A son who loves his mother, and who will love his son. It is all connected, the love we feel for our parents and children.
I don’t understand you, said Doctor Ludjekins. What has this to do with the baby?
Everything! It has everything to do with the baby! I told you, it’s all connected, the love of parents and children. You can’t be so heartless as to not acknowledge that.
Of course I acknowledge it. Who would not? I simply fail to see what bearing it has on the matter in hand. I think perhaps you decide I am a dunce. I have a medical degree from Johns Hopkins University in the city of Baltimore, the state of Maryland. Do you know of it?
Of course I do, said the man. It is a very fine school.
So you see I am not some dummkopf.
Oh, my dear doctor! exclaimed Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Of course you are not! My son and I have the utmost respect for you, and for this marvelous institution you direct. I myself plan to leave a large part of my small fortune to St. Bartholomew’s.
It is St. Barnabas, said the doctor.
Of course it is! St. Barnabas. One of the finest institutions of its kind.
We follow all international protocols, said Doctor Ludjekins. We do not sell babies. Procedures may have been like rubber under my predecessor, Mrs. Tarja Uosukainen, but I assure you that St. Barnabas is no longer the hodgepodge it once may have been. Everything is now clean and above the boards.
Of course, doctor—that is exactly why I suggested St. Barnabas to my son. I knew that since you have taken over it is an institution beyond reproach. That is precisely why we are here, and why my son is so eager to claim his son.
We do not contribute our babies to lonesome parents, said Doctor Ludjekins. They must all be here to welcome the baby.
Yes, of course, said the man. And my wife would be here, if it were not for her broken leg. If it’s really so important, I will go back to the hotel and drag her here, limping all the way. She would do it happily. She would crawl here on her hands and knees. He did not realize he was aggressively gesticulating until Livia Pinheiro-Rima reached out, grabbed one of his pinwheeling arms, and lowered it to his side.
Hush, she said. Poor boy. You’re upset. She turned to the doctor. He’s upset, she said. It’s only natural. Excuse us for just a moment, if you would be so kind.
She took the man’s hand and pulled him into a corner of the anteroom and positioned them so that she was facing him with her back to the doctor. She mouthed a word with her lips, which were painted a bright deep red, but the man did not understand what she said and so he shook his head. She winked at him.
You’re upset, my dear, she said in a voice that could easily be overhead by the doctor, who was standing just a few feet away. Why don’t you go outside and smoke a cigarette? It will calm you. And I will have a chat with Doctor Ludjekins.
But I don’t—
Of course you do. Here. Livia Pinheiro-Rima opened her little bag and reached into it and withdrew her cigarette case.
Hold this, she said to the man, and handed him her bag, which he clutched rather awkwardly with both hands, as he did not like the doctor seeing him holding a woman’s handbag. Livia Pinheiro-Rima flicked open the case and pulled one cigarette out from beneath its silver clasp. Give me my lighter, she said. It’s in the bag.
He reached into the bag and found her lighter, which he withdrew.
Take it, Livia Pinheiro-Rima said. She handed him the cigarette she had extracted from the case and took the bag from him. Now go outside and smoke. I know it’s cold but the cold will do you good. I will come and get you when I am finished with the doctor. Do you understand?
Yes, said the man. I understand.
Good, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Go. She pushed him toward to door. Don’t come back until I fetch you.
The man had not smoked in several years. But he felt foolish standing idly on the steps of the orphanage, and so he lit the cigarette and smoked. It was very cold outside and he wished he could fill his entire body with the warm, poisonous smoke. He smoked it down to the filter and