Arch of Triumph

  Ravic followed the internes carrying the stretcher. The hallway was equipped with electric lights that stayed on only three minutes and then went out. On each landing there was a button with which to turn them on again. The internes got halfway down on each floor with relative ease. The turns were difficult. They had to raise the stretcher high above their heads and over the railing to get around. Their huge shadows danced on the walls. Where have I seen this before? I’ve seen this somewhere before, Ravic thought, disconcerted. Then it occurred to him. With Raszinsky, at the very beginning.

  The doors opened while the internes called directions and the stretcher tore pieces of plaster from the walls. Curious faces appeared at half-opened doors, pajamas, mussed hair, sleep-puffed faces, nightgowns, purple, poison green, with tropical flowers—

  The light went out again. The internes grumbled in the dark and stopped. “Lights!”

  Ravic searched for the button. He touched a woman’s breast, smelled stale breath, something brushed his legs. The light flashed up again. A woman with yellow hair stared at him. Her face hung in rings of fat, cold cream shone on it, and with her hand she held a crepe de Chine robe with a thousand coquettish ruches. She looked like a fat bulldog on a lace bed. “Dead?” she asked with glittering eyes.

  “No.” Ravic walked on. Something squeaked, spat. A cat jumped back. “Fifi!” The woman bent down, her heavy knees spread wide. “My God, Fifi, did they step on you?”

  Ravic walked down the stairs. The stretcher wavered below him. He saw Joan’s head, which moved with the movement of the stretcher. He could not see her eyes.

  The last landing. The light went out again. Ravic ran up the first flight again to find the button. At that moment, the elevator began to hum and it glided brightly lit down through the quiet darkness as if it were descending from heaven. The actor was standing in the open wire cage. He glided noiselessly, irresistibly down past the stretcher, like an apparition. He had found the elevator waiting upstairs and had used it to catch up with them. It was sensible, but it produced a ghostlike and terrifyingly comic effect.

  Ravic looked up. The trembling had left him. His hands no longer felt sweaty under the rubber gloves. He had changed them twice. There was no choice but to overcome it.

  Veber stood opposite him. “If you like, Ravic, call Marteau. He could be here in fifteen minutes. You can assist him and he can do it.”

  “No, too late. I couldn’t anyway. Looking on even less than this.”

  Ravic took a breath. He was calm now. He began to work. The skin. White. Skin like anyone’s skin, he told himself. Joan’s skin. Skin like any other. Blood. Joan’s blood. Blood like any other’s blood. Tampon. The torn muscle. Tampon. Caution. Go on. A shred of silver brocade. Threads. Go on. The channel of the wound. Splinters. Go on. The channel leading to—leading to—

  Ravic felt his head growing empty. Slowly he straightened up. “Here, look at that—the seventh vertebra—”

  Veber bent over the incision. “That looks bad.”

  “Not bad. Hopeless. There’s nothing to be done.”

  Ravic looked at his hands. They moved under the rubber gloves. They were strong hands, good hands, they had operated a thousand times and had sewn ripped bodies together again, they had often been successful and sometimes not, and a few times they had made the almost impossible possible, one chance in a hundred—but now, now when everything depended on them, they were helpless.

  He could do nothing. No one could do anything. An operation was impossible. There he stood and stared at the red wound. He could have had Marteau called. Marteau would say the same thing.

  “Is there nothing that can be done?” Veber asked.

  “Nothing. It would only shorten her life. Weaken her. You see where the bullet lies. I can’t even remove it.”

  “The pulse is fluttering, rising—one hundred thirty—” Eugénie said from behind the screen.

  The wound grew a shade grayer. As if a breath of darkness had blown over it. Ravic had the caffeine needle ready in his hand. “Coramine, quickly! Stop the anesthetic!”

  He made the second injection. “How is it now?”

  “Unchanged.”

  The blood still had a leaden tinge. “Keep the adrenaline injection and the oxygen apparatus ready!”

