38. An emergency

I was dreaming that my alarm clock was going off. I kept trying to switch it off but it kept ringing. This seemed to go on for a frustratingly long time, until I realised that the telephone was actually ringing in the real world and I woke up. I could see a room that wasn’t mine dimly illuminated by artificial light coming through the window and had no idea where I was. Then the light beside the bed went on and I saw my ex-girlfriend getting out of bed, turning into Jasmilla in the process.

I lay back down, waiting for all the light and noise to stop so I could go back to sleep. I was grateful when the telephone stopped ringing. I was sure the aberration would soon be over. But the tone of Jasmilla’s voice made me realise something was wrong. I sat up in bed and tried to figure out what was going on. But either my brain was too befuddled, or Jasmilla’s side of the conversation was not informative enough, because I still didn’t know what was happening by the time Jasmilla hung up. I just knew something really bad had happened.

“It’s the Professor,” said Jasmilla, coming back over. “He’s been taken into hospital.”

“Is he ok? What happened?” Suddenly I felt completely sober.

“They don’t know. Tanja found him unconscious in the flat.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and told me the whole story. It had been Tanja, the Professor’s daughter, who had called. She had come home from a night out with friends to find her father lying on the floor in the kitchen. She had called an ambulance, then, while she was waiting for them to come, she had wanted to tell someone else and ask for help. But the few relations she and her father were in contact with lived far from Berlin, and she didn’t know any of her father’s friends. Then she had seen Jasmilla’s number written on a notepad next to the telephone and had called it in desperation.

“We have to go to the hospital,” I said when Jasmilla had finished, my wits once more about me. “Is there a taxi stand near here, or should we call one?

“You can get a taxi at the stand on Tor Straße,” she said. “Or you might be able to hail one down.”

“Aren’t you going to come?”

Jasmilla paused before replying. “You know the Professor much better than I do.”

“But you just did all that work for him. And he had you over for dinner and everything, he really likes you. And I’d really like it if you came to the hospital with me.”

Jasmilla looked down. “Sorry Richard. I need to get up in the morning to work on my exhibition. I only have a few more days to get it ready …”

Before she could finish, I had got up and was heading for the door.

Half an hour later, I was at the hospital in Prenzlauer Berg. I was a couple of marks short of the taxi fare, but the driver, an Iranian living in exile, let me off when I explained the situation, saying I could give the money to him next time I saw him. It was just starting to get light, and when I checked my watch I saw it was 5:30.

After waiting several minutes for a drunken woman to finish having an argument with the receptionist — a dispute which was resolved by two security guards coming and physically dragging her away — I managed to find out which ward the Professor was in. The nurse on duty refused to let me see him at first, repeatedly explaining that it wasn’t visiting hours and I wasn’t family, and I was almost reduced to tears of frustration when Tanja appeared out of the ward. I quickly explained to her — out of the earshot of the nurse — who I was.

She then started a new round of the conversation, and, with the relentless persistence that I have since learned almost always manages to break down the resistance of German bureaucrats, finally persuaded the nurse to let me see “Herr Leberknecht,” as the sister insisted on calling him.

The Professor had a room to himself. I had been expecting him to be covered with the usual medical vines and tendrils that I associated with hospitals, but he was lying peacefully asleep in a spotlessly clean bed, illuminated by the glow of a dim light above his head. His face was free of its habitual wrinkles — I had never seen his brow look as smooth — and there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

We pulled up institutional plastic chairs up to the bed and sat there in silence for a while, just watching him. After a while I asked Tanja in a low voice if they knew what was wrong with him.

“They think he might have had a mild stroke,” she said. “They’re going to do some tests in the morning.” In that moment she seemed a lot older than she really was.

The hospital began to wake up around seven and I could hear the sounds of conversation and vigorous bustling coming from outside the room. Tanja looked exhausted and I suggested she go home and sleep. After repeated assurances that I would phone her as soon as anything happened, she relented.

I dozed for a little as best I could in the chair until a nurse came in and started checking the Professor’s pulse and taking his temperature. She left, and then a doctor came in to take a look at him. He wouldn’t give me any information other than they were going to do some tests.

Just before nine, I called Ana from the hospital’s pay phone to tell her that I wouldn’t be coming to work. She was concerned when I told her what had happened and it was all I could do to persuade her not to come rushing over to the hospital herself. Again I promised to let her know as soon as I heard anything.

“By the way, I ordered the courier for you,” Ana said just as I was about to ring off.

“Courier?” I asked blankly.

“For your manuscript. Henk wanted you to send it to Hamburg directly, remember?”

“Of course,” I said, struggling to keep a pretence of calm.

After I hung up, I tried to think what to do. I had completely forgotten about the manuscript with all that had happened. There was no way I was going to get it finished now, but I didn’t care. I didn’t feel like the book had anything to do with me any longer. I would just send the Hamburg editors what I had and they would have to make do with that. Maybe they could cut a chapter or they could ask me to write the missing pieces later. I would worry about that another time.

But how to get the manuscript to the courier? I didn’t want to leave the hospital. Then I had an idea.

“Of course I can give the manuscript to the courier,” said Krebs after I had phoned him to ask if he could take care of it.

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “It’s on my desk,” I added, wanting to make sure he would get it right.

Yes, he knew it was on my desk, he said. He had seen me working on it the day before.

“It’s the English course,” I explained.

Of course it was the English course, he said. He knew exactly which manuscript I meant. He would make sure the courier got it.

Feeling relieved that was all taken care of, I thanked him, promised I would keep him informed of any developments in the Professor’s condition, and hung up.