|
|
|
BLUE
Emilio Adolfo Rivero
Havana,
Early 1954.
When I looked around I had the impression that there were more students and
physicians in the observation room than was customary. Mechanically, I had taken
my seat, and placed my elbows and arms on the brass railing in front of me.
Then, through the glass partition, I looked down to the operating table,
directly under me. There was a child on it. I immediately recognized him. At
that moment, Armando, who already had his mask on, looked up and saw me. He
widely opened his eyes, as if to say, "what a case!". He was placing a needle in
the boy's arm.
When visiting the hospital, and it was almost every day, I had made a habit of
going to see him at his ward. At first the nurses and physicians thought I was a
relative, but later on, they understood. He had become, in fact, everyone's
darling. And I had become for him a known face, someone who said hello and at
times gave him candies.
He was, I guess, around three to four years old. His beautiful golden curls
reached his shoulders. His parents, following a widespread custom in Cuba, had
vowed that they would not cut his hair until he became healed. The perfection of
his face was striking. Someone has said that irregularity is the characteristic
trait of beauty. In this child the irregularity was given by the blueish shade
in his face. He suffered from what was called "mal azul" (blue ailment), which
in him was the symptom of a defective heart valve.
Apparently the physicians had decided to have him at he hospital for a few weeks
before the operation, so as to make all kinds of tests, observe and put him in
optimum shape for the oncoming surgical intervention.
In the amphitheater-like observation room, where the five or six rows of seats
were fully occupied, no one uttered a word during the whole operation. Aside
from our intently watching the surgeon's dexterity, there was also the poignancy
of the whole thing. Apparently I had not been the only one interested in the
case. What man would have not liked to be the father of such a beautiful and
sweet boy? What woman would have not loved to call that charmer her son?
Finally the operation was over. Bandages were being applied to the kid's chest.
Suddenly the members of the operating team looked at each other. Two or three of
them, who had just left the sides of the table, came back again. The surgeon
started removing the bandages. He applied the stethoscope to several places in
the area he had just uncovered. He took off the stethoscope and
pressed his right ear against the boy's chest. Then he took a pair of scissors
and started to cut open the stitches he had placed a few minutes before. When
the chest was opened again, he started to hand massage that little heart.
At that moment, Armando looked up. I had my hands on my head, heaving. Armando
moved his head sideways two or three times, as if telling me: "Don't!".
And then it was all over. When finally the surgeon took off his mask, he started
to talk to those in the operation room and laughed repeatedly. No one else
laughed. The nurses cleaned up the corpse, covered it with a green sheet and
took it away on a gurney. I watched this as if mesmerized, in a trance.
Eventually I stood up and left the observation deck. Every cell in me was aching
and at moments I felt empty. My breathing was heavy.
Later on, I was told that the boy's father, who was a soldier, a "rural guard",
had come from the country side to be with his wife while their son was operated
upon. When he was told that his son had died, he suddenly unholstered his
revolver and was about to shoot at the surgeon when other men who were around
rushed to him, disarmed him, and took him away from the hospital.
When we were at the Cafe, I told Armando: "That surgeon is a beast! How is it
possible that he started laughing when he saw that the boy had died?" "No, no",
replied Armando, "he is an excellent human being. He was just overwhelmed. His
nerves betrayed him. That happens at times with surgeons."
"And, listen", he continued, "next time get hold of yourself. If the people in
the surgery room had seen how altered you were, they wouldn't have liked it."
As I was leaving, Armando yelled at me:- "¡Rivero, don't forget to call Mario!
¡He wants both to go out with the girls!" He was mentioning Mario Massip, a
fellow conspirator. The "girls·" were two submachine guns, Johnson and Mendoza,
with which we were training clandestine AAA groups.
|
|
|
