Читать книгу The Nightingale - Morgana Gallaway - Страница 9

Leila sat on a yellow plastic molded chair in the hallway of Al-Razi Hospital. Overhead, the narrow fluorescent lights flickered on and off, the power supply as unreliable in this neighborhood of the city as everywhere else. The hospital had generators, but they were used for long-term power outages. Leila raised her head and watched the lights, counting the small black specks of dead flies and roaches that rested on their glass undersides. The smell of antiseptic was strong, disguising the underlying stench of sickness, of blood, of urine, and the fetid aftermath of human injury.

The Al-Razi Teaching Hospital in Mosul was one of the city’s largest, with over four hundred beds and a good emergency ward. It was formerly called Saddam Hospital, but that went out the window in 2003, gone to dust like all the other relics of the old regime. It changed in name, but not in function, and three years later the hospital retained its status as one of the more prestigious medical centers in the city of almost two million residents.

That did not mean things were easy for the staff of Al-Razi Hospital. Even before the war, the economic sanctions imposed on Iraq guaranteed a shortage of medical supplies, food, even basics such as bedsheets and syringes and aspirin. It was a constant struggle for the doctors and nurses to heal people, often with nothing but their bare hands. With the American invasion, things looked better for a brief time. Pharmaceuticals in neat little plastic packs came from the Americans, and despite some minor structural damage during the bombing campaign, the hospital stayed up and running.

These days, it was a matter of overwhelming casualties and not enough specialists. Supplies ran short again. The sheer number of munitions lying around meant injuries of innocents, often children, playing with explosives or in the wrong place at the wrong time. They came in with missing limbs, fragments of metal studded along their little bodies, eyes and fingers and legs ripped to shreds. The only thing to do was to stop the bleeding, bandage the wounds, give out antibiotics against infection. The children, when they survived, reemerged from Al-Razi Hospital carrying permanent handicaps.

For a generation, Mosul would be a city of beggars.

In the face of such hopelessness, the hospital worked. It took in patients, treated them, and discharged them back to whence they came. The staff noticed that the violence went in cycles; Friday, the holy day of rest, was always the worst. Holidays were always the worst. Any time the passions of religious fervor were aroused, the hospital knew to expect blown-off limbs.

But thinking too excessively about all this would just bring on despair, so Leila focused herself and her nerves on the job she badly wanted.

Dr. Amina Dahbawi was a kind woman, large and matronly with a bustling efficiency of manner. She welcomed Leila with a firm, warm handshake and sat her down in a tiny office. They talked, and Leila told of her educational background and desire to work at the hospital. Dr. Dahbawi seemed impressed.

“Your educational background is more than sufficient,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “And I have a good feeling about you, Leila. You’ll be a benefit to the hospital.”

“I might work here, then?” Leila asked.

“Oh yes,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “There is a place in the pharmacy for you, as a technician.”

“Ah,” said Leila. She tried not to sound disappointed. The pharmacy would be all right, of course, but it was not the hands-on experience she wanted. “Is that the best place for me, do you think?”

“I think so. I would put you in the emergency ward, but it is so brutal, and right now it’s short of supplies, not helping hands. I’m afraid you wouldn’t do much good there.”

“Right,” said Leila. Really, any job in the hospital would be all right. Perhaps something else would open up, and she must be grateful for whatever fate sent her way. Inshallah, as they say. God’s Will. Even if Leila was not sure she believed in God any longer, fate she could handle. “I’d be happy to work wherever you believe is best,” she said.

Leila waited in the hallway while Dr. Dahbawi processed her paperwork. Tired with staring at the lights, she focused on the aged but clean linoleum floor. It was dirty white with a spattering of tiny gray-black dots, and Leila could not help but think of disease on a clean body. It was an appropriate invocation for the floor of a hospital. At the sound of footsteps, Leila looked up: it was Dr. Dahbawi.

“We can go to the pharmacy now, and I’ll introduce you,” she said.

