Dr. Urgen was tall, skinny and was maybe forty-five years old. His wispy black hair swept from one side of his forehead to the other in the fashion of Hitler. The oversized collar of his shirt made Urgen’s protruding Adam’s apple even more obvious. The pretentious medals pinned to his uniform suggested a colonel of a Panzer division more than a medical doctor. After he cleared his throat, he rose from his chair and arrogantly thrust his chin outward.
“Mr. Vice President, our course of action is absolutely clear. I recommend immediate cranial surgery to remove the bone fragments that have obviously penetrated the brain’s protective tissue. I have no doubt these bone fragments have caused the boy’s fever, and I know how best to correct the situation.”
He paused to take a breath and looked at the Vice President who nodded for him to continue.
“After I complete the procedure, his temperature will return to normal. His recovery will be complete. It may take time, but eventually he will be nearly as good as new. Mr. Vice President, in all modesty, I assure you this is a perfectly safe operation for a surgeon of my caliber. Afterwards, the boy will be victorious as surely as Germany’s army will conquer its enemies.”
The arrogant doctor was so proud of his analogy between Murat and the political situation in Europe that he cracked a smile, but the Vice President only turned his head to the side and blew air through his puckered lips. After taking a deep breath, the Vice President asked, “And what, exactly, is this operation that you describe?”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Vice President,” Urgen said with a faint bow of his head. “I will use a high-powered miniature saw to open a small circular segment in the boy’s skull. Then I will remove the damaged part of the cranium and any fragments that have penetrated the brain’s protective dura mater membrane or the cerebrum. There can be no question that in a complicated case such as this, I must employ new and aggressive operating procedures. I have all my instruments and supplies with me and can start the operation within a matter of hours. Mr. Vice President, you must give me your approval now, because tomorrow will be too late. While I’m sure other so-called experts will offer their opinions, only I can perform this operation, and only I can save the life of your son.”
Dr. Urgen stepped back and snapped to attention. The room became absolutely silent except for Murat’s labored breathing. The Turkish doctors in the room exchanged glances but said nothing. Dr. Urgen was the famous German brain surgeon whom their Vice President invited here for his medical opinion, and who were they to question his judgments?
Dr. Belevski found the German doctor tactless and unorthodox. The procedure he had described was extremely complicated, and the risk of infection or brain damage was quite real. However, Belevski was also baffled by his radical approach to the problem. Yes, Dr. Urgen had pioneered several new techniques in this field, but many of his brain operations in comatose patients had yielded highly unpredictable results. Perhaps the pompous Urgen was not telling the whole story.
Dr. Dervisoglu leaned close to the Vice President and whispered. The Vice President nodded and turned to the German doctor.
“And how, exactly, Dr. Urgen,” the Vice President asked, “would this surgery affect the boy’s mental and physical capabilities?”
One corner of the doctor’s mouth twitched and his face showed disappointment that the Vice President hadn’t immediately agreed to his plan. “Ah … yes … well, that is a critical question, Mr. Vice President,” he stammered.
“We are still learning how the brain recovers after this kind of operation. In recent experiments at my institute, I have developed special operating procedures that minimize brain damage, memory loss, muscle control, and speech impairment. My prognosis for your son is that he will make a full recovery. But in delicate surgeries such as this, there is always a possibility of a temporary loss of some physical and mental capabilities.”
“How much loss, Dr. Urgen, specifically?” Belevski interrupted. “And how do you define ‘temporary’?”
The Vice President glanced at Belevski and nodded to Dr. Urgen to answer the question.
Dr. Urgen, his feathers ruffled, glared at Belevski and then addressed the Vice President.
“I can almost assure you … no more than approximately 30 percent …and only for a few months, more or less. However, if it were my son’s life hanging in the balance, Mr. Vice President, I would not waste time quibbling over percentage points or calendar dates.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Dr. Urgen,” the Vice President said. “I will consider your opinion, but now I would like to hear Dr. Knope’s point of view. Doctor?”
