Читать книгу In the Shade of the Shady Tree - John Kinsella - Страница 14

The seven-year itch. Sarcoptic mange. Microscopic parasites. Sarcoptes mites. Laying their waste on the skin, inside hair follicles. Secondary infections. Hair loss. Foxes plead for warmth, and wander in the full-blown light of day. A daylight foxstrike on the road.

I can’t say the doctor visibly retreated when the old man told him he’d had mange for years, but I think he wanted to. I could be projecting here. There’d be a battery of psychoanalytical terms for my response, but I’ve little faith in them. My ECG machine went wild as I hoisted myself up to listen, so I called out, It’s okay, I’m just shifting myself . . . knowing the doctor would turn his attention to me and the nurses come running. I might not die that night, but I could.

Otherwise, I was fairly compos, if a little vague and racked by constant shaking. But this conversation, between the earnest young South African doctor and the wizened but zesty old wheatbelt farmer, was something I wanted to listen to—living or dead, I reckon I had a vested interest in its progress, and that rather than eavesdropping I was, by juxtaposition, a concerned party. After all, I might come back as a mange-ridden red fox, or spread mange to my loved ones as they mourned over my corpse. I remembered my wife telling me that yoga sessions usually begin and end with the corpse posture. That helped.

Anyway, as far as I can remember, the conversation between doctor and patient went along the following lines. Bear in mind that the whole time it was going on, the doctor was trying unsuccessfully to tap a vein in the old man’s arm, to draw blood for tests pertaining to the unrelated condition—not mange, that is—that had brought him to the hospital in the first place:

It’s because of the foxes. Up on the farm. Terrible creatures.

Yes. Yes.

If you’ve seen what they do to a coop of chickens if they get in—sampling the livers and little else—you’d agree.

Yes. Yes. Sorry, another small pinprick in the arm. Having a little trouble finding a vein. (I smiled at this—I love medical tautologies.)

My veins have always been like that. I used to shoot dozens of foxes in a night. Hunt them. I have to say I enjoyed it. Enjoyed killing the killers. (Truly, his laugh after this was a cackle.)

Yes. Yes. Hmmm, they are killers. Hmmm . . . Ohhhh, no luck there, sorry. Sorry about the bruises—you’ll have some beauties. We’ll have to try the other arm.

That’s okay. Whatever it takes. I used to shoot them and skin them. I was the fastest skinner in the district. It’s what I most miss. We’ve been off the farm for ten years. We farmed out on the edge of the wheatbelt. Far as you can go. Some paddocks—and these paddocks were thousands of acres—we could only crop every few years because it was so dry. But foxes! They were everywhere. I shot them only in the head if I could, to avoid damaging the pelts. But I’d happily have shot them where it hurts most first. That’s something to be said for the mangy bastards—sorry for my French—didn’t matter where you shot them, their pelts were useless.

The doctor was hypnotized by the old codger’s ingrown veins and barely uh-hummed back.

It didn’t matter where you shot ’em! Sometimes if I was feelin’ down or off-color, I’d spread poison. That’s another story—plenty of punishment for the devils there, but not as much reward for the hunter.

Yes. Yes. Think we’re onto a vein here.

It was them foxes that gave me the mange.

Maybe this time. Now, another pinprick. No, wait—sorry. (He almost said, Damn, I could sense it.)

That’s okay. You’ll get one in the end. Yes, I’ve had the mange for twenty years. Can’t get rid of it.

Hmmm. (The doctor had lifted his head and broken the spell; he seemed slightly bothered, outside the vein horror.) I know humans can catch mange, but it’s easy to clear up and doesn’t last long.

Nope, sorry, Doc, the specialist (he said this with particular emphasis) said I would have it forever. Them mites love me. Just love me. Stay buried in my body, gettin’ born again!

He laughed loud and irritated the doctor, who’d convinced himself he was just about to strike it rich, and only missed because the old man’s body shook as he laughed.

Look, here’s a patch. Look, if I scratch it, it flakes. Gets infected easily.

Please try not to move your arm, Mr. R. It is quite difficult to get a vein. I will mention your situation regarding the apparent “mange” to our skin specialist, and he can take a look at you. If you’re not around mangy foxes now, it should be easy enough to clear up. You don’t have any pets with mange?