Leila followed the doctor’s large but graceful frame down the hall, and after two left turns they came to the hospital pharmacy. It was marked by a sign in the hallway and a door with a narrow window set in it. A square waiting room greeted them, filled with people sitting or standing, waiting to pick up prescriptions. There was a window at the front with an open space below it, through which pills passed to the patients, and money from the patients passed back to the pharmacy. She hoped that would not be her job, to physically dispense prescriptions; that was secretarial, not medical.

Dr. Dahbawi took her through a squeaky door and into the back of the pharmacy. There awaited Dr. Abdul Musrahi; Leila read his name on the plastic tag that adorned the breast of his lab coat.

“Here she is, Abdul,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “As I told you, a first degree in biomedical science from Cairo University. Very sharp girl.”

“Hello, Miss al-Ghani,” said Musrahi, bowing slightly. To Leila’s relief, he was about fifty years old and had a clean and unassuming presence, unlike the other Dr. Abdul in her life. He did not offer a handshake and Leila did not expect it.

“I’ll leave you here now,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “I have a line of patients waiting, and so much paperwork today. Leila, good luck! If you need anything at all, come back to me. And please stop by once in a while for a cup of tea.”

“I’ll do so,” said Leila. “Thank you.”

“Anything to help a fellow female in the medical field,” she said, sharing an amused look with Dr. Musrahi.

The pharmacy was well kept, but the metal shelves were startling in their emptiness. Only a few boxes of drugs dotted the long rows. Leaning closer, Leila saw that the shelves were labeled with a variety of pharmaceutical names: doxycycline, tinadazole, norfloxacin. But the allocated space above was empty.

“There is a constant shortage,” said Dr. Musrahi. “But we do the best we can. Come. I will show you to your workspace.”

Leila followed him through the shelves to a small measuring area with a desk heaped with stacks of pharmaceutical reference binders. There were small white paper bags in abundance, waiting to be filled with pills. Leila knew that the typical safe-latch orange plastic bottles were scarce and expensive, and would only be used for certain prescriptions or for patients willing to pay extra.

“You will be issued your coat and identification badge tomorrow,” said Dr. Musrahi. “If you go now to the front security office, they’ll take your picture so your ID can be made up.”

Leila nodded. She paused, not sure whether she was supposed to leave, or if there were further instructions.

“Here is my signature.” He paused to scribble it on a piece of paper, as though writing a prescription. “And then come in tomorrow morning at nine. Al-Razi is a teaching hospital, so you are most welcome here.”

“Thank you!” Leila said. She bowed to Dr. Musrahi and left through the front entrance of the pharmacy. It was on the second floor of the hospital and the security office was on the first; the signs were easy enough to follow. The security office was straightforward and the pieces fell together yet again for Leila’s medical career.

When she walked out the front doors of the hospital and down the worn concrete steps into a clear, sunny day, Leila allowed herself a smile. She had a job. She was on her way. The pharmacy would be a good stepping-stone, at the very least.

Leila called Sami the taximan on her mobile, and he picked her up and drove her home through the crowded streets of the city. They wound around the market area with its heavy pedestrian traffic, and it took thirty minutes for Sami to deposit Leila at her front door. With thanks, she paid him, and Sami gave Mr. al-Ghani his regards. She glanced at her watch. It was twenty past noon. A little later than she intended, but not to be helped. Leila’s feet felt leaden as she walked onto her front porch and reached for the door handle. Abdul and his son—Leila prayed they had not arrived. She opened the door and hesitated in the door frame, listening. There were no voices, no exclamations or conversation. Thank goodness. Removing her shoes to take them up to her room, Leila tiptoed toward the stairs and made it halfway up before the voice of her mother caught her short.

“Leila!” From the top of the stairs.

“Hello, Mother.”

“I’ve been waiting an hour for you, we need to start cooking!”

“Oh joy,” Leila muttered. “I need to change and put my shoes away,” she said, louder.