Dr. Knope was a stocky, gray-haired man whose muscular arms and healthy appearance made him look like a wrestler. He appeared to be much younger than his sixty years. For the benefit of the Vice President, a small man in an Italian business suit translated Knope’s officious German remarks into French. Since Belevski had been educated in Berlin and spoke German fluently, he understood the doctor’s every word and nuance.
Before Knope spoke, he glared at Belevski as if to say, “Keep your mouth shut, you second-rate Bulgarian butcher. You don’t even belong in the same room with Dr. Urgen or me.” However, not wanting to be completely overshadowed by his German colleague, Knope put his left hand on Murat’s neck and snapped open his pocket watch to check the boy’s pulse.
“Mr. Vice President, this boy is as hot as a pistol, and his breathing is labored,” he sighed. “Alas, I believe that Dr. Urgen is absolutely correct in prescribing surgery. I have seen his work, and there’s no question that he is a genius with a scalpel. I think we must use drugs to bring down the boy’s temperature, and then I recommend that Dr. Urgen be allowed to perform the operation without delay.”
Dr. Knope gazed around the room to see the responses of the Vice President and other doctors. While he didn’t actually wink at Dr. Urgen he might just as well have. The Turkish doctors, nurses and the Vice President looked worried. However, it seemed obvious to Dr. Belevski that Knope and Urgen had agreed on their diagnosis earlier so that they would both be paid for their opinions, receive all the glory, and leave the Bulgarian doctor out in the cold.
Dr. Belevski watched as the distressed father carefully consider Knope’s suggestions, which made some sense—that is, if they had been based on an accurate diagnosis of the problem. Now it was his turn to explain why they were wrong.
Dr. Knope smiled at the Vice President and Dr. Urgen. Belevski shook his head slowly and stroked his chin.
“Dr. Knope,” the Vice President began slowly. “Perhaps you and Dr. Urgen are right. We mustn’t delay much longer, but before I decide upon my son’s treatment, I’d like to hear what Dr. Belevski has to say.”
The Bulgarian doctor was about to begin when Knope and Urgen shot disdainful looks at him and snickered to each other. As they folded their arms in unison and looked up at the ceiling, Belevski began his remarks.
“I have no doubt, Mr. Vice President that we are all dedicated to helping your son recover. However, I believe that my respected colleagues, Dr. Urgen and Dr. Knope, have based their radical recommendation on an incorrect assumption.”
Belevski paused to let the people in the room prepare themselves for what he had to say next.
“They say that Murat’s brain has been damaged and that’s what has caused his coma and high temperature. I cannot confirm that their diagnosis is correct. I believe that the boy’s coma and fever may stem from another source.”
A murmur filled the hospital room. The German doctors looked as if someone had poured cold water onto their laps. The Turkish doctors and the Vice President eagerly waited for Dr. Belevski to proceed.
“I believe that after the accident, when the boy fell into a deep coma, he may have regurgitated food from his stomach and then inhaled it into his lungs. If so, this digested food, along with his stomach acid, could have damaged the tiny air sacs, or to use the medical term, alveoli, and the pulmonary capillaries. A high body temperature and diffi
culty breathing are the symptoms that suggest this kind of problem. Murat’s medical report said that his temperature rose days after the accident, which is consistent with the type of lung damage that I describe—and inconsistent with the diagnosis of Dr. Urgen and Dr. Knope.”
Belevski’s diagnosis caught Urgen and Knope completely by surprise. Dr. Urgen appeared confused and quickly wrote something on a sheet of paper and then passed it to Dr. Knope, who looked equally perplexed. He scribbled something down and passed it back.
Dr. Belevski waited for another moment and then continued.
“I believe that I can remedy Murat’s condition with a far less radical procedure than these doctors have recommended. But first I want to X-ray the boy’s lungs to see if there is tissue damage in the lower respiratory tract. Only then can I say where and how to proceed with his treatment.”
