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Michelle Green The Waiting Room Click here to read the story in Croatian WHAT I REMEMBER is this: summers so short and hot that the grass barely had a chance. Lying beneath a sprinkler, shirtless, with no hassle from anyone. Winter salt still staining the main roads and bleaching them pale pale grey, squeezing my eyes almost shut with the glare as we ran to the river and the new roads beyond. I remember the wood frame skeletons of the new houses, a whole load of them sitting in crescents on the hills at the edge of the city, making postcards of the sun as it set late and shone through homes so new they didn’t even have skin on them yet. I remember making our own cities in those houses, racing up and down stairs, shrieking as the bats came in at last light, sitting for hours with the orange cat as she licked her pile of newborn kittens. One of the skeleton houses had a pool out back, a concrete hole with no tiles, pure smooth structure. We threw in an old armchair from the wood, doused it with lighter fluid and screamed with delight as it burned. Dizzy. Both puked afterwards, blew black stuff out of our noses for days, but told no one. A secret. A beautiful black snot secret. Now in Darfur a bottle full of burning petrol flies over the wall in the night, explodes on the ground and takes out two plastic garden chairs and a ropey banana tree. I get the same smell, same feeling as I did that night with the armchair. It’s all wrong this time, the wrong reaction in the wrong place, but I feel it, and keep it to myself. Everyone else is gasping, or crying, or running to the street to see who could have thrown it. I just stand there in the dark watching it all, watching the smoke turn out the stars. We open up the triage at 8.30 every morning, 9.30 on Fridays, and every day there’s a line. I say hello on the way in, greet the regulars, our repeat visitors, and thank everyone for being patient. I open up the consulting rooms, the wait room, then unlock the main gate. We’ve got four community nurses in now, so they run the triage. I seem to be doing more and more of the paperwork, less face to face, but Fridays I’m on the front with Joan, the nurse from South Sudan. Joan makes a pot of wickedly strong coffee, and we open up. Today is slow, Friday before Eid, but there’s Samia and her little boy again, sitting in the shade of the waiting room, wiggling her toes in orange flip flops. She’s been in every few days for the last week or so, first for dehydration treatment and worming for the boy, then for supplemental nutrition. That’s our thing: basic medical intervention, simple procedures. The idea is that people don’t have to leave the camp if all they need is rehydration salts, basic wound sterilisation and dressings. We administer injections, monitor weights, peer into eyes and ears and mouths. When anything complicated shows up we make a referral to the MSF clinic in town where the doctors have surgical instruments and high end drugs and a whole lot less sand in their waiting room. Samia knows all this. She sits beside another regular, Maha, an old woman who told me she was named such because her eyes were as big as a cow’s. Maha squints through stubby lashes, those big cow eyes now hidden behind heavy hung lids. She must have been a stunner. High cheekbones and a broad forehead. She looks regal. The first time she came in, her daughter-in-law was holding the severed end of Maha’s pinky finger in a scrap of cloth. Maha cuts herself. Every time she loses a family member to the violence, she chops the end off one of her fingers with a butcher’s cleaver. This we managed to get out of the daughter-in-law, once she’d calmed down. Right now Maha has two intact thumbs, and one index finger. On that first visit she was bleeding really bad, dizzy, almost unable to walk. We managed to staunch it, got some stitches in. The finger stub wasn’t so lucky. She came back to get the stitches out the following week and has been visiting us since then, coming in to talk with Joan mostly. She waits for the quieter times, Fridays, and corners Joan with questions. The discussion goes for weeks, with Maha interviewing Joan on every aspect of the struggle in South Sudan. She wants details. She wants to know how these things run, how they might end. ‘Joan will be free soon,’ I tell her as I pass through, and she acknowledges me with a serious nod. Samia’s toes have stopped wriggling in the flip flops. I gesture for her and she rises slowly from her seat, follows me to the consulting room. I weigh the baby again, check his ears. Abdul Waheed. He’s tiny. Not really a baby in age, he’s over two years old now, but he’s confined to Samia’s back most of the time, too weak to walk much. Last time she was in she told me his father is Janjaweed. A war baby, conceived of violence. ‘And you?’ I ask her through the translator. ‘Can I examine you too?’ She smiles a little and opens her hands. I check eyes, ears, mouth. Heartbeat, breath. She’s lost a lot of weight. Could be malnutrition, or the chronic insomnia that everyone suffers. White spots in her mouth, swollen glands. Could be a number of things. ‘I’d like to take some blood for testing,’ I say, and she shrugs, smiles again and agrees. I get out a 20 gauge needle and a handful of vials as Abdul Waheed sighs a baby snore on the table beside his mother. The winter after we burnt the armchair you met Wyatt. I laughed at his name and his haircut, hicker than hick, worse than us even. We drank rum with him and squeezed each others necks till we passed out and slid down the wall, came back up with headspins. We lived on the edge of nothing and nowhere with bus change in our pockets, not a lot more. Wyatt was king of the good times, a constant supply of things to make us laugh till our bellies hurt, him content to sit back and watch as we went into orbit. So we did. You led the way, one night leaping from the top of the tire swing into a bank of snow so big you couldn’t get out for laughing. You just gave up after a while, lay there. I ended up digging you out with a garbage can lid, hands so cold I thought my fingers would snap off. It was around that time that Wyatt started leaving his syringes in your arm. You got quiet, and I did too. It didn’t show up for years. Not till years later when you’d all but forgotten sliding down basement walls and torching old furniture in rich people’s pools. All that was a lifetime away. Incubation was what the doctors called it. Made me think of hibernation, of a cave in the snow, pure white walls and muffled sound, you needing nothing more than a long, long sleep and to wake in the spring, refreshed. Once it came on it was vicious. This was long before cocktails and viral loads and long life expectancy, this was back in the day of counting T cells and saying your goodbyes long before you were ready. Your parents went hysterical, and Wyatt was nowhere to be found. Possibly dead already. We met a few times after my test came back and we tried not to pinpoint it, tried to avoid looking for the moment when infected blood came for you and not me. I held two words behind my teeth for that whole year. Kept them from coming out, from hitting you like a useless sack of sympathy and too damn late. I’m sorry, and that amounts to exactly nothing. I’ve told Samia that I’m sending her samples to MSF, and that we’re looking for hepatitis and glandular fever. I haven’t told her we’re also looking for HIV. There’s no provision for it, officially. Officially, it does not exist. Not in Sudan. Not in Darfur. But Samia’s blood will be the fourth I’ve sent for testing this month. We are finding more and more cases, more and more people who are officially healthy, their deaths explained as cause unknown. It’s not in any of the budget lines, but I see it here in the consulting rooms, along with rape babies and girls with brutal scarring between their thighs. Here’s what doesn’t get counted in the official statistics, sitting in our plastic chairs, waiting for antibacterial wipes and painkillers. Samia scoops Abdul Waheed into the papoose cloth and binds him close to her, covering his head with the loose end before heading back out into the late morning sun. In the waiting room, Maha and Joan drink coffee. ‘Now this one, this one didn’t even hurt,’ Maha says to Joan. She holds her hands off her lap, spreads the stubs of her fingers. She speaks for a minute in Arabic and then finishes in English. ‘I’m too old to be scared,’ she says, and she presses her lips together, toothless and defiant. Story © Copyright Michelle Green, 2012.
