The Ministry of Special Cases

by Nathan Englander

  “Bracchi,” the doctor said, “was that bit of profundity from you?” Still the arm, and Kaddish’s mangled cartilage, aloft.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. Then, “Yes, Doctor,” to replace it.

  “What is it then?”

  “It’s not so much like lobster, Doctor, as crabmeat. That is, from back here.”

  Dr. Mazursky considered and then raised his voice.

  “I’m educating,” he said. “It’s more important that the feel to the rods is that of breaking open a lobster claw, not a crab leg, than that the meat tends more to the latter.” As if to punctuate his statement, he flicked the forceps toward the bucket and Kaddish’s nose, his most defining characteristic, clanged against its side.

  There was additional cutting and sewing and then a final length of white tape laid down across the bridge of his nose. “Voilà,” the doctor said. One student clapped and Lillian peeked over to see the master’s work. It looked as if her husband had gone through the windshield of his car.

  “Who’s next?” the doctor called out.

  Lillian raised her hand. “Me,” she said.

  “Who, me?” the doctor said, confused as to who was behind the mask.

  “Me,” Lillian said. And the doctor understood.

  “Well, of course you’re next. I mean, who’s doing the procedure?” The doctor looked into the other faces. Lillian’s was still the only arm up.

  “Bracchi, then,” the doctor said, pulling off his gloves. “Full of wisdom, let’s see if you can translate it into nice work. Let’s see how keen that eye is from up close.”

  Lillian looked to Kaddish. When did he do any better than this in an emergency—at her side and out cold?

  Bracchi had already stepped forward. An orderly was wheeling Kaddish away on a gurney.

  “Shall we sedate you now?” the doctor asked.

  “No,” Lillian said. She pointed to her husband as he was slipped through double doors. “Not Bracchi,” she said. “Not the students.” She was aghast. “Three for all was the deal my husband told me,” Lillian said. “Me and him. That’s only two.”

  “I explained to your husband,” the doctor said—this in front of everyone, he didn’t seem at all troubled, didn’t seem to care—“his nose alone is a fair trade. I made it crystal clear. The only way I could afford his terms was in the teaching hospital.”

  “Yes?” Lillian said.

  “Well, what did you think it meant? What could it possibly be but that I teach here? It’s surgery, not arithmetic. The only way they learn is to touch. Isn’t that right, Bracchi, my wunderkind?”

  “Gospel,” Bracchi agreed.

  “You’ve done it before?” Lillian said. “He’s done it before?”

  The two men answered in unison. “No.”

  Lillian stood silent.

  “Someone has to be the first nose,” the doctor said.

  “I’ve read the chapter,” Bracchi said. “Irene and I went over it together last night.” One of the two girls nodded, her eyes small and steady above the mask. “I’ve just watched it performed by the best.”

  “He’s already a doctor,” the doctor added. “This is a specialization. They are more fellows than students. He’s not an urchin dragged in off the street.”

  “I’m not,” Bracchi said.

  “Lie down,” the anesthesiologist said. He was watching the clock.

  Lillian looked in the direction they’d taken her husband. She looked into the eyes of the doctor, so much coercion in that strip of face over the mask. She felt her nose pushing out against the fabric of her own.

  She lay down on the table.

  Before the anesthesiologist even moved, the doctor said, “Take a good long breath. It’s the last time you’ll get so much air with such ease. The rest of us,” he said, “do a little work to breathe.”

  Lillian wasn’t sure what she should and should not be hearing and should or should not be feeling. Being invited to watch her husband’s operation, she knew it was something she was definitely not meant to see. At the start of the procedure she’d thought she was asleep. She believed she was dreaming exactly what was happening but that what was happening was not real. Then she remembered why she was sleeping and understood that she was awake, that there really was a tight circle of baby doctors around her—everyone standing so much closer while Bracchi worked. She was then for some reason thinking about driving: Kaddish through the windshield, cars and accidents, and a young doctor behind the wheel. It was with the rods in her nose that a form of clarity returned.

