Mao II - Don Delillo [84]
He knew the boy was standing by the door and he tried to see his face in words, imagine what he looked like, skin and eyes and features, every aspect of that surface called a face, if we can say he has a face, if we believe there is actually something under the hood.
Bill listened to the voices at the next table and knew he was in the presence of the British vets. Two men and a woman. He looked at the food in front of the woman and pointed. The waiter made a scrawl on his pad and went away. Bill downed his brandy.
He got up, taking the empty glass with him, and leaned toward the veterinarians.
“I wonder,” he said, “if you might oblige a writer by answering a question or two. See, I’m doing a passage in a book that requires specialized medical knowledge and as I need a little guidance I wonder if I could trouble you for half a minute.”
They looked all right. They looked friendly enough, undismayed, not deeply interrupted.
“A writer,” the woman said to the others.
There was a heavy man with a beard who looked closely at Bill while the other two were looking at each other to decide whether this was going to be funny or bothersome.
“Would we have heard of you?” the bearded vet said with a trace of skepticism in his voice.
“No, no. I’m not that kind of writer.”
No one seemed perturbed by this remark even though Bill wasn’t sure what he meant. The remark satisfied them if anything, set the terms for a quiet and relaxed exchange among anonymous travelers.
Bill looked at his empty glass, then tried to find a waiter somewhere, his glance extending to other restaurants down along the promenade.
“But mightn’t we have read something you’ve written?” the woman said. “Possibly at an airport, where the names don’t always register sharply.”
The other two looked at her approvingly.
“No, I don’t think so. Probably not.”
She was small and broad-faced, pleasantly so, he thought, with brown bangs and a mouth that pushed forward when she spoke.
“What sort of thing is it you write?” the second vet said.
“Fiction.”
The one with the beard nodded carefully.
“I’m doing a passage, see, where no amount of digging through books can substitute for half a minute’s chat with an expert.”
“Did they ever make a movie?” the woman said.
“Right. Are any of your books also movies?” the second vet said.
“They’re just books, I’m afraid.”
The other man smiled faintly, looking at Bill out of the full beard.
“But presumably as an author you make appearances,” the woman said.
“You mean on television?” the second vet said.
“I often think, you know, there’s another one.”
Bill gestured to a passing waiter, raising his glass, but it wasn’t clear if the waiter saw him or knew what he was drinking. The colored lights were on and a few people stood on a top-floor balcony of the white building just beyond the far row of palms.
Bill squatted by the table and shifted his gaze among the vets as he spoke.
“All right. My character is hit by a car on a city street. He is able to walk away unassisted. Bruises on his body. Feels twinges and aches. But he’s generally okay.”
“You do understand,” the woman said, “that we diagnose and treat diseases and injuries suffered by animals and animals only.”
“I know this.”
“Not people,” the second vet said.
“And I’ll happily take my chances.”
Bill jumped up and went after a waiter, draining the already empty glass and handing it to the man and slowly pronouncing the name of the brandy. Then he came back and squatted by the table.
“So then over a period of days my character begins to experience deeper symptoms, mainly an intense and steady pain at the side of his abdomen.”
Another waiter arrived with more wine for the vets.
“And he wonders whether he has an internal injury and which organ and how serious and how disabling and so forth. Because he wants to make a journey.”
“Is he pissing blood then?” the bearded man said.
“No blood in his urine.”
“If you make him piss blood you can do a nice little bit with a kidney. We might help you there.”
“I don’t want blood in his urine.”
“Readers