The Skinner's Revenge. Chris Karsten

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СКАЧАТЬ the storeroom of the patient’s memory – and he never forgot faces – he recalled Konrad Lorenz, ethologist and Nobel Prize winner, who maintained that someone with a baby face inspired in others a desire to nurture and protect. And Leslie Zebrowitz, psychologist at Brandeis University in Waltham, Massachusetts, who claimed that men with baby faces stimulated the amygdala, the emotional centre of the brain, in other people. She’d also found in her research that men with baby faces were generally better qualified, more assertive, and over time were awarded more military medals than men who were more mature in appearance. But of course there’s always a twist. She also found that men with baby faces overcompensated for their shortcomings, that they were usually more argumentative and aggressive, and, like Al Capone, more inclined to criminal behaviour.

      “Lippens?” asked the patient. “Is that … ?”

      “Belgian. Originally from Ghent. After Burundi’s independence, the country was not the Utopia everyone had been hoping for. Health services collapsed, along with many other things. The government turned to the old colonial master to recruit skilled workers: engineers, teachers, nurses and doctors.”

      Yes, I know you’re Belgian, thought the patient. That’s why I’m here. You’ve been specially selected for the procedure on my face.

      “Are you still a Belgian citizen?”

      “Of course. I have permanent residency here, but why should I give up my citizenship and passport in favour of Burundi?”

      The patient nodded and agreed to an endoscopic mini rhytidectomy, with rhinoplasty, mentoplasty and otoplasty. He declined the blepharoplasty, opting for amber-tinted spectacles instead.

      * * *

      For two nights he lay attached to a drip in the Prince Louis Rwagasore Clinic in the Rue Pierre Ngendandumwe, his entire head swathed in gauze bandages, only his eyes and mouth visible. He could see the surgeon enter to inspect his handiwork, and the nurses when they came to disinfect the wounds and wrap his head in fresh bandages.

      And he could feel. It felt as if his entire face had been plunged into a basin of fiery coals, as if someone had peeled off his skin with a blunt knife. Tubes were pushed into his mouth, needles pierced his buttocks, pills and water passed across his parched lips, and pain and fever racked his body.

      In his feverish mind he was vaguely aware of intense whispered conversations between doctor and nurses.

      When he regained full consciousness, a nurse was at his bedside. Alone, hazy as a ghost.

      “How are you feeling, Mr Lomas?”

      She, too, spoke English with an accent, but by now the patient was used to it. Her Creole dialect reminded him of the speech of Jules Daagari, his Burundian friend and purveyor of masks.

      “Can you hear me, Mr Lomas?”

      He could hear – only dimly through the bandages around his ears, which ached after the otoplasty. But he couldn’t speak, because his jaw had been immobilised by the surgery to his chin. After the rhinoplasty, his nose felt as if it had been broken by a heavyweight boxer.

      “Here, take a sip of water, and let me put some Vaseline on your lips. Better? Can you hear me now?”

      As if water and Vaseline could assist with his hearing. He nodded.

      “You gave us a fright, Mr Lomas. We thought we were losing you. Infection – sepsis. We don’t know where it came from. But there’s always a risk. Always bacteria, no matter how thoroughly you scrub. Here, have some more water.”

      “Whrs th fckn qck?” The sounds came laboriously over his dry lips, his throat raw from the tubes.

      “What’s that, Mr Lomas?” The nurse leaned closer, holding her ear to his Vaseline-covered lips.

      “Whrs th fckn qck?”

      “You could still be delirious, though the fever has broken. Take this tablet, it’s just a mild sedative, and sleep some more. I’ll change the bandages later tonight.”

      His hand shot out from under the blanket and grabbed her wrist. With great effort he forced the words slowly over his vocal chords: “Where’s the fucking quack?”

      She staggered back. “Mr Lomas!”

      In his neck the muscles were taut. “Take off the bandages. Bring me a mirror.”

      “Calm down,” said the nurse. “I can’t take them off. It’s too dangerous. We need antibiotic ointment for the wounds … ”

      “Call Dr Lippens.”

      “He isn’t here. He’s at his rooms. He’ll be here when I change the bandages tonight. Take the tablet and get some rest.”

      He swallowed the pill, lay back against the pillow, dozed off.

      When he woke up, he was feeling better. He lay waiting for her.

      On the other side of the window, evening was falling over Bujumbura. His bed was next to the window, and he only had to turn his head to look out. He was glad about the window. He didn’t want to be squashed between beds occupied by groaning patients.

      He waited, closed his eyes, listened to the drone and hooting of cars in the streets outside.

      Then he felt her presence and heard her voice above him.

      “Does it still hurt? Do you have any pain?”

      Her fingers busily unwrapping the bandages over his ears.

      “Where’s the doctor?”

      “He’ll be here in a while. Still doing his rounds. Your ears look good, Mr Lomas. You have good-looking ears now, pixie ears. I think we can leave them uncovered, give them some air; there’s no more need for bandages. They’re just about healed.”

      “How long have I been here?”

      “Five days. That’s why the wounds are almost completely healed. Let’s take a look at your face.”

      “Only two nights,” he said. “Then I was supposed to have gone home.”

      “There were complications … Ah, the nose.” A click of her tongue. “No, the nose will need more work. Healed, but not quite right. You’ll have to return in about a month.”

      “Bring me a mirror.”

      She unwrapped the last bandage, removed the gauze from his chin. “Oh no, your chin as well. The worst of the infection was on your new chin.”

      He tried to get up out of bed but she pushed him back.

      “I want to see!”

      “In a little while. Let me clean it first. We don’t want a brand-new infection, do we, Mr Lomas?”

      He lay back, allowing her to bathe his face with cotton wool and a cool liquid, an antiseptic smell sharp in his nostrils.

      “Do СКАЧАТЬ