“Well, hurry! Cousin Abdul will arrive any minute.”

Leila waited for her mother to ask how the interview went. Umm Naji said nothing more, however, merely ducking her head and descending the stairs. Leila shrugged. Fatima would be happy for her at least. Once inside her bedroom, Leila closed the door, set down her shoes and handbag, and then did a little shake of a dance, twirling three times and smiling wide. “Dr. Leila al-Ghani,” she said to herself.

She took her time putting away her nice black suit, and poked around her wardrobe before deciding on a dark blue dress. She kept her taupe scarf on her head. Leila studied herself in the mirror: she was decent now to meet her widowed cousin. She groaned, holding on to the memory of the morning’s success at the hospital. She would not let any old relative spoil it.

There were voices down in the front hall, echoing up the stairwell. Abdul must have arrived. As she had done so often as a girl, Leila crept up to the stairs and paused there, listening.

“How is your dear mother?” Umm Naji asked.

“Very well, thank you,” she heard Abdul’s scratchy voice, followed by the whining of his son, Mohammed.

“Ouch! Ow, ow, ow!”

“Oh, look, he’s skinned his knee!” Umm Naji exclaimed. “Poor little dear, let me find Leila to take care of him.”

Leila made the nastiest face she could manage in the precious seconds before Umm Naji found her. Like a beat of doom, her mother’s footsteps came up the stairs…. “Mother,” said Leila.

“About time,” said Umm Naji. “Come, greet your cousin Abdul.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Abdul had not changed from when Leila saw him three years ago. He still had a large nose and wide-set eyes, a neat combed mustache, and a receding hairline. And he still had a son.

Little Mohammed was a small kid with a round belly and short hair. He sat on the tile floor of the front hall, grasping his knee like he was terribly wounded. One glance told Leila the scrape was minor; she doubted it was even bleeding. But after Umm Naji threw her a warning glance, Leila knelt and patted Mohammed on the head. He scowled in return. Leila sighed. She glanced around for her elder sister to take the burden of Mohammed off her hands. Fatima must have been in the kitchen, avoiding the company as Leila had tried.

“Abu Mohammed!” Tamir’s thin voice echoed from the courtyard door.

Abdul greeted the head of the al-Ghani house with a “Salaam” and a hug and double kiss. The men put their arms around each other’s shoulders and retreated into the sitting room, leaving the women with the battered luggage, the cooking, and the child.

“Mama,” Leila pleaded, as Mohammed tugged at the bottom of her dress with vicious force, threatening to rip the hem.

“Mohammed, Mohammed,” Umm Naji said.

“What?” Mohammed said.

Leila thought he seemed immature for a five-year-old. Perhaps he did not get enough nutrition, although with a doctor for a father that was unlikely.

“Let’s go into the kitchen and you can have a honeycomb. Would you like that?” Umm Naji said, grabbing the boy’s hand.

“I want a big honeycomb,” Mohammed said, “but I don’t like the white parts.”

“I’ll cut off the white parts,” Umm Naji said. “Leila, get the luggage and take it to the best guest room.”

Leila nodded. There were three suitcases: one large, dusty red cloth rolling one, a smaller hard case, and a duffel bag. She put the hard case on top of the rolling one and slung the duffel bag over her shoulder, grunting with the effort. Leila was five foot five and very slender, taking after her father’s side, so she was not built for porter’s work. The best guest bedroom was on the ground floor, down the left-hand corridor and overlooking the courtyard. She wheeled the suitcases along and opened the door to the pleasant but strong scent of incense; her mother must have set it burning for the welcome. Leila stacked the bags in a neat pile at the foot of the bed and brushed off her hands.

Next came an afternoon of cooking over the hot gas and serving the men their food. Fatima seemed to enjoy it, but for Leila it was grim work, and only the prospect of her job the next day put a slight smile back onto her face.