  She could not feel that the rods were hard or that they were cold. But she felt a serious pressure building as Mazursky instructed. She did not trust him at all, not a bit, except when he was doctoring. How nicely and smoothly he had wielded his tools over Kaddish—even when she’d turned her head to the side she’d felt his ease. How nice he sounded while directing Bracchi, as if he were moving the rods with his voice from afar.

  Lillian saw the bright lights and knew her eyes were open. She closed them but they didn’t move, the lights still there along with the motion around them. Thinking them closed, her eyes immediately did, and then it was only the doctor talking and the pressure, which had decreased momentarily, increasing again. “Good God, man,” Mazursky said, and now his voice wasn’t so smooth. “Do it already. Down and over, down and over. Nothing gets done in this world without follow-through.”

  Lillian exhaled through her mouth and the down and over came. There was the twist and turn and the release of it. Though there were many sensations missing beyond the lack of feeling in her face, a single dominant impression remained. The one thing she could feel perfectly well was just another thing that wasn’t there. Along with the follow-through, Lillian felt a sharp, a clear, a prominent absence of grace.

  [ Eleven ]

  “THEY’VE GOT TO GO,” Lillian said.

  “There are rumors,” Kaddish said.

  Pato couldn’t believe this was happening. Seated together on the couch, their knees touching, his parents had actually formed a united front. They sat there with their swollen cheeks and black eyes and masks of white tape across their noses looking very much punched in the face.

  “They’re my books,” Pato said. “How can you even ask such a thing?”

  “You’re the one full of conspiracy theories; oppressed long before it was in style. Now it’s in vogue,” Lillian said. “Good for you. A trendsetter. Only, the books have become dangerous. You’ve got to get rid of them. No one wants to be rid of you.”

  “Just because you’re paranoid, don’t take it out on me. The door I went along with. Who cares about changing keys?”

  “We’re both paranoid in different ways,” Lillian said. “My way and you may live to be anxious until a ripe old age.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “It doesn’t matter if anyone’s really coming or not, it’s your lot as a Jew to fear it. We are bred for the waiting.”

  “You’re as crazy as he is,” Pato said.

  “And you don’t show enough fear. Take yourself seriously and accept that the books are finally as subversive as you want them to be.”

  “Honestly, I’d rather give you my nose. I should have shown my loyalty with that when I had the chance.”

  “No one’s offering that now,” Kaddish said. “It was a mistake in the first place. Who’s going to breathe for the family without you? What if there’s a gas leak? You’re our canary, Pato. We need you to test the air.”

  “If I had the money,” Pato said, “I’d take my books and move out and never speak to either of you again.”

  “By the time you have the money,” Kaddish said, “you won’t need it because my life insurance will have long ago paid out. You can just move into the big bedroom.”

  “Enough,” Lillian said. “The books are going. Either choose the ones you know to be troubling or get rid of them all.”

  “I read half of them for classes given by the university
of this city which is run by the state. There is nothing wrong with having books.”

  “But you have heard,” Lillian said. “You’ve heard that they’re dangerous. That they’re guilt. Don’t tell me you and your friends don’t know of the craziness going on? Frida’s niece was interrogated for ten hours straight, no bathroom break, no water, her mother kept outside. They wanted to know about her organizational affiliations. She’s sixteen, Pato. She’s captain of her volleyball team.”

  “Who knows what stories are true anymore? The honest mouths are shut. The graffiti is gone. This whole country has been whitewashed. Go look,” Pato said. “The walls have been painted over. There’s a ring of white as high as my head around every tree.”

  “I’ve seen the trees,” Kaddish said.

  Lillian bit at a nail. She’d somehow missed the whitening of the city.

  “They’re cowards,” Pato said. “They’re supposed to burn banned books in the street. That’s how it’s done, with big bonfires and evil intent. This is the only ruthless, coercive system that expects us to destroy them ourselves. Do I have to ransack my own room while I’m at it? It’s like—” Pato said, looking around for an example, “it’s as if—” and he looked down at his parents, together on the couch, Lillian’s hand on Kaddish’s knee from where she put it to still him. “It’s like what you’ve done to your faces. It’s like the horror of a nation with one acceptable nose.”