The Vice President leaned over and whispered something to Dr. Dervisoglu, who nodded his head in agreement and signaled to the nurses to take the boy to the room with the X-ray machine.
The two German doctors looked like steamed clams. Dr. Urgen popped up like a jack-in-the-box and held up his hand as if to say “Stop!”
“Mr. Vice President, this diagnosis is utterly ridiculous.”
Dr. Knope stood at attention beside his colleague. He glared and shook his finger at Dr. Belevski.
“I agree. This Bulgarian doctor is nothing but a charlatan.”
The Vice President nodded and smiled politely at the German doctors. Urgen and Knope relaxed and sneered at Dr. Belevski, assuming that the Vice President’s gesture meant that he agreed with their opinion. But their cynical smiles soon disappeared.
The Vice President looked at Dr. Belevski with hope in his eyes.
“If you are right, does this mean that my son will not need brain surgery?” he asked.
“I believe that is correct, Mr. Vice President.”
“Dr. Belevski,” he said. “I want you to take full responsibility for my son’s treatment. Please start right away.”
CHAPTER 19
The procedure to clear Murat’s lungs lasted more than four hours. The boy’s temperature was now close to normal, but he remained in a coma. The two German doctors circled the operating room like vultures waiting for their next meal. Urgen insisted that the Vice President agree to let him operate on Murat before it was too late, but Dr. Belevski convinced the Vice President that they must wait and evaluate the boy the following day.
Dr. Belevski was sure that clearing the lungs would reduce the boy’s temperature, but he was beginning to wonder if he did have some brain damage. If that was the case, then a brain operation was the only way to save Murat’s life. Only time would tell whose diagnosis was correct. It was late afternoon by the time Belevski returned to the villa, but he was so exhausted that he went directly to bed.
A hard knock at his door the next morning shook Belevski from a deep sleep. When he opened the door, a servant handed the doctor a note and two morning newspapers. One headline read:
“Bulgarian Doctor Saves Murat!”
Another headline stated: “Saint Belevski Saves VP’s Son!”
“This is wonderful news,” Belevski said.
Murat had awakened from his coma, and the news was all over the city. The Turkish press described the operation as “A Miracle!” and the government declared Friday a day of national celebration.
Everyone agreed that the Vice President had chosen wisely—that is, everyone except the German doctors. They packed up and left Istanbul after they heard the news about the boy’s recovery. Belevski’s photograph and that of Murat before his accident filled the newspapers across the country. The government radio played the Bulgarian national anthem followed by reports of the Bulgarian doctor’s many successful operations, including the details of his most recent triumph.
To the Turkish people, the Bulgarian doctor was a hero brimming with confidence. For his part, Belevski was greatly relieved that his theory had proven correct and that he had saved the boy’s life. Now he could bask in the glow of success and claim, without a doubt, that he was one of the best doctors in Europe.
The next day brought Belevski another wonderful surprise. To show his appreciation, the Vice President arranged a celebration in the doctor’s honor for the following Saturday evening at his newest palace on the European shore of the Bosphorus.
“The guests for this special event,” the Vice President told Dr. Belevski, “will include many of our country’s most famous and influential people. I have invited European diplomats, politicians, businessmen, actors, and, if you are interested, several rather attractive dancers!” His wink and smile needed no explanation.
“You, Dr. Belevski, will be my guest of honor, and I will present you with the Turkish National Medal of Honor.”
As Belevski accepted the gracious remarks, he thought how for centuries Bulgarian czars had tried to capture Istanbul—the “Pearl on the Bosphorus”—but had always failed. As of yesterday, Istanbul sat at this Bulgarian’s feet, not through fire or sword, but with chloroform and a scalpel, and by saving one boy’s life.
The thought of a national celebration in his honor kindled a deep yearning inside Dr. Belevski. For his entire life, he longed to be recognized as better than the rest—or should he dare say it—exceptional. Now that he had won the day, the night of his dreams was just a few days away.
