Island - Aldous Huxley [11]
But here was the doctor’s bungalow. She mounted the steps, crossed the veranda and walked into the living room. Her father-in-law was seated near the window, sipping cold tea from an earthenware mug and reading the Revue de Mycologie. He looked up as she approached, and gave her a welcoming smile.
“Susila, my dear! I’m so glad you were able to come.”
She bent down and kissed his stubbly cheek.
“What’s all this I hear from Mary Sarojini?” she asked. “Is it true she found a castaway?”
“From England—but via China, Rendang, and a shipwreck. A journalist.”
“What’s he like?”
“The physique of a Messiah. But too clever to believe in God or be convinced of his own mission. And too sensitive, even if he were convinced, to carry it out. His muscles would like to act and his feelings would like to believe; but his nerve endings and his cleverness won’t allow it.”
“So I suppose he’s very unhappy.”
“So unhappy that he has to laugh like a hyena.”
“Does he know he laughs like a hyena?”
“Knows and is rather proud of it. Even makes epigrams about it. ‘I’m the man who won’t take yes for an answer.’”
“Is he badly hurt?” she asked.
“Not badly. But he’s running a temperature. I’ve started him on antibiotics. Now it’s up to you to raise his resistance and give the vis medicatrix naturae a chance.”
“I’ll do my best.” Then, after a silence, “I went to see Lakshmi,” she said, “on my way back from school.”
“How did you find her?”
“About the same. No, perhaps a little weaker than yesterday.”
“That’s what I felt when I saw her this morning.”
“Luckily the pain doesn’t seem to get any worse. We can still handle it psychologically. And today we worked on the nausea. She was able to drink something. I don’t think there’ll be any more need for intravenous fluids.”
“Thank goodness!” he said. “Those IV’s were a torture. Such enormous courage in the face of every real danger; but whenever it was a question of a hypodermic or a needle in a vein, the most abject and irrational terror.”
He thought of the time, in the early days of their marriage, when he had lost his temper and called her a coward for making such a fuss. Lakshmi had cried and, having submitted to her martyrdom, had heaped coals of fire upon his head by begging to be forgiven. “Lakshmi, Lakshmi…” And now in a few days she would be dead. After thirty-seven years. “What did you talk about?” he asked aloud.
“Nothing in particular,” Susila answered. But the truth was that they had talked about Dugald and that she couldn’t bring herself to repeat what had passed between them. “My first baby,” the dying woman had whispered. “I didn’t know that babies could be so beautiful.” In their skull-deep, skull-dark sockets the eyes had brightened, the bloodless lips had smiled.