Chapter 4 Chapter Four

In the dining room of the suite above the consulting room, Gerda Christo was contemplating a plate of bone-in leg of lamb. Should she or shouldn't she send it back to the kitchen to warm up? If John waited any longer, the plate of meat would turn cold—condense, and that would be terrible. But on the other hand, the last patient was gone, John might be up soon, and if she sent it back to the kitchen, lunch would have to be delayed—and John was so impatient. "Of course you know I'm coming..." There would be that suppressed anger tone in his voice that she was familiar with and dreaded.Also, the shank of lamb might be overcooked and shriveled when reheated—John loathes overcooked meat.

But on the other hand, he really hates cold food. Either way, it's a delicious dish served hot. There were melancholy and indecision in her head, and the feeling of unhappiness and urgency deepened. The whole world condensed into a plate of cooling lamb shank. On the other side of the table, her son Terrence, twelve, said: "Boron salts burn with a green flame, while sodium salts are yellow." Gerda looked absently across the table at his square, freckled face.She had no idea what he said. "Did you know, mother?" "Know what, dear?" "About salt."

Distraught, Gerda glanced at the salt shaker.Yes, salt and pepper are on the table.This is good.Last week Lewis forgot to put it, which annoyed John.always something... "It's a chemistry experiment," Terrence replied in an absent-minded tone, "very interesting, I think." Zenner, nine years old, with a pretty deadpan face, complained: "I want to eat. Mom?" "Just a minute, my dear, we must wait for father." "We can start," Terrence said, "Father won't mind, you know how fast he eats." Gerda shook her head. cut lamb?But she never remembered where to cut it. —John was always annoyed when the knife was misplaced.And, Gerda thought desperately, every time she cut it, she always cut it wrong.Oh my gosh, the gravy is cooling - it's got a film on it - sure he's coming by now.

Her mind went round and round with difficulty...like a beast caught in a trap. John Crystal sat in the chair in the consulting room again, tapping lightly on the table in front of him with one hand.He realized that lunch must be ready upstairs, but he still couldn't force himself to stand up. San Miguel...the blue water...the smile of the mimosa...the straight red torch lily...the hot sun...the dust...the desperation born of love and suffering... He thought, "Oh God, there will be no such thing. There will never be such a thing again! That's all over..." He suddenly wishes he had never known Veronica, never married Gerda, never met Henrietta...

Mrs. Crabtree, he thought, was a lot better than them.There was a terrible afternoon last week.He was very satisfied with the experimental drug response.She was able to withstand the five-thousandth dose at that time.But then, the toxicity in her body started to rise surprisingly, and the result of the lethal dose reaction also changed from positive to negative. The old friend lay there, brooding and panting--looking at him suspiciously with her malicious, unrelenting eyes. "Take me for a guinea pig, don't you, darling? Experiment--very nice thing." "We want to get you well," he said, smiling at her.

"Go on with your tricks, you mean bastard!" She grinned suddenly. "I don't mind, God bless you. You go on, doctor! Somebody has to be first, that's the way it is, isn't it? I had my hair permed, when I was a kid. It was a big deal in those days." A hard thing. I look like a real nigger. I can't get a comb through my hair. But from that—I got fun. You can have fun with me. I can take it." "Feels bad, doesn't it?" His pulse was in his hand.His vigorous vitality infected the old woman lying on the bed, panting. "Too bad, I feel like you're probably right! Don't you? You never mind, never lose heart. I can take it, I can!"

John Crystal said appreciatively: "You are simply amazing. I wish all my patients were like you." "The reason was that I wanted to be cured. My mother lived to be eighty-eight years old—the old grandmother was ninety when she died. We are the elders of the family." He leaves with a heavy heart, doubting his abilities.He had been so sure that his method was right.Where did he go wrong?How to eliminate toxicity and keep hormone levels. He was too conceited - he had taken it for granted that he had avoided all obstacles. Just then, walking up the stairs of St. Christopher's Hospital, a sudden surge of hopeless ennui gripped him—a distaste for long, slow, tedious medical work.He thought of Henrietta, suddenly of Henrietta, but not in herself, but in her beauty and her freshness, her health and her radiant vitality--and her The faint scent of primroses emanating from her hair.