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Michelle Green Čekaonica Click here to read this story in English OVOGA SE SJECAM: ljeta su bila toliko kratka i vruća da trava gotovo da i nije imala šanse. Ležanje ispod prskalice, bez majice i ikoga tko bi nas gnjavio. Zimska sol još je kaljala glavne ceste i bojila ih u blijedo svijetlosivo, a od sjaja su mi se oči gotovo sklapale dok smo trčale prema rijeci i novim cestama iza nje. Sjećam se drvenih kostura novih kuća, cijelih hrpa postavljenih u polumjesece na brdima na rubu grada, izrade razglednica zalazećeg sunca koje je sjalo kroz domove tako nove da još ni oplate nije bilo. Sjećam se kako smo gradile vlastite gradove u tim kućama, jurcale stepenicama gore-dolje, vriskale kad bi se šišmiši pojavili u smiraj dana, sjedile satima s narančastom mačkom dok je lizala svoje novo leglo mačića. Jedna od kosturastih kuća imala je straga bazen, betonsku rupu bez pločica, čistu i glatku. Unutra smo ubacile stari naslonjač iz šume, zalile ga benzinom za upaljače i vrištale od sreće dok je gorio. Vrtjelo nam se u glavi. Obje smo poslije povraćale, a iz nosa nam je još danima izlazilo nešto crno, ali nikome nismo rekli. Tajna. Predivna crna sluzava tajna. Sad u Darfuru boca puna plamtećeg benzina prelijeće preko zida u noći, eksplodira na tlu i uništi dvije plastične vrtne stolice i kržljavo stablo banane. Isti miris, isti osjećaj kao one večeri s naslonjačem. Ovaj put sve je pogrešno, pogrešna reakcija na pogrešnom mjestu, ali osjećam to i držim to za sebe. Ostali teško dišu, ili plaču, ili trče na ulicu da vide tko ju je mogao baciti. Ja samo stojim u mraku i promatram sve, gledam kako dim gasi zvijezde. Počinjemo s trijažom svakog jutra u 8:30, petkom u 9:30, a svakog dana ljudi stoje u redu. Na ulazu kažem svima dobro jutro, pozdravim redovite, naše stalne posjetitelje, i zahvalim svima na strpljenju. Otvorim ordinacije za pregled, čekaonicu, zatim otključam glavni ulaz. Sad imamo četiri sestre, tako da one vode trijažu. Čini se da se sve više bavim papirologijom, a sve manje ljudima, ali petkom radim u ordinaciji s Joan, sestrom iz Južnog Sudana. Joan skuha lonac vraški jake kave pa otvorimo. Danas nema gužve, petak je prije Eida, ali evo opet Samije sa sinčićem, sjedi u hladu čekaonice, migolji nožnim prstima u narančastim japankama. Posljednji tjedan, otprilike, dolazi svakih nekoliko dana, najprije zato što je dječak dehidrirao i ima parazite u crijevima, zatim radi nadohrane. Time se bavimo: osnovnim medicinskim intervencijama, jednostavnim postupcima. Poanta je u tome da ljudi ne moraju iz kampa samo radi soli za rehidraciju, steriliziranja i previjanja manjih ozljeda. Mi dajemo injekcije, pratimo tjelesnu težinu, gledamo u oči i uši i usta. Iskrsne li nešto složenije, šaljemo ih u ambulantu Liječnika bez granica u gradu, gdje imaju kirurške instrumente i skupe lijekove i mnogo manje pijeska u čekaonici. Samia sve to zna. Sjedi pored još jedne stalne pacijentice, Mahe, starice koja mi je rekla da su joj nadjenuli to ime zato što su joj oči velike poput kravljih. Maha škilji kroz kratke guste trepavice, te velike kravlje oči sada su skrivene iza teških i obješenih vjeđa. Sigurno je bila ljepotica. Visoke jagodice i široko čelo. Djeluje kraljevski. Kad je prvi put došla, njezina je snaha držala odsječeni kraj Mahina malog prsta u krpi. Maha se reže. Kad god u sukobima izgubi člana obitelji, odreže vrh jednog prsta mesarskom sjekirom. To smo uspjele izvući iz snahe kad se smirila. Maha sad ima dva netaknuta palca i jedan kažiprst. Prvi put je uistinu gadno krvarila, vrtjelo joj se u glavi, jedva je hodala. Uspjele smo zaustaviti krvarenje i zatvoriti ranu s nekoliko šavova. Batrljak prsta nije imao sreće. Vratila se na vađenje šavova sljedeći tjedan i otad nas je redovito posjećivala, navraćala je popričati, uglavnom s Joan. Pričeka kad nema toliko gužve, u petak, i onda obasipa Joan pitanjima. Rasprava traje tjednima, Maha ispituje Joan o svim aspektima sukoba u Južnom Sudanu. Traži pojedinosti. Želi znati kako se stvari razvijaju, kako bi moglo završiti. “Joan će uskoro biti slobodna”, kažem joj u prolazu, a ona mi zahvali ozbiljno kimajući