“Ah … yes, I know what you mean.”
“Marian!” said Jeannette, who had returned and was standing behind them, addressing the bride on the other side. “I have not seen you since the church. You look so beautiful. Where is Paul?”
“Oh, Jojo I am exhausted. Ouf—I have to go.”
Laurent said: “When is he going to Flanders?”
“After they return from Nice, I think.”
“Are you not going, Laurent?”
“I’m exempt for a while, because I volunteered. Not for long though.”
“Oh come on, you have to join us! You should just volunteer again. Don’t be a mouse.”
“Xavier is going.”
“When?”
“With the others. Two weeks.”
“And all the ladies will be nursing you.”
“Did you hear about the Alberts’ German governess?”
“Governess? No, I only know the story about the bank …”
“Maman … Maman …”
Around them the guests were rising with a racket of chair legs. Four pyramids had appeared at the back of the pavilion. Midhat followed Jeannette between the tables. The pyramids, he saw, were constructed of tiny round cakes.
“Midhat, may I offer you one?”
“Bonjour, I am Madame Crotteau.”
“Bonjour Madame, I am Midhat Kamal.”
“I know. How do you find Montpellier? Is it not beautiful. Has Frédéric taken you to Palavas-les-Flots?”
“Why in hell would I take him to the sea?” said Frédéric. “Imagine, you travel to an entirely new country and they say—let us show you the water on which you came! No, Nicole. He needs to see the culture, the city, the landscape of the interior. Hear the music, read the trobairitz … that’s the important … the smells, the terroir of Occitan …”
“Only a Parisian could be tellement fier du Languedoc.”
Frédéric raised an eyebrow. “My mother was from Dordogne.”
“You must come for a walk with me, Midhat,” said Laurent, shaking icing sugar onto the floor. “I’ll show you the gardens. Yes?”
“Yes, that would be wonderful.”
“Fantastic. We’ll meet at the Salle Dugès when the sun is out.”
They decided on Thursday, if the weather was good. Thursday came and it was raining, so they decided on the Friday. The morning session that Friday was an introduction to practical dissection for the first years; Midhat would meet Laurent afterwards, at noon by the statue of Lapeyronie.
Each week the crowd in the Salle Dugès had diminished. Now only a handful of French students remained, exempt from combat for medical reasons, to which some confessed while others remained rigidly silent. Nonetheless eager to prove their nerve, all made pointed use of frontline slang, referring to the Germans as “Boches” and quipping about the weakness of the Prussian gene. Many younger professors had also been conscripted, and several names on Midhat’s timetable did not correspond to the person who appeared at the front of the classroom. His classmates were mainly Spaniards and Belgians and there were also two Swiss and one Englishman. Midhat was the only Arab and the only student not from Europe, and in the morning atmosphere of the Salle he felt shy. He observed, remote from conversations, how someone could introduce an anecdote as funny, might even begin by outlining the final joke: the listening company would anticipate the ending and laugh in unison. Once a humourous tone was established, anything could be amusing, and each person was ready to laugh even at the weakest joke in the spirit of including everyone.
Despite his shyness, his accent was improving, and he pronounced “le thorax” and “le capillaire” with the precision of a foreigner. On the Rue de la Loge he bought a new French hat, an overcoat, and a black umbrella, and he brought all three items with him to the Faculty on the Friday he was to meet Laurent, despite the fact that their walk was dependent on fine weather.
Professor Brogante stood at the head of the operating table.
“Medicine is not an exact science,” he intoned, stretching over the implement tray and flipping a scalpel so its blade faced the same direction as the others.
The walls of the dissection hall carried Brogante’s voice far over the raked seats, so that, to the students standing close around the corpse, on which a white sheet rose to points at the feet and knees, the professor’s statements seemed to boom.
“The fact that its data are so complex, that it deals usually with probabilities rather than certainties, does not destroy the scientific character of medicine.” Brogante’s hands descended to the lower edge of the sheet. “It only adds a reason for greater scientific caution.”
The students rustled for a view.
“Every point I, the physician, observe is a suggestion. I look for other indications to confirm my diagnosis, or I try a certain procedure, the outcome of which will decide whether I have read the situation correctly.”
A head of black hair appeared at the top of the sheet, shining blue in the glow from the high windows. The waxy shaven face of a man emerged, followed by his torso. Brogante flattened the sheet over the legs, wrapped his fingers around a scalpel, and approached the grey neck.
“In order to expose the thoracic and abdominal cavities, we will make the first incision from the sternum …”
Professor Brogante’s voice expanded so much it seemed to have no edges, and Midhat no longer heard the individual words. He saw the blade pierce the skin of the neck, and watched the top layer of epidermis split quickly, as though it had been tied tightly shut and was just released. The first long incision complete, Brogante cut a second lateral line. Then he turned the flaps of skin back, one by one, four dry slaps. Inside was an inhuman assemblage of organs. Overripe red and purple and sick yellow. Midhat looked at the bloodless strings of sinew lacing the stomach, and gave way. His vision thronged with black spots, which crowded together and closed the cadaver from sight.
The next thing he knew he was sitting alone, in the front row of the auditorium. He saw the backs of the other students ahead, and Brogante’s voice continued, more distantly:
“The gallbladder lies to the extreme right of the epigastric zone. The caecum in the right iliac compartment and, can you see, that there is the ascending colon. Can anyone tell me what region that is in? Monsieur Havonteur?”
Midhat could not see the body for the students. One head turned: it was Samuel Cogolati, a Belgian. Cogolati twisted his neck to check no one was watching him, then bounded over and crouched beside Midhat’s chair.
“Tout va bien?”
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe? I fainted, didn’t I.”
“Yes.” Cogolati breathed a laugh. “Ça va, I caught you, you didn’t hit the floor.” He shook his head up and down very quickly. “I have to go back, but … Ça va?”
“Fine, fine, go back. I’ll take a moment. Thank you, Samuel.”
“De rien.”
In spite of the bread roll Cogolati brought from the dining hall, Midhat’s legs were still trembling when he met Laurent at noon beside the statue, and he was grateful for his umbrella to lean on.
“Philosophically speaking,” said Laurent, as they moved off down the boulevard, “your reaction was totally natural. I recall my first practical dissection. Not a … not a pleasant experience.”