Chicago

Chapter 38

Dr. Bill Friedman bowed his head and placed it between his hands. Chris was sitting before him. The silence was so profound that the soft music from the PA system sounded melancholy. He looked at her and asked, “When did Salah’s problem begin?”

“A year ago.”

“Did he see a doctor?”

“He went once and refused to continue.”

“I thought the change I noticed was because of work exhaustion.”

“He’s sick, Bill. Since he came back from the Egyptian president’s meeting his condition has deteriorated rapidly. He hasn’t eaten or slept in three days. The doctor says that under such conditions he has to be involuntarily institutionalized.”

“Involuntarily?”

“Yes. The usual practice is to forcibly inject him with a tranquilizer, then move him to the hospital.”

“If that’s the only way to help him, I guess we have no choice.” Silence fell again. Chris began to sob then said, “It’s hard for me to see him like this.” Bill Friedman held her hand and said in a consoling tone, “Don’t worry. He’ll be all right.”

“You’re a dear friend. I came to you to help me.”

“I’ll do whatever I can.”

“I hope he won’t lose his job.”

Dr. Friedman looked pensive then said, “Administratively speaking, we have to indicate why he has stopped coming to work. I won’t mention that he’s undergoing psychiatric care because that would be a negative in his professional record. I will consider his absence part of his annual vacation and I’ll ask one of his colleagues to take up his classes.”

“Thank you, Bill.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“I have to go now.”

Bill Friedman got up, shook her hand warmly, and kissed her cheek, saying, “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to get in touch with me.”

Chris left the building and as she drove she thought that her lesser task had been accomplished: now, at least, Salah won’t lose his job. The greater task remained — to move him to the hospital to receive treatment. Unfortunately, she was going to have to be tough with him, so that he could be cured and return to normal. It was for his own good. She no longer remembered their disagreement. She forgot their problems and their agreeing to divorce. All she could think of now was that he was sick and needed her. She couldn’t just let him collapse without doing something for him. Even if he no longer loved her. Even if he wanted to divorce her. Even if he was in love with another woman. Even if he had been deceiving her all those years. She couldn’t give up on him. He was all alone. If she left him, he wouldn’t find anyone by his side. Her tears flowed again; she dabbed her eyes and then parked in front of the hospital. She waited for a few moments until she got a grip on herself then hurried into the building. Half an hour later, she came out accompanied by a young doctor. He sat next to her in her car as she drove and an ambulance followed. They agreed that she would go alone to Salah and try to convince him to go to the hospital. If he refused, the doctor would join her. Ultimately, if he persisted in refusing, the two paramedics would be called upon to give him the injection. The two cars stopped in front of the house. Chris went ahead, opened the door, and looked inside. She sighed and said, “Well, he’s in his study. This should make our task easier.”

She went up the stairs quickly, followed by the doctor. Once in front of the door outside his room, Chris stopped him with her hand and whispered, “Please sit here.”

The doctor nodded and turned, going slowly toward the nearby chair. Chris entered quietly, and as soon as she opened the door she saw the scene that would never leave her mind. Dr. Muhammad Salah, professor of histology at the University of Illinois medical school, was wearing his blue silk pajamas, stretched out on the floor, staring at nothing in particular, as if he had been surprised by something once and forever. There was blood trickling from a deep wound on the side of his head, creating a stain that was getting bigger and bigger on the carpet. Next to his relaxed, outstretched right hand was his old Beretta.