The Alexander Cipher Page 0,77
it. The way his feet burned, it might as well have been two hundred kilometers. He had a sudden craving for a huge bowl of his aunt’s kushari with extra fried onions, mopped up with great chunks of aysh baladi, then the welcoming embrace of his mattress. No way was the Jeep down there. Enough! He scowled and turned, hobbling painfully back the way he had come. But he’d barely gone twenty steps when a minibus of schoolgirls rattled past. One of them caught his eye and smiled shyly. She had good skin and huge brown eyes and luscious red lips. Staring after her, he forgot all about kushari and bed and aching feet. That was what he truly wanted: a beautiful, coy young woman to call his own. And for all his romantic dreams, he was a realist enough to know he would never have one until he earned some serious money.
He turned yet again and made the painful trudge up the track to the farm buildings.
MOHAMMED FOUND IT DIFFICULT even to walk as he followed the nurse. He had to remind himself how it was done: one foot and then the other. She led him to a large office, where Professor Rafai was flicking through the dividers of a white filing cabinet. Mohammed had seen him often on his rounds but had never before been granted a private audience. Mohammed didn’t know how to read this. Some men delighted in granting good news; others felt it their duty to break bad. Rafai turned to Mohammed with a bland, professional smile that gave nothing away. “Sit, sit,” he said, gesturing to his small round corner table. He pulled out a brown folder and came to join him. “I hope you’ve not been waiting long.”
Mohammed swallowed. Did Rafai truly not understand? Then, suddenly, all Mohammed wanted was to go back outside and wait some more. When hope was all a man had, he fought hard to hold on to it. Rafai opened the brown folder and peered through his half-moon glasses at a sheet inside. He frowned as though he had just read something of which he had previously been unaware. “You understand what a bone marrow transplant would have involved?” he asked without looking up. “You understand what you were asking me to put your daughter through?”
It was a numb feeling, catastrophe. Mohammed felt cold and sick, yet at the same time immensely calm. He wondered bleakly how he would break this to Nur, if Layla would understand what it meant.
Rafai proceeded remorselessly: “We call this procedure bone marrow transplantation, but that is misleading. In ordinary chemotherapy we target only cancerous fast-dividing cells, but in this procedure we deliberately poison a person’s entire system in order to destroy all their fast-dividing cells, cancerous or otherwise. That includes the bone marrow. The transplant is not the treatment. The transplant is necessary because after we annihilate all these fast-dividers, the patient will die without new marrow. It is a traumatic and extremely painful experience, without guarantee of success. Rejections occur despite perfect matches. And even if the new marrow takes, convalescence is extensive. Tests, tests, always tests. This is not the treatment of a few days. Scars stay for life. And then there’s infertility, cataract blindness, secondary cancers, complications in the liver, kidneys, lungs, heart . . .”
Mohammed understood something then. Rafai wasn’t here because the task was difficult; he was here because he relished exercising power. Mohammed reached forward to push down Rafai’s folder. “Say what you have to say,” he demanded. “Say it straight. Look me in the eye.”
Rafai sighed. “You must understand that we cannot give a bone marrow transplant to every patient who needs it. We allocate our resources on the basis of clinical evidence, on who will be most likely to benefit. I am afraid the lymphoma has advanced so far in your daughter—”
“Because you would not do the tests in time!” cried Mohammed. “Because you would not do the tests!”
“You must understand that everyone here loves your—”
Mohammed rose to his feet. “When did you decide this? Did you decide before we did the tests? You did, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell us? Why did you let us go through that?”
“You’re wrong,” said Rafai. “We didn’t make the final—”
“Is there anything I can do?” pleaded Mohammed. “Anything at all? I beg you. Please. You can’t do this.”
“I’m sorry.” He smiled blandly. The interview was over.
Mohammed had never previously understood failed suicides; the ones commonly described