The change in Antonio was puzzling to his friends and admirers. To the young nurses at the All Saints, it was as if he had undergone surgery to remove the most vital of his organs, or taken the severest of vows before the Virgin of Nossa Senhora. Gone were the furtive glances across crowded wards and sweet games of hide and seek under the very nose of the elderly matron. It affected Maria Helena the most. The poor girl had dreamt big dreams on the eve of the festa. She pleaded with the matron to be left alone with Dr Maria when he conducted surgery on his patients. She wanted simply to feel his breath and ‘accidental' touches, and to die from his firm grip as he helped her carry a sick patient or turn him over on the bed. Perhaps he'd want more from her, ask her to meet him at the Avenida for a ride on the Americanos – the recently arrived horse drawn carriages –followed by a quiet meal serenaded by the famous fadistas of Chiado. Maybe he'd ask her to visit him secretly at his home, at his doctor's chamber even whenever they could hear the matron snoring. Seeing her condition, the ‘old owl' had given in to Maria Helena's plaintive requests, and relaxed her vigil. But the real Antonio had fallen far short of the Antonio of her dreams. He had barely looked at her, let alone played his tricks, when they were together during long and inviting hours of surgery. He had turned out to be no more than a pair of eyes and hands, a mere slave to his surgical box and a better doctor than before.
His father occupied Antonio's thoughts completely: his dull syphilitic eyes, syphilitic teeth blackened by mercury, scarred syphilitic cheeks. He heard his deep sonorous voice reduced to a whimper, imagined his bald head bent in shame. He'd wake up in a cold sweat dreaming that his father shared his bed, filling the room with the smell of death. It was a scent that hung over the city, fi lled the hollow domes and the cracks in the cobblestones, refused to be blown away by the ocean breeze. Wherever he went, Lisbon stank of rotting genitals.
He must be awake now , he thought about his father, rising from his nightmare. Awake and delirious, battling a seizure or bleeding from the eyes. He must have difficulty speaking, begging Rosa for a drop of morphine. He might be struck next with peculiar obsessions. Like a miser, he might hide his possessions then forget the hiding place, grow suspicious of Rosa and accuse her of seducing his Tino. Might even kill his nurse ...Antonio shuddered as he imagined his father in a mad fit thrusting poor Rosa's head into the fireplace. Syphilis will stop torturing its victim soon, he knew only too well, pretend to disappear as suddenly as it had arrived. Ah! The Great Pretender! The time will come when it'll poison his heart, choke the arteries and bring him closer to death.
He didn't blame his father but blamed his sickness, dreaded nothing more than letters written by him in the hand of Rosa Escobar. For eleven days I haven't eaten or drunk even a sip. I wander lurching and exhausted from my chair to my bed and back again. Even if I eat something, it comes right back up. Rosa is treating me. Here is my end. Visiting Cabo São Vicente, he returned more troubled than before. He couldn't bear to look at his father, or listen to Rosa Escobar's fearful reports. As much as she tried, he refused to examine her potions. He went instead on long and gloomy walks among the cedars before climbing back into his carriage.
Excerpted with the permission of Pan Macmillan India from The Yellow Emperor's Cure by Kunal Basu (Picador, Rs. 499).