As it turned out, the day was not so difficult as Leila had anticipated. She and Fatima chattered over their tasks, and as expected, Fatima enthusiastically congratulated Leila for finding a good job. They made bread. The lamb was set to stew. And blessedly, Fatima took over the responsibility for watching little Mohammed.

Then it was six in the evening and they joined their father and cousin Abdul in the sitting room for a family reunion over minted, sugared shai. Leila sat with her legs tucked beneath her and her hands clasped in her lap, keeping out of the conversation. She wanted to avoid Abdul’s attention if possible.

“And Leila still wants to be a doctor,” Umm Naji said brightly. Leila almost winced.

“Ah!” Abdul said, sipping loudly at his tea. “You have finished the university?” He stared at Leila.

“Yes, I have finished my biomedical science course,” said Leila. She made sure to sound demure, but as proud as she still could.

“Biomedicine, yes,” said Abdul. “I say that it’s good for research. Research doctors are not so well regarded in the community, I think, but they serve their purpose.”

“Mmm.” Leila bit back a retort. If it were not for research, no drugs would be discovered, no new techniques invented. And biomedical science was a good general degree, for every kind of medicine! The points of retaliation rose in Leila’s mind, but she did not want to make a scene. If she said nothing to Abdul, he might say nothing further to her.

“She is not engaged?” Abdul asked Tamir, nodding at Leila.

“No,” Tamir sighed. “Not yet.”

Umm Naji cleared her throat.

“Suprising,” said Abdul, rubbing his chin with short fingers.

“When would you like dinner served?” Umm Naji asked. “There is mutton tonight, Leila’s specialty.”

Leila snorted and had to cover it up with a dainty cough. She had no hand in the mutton, aside from poking at it and setting out the large cooking pot.

“One hour, I think,” said Tamir. “Civilized people eat at seven-thirty. We are still civilized in Iraq.”

“Excuse me,” said Leila, standing up. She disagreed that civilization had a firm hold over her countrymen, despite what her father liked to believe, but it did no good to show her opinion. “I will begin preparing the trays,” she whispered to Umm Naji, who nodded in approval.

Ten minutes later, Fatima entered the kitchen with the silver tray and its load of empty glass teacups. “Abdul keeps looking at you,” she said, setting the glasses to be rinsed.

“I know it,” said Leila. She had avoided looking at Abdul, feeling his eyes upon her, and she hated the creepy-crawly feeling on the skin beneath her dress. She imagined he would talk to her father about a possible betrothal and Leila dreaded the inevitable clash. Umm Naji would approve, of course; it would be a one-up against her sister-in-law, Abdul’s mother, to whom she’d never warmed. “I haven’t been looking back at him,” Leila said.

“He’s not the one for you,” said Fatima. “Don’t worry. Mother and Father can’t force you to marry anyone.”

“But they can make my life more difficult.”

“You’re going to be a doctor, Leila! A great one! I know it. Don’t worry about anything else.”

For the millionth time, Leila felt gratitude to have her sister’s support.

Through the rest of the meal, Leila held true and refused to meet Abdul’s gaze. For once she was glad for societal boundaries. The sole indication of Abdul’s affection would be a formal proposal of marriage, which could be deferred. Leila hoped it would not come to that; men’s egos were so fragile and it might cause a rift in the family. However, her actions always contained the danger of familial tension: walking alone, going to the market, taking the job at the hospital, of which neither parent knew as yet.

After dinner, as she and Umm Naji and Fatima worked on cleaning the dishes from the day, Leila broached the subject of her morning schedule. “I need to be away again tomorrow,” she said.

“Why?” Umm Naji asked sharply.

“Well, Mother, I’ve taken a job at the Al-Razi Hospital,” she said. “My interview this morning went well, and they want me to start in the pharmacy at nine tomorrow morning.”

Umm Naji stopped the motions of cleaning the large pot, soapy water dripping from her fingers. “But you are needed here! Cousin Abdul! And with Fatima working tomorrow…”

“I don’t have to go to work tomorrow,” Fatima said.