  The blood became darker. It was as if clouds floated outside and cast their shadows over it. As if someone were standing in front of a window drawing the curtains tight. “Blood,” Ravic said desperately. “A blood transfusion. But I don’t know her blood type.”

  The oxygen apparatus began to work. “Nothing? What is it? Nothing?”

  “Pulse falling. One hundred twenty. Very weak.”

  Life came back. “Now? Better?”

  “The same.”

  He waited. “Now? Better?”

  “Better. More regular.”

  The shadows disappeared. The edges of the wound lost their gray color. The blood became blood again. Still blood. The oxygen was working.

  “Her eyelids are fluttering,” Eugénie said.

  “It doesn’t matter. She may wake up.” Ravic applied the bandage.

  “How is the pulse?”

  “More regular.”

  “That was by a hair’s breadth,” Veber said.

  Ravic felt a pressure on his eyelids. It was sweat. Thick drops. He straightened up. The oxygen apparatus buzzed. “Keep it going.”

  He walked around the table and stood there for a while. He did not think of anything. He looked at the tank and at Joan’s face. It quivered. It was not yet dead.

  “Shock,” he said to Veber. “Here is a sample of her blood. We must send it out. Where can we get blood?”

  “At the American Hospital.”

  “All right. We must try it. It won’t help. Only prolong it a little.” He watched the tank. “Do you have to inform the police?”

  “Yes,” Veber said. “I ought to. Then you’ll have two officials here who will want to question you. Do you want that?”

  “No.”

  “All right. We can think that over this afternoon.”

  “Enough, Eugénie,” Ravic said.

  Joan’s temples had regained a little color. The gray white had a tinge of pink. Her pulse was beating regularly, weak and clear. “We can take her back. I’ll stay here.”

  She moved. One hand moved. Her right hand moved. Her left did not move.

  “Ravic,” she said.

  “Yes—”

  “Did you operate on me?”

  “No, Joan. It was not necessary. We have only cleaned the wound.”

  “Will you stay here?”

  “Yes.”

  She closed her eyes and fell asleep again. Ravic went to the door. “Bring me some coffee,” he said to the day nurse.

  “Coffee and rolls?”

  “No, just coffee.”

  He went back and opened the window. The morning stood clear and resplendent above the roofs. Sparrows were playing in the eaves. Ravic sat down by the window and smoked. He blew the smoke out of the window.

  The nurse returned with the coffee. He put it beside him and drank and smoked and looked out of the window. When he turned back from the bright morning, the room seemed dark. He got up and looked at Joan. She was still asleep. Her face had been cleaned and it was very pale. Her lips were hardly visible.

  He took the tray with the coffeepot and the cup outside. He put it on a table in the corridor. There was a smell of floor polish and pus. The nurse carried a pail with old bandages past him. Somewhere a vacuum cleaner was droning.

  Joan became restless. Soon she would wake up again. Wake up with pain. The pain would increase. She might live a few more hours or a few days. The pain would be so strong that no injection would any longer be of much help.

  Ravic went for a needle and ampules. Joan opened her eyes when he returned. He looked at her.

  “Headache,” she murmured.

  He waited. She tried to move her head. Her eyelids seemed heavy. She moved he
r eyeballs with effort. “It feels like lead—”

  She became wider awake. “I can’t stand that—”

  “It will be better soon—”

  He gave her an injection. “It didn’t ache so much before—” She moved her head. “Ravic,” she whispered, “I don’t want to suffer. I—promise that I won’t suffer—my grandmother—I saw her—I don’t want that—and it didn’t help her at all—promise—”

  “I promise, Joan. You won’t have much pain. Almost none.”

  She set her teeth. “Will it help soon?”

  “Yes—soon. In a few minutes—”

  “What is wrong—with my arm—”

  “Nothing. You can’t move it. It will come back again.”

  “And my leg—my right leg—”

  She tried to pull it up. It did not move.

  “It’s the same, Joan. Don’t do anything. It will come back.”

  She moved her head.

  “I just intended to begin—to live differently—” she whispered.

