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Veronika decides to die :: Coelho Paulo
Страница: 16 из 115”
And the doctors began an absurd questionnaire, wanting to know the names of the principal Ljubljana newspapers, the name of the poet whose statue was in the main square (ah, that she would never forget, every Slovene has the image of Prešeren engraved on his or her soul), the color of her mother’s hair, the names of her colleagues at work, the titles of the most popular books at the library.
To begin with Veronika considered not replying—her memory was still confused—but as the questionnaire continued, she began reconstructing what she’d forgotten. At one point she remembered that she was now in a mental hospital, and that the mad were not obliged to be coherent; but for her own good, and to keep the doctors by her side, at least so she can find out something more about her state, she began making a mental effort to respond. As she recited the names and facts, she was recovering not only her memory but also her personality, her desires, her way of seeing life. The idea of suicide, which that morning seemed to be buried beneath several layers of sedatives, resurfaced.
“Fine,” said the older man at the end of the questionnaire.
“How much longer must I stay here?”
The younger man lowered his eyes, and she felt as if everything were hanging in the air, as if, once that question was answered, a new chapter of her life would be written, and no one would be able to change it.
“You can tell her,” said the older man. “A lot of other patients have already heard the rumors, and she’ll find out in the end anyway; it’s impossible to keep secrets around here.”
“Well, you decided your own fate,” sighed the young man, weighing each word. “So you had better know the consequence of your actions. During the coma brought on by the pills you took, your heart was irreversibly damaged. There was a necrosis of the ventricle—”
“Put it in layman’s terms,” said the older man. “Get straight to the point.”
“Your heart was irreversibly damaged, and soon it will stop beating altogether.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, frightened.
“If your heart stops beating, that means only one thing, death. I don’t know what your religious beliefs are, but—”
“When will my heart stop beating?” asked Veronika, interrupting him.
“Within five days, a week at most.”
Veronika realized that behind his professional appearance and behavior, behind the concerned manner, the young man was taking immense pleasure in what he was saying, as if she deserved the punishment and would serve as an example to all the others.
And the doctors began an absurd questionnaire, wanting to know the names of the principal Ljubljana newspapers, the name of the poet whose statue was in the main square (ah, that she would never forget, every Slovene has the image of Prešeren engraved on his or her soul), the color of her mother’s hair, the names of her colleagues at work, the titles of the most popular books at the library.
To begin with Veronika considered not replying—her memory was still confused—but as the questionnaire continued, she began reconstructing what she’d forgotten. At one point she remembered that she was now in a mental hospital, and that the mad were not obliged to be coherent; but for her own good, and to keep the doctors by her side, at least so she can find out something more about her state, she began making a mental effort to respond. As she recited the names and facts, she was recovering not only her memory but also her personality, her desires, her way of seeing life. The idea of suicide, which that morning seemed to be buried beneath several layers of sedatives, resurfaced.
“Fine,” said the older man at the end of the questionnaire.
“How much longer must I stay here?”
The younger man lowered his eyes, and she felt as if everything were hanging in the air, as if, once that question was answered, a new chapter of her life would be written, and no one would be able to change it.
“You can tell her,” said the older man. “A lot of other patients have already heard the rumors, and she’ll find out in the end anyway; it’s impossible to keep secrets around here.”
“Well, you decided your own fate,” sighed the young man, weighing each word. “So you had better know the consequence of your actions. During the coma brought on by the pills you took, your heart was irreversibly damaged. There was a necrosis of the ventricle—”
“Put it in layman’s terms,” said the older man. “Get straight to the point.”
“Your heart was irreversibly damaged, and soon it will stop beating altogether.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, frightened.
“If your heart stops beating, that means only one thing, death. I don’t know what your religious beliefs are, but—”
“When will my heart stop beating?” asked Veronika, interrupting him.
“Within five days, a week at most.”
Veronika realized that behind his professional appearance and behavior, behind the concerned manner, the young man was taking immense pleasure in what he was saying, as if she deserved the punishment and would serve as an example to all the others.