  “Except that we had a choice and you don’t. There’ll be plenty left for you to read.”

  “I do have a choice,” Pato said. “Whatever the threat, I’m keeping my books either way.”

  “Tough guy,” Kaddish said.

  “You’re at a dangerous age, Pato,” Lillian said. “You look like a man, you think like a man, but you still have the idealism of a child. Why do you suppose all those soldiers out there are also nineteen? It’s because they’re the only ones stupid enough to die for a cause. After that, a little older, and the high-mindedness will melt away like baby fat. It’s only the generals, only the generals and rebel leaders and rock stars, your military men and your outright morons, that go boldly on after adolescence looking for a reason to die. Your hippy mottoes are right, Pato. Don’t trust the grown-ups. Don’t trust any adult with a cause.”

  “Not unless they make sure to die before you do,” Kaddish said.

  “Not even then,” Lillian said.

  “The books go,” Kaddish said. “The dangerous ones get torn up and all the rest can stay. If you want, I’ll buy you a new book for every one you lose.”

  “The ones you want me to get rid of are the ones I most want to keep. And,” Pato said, “I’ll buy whatever I want when I get the money I’m already owed.”

  “We’re serious,” Lillian said.

  “Then be serious with each other.” Pato grabbed his jacket. “Keep the books and the door and your bloody noses and have a second honeymoon. It’ll be great—I know how you two so enjoy time alone.”

  Pato stormed off, slamming that heavy door as best he could. With the dead bolt in the door handle, he didn’t even manage to lock himself out.

  It was a happy home for Rafa’s mother with so many kids sleeping there. She made a big production of pulling out the trundles and making up the extra beds. The one next to her father for Pato, and the one next to Mufi for Flavia. The kids all came out of the bedroom laughing.

  “What?” she said. “What?”

  “We’re not sleeping like that,” Rafa said. “You can slide the trundles away.”

  “That’s how we’ve always done it.”

  “Poppy is eighty-two. He announces his presence in a way that makes it unpleasant to share the bed.”

  “He’s your grandfather!” she said. “Respect.”

  “I respect him, as do my friends,” Rafa said. “And here I pay homage to his pungency. Pato will get the top bunk.”

  “That mattress is shot. There’s a hole right through it.”

  “Good, then he’ll have somewhere to stick his nose.”

  “And what’s wrong with your sister?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with her,” Rafa said. “It’s just that my penis won’t reach Flavia from across the room.”

  “Disgusting,” Rafa’s mother said. “Save such jokes for your friends.”

  “It’s a valid logistical concern.”

  “Since when is Flavia your girlfriend?” his mother said. Again she’d fallen out of the loop. “We didn’t discuss letting girlfriends share a room. It’s one thing, a lady that is your friend. A girlfriend is another.” She gave Flavia a disappointed look.

  “She isn’t my girlfriend. That’s the wonder of my generation. We’ve dispensed with such formalities.”

  They waited out Rafa’s grandfather, which wasn’t difficult since he was always asleep by seven. Mufi was another matter. She wasn’t much of a pain for a twelve-year-old, but they knew she’d stay up until the last one of them had gone to bed. They simply waited until she pretended she was asleep, forcing her to balance the thrill of eavesdropping with what had to be an exhausting performance. It looked like she was playing dead.

  Flavia and Rafa were squished into the bottom bunk and Pato was above them on the thin foam mattress, which indeed had a tear all the way through.

  “I might be better off with your grandfather,” Pato said, at which point, as if on cue, Rafa’s grandfather rattled the bed with a fart that put an end to the proposal. They laughed hard and stopped suddenly, trying to catch Mufi making a noise.

  “She’s good,” Pato said. And they gave her another minute to break. “I wish you guys could see my parents. It’s like letting someone hit you in the face with a shovel.”

