Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [11]
The brunette said: “Is it true you’re going to Afghanistan for two years?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe in freedom, I suppose. And because I didn’t go through all this training just to do coronary bypasses for fat businessmen.” The lies came automatically to his lips.
“But why two years? People who do this usually go for three to six months, a year at the most. Two years seems like forever.”
“Does it?” Jean-Pierre gave a wry smile. “It’s difficult, you see, to achieve anything of real value in a shorter period. The idea of sending doctors there for a brief visit is highly inefficient. What the rebels need is some kind of permanent medical setup, a hospital that stays in the same place and has at least some of the same staff from one year to the next. As things are, half the people don’t know where to take their sick and wounded, they don’t follow the doctor’s orders because they never get to know him well enough to trust him, and nobody has any time for health education. And the cost of transporting the volunteers to the country and bringing them back makes their ‘free’ services rather expensive.” Jean-Pierre put so much effort into this speech that he almost believed it himself, and he had to remind himself of his true motive for going to Afghanistan, and of the real reason he had to stay for two years.
A voice behind him said: “Who’s going to give their services free?”
He turned around to see another couple carrying trays of food: Valérie, who was an intern like him; and her boyfriend, a radiologist. They sat down with Jean-Pierre and the brunette.
The brunette answered Valérie’s question. “Jean-Pierre is going to Afghanistan to work for the rebels.”
“Really?” Valérie was surprised. “I heard you had been offered a marvelous job in Houston.”
“I turned it down.”
She was impressed. “But why?”
“I consider it worthwhile to save the lives of freedom fighters; but a few Texan millionaires more or less won’t make any difference to anything.”
The radiologist was not as fascinated by Jean-Pierre as his girlfriend was. He swallowed a mouthful of potatoes and said: “No sweat. After you come back, you’ll have no trouble getting that same job offer again—you’ll be a hero as well as a doctor.”
“Do you think so?” said Jean-Pierre coolly. He did not like the turn the conversation was taking.
“Two people from this hospital went to Afghanistan last year,” the radiologist went on. “They both got great jobs when they came back.”
Jean-Pierre gave a tolerant smile. “It’s nice to know that I’ll be employable if I survive.”
“I should hope so!” said the brunette indignantly. “After such a sacrifice!”
“What do your parents think of the idea?” wondered Valérie.
“My mother approves,” said Jean-Pierre. Of course she approved: she loved a hero. Jean-Pierre could imagine what his father would say about idealistic young doctors who went to work for the Afghan rebels. Socialism doesn’t mean everyone can do what they want! he would say, his voice hoarse and urgent, his face reddening a little. What do you think those rebels are? They’re bandits, preying on the law-abiding peasants. Feudal institutions have to be wiped out before socialism can come in. He would hammer the table with one great fist. To make a soufflé, you have to break eggs—to make socialism, you have to break heads! Don’t worry, Papa, I know all that. “My father is dead,” Jean-Pierre said. “But he was a freedom fighter himself. He fought in the Resistance during the war.”
“What did he do?” asked the skeptical radiologist, but Jean-Pierre never answered him because he had seen, coming across the canteen, Raoul Clermont, the editor of La Révolte, sweating in his Sunday suit.