“Still, Leila, nine! Until when?”

“Six.”

“Nine until six! That’s all day!”

“That’s work, Mama! It will help the family, and it is a good job, in one of the best hospitals. I already said yes, and I got my identification card and security pass.” Leila was prepared to run up to her room to show off the items.

Umm Naji sighed. “I don’t like it, Leila. What if the hospital is dangerous? What if there is a bombing?”

“What isn’t dangerous anymore?” Leila asked. “I’ll be fine. If I die, then at least I was working while I was blown up.” She did not mean to be flippant about violence, but it was hard not to be in the face of her mother’s surfeit of worry.

In the end, Leila got her mother to tell her father about the new hospital job. Umm Naji had a way of wording things that made Tamir agree with her, a by-product of thirty years of marriage. When Leila went to bed that night, she slept well for the first time in weeks.

She had an old bicycle that she would use to get to work in the mornings. The hospital was a long walk, but to take a car was impractical, as the al-Ghani family owned one vehicle at present and it would be unfair to commandeer it all day, every day. Pedaling along, Leila took twenty-five minutes to arrive at Al-Razi Hospital and she walked in the double front doors at eight fifty-eight. Perfect, she thought to herself.

“Pass, please,” said the security guard at the reception. She handed over the pass from the day before. “Go ahead.”

Leila had no trouble finding the pharmacy for the second time. Dr. Musrahi was waiting for her there.

“Miss al-Ghani. You are very prompt.”

“Yes, Dr. Musrahi.”

“Today, you meet Sayyid, your fellow technician. He arrived early this morning,” said Dr. Musrahi.

“Aha,” said Leila. She noticed a fresh-laundered lab coat folded on a shelf. “Is this for me?”

“Yes. Just pin your name tag on the front, and you’re set. Sayyid will show you the routine. Today I must go to the Al-Zawahwiri Hospital, as they received the latest donated shipment of drugs and will be distributing them from there. But it is Sunday, so it should not be too busy today.”

“Right,” said Leila, unsure of what to do next.

“Sayyid?” Dr. Musrahi called.

A young man emerged from behind the metal shelves. He was of medium height and build, with dark eyes and a ready grin. “Doctor, sir?” Then Sayyid noticed Leila, and his eyes flicked across her, his grin broadening.

“This is your new colleague, Leila al-Ghani. It is her first day, so you can teach her the routine while I am at Al-Zawahwiri,” said Dr. Musrahi.

“Greetings,” said Sayyid. “Asalaama.”

“Good day,” Leila replied, keeping herself formal.

“I must leave you now,” Dr. Musrahi said. “I will be back in late afternoon, if all goes well.”

“I’ll take care of things here,” Sayyid said, hopping from one foot to another. He gave the impression of tremendous energy, almost uncontainable.

As soon as Dr. Musrahi left, Leila was left standing in the back room of the pharmacy with her new coworker. “So,” she said, “what now?”

“Do not worry. I will show you everything,” Sayyid said. He was almost purring the words, and Leila paused—had he intended some perverted double meaning or was this his natural manner? “Today we must fill the list of prescriptions,” he continued, and Leila decided she had imagined the tone. “Once they are in the bags and labeled, we pass them through the glass to Mrs. Turahi, who is the dispensary.”

“I understand,” Leila said.

It was not a difficult job, finding the boxes of pills, measuring out the doses with the flat metal bar on the table, and putting them in the small white paper bags. Some of the pills looked like candy, such as the pink-tinted amoxicillin. She and Sayyid worked in silence for the most part, and he spoke only to give directions. She hoped that would be the extent of their working relationship, though she did detect his sidelong glances at her. As with Abdul the night before, the proximity to a strange man’s eyes gave Leila unpleasant tingles.

She let out a long breath. Would she always be a woman before she was a doctor?