  Ravic did not reply. There was nothing he could say. Maybe it was true. Who did not always intend that?

  She tossed her head from side to side restlessly again. Her voice came monotonous and with effort. “It was good—you came. What—would have happened—without you?”

  “Yes—”

  The same thing, he thought in despair. The same thing would have happened. Any quack would have been good enough for that. Any quack. The one time when I most needed all that I know and have learned, it is in vain. Any penny-doctor could have done the same thing. Nothing.

  By noon she knew. He had not told her anything, but suddenly she knew. “I don’t want to be a cripple, Ravic—What’s the matter with my legs?—I can’t move either of them—any more—”

  “Nothing. You’ll be able to walk, as always, as soon as you get up again.”

  “As soon as I get—up again. Why are you lying? You don’t—have to lie—”

  “I’m not lying, Joan.”

  “You are—You have to—You mustn’t—let me lie here—when I am nothing—but pain. Promise me that.”

  “I promise.”

  “When it’s going to be too much—you’ll have to give me—something. My grandmother—lay in bed for five days—and screamed. I don’t want that, Ravic.”

  “You won’t have it. You’ll not have much pain.”

  “When it’s going to be too bad—you must give me—something strong enough—Enough for ever. You must do it—even if I don’t want you to—or am unaware—What I say now goes. Afterward—promise me.”

  “I promise. It won’t be necessary.”

  The frightened look disappeared. All at once she lay there peacefully. “It’s all right for you—to do it, Ravic,” she whispered. “Without you—I wouldn’t be alive anyway.”

  “Nonsense. Of course you would.”

  “No. From then on—when we first met—I no longer knew where to—you gave me—this year. It has been a gift of time.” Slowly she turned her head toward him. “Why didn’t I stay—with you?”

  “It was my fault, Joan.”

  “No. It was—I don’t know—”

  Golden noon stood outside the window. The curtains were drawn, but light came through at the sides. Joan lay in a drugged half-sleep. There was already little left of her. These few hours had devoured her like wolves. Her body seemed to grow flat under the blanket. Its resistance ebbed. She floated between sleep and waking. Sometimes she was almost unconscious, sometimes quite clear. The pain became stronger. She began to groan. Ravic gave her an injection. “My head,” she murmured. “It’s getting worse.”

  After a while she began to talk again. “The light—too much light—it burns—”

  Ravic went to the window. He found the shade and pulled it down. Then he drew the curtains closer together. Now the room was almost dark. He walked back and sat down beside her bed.

  Joan moved her lips. “It takes so long—it doesn’t help any longer, Ravic—”

  “In a few minutes—”

  She lay still. Her hands lay dead on the blanket. “I must—tell you—so much—”

  “Later, Joan.”

  “No. Now—there is no more time. So much—to explain—”

  “I think I know most of it, Joan—”

  “You know?”

  “I think so—”

  The waves. Ravic could see the convulsive waves go through her. Both legs were paralyzed now. Her arms too. Her breast still rose.

  “You know—that I always—only—with you—”

  “Yes, Joan—”

  “The other was—just restlessness—”

  “Yes, I know—”

  She lay silent for a while. She breathed with effort. “Strange—” she said then very clearly. “Strange—that one can die—when one loves—”

  Ravic bent over her. There was only darkness and her face. “I was not good enough—for you,” she whispered.

  “You were my life—”

  “I can—I want—my arms can never—embrace you—”

  He saw how she struggled to lift her arms. “You are in my arms,” he said. “And I in yours.”

  She ceased breathing for a moment. Her eyes were entirely in the shade. She opened them. The pupils were very large. Ravic did not know whether she saw him. “Ti amo,” she said.

  She spoke the language of her childhood. She was too tired for the other one. Ravic took her lifeless hands. Something in him was torn apart. “You have made me live, Joan.” He spoke to the face with the fixed eyes. “You have made me live. I was nothing but stone. You have made me live—”

  “Mi ami, tu?”

  It was the question of a child that wants to go to sleep. It was the final weariness beyond all the others.