He went straight to Henrietta, hung up briefly at home, and said he had been called away by a patient.He strode into the sculpture room and took Henrietta in his arms, embracing her with a new and intense passion in their relationship. A kind of doubt caused by fright flashed quickly in her eyes.She broke free from his arms and made him a cup of coffee.As she paced back and forth in the sculpture room, she asked off-the-cuff questions. "Are you," she asked, "directly from the hospital?" He doesn't want to talk about the hospital.He just wanted to make love to Henrietta and forget about the hospital and Mrs Crabtree and Ridgeway's disease and everything.

Reluctant at first, but then he went on and on, answering her questions.In no time, he was striding up and down the room, spouting a lot of professional speculation and speculation.Once or twice he paused and tried to explain the problem simply: "You know, you have to have a drug reaction—" Henrietta answered quickly: "Yes, yes, the lethal dose reaction should be positive. I understand that, carry on." He asked quickly, "How did you know all about the lethal dose reaction?" "I have a book—" "What book? Who wrote it?" She went to the small desk.He scoffed at it.

"Scobel? Scobel's book is bad. He's fundamentally incorrect. Look here, if you want to read—" She cut him off. "I just want to understand some of the terms you're using - just understanding what you're saying is enough without you constantly stopping to explain everything. Go ahead. I totally get what you're saying." "Then," he said suspiciously, "remember, Scobel's book is incorrect." He went on talking.He talked for two and a half hours.Review those setbacks, analyze the possibilities, and lay out plausible theories.He was hardly aware of Henrietta's presence, yet more than once, when he hesitated, she gave him a deft nudge to keep him going with little pause. He was now interested again, and his self-confidence Slid back quietly again.He had been right - the main theory was right - that there was more than one way to get rid of symptoms of intoxication.

