Читать книгу Puppies - Maurizio De giovanni - Страница 13

Clutching tight to the railing of the narrow little balcony.

Taking deep breaths in an effort to regain his calm.

Letting his eyes slide over unimportant details: the thousand cigarette butts in the untended little garden below, the tarnished aluminum frames of the half-open windows, the distant voices of a couple of male nurses chatting and laughing in the courtyard, just a few dozen yards away.

Trying to fathom the reasons for this new tempest in his soul.

One of the reasons Giorgia had left him was certainly the issue of children. Because—and Romano was more than positive that this was the case—his wife had started to distance herself from him well before that regrettable moment of rage that had driven him to hit her. It couldn’t have been his hand—that momentary loss of self-control that Giorgia herself must have known was utterly trivial, unimportant—that had put an end to their love story.

On that subject, too, however, Francesco would have had a thing or two to say, if there had been anything like an explicit and ongoing dialogue between them instead of that sea of silence that had, first, swept around them, and then ineluctably drowned them. If only, my love, you had sat down and looked at me and told me: Fra’, I want a child, I absolutely want it, with every ounce of my soul. If you’d only said that, Romano thought to himself, I would have answered you. And we would have gone to see a doctor, a good one, a top-notch doctor. We would have gone abroad, where you can do all those damned things that are forbidden by law here. We would have signed up for an adoption, been put on a waiting list if a baby refused to come, even with all the treatments imaginable, and so they might have given us a little girl, just like this one, this little girl that someone abandoned next to a dumpster as if she were a piece of trash, just so much garbage.

But no, not even once had Giorgia spoken to him about the children that never came. And yet, when they’d first become a couple, there had been children in their dreams, absolutely. Romano even remembered the fun they’d had imagining who they’d look like, the features they’d doubtless inherit.

This was before the silence. Before that terrible sickness that had killed them.

As the years went by, Francesco had started to feel uneasy whenever he and his wife happened to be around children, especially very small ones. On the street, at the homes of the few friends they socialized with, at restaurants or movie theaters, at the supermarket. They had only to cross paths with a young mother pushing a baby carriage, hear a baby’s wail from the other side of a display rack, or even drive past a school and Giorgia would suddenly fall silent, while he would sense a sudden stab of guilt in his chest that he had no reason to feel, and that therefore irritated him, driving him to fold inward, shutting out the world in a pool of vague, unmotivated melancholy. And then they would make furious, despairing love, as if they were both seeking help to save themselves from a private hell of loneliness, sealed tight against any prospect of salvation.

Romano couldn’t be certain of it, but now that he was on the terrace of the pediatric hospital, it seemed to him that this had been his exact thought when he’d first heard that sobbing peep issuing from the heap of garbage: how different it all would have been, if they’d only had a child. At the very least, now, he would have had an excuse to call her up and talk, and Giorgia couldn’t have avoided it.

A child as a topic of discussion, a point of interest, something tying them together, like a chain to keep his wife anchored to him. What a horrible way to think of a tiny creature, a flesh and blood child struggling for its life. Suddenly he felt guilty toward that minuscule being he had found on the ground, discarded like an old doll.

While he was sunk in these thoughts, a woman poked her head in at the door leading to the internal hallway.

“Excuse me, you’re the policeman, aren’t you? The one who brought in the newborn baby you found in the street?”

Romano thought she looked incredibly youthful. She was small in stature, with a pair of enormous light-blue eyes set in a face free of wrinkles, fair skinned, with a faint voice. Her unkempt blonde hair was barely restrained by a hairclip atop her head. She wore a stethoscope around her neck and a lab coat without a nameplate: instead there was lettering embroidered on the lab coat in bright colorful thread that read: Hi, I’m Doctor Susy.

Francesco nodded, feeling ill at ease for no good reason, as if he’d been caught red-handed doing something wrong. He stood up and extended his hand.

“Francesco Romano, warrant officer. Pizzofalcone police precinct. Yes, that’s right, I’m the one who . . . I mean, yes, I found her. I found her next to a . . . ”

The woman stood looking him in the eyes with the attentive expression of someone trying to make up their mind about something.

“I’m Dr. Penna,” she said, “the neonatal physician on duty. I’m in charge of the baby girl and I wanted to explain to someone how she’s doing. Can I speak with you, sir?”

Romano hesitated, he didn’t know quite how to answer.

“I . . . I just talked to my colleagues, and they were alerting the magistrate on duty. He or she will contact you directly, or else through one of their assistants. Still, though . . . sure, of course I’d like to know how she’s doing, too, if that’s possible. Because, you know, I’m the one who . . . ”

“You’re the one who found her, yes, you already told me so. And I agree, it’s only right for you to know. Could you come with me, please? Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

The policeman followed her down a hallway and up a flight of stairs to a small office. The doctor went around a desk set in front of the window and sat down.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, heaving a sigh of exhaustion. “I apologize, but this is the end of my shift, and it’s been a really tough night . . . All right then, about the baby girl. So, her situation is complicated. And it’s strange, too, in a number of ways.”

Romano let himself drop into the chair.

“What do you mean, strange?” he asked.

The doctor scowled in a way that further accentuated her childish appearance.

“There are a number of clashing features. First off, she’s been cleaned, well fed, her umbilical cord was severed correctly and also the baby clothes she was wearing, which by the way we kept and can make available when needed, were of a good quality. She doesn’t show any signs of mistreatment or abuse, and believe me, we see them all the time. In other words, this doesn’t seem to me to have been an unwanted baby, like the ones we usually see when they’re abandoned in the street. And yet . . . I can’t be one hundred percent certain, we’re still waiting for the test results, but I’m pretty sure that she has an infection.”

