‘I don’t think anything is,’ he said calmly, hoping that the certainty in his voice would persuade her.
‘Perhaps it would be better if you left this to us to decide, Signore,’ she said quite amiably, convincing Brunetti that he was going to have to pay for his rashness.
Brunetti closed his eyes in resignation. He had set this in motion; now he could do nothing but play it out until the end.
Voice suddenly brisk and professional, she went on, ‘We’ll take blood and do further tests. I’d like to exclude some possibilities.’
It occurred to him to ask what it was she wanted to eliminate, but he realized that wisdom lay in raising no opposition. ‘Good,’ he forced himself to say.
Another set of footsteps approached. A male voice said, ‘Elena told me to come, Dottoressa.’
Brunetti looked towards the voice then and saw a white-bearded mountain of a man carrying a small metal tray. The man set it on a cabinet next to the bed, rolled up Brunetti’s left sleeve, and wrapped a piece of rubber tubing tight around his upper arm. He removed a syringe from the tray and tore off the plastic covering. His immense hand rendered the syringe minute and because of that somehow more threatening. Straight-faced, he said, ‘I hope this won’t hurt, Signore.’
Brunetti closed his eyes. He felt the man’s hand on his wrist, then the faint touch of the cold needle on his inner arm, then nothing at all while he waited for something to happen. He was conscious of pressure, heard some clinking noises, but he kept his eyes closed, waiting.
A sudden brush on his arm caused him to open his eyes, and he saw the man untying the rubber tubing. Three glass vials of blood stood upright in a plastic rack on the tray.
The doctor placed a sheet of paper on it, saying, ‘All of these, Teo. And I’d like them to do the enzymes immediately.’
‘Of course, Dottoressa.’ He took the tray and turned away. Brunetti listened to his footsteps disappear down the corridor. What have I done? What have I done?
‘I’d like to call my wife,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, but telefonini don’t work in the examining rooms. There’s no reception,’ Dottoressa Sanmartini explained.
Brunetti reached his newly freed hand to the edge of the sheet and began to push it back. ‘Not so fast, Signore,’ the Dottoressa said. ‘We still need an electrocardiogram. You can call her after that. A nurse will take you to where you’ll be able to call.’ As if conjured up by the doctor’s words, a female nurse arrived and placed herself at the foot of the bed.
The doctor stood back while the nurse pushed him from the room. She wheeled Brunetti across the large atrium in front of Pronto Soccorso and then directly into the cardiology emergency room. But once he was inside, things slowed down. Some sort of mix-up in scheduling meant that he had to wait while three people were examined.
Having once thought of her, Brunetti now became agitated at the idea that Paola knew nothing of what was going on. He looked at his watch and saw it was just after noon: there was still an hour before she’d begin to worry.
Finally a different doctor did the electrocardiogram, after which Brunetti was wheeled to another room where the same man slathered cold gel on his chest to prepare him for an ultrasound. The doctor told Brunetti he could watch the monitor with him, but Brunetti declined the chance to do so.
The doctor squeegeed the gel around on Brunetti’s chest for what seemed a long time, then began to rub a blunt wand across his chest. Occasionally he tapped at a computer screen, taking pictures from various angles, never saying a word. At last he ripped a long strip of paper towel from an enormous roll and passed it to Brunetti. When Brunetti had finished wiping his chest clean he dropped the towels into a large plastic bin beside the bed, still no wiser than he had been at the beginning of the exams.
‘Humm,’ was the doctor’s only comment when Brunetti asked if there was anything wrong.
Realizing it was the only answer he was going to get, Brunetti asked, ‘Can I go home now?’
The doctor could not contain his surprise. ‘Go home?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s not a decision I can make, Signore. I’m not in charge of your case.’ Then, glancing at the screen, he added, ‘I think it would be wiser if you were to stay here a bit longer.’
Before Brunetti could say a word, they heard a commotion outside the small room. A female voice was raised loud in protest, and then another one, even louder. Suddenly the door opened and Paola appeared.
Brunetti pushed himself up on one elbow and held out his other arm towards her. ‘Paola, don’t worry. There’s nothing wrong,’ he said, hoping to quell her fears and assure her he was all right.
She came quickly to the side of the bed, and he glanced at the doctor, hoping to enlist his support.
Paola leaned down, and when she was sure she had his attention, said, voice tight with badly contained anger, ‘What have you done now?’
3
The doctor, evidently shocked by the woman’s words, to say nothing of the tone in which she said them, asked, ‘Who are you, Signora?’
‘I’m this man’s wife, Dottore,’ Paola said in a voice she managed to make sound calm. ‘I’d be very grateful if I could have a few minutes alone with my husband.’
Brunetti watched the other man’s reaction. The doctor moved his head backwards, as though the distance would afford him a better view of these two people, then tilted his chin to one side and then the other, then upwards, much in the manner of a curious bird. He turned off the machine, and the light in the room grew dimmer. He left silently, closing the door very quietly after him.
‘I’ve never seen that happen,’ Brunetti observed.
‘What?’ asked his distracted wife.
‘That someone bounced a doctor from his own examining room.’
Brunetti heard Paola take a few deep breaths. He wondered what form her anger was going to take. He should have insisted on phoning, should have got up and found a phone that worked, borrowed one, used his warrant card to commandeer one at the nurses’ desk. But he had not, had completely given himself over to the passivity that hospitals want to instil in their patients.
She said nothing for so long that Brunetti began to fear her silence was a presage of the consequences of his thoughtlessness.
‘Who told you?’ he finally asked.
Suddenly her right hand was over her eyes, the left tucked under the other elbow. Brunetti said her name, but she turned away from him. ‘Paola. Tell me,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice calm.
He pushed the blanket back, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and sat up, suddenly light-headed and woozy. He clung to the edge of the mattress with both hands. He took two deep breaths and lowered his feet to the floor; then he stood.