  “Who cares what they do to themselves?” Flavia said. “You have a nice room at home, you should sleep in it.”

  “I’m not here because of the nose jobs,” Pato said. He tried to prop himself up and banged his head on the ceiling. “It’s because of the books.”

  “I got rid of mine,” Rafa said.

  “If you’d read any of them you might have felt more attached. And you have a little sister,” Pato said. “There is a child in this house to protect.” They paused again. Mufi rolled over and let out a little snore.

  “What’s the difference? I’ll replace them when this is over.”

  Flavia took Rafa’s side. “A little perspective wouldn’t kill you, Pato, when so many other things might.”

  “To fuck him is one thing,” Pato said. “To agree with him is another. It’s actually hard to believe.”

  “I’m keeping my books,” Flavia said. “But, in an alternate universe where my parents were remotely communicative, I wouldn’t get into a battle with them over it. I don’t want to sound like your mother, but if I could sleep in my own bed in my own house, I would.”

  “So go home,” Pato said.

  “I don’t think that’s an option anymore,” Flavia said. “I went to therapy this morning and my shrink wasn’t there.”

  “Gone—not there?” Pato said. “How do you not say that until now?”

  “She told me,” Rafa said.

  “Rafa’s mother doesn’t have to know every last thing,” Flavia said. “She got enough news about my life today.”

  Pato was jealous that Rafa knew before him. And feeling jealous when they were talking about a kidnapping made him feel petty and small. He also resented the sex his friends were having, and this made him feel smaller still.

  “I waited around for the whole fifty-minute hour,” Flavia said. “For most of it the shrink in the other room is giving me the evil eye—and he’s the one that must have buzzed me up. There wasn’t anybody else there. It’s when I’m leaving that the guy gets off his fat ass. ‘Friday’ he says. ‘They took her right out the front with a canvas sack over her head.’ I said to him, ‘Who took her?’ And he looks at me like I’m an idiot, like I’m too greedy to be satisfied with what’s been given. ‘Who took what?’ he said, all formal. ‘This isn’t a bus stop. I
f you’ve got no business here, go loiter somewhere else.’ Then he went back into the other room and slammed the door.”

  “Two people in two weeks,” Rafa said. “You’re like lady luck.”

  “Fuck off,” she said.

  “So you’re never going to go home?” Pato couldn’t imagine it, though he’d claimed to be doing just that.

  “They’ve got the patient lists. They can’t not have them. I might as well be a member of the ERP.”

  “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me before.”

  “It’s because his mother is crazy,” Flavia said.

  “It’s because my mother is crazy.” Rafa seconded the thought. “She’ll go nuts. She’ll think we’re all headed for the firing squad.”

  “What about classes?”

  “I’ll keep going for now, I guess. I’ll see how it feels. Otherwise I’ll hide out here for a while unless Mufi tells.”

  “Yes,” Rafa said. “Unless my sister tells.”

  “I won’t,” Mufi said.

  “All right then,” Rafa said.

  They all proceeded to feign sleep. Rafa and Flavia believed the others really were so that they could effect a privacy they, in reality, rarely managed. Mufi stayed awake, banking on more secrets. And Pato lay up on his thin foam mattress, listening to the sounds of struggle and the positioning and repositioning below him. He decided to spend another night or two at Rafa’s to spite his parents and to prove he wasn’t sure what to Flavia. He’d take at least another night before going home. Pato considered all these things as the wood began to creak and his bed began to sway. He closed his eyes and drifted off. Pato’s friends kept up their slow rhythm below, rocking him to sleep.

  [ Twelve ]

  CACHO CALLED OUT FOR THE ELEVATOR to wait and Lillian held the gate for him. She was wearing sunglasses that sat high up on her bandage. She took them off, revealing black eyes.

  Cacho winced when he saw her and, recovering his composure, said, “It looks to be a bright morning, but the paper says rain.”

  “Since when are newspapers interested in the truth?”