Pets? Waste of time. Always had working dogs on the farm for the sheep, but they lived outside. Never let a dog inside. Couldn’t stand them touching me. Never liked them. Wouldn’t even let them in the cab of the ute. I’ve gotta say, though, there’s nothing as beautiful as a clean fox fur—I used to say to my wife that it was as good as touching her!

I almost laughed out loud but held it in. It might kill me and kill the conversation. The monologue. I was learning stuff. I should tell you now that I’ve more than a vested interest. More than a fear of catching the mange. I have been campaigning for years to have the local annual fox-cull competition banned. Brutality. I wasn’t quite sure how, but this was invaluable info.

Look, Mr. R., I just can’t find a vein, sorry. I think I will have to ask a nurse to take blood from you.

Yes, those nurses do a lot of it, Doc. Sure you don’t want to touch this mange? Might be educational for you.

Probably not a good idea, Mr. R. I’ll mention it to the specialist.

No need, there’s no cure. It’s just part of my identity. And every time it flares and I itch I remember the farm. And these mite things are the offspring of the mites that were there when I was there. And maybe they trace their heritage right back to Europe. That’s where my ancestors came from, Germany. But they came here in the 1910s to make a life for themselves. They were never no Nazis. Just hardworking German country folk. They have red foxes there, too. Terrible creatures, foxes. Eat the livers out of chickens. Will kill twenty and sample them all and then leave the carcasses strewn about like slaughter.

I’ll go now, Mr. R., and find a nurse to take your blood.

Nothing like a fox in the spotlight.

The nurse came in after a while, but the old man didn’t say much more. He flirted with her a bit, but it seemed the fox stuff was a man’s business. The nurse had drawn the diaphanous curtain fully between us, so I couldn’t really see anything (should I have been trying to look?), but I could paint the picture through his cackling, his broken but vivid words. He was a master of semitones. The doctor scuttled in to ask the nurse how it was going, and then scuttled out. I shifted in my bed again, enough to set off the ECG alarm. It’s okay, it’s okay, just adjusting myself. It sounded odd, but no one poked their head in.

The following morning saw me slightly better, and the old man chipper. Is that the word used for one of German heritage? Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed seems nondenominational, but still pertinent in the context. I was amusing myself in small-minded ways. I hadn’t slept for a long time. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed? A nurse swept the curtain back and said, Mr. L., meet Mr. R.—you have been neighbors for a while.

Mr. R. immediately said, Gidday, but I averted my eyes. Such confrontation couldn’t work for me. I already knew him as Mr. R.—he was always being called Mr. R. I knew him as Mr. R., fox-killing psychopath. I didn’t want a relationship with him. I didn’t want to open a dialogue! I averted my eyes, grumbled, and pointed to the ECG. The nurse swept around our beds, indifferent. I’ve got mange, Mr. R. said, but he might have been saying this to the nurse, who it turns out was just back from a two-week holiday and knew nothing of either Mr. R. or me, other than what our medical notes showed. We were clean slates for him.

By the next day I was able to chat and receive visitors. Mr. R.’s skin specialist hadn’t materialized, and I tried to hint to each of “my people” that my neighbor might have something horrifically contagious. He no longer tried speaking to me, but spoke to my visitors with enthusiasm. No matter how much I tried to signal them with hand movements and grimaces, they all replied to him. My sister even sat next to him for a while. My ECG went up and the nurses asked everyone to leave me to rest. I could have sworn I saw Mr. R. smirk. I certainly heard him cackle.

I slept long that night. For the first time in days. When I woke, Mr. R. was gone. Nurses were wheeling a new, crisply made bed into the place where he and his bed and his mange had bubbled. My curiosity surprised me. Where is Mr. R.? I asked. I was expecting to hear he died during the night, of the ailment that had brought him there; or maybe the mange had finished him off. My heart raced, and the nurses commented on the spike—not enough to set the alarm off, but getting there. And you were seeming so much better, one said. I was afraid Mr. R. had died. I really was.

Mr. R.? Well, he’s gone home. Left early this morning, just after I took your vitals. Don’t you remember? He even said good-bye.

I didn’t. Nothing. A blank.

But my heart settled, and I stared at the ceiling. Then the alarm went off and the nurses started fussing. Foxes! I yelled. Nothing else. Though deep inside my head I could feel the mange at work—and I knew Mr. R. was out there already spreading the mange, sharing the love. It was his God-appointed duty.