The Physician's Tale

by Ann Benson

  Kate shook her head slowly back and forth. She sighed deeply and drew her shawl tightly around her, as if she felt chilled. “Then we do not have much time. We must be gone soon, so he can reasonably deny us should anyone challenge him.” She put a hand on Alejandro’s arm. “I long for the day when we can stay in one place without fear of discovery or betrayal.”

  “As do I, daughter.”

  Alejandro entered the nursery and found his baby daughter in the arms of the wet nurse.

  “She has just finished,” the young woman said as she handed the baby to him. She rose up. “I will leave you now.”

  Alejandro thanked her. When he was sure she was gone, he kissed the child on the forehead and cooed, “Come, little one, let us go and visit with your mother for a while.”

  Philomène still lay on the bed where she had suffered through the agony of surgical childbirth; she had been too weak to move. Kate and the maids of the house had kept her as clean as they could, but despite their efforts, the dank odor of confinement still hung in the air, and it assaulted Alejandro when he entered. He set the baby down and opened the window, shaking his head as he did so, for each time one of the maids came in to attend to Philomène, the window would promptly be closed to ward off bad humors. And though the physician was certain that such bad humors existed, he knew that air would do her more good than the Paris miasma would do her harm.

  He lifted her coverlet, then carefully took up her shift, so he could see the dressing on her wound. Philomène opened her eyes to thin slits when he did this. He smiled reassuringly. “The seepage is still clear. This is a very good sign.”

  She said nothing, but nodded her head very slightly.

  Then Alejandro leaned over and put his nose close to her abdomen. He took in the odor that emanated directly from the dressing. After considering its nature for a moment he said, “I detect no odor of infection. It seems a miracle, but you are healing.”

  She turned her head to one side; he could not see her face, but he knew that her expression would be pained. He took hold of her face gently in one hand and turned her back so she faced him.

  “You worry me with this melancholy of yours,” he said. “You must maintain good spirits to promote health.”

  Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “What can you know of the shame I feel? I am no longer a woman. The parts that make me feminine are gone.”

  “And you are alive. Need I remind you that had de Chauliac not done what he did, you might have lost all your bodily fluids? Such an imbalance would surely have led to your death. I will thank him forever for what he did.”

  He stroked her hair. “You are all the woman I will ever want or need,” he said. He left the bedside and picked up the baby again. He brought the baby to the bedside and held her close to her mother.

  Philomène’s expression brightened immediately.

  “Look what you have given me. Ariella Meryle.”

  Philomène reached out and pulled the swaddling aside. The baby’s hair was a deep, rich black, and her skin was rosy. “Little blackbird,” she said. “I pray that she shall not have to fly away too often.”

  Alejandro let her enjoy the baby for a moment, then said, “That may be her legacy. Soon she will have her first flight, I am afraid.”

  He recounted to her the events of the day when Ariella was born, of their bribe to the midwife, and of his distrust that the woman would keep her promise not to betray them. “We have bought some time, nothing more,” he said. “Soon enough, she will sell us away. So we must prepare.”

  A good cart was bought, and four excellent horses. De Chauliac himself oversaw the modification of the cart’s interior; several thick quilts of soft goose feathers were laid in place, and then pillows were added, so Philomène and Avram might ride in comfort on the rutted roads that led away from Paris. Tools and equipment were hidden among the quilts and the pillows, as well as several empty water bags. Alejandro assembled a cache of herbs and medicinals, which he hid in a box beneath the cart’s seat, along with several knives and the strops on which they could be sharpened. Kate readied a strong bow and a quiver of arrows so all were just to her liking, and then added an extra bowstring.

  When all was prepared, the cart and the horses were tucked into the stable, to await the day of their betrayal.

  Not too many days later there came a visitor, a priest of the Benedictine order. Alejandro watched, out of sight, as de Chauliac took the man into his library and closed the door.

  He was not present an hour later when the priest emerged from the library and was escorted by de Chauliac himself out into the courtyard, but he was summoned by the Frenchman shortly thereafter.

  “I fear to ask what transpired,” he said to his colleague.

  “And that is well, for there is nothing to tell, other than that a certain woman, a midwife by trade, came to him and made a most unusual confession. He did not say what she told him, for it is a sin of the gravest magnitude for a priest to reveal what was said to him in the confessional.”

  He paused, then said, “But we know what she said to him. And if she is speaking to him, she may have spoken to others, who are not similarly bound by the rules of their faith.”

  Sadly, Alejandro said, “It is time, then.”

  “I am afraid so.”

  The sorrow of their imminent separation hung in the air between the two friends, until finally Alejandro said, with great humility, “We must part again, colleague, perhaps for the last time.”

  “Perhaps,” de Chauliac said. “It pains me to realize this.”

  “Myself as well. I cannot begin to thank you for the many blessings you have given me. I will not recount each one, for it will take all of the day, and there is much to be done now.”

  A wistful smile came onto de Chauliac’s face. “What am I to do without the comfort and inspiration of your company?”