Dr. Belevski called his wife in Sofia and told her about the operation and his invitation to be the Vice President’s guest of honor at a special party on Saturday. Spasia had already read about the boy’s remarkable recovery and congratulated her husband, but she pleaded with him to return home right away. She argued that he was no longer needed there and that the Turkish doctors could handle the boy’s convalescence.
“Manol, if you don’t come home tomorrow, you’ll be sorry. Please believe me!” Spasia’s anxious voice revealed her fears, but Belevski was determined to stay in Istanbul. While he thought it prudent to keep a close eye on the boy’s recovery, the truth was that he simply couldn’t turn down the Vice President’s tantalizing invitation and all of the adulation that was sure to follow.
Belevski had never attended such a magnificent party in such grand surroundings. The palace in which they celebrated was an immense, opulent wooden summerhouse that had once belonged to a sultan during the Ottoman era. The newly refinished gold-encrusted columns, detailed frescos, and white marble fountain turned this old yali into a modern mansion.
The doctor’s name was on everyone’s lips at the party. Important people rushed to shake the hand of Europe’s greatest surgeon. Everyone there made him feel as revered as a king. The Vice President tapped an empty glass and called out to the guests in the crowded room.
“My friends, please join me,” he said. “Dr. Belevski, you are a savior and a great medical innovator whose skilled hands and brilliant mind are destined for a place in medical history.”
It was about ten o’clock. Dr. Belevski stood overlooking the dark waters of the Bosphorus, listening to the party chatter in the background. He was watching an old ferry full of passengers ply the ancient waterway from the Golden Horn to the Asian shore when a guest approached him from behind.
“Excuse me, Dr. Belevski. My name is Frank Laval, attaché with the British Consulate.”
Dressed in a classic black double-breasted tuxedo, his black bow framed against a crisp white shirt, the middle-aged English gentleman embodied the formality and elegance of the British Empire. Smoke from his cigarette drifted from his pursed lips, past a trimmed dark mustache, over his arched eyebrows, and beyond his neatly parted black and grey wavy hair.
“Just wanted to say what a marvelous job you did on the Vice President’s boy! Damn fine work, old fellow.”
He leaned closer and whispered through his teeth while barely moving his lips.
“Can’t say we were sad to hear that you sent those German windbags, Urgen and Knope, packing back to bloody old Berlin
with their tails between their legs. Ha! Good riddance to them, I say!”
Dr. Belevski smiled at the compliment.
“By the way,” Lavel said, “a friend of mine is here tonight. I’m sure she would like to offer you her congratulations. She’s a bit shy, although I don’t know why. She’s a real stunner! Would you like to meet her?”
He pointed across the room.
“She’s the one in the black dress with her back to us, looking out the window.”
The woman gazed out beyond a wide terrace to the lights along the shoreline. Her elegant black silk gown floated from her hips like feathers, nearly touching the floor. Her black hair reflected a shiny glow from the room’s light. It was not until the woman turned around and smiled that Belevski saw her face. At that moment, he felt as though fortune had smiled upon him for a second time in the past week.
“Congratulations, Dr. Belevski,” Helen Noverman said. “You must be very proud and happy, and in case you didn’t know it, you’re famous, even in Sofia!”
Belevski was dumbstruck.
“Indeed I am, Mademoiselle Noverman,” he answered. “Thank you, and it’s so nice to see you. What are you doing here in Istanbul? And how are your headaches? Better I presume, as I haven’t seen you since your first visit to my office.”
“I have some personal business here. But when I read about your great achievement and the Vice President’s party, I contacted my old friend Frank Lavel to see if he could arrange for me to attend. I just had to come and honor the remarkable Dr. Manol Belevski!” Then, to the doctor’s surprise, she reached out and put her hand on his forearm.
“Yes, my headaches are all gone, thanks to you and your treatment.”
Laugh of the Hyenas Page 14
