briskly.
He handed the folder of silver-grey images over to her. She studied them one by one, holding them up to the sunlight streaming through the window behind his head. Surreptitiously, she cast her eyes downwards and examined his face through the transparent sheets of film. She fancied she could detect his fear.
‘Well, what do you think?’ he said, after clearing his throat.
‘You are going to die very soon,’ she said evenly, still shielding her face behind the last of the X-rays, ‘unless you have a very complicated and risky operation.’
‘I know that,’ he sighed, with an edge of irritation to his voice. ‘Do you have the skill to do it?’
‘I have the skill,’ she replied, lowering the sunlit negative of the dictator’s cancer-speckled chest and shuffling it in with the others. ‘But these are not the photographs I was hoping to see.’
‘Those photographs are on their way. You will see them tomorrow.’
‘Of all four?’
‘Husband, two sons, daughter, yes,’ the dictator reassured her.
Mrs Sampras replaced the folder of X-rays on the desk. She had a sudden yearning to stand at the window and look out, but didn’t want to expose her back to the dictator.
‘This operation,’ said the old man, licking his blueish lips. ‘Can it be done in our country, do you think?’
‘There is no limit to what can be done in our country,’ sighed Mrs Sampras. ‘You yourself have proved that many times.’
‘Yes, yes, but if you felt that a little trip to the United States might be desirable …’
‘I’ve had my little trip to America, thank you,’ said Gala.
The dictator stared hard into her eyes.
‘You must have the best tools, you understand? Only the best.’
Gala looked down at her hands, as if checking the condition of her nails.
‘I have the best here,’ she assured the old man. ‘In our own country.’ She ignored his glare, contemplating her hands all the while. They were pale and finely-formed, with an angry scar here and there.
‘All being well,’ the dictator said at last, ‘how soon can you perform the operation?’
She looked him straight in the chest.
‘You need to lose some weight first, if possible.’
‘A tall order,’ he smirked. ‘But I will stare the devil of temptation in the face.’
Mrs Sampras took hold of the handles of her borrowed satchel and clutched them, suddenly white-knuckled with fury. She breathed deep, and counted to ten or possibly twelve before replying.
‘Which of your devils you stare in the face isn’t my affair. You need to lose a quantity of fat, in order to have a better chance of recovery afterwards.’
The dictator appraised her through her overcoat, estimating her measure.
‘As a woman, you have a favourite diet, no doubt?’
Gala flinched, white as a sheet, white as electrical flex.
‘Anxiety about one’s loved ones suppresses the appetite, I’ve found. If this is not a possibility for you, you might try being raped.’
An awful silence expanded to fill the room like methane gas, tainting every inch of air with terrifying speed. Mrs Sampras had overstepped the line; she knew it and the dictator knew it and Mrs Sampras knew the dictator knew it, and so on.
A foolish, reckless blow had been struck to a frail and delicate balance. Gala Sampras was nauseous with regret, as if she had, in a moment of hysteria, slashed a vital organ which should have been left alone at all costs. There was now a strong possibility that the dictator would have her tortured and shot, and that he himself would die under the knife of a lesser surgeon, or even give up on the idea of cure altogether, consoling himself with his revenge on her.
For a minute, both of them contemplated different kinds of death. The vision of a benign future in which the dictator lived to an Old Testament age and Mrs Sampras vacationed with her family in the summer, trembled like a child’s castle of blocks between them, ready to collapse at a single clumsy step.
At last the dictator spoke.
‘Mrs Sampras. I am a rational man. I know that anxiety about loved ones is a very different thing from what is actually happening to them. The situation can be better than you fear – or much, much worse.’
Mrs Sampras replied immediately:
‘You are right, I’m sure, Mr President. But much as we strive to be rational, anxiety can defeat us. Well, it defeats me, anyway. Sometimes I worry so much about my husband and children that I lose more than my appetite.’ And she held up her hands, to show him that they were trembling. ‘This is a terrible thing for a surgeon.’
He regarded her with pity and suspicion.
‘You are tired,’ he said. ‘Let my staff show you to your quarters. When you’ve rested, we’ll meet again.’
And with that, he pressed the button for the door to be opened. A young soldier glanced nervously into the room, confirming with a quick head count that both the president and the surgeon were, at this stage, still alive.
The dictator was not expecting to see Mrs Sampras again until the next day. Despite the cancer inside him, he was confident that he was not one of those weaklings who would die in seven days, but rather that he had the full half-year. He did not understand statistics and the law of averages, but he had often achieved what experts considered impossible and would no doubt do so again.
To help himself be patient, he visited those rooms within the government building where information was collated. Happily, he found an information collation session in progress, and urged the collators not to feel inhibited just because he was watching. An hour passed, then it was time for a meal.
Late in the afternoon, the dictator was surprised to learn that Mrs Sampras was ready to see him again. She’d had plenty of rest, she said, and the sooner the preparations for the operation were underway, the better.
