I spent the rest of Friday and then most of the weekend at the hospital, waiting to see if the Professor was going to regain consciousness and trying to get some information out of the perpetually harried doctors.
I finally managed to corner one of them — an Italian woman in her late 30s whose wedge-cut hairstyle and single earring made me suspect she was a lesbian — who confirmed that the Professor had had a mild stroke. No, she didn’t know when he might wake up. They were fairly confident there had been no significant brain damage, but it was impossible to tell for sure at this stage. She had no idea how long he might have to stay in hospital.
In the mean time, there were no signs that the Professor knew I was there. In fact the only way I knew he was still alive was the gentle rising and falling of his chest.
But when I came in at nine on Monday morning his eyes were open. Somehow I got the feeling he knew it was Monday and there was work to be done.
His body didn’t move but his eyes followed me as I came and sat by his bed. I asked him how he was feeling, suddenly self-conscious now that he was awake again.
He mumbled something I couldn’t understand. “Sorry?” I said.
“Manu …,” he repeated, his voice a dry, indistinct croak. He had to say it again before I got what he meant.
“Manuscript? You have a manuscript?”
He made a grunt which I took to be an affirmation. I leaned closer in order to hear better and asked him which manuscript he meant.
“Mar,” he said.
“Mar?” I couldn’t think what he meant.
With great effort he forced out the word “Marx.”
“It’s to do with Marx?”
Again the affirmative grunt. Then, “Desk.”
“It’s on your desk? In your office?”
“Flat.”
“It’s on the desk on your flat.”
Grunt.
“And what should I do with it?”
“Ham.”
“Ham?” I was stuck again. Then I realised what he meant. “Oh, Hamburg. You want me to send it to Hamburg?”
Another grunt. Then he closed his eyes. The effort seemed to have exhausted him.
