Chapter 20
La Clínica
de Salud Pública
was actually a converted elementary school and didn’t
much resemble a hospital
at all. It was a long, one-story brick building with huge windows and a rusted
swing set out back. Becker headed up the crumbling steps.
Inside, it was dark and noisy. The waiting room was a line of folding metal chairs that ran the entire length of a long narrow corridor.
A cardboard sign on a sawhorse read oficina with an arrow pointing
down the hall.
Becker
walked the dimly lit corridor.
It was like some sort of eerie set conjured up for a Hollywood horror flick. The air smelled of urine. The lights at the far end were blown out, and the last forty or fifty feet revealed
nothing but muted silhouettes. A bleeding
woman… a young couple crying… a little girl praying… Becker reached the end of the darkened
hall. The door to his left was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open. It was entirely empty except for an old, withered
woman naked on a cot struggling with her
bedpan.
Lovely. Becker groaned.
He closed the door. Where
the hell is the office?
Around a small dog-leg in the hall, Becker heard voices. He followed
the sound and arrived at a translucent glass door that sounded
as if a brawl were going on behind it. Reluctantly, Becker pushed
the door open. The office. Mayhem. Just as he’d
feared.
The line was about ten people deep, everyone pushing and shouting.
Spain was not known for its efficiency, and Becker knew he could be there all night waiting
for discharge info on the Canadian.
There was only one secretary behind
the desk, and she was fending off disgruntled patients. Becker stood in the doorway a moment and pondered his options. There was
a better way.
“Con permiso!”
an orderly shouted. A fast-rolling gurney sailed
by.
Becker spun out of the way and
called after the orderly. “¿Dónde
está el teléfono?”
Without breaking stride, the man pointed
to a set of double doors and disappeared around the corner. Becker
walked over to the doors and
pushed his way through.
The room before him was enormous–an old gymnasium. The floor was a pale green and seemed to swim in and out of focus under the hum of the fluorescent lights. On the wall, a basketball hoop hung limply from its backboard. Scattered across the floor were a few dozen patients on low cots. In the far corner, just beneath a burned-out scoreboard, was an old pay phone.
Becker hoped it worked.
As he strode across the floor,
he fumbled in his pocket
for a coin. He found 75 pesetas in cinco-duros coins, change
from the taxi–just enough for two local calls. He smiled politely
to an exiting nurse and made his way to the phone. Scooping up the receiver, Becker dialed Directory
Assistance. Thirty seconds later
he had the number for the clinic’s main office.
Regardless of the country, it seemed there was one universal truth when it came to offices: Nobody could stand the sound of an unanswered phone. It didn’t matter how many customers
were waiting to be helped, the secretary would always
drop what she was doing to pick
up the phone.
Becker punched the six-digit
exchange. In a moment he’d have the clinic’s office. There
would undoubtedly be only one Canadian admitted today with a broken wrist and a concussion; his file would be easy to find. Becker knew the office would
be hesitant to give out the
man’s name and discharge
address to a total stranger,
but he had a plan.
The phone
began to ring. Becker guessed
five rings was all
it would take. It took
nineteen. “Clínica de Salud Pública,”
barked the frantic secretary.
Becker spoke in Spanish
with a thick Franco-American accent. “This is David Becker.
I’m with the Canadian
Embassy. One of our citizens
was treated by you today. I’d like his information such that the
embassy can arrange to pay his fees.”
“Fine,” the woman said. “I’ll
send it to the embassy
on Monday.” “Actually,” Becker pressed, “it’s important I get it immediately.” “Impossible,”
the woman snapped.
“We’re very busy.”
Becker
sounded as official as possible. “It is an urgent matter.
The man had a broken wrist and a head
injury. He was treated sometime
this morning. His file
should be right on top.”
Becker thickened
the accent in his Spanish–just clear enough to
convey his needs, just confusing enough to be exasperating. People had a way of bending the rules when they were exasperated.
Instead of bending the rules, however, the woman cursed self-important North Americans
and slammed down the
phone.
Becker frowned and hung
up. Strikeout. The thought of waiting
hours in line didn’t thrill him; the clock was ticking–the old Canadian
could be anywhere
by now. Maybe he had decided to go back to Canada. Maybe he would sell the ring. Becker didn’t
have hours to wait in line. With renewed determination, Becker snatched up the receiver and redialed. He pressed the phone to his ear and leaned back against the wall. It began to ring. Becker gazed out into the room. One ring… two rings…
three–
A sudden surge
of adrenaline coursed through
his body.
Becker wheeled
and slammed the receiver back down into its cradle.
Then he turned and stared back into the room in stunned silence. There on a cot, directly in front of him, propped up on a pile of old pillows,
lay an elderly man with
a clean
white cast on his right wrist.
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