In the golden afternoon light, Mrs Sampras looked subtly different. She had changed her clothes, washed and groomed her hair. The overcoat was gone, and she looked every inch a woman.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘you understand there are grave risks in any surgical operation.’
‘Of course,’ the dictator said. ‘For the surgeon no less than for the patient.’
‘More for the patient, I would have thought,’ suggested Mrs Sampras.
‘Oh no, I’m sure the risk is equal,’ the dictator begged to differ. ‘A death affects not just the person him or herself, but spouses, children … It’s a … what is the word I’m looking for? A knock-on effect.’
Mrs Sampras was tired of standing. She half-perched on one corner of the great desk, crossing her long legs over each other.
‘What is your blood type?’ she enquired coolly.
‘Blood type?’
‘Yes. A, B, B positive, O … ‘
‘How complicated,’ the dictator smiled. ‘I have a man’s blood.’
‘Nevertheless I must know its clinical type.’
The dictator shrugged and spread his hands, open-palmed. Such knowledge was a luxury too rarefied for one whose only concern was the good of his nation.
Mrs Sampras opened her satchel and extracted the disposable hypodermic.
‘I must take a sample of your blood from you,’ she said, motioning him to bare his right arm.
He tried to push the sleeve of his suit jacket up, but it was too stiff. So, he removed the garment, hanging it carefully over the back of his armchair. Then he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. Despite the unhurried deliberateness of his exertions, Mrs Sampras noted he was breathing heavily, his lips paler and bluer, his nose more purple.
Seated once more, the dictator extended his naked forearm across the desk towards her. She took hold of it with her warm, dry hands, testing the elasticity of his mottled flesh. She applied a leather tourniquet, and stroked a vein, encouraging it
to swell up for her.
‘You have a touch like velvet,’ the dictator said. ‘And beautiful fingers.’
Mrs Sampras removed the plastic sheath from the needle of the hypodermic.
‘Just a little prick,’ she said.
The next morning, the dictator’s blood had been tested and the result made available for Mrs Sampras to peruse. She could not recall, in her days as a state surgeon, such speed and efficiency being possible. Either the country had modernised since she’d been removed from its mainstream, or heaven and earth had been moved for the great leader.
‘You are B positive,’ she informed him.
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Common, very common,’ she said.
‘Good,’ the dictator beamed. ‘That means the hospital will have it in plentiful supply, yes?’
‘In our country,’ said Mrs Sampras,‘blood of all kinds is in plentiful supply.’
She did not look at his face to note his reaction. Instead, she stared at the vase of flowers standing on his desk, troubled by its presence there. Evidently the dictator had observed yesterday how the aridity of the office had struck her. So, today, he’d softened that aridity with flowers. Especially for her.
The vase was iridescent blue, as if kiln-glazed with toilet disinfectant. Red, white and pink carnations sprouted up from the neck. They looked so ghastly and ill-at-ease, Mrs Sampras wondered if they were real.
‘You’re wondering if they are real,’ remarked the dictator.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Of course they’re real,’ he purred. ‘Touch them.’
‘I believe you, Mr President,’ said Mrs Sampras, motionless.
‘Touch them.’
Mrs Sampras hesitated, spastic with distaste. She wondered if her future, the future of her husband and children, was somehow hanging in the balance at this moment. In the labour camp she had sunk to licking her tormentors’ boots and worse, and yet she could not bring herself to touch these flowers.
‘Brighten up the place no end, don’t you think?’ said the dictator, letting the challenge go.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Shame to cut them, though, isn’t it?’
The old man half-closed his eyes, as if weary of people with a poor grasp of realities.
‘There are more,’ he assured her, ‘where those came from.’ And, without warning, he leaned across the desk and handed Mrs Sampras an envelope.
Gala strove to remain calm as she examined the photographs of her family. She breathed deeply and blinked a few times. Her hands were steady as she shuffled the images over and over.
At last she said, ‘The photographs of my children are very good. Very clear. One can see that they were taken very recently.’
The dictator leaned back in his chair, creaking with satisfaction.
‘Well, they grow up so fast, don’t they?’ he said.
‘Yes, by the grace of God they do,’ said Mrs Sampras. ‘But … the photograph of my husband seems less recent. In fact, it could have been taken years ago.’
There was another, even louder creak as the dictator leaned forward and interlocked his hands on the desk.
‘I assure you it is recent.’
Mrs Sampras held the image close to her face, frowning.
‘He doesn’t look anywhere near as old,’ she said, ‘as I would expect him to look.’
The dictator laughed.
‘Would that flatter him, I wonder – or cut him to the quick?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Sampras. ‘I will have to ask him myself.’
‘I do hope you get your chance.’
‘Ah, yes …’ said Mrs Sampras doubtfully, as if she were in danger of losing focus in all sorts of matters. ‘The question is when.’
‘And the answer is,’ the dictator assured her, ‘as soon as possible. It would gladden the heart of an old man to witness such a reunion. In fact, I’m looking forward to it enormously. I’m sure it will be a high point of my convalescence.’
Gala licked her lips, swallowing, swallowing. After some effort, she succeeded in giving up – for the moment.