  “You shall do as you have always done,” Alejandro replied. “You will study and learn, as will I, knowing that I must keep up with you or perish in trying.”

  Alejandro stood in the foyer of the maison and faced his colleague of many years, a man who had once been and was now again his teacher. For a time, when he discovered that Alejandro was a Jew after sending him to England in the Great Mortality, they had been enemies. But when their paths crossed again, it seemed to both that God had put them together for a reason, and as their mistrust of each other waned, their friendship grew. De Chauliac was now and would always be the greatest friend he had ever had. He glanced out through the open door to the courtyard and was quiet for a moment as he regarded his waiting family. Kate, the daughter of his heart, Guillaume—her son and his grandchild—Philomène, his wife, now carrying their child in her arms, and Avram, his ancient father.

  He turned back to his friend, the enigmatic Frenchman who would forever inspire him. “We have come through many trials and triumphs together, de Chauliac. I wish there were more to come, but alas, I think it shall not be. Again, I must thank you, for your kindness, your sternness, your patience, and your succor when I thought I could not go on.” And then a mischievous smile came over his face. “But more than anything else, my dear friend, I must thank you for doing what even my father could not manage.”

  De Chauliac looked at him in confusion. “And that is what?”

  He glanced out into the courtyard. “You arranged a suitable marriage for me.” And with that said, Alejandro embraced the man who had accompanied him through two decades. He let him go, then went out into the courtyard to join the others. Alejandro could feel the weight of de Chauliac’s eyes on his back as he headed out of the courtyard with his beautiful and precious family, toward their new life.

  Thirty-six

  “This is unique,” Alex Thomas Macalester said to his mother. “They’ll never believe me back at MedGlobe when I tell them I got to stand over my own grave.”

  “Please,” she said. “Don’t rush things. It’s not yours, it’s his.”

  “A tech
nicality.”

  “It might not be a good idea to tell them anything about this.”

  Alex said, “You’re probably right.”

  They walked through the cemetery until they came to the place where his original lay buried.

  Janie got down on one knee and brushed debris from the headstone. The inscription was weather-worn by centuries of intense Bretagne weather. She looked up at her son.

  “You’re sure this is the right one?”

  “Alejandro Canches,” he read. His voice was very quiet and subdued. Janie noted a slight tremor.

  After a moment, she said, “Does it say anything more than his name?”

  “Yes, it does,” Alex told her. “After his name it says Physician.”

  Janie moved, still squatting, to the next stone. “Is this his wife?”

  Alex squatted down next to her and sounded out the Hebrew letters. “Pi-lo-men. It’s got to be her.”

  They were both quiet. Janie’s head was bowed, as if she were praying. Alex put a hand on her shoulder. In a few moments he felt, but did not hear, her sobbing.

  After a moment Janie began to rise, with some difficulty; Alex rose up quickly and helped her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “The knees aren’t what they used to be.”

  “You know you can have them both replaced anytime you want to.”

  “I know. But that would mean I’m old. And I keep telling myself I’m not.”

  “Might work. But it probably won’t.”

  She looked down at the graves for a moment, then looked at her son. “I wonder what she looked like.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I know what he looked like, and I know what your wife looks like, so…”

  “She probably didn’t look anything like Sarah. And I’m certain that my Kate doesn’t look anything like the original.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “And I don’t really care much either.”

  “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  “So was he,” Alex said with a smile. “It got him into a lot of trouble.”

  The train from Nantes to Avignon floated on its air cushion; the ride was smooth and relaxing.

  “I’m so glad we had the chance to do this,” Janie said. “I know it means you had to take time away, and I appreciate it.”

  “MedGlobe can get along without me for a couple of weeks,” Alex said. “I think I finally figured out how to delegate. I don’t feel like I have to oversee everything personally anymore. There are lots of good people keeping an eye on things while I’m gone.”

  “Good. You can’t do everything there. I used to worry about you when you first started up. I don’t think I ever saw anyone work so hard.”

  “There were still Coalition cells all over the place. I had to save the world, Mom.” He laughed and squeezed her arm affectionately. “It’s in my blood, remember? In more than one way.”

  “How could I forget?”

  Janie looked out the window as the scenery whizzed past, and considered how precisely Alex had walked in the path of his original, step by careful step. His own world was a safer place now because the people who worked for his brainchild, MedGlobe, kept a close eye on emerging microbes and hunted down the ruthless people who conjured up the bad ones.

  She turned back to him. “Do you miss Guy and Kate?”

  “Oh, yeah. But Sarah’s got everything under control. They probably don’t miss me.”

  An electronic voice came over the loudspeaker and made an announcement, in a succession of languages: Next stop, Montpellier.

  The starkly angular building that housed the university library seemed incongruous, situated as it was in the middle of an ancient city. Mother and son in turn placed a palm against the reader and stepped through after the gate slid open.

  “Le Cyrurgia Magna de Guy de Chauliac,” Alex said to one of the librarians.

  “En haut,” the woman replied, pointing upstairs.

