sadness — relief that the ordeal of his pulmonary fibrosis was almost over, and sadness that it required the death of a man for him to reach this point.
It was then that he realized that Elizabeth St. Pierre was sitting quietly beside the stretcher, her hand wrapped around his. He turned his head slightly to see her, and nodded that he was aware of the situation. Her expression was more peaceful than he had ever seen it, almost beatific.
'Hello, Joseph,' she said softly in French. Then she continued in English, the language in which he was more comfortable. 'I have tapered the sedation down just for a little while so you could wake up and know everything is all right. In fact, everything is going perfectly. We're more than halfway there. Well before we arrive, everything will be in place. The pulmonary transplant surgeons who are being brought in to perform this operation are the best in the world. Do you understand?'
Anson nodded and then made the motion of writing. 'Oh, yes, of course,' St. Pierre said. 'How foolish of me. I have some paper right here.'
She handed him a clipboard and a pen.
Have you learned any more about the man who is soon to save my life? Anson wrote.
'No more than we already know. The man is — was — thirty-nine. A week or so ago, he suffered the rupture of an aneurysm in his brain. Bleeding was massive, and there wasn't anything that could be done to save him. He has been pronounced brain-dead by the physicians at the Central Hospital in Amritsar, and has been maintained on life support pending the donation of his heart, lungs, eyes, liver, kidneys, pancreas, and bone. Many will live because of this gallant man, including you.
' Does he have a family?
'I know he has a wife. It is she who has given permission, indeed, who has requested that these transplants go ahead.
'Children?
'I don't know. I will find out.'
Good. I wish to do something-or the family.
'All in due time, Joseph. If they will accept our gratitude in any tangible way, I will be certain they are well compensated.'
I will wish to meet my savior's widow.
'If that is possible, I shall make it happen. Now please, my friend, you must rest.'
Wait.
'Yes?'
Has Sarah been notified?
'Not yet.'
Contact her before I go into the operating room. Tell her I love her.
'I will do my best to locate them and tell her.'
I am afraid of dying before my work is done.
'That is nonsense. You were facing death. In fact, as you remember, your breathing stopped altogether. But now you will live and be healthy. We have a perfect match, Joseph — a twelve-point match. That is one in a million. No, no, given your unusual protein pattern and blood type, one in ten million. You will not die.'
I will not die, he wrote.
'Now rest, Joseph. Rest and dream of a life where the air is sweet and fragrant and rich with oxygen as only jungle air can be, and you can get as much of it into your body as you want.'
Elizabeth took away the clipboard and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. Then Anson saw her take up his intravenous line and inject something into the rubber port. In just seconds, he felt a wave of warmth and serenity sweep over him.
Anson opened his eyes and saw the gleaming giant saucer lights of the operating room shining overhead. The scent of disinfectant was in the air. The temperature in the room was rather cool, and involuntarily, he shuddered.
'Dr. Anson,' a reassuring male voice, Indian, speaking fluent, accented English, said, 'I am Dr. Sanjay Khanduri. You are doing very well, and so are we. Your new lung is here and we are ready to put it in place. We will transplant only one lung. The other will go to a person also in desperate need. In a very short time, the volume of your new lung will expand in such a way that you will be able to function as if you had two. I assure you, Dr. Anson, that I am very, very good at performing this procedure. In fact, if I were going to have this operation done, I would be sad because it wouldn't be me doing it.' Khanduri's laugh was high-pitched and merry. 'Okay, then, Dr. Anson,' he went on, 'just close your eyes and in your mind count with me backward from ten. When you awake you will be a new man. Ready? Ten…nine…'
CHAPTER 11
Some of you have the power of command, and in the composition of these God has mingled gold,…others he has made of silver, to be auxiliaries…others again who are to be husbandmen and craftsmen he has composed of brass and iron.
'Where are we going?'
'You said the Intercontinental. This is the quick way.'
'I don't want the quick way. I want to go back on the highway.'
'You are a very beautiful woman.'
'Take me back to the highway this minute1.'
'Very beautiful.'
The cab accelerates. The area around us deteriorates. What streetlights there are have been smashed. Most of the houses are shuttered. Almost nobody is on the street.
I am more frightened every second. I try to see the cabbie's license, but it is too dark. Something terrible is going on. Something terrible. Is there anything I can use as a weapon? Anything at all I can do?
'Goddamn it! Take me back to the highway.'
'The customers at the House of Love will adore you. You will be very happy there…Very happy there…Very happy there…'
I am more terrified than I have ever been. I have heard of women being kidnapped and then addicted to narcotics and used in whorehouses. I have heard of women vanishing, never to be heard from again. The scene around me continues to blur then comes back into focus. It is so real one moment, so surreal the next. I need to get out. No matter how fast we are going, I need to get out of this cab. I can run. If I can just get out without hurting my legs, I can run faster than this bastard…faster than anyone. I will not be anyone's crack whore. Not ever. I would kill myself first. My passport. I need my passport and my wallet. I take them oat of my purse and jam them into my jacket pocket.
'Money. I'll give you money to let me? out right here. Three thousand reais. I have three thousand reais. Just let me go!'
I reach for the door handle and prepare myself to hit the pavement at forty miles an hour. But before I can move, the cab screeches to a halt, throwing me hard against the back of the passenger seat. What is happening? Again, the scene blurs. The movement around me is indistinct. Suddenly the door is ripped open. A large man reaches in and grabs me. I fight, but he is very strong. A black nylon stocking covers his face. I try tearing at the mask, but a second man is on me. His face is also covered. His breath smells terribly of fish and garlic. Before I can react, a syringe appears in his hand. The heavier man tightens his grip on me. No! Please no! Don't!
The needle is jammed down into the muscle at the base of my neck. I scream, but hear no sound. Heroin. It must be heroin. 'This can't be happening to me. The cab peels away, spraying dirt and stones. I feel weak and disconnected from the two men. My mind is spinning, trying desperately to sore: things out. But that effort confuses
