“Rumors, gossip. You know the Arabs, how they’re always talking. Well, this time they really had something to gossip about, and they couldn’t stop. The flower man on Sadat Street said the Moslems in the Lebanese Army wouldn’t fire on the Palestinians if it came to a fight. He said they would refuse to obey orders from Christian officers. I asked him how he knew and he just winked. And the Christian ladies at Smith’s grocery were the same way. They all claimed to have friends in East Beirut who knew someone in the Christian militia. When I asked what was going to happen, they would cluck their tongues. What does that mean?”
“It depends,” said Rogers. “In this case, it probably meant they didn’t know anything but didn’t want to admit it.”
“They say the crisis isn’t over yet,” said Jane.
“Who says?”
“The ladies in Smith’s.”
“Ahhhh.” Rogers laughed. “Reliable sources.”
“It’s strange,” she continued. “I think of this country as so calm and friendly and modern. I didn’t realize there was so much tension under the surface, until these last few days.”
Rogers hugged her. This seemed to be a night for hugging.
“Let’s go to bed,” said Jane.
They made love tenderly, Rogers trying to express in bed the things he had wanted to say, but couldn’t. They were nearly asleep when Rogers spoke.
“What did the doctor say about Amy?”
“I told you,” said Jane drowsily. “She’s getting better. And in a few months she’ll be as good as new.”
“Do you believe him?” asked Rogers.
“This time I think I really do,” said Jane. She was warm against Rogers’s side, like a cat.
Rogers lit a cigarette and thought about Amy.
“Do you forgive me for what happened?” asked Rogers. There was no answer. Jane had fallen asleep.
For Rogers, what had happened to Amy was a metaphor for what was worst and most frightening about the Middle East. It started as a mysterious disease that nobody seemed to understand or know how to treat. Rogers had never in his life felt more helpless or scared.
It began one day in Oman, when Amy was nearly eighteen months old. She had been having trouble walking-she was much slower at it than Mark had been-and was only gradually learning to creep around the room. And then one day she fell down. She picked herself up, and fell down again. At first it seemed funny-helpless and cute-but it happened over and over again, and by the next day it was obvious to Rogers and his wife that something was wrong. Then Amy started to drop things. Cookies, toys, her bottle.
They went to see their pediatrician. His name was Dr. Abdel-Salaam Fawzi. He was an Egyptian who had been living in Muscat for many years. All the wealthy Arab and European families took their children to him.
Rogers remembered every detail of the awful day when they had gone to Dr. Fawzi’s clinic and heard his diagnosis. It was hot and the waiting room smelled of garlic and cigarette smoke. The nurse had called Rogers and his wife into the doctor’s office as if they were prisoners awaiting their sentences. On Dr. Fawzi’s wall, Rogers had noticed, was a medical degree from the American University of Beirut, along with plaques from various Omani medical organizations and a personal testimonial from the Emir of Abu Dhabi.
“Please sit down,” said the doctor. He was a stiff man, dressed in a three-piece suit despite the summer heat. He reminded Rogers of old pictures of Ottoman officials at the turn of the century: dignified and proper, wearing their fine clothes like uniforms of respectability, at once ennobled and embarrassed by their Arab roots. The doctor needed only a red fez to complete the picture.
“I have conducted a series of neurological tests on your daughter,” Dr. Fawzi said solemnly. “Let me explain to you the range of possibilities that could account for her difficulties.
“The simplest explanation is that she is having a slowdown in development. This occasionally happens with children. Some do not walk until they are three or four, but they do quite well as adults. Quite well. So this could be a temporary problem that will disappear.”
Jane took a deep breath. Rogers tried to steel himself for what was coming.
“There are other possibilities,” said Dr. Fawzi.
“What are they?” asked Rogers.
“Well, let me see,” the doctor said, stalling. Like many Arabs, he disliked giving bad news.
“The possibilities are several. They include polio. Which, of course, these days, is curable.”
“Amy has been vaccinated,” said Rogers.
“Yes, of course,” said the doctor. “That rules out polio.”
“What else?” asked Rogers.
“Well, in cases like this, where there are unexplained motor difficulties, we cannot rule out some of the more serious diseases.”
“Such as?” pressed Rogers.
“Muscular dystrophy,” said the doctor. Jane shuddered.
“What else?” said Rogers.
“A tumor,” said the doctor.
“A brain tumor?”
“Yes, it could be a brain tumor. Possibly.”
Jane looked as if she was going to faint.
“What about something infectious?” asked Rogers. “Or something that she ate?”
“I don’t think that’s very likely,” said the doctor quickly. “Not in the Middle East today. That sort of thing is really much more prevalent in Asia or Africa than in the Arab world.”
Remembering the doctor’s vain and defensive manner, Rogers became angry all over again.
Amy got worse. Dr. Fawzi’s demeanor grew more and more solemn. The symptoms, he said, suggested that there was a serious neurological problem. They asked friends at the embassy what to do and nobody had good suggestions. Dr. Fawzi was, after all, everybody’s favorite pediatrician.
It was about then that Rogers began to think: This is my fault. I brought my family here, put them in this miserable place while I played at saving the world. My work will come to nothing, and my little daughter is going to die.
In desperation, Rogers had gone to the local hospital in Muscat. He looked at the names of the residents, and asked where they had done their training. He eventually found a young Omani, Dr. Tayib, who had gone to medical school in America, at Boston University. He went to see the young man, introduced himself as an official at the American Embassy, and explained what was happening to his daughter. Would he be willing to come back to the house and take a look at her, Rogers asked.
Dr. Tayib came that night. He was a reserved young man, the son of an Omani army officer, who had done well at medical school. It was difficult to practice medicine in the Arab world, he said, because people so often were dishonest about their symptoms.
He examined the baby. There were neurological problems, without doubt, he said. But there was a relatively simple possibility. Had the other doctor mentioned it?
“What’s that?” said Rogers.
“Visceral larva migrans,” said the doctor.
“What is that?” asked Jane.
“Roundworms,” said Dr. Tayib. “That is the common name for them. They invade tissues and can remain alive for months. Even for years. If they aren’t treated, they can go to the brain. That may be happening to your daughter.”
Rogers wanted to vomit.
“How could she have gotten them?” asked Jane.
“By eating dirt, usually,” said the doctor.
“Dirt?” asked Rogers.
Dirt. The dirt of the Middle East, of the barren, benighted region of the globe where Rogers had chosen to spend his life.
“Does she play outside?” asked the doctor.
“Yes,” said Jane.
