The Redbreast(43)

‘Of course it’s spread,’ the old man said. ‘Isn’t

that what cancer cells do? Spread?’

‘Ha, ha. Yes, it is.’ Dr Buer brushed an invisible

speck of dust off the desk.

‘Cancer is like us,’ the old man said. ‘It just does

what it has to do.’

‘Yes,’ Dr Buer said. He looked relaxed in a

forced way, in his slumped sitting position.

‘Like you, doctor. You just do what you have to

do.’

‘You’re so right, so right.’ Dr Buer smiled and

put on his glasses. ‘We’re still considering

chemotherapy. It would weaken you, but it could

prolong . . . um . . .’

‘My life?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long have I got left without chemo?’

Buer’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘A

little less than we had first assumed.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that the cancer has spread from the

liver via the blood stream to —’

‘For Christ’s sake, will you just tell me how

long.’

Dr Buer gaped blankly.

‘You hate this job, don’t you?’ the old man said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing. A date, please.’

‘It’s impossible to —’

Dr Buer jumped in his chair as the old man’s fist

hit the desktop so hard that the telephone receiver

leapt off the cradle. He opened his mouth to say

something, but stopped when he saw the old man’s

quivering forefinger. Then he sighed, took off his

glasses and ran a tired hand over his face.

‘This summer. June, perhaps earlier. August at the

latest.’

‘Great,’ the old man said. ‘That’ll do fine. Pain?’

‘Can come at any time. You’ll be given

medicine.’

‘Will I be able to function?’

‘Hard to say. Depends on the pain.’

‘I must have medicine that enables me to function.

It’s important. Do you understand?’

‘All painkillers —’

‘I can take a lot of pain. I simply need something

to keep me conscious so that I can think and act

rationally.’

Happy Christmas. That was the last thing Dr Buer

had said. The old man stood on the steps. At first

he hadn’t understood why the city was so full of

people, but once he had been reminded of the

imminent religious festival he saw the panic in the

eyes of people dashing along the pavements in

search of last-minute Christmas presents. Some

shoppers had gathered round a pop group playing

in Egerstorget. A man wearing a Salvation Army

uniform was going round with a collection box. A

junkie stamped his feet in the snow, his eyes

flickering like stearin candles about to go out. Two

teenage girls, arm in arm, passed him, rosy-

cheeked and bursting with stories to tell about boys

and expectations of their lives to come. And the

candles. There were candles in every damned

window. He raised his face to the Oslo sky; a

warm, golden dome of reflected light from the city.

My God, how he longed for her. Next Christmas,

he thought. Next Christmas we will celebrate

together, my darling.

Part Three

URIAH

23

Rudolf II Hospital, Vienna. 7 June

1944.

HELENA LANG WALKED WITH QUICK STEPS AS SHE

PUSHED a trolley towards Ward 4. The windows

were open and she breathed in, filling her lungs

and head with the fresh smell of newly mown

grass. No smell of death and destruction today. It

was a year since Vienna had been bombed for the

first time. In recent weeks, when the weather had

been clear, they had been bombed every single

night. Even though the Rudolf II Hospital was

several kilometres away from the centre, raised

aloft from the war in the green Viennese woods,

the stench of smoke from the fires in the city had

smothered the scents of summer.

Helena swung round a corner and smiled at Dr

Brockhard, who appeared to want to stop and talk,

then hurried on. Brockhard, with those rigid staring

eyes of his behind glasses, always made her

nervous and uncomfortable when they came face to

face. Now and then she had the impression that

these meetings in the corridor were not accidental.

Her mother would probably have had respiratory

problems if she had seen the way in which Helena

avoided the promising young doctor, especially as

Brockhard came from a particularly distinguished

Viennese family. However, Helena liked neither

Brockhard nor his family, nor her mother’s

attempts to use her as a ticket back into the upper

echelons of society. Her mother blamed the war

for what had happened. It was to blame for

Helena’s father, Henrik Lang, losing his Jewish

lenders so abruptly and thus not being able to pay