  “Joan,” Ravic said. “Love is no word for it. It isn’t enough. It is a small part only, it is a drop in a river, a leaf on a tree. It is so much more—”

  “Sono stata—sempre conte …”

  Ravic held her hands, which no longer felt his. “You were always with me,” he said and did not notice that all of a sudden he spoke German. “You were always with me, no matter whether I loved you, hated you, or seemed indifferent—that never changed anything, you were always with me—and always within me—”

  Up to now they had always spoken to each other in a borrowed language. Now for the first time, without knowing it, each one spoke his own and the barrier of words fell and they understood each other better than ever.

  “Baciami.”

  He kissed her hot dry lips. “You were always with me, Joan—always—”

  “Son’ stata perduta senza di te—”

  “I was more lost without you. You were all the brightness and the sweet and the bitter—you have shaken me and you have given me yourself and myself—”

  Ravic watched her. Her limbs were dead, everything was dead, only her eyes were still alive and her mouth and her breath, and he knew that the auxiliary muscles of respiration would gradually succumb to the paralysis now, she could hardly speak any longer, she was gasping already, her teeth ground together, her face was convulsed, she still struggled to speak, her throat was in spasm, her lips trembled, the rattle, the deep, ghastly rattle, finally a cry broke through. “Ravic,” she stammered. “Help!—Help!—Now!”

  He had the needle in readiness. Quickly he picked it up and inserted it under her skin. Quickly, before the next spasm came. She should not suffocate slowly, torturously, again and again, interminably, with always less and less air. She should not suffer senselessly. There was nothing but pain ahead of her. Perhaps for hours.

  Her eyelids fluttered. Then they became still. Her lips relaxed. The breathing ceased.

  He drew the curtains back and pulled the shade up. Then he returned to the bed. Joan’s face had become fixed and alien.

  He closed the door and went into the office. Eugénie sat at a table with the charts. “The patient in number twelve is dead,” Ravic said.

  Eugénie
nodded without looking up.

  “Is Doctor Veber in his room?”

  “I think so.”

  Ravic went down the corridor. Some of the doors stood open. He walked on to Veber’s room.

  “Number twelve is dead, Veber. Now you can call the police.” Veber did not look up. “The police have other things to do now.”

  “What?”

  Veber pointed at an extra edition of the Matin. German troops had invaded Poland. “I have news from the ministry. War will be declared today.”

  Ravic put down the paper. “This is it, Veber.”

  “Yes. This is the end. Poor France.”

  Ravic sat awhile. There was nothing but emptiness. “It is more than France, Veber,” he said then.

  Veber stared at him. “For me it’s France. That’s enough.”

  Ravic did not answer. “What will you do?” he asked after a while.

  “I don’t know. I’ll join my regiment. Things here”—he made a gesture—“someone will take over.”

  “You’ll stay here. In wartime, hospitals are needed. They will leave you here.”

  “I don’t want to stay here.”

  Ravic looked about. “This will be my last day here. I think everything is in order. The uterus case is recovering; the gallbladder case is all right; the cancer case is hopeless, a further operation would be useless. That’s that.”

  “Why?” Veber asked in a tired voice. “Why will it be your last day?”

  “They’ll round us up as soon as war is declared.” Ravic noticed that Veber was about to say something. “Let’s not argue about it. They’ll do it all right.”

  Veber sat down on his chair. “I no longer know. Maybe. Maybe they won’t even fight. Just surrender the country. One no longer knows.”

  Ravic got up. “I’ll be back in the evening, if I’m still here. At eight.”

  “Yes.”

  Ravic went out. He found the actor in the hall. He had forgotten him completely. The man jumped up. “How is she?”

  “She is dead.”

  The man stared at him. “Dead?” He pressed his hand against his heart with a tragic movement and staggered.

  Damned comedian, Ravic thought. Very likely he had played something of the kind so often that he fell back into a role when it really happened to him. But maybe he was honest and the gestures of his profession simply clung absurdly about his real grief.