The Lost Labyrinth

II

It had been a mixed morning for the Intensive Care team. One of their charges had died; another had been returned to a general ward. As a result, the unit was empty except for Augustin and two nurses, so Claire felt free to unplug the headphones from the DVD player Nico had brought the day before.

She hadn't watched it the night before; she'd had too much else on her mind. But this morning she'd already played it through twice. There was something compelling about it, though she wasn't sure what. Not the words themselves, for even though they'd been written by Augustin, the technical language and obscure references mostly went over her head. It was more to do with the way Knox had somehow captured Augustin's qualities of voice, despite their different accents: his cadence, his metre, his trick of making listeners wait, the mischievous delivery of his punch-lines.

When this calamity had befallen Augustin, a treasonous internal voice had whispered to Claire that protocol didn't compel her to stick by him, as she'd stuck by her father. He wasn't blood, after all; they weren't yet married. She could simply fly back to America and pretend this episode had never happened. But she knew now that wasn't possible. When you gave your heart this completely to another person, it was no longer yours to take back.

On the DVD, Knox was nearing the end of his talk. She turned the volume up. It was a real comfort to listen to Augustin's words, but this was what she truly enjoyed, the extraordinary ovation that would shortly greet its conclusion, the tribute it so clearly represented to the man she loved. Each time she played it, it made her heart swell.

Augustin's left eyelash fluttered, delicate as a fly's wing. Though it was one of the few times she'd seen him show even that much sign of life, she didn't let it get her spirits up. His doctors had taken him off the barbiturates the night before, in the hopes that he might come out of the induced coma; but she was experienced enough with ICU patients to know that such tics happened all the time.

She leaned closer, just in case, murmured his name and squeezed his hand. His eyelash fluttered again, then opened for a blink before closing once more. She watched transfixed, simultaneously terrified and charged with hope. Then both his eyes sprang open, bloodshot and perplexed, even alarmed. She stood and leaned over him so that he'd know she was there, that he was safe and loved and cared for. But it didn't seem to do any good. His agitation increased, he slid his eyes to the side, he tried to speak.

'Don't talk,' she pleaded, anxiety battling euphoria. 'Just try to rest.'

He didn't listen, his lips moved again, he muttered something that she couldn't hear, because the applause had just started on the DVD, all that splendid thunder. She jabbed the button to silence it, put her ear back to Augustin's mouth, and finally made out his words. 'What's that bastard Knox doing,' he murmured, 'delivering my talk?'