He looked at me for a moment, then said, "Leitner is one of those doctors who seem to forget that his patients are people. He treats them as though he's a mechanic fixing a machine. And he's not so brilliant at that, either."
"Then how in hell is it possible he'll become head physician?"
"Because he's good at internal politics, and, more crucially, he's a great fundraiser."
"That's more important than being a good doctor?"
"To get appointed head physician? Yes, it is. Sometimes it seems like it's the only skill that matters." He paused for a beat, then added, "Maybe I shouldn't disparage Leitner on that score. Donations are vital for a hospital. A hospital with money becomes more modern, acquires better equipment, can offer a higher level of care to its patients. A hospital needs fundraisers. But with Leitner it has always seemed to me that his main goal is not the well-being of his patients, but the fulfillment of his personal ambition. He wants to be head physician not because he believes he'll do the best job for the patients, but for the status that comes with the title, the boost to his ego."
"I see," I said, thinking that it fit my impression of Leitner.
"Do you know Anat Schlesinger?" I asked. "She's a nurse who worked with Moria Gafni."
"I know who she is, but I don't know her any better than I did Moria."
"What about Naomi Hecht?"
"Sure, I know Naomi. We used to work together." A dark cloud passed over his face. "Leitner must be stupid, not just incompetent."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because he fired her, that's why. One of the best nurses I've ever met."
I stared at him. "When did this happen?"
"Yesterday."
Soon after my conversation with him. "Why did he do it?"
"No one seems to know. One rumor says she botched some procedure, but I don't believe it. And this after he surprised everyone just two months ago by announcing Naomi will become head nurse of the Pediatric Ward next year when the current one retires. Usually, the head nurse is much older. I didn't think Leitner had it in him to make such an unorthodox appointment; I was actually impressed. But now he's overturned his earlier decision and gotten rid of her."
I tried to think what any of this might have to do with Dr. Shapira's murder, with Moria's suicide, but I couldn't see a connection.
I racked my brain, but I couldn't come up with more questions to ask Dr. Aboulker. I held out my hand. "Thank you, Doctor. For everything."
He smiled. "You're most welcome, Mr. Lapid." Then the smile faded. "I really shouldn't have let you leave the hospital."
"You didn't have much choice in the matter."
"I suppose I didn't. My professional advice is that you go to the hospital the minute you reach Tel Aviv, but I'm not going to ask if you will. The answer might make me feel guiltier than I already do. How are you feeling right now?"
"Much better already."
"You're a terrible liar, you know that? Which makes me feel better because now I'm sure you'll keep your word and not repeat what I told you. Before you go..." He reached into the back seat and got his briefcase. He produced two squat bottles of pills. "This one's for the fever. Take three a day until it breaks. This is for the pain. Don't exceed four a day. Take the pills with food, okay?"
I put the medicine in my coat pocket. I thanked him again.
"Take it easy, Mr. Lapid. Rest. Don't exert yourself. And stay out of trouble, okay?"
Five seconds after I exited Dr. Aboulker's car, the rain turned into a deluge. By the time I made it into the station, my hair was matted, and water had infiltrated my clothes, freezing my skin. My ribs, especially where Kulaski had punched me, were screaming with agony.
Once on the bus, I settled into the backseat and struggled to find a comfortable way to position my body. I didn't find one. However I shifted, a different part of my battered anatomy ignited with pain.
I was also cold beyond reason. I shook, trembled; my teeth chattered. I wrapped my arms around myself, but it did no good. It was as though my body had stopped producing heat.
The other travelers looked at me once and then avoided eye contact. I looked like trouble, and they wanted to steer clear of it.
The bus ride was an ordeal. The road was rife with bumps and potholes, and I felt every single one of them in my battered and broken bones. I tried sleeping, but every little uneven patch of tarmac jolted me back to dismal wakefulness. The rain kept up most of the way, so the ride was slow and long.
The sky was gray in Tel Aviv, but at least it was dry. The air was cold and still, like a pent-up breath. I staggered out of the bus station and tried hailing a taxi. A couple veered closer, but when the driver got a look at my face, he spun the wheel and tore off. When the third one came, I was smarter. I bent my head and pretended to scratch my forehead, obscuring my face. When I slid into the backseat and the driver saw me in all my bruised glory, he gulped, but it was too late to drive off. The enemy was inside the gates.
I alleviated his anxiety by showering him with gifts; in this case, a few coins from my wallet. He drove me to Hamaccabi Street and was so relieved that I hadn't passed out or worse in his taxi that he bade me a cheerful goodbye and expressed his heartfelt hope that I would feel better soon. I didn't reply. I had too little energy. With my bag in one hand, I trudged into the building and cursed myself for living on the third floor. The climb up the stairs was a repeat of the one earlier that day in Jerusalem, only worse. The pain in my chest had increased, and I was also exhausted.
I wobbled up the first flight, stumbled up the second, fumbled with my keys, nearly dropped them, missed the keyhole several times, and finally managed to get the door open.
Inside, dizzy with pain, fever, and fatigue, I dropped the bag by the door, tottered toward my bed, plopped onto it, and fell on my back without removing my coat or shoes. The only thing I did before drowning in unconsciousness was to take out the gun. I fell asleep with it in my hand.
I slipped in and out of consciousness for eighteen hours. I had outlandish dreams, feverish delusions. I was visited by apparitions of the dead. I wept; I beseeched them for forgiveness; I said I longed to join them. I might have meant it, too. I'm not sure.
I shivered, burned, sweated profusely, then froze as the sweat evaporated inside my clothes, turning them damp. I hurt. The pain came in bright flashes, in powerful and clawing waves. Even in the best moments, it never went away entirely. It was a constant companion, always present, like a noise that rises and falls but is never silent.
I forgot about the medicine. My head pounded and swam, even lying down. It was impossible to form coherent thoughts. My brain was jumbled, messy, like a room after an earthquake.
My nose throbbed. It felt too big for my face—a bloated, alien, monstrous thing. I was nauseated, without appetite, submerged in a swamp of agony, illness, disorientation, and bleak imaginings.
Two things pulled me from the depths of semiconsciousness and back to the real world. The first was a series of firm knocks on my door—initially, they filled me with panic; I was sure it was Kulaski—and a voice calling from the other side: "Adam! Are you there, Adam?" The second was a painful pressure in my lower abdomen, coupled with the urgent need to pee. "Just a minute," I rasped and hurried to the bathroom, arriving just in time to avert an awkward disaster.
More blood in my urine. I flushed it down as one attempts to bury a terrible memory.
