Chapter 2 prelude

Much of life is spent saying "too early" and then saying "too late". — Flaubert: Correspondence, July 1895 I'm going to confess a horrible thought. When I learned that Sylvia was dying, I didn't feel terribly sad. I know it seems inhumane, especially coming from a doctor.In fact, when I first learned that she was coming to see me after all these years, I almost thought it was an act of conciliation. I don't know what's on her mind.Did she see our imminent reunion as a last-ditch effort to save her own life, or did she want to see me again, as much as I longed to see her, before death came?

What about her husband?Even if she hadn't told him about our relationship all those years ago (which was so improbable), she'd have to tell him now. But no matter what he thinks, there's no way he's going to stop us from meeting.He's a guy who's used to having the best of everything in the world after all, and I'm the best in this field. She's two years younger than me, at 43, and judging by recent newspaper articles, still very pretty.She looked radiant and alive, not seriously ill at all.For me, she will always be a symbol of vitality. When we first spoke on the phone, Rinaldi was solemn and polite.Although he was talking about his wife, there was no emotion in his voice.Instead, he took it for granted that I would do his bidding right away.

"Madame Rinaldi has a brain tumor, can you see her right away?" But, despite his arrogance, I could feel the implicit acknowledgment in his voice that I possessed a power that he himself did not possess.Although he was a good businessman, he was no match for death in bargaining. And that's what satisfies me. But suddenly, as if thinking of it just now, after an almost imperceptible pause in his voice, he added: "Excuse me." I gotta help, help them both. Within an hour, the medical records and x-rays were in my office.As soon as I was alone in the room, I tore open the envelope, irrationally thinking that there might be something instantly recognizable as Sylvia inside.

But of course, there are only various high-tech images of her brain in it.Ironically, I would have thought I had seen the depths of her head before.Of course, the mind is not an organ, nor is the brain where the soul resides.Then, as a doctor, I was pissed off. Even the earliest scans showed signs of tumors.What kind of person did she seek medical treatment for?I quickly flipped through the medical records, but they were filled with the usual cold medical jargon.The patient, a 41-year-old married white woman, first saw a professor named Luca Vengiano, complaining of severe headaches.The doctor thought it was due to emotional stress and prescribed the most advanced sedative at that time.

But despite his indifference, he did reveal a little about her personally.Clearly, there was some unspoken tension in Sylvia's life.Perhaps selfishly, I immediately assumed it had something to do with her marriage. Although she was photographed with her husband as part of a glorious marriage, she always seemed to exist deliberately on the fringes of his life.Nico, by contrast, was a much more public figure. His gigantic multinational corporation, the Milan Automobile Company, was involved in construction, steelmaking, insurance and publishing, in addition to being Italy's largest automaker.

Rumors had appeared in the press at various times, associating him with this and that young woman.Of course their pictures were taken at some charity event, so maybe it's just a lewd guess.Celebrities, however, always attract discussion.I've done enough in my field to know this. Whatever the truth, this insinuation was like a lighted match to my dry feelings, and I would rather believe the reporter's insinuations and blame the great professor's recorded anxieties on her husband's emigration. Do not love. I forced myself to read on. Her illness dragged on for an unreasonable length of time before Vengiano took her seriously and sent her to an internationally renowned neurologist in London with a "Sir" in front of his name.

Yes, he found a tumor, but decided it was inoperable.Indeed, even the most skilled hands could not manipulate the tiny microsurgical instruments without causing serious injury or, more likely, her death. In this way, I became their last resort.I have a very uneasy feeling.Yes, the genetic technology I pioneered has successfully reversed the development of tumors many times through DNA repaired by replication defects. Now, however, for the first time, I fully understand why doctors should not treat those close to them.I suddenly felt insecure and lost confidence in my abilities.Going to heal someone you love can make you feel painfully the possibility of making a mistake.

I don't want Sylvia to be my patient. Less than a quarter of an hour after the envelope containing the medical records arrived in my hand, the phone rang. "Well, Mr. Shearer, what do you think?" "Sorry, I haven't had time to go through all the medical records yet." "Won't a glance at her most recent scan tell you everything you need to know?" Obviously he was right.I thought maybe he didn't want me to read too many details from the medical records.Is he afraid that I will blame him for not acting sooner? (I do blame him somewhat.) "Monsieur Rinaldi, I'm afraid I agree with your doctor in London that these tumors are incurable."

"Unless you come to treat it." He retorted stubbornly.I guess I just waited for him to say that. "Can you show her today?" I glanced at the log thoughtfully.The afternoon is already full, and there will be a seminar at 4:30.I knew that I would agree to his request, so why did I have to take a look at it? (Frankly, I'm relieved that things happened so quickly so I wouldn't have a sleepless night in anticipation.) "How about two o'clock?" But I greatly overestimated Nico's ability to appreciate.I should have guessed he would try to get a better result.

"Actually we live only a few minutes from your place. We'll be there in a minute." "Okay." I agreed with a sigh.It's better to end it quickly. A few minutes later, the secretary buzzed me that Mr and Mrs Rinaldi had arrived. My heart started beating wildly.Seconds later, the door to my office would open and the memories would flood in.I stopped breathing until I saw her. But he was the first thing I saw: tall, imposing, focused, with a bald forehead.He greeted me with a silent nod and introduced his wife as if for the first time. I stared at Sylvia's face.At first it seemed to me that the years had not changed her at all.Her eyes were still the same black fire, though the pair were avoiding my gaze on purpose.I couldn't read her feelings, but gradually, I began to realize that something was different.

Maybe it was just my imagination, but there was a weariness and indescribable sadness on her face that had nothing to do with the disease.In my mind, this is the expression of not living a happy life. As I stepped forward awkwardly to shake hands with her husband, I said softly to Sylvia: "Nice to see you again."