The policeman furrowed his brow.

“I don’t understand. Isn’t it only to be expected that she’d have an infection? When I found her, she was lying in the garbage. Who knows how long she’d been there, she might . . . ”

Dr. Penna raised her hand to stop his line of thought.

“No, no. I’m not talking about that kind of an infection, it would have taken time before it presented. And for that matter, she wasn’t dirty at all, not even the back of her onesie; it almost seems as if someone laid her on the ground, taking care not to get her dirty. I suspect an early stage of streptococcal sepsis.”

Romano blinked rapidly, evidently confused. The doctor went on.

“When protocols are followed correctly, a pregnant woman is given a vaginal swab test in the thirty-fifth week to determine the presence of a Group B strep infection. It’s a routine test, it’s something that’s always done. If the test results are positive, antibiotics are administered during labor to prevent transmission of the infection to the newborn. In practical terms, nowadays we hardly ever see newborns with this type of problem. It’s something really very strange, something unimaginable unless the little girl came into the world in conditions of extreme neglect or even a clandestine birth; but that doesn’t add up with the general appearance that I just described.”

Romano leaned over the desk.

“But she’ll be okay, won’t she? You can save her, can’t you, doctor?”

The woman stared at him for a few seconds, then looked away.

“She’s not well. She’s not at all well. She came in here with a case of cyanosis, clear signs of respiratory insufficiency, and she was hypotonic and hyporeactive. Her temperature wasn’t even ninety-five degrees. We intubated her immediately and began a double course of antibiotic therapy. She’s under close cardiorespiratory observation. I can’t say if she’s going to survive. To be perfectly frank, her odds aren’t good, and they’re dependent on how accurate the diagnosis proves to be. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

Romano said nothing, as he tried to gather his thoughts. Then he realized that the only sensible thing now was to go back to doing his job.

He pulled out his notebook and pen and asked: “Can you tell me with any confidence when this child was born? And leaving aside the high-quality clothing and the cleanliness you mentioned previously, did you notice anything else worthy of mention when you examined the baby?”

The doctor stopped to think for a moment.

“Well, the infection doesn’t present clinically anytime prior to twenty-four hours after birth. The baby is light as a feather, a little over six pounds, but there is none of the usual array of symptoms, so I’d say she was born at full term.”

Francesco looked up from his notebook.

“Which means what?”

“That means she wasn’t premature. Birth came after a full term of pregnancy. I’d guess forty-eight hours ago: no less, but not much more, either. She’s very fair-skinned, maybe one or even both of the parents are blond. Her measurements are normal. I couldn’t tell you anything more.”

Romano jotted down the information, put away his notebook, and stood up.

“Can I ask you, doctor, what do you think happened? Why would her mother have abandoned her?”

Dr. Penna stood up in her turn. When she stopped to think, she chewed on her lower lip; Romano imagined how difficult it must be for her to persuade the parents of her patients that she was a real doctor and not just a teenager in the mood for pranks.

“You know,” she replied, “in here, we see things that are truly absurd. Sometimes children are conceived in the throes of true love, or other times just after a night getting high and dancing in a nightclub, culminating on the reclined seat of a compact runabout. Right then and there, maybe, you don’t think about it, but later, while they’re growing inside you, you start to realize how they’re going to change your life, how that moment of thoughtless pleasure is going to keep you from ever again having fun like you did before, or studying, or investing in your future. And that’s why a young woman might act like she would with puppies given as a Christmas gift, puppies that you later abandon on the highway. The more considerate ones at least leave them at the hospital, refusing to recognize them as their legitimate offspring, but at least allowing us to care for them and save their lives. But unfortunately, that’s not always the way it goes—” She fell silent for a moment and ran her hand over her eyes; she really must be tired. She started talking again, in a suddenly harsh voice.

“If I were in your situation, I’d ask around among the daughters of the well-to-do families of this city. I’d look for a girl who managed to keep her pregnancy a secret, maybe by taking advantage of the fact that her mother, busy with canasta games or an illicit lover, was too busy to even notice her belly. The clothing and the cleanliness suggest to me that it was someone who basically thought she’d been given a gift of a baby doll, and then once she realized what she really had on her hands, simply got rid of her. Maybe killing her.”

Romano clamped his jaws shut. His voice came out in a hiss.

“And yet there are couples who are yearning for a child of their own, but can’t seem to get one, not even if they’re willing to adopt.”

Dr. Penna scrutinized him thoroughly, nodding her head. Then, without warning, she said: “The baby girl needs a name. A temporary name we can write on the bracelet on her wrist and on the label on her crib. Without a name, she doesn’t exist, and if things were to go badly, it would be as if she had never even existed at all.”

Romano failed to understand. The woman insisted.

“Would you give me a name for this baby girl? After all, you found her, didn’t you? Help me give her a second birth, even if it’s only for a short period of time.”

The policeman opened his mouth and then shut it again. He shook his head. He stared right into the doctor’s eyes, supplicating her to spare him that enormous responsibility, but all he received in reply was an impassive gaze.

Eventually, when it became clear to him that she wasn’t going to give him any help, he murmured: “Giorgia. Call her Giorgia.”

He turned and took to his heels without a word of farewell.