I keep fading in and out.
THE NAME OF THE MAN with the Clark Gable mustache turned out to be Dr. Faruqi. He wasn’t a soap opera star at all, but a head-and-neck surgeon, though I kept thinking of him as some one named Armand in some steamy soap set on a tropical island.
Where am I? I wanted to ask. But my mouth wouldn’t open. I frowned. Grunted. Armand smiled; his teeth were blinding white.
“Not yet, Amir,” he said, “but soon. When the wires are out.” He spoke English with a thick, rolling Urdu accent.
Wires?
Armand crossed his arms; he had hairy forearms and wore a gold wedding band. “You must be wondering where you are, what happened to you. That’s perfectly normal, the postsurgical state is always disorienting. So I’ll tell you what I know.”
I wanted to ask him about the wires. Postsurgical? Where was Aisha? I wanted her to smile at me, wanted her soft hands in mine. Armand frowned, cocked one eyebrow in a slightly selfimportant way. “You are in a hospital in Peshawar. You’ve been here two days. You have suffered some very significant injuries, Amir, I should tell you. I would say you’re very lucky to be alive, my friend.” He swayed his index finger back and forth like a pendu lum when he said this. “Your spleen had ruptured, probably--and fortunately for you--a delayed rupture, because you had signs of early hemorrhage into your abdominal cavity My colleagues from the general surgery unit had to perform an emergency splenec tomy. If it had ruptured earlier, you would have bled to death.” He patted me on the arm, the one with the IV, and smiled. “You also suffered seven broken ribs. One of them caused a pneumothorax.”
I frowned. Tried to open my mouth. Remembered about the wires.
“That means a punctured lung,” Armand explained. He tugged at a clear plastic tubing on my left side. I felt the jabbing again in my chest. “We sealed the leak with this chest tube.” I followed the tube poking through bandages on my chest to a container halffilled with columns of water. The bubbling sound came from there.
“You had also suffered various lacerations. That means ‘cuts.” I wanted to tell him I knew what the word meant; I was a writer. I went to open my mouth. Forgot about the wires again.
“The worst laceration was on your upper lip,” Armand said. “The impact had cut your upper lip in two, clean down the mid dle. But not to worry, the plastics guys sewed it back together and they think you will have an excellent result, though there will be a scar. That is unavoidable.
“There was also an orbital fracture on the left side; that’s the eye socket bone, and we had to fix that too. The wires in your jaws will come out in about six weeks,” Armand said. “Until then it’s liq uids and shakes. You will lose some weight and you will be talking like Al Pacino from the first Godfather movie for a little while.” He laughed. “But you have a job to do today. Do you know what it is?”
I shook my head.