Then, suddenly, he felt exhausted.He is now very clear about the treatment.Treatment will resume tomorrow morning.He'd call Neil and tell him to try a mix of both.For God's sake, he won't fail! "I'm tired," he said abruptly. "My God, I'm tired." He fell on the bed and fell asleep--sleeping like a dead man. He awoke to find Henrietta smiling at him in the morning light.Making tea for him.He smiled at her. "It's not at all what was planned," he said. "Is it important?" "No, no, you're a nice fellow, Henrietta." His eyes turned to the bookshelf. "If you're interested in these things, I'll give you something to read." "I'm not interested in these things. I'm interested in you, John." "You can't read Scobel." He picked up the wrong book. "This man is a charlatan." She laughed.He couldn't understand why his scolding of Scobel made her so happy. But that was what Henrietta shocked him sometimes.Confused by this sudden new discovery, she was able to laugh at him. He's not used to it yet.Gerda treated him with great enthusiasm, while Veronica never cared about anything but herself.But Henrietta had a little trick of bringing her mind back and looking at him with half-closed eyes, with a little sudden soft half-sarcastic smile, as if to say, "Let me take a good look." Look at this ridiculous John... let me get a little closer and see him..." It was exactly the same as when she focused her eyes on her work—or a painting.This is a detached attitude.He didn't want Henrietta to think of him alone, never let her thoughts stray away from him. ("Actually, that's exactly what Gerda was against," said his inner genie again.) The truth is, he doesn't know what he wants. ("I want to go home." What an absurd, ridiculous sentence that doesn't mean anything.) In about an hour or so, he'll be sailing out of London anyway - forget the sick with a faint sour smell...the firewood is constantly smoking, and the pines, and the slightly wet autumn leaves... The car is smooth and accelerates effortlessly. But things won't be like that, because Gerda will have to drive due to a slight strain on his lower back.And Gerda, God bless her, could never start a car!Every time she shifted gears, he remained silent, gritting his teeth, trying not to say anything.For he knew, from bitter experience, that whenever he said anything, Gerda would immediately get worse.Strange that no one could teach Gerda to change gears—not even Henrietta.He had passed her on to Henrietta, thinking that perhaps Henrietta's enthusiasm might be of some use. Because Henrietta likes cars.When it comes to cars, it's always with a passion that others give to spring, or the first snowflakes. "Isn't he a beauty, John? Doesn't his engine just rattle all the way through the casserole?" (Because Henrietta's cars were always masculine.) "He'll climb up the Bell Hill—without exerting himself at all—effortlessly. Listen, how evenly he spins in neutral." Until he bursts out suddenly and violently: "Don't you think, Henrietta, you should pay more attention to me and forget about those damned cars for a minute or two!" He was always ashamed of himself for such sudden outbursts. He never knew when they would suddenly descend on him under the blue sky. The same goes for her work.He realized that her work was excellent.He admits it—and hates it—and the two feelings always go hand in hand. One of his fiercest quarrels with her was because of this. One day Gerda said to him: "Henrietta asked me to model." "What?" His shock was still there, if he remembered it. "you?" "Yes, I'm going to the sculpture room tomorrow." "Why on earth did she ask you?" Yes, he was very rude at the time.But fortunately, Gerda is unaware of the truth.She looked very happy about it.He suspected that Henrietta's insincere kindness to her—Gerda—was, perhaps, a hint that she would enjoy modeling, something like that. Then, about ten days later, Gerda gleefully showed him a small plaster figure. It was a lovely thing—very artful, like all of Henrietta's work.It idealizes Gerda - and it's clear that Gerda herself is very fond of it. "I do think it's charming, John." "Is that Henrietta's work? It doesn't mean anything—not at all. I don't understand how she started making things like that." "Of course it's not like, her abstract work - but I think it's good, John, I really do." He said nothing more—after all, he didn't want to spoil Gerda's joy.But he later had the opportunity to meet Henrietta and spoke frankly about it. "What on earth did you do that stupid statue of Gerda for? You don't deserve it. After all, you usually create something elegant." Henrietta said slowly: "I don't think it's bad. Gerda seems quite satisfied." "Gerda was delighted, of course she would be. Gerda couldn't tell the difference between art and a color photograph." "It's not bad art, John. It's just a little portrait—no harm, and no pretension." "It's not that often you waste your time doing stuff like—" He stopped talking and stared at a wooden figure about five feet tall. "Hey, what is this?" "This is created for the international joint exhibition, Li Mu's, called "Worshiper"." She looked at him.He stared at it closely, and then—suddenly, the veins on his neck popped, and he asked her furiously: "So that's why you invited Gerda? How dare you?" "I'm not sure if you'll see..." "See it? Of course I do. It's right here." He placed a finger on the broad, thick neck muscles. Henrietta nodded. "Yes, that's the neck and shoulders I want--and that thick forward slope--the submission--the submissive gaze. It's brilliant!" "Brilliant? Look here, Henrietta, I can't bear it. You keep me away from Gerda." "Gerda won't know. Nobody will. You know Gerda will never recognize herself from here—nor anyone else. And it's not Gerda, it's not anybody." "I recognized it, didn't I?" "You're different, John. You see things." "It's his damned neck! I can't stand it, Henrietta! I can't stand it. Don't you see it's an unforgivable thing?" "yes?" "Don't you know? Don't you feel it? Where's your usual sensitivity?" Henrietta said slowly: "You don't understand, John. I don't think I'll ever be able to make you understand . The forward angle of the head - the heaviness around the jaw. I used to look at them every day and want them - every time I saw Gerda... eventually I had to have them!" "Shameless!" "Yeah, I think so. But when you want certain things, you have to get them that way." "You mean you don't care about anyone else. You don't care about Gerda—" "Don't be silly, John. That's why I made that little portrait. To please Gerda, to make her happy. I'm not inhuman!" "You just have no humanity." "Do you really think—frankly—that Gerda would recognize herself in this portrait?" John looked at it reluctantly.For the first time in his life, his anger and anger gave way to his interest.A portrait of strange humility, a portrait of reverence to an unseen God--its face lifted--dazed, numb, full of love--extremely intense, utterly fanatical. . . . He said: "This is a rather dreadful creation of yours, Henrietta!" Henrietta trembled slightly. She said, "Yes—I think" John said sharply: "What is she looking at—who is it? In front of her?" Henrietta hesitated.There was an odd tone in her voice, and she said: "I don't know. But I think—she must be looking at you, John."