  They rode the escalator to the second floor and followed the signs for Collections Historiques. They found the manuscript in a glass case under soft light. A placard below it said it was a copy found in Nantes in the fifteenth century. For a few moments they stood in front of the display, just looking at it.

  IN GOD’S NAME, HERE BEGINNETH THE INVENTORY OR GATHERING TOGETHER OF MEDICINE IN THE PART OF SURGERY, COMPILED AND FULFILLED IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1363 BY GUY DE CHAULIAC, SURGEON AND DOCTOR OF PHYSIK IN THE FULL CLEAR STUDY OF MONTPELLIER…

  Alex said, “I wish I could touch it.”

  “You did.”

  And then Janie and her son said in unison, with a wide smile, “No, that was him.”

  “Just like he described it. I’m kind of glad we didn’t look at any photos of the place before we came here.”

  “It sure is white.”

  “That’s what he said.” He looked up and used his finger to air-count the towers. “It kind of has that New England farmhouse add-on look.”

  After the papal palace, they visited the narrow alleys and tiny houses that once were the Jewish ghetto.

  “My God, these people must have been small,” Alex said as he stood before the medieval temple. He ducked under the lintel, pressing his hand on the symbol of holiness on the door frame, and went inside. There were a few rows of seats facing the front dais, on which there stood a small podium. It was silent and calm in the small room; a filtered light came in through a narrow window at the front above the door. Alex looked down at his feet in the sand of the floor and wondered what the boots of the man who’d stepped over that threshold seven hundred years before were made of.

  Janie looked up from her street map of Paris and pointed at the sign. “Place Paul Painlevé. This is it.”

  They found de Chauliac’s home just a few doors from the Cluny Museum.

  A small plaque was embedded into the stone of the courtyard’s outer wall, just to the right of the gate. “Musée de Chauliac,” Alex read. “How appropriate.” The courtyard was barred with an iron gate, which proved to be locked when he tried to open it. Janie rang a bell; they waited for a few minutes, but no one came.

  They walked around the courtyard to the adjacent street. It was, like most streets in the ancient sections of Paris, painfully narrow. When they looked down its length, they saw the metal pillars that barred entry by vehicles. Janie took her son by the arm and led him into the street, then turned him around so he faced the small dormer.

  “This must have been the spot where Kate and Guillaume Karle stood. He wrote about looking out of the dormer room.” She looked upward and pointed. “That’s the only one I see that faces a street.”

  Chunnel or boat?

  Boat, definitely. That’s how he did it, so that’s how I want to do it.

  But their crossing from Calais was smooth and fast on the hovercraft, not the tortured odysseys that Alejandro had known. In Dover they boarded another, which floated them down the Thames past Canterbury. They stepped off at a transit pier and were shepherded into the Customs area, through which all entering travelers were required to pass.

  As they stood in line waiting their turn, Janie looked around. “There are a lot more people here than when I came into Heathrow.”

  The people moved forward, one by one, through a door marked Palm Reader. Janie chuckled when she saw it. “That used to mean something entirely different,” she said to her son. Eventually they passed through that door themselves, into the room where the official business of entry took place.

  They were third and fourth in the line; the examiner at the podium seemed to be taking his time questioning the man who stood before him on the indicated spot. Words were exchanged, and though Janie couldn’t hear all that was being said, she understood by the demeanor of both parties that the conversation was not pleasant or agreeable.

  Immunizations…history of communicable disease…pregnant. Reasons for rejection.

  “He’s not giving him his hand,” she whispered to Alex. “I wonder w
hy.” Suddenly a bell rang, and metal plates slid up from the floor almost in the same instant. Small air bags burst out of the tops of the plates and pressed against the man’s lower legs, imprisoning him without injury. Within seconds, two guards with chemical weapons burst out of a side door and rushed forward. They had the uncooperative traveler secured with aircuffs in a heartbeat. One of the guards reached down and touched something on the floor, and the lower assembly deflated, then disappeared into the floor again. They took their prisoner off as Alex and Janie watched in stunned silence.

  When it was their turn, Alex stepped forward.

  “Alex Thomas Macalester,” the examiner said. “Welcome to England, sir.”

  Alex stepped aside with a nod. Then Janie stepped forward. She answered the examiner’s questions politely, presented her palm for recognition, and then quietly asked, “If you don’t mind telling me, what was the problem with that young man?”

  The elderly examiner leaned forward and gave her a flirtatious wink. “We suspect this chap may be pregnant.” He grinned widely, enjoying the ruse. “Pregnant.”

  Something had flipped a switch in this examiner’s brain, and they would never know what. They would never know if the world had been saved once again by that small caution.

  The examiner pressed the button that electronically recorded her entry into England on her palm chip, then smiled at the man behind her and said, “Next.”

  The oaks, remarkably, were still there, though they were showing their age—there were very few leaves on the twisted branches, even in the middle of the summer. They walked through the arched gate; a slight breeze fluttered the ankles of their pants.

  “The cottage was about there,” Janie told him, pointing to a spot about thirty yards farther.