glavom. Samijini nožni prsti prestali su se migoljiti u japankama. Dozovem je rukom, ona polako ustane sa svog mjesta i slijedi me u ordinaciju. Ponovno važem bebu, pregledam mu uši. Abdul Waheed. Sićušan je. Zapravo više nije beba, ima već više od dvije godine, ali većinu vremena provodi na Samijinim leđima, preslab je da dugo hoda. Prošli put kad je došla, rekla mi je da mu je otac Janjaweed. Ratno dijete, začeto u nasilju. “A ti?” upitam je preko prevoditelja. “Mogu li i tebe pregledati?” Blago se nasmiješi i raširi ruke. Pregledam joj oči, uši, usta. Bilo, disanje. Previše je smršavjela. Možda zbog neishranjenosti ili kronične nesanice od koje svi pate. Bijele točkice u ustima, natečene žlijezde. Svašta može biti uzrok. “Htjela bih uzeti malo krvi za pretrage”, kažem, a ona slegne ramenima, ponovno se nasmiješi i pristane. Izvadim iglu promjera 0,8 milimetara i punu šaku bočica, dok se čuje dječje hrkanje Abdula Waheeda, usnulog na stolu pored majke. Zimu nakon što smo zapalile naslonjač upoznala si Wyatta. Smijala sam se njegovu imenu i frizuri, nije mogao biti veći seljak, čak i gori od nas. Pile smo rum s njim i stezali smo jedno drugo za vrat dok se ne bismo onesvijestili i kliznuli niz zid, pa se pridigli uz vrtoglavicu. Živjeli smo na rubu ničega i nigdje sa sitnišem za bus u džepovima, ne mnogo više od toga. Wyatt je bio kralj zabave, neiscrpan izvor smijeha tako da te trbuh zaboli, dok je njemu bilo dovoljno zavaliti se i promatrati nas kako umiremo od smijeha. I jesmo. Ti si prednjačila; jedne si večeri skočila s gume za ljuljanje u gomilu snijega tako veliku da od smijeha nisi mogla ustati. Odustala si nakon nekog vremena i ostala si ležati. Na kraju sam te ja iskopala, poklopcem s kante za smeće, a ruke su mi bile toliko ledene da sam mislila da će mi prsti otpasti. Otprilike je u to vrijeme Wyatt počeo ostavljati šprice u tvojoj ruci. Utihnula si, baš kao i ja. Godinama se nije vidjelo. Tek nakon mnogo godina, kad si već gotovo zaboravila klizanje niz podrumske zidove i paljenje starog namještaja u bazenima bogataša. Sve to kao da se dogodilo u nekom drugom životu. Liječnici su to zvali inkubacijom. Podsjećalo me na hibernaciju, na špilju u snijegu, čiste bijele zidove i prigušen zvuk, i tebe kojoj ne treba ništa osim dugog, dugog sna da se probudiš u proljeće, osvježena. Kad je krenulo, bilo je strašno. Bilo je to davno prije koktela lijekova i mjerenja razine virusa i dugog životnog vijeka, bila su to vremena brojenja T-limfocita i posljednjih pozdrava dok još ni izbliza nisi bio spreman za njih. Tvoji su roditelji bili izbezumljeni, a od Wyatta ni traga ni glasa. Možda je već bio mrtav. Vidjele smo se nekoliko puta nakon što sam dobila rezultate pretrage i nastojale smo izbjeći sitničarenje, nastojale smo ne tražiti taj trenutak kad je zaražena krv došla po tebe, a ne mene. Tri sam riječi držala za zubima cijelu tu godinu. Sprečavala sam ih da izađu, da te pogode kao beskorisna vreća sućuti, i to prekasno. Žao mi je, što ne znači ama baš ništa. Rekla sam Samiji da uzorke šaljem Liječnicima bez granica i da provjeravamo ima li hepatitis ili upalu žlijezda. Nisam joj rekla da provjeravamo također je li pozitivna na HIV. Za to nema lijeka, službeno. Službeno, ne postoji. Ne u Sudanu. Ne u Darfuru. Ali Samijina krv bit će četvrta koju ovaj mjesec šaljem na testiranje. Slučajeva je sve više i više, sve više i više ljudi koji su službeno zdravi, čija je smrt pripisana nepoznatu uzroku. To nije predviđeno nijednom proračunskom stavkom, ali vidim to ovdje u ordinacijama, kao i djecu rođenu iz silovanja i djevojčice sa stravičnim ožiljcima među bedrima. Kod nas je ono što ne ulazi u službenu statistiku, sjedi na našim plastičnim stolicama i čeka sredstva za dezinfekciju i tablete protiv bolova. Samia podigne Abdula Waheeda u rubac i sveže ga uz sebe, prekrije mu glavu slobodnim krajem tkanine pa se vrati na kasno jutarnje sunce. U čekaonici, Maha i Joan piju kavu. “A ovaj, taj me nije ni bolio”, Maha govori Joan. Podiže ruke iz svoga krila, raširi batrljke prstiju. Kratko govori na arapskom i potom dovrši na engleskom. “Prestara sam za strah”, kaže i skupi usne, bezuba i prkosna. S engleskoga preveo Marko Balen Story © Copyright Michelle Green, 2012. Translation © Copyright Marko Balen, 2012.