6. “Don’t
get up, please,” an Italian voice instructed Servi, and he obeyed. Without moving his head, Servi’s darting eyes
knew where he was: the deprived Roman medical clinic. He could smell the cheap disinfectant and see
the pitted ceiling tiles. Then a
bearded, gleaming face was looking down upon him. Small glasses dangled from the man’s hawk
nose. A Roman type, a bit player in
other people’s dramas, the jolly, often drunk district doctor, a shock of white
hair at attention on his head. He
smelled of tobacco and red wine. He
smiled and winked at Servi.
“Good
afternoon,” he said. “My name is Doctor
Tedesco. They tell me you are Canadian
and speak Italian?” The lie, Servi
thought, was spreading to ever-widening circles.
“Yes,”
Servi answered. “I’m Aaron Servi. Who brought me here?”
“Oh,”
the doctor said, puffing on his pipe.
“Maria and that American man with the Lazarus Society.”
“The
what?”
“The
Lazarus Society,” the doctor repeated.
Then Servi tried to sit, but the room spun clockwise and then abruptly
shifted to counterclockwise. The doctor
gently helped Servi back down to the table.
“What
is wrong with me, doctor?” Servi asked.
“I
was going to ask you that myself,” and Doctor Tedesco pulled up a stool near
Servi’s head. The doctor then asked
Servi if he had any history of a long list of ailments. Servi answered them all in the negative, but
for one. “Have you had a good meal
today, Senore Servi?” And on hearing the
reply, Doctor Tedesco gently helped Servi to his feet. “In that case, allow me
to buy you lunch.”
Dear Aaron, his
father wrote, we are all very concerned
that we have not heard from you. Two of
our letters have been returned to us saying, we think, addressee not
found. I have enclosed them in this
envelope. Your mother and I have been
talking about you for some time. We have
decided that you won’t receive any more money from us until we can settle on
the terms of your stay…
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