‘You will still need to lose some weight,’ she sighed.
Startlingly, the dictator sprang to his feet and swung his arms vigorously, as if running a marathon. Hidden behind the desk, his legs moved feebly, if at all.
‘See!’ he teased, jovial and breathless. ‘I’ve begun already!’
A week later, on the morning of the operation, Mrs Sampras and the dictator met in his office one more time. The dictator was identical in shape and appearance, but invited praise for having shed a number of pounds. Mrs Sampras praised him, solemn-faced. There was no point antagonising him about his flab; she was reserving the showdown for the arena where it really mattered.
‘You cannot have men with guns inside an operating theatre,’ she pointed out, when they were discussing the arrangements for the afternoon.
‘They will stand well back,’ argued the dictator. ‘You will hardly notice they are there.’
Gala closed her eyes and pressed her lips tightly together. In her mind’s eye, or the back of her retina, a negative image of sunlit flowers glowed. It was red roses today, far too many of them crammed into the vase, the stems ugly and thready from torn-off thorns.
‘One speck of dust from a rifle,’ she said, ‘contains a million germs, more than enough to sweep through your body like a plague. A soldier’s belt buckle can kill you – and not just in the way that is usual in our country.’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ demanded the dictator. ‘I have a university degree in these things. What I meant was, my men can watch you through the glass. It will be educational. They may be called upon to perform a bit of surgery themselves, one of these days.’
Gala Sampras looked the old man straight in the eyes.
‘I hope they have not been instructed to shoot me if I appear to be in any way harming you,’ she said, quietly and reasonably. ‘After all, I am going to cut a hole in your chest, open you up like a satchel, and put a stop to your heart. They know, I trust, that all this is as it should be?’
If the dictator was unnerved, he didn’t show it.
‘It is your … gentleness they will be watching for,’ he said. ‘Your thoroughness, your keen concentration, your … finesse. You see, they’ve heard that when you apply yourself to the task, you do it with love, as if your very own child was lying there.’ His fat hand made tender stroking motions in the air between them, describing a crescent curve, like a half-moon, an infant’s head, a woman’s naked breast. ‘And of course,’ he continued, ‘they will be watching at the end, to see me wake up.’
For the first time, Gala allowed herself to consider the possibility that for all her skill, the sheer force of nature, of statistics, might dictate the outcome.
‘Mr President,’ she pleaded. ‘You understand that this operation has been rarely performed, and usually on much younger men.’
He laughed, throwing up one arm in the general direction of his portrait.
‘Let’s be optimistic!’ he roared. ‘This country was built on optimism, after all.’
Outside the window, a whistle blew. The dictator leapt to his feet, as if he’d already been granted a new lease of life. Enthusiastically, he motioned to Mrs Sampras to accompany him to the window. Rather than feel his hand grasping her arm, she hurried to comply.
Together, they looked down into courtyard. Foreshortened by the perspective of many storeys, a teenage girl was walking uncertainly between two phalanxes of soldiers, her gait stiff and artificial. Despite the fact that she had a young woman’s figure, a fashionable haircut, and other features that made her almost unrecognisable as the child she’d been only a few years ago, she was unmistakably Gala Sampras’s daughter. She might have stepped straight out of the photograph in Gala’s pocket. Eyes downcast, she negotiated the concrete paving as if walking on eggs, while two dozen men looked on impassively.
‘Where are you …�
� whispered Mrs Sampras to the old man at her side. ‘Where is she going?’
‘She is on her way to meet you,’ said the dictator. But, before Mrs Sampras could recover from her sharp intake of breath, he added: ‘It’s a shame she has arrived a little too early. I sometimes forget how fast our country’s trains are nowadays.’
He led Mrs Sampras away from the window and signalled his readiness for the ordeal ahead. He escorted Mrs Sampras to the door, laying his palm gently on her shoulder, for she seemed discomposed, unsure of her balance.
‘It’s all right,’ he reassured her. ‘She’ll be made most welcome. You and I won’t be busy for long, will we? And if anything should delay us, I’m sure my staff will be able to find your daughter some companions of her own age. It’s a young person’s world, I’ve come to realise. We oldsters can only look on, eh?’ And he smiled sadly, squeezing the surgeon’s shoulder like an old, old friend.
In the operating theatre, everything was perfect and civilised and still. There wasn’t a soldier to be seen. Four nurses and an anaesthetist stood waiting like nuns glowing under the tungsten light. The equipment and the furnishings were as modern as Dr Sampras might have expected from the most up-to-the-minute surgery in America. An assortment of silver instruments loosely wrapped in sterile green paper lay ready on two trolleys.
The dictator lay ready on what Dr Sampras and her fellow surgeons had, in the innocent days before the dictator’s regime, jokingly referred to as ‘the torture table’. The oil had been shampood out of his hair, and a few grey wisps stuck out from beneath his disposable cap. Freed from the restrictions of his uniform, his flesh lolled grossly under the thin sheet. Horizontal, his circulation was improved, and his lips were as pink as a baby’s.
